Letters to Home, Week One

A note of explanation: Although I have lived away from home since I was seventeen and a freshman in college, I have rarely gone more than a few days without talking to my parents.  Last week, for the first time since I was a child, they left for a vacation abroad.  And, for the first time since I was a child, I am having separation anxiety issues.  I have become so accustomed to passing on small tidbits of information and trivia or calling my mom to tell her the amusing anecdotes of my daily life that my parents were scarcely gone 24 hours and I was itching to dial their phone number.  To ease my need to share absolutely everything with my parents, I have decided to keep a running list of musings directed to my parents (and since they make up half of my current following, I think it will be okay).

Day 1: Friday, September 23:

So I am listening to Laurie R. King’s The Game and just hating that you are unavailable to talk with.  I am just loving this newest adventure!   I love that the men in these novels never seem to understand that Mary Russell-Holmes is no ordinary female.  When she whips out her throwing knife and tosses it across the room (to land perfectly in a foul painting) in order to prove her point to yet another doubting man, I was instantly transported from India to a small room in Palestine and the English Nesbit was traded for the enigmatic Mahmoud.  Mary Russell (and more likely Laurie King herself) is wicked and I love it.

I really have to admire King’s ability to craft such real, believable characters.  I have noted this before, primarily in Justice Hall--I loved the novel so much because I loved Mahmoud and Ali.  They were real characters to me, real people, and I shared in each of their emotions.  I love Russell best, though.  Partly because she’s so clever and determined, and she has compassion, razor sharp wit, and gumption.  She seems like the kind of person I would like.  The scene in the small Indian shop where Sunny buys Russell the pretty amber necklace was so touching, as Mary analyzes the situation and regrets the duplicity her profession so often requires.  These novels so often evoke a multitude of emotions--delight at the capers Russell gets into and the bickering conversations between Russell and Holmes, but also pain and sadness as the volatile world of the 1920s intrudes upon the fictional world of Sherlock Holmes.  I appreciate that.

Still working my way through Emma. As I read, I can’t help but compare the novel to the various movie versions we’ve watched.  In the movie versions, Emma is just so much more likeable.  I know that in large part this is because in the movies we are not privy to Emma’s thoughts, which, in the novel, reveal the depths of Emma’s self-absorption and silliness.  I think it is also due to the fact that the directors and screenwriters adapt the novel to make Emma more likeable so that audiences will warm to her quickly.  We as readers have more time to acquaint ourselves with our heroine.  

I’m also struck by how similar Emma and Mrs. Elton are.  This is not something that comes through in the movies, but is very apparent in the novel.  I’m amused that Mrs. Elton appears to be as meddlesome as Emma, though not as subtle or refined in her interfering.  And the fact that Emma detests Mrs. Elton for their shared traits is just delightful.  Delightful.

Tyler Fortier and band at a concert this last
spring; his new CD "Bang On Time"
will be amazing, trust me.

Day 2: Saturday, September 24:

Got Ralphie’s note in the mail with the article on T.S. Eliot.  Delighted to know that he remembered that pistachio flavored gelato is truly the best flavor.  I am comforted to know that in a world where such flavors as hazelnut and artificial chocolates are out there to tempt the unsuspecting eater, Ralphie knows which flavor to choose.

Day 3: Sunday, September 25:

Amazing weekend.  Friday was a Sherlock night, always enjoyable.  And Saturday we watched the Ducks play Arizona (and win, naturally) and then went to Cornucopia to watch my friend Tyler play.  It was great.  The band played a few songs off his new album and they sounded amazing; I can’t wait to hear the full album soon!  And near the end of the night, after everyone had enjoyed a couple of drinks, Tyler got whimsical and sang a few lines of the Spice Girls’ “Wannabe.”  When I started singing along, he turned the microphone towards me and my friends and I sang the chorus with the band.  Almost a dream-come-true moment, singing with the band.  Was glowing with delight the rest of the evening and most of today.  

A Hope For Tomorrow

When I was fifteen I had a crisis of faith.  I am not a highly religious person.  I do not follow any organized religion, and while I believe in a higher power, I am fuzzy on the details.  For as long as I can remember, though, I have maintained an almost religious faith in the republic forged by men like Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, and Benjamin Franklin.  I love my country and the ideals upon which is was founded.  I look with deep reverence to the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution.  My heart thrills at words like “We hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal…” and I feel great surges of pride to be included in the phrase “We the people….”  I so revere the First Amendment that I have its 45 words seared into my memory and when I recite it, I can’t help but feel excitement build to a crescendo as I enumerate its freedoms.
In a country where the freedom of expression is permitted, promoted, and so highly regarded, though, dissent is also ever present, and at fifteen, I listened to those voices of dissent.  It was easy to feel disillusion then; despite the numerous accomplishments of his regime, Bill Clinton left the presidency with a tarnished record, and the disastrous 2000 election placed a man in office whom I could not trust, let alone admire.  My faith in American politics was shaken by current events; studying history did not help.  I was studying American history my junior year, and was busy uncovering America’s shameful past.  Those early weeks of American history revealed to me many of the horrors behind America’s colonial years--the abuses of Native Americans and the fact that this country was literally built with slave labor.  Even Thomas Jefferson, my Jefferson, the author of those beautiful words in the Declaration, was not above the shame of our past.  I was fifteen, on the cusp of sweet sixteen, and I was naïve, dramatic, and lost.
And then the world broke.  I stood in the bathroom one morning, getting ready for school, and listened as a shocked radio DJ informed listeners that a plane had just crashed into the World Trade Center.  The day that unfolded was a nightmare; each hour brought more news more terrible than before.  Even ten years later I can recall with painful clarity my grief and fear on that terrible day.  To borrow from Franklin Delano Roosevelt, September 11 was a date which will live in infamy, and I cannot describe the pain that even now remains strong.  I believe it is unnecessary to describe my feelings, though, because the pain and the grief and fear I felt were shared by all.
The stories that have emerged from that day are heartbreaking, but they reveal the true beauty that lies in mankind.  They are stories of profound loss, but also of true heroism and humanity.  I grieved--and still grieve--for the loss of so many that day, but I cannot help feel pride in the men and women who revealed themselves to be heroes that day.  To the rest of the country, the rescue workers and emergency responders who so valiantly worked to pull people from the towers became heroes of an almost epic proportion.  But there were other heroes that day; the men and women who took to the streets with cups of water and sandwiches, blankets and kind words for the shocked and shaken survivors were heroic, too, as were the countless others who rushed to provide supplies, to donate blood, to offer any form of comfort possible.  And one cannot forget the unimaginable bravery and self-sacrifice of the passengers of Flight 93.  We found and lost so many heroes that day.
In the aftermath of 9/11, I saw the world pull together, united by a shared sense of sorrow and empathy.  The attack was not an attack upon America, but a profound loss that shook the global community.  For a brief moment it felt as though the world was not divided by nationalities or other social constructions and differences; instead, the world was one giant community that pulled together and grieved collectively.  In the years since 2001, I have seen this occur at other moments of great loss--the 2004 tsunami that devastated Thailand, the earthquakes in Haiti and Japan--but for me, the aftermath of 9/11 holds the greatest significance.  I am forever changed by what I witnessed, deeply moved by mankind’s display of strength, compassion, and hope.
September 11 cured me of my crisis of faith.  Where the idols of Jefferson and Franklin once stood, I had a whole slew of American heroes.  I maintain a wariness towards politicians (both past and present) that I may never lose, but I look at that as a good thing; to blindly believe in a hero or idol is dangerous and leads to zealotry.  I still revel in American mythology, but I am careful to remember that it is, in fact, mythology.

Two months after the attacks I traveled to Washington, D.C., and saw for myself the still smoking Pentagon and the makeshift memorial citizens had erected.  I had gone to D.C. with a group of strangers--students and teachers from around the country--and though we were friendly with one another, we were a group of individuals.  As I stood looking at the Pentagon, so overcome with emotion that I felt ready to collapse, I heard a companion start to sing “God Bless America.”  He drew our party together and we stood, arms around another to offer comfort, companionship, and strength and we sang and cried.  When we left the memorial, we were no longer individuals but a small community banded together by our shared experience.
That day, like 9/11, changed me.  I had never felt great emotion when I hear the national anthem or other patriotic songs, but, days later as I sat through a Veterans’ Day assembly, I was overcome as I listened to my school sing “The Star Spangled Banner.”  I couldn’t help but cry, unphased by the stares and whispers of my neighbors.  I still cry every time I hear a large group of people sing the national anthem.  I return to the 9/11 memorial and that beautiful moment of unity I felt as I stood with my companions.  I hope I never forget that feeling.
The September 11 attacks changed me in another way.  I am Hispanic-American, and growing up I took great pride in this.  I am proud of my heritage and I celebrate my ethnicity.  As a child, though, I took pains to always differentiate myself; I took pride in identifying myself as Bolivian-American or Hispanic-American.  In the aftermath of 9/11, though, many people like me of mixed backgrounds dropped their hyphens.  On September 11, 2001, I, like so many others, ceased to be Hispanic-American or Bolivian-American and became simply, proudly American.  For a moment, we were all united as one nation, no longer divided by our ethnic or racial backgrounds.  For too brief a time, we became the country Martin Luther King dreamed of.  This of course has faded, and America is again a country with hyphenated citizens.  As we prepare for tomorrow, though, I cannot help but hope that we can all remember that feeling of unity.  My hope is that tomorrow, we will not experience feelings of hate or revenge, but instead that we will celebrate the good in humanity that we saw emerge so clearly on 9/11.  This country was founded upon the ideal that all men and women are created equal, and I hope that tomorrow, we all remember that ideal.  I pray that we can all come together again as a single community, forgetting our cultural, ethnic, and religious differences.  I hope that tomorrow finds us as one nation, indivisible, with compassion and love for all.

August Novels

Growing up I watched my father juggle several books at a time.  He didn’t literally juggle, though that would have been impressive, but he would regularly shift through multiple books at one time.  As a child I questioned this--why move back and forth between books?  Wouldn’t it be easier (and preferable) to start and finish one book and then move on to the next?  I have always preferred to do things one at a time: I eat my foods one at a time, rarely mixing my foods (mixing horrifies me), I prefer to do move through a list of tasks, completing one before moving to the next, and I only read one book at a time.

There is a common belief that we turn into our parents and over the years I have watched with mixed amusement and chagrin as I slowly began to prefer my parents’ taste in music, their taste in film, and my opinions softened towards the family business.  Most recently, however, I have discovered that in addition to using any nearby odd scraps of paper or coaster as a makeshift bookmark (a trait of my father’s that I mocked for years), I also find myself juggling novels.

This is, in part, a consequence of my several years as a student.  During school it was often necessary that I simultaneously read two or three books, so it is natural that I became accustomed to the practice.  I am more inclined, however, to blame this (as is the wont of my generation) on my parents.  Juggling books is as much ingrained in my nature as my preference for tea, the French impressionists, and Van Morrison.  I suppose it’s only time before I wander the house in long underwear making up rude alternative lyrics to popular songs.

The books I am currently juggling are:

• Going Solo, by Roald Dahl
• Emma, by Jane Austen
• Justice Hall, by Laurie R. King

Going Solo is the companion to Roald Dahl’s stories of childhood, Boy.  My father gave me a copy of Boy for my eighth or ninth Christmas, and I loved it.  We read Roald Dahl’s stories throughout my childhood, and I took delight in reading the story behind this beloved author’s life and his inspiration for novels like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.  I recently stepped into a local bookstore to purchase a copy of The BFG for a friend’s son and as I browsed titles, I found Going Solo.  I was so excited at the discovery that I think I even shrieked.  I started reading it almost immediately, delighting over each page.  I haven’t made it too far into the memoir yet, but thus far I have encountered Dahl’s amusement at Empire Builders, stodgy British expatriates and their adherence to English customs, and a crazy, streaking British major.  I anticipate more humor in the subsequent chapters.

*As a side note, one of the primary reasons I chose this particular list was the presence of Dahl’s The BFG.  To me, this signaled an open mind and a willingness to look beyond lofty tomes by classical authors in an effort to identify truly great novels, whatever their target audience.

My current pile of reading material, and requisite cup of tea

I started reading Emma immediately after finishing The Pursuit of Love.  I have not read Emma, but in my life I have encountered three or four film versions of the novel, including the very loose interpretation, Clueless.  I am quite familiar with the story of the meddlesome but well intentioned Emma Woodhouse and her journey towards maturity and happiness.  Thus far I have not encountered any aspects of the plot that are new or unknown to me, but I am surprised to discover that Ms. Woodhouse is much less likeable on paper.  In the various film versions, Emma has always appeared opinionated and interfering, but well meaning.  As a viewer I was always willing to forgive her these faults because she was young, because she felt genuine remorse when her meddling went awry, and because she appeared repentant and wiser in the end.  As a reader, though, I feel less willingness to forgive.  Admittedly, I have not finished the novel and Emma has not yet fully matured, so I should delay my judgment.  Nevertheless, I find it difficult to like Emma when she unabashedly destroyed the happiness of a simple farmer and then her friend Harriet, and after acknowledging the unfortunate consequences of her meddling, is unable to change her ways.  

Despite this, though, I am enjoying Emma.  Austen successfully created a small community of real and believable characters.  I am amused by the dynamics within this rural parish.  Mr. Woodhouse and Emma’s older sister are charmingly neurotic, with their passion for gruel and almost hypochondriac concern for health.  Their conversations frequently stray towards inane as they revert to citing their individual physicians and those physicians’ differing opinions on how to best promote wellbeing.  I am also quite interested in the ways in which the various characters treat Emma.  In many ways Emma is the queen bee in her little society.  The majority of characters treat her with respect and deference; her father and former governess indulge her while the neighbors are nearly awed by Emma’s presence.  The only character who treats Emma as a regular person is the upstanding, respectable and (in my mind at least) handsome Mr. Knightly, and thus far Emma has been quick to dismiss his opinions and warnings.

I’m about a third of the way through the novel, and a new plot twist is about to arrive, so I look with as much anticipation as the young Ms. Woodhouse to the formal arrival of the enigmatic Frank Churchill.

I like to read small passages to my plants to encourage
them to grow full and strong; they like it

The final novel that I’m working on is one in a popular series by Laurie R. King.  To be entirely honest, I am not reading Justice Hall, instead I am listening to it.  My daily commute requires me to be in the car for about an hour every day, and because my radio is spotty at best, I have turned to audio books on my iPod for entertainment.  I was first introduced to Laurie King’s Mary Russell as a college freshman.  I was taking a course dedicated to the evolution of mystery novels and the final book in the syllabus was The Beekeeper’s Apprentice, a charming story about young Mary Russell who, orphaned and relocated to rural England, encounters a retired Sherlock Holmes and becomes his informal apprentice.  King has ten novels in the Mary Russell series, and I am completely engrossed in the sixth novel, Justice Hall.  

Although the Mary Russell novels are mysteries, the stories often revolve more around characters and interactions than around the mystery Russell and Holmes work to solve.  In Justice Hall, and its companion novel O Jerusalem, the mystery is decidedly secondary to the character development and interactions.  In these two novels King crafts beautiful, dynamic characters with depth and feeling.  I frequently develop emotional attachments to literary characters, but I find myself particularly invested here.  I feel pain when the characters experience anguish, and have openly wept over their various trials and triumphs.

In addition to writing wonderful characters, King beautifully interweaves history with her fiction.  Because of her subject, intense research was necessary from the outset.  To write a novel involving the world’s most beloved detective, King had to extensively study Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s stories.  King mastered Holmes’ mannerisms, his patterns of speech, and his very being.  I have read almost all the stories within the Sherlock Holmes canon, and I grew up watching various actors portray the enigmatic detective on screen, so I feel as though I know Holmes quite well, and King’s interpretation of Holmes is incredibly faithful to the original.  After creating the characters of Russell and Holmes, King pushed her research further to embed them in realistic scenarios.  King places her characters in the post-Great War era, accurately portraying the various hardships the “lost generation” endured in the years following the war.  Her descriptions of trench warfare and the veterans’ attitudes towards the Home Front are striking and accurate to my historian’s eye.  It is clear that she has put much research into making her stories as honest and real as possible, and I often feel as though I’m getting a miniature lesson in cultural history as I listen to her stories.

Justice Hall revolves around a young soldier’s death in the final months of the Great War.  As Russell and Holmes work to discover the truth, they are forced to relive the soldier’s time in the trenches.  The fighting in France and trench warfare in particular was so terrible, so brutally destructive that many fervently hoped that war would never again occur.  The young men at the front were forced to endure freezing cold nights of sleeplessness due to constant shelling or the endless attacks of fleas and lice; they stood for weeks on end in swampy water, unable to adequately dry their feet; and these young men (often mere boys who had lied about their ages to enlist) lived in constant fear of shelling, poisonous gasses, snipers, and receiving a command from a detached superior who, far from the frontlines himself, demanded that the company cross No Man’s Land in a fruitless mission that would only cost more lives.  War is hell, and King so perfectly describes this version of hell that it has frequently brought tears to my eyes.  Much of my time as a scholar was spent during the Great War era, so this novel is particularly poignant for me.  I appreciate her attention to detail and her obvious research more and more with each chapter.

The Pursuit of Love (and Something Greater)

Having just finished Nancy Mitford’s The Pursuit of Love, I must confess that, once again, I have been thoroughly charmed by the Brits.  To be more exact, I should say that I have been won over by a well written story with equal parts wit and wicked humor.  As with the last two novels I’ve read, the narration style, the characters, and the ever-present humor were all entirely, blissfully British to the very core.

Cool house I found in Portland that looked
vaguely Victorian so I included it...and it's my
blog, so I can!

The early chapters, which illustrate the more humorous aspects of childhood and growing up, are delightful. These chapters describe Linda Radlett and her colorful family, adventures at the family home, Alconleigh, and small stories of growing up in pastoral England.  I was particularly amused by the annual “child hunt,” a family tradition at Alconleigh where two or three children, selected by their father, set out across the family property, running wildly to create a trail for the hounds to follow.  Some time later their father would set out with his pack of well-trained, friendly hounds to track the children.  The “hunt” ended when the hounds caught up to the children and set about licking faces and receiving well-earned doggie treats.  The neighbors and friends thought this tradition barbaric (and indeed, it does sound…odd to say the least), but, I, like the Radlett children, thought it delightful and ingenious.
As the title suggests, the main story arc follows Linda as she searches for true love.  Besides describing “child hunts” and other similarly outrageous stories, the early chapters detail Linda’s obsession with love.  This obsession led her to marry the first man who charmed her; determined to find love, Linda convinced herself that she loved an utterly boring Tory named Tony.  Some time later, still a true believer in love, Linda left Tony to marry Christian the Communist.  Christian, too, proved a disappointment, and, alone at a train station in Paris, Linda finally met Fabrice.  She quickly became enthralled with Fabrice, experiencing real love and romance for the first time.  These are the chapters that ultimately won me over.  For the first time in the novel, Linda committed herself to something, throwing herself entirely into her new life with Fabrice.  She seemed to finally take interest in life and in love, giving the story greater weight and importance.  I invested myself in the story because Linda finally invested herself in her own story.
Although the story revolves around Linda and her quest to find happiness, I didn’t find her an entirely likeable character.  The narrator, her cousin Fanny grew up close to Linda, and the love Fanny felt for Linda makes Fanny a less-than-reliable narrator.  Where an objective observer would see a foolish, shallow, and self-centered (but certainly well-meaning) young woman, Fanny was more charitable, forgiving Linda her faults and shortcomings and, in general, portraying Linda in a favorable light.  Like Fanny, most characters in the novel instantly adored Linda, won over by her charm.  It took me most of the novel, though, to find myself truly invested in Linda’s story.  After Linda’s failed attempts at love, her absolute joy and happiness with Fabrice charmed me where her silliness and amiable nature couldn’t.  In spite of myself, I was so intrigued in Linda’s story that I was tempted to skip to the end to discover whether or not Linda found a happy ending.

This horse has absolutely no relation to any-
thing, but it's inherently beautiful (like the
novel) and I like pictures in my blog.  Deal.

As I said in my introduction, I have been charmed by the Brits.  This time it was Mitford’s quirky British humor that so appealed to me, as well as the fascinating clash of old attitudes and new, the Victorian versus Edwardian.  This was most notable in the various characters’ responses towards relationships.  On the one hand, most of the characters were appalled when Linda left her first husband, Tony; Linda’s parents stoutly refused to recognize Linda’s subsequent divorce and marriage to Christian.  No one looked harshly on Fanny’s mother, though, for repeatedly leaving her husbands for her next fling.  Though they called her “the Bolter,” the nickname was given with affection and everyone treated the Bolter with the same bemusement they would a mischievous child.  This coexistence of attitudes, this social hypocrisy, could have been present in America and American literature as well (and I’m sure that a perusal of twentieth century lit would reveal several instances), but the flair with which this story is presented is, to me at least, inherently, beautifully British.
I was also deeply touched by a small exchange between Linda, Fanny, and their uncle Davey.  The three, huddled together, discuss the Great War and the resumption of war in Europe.  Linda laments belonging to a “lost generation,” convinced that history would count the two wars as one, discounting entirely the inter-war years.  Davey contends that the era may not be entirely forgotten; instead, it will be portrayed as a “literary curiosity” as future generations become interested in the fashions and furniture of the 1920s and ‘30s.  The exchange is brief, taking up only a couple of paragraphs before slipping back into a lighter tone, but it’s striking nonetheless.  The discussion is notable in part because it is one of the few times that Linda adopts a serious tone.  More importantly, though, writing in 1944 or 1945, Nancy Mitford would not know how history or society would view the Lost Generation.  Nor did she know how the inter-war period would be portrayed, and yet she displays brief but keen insight.  Knowing how both the novel and the war resolve, this moment is memorable and touching.
I admitted in my last post that I can be rather pretentious at times.  I can now admit that, while I undertook this project in an effort to find some unknown element that my life is lacking, I have another motive.  I want to be one of those elevated figures who can wax on about the literary strengths and weaknesses of Dickens or Dostoyevsky, et al.  My heavy bookshelves would somehow enrich my life.  Thus far it has.  I have developed a better appreciation for the world of spy novels, having encountered two of its great foundations, and I have discovered several new points of interest for the historian and scholar in me.  More than that, though, I have found books that truly delight me.  I expected to like The Way We Live Now because I enjoyed the Masterpiece Theater production.  Being already acquainted with the characters and plot, I could focus on the various storylines and better appreciate Trollope’s themes and his critique of British society.  Novels like The Riddle of the Sands and The Pursuit of Love, however, were completely new to me.  Had I not undertaken this endeavor, I’m afraid I probably would have remained ignorant of their existence.  So while I look forward to reencountering old favorites like To Kill a Mockingbird or The BFG, and finally reading novels like Emma, I am also eager to discover more literary gems as I continue this project.

Harry Potter and the Academic Snob

So I have a confession: I’m something of a snob.  I scorn popular literature.  I refuse to read best sellers like Water for Elephants or the latest novel by Tom Clancy.  I have nothing against Clancy or popular literature in general, they just don't jive with my inner snob.  I like to think that my bedroom bookshelves, now brimming with works by such esteemed authors like Dickins, Austen, and Faulkner, distinguish me as a reader with great taste and class.  Further, I like to pretend that I am not easily swayed by popular trends; that I am above reading a book because it tops The New York Times’ list of bestsellers or because it will soon be a movie starring Robert Pattinson.

Last week's Carrot Cake Muffins

This is, of course, mostly my own personal delusion.  Not only do I deign to read popular literature, but I just finished a novel whose front cover informs me that it spent some time at the top of the bestsellers lists.  Furthermore--I liked it.  I have thoroughly enjoyed each of the novels I’ve read for this project, delighting in the beautiful prose and intricate plots, but I must confess that I do derive some pleasure from being able to pick up a novel and speed through it with an ease that is not possible when reading Dickens or Faulkner.  And one of my greatest secrets is that I am a true, dyed in the wool, sincere fan of Harry Potter.  I’ve read all the books, seen all the movies, and when the film opens on July 15, I intend to be in line waiting for the midnight showing.  I try to muster a bit of dignity when I admit this fact by clinging to the fact that I liked Potter before he was famous.  As an avid reader in the eighth grade, I was recommended an obscure but charming novel called Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.  Naturally I was delighted when, months later, the rest of the world discovered the irresistible charm of J.K. Rowling’s magical world of wizarding.  When, years later, the world was obsessed and anxiously awaiting the release of the next book, I returned to my snobbish tendencies to brag that I loved Potter before everyone else loved Potter.

Tonight's chocolate cake

As I return this week to my list of great novels (and, in particular, to The Pursuit of Love by Nancy Mitford) I am also eagerly awaiting the premier of the final Harry Potter film.  To prepare, my friends and I have been watching a Potter film a week, slowly counting down to the grand finale.  Each week we gather at my house, drinks in hand and a sampling of culinary delights in front of us, and we watch/critique the week’s film.  Each week the films get longer and darker and each week I get bolder with my baking.  I started with homemade pizza, then moved to fresh mojitos and homemade blueberry muffins, and last week I baked carrot cake muffins.  This week I served Ste. Chapelle’s Special Harvest Reisling (a wine for which I have quite a soft spot) and I made chocolate cake topped with granache.  I like to think that classy treats and good company make up for the fact that I dedicate a night each week to watching a badly adapted version of a much-loved novel.  I also like to (secretly) think that the good company and a keen sense of humor and wit will allow me to maintain my much-loved snobbery.  And if nothing else, at least I have cake and sarcasm to keep me warm as I work my way through The Pursuit of Love.

Fa D'Accordo

I needed an image to go with this post (because
an imageless post seemed so very wrong, and
because I LOVE this picture from a recent trip to
Portland AND because there are no decent
images of "fa d'accordo," I posted this.  Hey,
it's my blog, right?!

So it would appear that I have taken another hiatus from writing.  This time it is largely because I have also taken a mini break from my reading project.  I recently discovered that my absence from academia (and the world of history in particular) has renewed my interest in and my fondness for the study of history.  Much of this realization came to me as  I was helping a good friend study for an intense history exam.  As she explained various books and studies of women and gender in American history, I found myself more and more intrigued and I quickly compiled list of ten or so books that I wanted to read.  I have justified keeping this blog to myself because I like to think that I might have a unique (or at least interesting) perspective.  I believe that literature is greatly affected by history--authors like Trollope, disillusioned by the world around him, constructed a scathing social commentary, and as I noted in my last post, authors like Buchan and Childers were affected by the patriotic fervor that swept Britain in the years preceding the Great War.  Literature, too, can affect history (I’m thinking of novels like Harriet Beecher Stowe's Uncle Tom’s Cabin).  I see the two subjects as interconnected.  I wouldn’t say that the two are two sides of the same coin--as I have often said in an effort to explain the idea of my college major, political economy--but the idea is similar.  In Italy, the Italians say “fa d’accordo” to show agreement; they are of the same mind.   When they do this, they often bring their extended forefingers together, side by side.  I was told by an old political economy professor that, when paired with the phrase “fa d’accordo,” this gesture is meant to symbolize two legs in the same pair of pants.  When I think of history and literature, I often conjure up images of the two working together as a pair in a three-legged-race.  When I started this blog, I named it "cercando di" because I was searching for...something.  I'm still searching, but as I write, I realize that the essential harmony that I was seeking seems less elusive.  Like my scholastic interests, the elements in my life seem to be more fa d'accordo.
All of this is to say that I’m taking a break from great novels to read a work of history.  More specifically, I’m reading Damned Women: Sinners and Witches in Puritan New England by Elizabeth Reis.  This is a remarkable analysis of the Salem Witch Trials that I have been absolutely loving.  I won’t offer any analysis here (primarily because my analytical skills are not up to par after a year’s absence from academia, but also because my two years of grad school cured me of any desire to write another critical response), but I hope that this post explains my most recent absence from this blog.  My greater hope, though, is that in time I will be able to incorporate more history into my writing and my analysis of the books I read, whether they’re novels from my list or other studies of history that I sneak into my reading from time to time.

The Riddle of the Sands and The Thirty-Nine Steps: Pre-War Literature

In my absence from writing, I have:

The 2009 Sweet Cheeks Viognier and thefabulous Fontina
Cheese Plate we enjoyed while wine tasting

• Partied like an undergrad in San Francisco with my best friend and a whole crew of new best friends; 
• Spent entirely too much time curled up in old pajamas watching Grey’s Anatomy;
• Embraced the beauty of living in Eugene by spending an afternoon wine tasting at local wineries;
• Celebrated spring’s arrival with gelato on the patio and the first barbecue of the year (both of which were fantastic);
• Listened to Dan Brown’s latest book, The Lost Symbol (which made it something of a relief to return to my list of great novels);
• And I finished The Riddle of the Sands and The Thirty-Nine Steps, both of which I thoroughly enjoyed.

A view of San Francisco from my recent trip

Overall I loved The Riddle of the Sands for the reasons I outlined in my last post.  Throughout the novel the narrative style and the main characters remained charming, personable, and endearing.  For me it was the characters who drove the story, moving the plot forward and, ultimately, making this novel a great one.  Davies and Carruthers were so genuinely likable and determined in their quest that they made the story enjoyable, even when the action dragged a bit in places. 

As I noted in my last post, Childers had a background in sailing and service, which greatly affected his writing.  His descriptions of movements and actions on the sailboat were incredibly detailed.  He embraced the use of jargon, which lends the story an additional level of authenticity, but it also makes the story a bit more difficult to read for anyone who is not familiar with sailing.  The plot, too, lagged a bit in places for anyone who is not familiar with sailing.  A majority of the story takes place in the regions around the North Sea as Davies and Carruthers work to map and plot the progress of the tides and the depths of troughs and sandbars around the fjords and bays of the Frisian Islands.  During these sections there is not much action, but Carruthers describes their progress in a good-natured tone that makes the slow story more enjoyable and more readable.

In addition to granting the story authenticity, Childers’ background and his experience give the story purpose and give the characters their motivation.  In one important chapter, Chapter X: “His Chance,” Childers, through Davies, discusses the need for an extended navy; he also discusses at length the benefits of mobilizing the general population during a war.  Men like Davies--men who knew the ins and outs of every port and bay along the English coast--could be of use to the country by helping the Navy defend each vulnerable spot.  Childers seemed to believe that anyone, regardless of training or background, was capable of being a national hero, of saving his country like Carruthers and Davies did.  Childers also strongly believed in being prepared for the impending war with Germany.  By the time that he wrote The Riddle of the Sands, it was becoming apparent that Europe would soon become engulfed in a great war.  England had not been invaded since 1066, a fact which created a false sense of comfort and quelled fears of a foreign invasion.  Davies and Carruthers, who represent typical English men, puzzle throughout most of the novel over what their German counterparts  are planning and thus spend a majority of their time preparing for a British invasion of Germany; they never consider the possibility of a German invasion of England.  Childers wrote a fun spy adventure, but he also drafted a warning to the English government: “We Must Be Prepared.”  

Whereas The Riddle of the Sands is a spy novel written with a purpose, The Thirty-Nine Steps is an action-packed adventure written to entertain and amuse.  The novel tells the story of Richard Hannay, a Scottish mining engineer recently returned from the Matabele Wars in South Africa.  Hannay is initially bored with the London society until he is approached by a man named Scudder who claims to have faked his own death for matters of personal and national security.  This launches Hannay into a world of espionage and intrigue as he becomes single-handedly responsible for attempting to prevent the outbreak of an international war (a war that we would later call World War I).  Hannay is pursued by a ruthless group of people known as The Black Stone and he is forced to undergo several hardships as he works to alert the British government and save the world from war.  Unlike The Riddle of the Sands, the action in The Thirty-Nine Steps starts relatively early and literally keeps up until the final page.  Despite the focus on action, though, the hero Hannay is amiable and his good nature and strong moral sense make him an ideal hero; like Davies and Carruthers, Hannay is an instantly likeable character whose personality helps to drive the plot.

I chose to read these two novels back-to-back for a couple of reasons.  First, these two are acknowledged as being two of the first spy novels, laying the groundwork for later stories of espionage by writers like Ian Fleming, Robert Ludlum, and others.  Though I am not a spy novel aficionado, I can appreciate this fact.  The second reason I blame on the scholar in me.  Although the Great War was not my focus as a historian, the war and its cultural effects have fascinated me for years.  I am particularly interested in the shift in attitudes that occurred during the war.  I spent a semester in undergrad studying this shift as it is seen in the poetry of the era.  The shifts in attitude was remarkable: before the war young British men believed that they would easily win the war in a month or two and then would return victoriously.  This is reflected in most pre-war poetry with its optimism, bravado, and naiveté.  Once the war began, though, and young men experienced the horrors of modern warfare, the attitude shifted.  Men no longer believed in the phrase “Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,” instead they are bitter and jaded, irrevocably changed by their experiences.  The literature that came after the Great War is darker, deeper than what preceded the war.

The Riddle of the Sands and The Thirty-Nine Steps are prime examples of British mentality before the Great War.  Richard Hannay, Davies and Carruthers are ordinary men, former English school boys and products of the best English public schools.  All three characters find themselves embroiled in dangerous affairs of state and thus transform themselves into spies to save their country from war.  Each character is driven by a staunch patriotism and the belief that he can save the country from sure destruction.  This belief--both bold and naïve--is the same attitude that was so characteristic among young men in the years leading up to the war.  I find this pre-war innocence fascinating, and, after spending so much of my scholastic career focusing on the works of disillusioned writers like the so-called Lost Generation, returning to that innocence is interesting and a tad refreshing.  For me, this blend of history, culture, and literature made both novels fascinating and rewarding.