I read cozy and historical mysteries, a bit of Paranormal/UF, and to mix it up, I read science and gardening books on occasion.
So this is my official game post. I think. It looks exactly as it should in my blog, but I am prepared for it to fall apart in the dash. We'll see.
Squares are greyed out until they're called.
Called squares will be full-strength.
Called and read will have a marker on it.
My markers this year are pieces of a full image, seen here:
Which I have yet to slice up digitally, but that should be walk in the park after building that bingo card in html. Ugh.
I'll update/edit this post one last time after I make sure the card displays right in the dashboard.
This was a buddy read with Themis Athena.
The Solitary Summer is a follow up to Elizabeth and Her German Garden; they don't have to be read in any order, but Solitary Summer takes place in the same garden, about three years later.
I went into this book naively assuming that the "Solitary" in the title mean Elizabeth at home, alone, in her garden, for the entire summer. While I made allowances for servants, I figured she'd sent Man of Wrath and her three children off somewhere for the summer, either together or separately.
Shows what I know; the Solitary in the title means nothing of the sort. It simply means Elizabeth and her husband agree that for one summer, May through August, there will be no guests descending on the house, expecting Elizabeth to perform hostess duties. 100 years ago, I suppose that would feel like a kind of solitude, but personally, if I were being subjected to the daily demands of husband and three daughters, I'd have long before whipped out my Sharpie pen and blacked out the entry for 'solitude' in all my dictionaries and been done with the concept.
Moving on from my luxurious pre-conceived notions, the book is ostensibly about Elizabeth spending the summer in her garden, free from hostessing duties, and therefore free to loll about in her garden all day, book in hand, alternately reading and soaking in the paradise surrounding anyone in a garden, wood, and field. When she's not feeding her family, or handing out food to the servants, or entertaining her daughters. The solitary moments do happen, in May and most of June, but after a spate of gales whip through, the tone of the book alters perceptibly; less garden, more musings on philosophy, reading, morality, class and village life.
In my opinion, even though I picked this up in eager anticipation of the garden-geek-fest, it's the second half that should not be missed. Elizabeth is a rare breed; she's able to stand apart from herself, to see herself and events around her with objectivity, brutal honesty, and wry wit. She does not rationalise, she does not excuse or defend, she simply observes: this is they way things/I should be, this is the way things/I are(am). It's refreshing to hear this kind of voice, and if it doesn't make you think one way or the other, ... well, never mind. But the issues she addresses in her musings are at least as relevant today as they were 100 years ago, with the exception of enforced quartering of troops and servant housing.
From what little I know so far about Elizabeth von Arnim's background, her husband isn't what anyone today would call a gem; she calls him Man of Wrath for heaven's sake, and I doubt she's using the term ironically. But there are moments of accord between the two, as well as many scenes of shared humour and witty banter that lead me to suspect their relationship was far more complex than history will likely remember it being, and I'm eager to find out more about them both to see if my suspicions stand up to available facts.
Either way, I like her. I suspect, were we contemporaries and life brought us into each other's orbit, we'd be friends - or at least appreciate each other's love of nature, sarcasm, and our disdain for too many guests.
[...] And how dreadful to meet a gardener and a wheelbarrow at every turn—which is precisely what happens to one in the perfect garden. My gardener, whose deafness is more than compensated for by the keenness of his eyesight, very soon remarked the scowl that distorted my features whenever I met one of his assistants in my favourite walks, and I never meet them now. I think he must keep them chained up to the cucumber-frames, so completely have they disappeared, and he only lets them loose when he knows I am driving, or at meals, or in bed. But is it not irritating to be sitting under your favourite tree, pencil in hand, and eyes turned skywards expectant of the spark from heaven that never falls, and then to have a man appear suddenly round the corner who immediately begins quite close to you to tear up the earth with his fangs? No one will ever know the number of what I believe are technically known as winged words that I have missed bringing down through interruptions of this kind. Indeed, as I look through these pages I see I must have missed them all, for I can find nothing anywhere with even a rudimentary approach to wings.
I just love her wry honesty about herself, and the image of the under-gardeners chained to the cucumber frames makes me laugh.
Sometimes when I am in a critical mood and need all my faith to keep me patient, I shake my head at the unshornness of the garden as gravely as the missionary shook his head at me. The bushes stretch across the paths, and, catching at me as I go by, remind me that they have not been pruned; the teeming plant life rejoices on the lawns free from all interference from men and hoes; the pinks are closely nibbled off at the beginning of each summer by selfish hares intent on their own gratification; most of the beds bear the marks of nocturnal foxes; and the squirrels spend their days wantonly biting off and flinging down the tender young shoots of the firs. Then there is the boy who drives the donkey and water-cart round the garden, and who has an altogether reprehensible habit of whisking round corners and slicing off bits of the lawn as he whisks. "But you can't alter these things, my good soul," I say to myself. "If you want to get rid of the hares and foxes, you must consent to have wire-netting, which is odious, right round your garden. And you are always saying you like weeds, so why grumble at your lawns? And it doesn't hurt you much if the squirrels do break bits off your firs—the firs must have had that happening to them years and years before you were born, yet they still flourish. As for boys, they certainly are revolting creatures. Can't you catch this one when he isn't looking and pop him in his own water-barrel and put the lid on?"
This perfectly sums up MT's feeling about drivers who cut corners when they turn. I believe, given the chance and amnesty, he'd do just this to the offenders.
I sat by the window in my room till late, looking out at the moonlight in the quiet garden, with a feeling as though I were stuffed with sawdust—a very awful feeling—and thinking ruefully of the day that had begun so brightly and ended so dismally. What a miserable thing not to be able to be frank and say simply, "My good young man, you and I never saw each other before, probably won't see each other again, and have no interests in common. I mean you to be comfortable in my house, but I want to be comfortable too. Let us, therefore, keep out of each other's way while you are obliged to be here. Do as you like, go where you like, and order what you like, but don't expect me to waste my time sitting by your side and making small-talk. I too have to get to heaven, and have no time to lose. You won't see me again. Good-bye."
Thank god society has progressed at least this much; that we can in all propriety say much the same message to our guests and more often than not, have them welcome and agree with such liberating sentiments.
Review to follow.
I've read through July to this point. So far, it's the most consistently introspective section, and deals more with social questions concerning the differences in social classes, poverty, and morality.
The points that made me pause (for one reason or another):
"The idea of the June baby striding across the firmament and hurling the stars about as carelessly as though they were tennis-balls was so magnificent that it sent shivers of awe through me as I read.
"But if you break all your dolls," added April, turning severely to June, and eyeing the distorted remains in her hand, "I don't think lieber Gott will let you in at all. When you're big and have tiny Junes—real live Junes—I think you'll break them too, and lieber Gott doesn't love mummies what breaks their babies."
"But I must break my dolls," cried June, stung into indignation by what she evidently regarded as celestial injustice; "lieber Gott made me that way, so I can't help doing it, can I, mummy?"
On these occasions I keep my eyes fixed on my book, and put on an air of deep abstraction; and indeed, it is the only way of keeping out of theological disputes in which I am invariably worsted."
In Elizabeth's place, I too would feign deep abstraction if faced with this kind of logic.
"[...] something inside me had kept on saying aggressively all the morning, "Elizabeth, don't you know you are due in the village? Why don't you go then? When are you going? Don't you know you ought to go? Don't you feel you must? Elizabeth, pull yourself together and go" Strange effect of a grey sky and a cool wind! For I protest that if it had been warm and sunny my conscience would not have bothered about me at all. We had a short fight over it, in which I got all the knocks, as was evident by the immediate swelling of the bump alluded to above, and then I gave in, and by two o'clock in the afternoon was lifting the latch of the first door and asking the woman who lived behind it what she had given the family for dinner. "
Her conscience seems to have been reincarnated into my conscience, for this is exactly the voice I hear in my own head.
"It is sin" he said shortly.
"Then the forgiveness is sure."
"Not if they do not seek it."
I was silent, for I wished to reply that I believed they would be forgiven in spite of themselves, that probably they were forgiven whether they sought it or not, and that you cannot limit things divine; but who can argue with a parson? These people do not seek forgiveness because it never enters their heads that they need it. The parson tells them so, it is true, but they regard him as a person bound by his profession to say that sort of thing, and are sharp enough to see that the consequences of their sin, foretold by him with such awful eloquence, never by any chance come off."
Truer words have never been spoken.
"Oh, the doctor—" said the mother with a shrug, "he's no use."
"You must do what he tells you, or he cannot help you."
"That last medicine he sent me all but killed me," she said, washing vigorously. "I'll never take any more of his, nor shall any child of mine."
"What medicine was it?"
She wiped her hand on her apron, and reaching across to the cupboard took out a little bottle. "I was in bed two days after it," she said, handing it to me—"as though I were dead, not knowing what was going on round me." The bottle had contained opium, and there were explicit directions written on it as to the number of drops to be taken and the length of the intervals between the taking.
"Did you do exactly what is written here?" I asked.
"I took it all at once. There wasn't much of it, and I was feeling bad."
"But then of course it nearly killed you. I wonder it didn't quite. What good is it our taking all the trouble we do to send that long distance for the doctor if you don't do as he orders?"
"I'll take no more of his medicine. If it had been any good and able to cure me, the more I took the quicker I ought to have been cured."
I was struck by the soul-bearing honesty of this passage:
"Now is it not hard that a person may have a soul as beautiful as an angel's, a dwelling-place for all sweet sounds and harmonies, and if nature has not thought fit to endow his body with a chin the world will have none of him? The vulgar prejudice is in favour of chins, and who shall escape its influence? I, for one, cannot, though theoretically I utterly reject the belief that the body is the likeness of the soul; for has not each of us friends who, we know, love beyond everything that which is noble and good, and who by no means themselves look noble and good? And what about all the beautiful persons who love nothing on earth except themselves? Yet who in the world cares how perfect the nature may be, how humble, how sweet, how gracious, that dwells in a chinless body? Nobody has time to inquire into natures, and the chinless must be content to be treated in something of the same good-natured, tolerant fashion in which we treat our poor relations until such time as they shall have grown a beard; and those who by their sex are for ever shut out from this glorious possibility will have to take care, should they be of a bright intelligence, how they speak with the tongues of men and of angels, nothing being more droll than the effect of high words and poetic ideas issuing from a face that does not match them."
I admire and respect those who can look themselves in the mirror and admit I abhor this behaviour, and yet am guilty of it. I believe it's only when you can do this, that you can change who you are, or at the least, your preconceived beliefs.
She goes on in the same brutally honest vein:
"I wish we were not so easily affected by each other's looks. Sometimes, during the course of a long correspondence with a friend, he grows to be inexpressibly dear to me; I see how beautiful his soul is, how fine his intellect, how generous his heart, and how he already possesses in great perfection those qualities of kindness, and patience, and simplicity, after which I have been so long and so vainly striving. It is not I clothing him with the attributes I love and wandering away insensibly into that sweet land of illusions to which our footsteps turn whenever they are left to themselves, it is his very self unconsciously writing itself into his letters, the very man as he is without his body. Then I meet him again, and all illusions go. He is what I had always found him when we were together, good and amiable; but some trick of manner, some feature or attitude that I do not quite like, makes me forget, and be totally unable to remember, what I know from his letters to be true of him. He, no doubt, feels the same thing about me, and so between us there is a thick veil of something fixed, which, dodge as we may, we never can get round.
There are moments like this, sprinkled throughout her talk of peace, nature, and gardens that reveal a depth of intelligence and philosophy in von Arnim's writing, giving an added dimension to a book that, on the surface, would seem to be a frivolous diary of a woman and her flowers.
This series is always enjoyable, even when the plots aren't as good as they could be. Luckily, even though the title is really a stretch, the plot of this one isn't. I can imagine how it might have happened back in the day of the aristocracy owning multiple estates they often didn't visit for long stretches of time.
The subplot of the book is the culmination of 11 previous books filled with the flirting and courting between Darcy and Georgie - the wedding. I was struck with trepidation at the beginning of the book as Georgie spies a pretty woman standing next to Darcy and immediately falls into a pit of despair; I dislike characters that don't embrace their own self worth. Happily, it was a fleeting scene, and the rest of the (minimal) wedding related story-line was full of delicious revenge as Georgie gets to watch her evil sister-in-law fume over Georgie's close relationship with the King and Queen. The scene where she tells Fig who her bridesmaids are was one of the best.
Overall, an enjoyable read.
Found an envelope on the coffee table waiting for me when I got home from coffee this morning:
How gorgeous do all those cards look? Moonlight Reader really has outdone herself designing individual cards for us all. (She has a physical card too, but it arrived with mine last week, and I forgot to put it in the picture.)
I think I have everyone's mailing address except Moonlight Reader's. They'll go out on the 25th of August, except for Darth Pony's: for once, the expat in Aussie will get something first rather than last. ;-) Yours goes out on Monday.
And now, because it's Friday:
I'm a fabulous puddle of happy. Get out of my sunshine.
I've read through May, and I had three quotes I was going to share - three! - and Themis-Athena beat me to all three in her progress updates. Well played TA, well played. Great minds thinking alike and all that.
Suffice it to say, I'm enjoying the read so far.
An excellent riff on fairy tales. I'm not actually sure what to say about it beyond that. If you've read any of the discworld books, this one won't disappoint you.
I listened to the audiobook, and Nigel Planer did an excellent job, though I disliked his Magrat and Ella choices; his voices for them both made them sound dull and stupid. On the other hand, I've also listened to other Pratchett books narrated by Celia Imrie and I really disliked her Granny Weatherwax voice; Planer gets Granny just right - she's the crone without hurting your ear drums.
The plays on words are always my favorite part of Pratchett books and Witches Abroad did not disappoint (Emberella = Cinderella). I also loved the we finally saw Granny's magic in a very decisive show; I hope it won't be the only time we see it.
Themis-Athena and I agreed to a Monday start date, but my last read took longer than expected, and I was feeling like a slacker for starting this today, until I realised it was still Monday in Germany when I started it. Score!
Not too far in, but the writing is much like it was in Elizabeth and her German Garden, so I'm enjoying it so far.
"...how can you make a person happy against his will?"
how indeed? I love her no-nonsense approach to life.
Pick a cat - any cat. :)
Or, let me know if none of them are your jam. :D
I have mixed feelings about this book. Upfront, it's pure fiction; other than the artists' names, their work, and the broad strokes of accomplishment, it's made up out of whole cloth.
This is the part I had issues with, I guess. I don't know enough about Degas, Cassatt, Morisot and Manet, with the result that I feel like this book has unfairly coloured my impressions of them as people. I'm going to forever be guarding against mixing up this story with the reality of 4 of the most talented impressionist painters who've yet lived.
But if you're able to keep fact and fiction seperate, this is a heartfelt, well-written story about people who might have taken the wrong turn at the fork in the road of life. It's slow-paced, but always interesting; I enjoyed it, but it wasn't a fast read. The end also has a high probability of making readers misty eyed of not weeping outright. Oliveira is very talented at creating a sympathetic anti-hero; one that you want to hug as much as you want to smack.
At some point though, I'm going to have to follow this up with more information about these artists and their real lives so I don't every accidentally try to pass off as fact the imaginations of Oliveira's mind.
3 pages of librarian requests.
Thank you from the bottom of my carpel tunnels, to all of you who read my post. You know who you are.
Also, while I'm at it, the voting list has been cleared and is now open for nominations for our November read.
Please stop by and nominate the popular science books you're most interested in the group reading come November. If you're not already a member, and popular science books are your jam, please consider this an invitation to join us.
It's almost September - which everyone who is playing Halloween Book Bingo knows, but it's also the start of The Flat Book Society's September read, also known as our Birthday read! This marks our 1st full year as a group and we've yet to kill each other or even maim anyone! Whoo hoo!
I jest, of course. That's why we have Huggins; he's not only our mascot - he keeps things sweet.
I'm looking forward to Get Well Soon: History's Worst Plagues and the Heroes Who Fought Them by Jennifer Wright and I hope everyone else is too.
A witty, irreverent tour of history's worst plagues—from the Antonine Plague, to leprosy, to polio—and a celebration of the heroes who fought them.
Unfortunately, our read this year doesn't strictly fit with any Halloween Bingo Squares, but I have posted a question on the discussion about whether or not it could be used for the centre square, because really, this book totally fits right in with the whole Halloween theme. I'll update when I hear a verdict.
Either way, I hope this won't put people off from participating; with so much going on in September this is likely to be a slower paced buddy read, so if you're interested in joining in, please do. The more buddy readers, the louder our communal "EWWWWW" will be.
Nobody ever looked intimidating wearing a birthday hat.