I am doing a try blog post. A difficult one. Found on another blog.
My life in years from now. If I imagine. And wish. And do not worry.
At least three things.
In 1 year (23).
~I have moved from my current student's flat, closer to the city.
~I have figured out where to do my MA.
~I might still be depressed. But I can talk about it.
In 3 years (25).
~I am doing, or have just finished, an MA in English literature. Preferably in the UK.
~I have made friends. And become close to them.
~I have been able to run 10 km quite easily.
~I know what is wrong with me and my head. And I know how to work with it.
In 5 years (27).
~I have had a relationship, at least once, with a man or a woman.
~I have a cat.
~I have written something I am proud of.
In 10 years (32).
~I have taken or am doing my PhD in English Literature, maybe on modernists, or how space/room is conceived.
~I have lived in Leeds again.
~I live in a flat or a house I like.
~I write. Or teach.
~There are some children in my life. Nieces and nephews hopefully.
~I am in a relationship? Or have had a serious one at least.
In 30 years (52)
~I teach at a university. Maybe in Sweden, but I have or will teach abroad as well.
~I have cats, still.
~I have nieces and nephews. And maybe, maybe, a child of my own.
~I have published something written. Apart from the thesis.
~I have run at least one marathon.
~I work not full-time. Maybe 75%.
Honestly. I was not that difficult. It seems just very unlikely.
It is exciting to think of myself in these ages. This is good for me to read when I fall into holes of meaninglessness.
Tuesday, 3 March 2015
Sunday, 8 February 2015
18 February
I am counting down the days. It's little over a week left--ten days. Then I will go to a neighbouring town and see a person with almost the exact same name as mine (it's ridiculous). That person will most likely ask me about how I feel. What I was like when I was a child. What I do during the days. What I find difficult in my life.
I will reply and struggle to reply and study what's behind the person talking and wonder if I can really say that out loud. I will look at them and say, I'm fine, and then avoid their eyes when they ask if I ever think of suicide.
I shouldn't want them to find something, something disabling about me. But I do. I want them to say to me, yes, you do show symptoms of this or that. Because it will be on paper. It's not supposed to be this difficult. It will be a relief, a promise.
But on that paper, it will also say: This is who you are now. This is part of your DNA. It won't help if the right person loves you or if you read the right book or if you move to the right city.
A promise.
It will be comforting, nevertheless. And they might be able to help me. This is how you love. This is how you feel less lonely. This is how you become loveable.
This is how you live.
So I am counting down the days until I get to go to a psychiatric surgery in a neighbouring town, to see a person with almost the exact same name as mine.
(Holding on to promises.)
I will reply and struggle to reply and study what's behind the person talking and wonder if I can really say that out loud. I will look at them and say, I'm fine, and then avoid their eyes when they ask if I ever think of suicide.
I shouldn't want them to find something, something disabling about me. But I do. I want them to say to me, yes, you do show symptoms of this or that. Because it will be on paper. It's not supposed to be this difficult. It will be a relief, a promise.
But on that paper, it will also say: This is who you are now. This is part of your DNA. It won't help if the right person loves you or if you read the right book or if you move to the right city.
A promise.
It will be comforting, nevertheless. And they might be able to help me. This is how you love. This is how you feel less lonely. This is how you become loveable.
This is how you live.
So I am counting down the days until I get to go to a psychiatric surgery in a neighbouring town, to see a person with almost the exact same name as mine.
(Holding on to promises.)
This Is a List
5 things I say a lot
- svin(mycket/jobbigt/gott)
- Jag vet inte
- Jag är så trött
- Jag vet inte hur jag ska förklara
- Kanske
- Jag är så trött
- Jag vet inte hur jag ska förklara
- Kanske
(I honestly don't know.)
5 things I think a lot
- I am so ungrateful/useless/worthless/a waste of space
- I love women so much
- I am depressed
- Don't think about that
- *What I would say at this moment to someone if I met them right now.*
5 things I dream about a lot at night
(I dream very little, but these are the few recurring ones)
- Being in love and being loved by someone I don't know.
- Having frustrating and stressful conversations
- Being trapped or stressed or in a hurry--often involving a murderer
- Getting stuck at something unable to finish it
- Being pregnant and about to give birth (this happens so often!!)
5 things very few people know about me
- I am depressed/have anxiety/social phobia
- I have seen therapists and am now doing cognitive behavioural therapy online
- I write on this blog!
- I am bisexual, undecided or very uninterested
- The very few people I have liked or had crushes on
5 things I love to do
- Read and find myself in other people's writing
- Walk in the forest
- Be completely alone in a foreign city
- Cook and do the dishes with an entertaining podcast
- Organise
5 things I want to happen before this year is over
- Visit Iceland
- Go back to Leeds
- Get to know someone I adore
- Finish something written
- Move
5 things I order abroad
- Veggie burrito or something at Chipotle
- Red velvet cake
- Anything vegan or vegetarian
- Eggs
- Breakfast!
5 things I miss in my wardrobe
- A perfect winter coat
- A silver grey chiffon midi skirt I saw on a girl in London
- A pashmina scarf
- Tops that look good with skirts
- A raincoat
5 things that smell wonderfully
- Ground coffee
- The forest
- Horses
- Bird cherry
- Summer mornings
5 things I want to get better at
- Writing
- Talking to friends
- Feeling things for people
- Making bread
- Languages
5 things I laugh at
- Podcasts
- Parks & Rec, Broad City, Friday Night Dinner, and so on
- Clever jokes
- Howl's Moving Castle
- Texts posts on tumblr
5 things that make me who I am
- My insane love for reading
- My somewhat insistent/annoying/clever joking
- My cleverness and good reading-head
- My independence and craving for solitude
- The space between everyone else and me
p.s. I adore the new design on the blog.
p.s. I adore the new design on the blog.
Sunday, 1 February 2015
Writing Exercises
I have started an online writing course this semester. So far, I really like it. We haven't done much yet--only read some texts and sent in a shorter essay about ourselves and our relationship to writing, and done some shorter, simpler writing exercises. But I love that I have been forced--or able--to make more time in my day for writing. I still think I need to do more of it, though.
I thought I could post some of my own writing execises here. Not the ones I'm submitting because I don't know, but some of the extra ones I do, mainly in order to keep my writing up and get used to eat and become better. So here is a short taste of what I write.
∞
These are two exercises/challenges I found on a blog.
1. Take a book, close your eyes, randomly select a word. In 10 minutes, write exactly 101 words about that word.
(I selected the word blood från The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, which I am reading at the moment--it's very helpful in the writing process too.)
∞
2. Pick a book and open a page at random. Take the first ten lines on the right-hand side and write down the first word of those lines. Write a poem or a story where every sentence starts with each of these words in order.
(I'll use the same book.)
∞
I thought I could post some of my own writing execises here. Not the ones I'm submitting because I don't know, but some of the extra ones I do, mainly in order to keep my writing up and get used to eat and become better. So here is a short taste of what I write.
These are two exercises/challenges I found on a blog.
1. Take a book, close your eyes, randomly select a word. In 10 minutes, write exactly 101 words about that word.
(I selected the word blood från The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, which I am reading at the moment--it's very helpful in the writing process too.)
I think my blood is infected with poison. When I am sad or anxious, I imagine the poison running through my veins. Blood reaches into every corner of my body. From outside, it brings oxygen, poisoned air, to my heart. There it is condensed and given a purpose: ‘Take it to the head, to the limbs.’ The blood carts the poison, which is enriched along the way, to the fingertips and the brain and the uterus. That blood is everywhere and I would have to empty myself to get all the poison out. (If I’d guess, the poison is merely life.)
2. Pick a book and open a page at random. Take the first ten lines on the right-hand side and write down the first word of those lines. Write a poem or a story where every sentence starts with each of these words in order.
(I'll use the same book.)
Have a glass of water(My words were not great. Here is another try with the same words. I cannot be bothered to edit.)
And bread, coarse bread with nuts and grains
They are not much, but they will give you
Life
Must not, need not, have not, be not. I
Am
So much more.
And you are too. Eat the bread
Which is life-giving and true
The clarity of water will help, too.
Have you ever felt the intimacy with someone reading on the train next to you? And felt almost proud when you, too, bring up a book. They exist in that book’s universe and you in yours. Life is lonely anyway, but next to each other, you and they are in parallel universes, less alone perhaps. Must not escape no, perhaps not. Am just passing time. So they read to pass time. And you read to escape. Which is not to say that is is working; that you actually do escape, or that time passes—but you pretend, with them. The universe is not only in this train, it is in your head and their heads and it is unlimited.
Sunday, 18 January 2015
Undecisions
I think at times of becoming a nun. The life style appeals to me, at leas the life I things they have. It consists mainly of silence, contemplation, reading, studying of texts, helping out in the community, taking in visitors and taking care of them, teaching and living with only women. (It is the last part that appeals to me the most.)
At a moment of more indecision than usual, in the middle of a spiritual period I had a while back, I even looked up what kind of orders I could join, and was disappointed and discouraged. It would take long time--to not speak of the fact that most orders are catholic... Which does not appeal to me. Where is the vaguely protestant order which you can join and participate in after a year? Or even better, the agnostic order? I do like the idea of serving some kind of higher purpose, even if I don't believe in that Abrahamic god.
This is ridiculous and unrealistic, naturally. But nevertheless, I want to be in place of quiet and solidarity and where I am less and just part of a whole. Oh the quiet, and the space, and the slow passing of time.
Monday, 12 January 2015
2015 Reading Challenge
In order to keep track of my reading, and to cross things off a list, I will participate in the reading challenge What's in a Name. I did it a couple of years ago in another blog, but want to pick it up again. Here is the challenge:
I think I will try to post a review of the books that end up to meet the challenge--a way to motivate me in my writing as well!
The challenge runs from January to December. During this time you choose a book to read from each of the following categories (examples of books you could choose are in brackets):
A word including ‘ing’ in it (The Time Of Singing, Dancing To The Flute, Lex Trent Fighting With Fire) My examples are verbs but you can of course use other words.
A colour (The Red Queen, White Truffles In Winter, On Gold Mountain)
A familial relation (Daughter Of Smoke And Bone, Dombey And Son, My Cousin Rachel) By all means include in-laws, step, and halves.
A body of water (The River Of No Return, Black Lake, Beside The Sea)
A city (Barcelona Shadows, Shanghai Girls, Under The Tripoli Sky)
An animal (Black Swan Rising, The Leopard Unleashed, The Horse And His Boy)
Extra information
Books can be any format (print, audio, ebook).
It’s preferred that the books don’t overlap with other challenges, but not a requirement at all.
Books cannot overlap categories.
Creativity for matching the categories is not only allowed, it’s encouraged!
You don’t have to make your list of books beforehand, you can choose them as you go.
You don’t have to read your chosen books in any particular order.
I think I will try to post a review of the books that end up to meet the challenge--a way to motivate me in my writing as well!
Saturday, 3 January 2015
2014 review
I wanted to write something about the year (I have writing itching in my fingers), so I have taken a list from a favourite blog of mine and edited/translated it.
Describe the year with three words.
Leeds, lit-studies and depression.
How did the studies (and job) go this year?
My studies were great. Both terms were fantastic, educating, uplifting, inspiring and absolutely wonderful. At the same time it has been incredibly difficult (at one point I even considered dropping out). The spring was mostly wonderful and my grades were fine--I got the UK grade 2:1, which is something like C/B I think. The autumn has been more anxiety-filled and exhausting, but I have gotten great grades, so far all A's on essays, and A in the only course I have finished so far.
The job has gone on. It has been both meditative and boring. Lately, mostly boring. I am in charge of social media which is at times fun but mostly anxiety-inducing and horrifying. I am thinking of quitting it.
The people in my life this year.
I have attempted to withdraw, which I have succeeded with I would say. I don't have to see people as much what with living alone. But friendships are more or less the same, although I am less close with one of my best friend. Gets along better with certain people at work. Met lovely people at Oxfam in Leeds. Did not really befriend anyone this year, except possibly someone at work.
Social life has, overall, been very difficult this year.
The best trip this year.
Naturally Leeds, but if I had to specify more (what with being there for six months...), it woul be the short trip to Haworth I did when I wandered on the moors, the longer trip to Cardiff, Bristol and Bath and maybe my first few days in London before I went to Leeds--with the flavour of freedom in my mouth.
Best memories or moments of the year.
The evening I went to the poetry reading at uni, in Leeds, where I had wine and fell in love with poetry and talked to and saw people I liked.
When I got use to being in Leeds and realised my freedom of being there. Those freeing walks and bus rides and coming home to my flat.
The Head and the Heart concert in Manchester.
Any one of the good seminars/meetings I have had with my two favourite teachers this year.
Travelling alone. Some of the other concerts. Coming home to my flat, even this one in Stockholm.
Worst memories or moments of the year.
I would rather not think of them, but some of them are: the first few days in Leeds, when I was leaving Leeds, the first week home in Sweden, this entire autumn. When I was too drunk at two points, but my mainly last New Year's Eve. Some of the concerts I went to this year, when the mass of people have me panic.
What was the best thing you bought?
Maybe my black skirt on sale in Leeds, or books such as Glass, Irony and God, The World's Wife, Division Street, and The Waves. Can't think of anything else in particular. I bought a lot of skirts and dressed in England that I love.
What was the best gift you received?
Virginia Woolf's and Sylvia Plath's diaries. An analogue camera I got from Lina. Gift certificate to get a tattoo (which I haven't used yet). *The gift of knowledge.*
What was the biggest musical discovery?
BY FAR Kent. They made my months in Leeds. God I adore them, especially the latter albums. They are my favourite Swedish musicians.
Here is a playlist with the music I listened to this year.
What was the biggest literary discovery?
TOO MANY. Whole genres! The English 18th century literature, Boswell, Maria Edgeworth, Ann Carson, Helen Mort, and the re-discovery of Virginiaa Woolf.
What did I watch?
Few movies--the only one I remember liking is The Hours. But on TV: Orange is the New Black, Downton Abbey, Brooklyn Nine-Nine, Parks & recreation, Broad City, Historieäterna, Hannibal, Buffy (still stuck on the sixth season), Friday Night Dinner, Girls, Game of Thrones, Orphan Black, Pushing Daisies, and Veep.
This I should have done more of.
Always reading. Maybe talked to someone. Said yes. I did dare to do a lot, but I could have dared more. Believed in myself. Oh, and writing, definitely more writing. And more taking photos and blogging. Ugh. I will try to be better this year...
This I should have done less of.
Drinking wine... Doubted and hated and been ashamed of myself so much. I have been wrong to doubt myself so much this year. I should have done less of the things I did not want to do.
Biggest insight of 2014.
That I am unwell, maybe. That I realised I am actually depressed and anxious--that this is what depression and anxiety is.
And the insight, that Leeds is where I want to live, and English literature is what I want to work with, study and think about.
This I bring with me into 2015.
Very little. 2014 has not been good at all--and I don't believe 2015 will be any better. I will remember that I like running and that I can get good grades in literature courses. But a whole lot of memories from my home on this planet.
Describe the year with three words.
Leeds, lit-studies and depression.
How did the studies (and job) go this year?
My studies were great. Both terms were fantastic, educating, uplifting, inspiring and absolutely wonderful. At the same time it has been incredibly difficult (at one point I even considered dropping out). The spring was mostly wonderful and my grades were fine--I got the UK grade 2:1, which is something like C/B I think. The autumn has been more anxiety-filled and exhausting, but I have gotten great grades, so far all A's on essays, and A in the only course I have finished so far.
The job has gone on. It has been both meditative and boring. Lately, mostly boring. I am in charge of social media which is at times fun but mostly anxiety-inducing and horrifying. I am thinking of quitting it.
The people in my life this year.
I have attempted to withdraw, which I have succeeded with I would say. I don't have to see people as much what with living alone. But friendships are more or less the same, although I am less close with one of my best friend. Gets along better with certain people at work. Met lovely people at Oxfam in Leeds. Did not really befriend anyone this year, except possibly someone at work.
Social life has, overall, been very difficult this year.
The best trip this year.
Naturally Leeds, but if I had to specify more (what with being there for six months...), it woul be the short trip to Haworth I did when I wandered on the moors, the longer trip to Cardiff, Bristol and Bath and maybe my first few days in London before I went to Leeds--with the flavour of freedom in my mouth.
Best memories or moments of the year.
The evening I went to the poetry reading at uni, in Leeds, where I had wine and fell in love with poetry and talked to and saw people I liked.
When I got use to being in Leeds and realised my freedom of being there. Those freeing walks and bus rides and coming home to my flat.
The Head and the Heart concert in Manchester.
Any one of the good seminars/meetings I have had with my two favourite teachers this year.
Travelling alone. Some of the other concerts. Coming home to my flat, even this one in Stockholm.
Worst memories or moments of the year.
I would rather not think of them, but some of them are: the first few days in Leeds, when I was leaving Leeds, the first week home in Sweden, this entire autumn. When I was too drunk at two points, but my mainly last New Year's Eve. Some of the concerts I went to this year, when the mass of people have me panic.
What was the best thing you bought?
Maybe my black skirt on sale in Leeds, or books such as Glass, Irony and God, The World's Wife, Division Street, and The Waves. Can't think of anything else in particular. I bought a lot of skirts and dressed in England that I love.
What was the best gift you received?
Virginia Woolf's and Sylvia Plath's diaries. An analogue camera I got from Lina. Gift certificate to get a tattoo (which I haven't used yet). *The gift of knowledge.*
What was the biggest musical discovery?
BY FAR Kent. They made my months in Leeds. God I adore them, especially the latter albums. They are my favourite Swedish musicians.
Here is a playlist with the music I listened to this year.
What was the biggest literary discovery?
TOO MANY. Whole genres! The English 18th century literature, Boswell, Maria Edgeworth, Ann Carson, Helen Mort, and the re-discovery of Virginiaa Woolf.
What did I watch?
Few movies--the only one I remember liking is The Hours. But on TV: Orange is the New Black, Downton Abbey, Brooklyn Nine-Nine, Parks & recreation, Broad City, Historieäterna, Hannibal, Buffy (still stuck on the sixth season), Friday Night Dinner, Girls, Game of Thrones, Orphan Black, Pushing Daisies, and Veep.
This I should have done more of.
Always reading. Maybe talked to someone. Said yes. I did dare to do a lot, but I could have dared more. Believed in myself. Oh, and writing, definitely more writing. And more taking photos and blogging. Ugh. I will try to be better this year...
This I should have done less of.
Drinking wine... Doubted and hated and been ashamed of myself so much. I have been wrong to doubt myself so much this year. I should have done less of the things I did not want to do.
Biggest insight of 2014.
That I am unwell, maybe. That I realised I am actually depressed and anxious--that this is what depression and anxiety is.
And the insight, that Leeds is where I want to live, and English literature is what I want to work with, study and think about.
This I bring with me into 2015.
Very little. 2014 has not been good at all--and I don't believe 2015 will be any better. I will remember that I like running and that I can get good grades in literature courses. But a whole lot of memories from my home on this planet.
Sunday, 28 December 2014
The Best Books of 14
These are my top ten books I read in the last year (including poetry collections and graphic novels etc), in the order of reading (starting with the latest read).
The Waves, Virginia Woolf
The very best discovery by Woolf this semester--the long prose poetry books, with so many beutiful quotes, and a rhythm like a dream. I loved Rhoda and Bernard.
(Mrs Dalloway, Virginia Woolf)
I re-read Mrs Dalloway this autumn and this time I adored it. It was very much like reading it for the first time, again. Furthermore, I wrote my BA essay on this book and got to spend a lot of time with it. Clarissa, always.
Kunskapens frukt, Liv Strömquist
Fantastic, funny, depressing, illuminating, as always. Everyone should read it.
We are All Completely Beside Ourselves, Karen Joy Fowler
Gorgeous book that was mostly sad and sometimes funny. It was incredible to read without knowing what it was about--that surprise, when it was revealed. Staggering ideas and new thoughts on anthropomorphism's good and bad sides. I want to give this book to all my friends and family.
Villette, Charlotte Brontë
I thought it was extraordinary, especially how it was about solitude and loneliness and pride. Perhpas better than Jane Eyre.
"The Glass Essay," Glass, Irony and God, Anne Carson
I have yet to write a post on this one! It was partly the reason I started this blog--I wanted to write about "The Glass Essay." And I will. But for now, I can say it is my best essay ever, and my favourite longer poem. And I fell in love with Emily Brontë because of it.
Girl Reading, Katie Ward
Lovely book, on this list mainly because of one story. Which I want to re-read now.
The Song of Achilles, Madeline Miller
It was the last book I finished in Leeds, I think. I read it on my Kindle and was floored. I remember finishing it sitting in Caffé Nero in Chapel Allerton (god I miss it) and trying to hide my tears. Beautiful and sad and perhaps the greatest OTP of this year.
Division Street, Helen Mort
Wonderful poetry collection, with sharp lines and grey skies. Her wonderful voice echoing in my head. Words that feel near.
Belinda, Maria Edgeworth
This was my favourite book I read in my spring term. What I loved was the female friendships, the complex utterings of feminism, and Belinda being ridiculous and wonderful. And I loved that I discussed it afterward in my favourite room in Univerity of Leeds, with my favourite teacher.
Code Name Verity, Elizabeth Wein
This was a mid-term reading break, of sorts. It went quickly, because it was impossible to stop. Gorgeous writing, awful story, an admiration of language, and more than anything else, the love between Maddy and Julie. Such a fantastic love story between them. I think it is a book anyone of any age, gender or interest can read.
It was a good reading year. This autumn, especially, I have read such good books. Most by Woolf, of course, but a few other good ones.
I have read or re-read 61 books this year, including poetry collections, non-fiction and short story collections.
53 books were written by women, 6 by men, and 2 were novels or collections with writing by both men and women.
Clearly, I have read almost entirely books by women this year. It started out unconsciously, but then I more or less decided to keep doing it--excepting school reading, naturally. I did read mainly women authors in school as well. I have loved it and I plan on keeping it up. Not rigorously, but with that vague aim.
I have read a few books in Swedish, more than usual, I think: 11. I am glad of that. I want to keep adding Swedish books to my reading. Similarly with poetry. I have read 7 poetry collection, and many more online.
This has been a great reading year, supported by a fantastic year in school in terms of the modules and courses I have taken. I have learned so much. I need words, books, writing to breathe.
The Waves, Virginia Woolf
The very best discovery by Woolf this semester--the long prose poetry books, with so many beutiful quotes, and a rhythm like a dream. I loved Rhoda and Bernard.
(Mrs Dalloway, Virginia Woolf)
I re-read Mrs Dalloway this autumn and this time I adored it. It was very much like reading it for the first time, again. Furthermore, I wrote my BA essay on this book and got to spend a lot of time with it. Clarissa, always.
Kunskapens frukt, Liv Strömquist
Fantastic, funny, depressing, illuminating, as always. Everyone should read it.
We are All Completely Beside Ourselves, Karen Joy Fowler
Gorgeous book that was mostly sad and sometimes funny. It was incredible to read without knowing what it was about--that surprise, when it was revealed. Staggering ideas and new thoughts on anthropomorphism's good and bad sides. I want to give this book to all my friends and family.
Villette, Charlotte Brontë
I thought it was extraordinary, especially how it was about solitude and loneliness and pride. Perhpas better than Jane Eyre.
"The Glass Essay," Glass, Irony and God, Anne Carson
I have yet to write a post on this one! It was partly the reason I started this blog--I wanted to write about "The Glass Essay." And I will. But for now, I can say it is my best essay ever, and my favourite longer poem. And I fell in love with Emily Brontë because of it.
Girl Reading, Katie Ward
Lovely book, on this list mainly because of one story. Which I want to re-read now.
The Song of Achilles, Madeline Miller
It was the last book I finished in Leeds, I think. I read it on my Kindle and was floored. I remember finishing it sitting in Caffé Nero in Chapel Allerton (god I miss it) and trying to hide my tears. Beautiful and sad and perhaps the greatest OTP of this year.
Division Street, Helen Mort
Wonderful poetry collection, with sharp lines and grey skies. Her wonderful voice echoing in my head. Words that feel near.
Belinda, Maria Edgeworth
This was my favourite book I read in my spring term. What I loved was the female friendships, the complex utterings of feminism, and Belinda being ridiculous and wonderful. And I loved that I discussed it afterward in my favourite room in Univerity of Leeds, with my favourite teacher.
Code Name Verity, Elizabeth Wein
This was a mid-term reading break, of sorts. It went quickly, because it was impossible to stop. Gorgeous writing, awful story, an admiration of language, and more than anything else, the love between Maddy and Julie. Such a fantastic love story between them. I think it is a book anyone of any age, gender or interest can read.
It was a good reading year. This autumn, especially, I have read such good books. Most by Woolf, of course, but a few other good ones.
I have read or re-read 61 books this year, including poetry collections, non-fiction and short story collections.
53 books were written by women, 6 by men, and 2 were novels or collections with writing by both men and women.
Clearly, I have read almost entirely books by women this year. It started out unconsciously, but then I more or less decided to keep doing it--excepting school reading, naturally. I did read mainly women authors in school as well. I have loved it and I plan on keeping it up. Not rigorously, but with that vague aim.
I have read a few books in Swedish, more than usual, I think: 11. I am glad of that. I want to keep adding Swedish books to my reading. Similarly with poetry. I have read 7 poetry collection, and many more online.
This has been a great reading year, supported by a fantastic year in school in terms of the modules and courses I have taken. I have learned so much. I need words, books, writing to breathe.
Sunday, 16 November 2014
A Collection of Quotes That I Will at Some Point Post on My Tumblr or, Why Is This so Unbearable?
“Listen to me. I’m shy. I’m not stupid. I can’t meet people’s eyes. I don’t know if you understand what that’s like. There’s a whole world going on around me, I’m aware of that. It’s not because I don’t want to look at you, Lucinda. It’s that I don’t want to be seen. I’m afraid of what you’ll see inside me.”
— Jonathan Lethem
“With special regard to unreality, I shrug in silence. I am not scared. I love this fully conscious imprisonment in unreality; it somehow makes me romanticize with something sensuously genuine. Oh it’s another self-trap; you know best. Yet there is something very consoling, very personal in it. I am constructing my reality with unreal, otherworldly materials. It is almost poetic; this outstanding self-manipulation. (I am rather scared to death.)”
— Sylvia Plath, Letters Home: Correspondence 1950-1963
“My dear, you are in danger of being burned by your own flame.”
— Jeanette Winterson, Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit
“Don’t try to picture everything bad that could possibly happen. Stick with the situation at hand and ask, “Why is this so unbearable? Why can’t I endure it?” You’ll be embarrassed to answer. Then remind yourself that past and future have no power over you. Only the present.”
— Marcus Aurelis, The Meditations
“I am aware of myself. And, of course, the only things that are aware of themselves and conscious of their individuality are irritated eyes, cut fingers, sore teeth. A healthy eye, finger, tooth might as well not even be there. Isn’t it clear that individual consciousness is just sickness?”
— Yevgeny Zamyatin, We
The Waves
I read The Waves for class a few weeks ago.
It is the fourth novel by Woolf I have read this semester. In addition, I have re-read "A Room of One's Own" and read two short stories. We have two texts left to read. It seems actually ridiculous that I, at the start of the semester, was reluctant to start with Woolf and give up 18th and 19th century literature, and that I did not then know Woolf as I do now. Well, that I did not know her is not too strange. I had not then spent around three months reading nothing but texts by Woolf or texts about Woolf. But to think, at that time, I did not realise how extraordinary her writing is. I did not even particularly like Mrs Dalloway then.
So ridiculous.
But I read The Waves and it filled me with awe from the first page. I was amazed, genuinely, to think of a novel written in that way. I had no idea before I started so it was a surprise. Then I had to read it pretty quickly because I had started late and it is quite long. My amazement abated, until I sat down in the class room for the seminar.
Somewhere in the space of three hours I realised that this book was maybe my favoruite of Woolf. Most people in class did not like it, so naturally I had to defend it. But what I loved the most was the things I couldn't voice, which was a theme during the seminar--everything I could and did not say--and I want to, need to, write it down. I wish I could have said it in class and defended the book properly.
It is a long prose poem, I guess. Or it is a novel written in very poetic prose. It is a conversation between six persons, but they never talk with each other, they just talk at each other, or at the reader. It is a novel consisting of six different voices--thoughts--running, repeating, complaining, groping, trying to explain, failing to explain, and reaching. It works, definitely, to think of as a prose poem. The sort of poem where different people speak but where the refrains and the theme and the words hold it together. It works to think of as a novel, too, albeit one without a particular plot (but To The Lighthouse does not really have a plot either, or Jacob's Room for that matter). It could also be thought of as a play, where six characters have monologues, or soliloquies, in Woolf's own word. Or, you can think of it as a radio broadcast where voices are heard and they speak without knowing if anyone listen so you have to listen.
It has fantastic language. So my favourite way of thinking about The Waves is as a long prose poem, because of the refrains and the repetitions. Oh, I loved the repetitions. I love how they defined the characters and made them recognisable. Bernard and his phrases. Neville and his perfection and classic studies. Jinny and her flames and fire and red and orange. Susan and her body working, doing stuff, and the nature and green. Louis and his self-consciousness (but the most difficult, I think, to define). And my favourite, Rhoda, immaterial, unhappy, unable to do what everyone else did, faceless and connected to water. (The women, in particular, stood out for me in terms of colours and elements: Jinny and fire and warm colours, Susan and earth and green and Rhoda and water and insubstantial grey-blue colours.)
In order not to make this too long, I will cut it short here. And only say that I loved loved loved Rhoda and Bernard. Rhoda's description of the world is fairly similar to mine (I re-read parts of her speech in a waiting room and had to put the book away because I was so nauseous and her words made me almost agitated).
The best things is the quotes. So many beautiful quotes. The second best thing is how strange it is. I can hardly believe the same writer wrote "A Room," or Orlando, or Jacob's Room. Anyway, here are some of the best quotes (put together in a way they were not put together in the book):
There was a star riding through clouds one night, and I said to the star, "Consume me."
I catch your eye. I, who had been thinking myself so vast, a temple, a church, a whole universe, confined and capable of being everywhere on the verge of things and here too, am now nothing but what you see.
I — so imperfect, so weak, so unspeakably lonely.
... the weight of the earth is pressed to my ribs.
And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.
It seems as if I can get to the centre of something if only I read everything Woolf wrote. Somehow, with all her exact descriptions and innovative narratives and clear-sightedness, I can understand why it is so beautiful and also so ugly, this, this, life.
November
I am having a bad time.
I try writing and I end up deleting it all.
I imagine myself saying it out loud and my skin crawls.
There is something with the dark that makes it impossible. I cannot get sunlight, not even moments of sunlight, not even moments of light.
I got home at four in the afternoon and made dinner. Got ready for the night. And there are hours left of the day.
I sleep too much.
I tried, sitting down at dinner, to follow along with my heart when it reached out and forward for something. When it searches for another time, to a future place, to something I will do or could do.
But my heart was flailing and I realised that it is not going to get better.
A doctor told me this week I was depressed, so I am looking for symptoms (is this depression?)
I suppose being unable to look forward to something is a sign of depression.
But it is also true. What could get better? What, in a single day, could be better than this? It is all up to my mood and my mood is such a slippery thing.
It does not matter if I change the house. If I live somewhere where I move differently. If I eat something else or see other people. It is still. Just. This.
Is this depression?
Or is it just facts? That, to an extent, it all comes down to my mood. (Is the world only my perception of it?)
There are hours left of the day, that I could use writing, but I just want to go to sleep. I imagine that I might need sleep. Sleep is always good, isn't it? I have to get up early tomorrow.
And tomorrow night will eat more of the day and then it won't be anything left and can't the night just eat me, too?
Is this depression? Being unable to organise the day to use the hours I am awake to write essays and not transform them into night hours (November helps me in this).
I am clearly doing something wrong. Something I ate made me this. Something I did not do. A book I read at the wrong time. A class missed, where everyone learned how to be human beings.
I don't believe I am depressed because that seems an awfully easy way to solve the meaninglessness of life.
Is that depression?
I don't have to tell anyone, honestly, and I can write it only to myself. And imagine that I tell you.
Nevertheless, it is not the easiest time. This November (and October and September and August). And I don't believe it can be any easier.
I try writing and I end up deleting it all.
I imagine myself saying it out loud and my skin crawls.
There is something with the dark that makes it impossible. I cannot get sunlight, not even moments of sunlight, not even moments of light.
I got home at four in the afternoon and made dinner. Got ready for the night. And there are hours left of the day.
I sleep too much.
I tried, sitting down at dinner, to follow along with my heart when it reached out and forward for something. When it searches for another time, to a future place, to something I will do or could do.
But my heart was flailing and I realised that it is not going to get better.
A doctor told me this week I was depressed, so I am looking for symptoms (is this depression?)
I suppose being unable to look forward to something is a sign of depression.
But it is also true. What could get better? What, in a single day, could be better than this? It is all up to my mood and my mood is such a slippery thing.
It does not matter if I change the house. If I live somewhere where I move differently. If I eat something else or see other people. It is still. Just. This.
Is this depression?
Or is it just facts? That, to an extent, it all comes down to my mood. (Is the world only my perception of it?)
There are hours left of the day, that I could use writing, but I just want to go to sleep. I imagine that I might need sleep. Sleep is always good, isn't it? I have to get up early tomorrow.
And tomorrow night will eat more of the day and then it won't be anything left and can't the night just eat me, too?
Is this depression? Being unable to organise the day to use the hours I am awake to write essays and not transform them into night hours (November helps me in this).
I am clearly doing something wrong. Something I ate made me this. Something I did not do. A book I read at the wrong time. A class missed, where everyone learned how to be human beings.
I don't believe I am depressed because that seems an awfully easy way to solve the meaninglessness of life.
Is that depression?
I don't have to tell anyone, honestly, and I can write it only to myself. And imagine that I tell you.
Nevertheless, it is not the easiest time. This November (and October and September and August). And I don't believe it can be any easier.
Tuesday, 2 September 2014
School & Virginia Woolf
I have started school again. It's with mixed feelings to be sure. Mostly negative ones, but I do look forward to the structured reading again. But it won't be like in Leeds. It won't be as in-depth and interesting and enlightening. The classes are just not on the same level - they're too slow, too basic (how horrible of me). I can't stand how much time is lost on explaining things like group works and assignments. All I want it melodious voices telling me everything they have discovered about a text and be so interesting and interested that students share their own thoughts.
I will study Virginia Woolf thoroughly this semester. I didn't want that to happen, either, but it did. I'm taking a One Author course on Virginia Woolf which will be so great (if we can ever get a conversation started). The other course is Literary Theory and Method and the only fiction in that course will be To the Ligthouse. And then, finally, I will write my BA essay on Virginia Woolf.
This means saying goodbye to Barbauld, Austen and Edgeworth (for now, at least). Give up the last of my Leeds studies. I wanted to do my essay on the 18th century and women's spaces and their interiority. But they did apparently not have a supervisor for it so I was given the Virginia Woolf one (it was my second choice). It's fine, I guess, only I had looked forward to immerse myself in the late 18th century again. And it will be so much Virginia Woolf.
(Mostly I can't bear to leave Leeds behind.)
But I will have other opportunities to write essays. And I love Virginia Woolf. I really like my supervisor too; she's wonderful and has studied at Leeds and knew about one of my teachers there.
I have come to terms with the Woolf essay. But not quite with returning to a school full of people and my inability to inhabit it. I find the social aspect of school absolutely horrible. I want to attend small seminars and meet with teachers and never see another human being. It would be fine, just pushing through it, but it's tainting the whole reading-learning-doing school thing as well. And it's so much worse at Stockholm with the crowded halls and large buildings and big class rooms and classes and none of the intimacy and privacy of the teacher's own studies.
To end with something else, another emotion, here is a part from To the Lighthouse:
And with this, it is not at all bad to be reading nothing but Virginia Woolf this autumn.
I will study Virginia Woolf thoroughly this semester. I didn't want that to happen, either, but it did. I'm taking a One Author course on Virginia Woolf which will be so great (if we can ever get a conversation started). The other course is Literary Theory and Method and the only fiction in that course will be To the Ligthouse. And then, finally, I will write my BA essay on Virginia Woolf.
This means saying goodbye to Barbauld, Austen and Edgeworth (for now, at least). Give up the last of my Leeds studies. I wanted to do my essay on the 18th century and women's spaces and their interiority. But they did apparently not have a supervisor for it so I was given the Virginia Woolf one (it was my second choice). It's fine, I guess, only I had looked forward to immerse myself in the late 18th century again. And it will be so much Virginia Woolf.
(Mostly I can't bear to leave Leeds behind.)
But I will have other opportunities to write essays. And I love Virginia Woolf. I really like my supervisor too; she's wonderful and has studied at Leeds and knew about one of my teachers there.
I have come to terms with the Woolf essay. But not quite with returning to a school full of people and my inability to inhabit it. I find the social aspect of school absolutely horrible. I want to attend small seminars and meet with teachers and never see another human being. It would be fine, just pushing through it, but it's tainting the whole reading-learning-doing school thing as well. And it's so much worse at Stockholm with the crowded halls and large buildings and big class rooms and classes and none of the intimacy and privacy of the teacher's own studies.
To end with something else, another emotion, here is a part from To the Lighthouse:
'And it was then too, in that chill and windy way, as she began to paint, that there forced themselves upon her other things, her own inadequacy, her insignificance, keeping house for her father off the Brompton Road, and had much ado to control her impulse to fling herself (thank Heaven she had always resisted so far) at Mrs Ramsay's knee and say to her - but what could one say to her? "I'm in love with you?" No that was not true. "I'm in love with this all," waving her hand at the hedge, at the house, at the children. It was absurd, it was impossible.'
And with this, it is not at all bad to be reading nothing but Virginia Woolf this autumn.
Monday, 25 August 2014
Villette
I want to write about Anne Carson's 'The Glass Essay', and I will, but I want time to do it properly (which means I'll probably never do it), so I'm going to write, shortly, about another book for now.
It's Charlotte Brontë's Villette. I haven't finished it yet but almost, and as it is so long, I have quite a few pages to muse on. How fitting, to read Charlotte Brontë's rather autobiographical work shortly after reading 'The Glass Essay', about Emily Brontë. It makes me compare the two and realise that both wrote heavily on things like loneliness and freedom, but very differently.
After visiting the Brontë house and reading some diary entries and letters of Charlotte's there, as well as reading some quotes of her in 'The Glass Essay', I have been keeping a slightly negative, or less admiring, view of Charlotte lately. But that view have been reassessed again. Charlotte was so modern? She was so business-like and ambitious and pragmatic and I say this having read very little on her biography. But from what I gather about her - her publishing hers and her sister's writing, creating their public personas, writing and thinking and maintaining - she seems much that way. I think she would fit well today, in a way (perhaps she would feel it too crowded; not that loneliness is lacking today). Emily Brontë on the other hand feels like a creature stuck in time, or rather place, and how could she be anything anywhere but on the moors in the 19th century? When Emily writes about freedom, she writes about freedom of the soul, a wild sort, freedom from self and the material world. (It's so attractive, Emily's freedom, but difficult to find and pinpoint; somehow tied to a mood or an environment.)
Charlotte's idea of freedom is something more like independence. All her heroines are obsessed with being independent (and surely herself as well). Jane Eyre had do everything on her terms; she had to be free to make the choice and to make the right choice. She would go with her uncle - cousin? - to be a missionary but not as a wife; she must maintain her independence of heart and self. Lucy Snowe is even more stoic about her independence. It's a point of pride for her. Lucy Snowe would rather suffer anything than lose her independence, be it poverty, loneliness, boredom, restlessness, hunger, cold, death. She keeps her lowly job as a teacher in the cold empty school house, rather than be at someone else's will as a lady's companion. In her quiet and loneliness and unhappiness (because, independent and lonely, she is always desperately unhappy; also, seemingly by choice). she decided the way out is to start her own school (I know not yet if she succeeds). She cannot even entertain the thought of being someone's friend or lover before having that for herself. That quest for being an own and living for herself makes her feel so modern. That being despite this ridiculously lonely, stern, dogmatic, morally superior character she is. I love Lucy Snowe, I do, but her self-sacrifice is actually ridiculous.
As with most period literature (can you call it that?) I rather drown in it and start thinking and behaving the same way as the protagonist (especially when it is in first person). Villette is inspiring. The pleasure Lucy takes in being lonely - and yes - independent, despite being miserable. The pride taken in not giving in to hopes and dreams or to other's pity, but to know what's best for yourself and living by that despite it all. Yes, despite the loss of love. Lucy Snowe knows that hope is the most dangerous emotion; that it bites.
I really love Villette, despite it being slow to read and nothing at all happens. It clarifies something about freedom and pride, but I am not entirely sure what exactly. Only I am now back to admiring Charlotte Brontë and her freedom-seeking, brave, honest heroines. I wish I was more like them, I guess.
At some point, soon hopefully, will I read Anne Brontë and see what she has to say about independence and loneliness. I think, though, that she does not really write about that? But what do I know. She is a Brontë after all, and lives as much on the moors and on writing as Charlotte and Emily did.
It's Charlotte Brontë's Villette. I haven't finished it yet but almost, and as it is so long, I have quite a few pages to muse on. How fitting, to read Charlotte Brontë's rather autobiographical work shortly after reading 'The Glass Essay', about Emily Brontë. It makes me compare the two and realise that both wrote heavily on things like loneliness and freedom, but very differently.
After visiting the Brontë house and reading some diary entries and letters of Charlotte's there, as well as reading some quotes of her in 'The Glass Essay', I have been keeping a slightly negative, or less admiring, view of Charlotte lately. But that view have been reassessed again. Charlotte was so modern? She was so business-like and ambitious and pragmatic and I say this having read very little on her biography. But from what I gather about her - her publishing hers and her sister's writing, creating their public personas, writing and thinking and maintaining - she seems much that way. I think she would fit well today, in a way (perhaps she would feel it too crowded; not that loneliness is lacking today). Emily Brontë on the other hand feels like a creature stuck in time, or rather place, and how could she be anything anywhere but on the moors in the 19th century? When Emily writes about freedom, she writes about freedom of the soul, a wild sort, freedom from self and the material world. (It's so attractive, Emily's freedom, but difficult to find and pinpoint; somehow tied to a mood or an environment.)
Charlotte's idea of freedom is something more like independence. All her heroines are obsessed with being independent (and surely herself as well). Jane Eyre had do everything on her terms; she had to be free to make the choice and to make the right choice. She would go with her uncle - cousin? - to be a missionary but not as a wife; she must maintain her independence of heart and self. Lucy Snowe is even more stoic about her independence. It's a point of pride for her. Lucy Snowe would rather suffer anything than lose her independence, be it poverty, loneliness, boredom, restlessness, hunger, cold, death. She keeps her lowly job as a teacher in the cold empty school house, rather than be at someone else's will as a lady's companion. In her quiet and loneliness and unhappiness (because, independent and lonely, she is always desperately unhappy; also, seemingly by choice). she decided the way out is to start her own school (I know not yet if she succeeds). She cannot even entertain the thought of being someone's friend or lover before having that for herself. That quest for being an own and living for herself makes her feel so modern. That being despite this ridiculously lonely, stern, dogmatic, morally superior character she is. I love Lucy Snowe, I do, but her self-sacrifice is actually ridiculous.
As with most period literature (can you call it that?) I rather drown in it and start thinking and behaving the same way as the protagonist (especially when it is in first person). Villette is inspiring. The pleasure Lucy takes in being lonely - and yes - independent, despite being miserable. The pride taken in not giving in to hopes and dreams or to other's pity, but to know what's best for yourself and living by that despite it all. Yes, despite the loss of love. Lucy Snowe knows that hope is the most dangerous emotion; that it bites.
I really love Villette, despite it being slow to read and nothing at all happens. It clarifies something about freedom and pride, but I am not entirely sure what exactly. Only I am now back to admiring Charlotte Brontë and her freedom-seeking, brave, honest heroines. I wish I was more like them, I guess.
At some point, soon hopefully, will I read Anne Brontë and see what she has to say about independence and loneliness. I think, though, that she does not really write about that? But what do I know. She is a Brontë after all, and lives as much on the moors and on writing as Charlotte and Emily did.
Friday, 18 July 2014
Leeds Elaborated
There are two moments - a day, a night - I will cherish from my time in Leeds (I cherish and miss and barely believe in it any more). For their magic and their promise and their beauty.
The first, the easiest, was only my second to last weekend in Leeds. Perhaps I remember it so clearly because it was recent. But more than that, I think it was the height of one particular aspect of my life in Leeds that I adored. It was the nature of Yorkshire; the moors; the lay of land, so to speak.
I wanted to say goodbye to the moors and views so I took the train and the bus to Haworth - with the usual anxiety and worry - and visited the Brontë Museum again and then I went west, out on the moors. I followed a trail, the Brontë Way, and at first it was populated by tourists and walkers like myself. But after I passed the Brontë Waterfall the number of hikers thinned out. The path was thin and less well-trodden. It travelled up and down the moors, along the little brook that led to the waterfall. The view showed Haworth and Keighley in the distance, and green-and-brown hills in every other direction.
And. It. Was. Breathless.
The extraordinary feeling, the one I will cherish, was walking straight away from civilisation (Haworth in my back, nothing in front of me). Even though I knew I wasn't alone (ridiculous bikers left by the previous wall, a few meetings in the form of fellow hikers), it felt a if I was leaving the populated world behind. It felt as if I could walk until I dropped without seeing another human being. And all the time in that gorgeous environment.
It was the feeling of freedom. A feeling I so strive for, adore and yearn for. Am addicted of.
The second was the night in March when I went to my second poetry reading and was blown away by Helen Mort and made casual conversation with a girl also in my module 'Fictions of Fallen Women' and saw someone I was almost-interested in and he noticed me and I realised (that very night) that I was being ridiculous and also was having a crush. Stupid of me, naturally. All of this was important and I can't tell what mattered the most which is why I love that night so much. I spent the ride on the bus home SO HAPPY, my heart beating unevenly and I could taste hope and beauty and life and it was unbelievable.
The wonderful part is that reading Helen Mort's poems brings me back. Not it back to me; me back to then. I'm there. I hear the cadence and warmth and melancholy in her voice when she says
(That horrible hope.)
It was what I brought with me from Leeds. A land where I want to be buried. Where I feel at home. And the fragile, flickering hope that there might be somewhere I could feel content and alive; a room with kindred souls and poetry and red wine.
The first, the easiest, was only my second to last weekend in Leeds. Perhaps I remember it so clearly because it was recent. But more than that, I think it was the height of one particular aspect of my life in Leeds that I adored. It was the nature of Yorkshire; the moors; the lay of land, so to speak.
I wanted to say goodbye to the moors and views so I took the train and the bus to Haworth - with the usual anxiety and worry - and visited the Brontë Museum again and then I went west, out on the moors. I followed a trail, the Brontë Way, and at first it was populated by tourists and walkers like myself. But after I passed the Brontë Waterfall the number of hikers thinned out. The path was thin and less well-trodden. It travelled up and down the moors, along the little brook that led to the waterfall. The view showed Haworth and Keighley in the distance, and green-and-brown hills in every other direction.
And. It. Was. Breathless.
The extraordinary feeling, the one I will cherish, was walking straight away from civilisation (Haworth in my back, nothing in front of me). Even though I knew I wasn't alone (ridiculous bikers left by the previous wall, a few meetings in the form of fellow hikers), it felt a if I was leaving the populated world behind. It felt as if I could walk until I dropped without seeing another human being. And all the time in that gorgeous environment.
It was the feeling of freedom. A feeling I so strive for, adore and yearn for. Am addicted of.
The second was the night in March when I went to my second poetry reading and was blown away by Helen Mort and made casual conversation with a girl also in my module 'Fictions of Fallen Women' and saw someone I was almost-interested in and he noticed me and I realised (that very night) that I was being ridiculous and also was having a crush. Stupid of me, naturally. All of this was important and I can't tell what mattered the most which is why I love that night so much. I spent the ride on the bus home SO HAPPY, my heart beating unevenly and I could taste hope and beauty and life and it was unbelievable.
The wonderful part is that reading Helen Mort's poems brings me back. Not it back to me; me back to then. I'm there. I hear the cadence and warmth and melancholy in her voice when she says
So forgive me if I looked upand like hearing a song once sung at a concert, I'm there, alive and feeling everything at once; the hope and the disappointment and the acceptance of the ways of life.
past your face, to see those nearly-silver drops
make rivers in the dark, and, for a moment,
almost thought there might be stars named after us.
(That horrible hope.)
It was what I brought with me from Leeds. A land where I want to be buried. Where I feel at home. And the fragile, flickering hope that there might be somewhere I could feel content and alive; a room with kindred souls and poetry and red wine.
Wednesday, 16 July 2014
Howl's Moving Castle and Why It is the Greatest Ever
I need to write about Howl's Moving Castle, and why I love it so much.
By now I have read it maybe 5 times and it is the book I have read the most times (possibly tied with the first few Harry Potter books). Since I read it the first time, I have read it once a year and about the same time each year (like music, books follow a mood inspired by the seasons). The good bits are always Sophie and her cleaning, Howl and how funny he is, the confusing and complex storyline which I still can't seem to grasp, and the magic and its uses. How light and how funny it is. I rarely read and love light and funny books.
This time around what struck me especially were two things.
First the self-fulfilling-ness, independent, subjectively oriented curse and magic of Sophie, and secondly, how kind they all are to each other, without ever really aknowledging how kind they are.
The first is wonderful, naturally. Sophie is herself in control of her curse and she is the one who can release herself - not the great magician Howl or him as a romantic object or some change of heart by the Wicked Witch of the Waste. She wears her curse more or less freely and she can discard it by herself, when she is ready to be seen and to be brave. It is so wonderful. The way she hides behind her old skin until she realises she does not want to hide anymore.
I love Sophie and her heroic role.
The second is touching and funny and lovely. It is somehow so realistic, in a novel full of seven-league books and happy endings. Most of (the lovely part of) life is not, I suppose, about grand and ostentatious gestures, but about doing favours and seeing what someone else might need or just would like, and do that for them. Not expecting gratitude. Just doing it out of kindness and doing it because it will be accepted and maybe repaid. Even Howl, selfish, showy, admiration-craving Howl, does so many things for Sophie and Michael that it's sometimes breathtaking.
This is the thing about this magical book. The characters are so wonderful. I am genuinely in love with them all. They are far from perfect but all very sympathetic. Howl becoming greater because of his vanity and need for validation and cowardice. Sophie becoming relatable for her grumpiness and exasperation and inability to see herself. Michael being too naïve for his own good, but also romantic and economical. Calcifer being - what - a demon as well as a protector of hearts and secrets.
Even though I read it for the fifth time I still felt that post-book depression. What is it I want and miss from it? The romantic storyline? The unbelievable character Howl? The strength and warmth Sophie possesses? Or is it just the magic and the climax and the conclusion of it; that it's a story and would only life be a story!? Whatever it is, I look forward to reading it again in about a year.
By now I have read it maybe 5 times and it is the book I have read the most times (possibly tied with the first few Harry Potter books). Since I read it the first time, I have read it once a year and about the same time each year (like music, books follow a mood inspired by the seasons). The good bits are always Sophie and her cleaning, Howl and how funny he is, the confusing and complex storyline which I still can't seem to grasp, and the magic and its uses. How light and how funny it is. I rarely read and love light and funny books.
This time around what struck me especially were two things.
First the self-fulfilling-ness, independent, subjectively oriented curse and magic of Sophie, and secondly, how kind they all are to each other, without ever really aknowledging how kind they are.
The first is wonderful, naturally. Sophie is herself in control of her curse and she is the one who can release herself - not the great magician Howl or him as a romantic object or some change of heart by the Wicked Witch of the Waste. She wears her curse more or less freely and she can discard it by herself, when she is ready to be seen and to be brave. It is so wonderful. The way she hides behind her old skin until she realises she does not want to hide anymore.
I love Sophie and her heroic role.
The second is touching and funny and lovely. It is somehow so realistic, in a novel full of seven-league books and happy endings. Most of (the lovely part of) life is not, I suppose, about grand and ostentatious gestures, but about doing favours and seeing what someone else might need or just would like, and do that for them. Not expecting gratitude. Just doing it out of kindness and doing it because it will be accepted and maybe repaid. Even Howl, selfish, showy, admiration-craving Howl, does so many things for Sophie and Michael that it's sometimes breathtaking.
This is the thing about this magical book. The characters are so wonderful. I am genuinely in love with them all. They are far from perfect but all very sympathetic. Howl becoming greater because of his vanity and need for validation and cowardice. Sophie becoming relatable for her grumpiness and exasperation and inability to see herself. Michael being too naïve for his own good, but also romantic and economical. Calcifer being - what - a demon as well as a protector of hearts and secrets.
Even though I read it for the fifth time I still felt that post-book depression. What is it I want and miss from it? The romantic storyline? The unbelievable character Howl? The strength and warmth Sophie possesses? Or is it just the magic and the climax and the conclusion of it; that it's a story and would only life be a story!? Whatever it is, I look forward to reading it again in about a year.
Sunday, 13 July 2014
Girl Reading
I read a fantastic chapter from this book yesterday. What I had read before (and since) was all right; stories about girls and women and art and paintings and life. None of them quite extraordinary. None of them feeling like this one did.
It was the one about Angelica Kauffman's painting 'Portrait of a Lady'.
The first four pages were extraordinary. Maria chasing Frances, trying to read her poem. Finding out (spoilers!) Frances is actually dead.
The aching pages following, of loneliness and paintings and company. And the wonderful end. I actually cried. Usually when I say I cried, I might get watery eyes or an achy throat. But now I had actual tears. Stuck on my lashes.
It was the whole her-best-friend-and-possibly-lover-is-dead, the life Frances had despite, the inability to move Maria had because. And it was the friendship between two women in the 18th century and the life it was given. Not the empty compliments on a dinner in a pretty Austen-like novel; but the vibrant life anyone of us could lead. And the abrupt stop and immovability when one of them died.
Oh, I want the whole world to read that chapter. I wish I could have it unread and read it again for the first time. The delicious, pleasurable pain of it.
Wednesday, 9 July 2014
Goodreads list
I'm currently in the middle of long-and-slow move into a student flat, as well as working full time, which means I don't have a whole lot of time. I think I'll have more time this weekend; until then, I have a Goodreads book list I wanted to finish.
What was the last book you marked as "read"?
Howl's Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones (my yearly, this-time-fifth re-read)
What are you "currently reading"?
Girl Reading by Katie Ward, which I just started, and Helen Mort's poetry collection Pint For the Ghost
What was the last book you marked as "to read"?
Outlander by Diana Gabaldon - suggested by one of the friends I visited Scotland (and Culloden) with.
What book do you plan on reading next?
I only have a few of my unread books not stored beneath my bed, so the next one will probably be a collection of Jane Austen's early and unfinished writing. I have a few poetry books as well, which I'm hoping to trick myself into reading by leaving them out.
Are you doing a 2014 Reading Challenge?
I am! Not a very trying one because I'll have school reading (which is usually fiction, though). I did 52 books, one per week, but I think I will surpass it. But I do want to re-read some books as well.
Do you have a wish-list?
YES. I'm looking forward so much to buying Anne Carson's Glass, Irony and God. I read one of the poems slash essays in it, the one about Emily Dickison, and it was the best thing I have read this year. I can't with words explain how glorious it was. So I need to have it my hand and touch the words and also read the rest of the collection.
What book do you plan on buying next?
Probably the previously mentioned one. I don't want to buy anymore books since I bought so many (too many) in England when I lived there. And by the end of summer I'll have to buy a ton of books for school (which is not too difficult when you're studying English).
Do you have favourite quotes on Goodreads?
I do, but far from all of them or even my favourites. I'm annoyed with the fact that they very rarely have my favourite quotes from the books there.
Who are your favourite authors?
Currently (and always?) Donna Tartt, Virginia Woolf, Diana Wynne Jones, the Brontë sisters, Jane Austen, Sylvia Plath and Melina Marchetta to a name a few.
Have you joined any groups?
Yes, but I'm not active in any of them.
My Goodreads is here.
What was the last book you marked as "read"?
Howl's Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones (my yearly, this-time-fifth re-read)
What are you "currently reading"?
Girl Reading by Katie Ward, which I just started, and Helen Mort's poetry collection Pint For the Ghost
What was the last book you marked as "to read"?
Outlander by Diana Gabaldon - suggested by one of the friends I visited Scotland (and Culloden) with.
What book do you plan on reading next?
I only have a few of my unread books not stored beneath my bed, so the next one will probably be a collection of Jane Austen's early and unfinished writing. I have a few poetry books as well, which I'm hoping to trick myself into reading by leaving them out.
Are you doing a 2014 Reading Challenge?
I am! Not a very trying one because I'll have school reading (which is usually fiction, though). I did 52 books, one per week, but I think I will surpass it. But I do want to re-read some books as well.
Do you have a wish-list?
YES. I'm looking forward so much to buying Anne Carson's Glass, Irony and God. I read one of the poems slash essays in it, the one about Emily Dickison, and it was the best thing I have read this year. I can't with words explain how glorious it was. So I need to have it my hand and touch the words and also read the rest of the collection.
What book do you plan on buying next?
Probably the previously mentioned one. I don't want to buy anymore books since I bought so many (too many) in England when I lived there. And by the end of summer I'll have to buy a ton of books for school (which is not too difficult when you're studying English).
Do you have favourite quotes on Goodreads?
I do, but far from all of them or even my favourites. I'm annoyed with the fact that they very rarely have my favourite quotes from the books there.
Who are your favourite authors?
Currently (and always?) Donna Tartt, Virginia Woolf, Diana Wynne Jones, the Brontë sisters, Jane Austen, Sylvia Plath and Melina Marchetta to a name a few.
Have you joined any groups?
Yes, but I'm not active in any of them.
My Goodreads is here.
Monday, 7 July 2014
Introduction
I love writing. But I find myself uncomfortable in my languages. It's an extravagant discomfort, but an important one nevertheless. I can't write in my first language because it does not go well with my thoughts, and anyway, I read too little in it. But I'm not entirely skilled in my second language - English - either, even though I read most things in English. So I figured I should practice my English writing. Writing on a blog seemed an easier way to structure it and to actually do it well, than the run-on thoughts I type down in my journal.
I have another blog. Or I had one, as it is hardly still alive. It has not been a space I'm comfortable in for the last year. Mostly because I know who reads it and they are not people I really want to be reading it. Not people I can be honest to the way I only am in writing. But also because I want to write about what I read and books and poetry in English. And mostly because I need to practice my actual use of the language.
So there. I will try to write here once in a while. I'm thinking a lot about metaphors right now, so there might be some of that. I'm quite unhappy as well, so there will probably be some of that. And maybe some love; love for the women writers I read and adore. That is one things about me: I love nothing more in the world, than women writers.
Oh, before I finish up for the night (it is such a hot warm night), I'll explain about the name of the blog. For the benefit of future me, mostly. I listened to a (Swedish) song in which the first line goes 'Jag kunde se dig under lindarna'. I think that line and its melody is so pretty and liberating that I fell in love with the idea of naming anything after the lime tree. I translated it. Found the possibly prettier kind, the silver lime, and so there it goes. More importantly, the url was available. I suppose I need some kind of layout or design with a silver lime now?
I have another blog. Or I had one, as it is hardly still alive. It has not been a space I'm comfortable in for the last year. Mostly because I know who reads it and they are not people I really want to be reading it. Not people I can be honest to the way I only am in writing. But also because I want to write about what I read and books and poetry in English. And mostly because I need to practice my actual use of the language.
So there. I will try to write here once in a while. I'm thinking a lot about metaphors right now, so there might be some of that. I'm quite unhappy as well, so there will probably be some of that. And maybe some love; love for the women writers I read and adore. That is one things about me: I love nothing more in the world, than women writers.
Oh, before I finish up for the night (it is such a hot warm night), I'll explain about the name of the blog. For the benefit of future me, mostly. I listened to a (Swedish) song in which the first line goes 'Jag kunde se dig under lindarna'. I think that line and its melody is so pretty and liberating that I fell in love with the idea of naming anything after the lime tree. I translated it. Found the possibly prettier kind, the silver lime, and so there it goes. More importantly, the url was available. I suppose I need some kind of layout or design with a silver lime now?
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