featherfinyipp, posts by tag: books - LiveJournal

It's been forever and a day since I did anything even approaching a normal update. That is, not including a quote from somewhere or other, or vaguely mentioning something that's not really relevant beyond noting it for posterity.

So. What have I been up to?

( Blah blah essays blahCollapse )

I'll hear back on June 19th, when I also get my exam results. I got the April 20th essay back - I got a first in it and was pleased as punch. It was a straight-up literature essay that I'd been researching for over a week, so that felt gratifying. On or around April 20th I also received two other cool pieces of news. 1.) My dissertation proposal had been accepted, and I'd been allocated the supervisor of my choice. 2.) I got all my first choices for my module options in my third and final year. Happy times.

I've spent the post-essay/exam days putting my life back together, a phrase I'm at risk of overusing of late, but it's bloody accurate. This term (post-Easter) has taken a lot out of me physically and mentally, so it's been sheer bliss having the come-down. Staying up to stupid-o'clock in the morning reading books, comics, the internet, getting up after lunchtime, spending my days lazing in my bedroom or sitting room or in the park with friends and housemates. It's not without reason that the third years say that the end of second year is the most difficult part of the course. Or at least, I hope not! Next week is going to be filled with the inevitable drunken end of term fun, as everyone has their final house-parties, socials, BBQs, nights in the pub etc. I reckon all of my housemates ate going to disappear back to their respective corners of the country on about the 21st or 22nd, leaving me alone in the house for a week. Speaking of which, I need to find somewhere to put all my stuff during July and August, as my mum isn't driving at the moment and can't move it all back to London. Annoyingly, we're only moving two doors down, but have a two month gap between contracts. I should get on that...

( Reading, listening, all that cultural jazzCollapse )

On an ACTUAL closing note, I had a fight with vodka the other night, which it thoroughly won, stealing my memory and ability to walk in a straight line, and leaving me with a fair few bruises. I'm such a dolt.

Here follows my favourite reads of 2008. In no particular order:

The Line of Beauty by Alan Hollinghurst.
Trash by Dorothy Allison.
The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot.
To Say Nothing of the Dog by Connie Willis.
Atonement and Enduring Love by Ian McEwan.
Regeneration by Pat Barker.

I got back from the US almost two weeks ago and it was great fun. Edinburgh was also busy and enjoyable. For some reason it cost me less than last year, which was a very welcome surprise. It was very rainy as has been the rest of the UK this summer. Florida was very humid, which actually was quite handy for preventing my contact lenses from drying out at the end of the day, although at about lunchtime I'd always reach a point of "I've had enough of this damn heat now, thanks". It was pleasant being able to amble about in the evenings without having to wear any extra layers of clothing. We then travelled up to New York which also boasted some glorious sunshine, happily bereft of the humidity of Orlando. We could only afford a few days up there, so it was a case of packing in as much as possible. I really ought to do justice to my trip with a proper post about them but I am always loathe to recount my recent adventures in detail for some reason. Perhaps at a later date.

Since my return I've moved my stuff up to my rented student house in Nottingham. My sister and I have adjacent rooms on the top floor of my family's house in London, and have done since about 2001. Last week we swapped rooms once they'd both been redecorated, as mine is bigger but largely unoccupied whilst I am at university. So I've been adjusting to my new room. It's smaller, with a sloped ceiling, but has the advantage of a sort of improvised window-seat that I have always coveted. Now at least I can curl up and read in the alcove, with a view across the rooftops. Moving almost all of my worldly possessions twice within such a short space of time was tiresome, but at least I'm set up for about a year now. I'm going to Ireland on Monday to visit my grandparents for a few days. I'll get lots of reading done if it is anything like my usual Irish trips.

I really really enjoyed The Line of Beauty by Alan Hollinghurst and absolutely recommend it. I also treated myself to a couple of Tamora Pierce books whilst in the US; she writes young adult fantasy and was my author of choice during my early teens. Unfortunately she is no longer published in the UK, so I was pleased to get my hands on a couple of her recent books that I'd not read. Robin Hobb's 'Forest Mage' provided my annual summer fantasy fix - I got into Hobb a few years ago and avidly consumed her 500+ page fantasy tomes. Since about 2005 I forced myself to slow down and treat myself to one Hobb a summer, as I've basically caught her up in terms of her output as Robin Hobb. Wikipedia explains: "Robin Hobb is the second pen name of novelist Margaret Astrid Lindholm Ogden (born 1952 in California) who produces primarily fantasy fiction, although she has published some science fiction. From 1983 to 1992, she wrote exclusively under the pseudonym Megan Lindholm. Fiction under that pseudonym tends to be contemporary fantasy. In 1995, she began use of the pseudonym Robin Hobb for works of epic traditional European Medieval fantasy." 'Forest Mage' was good, but not great. I think I'm just not getting on with the protagonist of her most recent trilogy, but if you've any interest in so-called "epic traditional European Medieval fantasy" then you really should read The Farseer Trilogy, consisting of Assassin's Apprentice, Royal Assassin and Assassin's Quest. The US covers look a bit dire, the UK ones are quite nice (John Howe artwork, no less) and they are just so good. Let me know if you read them.

I'm embarking upon a five hour train journey up to Edinburgh tomorrow, and I am still bereft of my mp3 player due to My First Mugging (tm). Last year I spent most of the journey unconscious, aside from talking to the middle aged man sharing a table with me in the breakfast car about my A-level results for the best part of an hour. Heavy celebratory drinking the night before, as you may recall. I am taking 'The Line of Beauty' by Alan Hollinghurst with me, which should last at least for the trip up. Lately I've read:

Franz Kafka: Stories 1904-1924, edited by J.A. Underwood
The Sweet Shop Owner by Graham Swift
Hotel Du Lac by Anita Brookner
Behind The Scenes At The Museum by Kate Atkinson

I also read a couple of short stories by Doris Lessing, and a bunch of old issues of New Scientist, that my mum bought for 5p each from a charity shop. Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog is typically Joss Whedonish (read: awesome). airlight's birthday weekend was lots of fun, and this week I've been half-heartedly sorting out stuff for my trip to the US, as well as meeting up with friends for catching up and drinking. Hotel Du Lac woke up my ever-present wanderlust. I'm looking forward to continuing exploring and getting to know Edinburgh.

I think that's everything for now.

Since getting home to London I've been having a mixed time. The first week was marked by my restlessness and struggle to adjust back into family living. I locked myself away for most of the week, sustained by episodes of House and lots of books. This week I've been out and about a lot more; a gig, picnics in the sunshine, cocktails by the river, dinner at an old friend's house. I fill the hours. I've recently read;

Trash by Dorothy Allison.
Dancer by Colum McCann
A Complicated Kindness by Miriam Toews
Slaughterhouse 5 by Kurt Vonnegut
Regeneration by Pat Barker (highly recommended)
Birdsong by Sebastian Faulks
White Teeth by Zadie Smith
Love, etc by Julian Barnes (well, this will actually be finished tonight).

The Yeti fans among you may be interested to know that I was on the tube the other day and Andy was on my train, wearing a hilarious pair of very large plastic-framed glasses. They looked like something prescribed by the NHS in the 1980s. He was on the same platform as me, and sort of wandered past, prompting me to wander past him in turn, to double-check my hunch. He then sat opposite and a little way along from me on the train, confirming my suspicions. I didn't say anything, as I can't say Charlotte and I have ever built up the same rapport with Andy as with say, Harmony, or John.

Walking to the bus stop today elicited memories of running for the bus, on dark December mornings. You get good at hearing buses in the distance, if you're a London school-child. The slightest hint of that soft hum and build of an accelerating bus engine, or a glimpse of the red smudge amidst the traffic on the horizon is enough to set you off. Battling the inevitably heavy shoulder bag and cumbersome school-shoes, scores of us would freeze for a split-second, tuning into those tentative signals of the vehicle's approach. Then a sudden surge and swell as we hurl ourselves towards the bus stop, fumbling desperately for bus passes or ten pence coins as we run, for these were the days before Oyster cards. Some are superstitious, avoiding manhole covers that lie in batches of three, slaloming around the leg posts of road signs and never stepping on the cracks. Others, usually including myself, forsake the pavement and run alongside the curb, half in the gutter, risking being pinned against parked cars by oncoming traffic. At least this way we can flail our arms madly and demand that the oncoming bus slows and stops at the bus stop. You play up the desperation if the bus has pulled off already but is waiting at traffic lights, you pound on the double doors and look pleadingly at the driver, hoping he'll be a decent one who'll let you on. I caught the E2 bus for 7 years, and one older driver would often just wave me on without checking for my pass or a fare. On other occasions there would be an uptight demon of a woman, who would shout abuse at noisy kids and council-estate mums with prams, struggling to get down the narrow bus aisles. Most often, the bus drivers were faceless men, waving us past with a grunt, resentful of being scheduled to drive during the school runs. Once I sat on a stationary bus for half an hour, as the white-haired Greek bus driver halted the vehicle in the middle of the road that led down from the bus station to the main drag, refusing to move. He was protesting his wages, or his hours, or his impending dismissal. I don't know, I didn't care. I sat and stared down at the canal, recalling the incident from several years ago when they pulled a body out of the water.

"Owen sat down, got out the letter of introduction, but didn't immediately open it. The ticking of the clock was very loud in the empty room. He lay back in the chair and closed his eyes. He was afraid to measure his sense of loss."

--Regeneration, by Pat Barker.

"Someday you'll be gone, you'll be dust, and then even less than dust. Nothing. There's no other place to be. This world is good enough for you because it has to be. Go ahead and love it."

From 'A Complicated Kindness' by Miriam Toews.

I'm back off to university tomorrow, after exactly a month back at home in London. I've had a frantically busy Easter that has involved travelling to such exotic locations as Ireland, Nottingham and Hemel Hempstead. As always, I failed to meet-up with everyone I intended to, both through my fault and their own, but there shall be time enough in the summer, I trust. The holidays also included several gigs courtesy of Blood Red Shoes, The Whip and 65daysofstatic, with the Camden Crawl next weekend as the main feature on my live music horizon. We decided not to go to Glastonbury this year, mostly because of a lack of funds, and I have to admit that it's simultaneously comical and painful watching the slow sales this year, considering the trouble we went to last year in securing tickets.

'On Chesil Beach' by Ian McEwan is a very short but generally satisfying book, for anyone interested. 'Enduring Love' was excellent. I have three essays due perilously soon and more books to read besides, in preparation for exams. Above all, the return to university life is something I am more than willing to embrace, even though the next fortnight will undoubtedly be marked by sleepless nights and hours of last-minute work. I am true to form, as ever.

I am in Ireland once again. I remain convinced that it is one of the most beautiful places on Earth. It's good to see all my family again. I'm returning to London tomorrow evening.

Books purchased recently -
Enduring Love by Ian McEwan
The Day of the Triffids by John Wyndham (Read it before, wanted a copy.)
The Women's Room by Marilyn French
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time by Mark Haddon (Read before, didn't have a copy.)

Also I have recently read -
Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood
12 Books That Changed The World by Melvin Bragg
The Last Report on the Miracles at Little No Horse by Louise Erdrich
Monkey Beach by Eden Robinson
Oedipus Rex
Frankenstein by Mary Shelley
Atonement by Ian McEwan

I've also read half of Doctor Faustus, and various essays by D. H. Lawrence and critical pieces on Lady Chatterley's Lover. Not to mention some random Old and Middle English texts (both original and translations).

Always something more pressing and urgent to be attended to rather than an LJ update. I apologise. These past two weeks have seen lectures and seminars suspended to make way for exams and revision. For some reason the School of English spoiled us and declined from setting us any exams whatsoever. On the other hand, there was a somewhat horrific language essay to be written, but in retrospect I have to admit it was a fine way of consolidating everything I (was supposed to have) learnt last semester. The scientist in me enjoyed fitting all the linguistic features together into meaningful sentences, I suppose.
There was, of course, the matter of my philosophy exam to be attended to; I focused on the substance dualism vs functionalism/physicalism part of the course in my reading. Absolutely brilliant stuff, I've kept the library book I had to read sections of and intend on finishing it this week. The exam itself was okay; not my greatest essay ever, but passable considering my absolute lack of experience in thinking and writing philosophically at an academic level.

With the above events concluded by the Thursday of last week, I have an entire week free, essentially, until lectures and whatnot begin again next Monday. I read Lady Oracle by Margaret Atwood today, for my new subsidiary module next semester. At least I can't be accused of being completely lazy and irresponsible when it comes to my reading. Tomorrow I am debating starting either The Stone Diaries or A Complicated Kindness. Anything other than continuing with Bleak House, which, whilst not being a dull book, is still not exactly compelling. Of course, any reading I do tomorrow will compete with a potential visit to the bookshop on campus to spend money I don't have on Hardy's Wessex Poems and Coleridge and Wordsworth's Lyrical Ballads.

A few days ago a friend who is a History student wanted to borrow my friend's laptop to watch some DVDs about the origins of World War I on. Eventually the three of us sat on my friend's bed and watched about two hours of antiquated footage and commentary together; the things we do to fill the hours, to procrastinate. It made me miss History, really; so much was mentioned that I was greatly familiar with. Hearing it all touched upon briefly but in a firmly connected manner reminded me of my brief flirtation with the idea of studying History at university, a few years ago. Admittedly the idea only lasted about a week, but still, amidst the endless pages of facts to be learned, after the hours spent brutally training myself to structure arguments, I loved it. How much my English essays owe to my History lessons, and History to Biology in turn. Reading my bathroom-mate's Genetics notes on the structure of the kidney made me smile once, as the familiar diagrams and labels conjured up memories of dissections and bad smells on an obscure Wednesday morning.

Writing makes me nostalgic. I am only like this half the time in real life, and that in itself is an exaggeration, I'm sure. I need daylight and dry grass; I need to lie outside and listen to CDs through crackling earphones. I need that perfect mingling of the scents from the pages of an aged book and cut grass. New books are sometimes so clinical in their crisp pages and unsettled ink that lightly smudges and marks your fingertips.

Often I don't even know why I stay up so late. Reading, writing, talking, music; I sabotage my sleeping hours with such ease.