Tag Archives: Reading

Literature, Poetry

A Personal Reading of Effects by Alan Jenkins

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Why poetry is worth reading and rereading

Poems of the Decade – Edexcel A Level English Literature

Rereading this poem again for a new round of A level students, I found myself more profoundly affected by it than ever before. My experience of the road he travelled has added another layer to my understanding to the extent that some of the notes I’d made in the margin seem ridiculously ignorant or naïve. This is what poetry does. It resonates with you, shows you how others have responded to their lives and helps you cope with your own experience. And in the passing of the years, your own experience deepens and enrichens the poem, even changing its purpose and its impact.

‘I held her hand’ the poem begins. As adults we rarely hold our parents’ hands. This weekend, my son held my hand to keep me steady on the ice and snow on top of a Swiss mountain. I felt the full impact of that role reversal. I was the weak and vulnerable one, he the strong and dependable one. I remembered the times I had held his hand on the way to school, to cross the road, to guide and to comfort. The poignancy of the reversal strikes me as a mother, but also as a daughter. Now, I hold my mother’s hands, to comfort her, to guide her, to keep her steady, to stop her wandering off into danger or the unknown. Unlike the relationship with my son, who I hug at every opportunity, my mother and I hardly ever touched. This physical contact feels so strange, not only in the reversal of who is mothered, but also in the sense of touch in itself. There is something intimate and moving about holding hands – a platonic, innocent gesture.

In the poem, the mother’s hands were ‘always scarred from chopping, slicing, from the knives in wait in bowls of washing-up’. They represent the hard work she did out of love for her family. They also represent the ordinary life the poet eventually moved beyond. He notes the ‘cheap’ cuts of meat that she made into stews; he admits he’d ‘disdain’ the shows his mother and father would watch on TV. He thinks of the time before he ‘learned contempt’, though even this time is imperfect. The separation between them, so common in our culture where the children move into the middle class from their working class roots, is bridged again by the holding of hands.

The thing that truly separates the mother and son, however, is death. He feels guilt now thinking of ‘all the weeks I didn’t come’. He is here now, but she is gone forever.  He holds the hand ‘whose fingers couldn’t clasp at mine any more/Or falteringly wave, or fumble at my sleeve’. The loss is now complete. Before, she would falter and fumble, showing her weakness and vulnerability, already a reversal of the mother-son bond. Now she can no longer respond in any way.

The part of the poem that struck me most forcibly today was the mention of his mother’s effects, the gold watch which, in death, she no longer wore:

                                                          And her watch? –

Classic ladies’ model, gold strap – it was gone,

And I’d never known her not have that on,

Not in all the years…

Instead the nurse brings him ‘the little bag of effects’ which presumably contains her watch. The rhetorical question, the dashes and the commas, all denoting uncertainty, shock and grief, show the depth of the reaction he has to this lack. Her watch is missing, but it is really a part of herself, her identity, the thing that makes her herself. I noticed this myself when my mother was in respite care recently. I had asked the carers to make sure my mother wore a necklace every day. They didn’t. It seems trivial, but my mother’s necklaces are part of her personality – bold, unusual, flamboyant, creative. She always wore one, every single day. She chose them carefully to go with her outfit. She loved receiving them as gifts for birthdays and Christmases. She barely seems dressed without one. And yet, in that unfamiliar place, with people who did not know her, she was stripped of herself. The paring down of herself came as a result of the dementia, not of the care home, but, in forgetting to dress her as she would have wished, she was naked and hollow in the disintegration of what make her who she was. In the end, the mother in the poem is stripped of her identity in death. Her effects are given to her son, as the effects of her death are his to carry. I can see the impact of this now, not a minor detail but the heart of the consequences of age and death.

This rawness of grief and loss, of guilt and separation, of imperfection, seems so real and powerful to me. More, now, than ever before. My mother is still here. I leave when I see she still needs me; I make difficult decisions and try to do my utmost, always feeling the gap between what I would have done and what I am capable of doing. I have not reached the end of the road that Jenkins writes of in ‘Effects’, but it looms ahead. That he has travelled the road before me, even in the unresolved pain and grief, makes me more able to face what I must face. Simply knowing that I am not alone, either in the experience or in my reactions to it – that is what literature is for. It helps us see we do not walk this earth alone: others have gone before us, lit the path and shown us the way. Even when the way seems impossible, there is comfort in knowing that the path is well-trodden. We are not alone.

    Reading

    Making Reading Enjoyable

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    So many people say to me that they would like to read more, but somehow they can never find the time, or the motivation. Even as an avid reader from a young age I can understand. Like any self-improving resolution, we wish it done rather than wish to be doing it! The key, therefore, is to try and make it enjoyable. If you persevere, it will definitely become a habit, and it will become enjoyable too.

    Reading Material

    Find something to read that you want to know about. There is no point in struggling through pages of description (unpunctuated even by dialogue) from classical 19th century writers, if within 5 minutes your concentration is gone and you’re just staring aimlessly at the page.

    Instead start with magazine articles about something you’re interested in – it can be anything from crochet to cooking, from gardening to horse riding.

    Find newspaper articles on subjects that matter to you – your child’s education, the war in Ukraine, the match between Arsenal and Spurs, or whatever it is that sparks your interest.

    Read fiction in the genre that interests you. If you don’t know where to start, think about the films and TV programmes you like, then look for books which are similar. You can ask in a library if you are stuck for ideas, or just spend a bit of time online or in a charity shop or book shop and have a browse. Short stories are a good way in, if you find it hard to concentrate on a long story.

    Audio books can be a good place to start. You can get them for free from the public library or pay for them on apps like Audible.

    Don’t worry about what others might say or think. Some people can be ‘snobby’ about what they read. My advice is to just ignore everyone else and read what makes you happy.

    Time – Making reading a habit

    Choose a time in the day when you have 10 minutes or half an hour free and make it your reading slot. For example, after tea, on the bus or train on the way to work, as soon as you get in from work, in the morning before you get out of bed, in bed before you go to sleep. Many people try that last one and fall asleep before they read anything, so perhaps choose another time if possible.

    At first it might seem strange and difficult to sit down and read quietly in the middle of a busy day, but after a few goes, it will become normal for you.

    Place – Get comfortable

    Find somewhere where you can feel comfortable – an armchair, the sofa or your bed perhaps.

    Find somewhere you will be alone or at least not interrupted for a few minutes. I realise many people will find this very difficult, but matching the quiet place with a quiet time of day can be key here.

    Make sure the lighting is right – enough light to read comfortably, but preferably not under a florescent bright light.

    Essentially, though, choose what suits you best. I used to read while I made the dinner, standing in the kitchen stirring the pots with one hand and a book in the other!

    Be kind to yourself

    If reading is new to you or you have always found it tricky, don’t beat yourself up about finding it hard to concentrate. You will get better with practice, so it is worth persevering.

    Don’t hesitate to stop reading a book or article that doesn’t interest you. Life is too short to waste on things you don’t like! There are thousands of other choices; one of them will definitely be to your taste.

    If you miss a few ‘reading slots’, it doesn’t matter. Just pick it up when you can. It’s good to make a habit of reading, but it shouldn’t be a chore.

    Talk about it

    A great way to keep your interest going in what you’re reading is to talk about it with someone else. You could find a friend with a sympathetic ear who likes to hear about what you have been reading. You could recruit a few friends to read the same thing and chat about it and you can find reading groups at your local library.

    Good luck with your reading. It is so wonderful to be able to walk through the door of someone else’s imagination into a new world. And the more you do it, the better you will get.

    Literature, Novels, Reading

    Empathy and reading

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    I have heard some strange views recently about reading not fostering empathy but only creating selfishness from different points of view. I find this such a sad objection. It’s as if, in a world dying of thirst, we are arguing about whether elderflower pressé is better than orange squash. In every walk of life, from the classrooms and playgrounds of our schools to the corridors of power at Westminster, the lack of empathy shines through. The ability of some to look on desperate, cold, terrified human beings arriving at our shores and see them as a threat, vilifying them as less than human (‘vermin’, ‘plague’, ‘invasion’) is one piece of evidence for our general lack of empathy. The cynical targeting of NHS staff and resources after relying on them so heavily, and thanking God for them so profusely, is another failure in empathy. But, on the small, human level, the child who excludes another from party invitations to pay them back for an insult, the young person who continually calls someone names in order to boost their status in their own group of friends, the teacher who gives up on the disruptive, angry child in their troublesome Year 10 class, or the senior manager who guilts their employees into taking on this new responsibility/staying late another evening, knowing they are already at the limits of their capacity – all these show lack of empathy. How different our world would be if each of us increased our levels of empathy!

    Books have always answered the question, what does it feel like to be someone else? Through the minds of people all over the world – people long dead, from alien lifestyles and beliefs, people of different races, religions, gender nationality, class – we experience the world in a way we never could on our own.

    Reading is a complex affair. Authors try and put themselves into others’ shoes to describe anything from a middle aged bank clerk in early twentieth century London (Mary Poppins) to a child alone in London in the mid nineteenth century living in abject poverty working in an exhausting, menial job (David Copperfield). In these two examples, the authors had either direct experience of what they were writing about, or something very close. P.L. Travers wrote Mary Poppins’ Mr Banks with her own father in mind. Charles Dickens’ own childhood working in a blacking factory, his own father in prison for debt, was the inspiration for the experiences of David Copperfield. I hope you agree with me that both of these, in very different ways and styles, feel authentic. They truly provide a window into worlds we otherwise would never know. The child reading about the stultifying effect of the grind of work on the heart and mind of a middle aged man, and the adult reading about a child’s sense of abandonment, shame and misery living in poverty, both see something which is outside of their personal experience. They, in caring for Mr Banks or David Copperfield, can then transfer that affection or understanding to the real lost man or lost child in their own lives. This is, of course, the key. Learning to transfer the love of the fictional character into the understanding of the real people around us. Empathy is like anything -once we learn it, it becomes easier and easier. We may even learn to accept, tolerate or even care for those around us who annoy us, irritate us or even injure us.

    There are authors who are not so successful in putting themselves in others’ shoes, of course. Dickens is known for the shallowness of some of his female characters, for example. As a woman, I often read books where the women in them seem little more than the male author dressed up. It is rare, in my opinion, for an author to capture the feeling of living in a female body. Male authors often just transfer their own ‘normal’ into the life of a female character. That is putting aside the strange, mindless stereotypes that sometimes make it into published fiction. Once you read The Handmaid’s Tale and feel the main character’s sense of her own physical being, it is hard not to read other fictional women as only partial creations. No doubt many people experience this kind of lack when they read. The token black person in the friendship group, the cheeky working class lad made good, the jolly fat earthy friend who never gets the boy, these are the kinds of stereotypes which keep recurring. But even in well-drawn and in depth characterisation, no doubt people from different racial or religious backgrounds hear a jarring note, feel a lack of authenticity.

    Even in these cases, though, I would argue that we are all still practising empathy. The author is trying, even if not totally successfully, to make real an idea or situation we probably haven’t experienced. We still gain something, if not everything possible. This is only if the author and the reader genuinely try to imagine the life of the other with sympathy and care. Obviously, the lazy stereotype, the cruel or thoughtless belittling of others, in fiction or in life, is the reverse of what fiction should aim to achieve.

    It has been argued that when people write about perverted, cruel or criminal individuals, a sense of empathy gets between the reader and their ethical judgement. I still struggle with this idea. Understanding someone is not to acquit them. We don’t lose our sense of what is right and what is wrong because we understand why someone behaves as they do. Even in books when we are fully immersed in the evil mind of the author’s creation, the reader does not have to lose their critical faculty.

    We judge everything. Always.

    When reading, we judge how authentic the character is, how real the situation. We judge the character’s actions and reactions. We judge the language the author uses. We judge the arc of the plot and the ideas the writer is trying to convey. Not dismissively. Not unsympathetically. But with discernment and care.

    Essentially, reading with empathy and for empathy is part of reading with judgement. The writer tries their best to place you in a new world. We take what we can of it to learn something about our own. It is a partnership between reader and writer. We can’t blame the writer if we don’t come away from our reading experience with a wider view and understanding of the world. We can’t blame the writer if we don’t learn to apply our love of Oliver Twist and the Dodger to the children living on the streets of twenty-first century London. Reading creates empathy. But we have our work to do as well. Can you imagine a world where we all tried to see things from others’ points of view? If reading can help us achieve that, it is well worth the effort, don’t you think?

    English Language, Literature, Reading, Teaching

    What is English for?

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    One of the complaints most frequently heard from children at school is that the work they have to do is ‘irrelevant’. Why study algebra? Why study Macbeth? You will never have to use your knowledge of either in the world after school. I would firstly dispute the truth of that. Anyone who works in engineering or maths will have to use algebra (and many who build, craft, renovate should also know), and Macbeth teaches lessons about ambition, power, regret and honour which are relevant to us all.  And, in fact, the talk about ‘knowledge’ is missing the point. What both these subjects teach is a mindset, a group of skills, which are essential in everyone’s life. But I see the point those students are making. There seems to be a gap between the world and the classroom. I am wondering two things: firstly, how can we make our subjects reflect the world the students will go out into and equip them with the skills they need?; secondly, how can we persuade the students that this is what we are doing?

    To answer the first question, we have to ask what education is for. The assumption is that it equips you to work. Of course, it should do that. But that is only a fraction of what it ought to do. That issue is far too big to squeeze into a paragraph in this humble blog, so let me focus on the point of teaching English. What is it we are aiming to do? Essentially, we want to teach our students to be able to understand the written word, communicate effectively, both in written and verbal form, and to become lifelong learners. We want to acquaint them with the culture of our country, open their minds to the cultures of others, and create a love and understanding of language and its uses. We want them to understand the world around them, a world dominated by language.

    Do we do this?

    I think we try. But I fear we are not successful. To be a good citizen, you must understand what is going on around you. If we look around us we can see that people are fooled, time and time again, by inane political soundbites, advertising campaigns and empty rhetoric. To be able to see the connotations of a word is to be able to see the bias behind a headline. Take, for example, this seemingly innocuous offering from The Daily Mail: Jeremy Corbyn plots tax raid on parents’ gifts to children. The use of ‘plot’ which suggests something underhand and dangerous, and ‘raid’ which suggests violent theft, paints Corbyn as an evil thief attacking poor little parents who just want to be generous to their children. A headline from the other side of the political spectrum might have been: Corbyn aims to fund NHS by targeting the Mega Rich. A middle path might be, Corbyn seeks to reform inheritance tax. My point is, without looking at the bias, the use of words and their connotations, the reader is lost in a sea of words, tugged this way and that by minds and interests beyond their understanding.

    English Language GCSE tries to teach this to some extent. Does it, though, make the students into readers who habitually interpret the meanings of words and think about their uses? I seriously doubt it. Sadly, many students struggle to get the basic meaning from a text, never mind the reason why it was written and the effect it has on the reader. The fault here, is not with the content of the course or with the quality of the teaching. It is rather the low level of literacy of the students who have failed to read much since the end of primary school. Another reason why concentrating on making children readers is not a ‘nice to have’. It is essential in equipping them for life after school.

    The second question – do we convince the students that what we are teaching has relevance outside of school – I think can be answered very succinctly: no. There is an educational school of thought that suggests that we must create willing learners before we start to teach anything. I don’t know if that is possible, but I think we should try a bit harder than we do. It is part of teaching teenagers, I know, but we need to get away from the idea that we are there to torture the students with irrelevant and useless tasks for our own pleasure and enjoyment. Of course the truth is that we are trying to help and support young people to get the best from their minds (not to mention the rest of them) so that they can be happy and successful in their lives.  If students truly believed that the education they were given was in their best interests, then half the battle would be won. Some students do believe that. Most have days when they might doubt it. But too many truly think that teachers and the state are there, not to help, but to constrain, constrict, oppress and persecute.

    Much of that might come from the silly rules school insist on enforcing – “Take your coat off in the corridor!” “No drinking in the classroom” “Conventional hairstyles only” and so on. Some of it comes from the attitude of teachers to their students, and most of it comes from the natural rebellion that teenagers feel towards authority figures.  But do we try hard enough, or, even at all, to persuade students that school and education is good for them? I fear not. Schools are an incredible resource, expensive to society, essential to the wellbeing of young people as well as to the economy of the country and to the health of society and culture. Not everyone has the opportunity to go to school, and they are at a huge disadvantage for all of their lives. It may be an uphill battle, but I think it is worth spending a bit of time trying to help students understand this.

    In summary, I think we in education try to give students what they need to live and work in our society. We don’t do it well enough and we don’t persuade the students of its worth. We need to try and change that. In the end, only the student can decide to work, decide to care. If they don’t, they will never succeed, however good the school, however good the teacher. Perhaps we need to focus on this more.

    Literature, Novels, Reading

    The silence of the girls by pat barker

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    Despite having finished my ‘book a week’ for the first time in a while, I have felt disinclined to write about it. I think this is because it is my habit to synthesise and summarise the books I have read and try and neatly package them. I didn’t want to do that with The Silence of the Girls by Pat Barker. The confusion of thoughts and emotions I felt reading it seemed a better reaction to the book than the tidy little bundle I will be tempted to sweep them up into. Nevertheless, here I am trying to articulate my thoughts.

    I was tempted to buy the book in the Autumn in a beautiful bookshop in St Andrews – the wonderfully named Topping and Company Booksellers on Greyfriars Gardens. If you’re ever in St Andrews (Fife, Scotland) (and I would really recommend a visit if you haven’t yet been), then treat yourself to a visit to one of the most evocative bookshops I have been to. I defy you to go in and not buy a book (and not want to buy at least 10!). Rows of books, floor to ceiling, a world to get lost in.

    Why did I pick up this book in particular? I have read Pat Barker’s Regeneration trilogy about the First World War and had been disturbed and struck by it. That was the first reason to pick up The Silence of the Girls. The second was a recommendation from one of the friends I was with. The third was the fact that it is based on the story of the Trojan Wars, Achilles, Agamemnon, Helen, Paris and all the heroic, romantic things we associate with them. So I bought the book and it has sat patiently on my shelf for 6 months before I finally picked it up this week. (There are many other books who have had to exercise far more patience than this, and are still waiting…)

    My knowledge of the Greek and Trojan Wars is sketchy, to say the least. I have not read the Iliad or the Odyssey. I have not read any books derived from them. I have watched a wonderful monologue called Radio Argo based on five characters from the Trojan Wars – Agamemnon, his sacrificed daughter Iphigeneia, his wife Clytemnestra’s lover Aegisthus, his son Orestes and Cassandra who Agamemnon took as a war prize after sacking Troy. This, though, was my only preparation for the story, though it is astonishing how much expectation and prior knowledge has seeped into my consciousness simply through the saturation of these stories and ideas into our culture. My knowledge was enough to be satisfyingly overturned by Barker’s book.

    It is the story of Briseis, captured and made a bed-slave to Achilles after she watched her young brothers murdered by him. In the swirl of my confused thoughts, the thing that bobbed to the surface most often was the idea of the female perspective. Instead of the honour of war, the bravery and male comradeship, this story focused on the loss, powerlessness and enforced silence of women. It was unrelentingly unforgiving. At no point did the perspective shift to the prevailing societal view, either of the day or of now. I hesitate to say it, but it seems to me that it takes a woman to write this well about a female perspective. And not all women could do it either. Our society’s persistent focus on the glory of war, of the importance of status, of the liberty of men infects us all, men and women alike. Even when we try to maintain a female view, the mask slips a bit at times. I have been reading The Name of the Mother (Il Nome della Madre) by Erri De Luca which tells the story of the annunciation and the birth of Jesus and professes to be from Mary’s point of view. For me, centuries of male thinking about women, their role, their bodies, the way babies are born, kept creeping in until I was muttering in frustration that a writer of such beautiful prose could be so blind to how it feels to live inside a female body. So, reading The Silence of the Girls, it felt unusual, and uncomfortable even, to have a truly, uncompromisingly critical female view of what is considered to be such a male subject.

    How conflicted Briseis is, her ways of coping with unimaginable trauma, and how it becomes normalised in a society where it is a common experience, these things made me keep reading, even when the pain of it, the distress it made me feel, was sometimes hard to bear.

    Another element of the experience which bobs to the surface of the soup of my emotions is the power of the physical in the book. I remember this aspect of Barker’s writing from the Regeneration Trilogy. What I mean is that foul smells, ugliness, repulsive sights, bodily reactions like sweat, vomit, blood, are so vividly portrayed that the world becomes a solid, physical presence. The book does not shy away from the rancid, disgusting aspects of humanity and of the world around us. That sticks with me, stays in my memory. When the emotions that the characters feel seem shadowy and insubstantial, the vile stench, putrefaction, the sticky feel of sweat and metallic taste of blood pulls you back into the minds of the characters.

    I’m not going to sum the book up. I’m not going to try and pigeon-hole it. It was an uncomfortable read; it opened aspects of my own mind and my own attitudes which felt obtrusive and new. I don’t think that’s a bad thing.

    Literature, Novels, Reading

    The Mirror and the Light by Hilary Mantel

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    I can’t imagine my little review of this great book will make much of a splash amongst all the thousands of others out there, but, as I have some comments to make, I thought I may as well add my few ideas to the pile.

    There aren’t many characters I would be willing to spend so much time with, but Mantel’s Cromwell is an interesting companion. Not a nice man or a good man, but comprehensible and shot through with humanity as well as ruthlessness. He has little compunction, would do almost any terrible thing if it were expedient, and is allied (by others) with the ideas in Machiavelli’s The Prince. His crimes are legion, and he himself admits his end is not unwarranted or surprising. Despite this, through Mantel’s genius, he is thoroughly human. His affections, for his family, for his friends and associates, are genuine and deep. His loyalty to the Cardinal, and to the King, despite his seeing their faults as clearly as anyone could, is admirable and touching. In the end, it is his weaknesses that touch me most. His memories of his wife and daughters, the debt he owes to his drunken, violent father, his desire to save others (though never at his own expense), these are the things that make him a man and not a figure from history.

    The deftness with which Mantel weaves his story into the fabric of recorded history is truly magnificent. Never does it feel like these are remote characters from a time so long gone that they scarcely seem human. The ideologies and preoccupations of the time – religion, power, wars, succession – are clearly delineated by Mantel, making us truly understand in a way the history books have not always succeed in doing. After all, the struggle for power, which is at the heart of all the political manoeuvrings, is as relevant today as it ever was. Politicians are still willing to sacrifice their ‘subjects’ and change the face of life for all in order to gain and maintain power. The honesty of Cromwell’s personal religion is beautifully portrayed. Never does he declare himself a gospeller, always keeping on the right side of the prevailing religious mood, but he promotes and helps those he agrees with, which is ultimately a significant part of his downfall.

    The other issue which strikes me as remarkably current is Cromwell’s low birth and the hatred, derision and persecution he suffers as a result of having risen so far without an ancient family name. It may seem that this is not relevant now. After all, who cares about social class in these modern times? But, it seems to me, that British society is still dogged by that restricting and narrow vision. I only need to mention a few examples, but, if you look, there are so many more. I am thinking of the abuse Steph McGovern has had over her regional accent, about prevalence of white middle class men in power in our country, of the thoughtless way the government have asked people to go back to work but not use public transport (favouring white collar workers who can work from home and wealthier people who have cars) and there are so many other instances. In any case, Cromwell’s downfall is perhaps inevitable since the ruling class cannot abide to be outdone by a commoner.

    The last thing I want to write about Mantel’s amazing book is the quality of the language. She writes the whole book in the present tense. What a feat! It doesn’t seem stilted or like a running commentary of the everyday. Instead in feels immediate. It also feels like it deals with the surface of things, like the light on the mirror, on the water. She does, however, delve into the depths of Cromwell’s mind. The dreamlike sequences which deal with his past, his fears, his nightmares, are some of the most memorable and astounding in the book. The imagery, the sensuousness of the prose which makes you feel the Italian heat or the creeping cold of a grey winter day, and the lightness of touch used to fuse these into seemingly real conversations between friends, enemies, servants and kings, is truly incredible.

    So, I recommend that you spend a good number of your hours reading this tome (and if you can, reading Wolf Hall and Bring Up the Bodies as well). There were times I wished for a lighter experience, but the book rewards your determination to face the ugly things in life as well as the beautiful.

    Literature, Novels, Reading

    She is not invisible by Marcus Sedgwick

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    I can’t plead that I haven’t had the time to read. I have had more than enough of that. I can’t say that I don’t have enough means or choice. My bookshelves are packed with books that I have been meaning to read. From where I sit, I can see four piles waiting to be tackled. In any case, the number of books you can buy digitally, online and so on is vast. But still I am finding it hard to pick up a book. Sometimes it is the thought of diving into a completely new world and learning to care about a whole set of new people, who will inevitably feel pain and will suffer, making me feel the same. The emotional exhaustion I feel when even contemplating this, is a serious barrier to picking up that book I have been longing to read.

    I have had She Is Not Invisible on my ‘to read’ list for more than a year. Sitting in the audience at the North East Book Awards a year or two ago, I noted down on my phone some of the books the authors and students recommended. This was one of them. And, by the way, if you are ever interested in which Young Adult and Middle Grade books to read or recommend, the North East Book Awards and North East Teenage Book Awards (run by the most impressive librarian I have ever met – and there is fierce competition in that category) are a great place to start. They celebrate the best books published that year, voted for by students from local schools. The authors come along to speak about their book, groups of students come and say why they chose a certain book from the short list, and the winner is announced. It is a fantastic exercise in celebrating children’s authors, reading, and young people and their passions. It is also a great way to find out which books you should read, from the current year and also from years past.

    Finally, a couple of months ago, I borrowed She Is Not Invisible from the library. (I’m looking forward to the next time I can go into the library and borrow another.) I am so pleased that I got around to reading it.

    It is the story of a sixteen-year-old girl, Laureth, her seven year old brother, Benjamin, and his toy raven, Stan. They have a quest and have obstacles to overcome, which they do with courage and determination. It’s a fast-paced story. We’re swept along by it. I think novelists who write for an adult audience could really learn something from children’s writers. The hook, the plot, the tension has to be strong or the young reader will lay the book aside. Sometimes it is great to let a story unfurl slowly and meticulously, but too often, I think, writers are self-indulgent, including extraneous details, relying on the determination of the adult audience to follow them through a labyrinth of unnecessary description or sub-plotting. But it is the characterisation, and the interplay between the characters which I found most compelling. However experienced a reader you are, I defy you not to learn something about yourself when reading this.

    The other thing I enjoyed was the list of ‘reading group questions’ at the end of the book. How fantastic to have a set of ideas which we can think through and wonder about. The best thing, of course, is to create our own interrogation into the book we have just read, digest it and ponder it. But how often do we close the book, put it down, and forget it? If all we take from reading is the immediate experience of the flow of the story and the companionship of the characters, then that is perhaps good enough. But there is so much more we can learn about ourselves, our world and how we can change, if we take the time to think a little. As often is the case, books for young adults are more thought provoking than many that are aimed at an adult readership.

    So, I recommend She Is Not Invisible, and also recommend other books by Marcus Sedgwick (My Swordhand is Singing; The Book of Dead Days; Blood Red, Snow White; Floodland to name a few I have enjoyed).  I also recommend that you try reading books written for children and teenagers. Truly, they can surprise, entertain, teach and challenge. Why not start with Marcus Sedgwick?

    Literature, Novels, Reading

    Why Reading is worth the effort!

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    I spend a lot of time telling people to read – exhorting, encouraging and enticing them to read. From those who see the benefits of reading, but don’t find the time to do it, to those who never pick up a book and don’t see the point of it, I try to promote the idea that books and reading are worthwhile.

    Reading takes a bit of effort. We’re not always good at that. I’m as bad as anyone. Trying something new, something that makes me feel inadequate, or tests my abilities, is something I probably avoid rather than embrace. I love reading, but even I feel it is difficult to get started at times.

    Over this lockdown period I promised myself that I would read at least one book a week. I set myself that challenge. I failed. It may be that I was too ambitious, both with the number and the type of books I chose. I don’t know why I imagined that I could finish Mantel’s The Mirror and the Light and Boccaccio’s Decameron within a couple of weeks. But the truth is, recently I have found it very difficult reading anything at all. From the beginning of this quarantine period, I have found my concentration wanders. The small amount of work I have to do takes a herculean effort. I find myself, even more than usual, missing links in what people say and do, forgetting things, and finding myself staring out of the window rather than listening to what people are saying. I know I am not alone in this. The strangeness of these times has hit us all in different ways. For me, the solidity I based my actions and my thoughts on has dissolved. I float along, but there is no reason behind anything. I am caught in a vacuum between a fast disappearing past and an unknowable future. As are we all. So, reading has been a struggle to say the least.

    But I still maintain that it is worth the effort.

    Above all, in these strange times, we need care for our mental health, entertainment and distraction. We need to make sense of things. Though I have fallen into the trap of reading too many of the panicky, cynical and aggressive posts on various social media, and thinking too often of the inane stupidities of those in power (who we were hoping might guide us safely through this crisis), I admit that what I am doing is not helpful. At the beginning of all this, I wrote that the wisdom of the great writers will help us more than the vacuous comments we see daily on the news, on Twitter and pronounced by our leaders. I still believe that.

    It is taking more effort for me than it normally would, so I imagine that many others who are not such book lovers might be finding reading even more difficult. I say to them, as to myself, it’s worth the effort. Let’s continue to try!  There will be those who perhaps are reading more than ever, or are taking up reading for the first time. To them I say, well done! It’s your turn now to encourage us.

    So this week, I did manage to read a book (as well as marching on with The Mirror and The Light). It is She Is Not Invisible by Marcus Sedgwick. If you’re interested, you can read my review here.

    Literature, Reading

    The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio

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    ‘As the year turned to spring, the plague began quite prodigiously to display its harrowing effects.’

    As predicted, I have struggled to finish a book a week.  Not surprising, probably, considering the books I have chosen.  I am currently reading The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio at the same time as working my way through Hilary Mantel’s The Mirror and the Light. I may give myself a break and read and review a shorter book next week while I continue to revel in reading those monsters. In the meantime, I thought I might give a little review of the beginning of The Decameron.

    You may wonder how on earth I chose my ‘to read’ pile so that the third of my books is a translation of a 14th century collection of stories from Italy. The Decameron was referred to many times in sources and comments I read both at university and since then. The two works I am most familiar with which were influenced by it are these: it was the source, and possibly the inspiration, for Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales; Keats used one of his tales in writing Isabella: or the Pot of Basil. So, I had heard about it and never read it. “If I don’t read it now,” I thought, “when will I ever get around to it?”

    In addition to having the time, the obvious reason to think of it just now is, of course, the plague.  The book is set just outside Florence during the plague of 1348.  Three young men and seven young women go to a castle outside the city to escape from the ravages of the Black Death and pass the time together telling stories to each other. It seemed to me to be appropriate that I should read the stories in my isolation too.

    Boccaccio was one of the first Italians to use the language spoken by the people instead of Latin when writing his literary works. He followed in the footsteps of Dante in that regard. Both of them Florentines, it is argued that their works have affected the growth of the Italian language as we know it today. At the same sort of time, William Langland when he wrote Piers Plowman and Chaucer in his Canterbury Tales and his poetry were writing in English rather than French, which was then the language of power in England. This was the time when the language spoken by the ordinary person was first written down in a literary poetic way, giving a voice, a status and a pathos to common individuals. Their stories were written, and so all could read of their preoccupations, their hopes and dreams, their faults and foibles.  For the first time, we see society’s layers, from the nobility to the peasants in the fields and beggars on the streets. It was a time when the middle classes were gaining in power and influence, partly due to the decimation of the population as a result of the plague. For the first time, we can read – not of the noble feats of heroes and kings – but of the struggles, loves and losses of the people who made up the majority of society.

    If I’m trying to persuade you to read The Decameron, that would be the first reason I would argue. My next might be the fascinating insight it gives into the human reaction to the plague. As we all struggle to hold onto our sanity in the face of global panic and personal isolation, it is interesting to see that the human beings who faced a much worse pandemic had similar reactions to ours. While we wait inside, or fight the disease on the front line, we are backed up by scientific knowledge, good remote communication and a strong governmental infrastructure – not to mention (here in Britain at least) the NHS. In those days, they had no notion how the disease worked, and therefore no idea how to combat it. In the introduction Boccaccio writes of the plague, ‘It was proof against all human providence and remedies’. However bad things seem, we cannot say that of COVID-19. 

    People in 14th century Florence reacted as many are doing now, either with extreme caution or a complete lack of it. People felt that death would come for them and there was no remedy, so they either focused on the life to come and tried for piety or did whatever they wanted knowing they would not have to face the consequences. It is so easy to see how people would fall into both of these camps. I learned at school that a third of Europe’s population died of the plague in those years; never before has that seemed to me to be more of a human and horrific disaster.

    The third reason for reading Boccaccio’s Decameron is the nature of the stories themselves.  I realise that reading a modern English translation is not coming close to the tone of the actual text, but the informality and humour of the stories is charming. The familiarity of venal, greedy, lustful humanity albeit in a Renaissance setting is reassuring and almost always funny. ‘Bawdy’ is a word often used to describe these tales, but essentially that just means they are Game of Thrones level rude and violent. What the bawdiness shows, however, is the humanity, both of the characters and of the writer.

    And that last point is what I want to leave you with.  People are the same now as they ever were. The fact that they wore funny clothes and spoke in a funny way does not change the fact that they had emotions, reactions, hopes and passions, just like us. Perhaps today’s Boccaccio will write a modern day version of The Decameron, an isolation diary, which will help people 700 years from now to imagine what our lives are like now. I’d like to believe that.

    Reading, Uncategorized

    Women and Power by Mary Beard

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    This is the second of my book reviews for the lockdown. So far I’m managing to keep to my book a week target, though I fear I may struggle to do that every week!

    I was bought this book by my son for Mothers’ Day. I have already bought it myself for two other people, but had not yet had a chance to read it. I am not well enough versed in either the history of feminism or the classical world to fully appreciate Beard’s arguments, but her main points certainly resonate with me. They reflect a world I have lived in and live in still.

    The voicelessness of women, their silence, is something I have noticed in life and in literature. The Duchess of Malfi, is a play about a powerful woman who uses her power in the domestic rather than political sphere; she is silenced by her brothers. In their presence she is restrained and quiet, while they berate her and insult her undeservedly. The Cardinal only yearns for total power, Ferdinand is offended by his sister’s lack of obedience to him and warped by his own incestuous feelings towards her, blaming her rather than himself for his passion. In the end, they kill her, her husband and some of her children. The ultimate way to silence someone. Of course, Webster was a man living in the misogynistic world of the mid-16th century, and could only write from his perspective and historical situation.

    In my life too I have seen, time and again, that women are silenced by men. Concerns seen as ‘female’ are treated as less important, comments made by women are brushed aside, ignored or reworded by men. Beard calls this the ‘Miss Triggs treatment’ after the Riana Duncan cartoon set in a boardroom where the chair of the meeting says, “That’s an excellent suggestion, Miss Triggs.  Perhaps one of the men here would like to make it.” I have worked in professions which are seen as female and have predominantly female workers – librarianship and teaching – but I have seen women silenced in meetings, in the workplace, in private, so regularly that I barely seem to notice it any more. I would be astonished if any woman said they did not.

    Mary Beard talks about how, from the Classical world, we think of speaking as in itself male. If a woman speaks, she becomes less female. It is an interesting idea, and a way of understanding why the world is as it is. How do we change it, I wonder?

    The second part of the book is about the nature of power and how women fit into that idea. Again, Beard talks about power and how it is defined as intrinsically male. Women who achieve positions of power are described as grabbing, as fighting, and breaking through, as though the men hold the power and the women must seize it by force. She suggests that what we view as power should be changed; ability to change the world around us rather than public prestige is the way she describes this new idea. To me, it brings to mind Dorothea’s life as described in Middlemarch as one who ‘lived faithfully a hidden life’ and rests in an ‘unvisited tomb’. This idea of power as the ability to make life better (or worse) for others without self-aggrandisement or even being lauded or celebrated beyond that very specific sphere of influence, is an interesting one, but it is hard to see this idea taking over the more exciting, intoxicating feeling of direct power over others.

    Women & Power presents a familiar world by tracing its origins in the cultures of Ancient Greece and Rome. It does the invaluable job of defamiliarizing the familiar enough that we see the way our society is structured. Under this searching light, we can clearly see the imbalance of power and its causes. Essentially, speaking in public and power as it is currently defined are seen by society as intrinsically male. This is the hurdle we have to overcome. We can not just fight to have the same rights to be heard, to be listened to. We have to rebuild our ideas of what society is!