CULL

Yes, it's cull time again. I try to be ruthless.  Honest.  But then sentimentality gets the better of me.  Politeness, too.  I mean, I KNOW some of these authors and even if I'm never, ever going to read them again, I can't chuck them.  And then I'm vexed as to what to actually DO with 'em.  Yes, yes, of course I do charity shops...well, to be honest, I do when I can cajole someone with strong arms to carry them there.  Then we have the 'library' in the entrance hall where the top post shelf are full of the 7 flats here unwanted books.  The theory is of course that you 'borrow' one and replace one.  That's the theory.  In practice what happens is that it gets chock with unwanted Dan Brown and Jeffrey Archer (NOT mine I hasten to add)  Then I take a book bag to book club every month and dish 'em out.  Ditto to friends.  But even with all that I swear the pesky things are breeding.  Then, the other night, it happened.  The thing that I'd been dreading and yet expecting for some time.  An avalanche in the middle of the night.  A tsunami of books flooded the bed.  Crashing down on me (and Flo who really was no help at all.  In fact if I had ever thought that she would be any use as a guard dog, that theory was firmly quashed as her trembling body tried to wriggle under my pillow whilst making imploring yelps of distress.  Not growls of attack.) So, the bedside table is looking a little empty, the shelves are groaning, there are three book bags ready for the next strong armed friend to take to the shop and Flo is looking, well, a little more secure...

Penguin Classics

It's my own silly fault.  I was seduced.  Yes, yes, by the 'one click' on Amazon.  (I swear it will reduce me to bankruptcy) But those Penguin classics look so, well, classic. Who can resist them?  Also, and I lay my hand on my heart here, I thought that I would have binge of GOOD books. Now don't get me wrong there is absolutely nothing wrong with chick lit - or - women's contemporary fiction as we are all meant to call it now, Indeed, I have written books myself of that genre.  But I wanted something a bit more, well, classic... So, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers seemed to fit the bill.
I'd heard of her, and she also wrote The Ballad of the Sad Cafe, so I thought I was on to a winner.  But, then, oh dear... the eye started to skip paragraphs, the fidgiting got worse, and in the end I'm sorry to say I gave up.  But then, what a fool I was to think that I could appreciate it anyway.  Set in small town southern states in the fifties....that ALONE should have told me that it wasn't for me. I dislike the decade, I dislike anything to do with small town America, (unless of course it's Little Women) I don't want to read about mill workers, I have only the haziest of ideas as to what a Cotton Gin is (and frankly care even less) and then there is her talk of negro workers, which makes me squirm.
I perservered for a while longer, but the main protaganist is a deaf mute, the town is dreary, teh people are quite horrid and nothing much happens really....Or it hadn't by the time I gave up and irritably tossed it off the bedside table and reached with relief to Joan Wyndham and Dawn Chorus (another one click and SO jolly and uplifting I thank the book gods that I did)
Now, in the case of Carson I can say that I know it to be a case of 'It's not you, it's me,' as I know that she has been lauded, and still is, as a fantastic writer.  But definitely not for me.  If anyone wants it - just let me know and I'll pop it in a jiffy bag to you.

Keef!

Of course, it isn't called Keef, but it should be... Life by Keith Richards published by Phoenix is a whirlwind of read.  The question that's always, with unfailing regularity, asked about Keef is - HOW is he still alive? Shouldn't he be dead? Well, yeah, but that's rock 'n roll baby.  Actually he answers pretty early on why he's NOT dead.  Quality control.  Yes, you got it.  Quality control.  He's never been in the awful position of taking really, really cheap drugs - or as he puts it - 'Mexican shoe scrapings'.  Not our Keef.  It's TOP DRAWER stuff.  And - hold the front page - he's never mainlined.  He just banged it straight into a muscle. Phew, well that's OK then...
Keef comes over as rather a sweet old fashioned kinda boy.  I think we all knew a Keef when we were younger, he never made a move on you, but somehow you ended up in his arms.  Or bed.  And there have been many of the laideez in Keef's life, not least his rather formidable mum, Doris, who once told them all off in a studio in Jamaica for wasting time when they could be recording because 'this studio's costing money, now get on with it!'.
His infamous getting together with Anita Pallenberg after falling for her when she was still with the late Brian Jones is a lesson in pure hedonistic rock'n roll romance, involving hanging out in Morocco, driving through teh desert in a Roller, taking god knows how much drugs and booze and waking up in Tangier.
The rows with Mick Jagger remain, but they have been through so much together, seen and done things that us mere mortals will never comprehend that the ties are too strong to be broken.  They will forever be The Glimmer Twins.
That makes the book really readable, although I did skip the very geeky musico bits, the loving descriptions of so many different guitars and recording techniques are a bit dull but the back stage gossip and bitching makes up for it.
I'm off for a tequila shot and a dance round the flat to Brown Sugar....After all, I know it's only rock'n'roll but I like it. Like it.  Yes I do.

Bloody Vampires

Oh no.  Not another bloody vampire book I hear you groan.  Well, umm, yes.  Sorry about that.  The Twilight saga, True Blood and all the others that seemingly breed unchecked on the shelves have been joined by a new trilogy.  Well, new to me, that is. Kim Newman (a rather glorious eccentric figure himself and an utterly impeccable film buff) and his Anno Dracula series.  It seemed appropriate reading somehow.  It's an English summery weekend in June.  The heating's on, I'm wearing a jumper and the dog is warming my feet. Pimms?  No thanks, I'll have a hot chocolate with a slug of rum in it.  To warm up.
Let me introduce you to the world of London 1888.  Queen Victoria has sensationally remarried to the Prince of Darkness himself - the Wallachian Prince known as Count Dracula. His (polluted) bloodline is sweeping London as more and more people are choosing to 'turn'.  It's quite fashionable really.  Oscar Wilde turned, still hiding his bad teeth behind his hands.  Smoked glasses and the gothic look are affected by the fashioables.   Of course, all that rubbish put about by Van Helsing about garlic and crucifixes doesn't work.  Silver does though, a bullet or  scalpel, followed by ripping the heart (or any vital organ) out of the body. 'Newborns' who are not looked after are horribly burnt by going into the sun and have to go to a sort of Vampire rehab, knows as The Hall.  Some of the 'warms' are sympathetic to the dark side, but gradually London is turned upside down by the Vampires,  In the squalor of Whitechapel prostitutes sell their blood to hungry vampires, and gin sodden sluts tote children around on leads offering up their necks for a bite. A killer roams the streets in the shape of the Silver Scalpel - later known as Jack the Ripper.  But why?  With enough blood puddling the pavements anyway it seems a redundant occupation. There's a rather dapper spy - Charles Beauregard, a vampire patrician prime minister, a wonderful 450 year old heroine vampire Genevieve and a whole constructed world of darkness in the fog ridden streets of London.  Pretty compulsive.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm feeling a bit peckish...

Fairy Tales

Now, I must admit that the re-working of fairy tales with a modern twist never appeals to me.  Too much whimsy and it can border dangerously with magic realism. You know, one minute your protagonist is looking in a mirror and the next minute she's turned into a snake.  Oh no.  Not for me thanks. So this book - well, I say book, but it's an unbound proof copy in the tiniest print you can imagine, has languished for weeks under a pile of books beside my bed.  On the floor, actually, as said bedside table is about to collapse under the weight of far too much printed material (another nudge to buy a Kindle?  No, banish that thought) Anyway, the time came when I had run out of reading material and I reluctantly picked it up.  The Snow Child by Eowyn Ivey published by umm...gosh, I don't know...it doesn't say.  I'll google it in a moment and let you know.  But my goodness I'm SO glad that I did.  I had to finish it one swoop. It's wonderful.  It made me realise that I really love anything set in the snow - it's so seductive...and it reminds me of those wonderful Scandinavian and Russian paintings that I adore.  The snow blankets everything, and pillows sharp corners, and people have to stay huddled inside around a fire whilst gazing outside at the icy brightness.  Snow of course covers all things with a virginal innocence, but doesn't cover the sometimes dark secrets that lay lurking beneath.  It's a re-told fairy tale indeed, one of a childless couple that one winter builds a snow child that comes to life.  Of course, like all fairy tales the poor snow child comes to a sticky end - usually through human love, or the start of Spring... but this is a no nonsense tale set in the harsh landscape of Alaska and I knew that I could rely on the author not to stray into whimsy or mirrors turning onto snakes... My heart was lost to the tale of the middle aged couple struggling against all odds in that snowy landscape, beating out a hand to mouth living. Then the flight of fancy and a much needed break of grinding habit leads them to make a snow child one frosty evening... the rest is pure magic. (Reagan Arthur Books)

Language of Flowers

Aren't librarians nice? And most publishers, too.  I was at The Reading Agency Roadshow which was held at Brighton library (an opportunity to pitch new books to libraries) and at the end of the day the generous publishers gave some books away (or perhaps they just didn't want to carry them home - no - banish that unworthy thought) And I was given The Language of Flowers by Vanessa Diffenbaugh published by Macmillan.  Now, clever, clever Macmillan have also published a little handbook as well by Mandy Kirby with a forward by Vanessa to accompany it.  Double whammy huh? But well worth it.  Enchanting.  I loved it.  The novel is fascinating, but the concept of the Victorian language of flowers bought up to date is charming.  Of course, the Victorians didn't actually make up bouquets telling a story (of a love affair - natch) but they were used as talking points on a dinner table, or a conversation piece on an over mantle.  Geranium? True friendship.  Marigold? Grief.  Nasturtium?  Impetuous love.  Moss? Maternal love. Violet?  Modest worth. Periwinkle? Tender recollection.  Awww.... Roses of course had many, many meanings depending on the colour.  So I leave you with....

Marvellous Party

Don't, what ever you do, read Redeeming Features by Nicholas Haslam in one sitting.  You may be tempted to, but don't.  You'll be exhausted.  Honestly.  It's like going to a giddy cocktail party that you can never leave.  One more enticing nibble, maybe another of those prawny things and half a glass of champagne and a quick chat to that fascinating man who's wearing a rather divine paisley shirt tinkling on a piano and you'll make your goodbyes.  Two hours later and the room is even more crowded and somehow you're drinking a Manhattan and agreeing to go on holiday in a villa share in rather a marvellous undiscovered island somewhere in the Adriatic. 
When you finally tear yourself away, you have to go and lie in a dark room and sip ice cold water for a few hours and then feel that your life up and till now has been rather dull indeed. 
It then give you time to wonder if maybe it would have been all so different if a) you had been born a pretty gay boy with a sparkling wit, a good eye for the finer things in life b) you had gone to Eton and c) had you been born into a very wealthy family....
The names alone in this book make for delirious reading. At a random name check (p135) there are Arthur Jeffress, Nicolette and Alastair Londonderry, Chips Cannon, Peggy Guggenheim, Marchesa Casati, Max Ernst and Alexander Calder.  On one page. One.  Page.  I.m still reeling.  There are some great jokes and some scurrilous stories, too (Did he ever get sued, I wonder? Or are they all too grand to care?) And irrefutable proof, according to our Nicholas, that Wallis Simpson was a hermaphrodite. (Her lady's maid was bemoaning the fact to another maid that although Wallis had beautiful silk underclothes there was 'always a little urine stain.  There.  On the front')  Gosh.
I've been to a marvellous party.

And now, if you'll excuse me I simply have to go and lie down.