Love of the Day: Great Waves by Dirty Three

Okay, so after last weeks' incredibly wordy post (seriously, all of those adverbs! What was I thinking?! At least 70% of those are coming out before that goes in my imaginary writing portfolio), today I bring you a lazy song post, almost completely free of babble.  Well, it is a bank holiday weekend after all.

I discovered this track a few years ago when I was feasting upon anything I could find with violins in it (Dirty Three definitely have violins), and subsequently forgot about it completely.  But I happened to watch a trapeze video on YouTube today which had this song as a soundtrack and remembered how lovely it is. Cat Power/Chan Marshall's voice is deliciously hypnotic, perfect for a drifty, zoned-out Sunday afternoon.  Or anytime really, let's face it.  Anyway, I'll shut up and let you listen - enjoy!

Love of the Day: The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt*

I've never written anything approaching a book review before. Or, come to think of it, even talked very much about the contents of anything I've read - which is kind of strange for a self-confessed book nerd who tends towards the opinionated! 

I have of course deeply loved books I've read - and deeply hated others.  I've laughed at books, been moved by them, disgusted by them, inspired by them and wept over them (many times). I've consumed them in tiny sections at a time to make the pleasure last as long as possible,  deserted them halfway through, felt bereft when they were over, as if I had lost a friend, and thought about them whilst doing other things.  I've read them over breakfast, coffee, lunch and dinner, taken them to work with me, brought them to the beach and on picnics.  I've used books as pillows, furniture, decoration, shields against unwanted conversation, distraction, consolation, comfort, escape, even as a way to judge another's character (pretentious I know), but I've never really discussed their contents. I've never been a member of a book club, never posted my opinions up on Amazon or Goodreads, and I dropped English A-Level like a hot potato after getting my first and last 'N' grade for an essay about Hamlet *shudder*.  I have by and large just kept books in my head after reading, filed away on little shelves labeled 'Yes' and 'No', and been quite content with that.

But actually, I think it's high time I have a go at getting further than 'OMG this book is AMAZING, I loved it!' and try to express exactly why I liked a particular book so much.  And since it is definitely my Love of the Day, if not the Year, the honoured tome (lol) on which I have decided to bestow my feeble first attempt is The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt.

OMG this book is AMAZING, I loved it!! 

Just kidding.

Without wanting to do the spoiler thing, in a nutshell The Goldfinch is the story of Theodore Decker, a boy whose mother is killed in a bomb blast at an art gallery in New York and the myriad ways that his life is changed by the repercussions of this event. Not my usual cup of tea to be honest, but I was looking for something long enough to keep me going for a while, so I checked out the sample of it on my e-reader and got drawn in immediately. 

It may sound strange, but reading this book felt, to me, like waking up in my own bed at home. Not any adult bed in any current / recent home, but that bed in the eternal nostalgic home of childhood that you sometimes imagine you are still in for a split second upon waking.  The bedroom where everything felt safe and comforting and looked-after. The bed that was yours when the world was still a mysterious, amazing, exciting place, full of potential and out there waiting to be discovered - but, reassuringly, you didn't have to actually do it just yet.  I started reading The Goldfinch during a pretty shifting-sands, turbulent few weeks in my life and it was a total balm for my soul.  It reminded me, somehow - even though I have little in common with the characters and the story-line is completely remote from my existence - of who I am and what I want, what I enjoy of the world. 

Tartt manages to convey both the inner and the outer worlds of her protagonist, all the way from pre-teen boy through to mid-twenties adult man, using the notoriously tricky first-person and it's absolutely convincing.  You never question the authenticity of his voice for one second and that's quite a feat, considering that the subject matter includes: love at first sight, homosexual experimentation, drug and alcohol consumption, post-traumatic stress disorder, theft, being fostered, and several bereavements.  There's nothing trite, patronising, or try-hard about it.  Tartt isn't trying to be 'down with the kids', or edgy, or use the story to get a moral message across.  It just feels real.  You are Theo; you understand him.  The very internal-ness of the writing allows it to speak directly to the readers own interior, creating an intimate, dream-like connection.  

The novel consistently navigates difficult waters delicately and elegantly, always acheiving grace and substance, evading any hint of tackiness or cliche.  The portrayal of Boris, for example - Russian by way of Poland, Australia and Las Vegas, Boris speaks an eccentric, slightly broken English, drinks heavily, leads Theo astray, and eventually becomes some kind of international gangster - could so easily have descended into spoofish ridicule, but Tartt's perfectly pitched rendering of him results instead in an endearing, intelligent and rounded character. Similarly, one of the most significant elements of the story, Theo's first encounters with Pippa when they are both still very young, is related so beautifully that this small hook is strong enough, credible enough, to hang the obsession of his later years on.  These pivotal yet brief meetings between what are, essentially, two children could so easily have been indulgently saccharine, or even worse - the opposite - precociously and inappropriately adult.  But in Tartt's skilled hands it is innocent, simple and dignified.  

The jewels in this author's crown, though, are her rich, glimmering descriptive passages. They are so evocative and atmospheric, I basically want to wallow in them forever. From noir-ish hotel rooms in Amsterdam, to upper-class, antique-strewn apartments in New York, to soulless, barren Las Vegas suburbia, its all just... beautiful. There's no other word for it.

Everything about this book is utterly addictive, nuanced, satisfyingly profound and aesthetically comforting.  I am no English Lit student - as I'm sure is abundantly clear from this pile of steaming waffle - and I have no real idea where to begin with technical analysis or critique, but I do know that this book is a damn fine creation.  It's stunning. I delayed finishing it by over a month just so that it wouldn't be over and now it is I feel sad and desperate for more.  I would literally kill to be able to write like her.

Apparently Ms Tartt only publishes one book every ten years and I guess it's worth the wait when they're this good. Luckily for me though there are two previous novels and I, for one, will be devouring them over breakfast, coffee, lunch and dinner for the next few months.  

You probably should too, you know - I mean, I don't like to be pushy, her work might not be for everyone. But go on, READ SOME TARTT.

*Have I written this whole post purely for an excuse to repeat the surname 'Tartt', which I find highly amusing, over and over again? Possibly... I couldn't look you in the eye and deny it...

Love AND bug of the Day: Being Approachable

I don't know what it is about me, whether I look particularly sweet and innocent, safe, kind (ha!) or what, but I seem to be endlessly approachable.  If there is someone on any given street that I happen to be walking down who needs directions, the time, or advice on how to use something (twice now I've given lessons on how to top up your Oyster card!), they will definitely ask me.  The other day a man on a bike even accosted me as I was crossing the road to ask "Where is this place?" Bless him.

Apparently this face says 'Hi, I'm super nice!. Ask me anything and I'll do my best to help!'. GRR.

The whole thing is pretty hilarious as I'm actually a very grumpy, hostile person when approached in the street by strangers. Plus I'm seriously bad at giving directions. The expression on the face of the directions-requester usually turns from hope to bewilderment, followed by embarrassment and finally regret, whilst I'm there going 'Oh.. yeah, I know where that is! Or do I?... I think if you go straight down here, then turn right at the lights... no wait that's somewhere else.  Just a second...'  Telling the time I can usually do, I'll admit.  And I'm a total expert on how to top up your Oyster card now I've been in London for ALL OF THREE SECONDS people - Jeez, LEAVE ME ALONE!!!

Anyway, I am including this as a 'Love' because actually it's quite nice to think that I look pleasant and friendly as I go about my business (maybe) and also because occasionally the approacher is a dashing young man... ehem... But I'm also including it as a 'Bug' because a) nine times out of ten the approacher is the odorous trampy type, is somewhat creepy and/or has a general aura of psychosis floating around them and b) just - Jeez, LEAVE ME ALONE!!! Bah!

Bug of the Day: The Lone Magpie

Pic borrowed from chesterfieldpagans.org

As a highly superstitious country bumpkin, it tends to darken my day a shade when I spot a lone magpie (one = sorrow, two = joy, in case you weren't aware). It's even worse if this Bird of Unluck appears when I'm in a crowded urban area, since the usual techniques of protection (doffing my invisible cap in its general direction and crying 'Morning magpie! How's your wife?') are rendered more than a little embarrassing/likely to mark me out as a lunatic.  What if all the other people around don't KNOW about the necessary defense techniques against the sorrow just one magpie on its own is certain to bring??!

Its not exactly a large Bug this one, I know, merely a little greenfly in the grand scheme of things.  But it does make me very uncomfortable when such an event occurs, as it did today.  I was just standing there innocently on a busy train platform when I spotted the dratted thing fluttering around on the other side of the tracks - prompting a good five minutes of teeth-clenching while my right hand twitched at my side, aching to reach up for that non-existent cap.  In the end I had to settle for silently mouthing the required magical phrase and praying that it would piss off.

Begone O Portent of Dooooom!

(Yes, I also try to avoid breaking mirrors, spilling salt and walking over drains/under ladders AND I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU THINK OF ME! Unless you're standing next to me in a public place obvs).