From the bookshelves 64

One of those books I read before seeing the film.

Raiding the bookshelves again 63

Here's a neat little collection of Penguin paperbacks published with embossed covers:

Reading

     Our small book group now has a place in the blogosphere to communicate with each other and the rest of the world.

     I mentioned Black Elk on a previous post . . . now I'm embarrassed - Kathy has a copy of Black Elk Speaks on her shelves.

Sunday, Sunday . . .

     I've never spoken about where it is that I live exactly except for posting a few snapshots . . .

     I changed my location from Round Valley to Eagar in the profile temporarily to see who else in the vicinity is blogging. Eagar returned thirty-one hits: 3 by invitation only; 4 with no blog and 20 blogs with at least one post. Round Valley returned only three; and Springerville seven of which one is by invitation only. So, I changed my profile to read Valle Redondo.  Here is a good, concise personal idea describing the area by a chap called Rusty.

     I have the emmigrants yearning to return home to a past that no longer exists. This morning I listened to a programme about W B Yeats's  The Lake Isle of Innisfree, a poem he came to detest reciting in inverse proportion to it's popularity . . . Yeats wrote the poem when he was twenty-three or four years old.

eirenic

More Greek . . . tut, tut.

     I've been reading through a college textbook of essays and found this word. A new word to me. An unfamiliar word one comes across through reading is more likely to be remembered . . .

     What does it mean? Do you think I can remember where I read the word to find the sentence in which it was used?

Oxo tins and . . .

lunch for school. I never ate a school dinner.

     The last fun question on Radio 4's Any Questions this week concerned the nutritional value of the lunches that some parents pack for their children. The questioner asked the panel what they had in their lunch boxes for school. None of the panel had had a packed lunch at school but remembered some of the dismal school dinners they were served.

     I used an Oxo tin for at least my first year at secondary school in which I packed a sandwich, a banana and a Jacob's Club,  . . . mmmm I don't remember a drink. Cheese and tomato was my favourite sandwich or rather the one I remember most. Banana is my usual choice of fruit along with apple.

     Mum and dad kept a village shop when I was at primary school so I went home for lunch while all the dinner children walked in pairs along the High Street, past my house, to the old school house in Maldon road which served as the school canteen and venue for parties and the like. Only once was this pattern broken when mum was very ill with influenza. Rather than go with the other children for school dinner I went across the street and had lunch with Mrs Enion. Her twin sons were away at boarding school. I don't know what dad was doing that he couldn't look after me; my sister must have been working as a nanny at that time and was away too. I vaguely remember our teacher collecting five shillings (5/-) dinner money every Monday morning.

     I was used to having quite a bit of time to myself in the middle of the day. I could go for a walk and some times walked to the newspaper-shop at the other end of the street to by a comic although Arthur Mee's Children's Newspaper and Eagle were delivered to the house along with the Daily Telegraph. On Fridays I'd go to Mr Brown's for a nice piece of cod and chips.

Yesterday . . .

    I don't like going to Phoenix because of the heat; I don't know the city very well. My visits are usually for business or to accompany Kathy when she has an appointment at the Carl T. Hayden VA medical center. The idea then is to do the business and come home the same day, a 450 mile round trip, as quickly as possible.

    Yesterday's journey was different because we took the dog, Kiki, so I had the excuse of walking Kiki to explore the Steele Indian School Park.  The weather is still reasonably cool. I'm not in the habit of taking the camera and playing the tourist but this time I remembered to take it along so here is a taste of  that walk. And an enlightening: I didn't know that I didn't know about the writings of Nicholas Black Elk (1868-1950) . . . I will correct that.

 

Then there was the drive home through Payson and up the Mogollon Rim

 

A portion of the rim from Kohl's Ranch/Christopher Creek area.

Entropy

    Am I ashamed to display such disarray to the world? And such careless treatment of books? I am slowly wrestling the chaos into some semblance of tidiness, not necessarily order. Books do eventually get put on to shelves or stacked into neater and safer piles. I still have a path to the desk and computer - just. It was the same at school. Term would start with everything stacked neatly under the desk lid and by the end of term the lid would not quite lie shut . How to arrange books? Some order them on the shelves by size. Others, so I've heard, by the colour of the binding; the more conventional by subject matter; or fiction by strict alphabetical order by author. Some shelves are for books yet to be read; others for those to be re-read. On my shelves the poetry books tend to stay close to each other probably because I rarely refer to just one one poetry book at a time. the Folio books stay in their slip cases and congregate in their own book-case. I enjoy dusting the books and putting them on the shelves and here is the result:

    I make no resolutions simply because a new year rolls round. I'm not a very resolute chap at present.  I've a few more pages of the Life of Insects to read before the group gets together to discuss it later this month. I'm awaiting Tove Jansson's The True Deceiver to arrive. This was another work recently read, abridged, on BBC Radio 4.

Orphan post

     Singing has always been a part of my life. My mother had a small sweet voice and I always liked to sing and hum to myself on those long walks I took with dad on autumnal Sunday afternoons. Dad didn't sing but thumped away on the piano; listened to French radio and read Paris Match.  I would sometimes help him learn lines for a play . Evenings were spent by the radio listening to Journey into Space on the BBC Light Programme or me curled up in Dad's lap listening to him read Treasure Island. Mum knitted. I had lots of pullovers; I would help choose the patterns and the colours.

     Wednesdays were early closing so I knocked on the front door instead of coming through the shop when I came home after school. Wednesday four o'clock was the time Choral Evensong was broadcast on the Home Service and I associate the ethereal sounds of an anthem sung in some far away cathedral with home and a coal fire.

     Christmas was nearing when the bakery across the road began selling crumpets. Tea in the sitting room by the fire was a treat. My uncle Bill (Mum's only brother) and auntie Lee would pay their annual visit a week or two before Christmas. For several years their gift to me was the Rupert Annual.

     The one live Christmas tree we had, when I was about four years old, we planted in the garden and it survived and grew into a forty foot tree before being blown over in the gales of  . . . 1987 was it?

     I think the first Christmas carol I learned was the Czech Rocking carol, then Away in a Manger and the hymn Once in Royal David City.

What about now?

     Now? I sing and play the traditional Christmas carols I grew up with and raid the Oxford book of Carols for more from other seasons. Tschaikovsky's 'Legend' The Crown of Roses is one of my favourite modern pieces . . . And here is another New Year.

Christ's mass

     Now that he season that celebrates Christ's birth has finally arrived, many of the secular lights will be extinguished and trimmings taken down and the trees discarded or mulched. What of the other remembrances celebrated by the Church at this time? St Stephen, the first Christian martyr; St John the Evangelist; the Holy Innocents and the Epiphany and childhood of Jesus?

     I continue living in my own little world, that flow of the Church year learned as a choir boy and continued as sacristan at the parish church where I grew up. Christmas began for me then at 3pm on Christmas Eve with the live broadcast of the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols from King's College Chapel, Cambridge.

     David Wilcox's musical influence seems to remain strong . . . and each year one new musical piece is commissioned . . .

     I wondered when I was little, "Who is this Mary? And what's a virgin?".

     I don't worry much about the pagan origins of some of the things we do at this time of the year. The time of year in the northern hemisphere when the long dark nights begin to shorten is a cause for celebration. A time to anticipate the first aconites and snowdrops . . .

     So, what did I do with the day? Mass to hear the Gospel . . . ultra-traditional goose for dinner, traditional carols to listen to and to play and sing;  and Kathy likes to watch lots of Christmastime themed movies . . .

The remainder of a white Christmas

From the bookshelves 62 ?

I will attempt to finish or rather continue to read and re-read this work . . . one day.

I walked this

morning along the Little Colorado river, part of the Becker Lake riparian wildlife area. I remembered my camera to take some snapshots . . . here are some of the results.

 

 

 

Life  is often described as a journey.  On this journey we experience many things and collect mementos, items which may not have any intrinsic value but are  valued none the less as reminders of past events or people we have known who have made the journey lighter.

    Along the way we fall in with companions who share the journey.  Geese fly in company when they journey south from northern climes in the autumn to warmer areas, avoiding the wintry conditions further north.  They fly in a 'V' formation.  They do this because the beating wings of the leading birds creates lift for those behind.  The flying range of the flock is greatly increased over that of a bird flying alone.

    People who share a common direction and sense of community can get where they are going quicker and easier, because they are traveling on the thrust of one another.

    Whenever a goose falls out of formation, it suddenly feels the drag and resistance of trying to go it alone, and quickly gets into formation to take advantage of the lifting power of the bird immediately in front.

    If we have as much sense as a goose, we will stay in formation with those who are going the same direction as we are.

    When the lead goose gets tired, he rotates back into the formation and another goose takes the lead point.  It pays to take turns doing hard jobs.  The geese honk from behind to encourage those up front to keep up their speed.

    What do we say when we 'honk' from behind?

    When a goose falls out of formation and goes to ground because it is sick or injured two other geese will follow it and stay with it until it recovers or dies.  They resume their journey with another formation or catch up with the original group.

    If we have the sense of a goose, we will stand by each other like that.

    I found this story amongst my school notes, a much copied anonymous piece, one of those mementos imbued with extrinsic value if only the analogy can be learned and put into practice.

Silence

More reading . . .

I'm reading the stories from Notwithstanding by Louis de Bernières. BBC Radio 4 recently broadcast several of the stories.

Still awaiting The Life of Insects to arrive. This is an allegorical novel by Victor Pelevin which the reading group will be discussing next year . . . January.

Tempus Fugit

     So what have I been up to this past week? The usual which for me means walking with a neighbour who likes the company; collecting the mail, most of which is for Kathy as she manages to get on so many mailing lists from buying from so many catalogues, and getting lost playing music nearly everyday. There must be some sleeping, eating and household chores and the occasional honey-do each day, too.

     Oh, and reading. I received my Folio Society selections this week which included Kevin Crossley-Holland's The Seeing Stone.

This is an award winning book, a retelling of the Arthurian legend from the perspective of a thirteen year old boy at the end of the twelfth century when Richard Cœur-de-Lion is off on Crusade and Prince John is lusting after the throne of England. This is the first book of a trilogy written for young people.

The chapter 41 heading is Mouthfuls of Air. And that segues into Antony Burgess:

I haven't read this for a very long time. I was sent to the dictionary to look up hebetude. And that leads to the venerable O.E.D. Is this the only dictionary with a users guide?

 Simon Winchester has written about the making of the first edition of the O.E.D.

 

And before that he wrote The Professor and the Madman; an account of the extraordinary contribution to the dictionary of an inmate of Broadmoor and his correspondence with James Murry . . .  

I am become a wraith . . .

catching up on Stuart's blog:

Remarkably Clear Insight of the Day

If you spend your whole life working to avoid making a scene, you will wake up one day to realize that you are no longer in the play, and nor should you be- you've ceased to be worth watching.

. . . . do you . . . .

dream monochrome . . .

or colour?

From the bookshelves 60, 61

A painstakingly made book . . . then a movie. I read this at a time I was doing a clinical-internship in a nursing home as part of an occupational therapy assistant course. This relates obliquely to the story of the man in Brussels who recently reported that he was conscious for the past twenty odd years; not in a coma.

     I mentioned in a previous post I occasionally miss John Ciardi, or rather his pieces about words on All Things Considered (or was it Morning Edition?). I re-read an excerpt from Invisible by Paul Auster in GRANTA 106 which makes reference to Bertran de Born, a poet condemned to carry his own severed head like a lantern for causing a bitter rift between a prince and his father.  He appears at the end of Canto 28 of Inferno.

Browsing the bookshelves again 58, 59

To see East Anglia through another's eyes . . . and feel the light; taste the salt air from off the North Sea; Tyne, Dogger, Humber, Thames . . . North Uitsera, South Uitsera (Viking),  Fisher, German Bight . . . a blast of wind from the Baltic . . .

Rima has a link to Kevin Crossley-Holland's website on her sidebar. Mr. Crossley-Holland lives in Norfolk.

James Dodds learned boat-building in Maldon, Essex. 

Reading group

The reading group I belong to has read these books over the last five years:

Love in the Time of Cholera       Gabriel Marquez*

Waiting for the Barbarians          J.M. Coetzee*º

God's Bits of Wood                      Sembene Ousmane

The Cave                                      Jose Saramago*

My Year of Meats                         Ruth Ozeki

Blood Meridian                            Cormac McCarthy~†

End Zone                                      Don Delillo~

The Maltese Falcon                     Dashiell Hammett

The Silent Cry                              Kenzeboro Oe

Under Milkwood                          Dylan Thomas

Lolita                                            Vladimir Nabokov

The Master and Marguerita          Mikhail Bulgakov

The Quiet American                      Graham Greene

The Namesake                               Jhumpa Lahiri†

Black Rain                                     Masugi Ibuse

Henderson the Rain King              Saul Bellow*~†

Miramar                                        Naguib Mahfouz*

Snow                                             Orhan Pamuk*

Free Fall                                       William Golding*º

The Waves                                     Virginia Woolf

Family                                            Pa Chin

As I Lay Dying                               William Faulkner*†~

Ceremony                                       Leslie Marmon Silko

A Confederacy of Dunces              John Kennedy Toole†

The Kite Runner                             Khaled Hosseini

Whose Body?                                  Dorothy L Sayers

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly   Jean-Dominique Bauby

The Known World                          Edward Jones†

Lost City Radio                              Daniel Alarcon

Our Man in Havana                       Graham Greene

The Sirens of Titan                         Kurt Vonnegut

The Brief Wondrous Life of

Oscar Wao                                     Junot Diaz†

Empire Falls                                  Richard Russo†

Silence                                            Shusaka Endo (Tanizaki prize)

A Mercy                                          Toni Morrison

Everything that Rises must

Converge                                        Flannery O'Connor

The Plague of Doves                      Louise Erdrich

Beyond Black                                  Hilary Mantel

*Nobel Prize for Literature
†Pulitzer Prize for Fiction
~National Book Award for Fiction
°Booker Prize for Fiction

 and we'll be discussing Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout next week. I've not read some of the books on the list; and of course I've read others on my own . . .

ADDENDUM: Round Valley Book Group now has a blog

Happy Thanksgiving

     Computer troubles resolved - for the moment.

     Started Tabula Rasa on a whim and was then bereft of ideas.

     Company just arrived to stay over Thanksgiving.

     Kathy had to rush over the hill to Show  Low for an appointment this morning after finding out today is the 24th not the 23rd.

     I may catch up with pictures later. Meanwhile I'll meditate and contemplate that for which I am thankful . . . that I woke up this morning, that I am able to play some music each morning, that I am still relatively sane (relative to what or to whom?)

Meanwhile here's another of Nick Bantock's books from my shelves

The rules of this award-

This award is bestowed on to blogs that are exceedingly charming. Well, I'm not sure about that; but charming enough to attract eight followers

These kind of bloggers aim to find and be friends. I'm tickled pink that others have troubled to comment (or cast a pebble into the puddle  . . . er . . . pond; lake; sea; ocean?)

They are not interested in self-aggrandizement. No, I'm too self absorbed in humble introspection . . .

Our hope is that when the ribbons of these prizes are cut, even more friendships are propagated.

Thank you, Lemon Verbena Lady; I can only reciprocate  . . . but that's already been done.

Please give more attention to these writers:

Dick Glasgow is a very busy and affable fellow and offers a warm welcome to County Antrim and plenty of links to traditional music happenings in his corner of the world.

 Personal poetic expression may be found here.

Duta alread has many acknowledgments of the quality of her contribution to the blogos-sphere.

Because 60 is divisible by 2, 30, 3, 20, 4, 15, 5, 12, 6 and 10 . . . . keeps things neat.

Watch artwork grow at Christine Walker's blog.

And a slice of life called Please and Thank You

 

Codex Sinaiticus

Scholarship . . . conservation . . . history . . . Codex Sinaiticus

     I'm most likely behind the curve (so what else is new?) on this. Brush up your biblical Greek . . .

Open Book

I mentioned Open Book a few posts ago. The vote was counted and the winner is . . . listen here.

Well, that was a gratifying surprise!

They will not grow old . . .

as we who are left grow old.

We will remember them.

I remember Leo Saunders, one of those left who did grow old.

The story so far . . .

     Thinks: to save money on postage and to let friends and family have some idea of what I'm doing in England I'll start a blog. In the process of setting up the account I needed a name. Oh, what the hell: Thrupnybits. (I know, I know, stop sniggering behind your hand there) And a name for the blog? Mmm . . . how pretentious can I be? I don't think I'd browsed many blogs at this time I just jumped in. I can't remember now if I made a list to choose from. Mmmm . . . seeking something . . . how about epistēmē? Mmm . . . how can I have lived through so many years and still not answered the question "who am I?" or kept in mind the adage to 'know thyself'? Should I throw away all the books and start again? Pestered again and again with the question, “What do you want to be (or was it 'do'?) when you grow up?” I have the fuel (fertile? or mere wind-egg?); do I have the fire that consumes? 

     I can only know of my early life from what I have been told and the few pictures of me. I have no memory of that time; I do not have a memory of my sitting looking at the camera, only the memory that I was told this is a picture of me with Mr. Foster. My earliest memories, which are remembered as me being the centre of my universe, occur later as consciousness awakens. I do not have an eidetic memory. What about olfactory or auricular memory? The sense of smell, though the weakest of human senses, holds the key to many early memories: the smell of the kitchen on wash day; mum’s eau-de-cologne; the orangey-whisky-evergreen smell of Christmas at home; to this day I do not like the smell of gin as I took a swig of the stuff from a bottle I thought contained soda water, ugh! Sounds from childhood include the early morning crowing of cocks; the whining hum of the milk float; the swish of cars passing down the High Street; birdsong, particularly summer skylarks and evening blackbirds and thrushes warning ‘tchick’. So, of the first two years or so of my life I have no memory and therefore no knowledge but what I was told. I don’t know what my first words were; I never asked and wasn’t told. Boys are well known for staying mum until they are about three and then spouting complete sentences . . . does that mean by inference I think girls start off babbling and then never stop? I see pictures of me when little and I think I often look slightly puzzled viz:

2+ years old with Mr. Foster, our next-door neighbour, in Kelvedon, 1953.

 

Chaos

     Mmm . . . any books here I'd disown or be ashamed for having on my shelves? Some I've lugged around for nearly forty years . . .

     I did a quick dust but no rearranging . . . I mean organizing. Choking from the smoke  of a prescribed burn gone a bit wild; I think I've been spending too much time in my own company lately . . . I missed all the sensational news about gunmen going berserk . . .

I can't spell . . . Alan, Allan, Allen, Alyn, Alun, Alain . . .

     Well, I just happened to capture a fairly decent  rendition of a couple of traditional tunes I like and play on the hammered dulcimer. Plain vanilla tunes; no embellishment.

     
Jamie Allan was piper to the Countess, later Duchess of Northumberland. I can't do the tune the justice it deserves as it sounds much better on the Northumbrian small pipes .

     Winster Gallop is a traditional English dance tune.

Download Alan - Jamie Allen And Winster Gallop
         

Get Knotted!

     Knowing the difference between a hitch and a bend and learning to splice was all part of Scouting when I was growing up. Making a neat back-splice was satisfying but I didn't get much beyond the basics. Knowing how to make a good long-splice is a valuable skill for one looking after bell ropes. Alas I never went to sea but knowing how to make a proper square knot (or reef knot), make a figure of eight and tie sheet bends the correct way was handy the few times I went sailing with friends in a gaff rigged converted 23' whaler.

From the bookshelves 51, 52

I lived in Venice,CA in the early nineteen-eighties within walking distance of Small Word Books; mind you walking distance for me at that time was anywhere within four or five miles of where I lived. Living in LA and having a street address with fewer than four digits is quite unusual, too.   I digress. I expect it was whilst browsing the Venice bookstore that I found these books by Eva Figes.