Sweet seasoned showers

The floodwaters are rising. A plane has gone missing. Two planes in one year. Three, if you count the one that crashed, or rather, was shot down. Tragedy piles on tragedy. People reeling wondering if this is happening, if this is real, if the absurd, the tragic, the absurdly tragic that has you gasping in disbelief as you wail to test out your lungs, has crept into their quiet, well-regulated lives.

And I fend off the unknown by sticking to routines. Or rather creating new routines. Isn't that the straw we clutch when drowning? Routine? Something in our heads to hold on to when everything is falling apart? Especially our concept of self?

I'm still reading the secret confessions. The second day of reading and delicious "revelations". The blissful five-month affair with Kit Marlowe when Will deserted her the second time. The authorship of Richard 3 (with Kit), Richard 2, Comedy of Errors and Romeo and Juliet (which, in this narrative, she wrote entirely by herself), working for Bess of Shrewsbury (around the time Will wrote the Taming of the Shrew), hints of an affair between Will and the pretty effeminate Earl of Southampton who was his patron.

But then through all that wandering, all that writing, and sewing and story-telling...the children play no part. And when both return to Stratford just in time to see Hamnet (their only son) dead, the pathos are terrible. And yet, Hamnet died and he died young. Where was Anne and Will during that time. Presumably the real Anne Hathaway was in Stratford with her son. And Will was in London still pursuing his dreams. Were there not letters exchanged that told him what was about to happen? I don't know.

But throughout, still, Shakespeare is portrayed as conceited and self-serving and willing to appropriate other people's work and put his name to it. The genius of Shakespeare, the legend that will live on, when all the rest are dead and forgotten. What if it was not one author? What if many people were responsible for the pantheon that emerged?

Soon, I will have to be done with this book and move on to his actual writing.

The Secret Confessions of Anne Hathaway

What an unconventional way to start a blog about Shakespeare. Of course, this is not a new blog, it is the one I was using for my year with Dickens...but well, Dickens's year has come and gone and I thought it would be less trouble to add to it. And after a year with Will, I might spend a year with Virginia, then a year with Tolstoy (it would probably take me a whole year to finish War and Peace after all) and then, who knows...A Year With David Foster Wallace? Or would that be pandering?

Anyway, since I am starting this blog because Anna gave me a book about Anne Shakespeare and some bardic stationery to write letters with, I thought it would be good to start this book like that. I mean, I don't have to stick to the cannon right? Only his writings? Forsooth!

I can play around, write about what has been written around him. And this book, well it was written by Arliss Ryan and although it is complete fiction, a sort of "what if", it is intriguing nonetheless. Here Anne claims co-authorship for some of, if not all his plays. I don't know. I haven't read that far yet. I'm at the part where she has run away to London to join Will, who abandoned her and his three children (yes, how come everyone seems to gloss over this fact when talking about the great bard? Why is it taken as a matter of course that he should abandon his wife because she was eight years older than him?)

Anyway, the tone is gently mocking. She does not see the great bard everyone sees. See them with their trousers off, they're never quite as grand.... She sees a petulant boy to begin with, intent on establishing his own importance, and then, someone who runs away to join a troupe of players in London, leaving his wife and children with his parents, never sending home any money. And when she runs away to London to find him and join him, she sees him as a person who cannot act to save his life... a poor player who has to settle for bit parts because he does not have the emotional depth for anything better...but who is so nice that the other players are careful to tiptoe around his feelings about it. And then, she sees him as the person she collaborates with to write sonnets and then plays. They get their first big break when Will is asked to repair Henry 6 which has been mauled and bandied about by the other playwrights, a mishmash of so many pens which have quite spoilt the broth.

I haven't read that far in but already, there is a tenderness developing between Anne and Kit Marlowe. Marlowe is handsome, he is young, he is on top of the world, and he is a genius. And Will, alas, Will is not quite there yet. I'll keep you posted as I go along.

Sketches by Boz

Here's the thing. I had intended to read the Christmas Stories first but they were too difficult to find online (OK, I guess I could have if I had really put my mind to it but I was lazy and there were too many other things to do close to Christmas and Chubby's wedding) and so Christmas came and went with the two Christmas books unread.

And now it's after Christmas I don't feel compelled to put those books first. Other than The Christmas Carol and Cricket on the Hearth, I didn't really care for most of the stories I have read. But nuff about that. I will get to it in its proper place when I finally pick up Books 1 and 2 and give them the required once over, stopping every so often to ponder.

Business? Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, benevolence, were all my business.

Three guesses for who said that and where it's from.

OK, OK, I'll start for real now.

I was reading a book about pilgrimage (the Camino, sort of, well a pilgrimage of sorts that terminates in Santiago de Compostela) and finding it hard going. It's a mixture of description of place and the inner journey. But I don't think the author (who is wrestling with lack of faith and a rejection of the church and finding herself amidst believers, breaking out in hives, losing front teeth and having panic attacks) is kind of jerky. In places, the prose sings, but more often than not, well, it doesn't and I was supposed to have been done with it by now and I would have if it was as well written as most of the memoir-type books that I love. But this one...I am not sure...it's sort of like a pebble in the shoe, minor irritation, doesn't quite come off.

Anyway, I abandoned the book for a while and opened up my Sketches by Boz on the iPad. Now, I had attempted to read this book before and not gotten past page 22. At the time, coming off Hard Times (I think it was Hard Times, it may have been something else) I couldn't appreciate the mastery that went into this book. Now, with the other book to contrast it to, I found the sketches, fluid, flowing, funny...(I seem to be on an alliterative kick here). I made it to page 30. And I only broke off because it was late and I was tired.

So I look forward to resuming the book (I skipped ahead to see how many pages this book has and, um, it's like 943, I mean to say, what?).

I need to finish it as I want to start on my Shakespeare/Woolf kick and I'll feel guilty if I start that without having finished this one first.

I am thinking of starting with Romeo and Juliet just because Mark's friend Andrew asked me if I knew the rest of the "Parting is such sweet sorrow" quote and I didn't. And he did. And he sells medical devices for a living. And I write. I mean to say, what?

Hard Times

Mark called to tell me his youngest uncle, the one who is not much older than me,  is dead. So I'm at Elinor's,  a place I've never been before, listening to him playing Susanna I'm crazy loving you.  Nursing a margarita after a Baileys.

It's a dark place illuminated by Christmas decorations. People sit around drinking. They're in a convivial mood. Or at least that's how it seems. Maybe they drink to forget. Maybe they nurse their own dark secrets.

Which has all or nothing to do with Hard Times. Which I got through over a week ago. I've just put off writing this because I've been busy trying to decide what I should do.

I loved it. When Dickens relaxes into a story and it becomes about people rather than politics, he's a joy. Young Tom Gradgrind ended badly as supremely selfish people do. The bounder was exposed in all his fat pseudo humility that was another form of arrogance. Look how I struggled to come up. Look where I am now. Look who I'm married to. Ugh. . The thought of Louisa and Bounderby in bed together is beyond repulsive.

Typically there was only one happy ending. Sissy Jupe. The natural girl who thought with her heart rather than her head. The one who withstood the assault of facts no matter how many times they assailed her with them.

They all started out as caricatures and softened into human beings somewhere in the middle.

Stephen Blackpool's story was tragic. No joy in life and the ending such as it was. With death came rest.

Hard times indeed.

And now in keeping with the season I move on to his Christmas books.

The Sacrifice of Louisa Gradgrind

I object to this. To the sacrifice of Louisa Gradgrind, a beautiful young girl brought up by a hard fact-based man to a bounder like Bounderby. Everything Dickens could do to build up a picture of just how disgusting this man was, he did. And then, he marries this girl who had a soul, though her father did his best to purge it out of her...I don't know how Dickens could have described Gradgrind as a kind man. That seems to be akin to describing Arthur Clennam's mother (in Little Dorrit) as a kind woman. How come narrowness in one instance is forgiven and not in the other? Sure, he did take in that poor girl, Sissy Jupe. But still....

This is why I like Rosa Bud and Lizzie Hexam who refused to sacrifice themselves for the sake of their brothers or friends. Who refused to marry where they did not love, no matter what. Those are heroines worth having. As for Louisa, she married saying, "it doesn't matter" and it blighted her whole life. 30 years older but even that's not as bad the fact that he's, well, Bounderby! A bounder through and through. His stories (which if I remember were not true) of what he had to struggle through to grow up. Ah.

Anyway, I am sort of halfway through the book. In other words, I have completed Book the First. I wanted to take it up as soon as I put down Edwin Drood because this time, I wanted to get through the remaining books with no space in between.

Facts, facts, facts - Coketown. Dickens's description of Coketown and its inhabitants - the sarcasm that runs through the narrative - not the gentle humorous sarcasm that ran through Pickwick, but something harder, less forgiving and less forgivable.

I also have a few words to how he describes Stephen Blackpool's wife - the creature. She is a drunk and a degraded human being, not even a human being, less than an animal, a thing not worthy of living, a thing that ties down this good man who has been patient and forgiven her over and over. And yet, when he describes a man who is a drunk (like the one described by Dismal Jemmy in Pickwick) there is still some saving grace and he is still with his wife (whom he abuses) and his child. The wife is no longer a being but an object of loathing here. I feel sorry for Stephen Blackpool and doubly so, because he cannot marry his love and the stay of his life.

When the narrative moves from Bounderby (who is all caricature) to Blackpool, it gains life. Then he leaves off being so bitingly sardonic and starts to be human....more like the Dickens I love.Anyway, I hate Louisa's brother who is selfish and self-involved to the last degree. How could she love him? Well, who else did she have to love.

And I can't remember what happened to Sissy...I read this book twice before, and I still can't remember.

Never the mind...when I finish it I will write another update and hopefully, move on to the Christmas books (in keeping with the season).

And then, I will end with Sketches by Boz. I have to say, that as funny as they may have been at the time, I really dislike reading his sketches - I didn't like the Mudfog Chronicles or the Uncommercial Traveller. I love Dickens best when he is telling a story and not when he is commenting on someone or something or describing someone or something.

The offices of circumlocution.

Ah well....

The Mystery of John Jasper

I read this book faithfully after Dombey and then just didn't write about it. Sort of fitting that my ardour would have cooled with the unfinished novel. And yet, the novel itself was interesting and exciting. Rather strange to call it The Mystery of Edwin Drood when Dickens made it clear almost from the first page who was going to be the murderer.

The opium addict; in his opium den; consorting with lowlifes and having no control whatsoever on himself. The one thing I'm glad about is that Rosa Bud, unlike the majority of Dickens's heroines, did not succumb to Jasper's threats and suffer in silence. Instead she ran to her guardian (the Angular man who had been in love with her pretty mother) and threw herself on his protection and mercy. And everyone rallied around her and sayanged her and protected her. And in that time she even managed to fall in love with a sailor who had come into a fortune, not bad for the dear little doll.

I would have liked to have known a bit more of how the war between the two formidable females, Miss Twinkleton and the Bilikin would have played out. It was light relief during a heavy time. I would have also liked to have known who Datchery was and who sent him to investigate Jasper.

"Yer lie!" Deputy Winks was always good for a few laughs though I would have dearly loved to give him the drubbing of his life.

And so the narrative breaks off where the net is closing in around John Jasper. I am still curious to know how Dickens would have disposed of him. And what happened to Neville Landless since he clearly did not get the girl. And whether the beautiful Helena Landless would have married Crisparkle.

Dombey and daughter

So I'm wondering if I should go to Backyard tomorrow night or put it off until Mark's birthday...I haven't been this year, which of course has nothing to do with Dickens, just me rambling.

I wish I had written this post right after I had raced through Dombey and Son, unable to sleep, unable to put it down, picking it up surreptitiously at the office and in between assignments and during tea breaks.

In short, I loved it.

I didn't expect to.

But I did.

Before I had only read the first page and the utter coldness of the principle character and the fact that he was such a male chauvinist pig, put me off. Indefinitely. In fact, if I hadn't make a resolution to read ALL of Dickens, I would have probably given Dombey and Son a miss for the rest of my life.

But that was not to be. Dickens 2012 came along, and with it, my extraordinary resolution to read all of Dickens. And that included Dombey. Which doesn't tell you very much about Dombey. Just about my not reading it.

So I read. And I started to get into it. Even the coldness of Dombey failed to ice me over. I guess, it's because Dickens juxtaposed that with the stuff that was going on underneath his glacial exterior. How hurt he was that his son clung to his daughter instead of him. How he resented his affections going elsewhere. How the flatterers pandered to his weakest side and lulled him into a false sense of security.

His obdurate refusal of his daughter's love. The part where, when his son died, he wanted his tombstone to read "beloved only child" rather than "beloved only son" because he actually forgot that he had a daughter.

When the second Mrs Dombey came along, I was ready for her. But Dickens subverted the expectations. Edith was no cruel stepmother. In fact, she loved her stepdaughter more than she loved her husband. Recognising that she had been purchased by Mr Dombey like a piece of fine art, she refused to act like a piece of property he could show off. No, she was proud and angry and unwilling to submit. She fought him tooth and nail. And he got back at her the only way he knew how. Through Florence whom she loved. And by issuing his orders via a menial (his lieutenant as a subtle way of saying that the menial, a man, was superior to her).

I don't blame her for what she did. He pushed her over the edge. So she utterly destroyed him.

Edith was a very complex character...neither an angel nor a devil, but both in equal parts. It was the presence of people like her, and that woman whose name I cannot remember (see, it's been a while since I finished and I can't decide what to read next because Edwin Drood is not gripping me like it should) and when I had just finished I was so full of the story.

In the end I felt sorry for Mr Dombey when he lost everything and when he was forgiven (sort of the way Cordelia forgave Lear...well, Florence didn't "forgive" him, she begged his forgiveness for running away) I was happy.

That is the magic of Dickens. He can make you hate a character, but not too much that you do not forgive it. And if he has really painted something so awful that you cannot, he usually kills it off.

Witness that dwarf in Old Curiosity Shop. And Mr Carker in Dombey. I'm surprised that he didn't kill of Horlick in Great Expectations (although he did kill of Pip's sister whom he may have hated worse than Horlick).

I found Paul's death a lot more touching than Little Nell's. Well, you know how I felt about little Nell, and more importantly, her stupid grandfather. There was an element of that with Florence and her father...her inability to see his flaws.

Anyway, I loved the book and I read it very quickly.

And now I have Edwin Drood, Hard Times, the Christmas books and Sketches by Boz to go.