Musings on a Snow Day

The view from my window as
 I attempted to drive to work

We have a snow day today, an occurrence which, though frequent in my hometown of Blackfoot, Idaho, is more rare here in Eugene.  The snow started sometime around midnight and has continued to softly but continuously dust the trees, hills, and houses with white powder.  The world outside is quiet, unusually hushed by the presence of snow.  I confess that I hate snow--I hate the cold, I hate how it leaves the once-green world brown in its aftermath, and I hate how dangerous it makes the roads.  But from my spot, curled up on the couch with coffee in hand and the curtains pulled back so I can see the snowglobe vista outside, I enchanted with the winter wonderland outside.

I am also grateful for the snow day because it means that as I continue reading The Riddle of the Sands, I can keep my laptop open and ready for notes, rather than scribbling my ideas on napkins and old receipts that I shove into pockets or the black hole that is my purse.  It also means that I can read for long lengths of time, rather than sneaking in five or six pages on my work breaks and during lunch.

As I have confessed that I dislike snow, I must now add a second confession: I love everything British.  I love English accents, I love their at-once old fashioned and yet modern system of governance (the maintenance of a monarchy alongside their Parliament), I love their teas, I love the way they add a “u” to words like color and favorite.*  I am fascinated by British culture and British history--I could go on for days on the importance of the British monarchy and its influence on America and American law, or on the truly intriguing evolution of culture and attitude that transformed inhabitants of England from being “English” to being “British.”  In short, I am an anglophile. 

Webster's Dictionary
Noah Webster was the revolutionary
patriot who sought to distinguish
American English from proper
English

*Along with several other subtle distinctions, the “u” was intentionally dropped from particular words like color and favorite not long after we ceased to be British-America, as a way to distinguish the British from the American.  I find this historical tidbit fascinating.  As a child, though, I spent a year in Ireland and to this day I struggle to remember if it’s favorite or favourite, realize or realise.

This is, in large part, why I am so thoroughly loving The Riddle of the Sands--because it is so delightfully British.  In my last post I tried to qualify this assessment, but I find it difficult.  Both Davies and Carruthers have habits and mannerisms that set them apart as particularly British (as opposed to American or even ambiguously European).  Their speech is peppered with stereotypically English phrases like “I say” and “old chap,” but more than that, it’s their attitude that marks them as British.  The story’s plot is driven by their outrage that Herr Dollmann, an Englishman, would betray king and country to become a spy for Germany.  Davies’ feelings are understandable, particularly once one takes into account the time period (this was published in 1903) and the increasingly tense political climate throughout Europe.  While Davies and Carruthers seem to correctly sense that war is inevitable, they bear no ill will towards Germany, and, in fact, Davies holds some level of admiration for the German Emperor Wilhelm II.  Nor do they direct any outrage towards Germany for hiring spies and for secretly amassing naval power; instead, their anger is directed solely at Dollmann for turning his back on England and spying for another country.    Both men are infuriated at the thought of an Englishman betraying his own country.  Their duty, as Englishmen, is to expose Dollmann and prepare Britain for war.  Above all, this constant awareness of themselves as Englishmen (and their similar villainization of Dollmann the Traitor) is what makes Davies and Carruthers so decidedly British.  

I find this inherent British-ness charming.  Davies and Carruthers are rallied by a love of “King and Country.”  Disregarding their own safety, these two men are compelled to brave the harsh seas to unmask Dollmann; they are transformed by  patriotism from two yachting enthusiasts into bona fide spies, and I find myself swept up in their patriotic fervor.  As much as I adore this American republic with its three branches of government and its delightful system of checks and balances, we lack such a stirring cry as “For King and Country.”  “For Congress and Country” just doesn’t have the same ring.

I also find the British nature of this novel rather ironic.  Though born in England, Erskine Childers is best known for his involvement with the nascent Irish Republican Army, a body which was inherently and unmistakably anti-British.  This involvement with the Irish Free State movement, of course, came later in Childers’ life, and over a lifetime a person’s political views are likely to change.  All the same, though, it’s ironic that the same man who published this charmingly British novel was later executed for being too radically Irish. 

*****

The sun is shining now, so I must turn away from my musings to move to a spot where I may read in the sun and enjoy both this momentary break in snow showers and my thoroughly wonderful book.

The Riddle of the Sands

Erskine Childers, The Riddle of the Sands (London: Penguin Books, 1952).

I am about 90 pages into The Riddle of the Sands and, thus far, I love it.  Childers writes with a easy, laid back tone.  His descriptions and characterizations are so well developed that, from page one, I’ve become engulfed, completely drawn in and enthralled by the story.

The consummate English
gentlemen (though a bit more
 formal than I picture our heroes

The story is narrated by Carruthers, a young Englishman who, bored by a dull season in London, accepts an invitation from an old friend to go yachting in the Baltic Sea.  Though I admit that I have limited knowledge of British gentlemen from the late nineteenth/early twentieth century, Carruthers fits all my notions.  He is an affable character--smart, pleasantly sardonic, and he is refreshingly honest, particularly when addressing his own thoughts and emotions.  Carruthers instantly likeable; he is easygoing and observes things with a keen and perceptive eye.  His observations are phrased with such frank honesty and overt irony that one cannot help but like him; on the first page he dryly compares his solitude in London to a sort of martyrdom and goes on to (correctly) observe that to feel oneself a martyr is a pleasurable thing.  Carruthers, though a bit immature at times, is capable of recognizing his own weaknesses and makes no move to hide them.

The other main character is Carruthers’ old school friend Davies.  Where Carruthers is likeable for his witty and keen observations, Davies is thoroughly loveable for his idiosyncrasies and his perpetual good mood.  Davies refuses to be affected by Carruthers’ initial bad moods, and quickly charms both Carruther and reader with his jovial nature and his delightful penchant for throwing items overboard.  Like Carruthers, Davies is quintessentially British with his “I says” and “old chaps” and his dogged determination to observe as many gentile practices as possible (like always washing up before dinner).  Davies and Carruthers both maintain such a genuine geniality that they seem as perfectly British as Austen’s Charles Bingley or Oscar Wilde’s Earnest Worthing that it is almost jarring to remember that they’re on a boat.  One can as easily picture these two characters in a smoky club, savoring their brandy and cigars, as picture them cramped and (I think) somewhat uncomfortable on their miniature yacht. 

A map of the Baltic Sea Region,
the area Carruthers and Davies
set out to explore

Childers’ descriptions of his characters, though, pales in comparison with the passages in which he (as Carruthers) describes the various aspects of their adventure.  Childers’ prose is so vivid and so beautifully phrased that one can easily picture the aquamarine waters, one can feel the soft rich sands of the ocean floor and can revel in the beauty of the summer sun beaming over a calm ocean.  His passages are rich in detail and are punctuated with beautiful turns of phrase. I can completely relate when he writes of the “unique exultation” that follows a day of hard work, “when, glowing all over, deliciously tired and pleasantly sore, you eat what seems ambrosia, be it only tinned beef; and drink nectar, be it only distilled from terrestrial hops or coffee berries, and inhale as culminating luxury balmy fumes which even the happy Homeric gods knew naught of.” (Childers, 54).  Not only can I relate, but I relive those glorious moments.  Childers’ passages flow easily, effortlessly, and I have found myself just breezing through the novel.

The one drawback is Childers’ attention to nautical terms and activities.  This is an inevitable aspect when a novel is set on any type of seafaring craft, and is a particular danger when the author has spent any significant time as a sailor.  Childers, with his background in sailing, devotes some attention to various activities on deck--jibing and folding sails, etc.  It appears, though, that Childers was aware that not all of his readers would possess a knowledge of sailing, and so when Davies discusses (or carries out) these activities, they are met by Carruthers with a sense of bewilderment; at one amusing point Carruthers even dismisses all Davies’ nautical jargon.  While the reader may not appreciate all the technicalities that Childers includes, therefore, she can definitely appreciate the author’s awareness and his sense of humor.

At page 90, I have now just entered the real heart of the story: Davies has revealed to Carruthers that he believes the Germans are developing naval strength and that the safety of the British Empire depends on these two gentlemen discovering (and later relating) as much as they can.  I have enjoyed the exposition and rising action, and I am excited for the real action to begin.

More soon.

The Riddle of the Sands, by Erskine Childers

After much deliberation, a prolonged perusal of dust jacket summaries, and a snap judgment of cover art (yes, I do judge my books by their covers, but I am willing to admit when I judge too hastily), I have picked my next book.  According to The Times, as quoted on the front cover, The Riddle of the Sands by Erskine Childers is “The first and best of spy stories.”  The back cover promises a story of youth and adventure, espionage, and the fate of the British Empire.  In many ways it sounds strikingly similar to an arguably more well known spy novel, The Thirty-Nine Steps by John Buchan.  This is of particular interest to me because I studied the early modern mystery and thriller in British literature and I also studied the impact the Great War had on modern literature.  The Thirty-Nine Steps fell into both genres of study, so I have read The Thirty-Nine Steps a couple of times--as a casual reader and as a scholar.   I am, therefore, quite interested to see how Erskine’s spy novel compares to Buchan’s.

Childers had experience with sailing,
and I expect that his experiences
helped to shape the novel

I confess to holding a second reason for being drawn to this novel.  According to my internet searches, Erskine Childers was an Irish nationalist who was executed during the Irish Civil War.  Although I spent the last two years of my life formally studying Constitutional history and Supreme Court decisions, American history is not my only passion.  I have also spent several years casually studying Irish history, studying the Irish Nationalist movement in particular.  Childers’ politics, his connection to other Irish Republicans like Michael Collins and Eamon de Valera, and his role in this fascinating period of Irish history appeals to me.  Although this novel was written before Childers was an ardent supporter of Irish Home Rule, my curiosity is piqued, so now I will leave the relatively tranquil world of Trollope’s Victorian England for the excitement and fast pace of a pre-World War I spy thriller.

The Way We Live Now

   Published in 1875, The Way We Live Now is considered by many to be Anthony Trollope’s greatest novel.  Its scathing satire reveals the author’s deep disillusionment with British society in the late Victorian era.  The majority of his characters are shallow, vapid, and easily manipulated by shrewd operators.  Trollope’s more clever characters, though in the minority, dominate the characters around them, and indeed dominate the story itself with their colorful schemes, their wicked triumphs, and their infamous failures.  The Way We Live Now is a satire, astutely observing the clash of the old and new in British society and poking fun at both sides throughout the story.  The novel itself is good, with delightfully and surprisingly modern plot twists, but its Trollope’s characters that drive this story and ultimately distinguish it as a great novel.

The Way We Live NowWritten by Anthony Trollope
Pages: 766
Ranked: 26 of 100

   The novel itself tells many stories--love stories, stories of ambition and greed, and, most interestingly, the story of several families striving to better their status in London society.  The Grendalls and the Longestaffes, two such families, are intent upon keeping up appearances; despite their great financial strains, both families maintain houses in the country and in town simply because it befits their status in society.  The young men persist in hunting and riding, as well as recklessly drinking and gambling at their clubs.  Despite their lack of funds, none of the major characters are engaged in any sort of profitable trade--one or two maintain a seat in Parliament and many sit on the board of directors for a fictional Mexican-American railroad, but no one in the novel actually works.  Among this level of society, to maintain an actual trade was considered un-gentlemanlike; furthermore, engaging in any type of work was to essentially lower one’s status.  Many families instead sought to attach themselves to families with greater wealth.  It is this situation that the great financier Augustus Melmotte, Trollope’s most colorful character, worked to exploit for his own gain.  

   Arriving from Paris with millions in “new money,” Melmotte sought to elevate his own status within London society by attaching his family to the old aristocratic families like the Grendalls and the Longestaffes.  To accomplish this, Melmotte virtually auctions his daughter off, selling her not to the bidder with the most money, but to the bachelor with the highest rank.  Initially, Melmotte is forced to work hard to win over society; he hosts grand parties, inviting the crème de la crème of London society, but he is so coarse and uncouth that he is not permitted to converse with his guests.  In time, however, rumors of his vast wealth combine with several families’ need for money and Melmotte becomes the most celebrated figure in London.  Despite personally loathing the man and the general class of “new money,” the novel’s aristocrats are forced to ingratiate themselves to Melmotte, becoming toadies in his retinue.  Melmotte employs many of these gentlemen as his secretaries, lording over them as he enjoys his new status.  He meets foreign royalty, entertains the Chinese Emperor, and wins a seat in Parliament.  Melmotte rises to such great heights that it becomes inevitable that he, like the fabled Icarus, is destroyed by his own need to ascend higher and higher.

   The storyline surrounding Melmotte is fascinating and entertaining.  Melmotte is an intriguing figure, at once both ignorant and clever.  His lack of understanding of British society makes him coarse and unappealing, but his insight into human nature allows him to easily manipulate those around him.  Trollope describes Melmotte and his schemes with an ironic tone, frequently hinting at his own disillusionment in a society that allowed men like Melmotte to rise to grandeur.  It’s often hard to tell whom Trollope despised more: men like Melmotte, or the men and women whom Melmotte so easily defrauds.  Most remarkable, however, is the timelessness of this storyline.  Though it is set in Victorian England, Melmotte and his contemporaries could easily find their counterparts in today’s world, a world which saw Bernie Madoff rise and fall in similar fashion.  Furthermore, Melmotte is a great character because though he is a caricature, he is a believable one; the reader can easily picture him in a modern New York or Washington office, deftly entrapping modern elites in elaborate investment schemes.  

The scholar in my couldn't resist underlining
or marking my favorite lines and passages

   While Melmotte’s story arc is the most interesting for its timelessness, the historian in me is compelled by the situation of women in Trollope’s novel.  Like many women of the era, Marie Melmotte is betrothed by her father to a British aristocrat for whom she has no feelings or attachment.  Throughout the novel, Marie is pursued by several young men who dislike her person but are greatly attracted to her fortune.  Marie’s engagement to a Lord Nidderdale resembles more of a financial transaction than an actual courtship, a practice that was fairly common in history.  Similarly, another character, Georgiana Longestaffe, engages herself to a man more than twice her age solely because he was financially well off.  Despite being repulsed by the man’s religion and appearance, Georgiana is driven by a fear of spinsterhood and poverty to accept an offer from a man whom she dislikes.  In several instances throughout the novel, Trollope’s female characters sacrifice personal happiness to suit certain monetary needs.  In many ways, this makes the women of The Way We Live Now the most sympathetic characters--the young men blithely ignore their responsibilities in favor of gambling and gaiety, thus compelling the women to step in and remedy the situation through a profitable marriage.  Excepting Melmotte, the women are also the most interesting and artful characters of the novel.  Trollope’s female characters demonstrate greater personal growth and strength than do their male counterparts.  One or two men redeem themselves, but overwhelmingly it is the women who dominate the pages with their strong personalities, their difficult situations, and, ultimately, their graceful handling of their affairs.

   The Way We Live Now is a great novel because, through satire, Trollope portrays society in a harsh, but honest light.  While many of his characters are caricatures of all that Trollope despised in British society, his characterizations are real and believable.  The reader can easily understand and follow each character’s motivations because, in large part, they all relate back to basic aspects of human nature--greed, desire, desperation, etc.  But most importantly, Trollope’s characters are human--while Melmotte is a swindler and a bully, we also see his desperation, his fear, and his insecurity.  We despise Melmotte, but we also come to feel for him, to pity him.  The ability to create such a dynamic character, and set him in such among other similarly believable figures, makes The Way We Live Now a wonderful and enjoyable read.

a brief departure

I am taking a break from reading today to bake a cake.  I love to bake, I love it almost as much as I love reading.  When I read, I am able to magically transport to wherever and whenever I am reading; I can close my eyes and am suddenly in Victorian England or Colonial America or, yes, even Hogwarts.  I love to curl up in my armchair, blanket on lap and a steaming cup of tea on hand, and I will happily lose myself in a book for hours.  In a way, I love baking for the same reason.  When I bake, I enter a world where I am master and the kitchen is my domain.  I control everything from the amount of sugar and almond extract to the exact consistency to which I will whip my eggs.  And baking, like reading, involves a world of magic.  I melt chocolate, add eggs and flour and somewhere in the oven it turns into a warm, fluffy cake that brings a smile to the face.  This of course is the main reason why I love baking, though.  I love the power baking has to please people, to charm them, to make them feel comfortable and welcome in my home.  A good book has the power to inspire and to motivate, but a good meal can calm and restore; both can bring joy, but in very different ways.  So today I am briefly departing from one love in favor of another.  I have my recipe picked out--a Devil’s Food Cake, I have the best of Wait Wait…Don’t Tell Me playing in the background, and I am ready to bake!

Swirls of chocolate and flour, mmmm....

The recipe itself (which can be found at http://nyti.ms/ebvXM0) is pretty easy: sift together dry ingredients and set aside; beat the butter and start slowly adding all the other good things like sugars and melted chocolate.  I found the recipe through a New York Times twitter account that I follow, nytimesdining.  Part of one woman’s apprenticeship with a fabulous baker, the recipe has been simplified and is presented in an easy, conversational manner.  As I read instructions, I felt like I could close my eyes and hear my mom directing me how to make this cake, which was comforting and much more preferable than the annoyingly vague directions many recipes include.  I did have one minor mishap, though.  To save time and pans, I attempted to melt my chocolate in the microwave instead of melting it in the double boiler.  I was distracted, however, by the delightfully sharp wit of my favorite Wait Wait… guest, Roy Blount Jr., and let the chocolate cook in the microwave for too long and didn’t realize it was burning until a rather unpleasant smell met my nose.  At that point I decided it might be best to do as I have always done and melt my chocolate in the double boiler.  It’s messier, but ultimately easier (and makes you sound cooler, at least I think so).  Other than that, though, I was able to sift, mix, and whip up a beautiful batter that I transferred into two tins and placed them in the oven for baking.

A picture of the finished product

As the cake baked, my tiny kitchen was filled with the smell of chocolate and it was amazing!  When I pulled them out of the oven, the cakes were beautiful--they were spongy to touch and just rounded on the tops.  I let the cakes cool for about five minutes and then removed them from their tins.  This is always a tense moment for me and I worry in the moments immediately before and after I flip the pans--will my cake slide out gently? Or will it break and remain halfway in the tin?  Miraculously, though, they plopped right out.  Then I cut the top off of one of the cakes so that the layers would stack nicely.  As I gently slid my serrated knife across the top of the cake, puffs of chocolate steam greeted me warmly.  I stacked the layers and then proceeded to apply way too much frosting (because it looked pretty) and then I took the portion of the cake that I had just removed and crumbled it over the freshly iced cake.  The result was a beautiful (albeit slightly amateurishly iced) cake that I can proudly present as my contribution to the game day festivities tomorrow.  Hopefully it tastes as good as it smells!

New Year, New Post

I recently started Anthony Trollope’s The Way We Live Now.  It is different from Eureka Street in several ways.  Eureka Street is a relatively short novel, a quick read ( I usually gobble it up in a day or two).  The novel’s prose flows so smoothly and evenly that I breeze through chapters. Because it was written and set in Belfast in 1994 (both of which I have studied), the book is truly an effortless read.  The Way We Live Now, while fascinating and thoroughly enjoyable, is not an effortless read.  My copy is over 750 pages long, so even if the pages did fly, this would still be quite the undertaking.  And while I studied British history, I am not familiar enough with British Victorian society, government, and economics to properly appreciate the novel’s intricacies, and thus am constantly referring to historical resources to better understand Trollope’s characters and plot twists.  Despite this (or because of this) I am truly enjoying this novel and the historian in me is loving the miniature lessons in history and culture that each chapter offers.
Now, as may be readily apparent, I am new to blogging and the concept of posting regular updates.  I am also still trying to figure out how I want to run this novel-reading project.  Initially my plan was to read a novel and then--as I did with Eureka Street--after I had finished the novel, I would post a review.  To do this with The Way We Live Now would be impractical, though, because of the novel’s substantial length.  Not only would it necessitate a longer absence from my blog, but it would also require a more-than-lengthy review.  I have bookmarked so many pages and scribbled so many notes that I could fill pages with my thoughts and reactions to the novel, and I’ve only just reached halfway.  I am, therefore, resolved to post with greater frequency, if only to be able to accommodate my many ideas about this Victorian masterpiece.

More will follow.  Soon.

Eureka Street, by Robert McLiam Wilson

I start my project by departing from my own guidelines.  I felt I could not read what someone else considered great literature without returning to what I considered great.  So I reread my favorite novel, Eureka Street by Robert McLiam Wilson.

Eureka Street is a beautiful and brilliantly written novel of love in its various forms.  Wilson opens the novel by declaring that all stories are love stories, and this holds true in Eureka Street.  Wilson crafts a series of stories that are defined by history and politics and, of course, love in all its forms.

We start by seeing the world through Jake Jackson’s eyes.  Born a Catholic in West Belfast, Jake was witness to the worst of the Troubles and this left him hardened, tough.  He drinks, smokes, swears, and makes a living by hitting people (as a bouncer, a repo man, etc.).  Underneath, though, lies a sensitive heart.  Jake longs for companionship, love, and beauty.  Much of the story revolves around Jake’s search for love and the humorous string of rejections he encounters.

The novel also follows the antics of Chuckie Lurgan, a man remarkable for his significant weight and for the fact that, as a Protestant, he maintains an almost exclusively Catholic circle of friends.  While Jake is poetic and sensitive, Chuckie is crass and practical, he is inelegant.  We are treated to Jake’s thoughts, his innermost secrets, desires, and his private shame, but we are limited with Chuckie.  Wilson differentiates Jake’s story from Chuckie’s by altering the narrative style, taking it a step back to the limited scope of the third person.  Chuckie’s story is almost outrageous, often providing comic relief after Jake’s brooding, but  I am partial to Jake’s chapters.  The prose is so poetic, so poignant, so wickedly beautiful that it captivates me with each reading.  When Wilson narrates Chuckie’s story, he is straightforward; the prose is unadorned and fairly unromantic.  When he narrates as Jake, though, he is quixotic and facetious.  Jake is a poet, but he’s also sarcastic, sardonic, and satirical.  Jake is complicated and his story is beautiful in its intricacy.

I love the characters and their misadventures, but it is the novel’s satirical nature that makes it great.  In this novel of Northern Ireland, nothing is sacred.  Wilson mocks everyone and everything with the same biting wit.  Irish poets, historians, and politicians are made into caricatures.  Wilson reduces Oliver Cromwell to an old man with a bad haircut and he openly mocks Irish Republican rhetoric by naming his Protestant hero a name that sounds suspiciously like the motto of the Irish Republican movement.  By subjecting Irish politics to satire and criticism, Wilson reveals the hypocrisy behind the rhetoric and hate that fueled much of Northern Ireland’s violence over the past century.

This satire masks Wilson’s best emotion, though, at times eclipsing Eureka Street’s best love story, the love the author has for his city and its imperfect citizens.  Wilson truly loves Belfast, and his love for the city permeates the novel, creeping into each story and influencing both characters and reader.  I call this the best love story because it is the most dynamic of the novel. At times the city gleams and seems magical.  Wilson even dedicates a chapter to the city, leaving Jake and Chuckie as he writes what can only be described as an ode to Belfast.  He describes the city in the tender tones that one might use to describe a lover.  His words are beautiful and haunting and this chapter, above all others, is enchanting and almost heartbreaking.

As with most dynamic love stories, though, it cannot all be poetry and rose-colored glasses.  Lovers often disappoint, and Belfast in 1994 most definitely hurt and disappointed.  Love is the constant thread that is evident throughout each of Eureka Street’s stories, but violence, too, is ever-present.  Violence dominated and defined life in Belfast.  Indeed, the entire island was affected; even in the South it seemed that one could not turn on the radio without hearing more reports of death in Belfast, a fact which proved too frightening  for my then eight-year-old self.  In Eureka Street violence is like a soundtrack, it is present in the background for a majority of the novel until, as it does too often in real life, the war strikes too close to home.  One of the warring factions launches a major attack that forces death and disappointment to the forefront of Wilson’s novel, and the tone of the subsequent pages is akin to that of a lover scorned.  Here Wilson presents prose that is biting and sharp, his pain is palpable.  It is clear that while Wilson loves his city, he hated its war.

Eureka Street is not a perfect novel, nor is it a book for the faint of heart.  Wilson’s prose is rough at times and the characters are often crude.  The novel is much like its hero, Jake; on the surface it appears rough and gritty, but underneath that hard exterior there is tenderness, love.  Both character and novel are diamonds in the rough, so to speak.  Wilson is not a Dickens or a Hawthorne or a Hemmingway, but in Eureka Street he has crafted a novel that is great for its depiction of truth, beauty, and love.