Happy Centennial Daddy-Long-Legs

I love epistolary novels. There is something about a collection of novels or diary entries which, autobiographical or fiction, seem to give the reader a more intimate view of a person's life, thoughts and, if you're lucky, secrets. It's probably because of this that I can't stop ranting about Helene Hanff's compilations of her letters and diary entries and why I love Anne of Windy Poplar for her collection of decidedly unromantic but charming epistles to her fiance. It might also explain my delight in finding a first edition (and to my knowledge, only edition) of Margaret Halsey's With Malice Towards Some, the diary entries of a slightly restless wife of an professor lecturing in Oxford for a year. The list could go on and its partially due to this list that I hate being asked "what books do you like". Most of these books are not on any bestseller list, probably because reading what someone had for tea in 1938 is not the exactly the heart-stopping drama or sweeping romance that people crave for. Reading people's letters and diary entries, one cannot expect to have a happy ending every time or have all the intrigues tied up nicely by the last page. These books don't always follow traditional story plot lines and, since they don't contain vampires or asinine by-products of vampire pop culture, would probably bore a large part of the population.

One that has endured and and is celebrating its 100th anniversary this year is Daddy-Long-Legs by Jean Webster. Although I have not read it a 100 times, the number is definitely in the double digits and as of my last read this week, it has not lost any of its charm.

It's not the love story that develops in the last few pages that has kept me going back for re-reads or captured the attention of so many readers in the last hundred years. It's the plucky orphan who, knowing well her fate and caste in life, dares to dream beyond and explores the world handed to her with abandon, self-effacing and good-natured humour, and creativity. Although readers in search of wild adventures might get bogged down in details of college lunches and classes and faithful reporting of which pig ran away or which cow died, there are greater themes in the book: female suffrage and social reform being among the most obvious.

I give this book a five star but only for that certain kind of reader. I think you know who you are.

Jason Mraz

Two Books and Their Boxes

I don't know if I'm getting pickier with books or if I've just had not-so-good luck lately, but I've recently read two which, by their covers, would seem to be books I'd love but instead, I was quite disappointed in.

When Autumn Leaves looked like a fun, homey little town with stories about friendship and community and maybe a bit of magic thrown in. The reality was that the books rushed along, barely making your acquaintance with one character before switching over to another character's point of view. By the end of the book, I'd forgotten who the people at the beginning and hadn't really gotten attached to anyone along the way. Furthermore, the moral quality of many of the characters was quiet dubious and the magic was a fairly dark, wiccan sort which did not fit in with the rest of the timbre of the book. I love epic fantasy tales like Lord of the Rings, Narnia or books set entirely within another world. I like reading about leprechauns and brownies and other folklore. But somehow when a story tries to create a modern day and combine it with outright magic which, frankly, is irrelevant to the story line, it makes it harder for me to suspend my disbelief and enjoy the story. I like genres to stay in their boxes!


The Hundred-Foot Journey was a bit better. It is the story of an Indian boy whose rowdy family sets up a resturant in a little French village to the horror of the gourmand across the road. Eventually he goes on to train and become a great chef. The book hurries through various stages of life from Indian, London, Lumiere, and Paris so you don't quiet ever feel settled in. It reads more like a condensed biography than a novel. Now, I have nothing against biographies. But when it is suppose to be a novel, I like it to read like a novel.
To be fair, I enjoyed all the foodie talk in the book: it made me want to go make a sauce or stuff a quail.

Intellectual Masochism

I don't like short stories. And even though English teachers across the globe might twitch in horror, I don't know many people that do. Except for my beloved P.G. Wodehouse, most short story writers seem to feel a burden to send a message or social critique or statement on the darkness of either their souls or everyone around them in one fell punch. And since I'm not a masochist ( unless it comes to my back being scratched or weaving needles in and out of my palm or liking the feel of a knife's blade or...) ok, since I'm not usually a masochist, I don't want to be repeatedly slugged in the head. At least books couch their message in slightly more subtle terms. That is not saying that that books aren't dark or fatalistic but that doesn't seem to be the sole purpose of a majority of books.


Novellas are almost as bad: too short to be legitimate books and too long to be short stories, they try to straddle both worlds. I can't seem to invest myself in a story that I know is going to end soon. I find myself racing along to just find out what the "point" is that the author is trying to make; an attitude I rarely take with books.

However, perhaps I've been reading the wrong sort of short stories and novellas. If anyone out there has suggestions, I'd be happy to give them another try.

Lunch

My alloted portion: 6 1/2 ounces of a single vegetable and 3 1/2 ounces of meat. Delicious and I didn't even manage to eat it all so I get the leftovers for a snack later on!

Happiness is:

Coffee and Paninis at the coffee shop


Casados at the Mercado Central


Copos by the Torre


Osea: frienship and food goes together really well.

Apologies

The Godfather is not necessarily a book that I would recommend but there is one particular paragraph that struck me. The son to the Godfather just died and the consigliori (counselor) to the Godfather hadn't been able to stop it. Before he tells the man his son is dead:

"he tried to prepare his own manner. He would have to be in all ways strict with his own guilt. To reproach himself would only add to the Don's burden. To show is own grief, would only sharpen the grief of the Don. To point out his shortcomings as a Consigliori, would only make the Don reproach himself for his own bad judgement for picking such a man for such an important post."

This one struck me especially because I have so often found myself comforting people who have done me wrong or are apologizing for something. They use their grief as a shield and self-flagellation as a tool to garner pity. I know that apologizing is an art and I find myself wanting to do the same: using my great guilt to try to make the wronged party understand and not hate me. But I think maybe, in apologizing, the kindest thing to do is give the wronged party a chance to be hurt and say "I was wrong. Forgive me" not "I'm such a terrible person, You shouldn't forgive me even though I hope you do etc". In the latter case, then the other person is stuck saying "No, you're not a horrible person" instead of "I was hurt but I forgive you". Basically, the difference lies in whether the apology is for the benefit of the apologizer or the wronged person. I believe a simple, sincere apology made for the person you have wronged is much more effective and healing than a flowery, self-beating one which casts all the attention back on yourself. Unfortunately, I fear the art of apology is being lost just like the art of politeness, greetings, correspondence, handkerchiefs and hats.

Associations and Attachments

I tend to think of the world as a great big multi-dimensional puzzle. Every new bit of knowledge or information is a coloured piece of the puzzle that I can put in. Slowly, my mental world is being coloured in and put together. The geographical aspect is the most obvious: every country that I've been to is coloured in my mental map. I have first hand knowledge of what that country looks like in a way that pictures can never match.

But there are many aspects to this map: historical, political, scientific, classics, media, people. The more you know and study, the more these link up. That's why I'm always fascinated when a study of a person lists his or her contemporaries. I find it fascinating to know that Jane Austen was born the same year the American Revolutionary War started or that her father died the year Lewis and Clarke reached the Pacific.

I always imagined the great literati as isolated geniuses when in fact, many famous names are linked in friendship. Last May I sat in the pub in Oxford where C.S. Lewis and Tolkien spent decades collaborating and gaining inspiration from each other. Wordswith and Coleridge even collaborated on the same poem Lyrical Ballads, its unique style ushering in the Romantic period in poetry.

There's also something thrilling about finding links in your everyday life. One of my favorite movies as a child was "You've Got Mail" in which they make quite a few references to the Godfather. One being "going to the mattresses". I'm reading through the Godfather and was thrilled read this. At first, I couldn't place the link, but I knew it sounded familiar.

One of my childhood books was about a little girl named Jenny who's father would always sing her this little song:

Jenny kiss'd me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that health and wealth have miss'd me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kiss'd me.

It was in one of those books where they don't quote the author because classical education would have seen to it that everyone knew where it was from. However, I had to discover roundabout when reading about the Carlyle's and discovered that this poem was written by Leigh Hunt for Jane Carlyle, a respected writer in her own right.

I'm not sure where this obsession for putting in all the puzzles of the world and finding links comes from but it's comforting. It shows connection to each other and to our past. It shows that nothing happens in a vacumm. It makes the world seem less cold and distant and alienated. Even the great poets needed each other. The entire world can't be fixated on thing: people's smaller lives will keep on going no matter what inventions are made or wars are fought. And, with any hope, we'll make a difference in our own communities that will eventually, link us up with others.

A Year of Living Biblically

This seems like an appropriate title to finish on New Year's. However, it might not be as spiritual as you think. The premise of the book is an Agnostic Jew who undertakes the challenge of trying to follow the rules of the Bible as literally as possible. This includes not shaving his beard, "stoning adulteres" (in his case, throwing a few pebbles at one) as well as the less controversial ones like not gossiping, giving thanks, and avoiding lustful thoughts.

For someone who classifies himself as agnostic (A "reverent agnostic" towards the end of the book) I thought the book was surprisingly open-minded and thorough. He attempts to understand many different facets of Christianity and visits Israel, a snake-handling church in the south, mega churches, the Amish, and invites a Jehovah's witness into his home. He has a large board of advisors from different faiths and does attempt honesty.

Considering his focus was on following the laws, its not surprising he didn't come to some great conversion at the end; however, I do think his book does a great job in making faith seem less absurd and remote and makes for an interesting read for both Christians and non-Christians. I think both would have something to learn from this book.