21.5.18

You're Wearing That?

As a mother of daughters and sharing a house with my own mother, and as a long time guilty fan of pop psych hand books, how could I resist You're Wearing That? Understanding Mothers and Daughters in Conversation by Deborah Tannen when it appeared on Brotherhood Books?

All my life, if things were going right or if they were going wrong, it's been my mother I'd long to talk to about stuff. As this book points out, who else is going to be equally interested in your new pair of socks or your broken heart? Now we live together and our paths cross daily, it's even more important to carve out time for conversation (I like to sit down for a morning coffee with Mum before our days begin). Luckily for me, the three contentious issues that often arise between mothers and daughters, according to Tannen, namely hair, clothes and weight, have never posed a problem for us. My mother is smart enough to know when to keep her mouth shut -- mostly.

The only time I didn't really tell my mother in excruciating detail what was happening in my life was as a young adult, partly to safeguard my new-found independence, partly because I didn't want to worry her. I can already see my own daughters' impulse to protect me from concern. And honestly, perhaps there are things I would rather not know.

The chief source of conversational conflict between mothers and daughters is a contradictory pull between control and connection. This makes a lot of sense to me. Mothers tend to underestimate their own power over their daughters -- maybe not to actually influence their behaviour, but certainly to affect how they feel. At the end of the day, most daughters are seeking their mother's praise, acceptance and approval -- not their advice, no matter how sensible, and not their unvarnished opinions! I think I would be wise to remember that.

18.5.18

Reading Richard

Since I've been on a slight Shakespeare run lately, it seemed appropriate to comment on a work that, strictly speaking, falls on A's reading list, not mine. Her reading has improved immensely in recent years -- in fact, she's taking English Lit instead of straight English for VCE -- but it's still hard work, so sometimes I read her texts aloud for her (I wonder how many hours parents of dyslexic students spend on this? I can't tell you how many parents have contacted me after reading Crow Country aloud to their dyslexic kids).

So far this year, I've read her Kafka's Metamorphosis, we've started Cold Blood (that's going to be a slog), and now Richard III. And frankly, I have to say that I'm not impressed! I've only seen the play performed once, years ago in the UK, and I was lucky enough to catch the original WWII-inspired production by the Royal National Theatre, which was adapted into a film in 1995. That was gripping, so it just goes to show how much depends on imaginative staging and strong performances.

On the page, the words are less exciting (maybe it's the way I read them...). 'It's just exposition, punctuated by slaughter,' was A's analysis. There are a lot of characters, many of whom appear on stage only to be executed in the next scene. The relationships are confusing. People sprint on and off the stage, shout something, die. It feels like a student play, an early play. It's clunky. Not one of your best, Will. Though now that Richard's body has been discovered, at least we know that Shakespeare wasn't lying about the hunchback -- he really did have one.

16.5.18

Whose Body? and The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club

I couldn't find an online image of the particular Dorothy L Sayers omnibus I bought from Brotherhood Books, so I've chosen a picture that most closely corresponds to my private mental picture of Lord Peter Wimsey, the titled detective -- this is from a 1987 BBC adaptation which somehow passed me by completely! (I was at uni in 1987 and not paying attention, clearly.) This photo shows Edward Petherbridge and Harriet Walter as Lord Peter and Harriet Vane. It looks well cast -- I think I'll have to do some digging.

Back to the books. When I was at high school, in the thick of my Brideshead/ Nancy Mitford/ All Creatures phase, I absolutely adored Lord Peter Wimsey and read all his adventures I could lay my hands on (there are eleven novels in total). This omnibus contains the first four,* and I raced through Whose Body? and The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club while I was in Ballarat recently, doing a two-day school visit. There could be nothing better to relax with after an exhausting day, though Lord Peter himself in his earliest iteration is quite irritating at times -- Sayers toned him down as the series went on.

Of course the books are terribly dated in some ways. Again with the gratuitous anti-Semitism! What's the story? And Lord Peter is the very peak of white male privilege (but at least he knows it). But the puzzles are clever, and I always enjoyed all the literary and historical allusions. No dumbing down for Sayers; these mysteries are an intellectual pleasure, not a gritty or violent peek into the criminal underworld.

The best novels are the ones after Wimsey meets and falls in love with Harriet Vane, whom he saves from a murder conviction. They are a fantastic pair. As a writer of detective fiction, she is as smart as he is, and he loves her character as much as her looks. As a smart but horribly plain adolescent, I found this wonderfully comforting. They are the kind of couple who do the crossword together in bed!

Despite their shortcomings, I'm thrilled to have rediscovered the Wimsey novels, and I will be devouring them all over again (in order this time, hopefully).

*EDIT: So it turns out this omnibus doesn't contain the first four novels -- it's four random ones. Between these two books fall Clouds of Witness and Unnatural Death. So now I'll have to try to fill in the gaps myself. Grr!

15.5.18

Tarin of the Mammoths

Our theme for the Convent book group this month is Prehistoric! We kicked off with Australian author Jo Sandhu's Tarin of the Mammoths (Book 1: The Exile), which follows the adventures of young Tarin, whose twisted leg means he can't take part in the mammoth hunts on which his tribe depends. When Tarin spoils a hunt, he is sent to take an offering to the Earth Mother on a distant mountain in atonement -- but will he make it before winter descends?

I thought the pace of the story picked up when Tarin ran into another pair of travellers, brother and sister Kaija and Luuka, who have escaped a deadly illness that has struck down their own tribe. Book 2 is already out and it looks as if this may the start of a long series. There are certainly plenty of Ice Age hazards to keep our heroes busy. And while this is not The Inheritors, there is a passing encounter with a Neanderthal boy which promises further interaction in the future.

14.5.18

We Are At War

Subtitled The Diaries of Five Ordinary People in Extraordinary Times, We Are At War arose out of a (still-ongoing) UK project called Mass Observation, where citizens from all walks of life were encouraged to keep detailed diaries of their daily lives. From this wealth of raw material, editor Simon Garfield has crafted a chronicle of the beginning of the Second World War as it appeared to five British observers. Tilly is a middle-class mother of young children; Maggie a bohemian writer; Pamela a sceptical Glasgow office worker; Christopher a highly strung Catholic notepaper salesman; and Eileen works as a London evacuation officer, overseeing the removal of children to safety in the country.

Today, with the narrative of WWII so firmly decided (Churchill's a hero, Hitler the epitome of evil, Dunkirk a miracle), it's almost unsettling to read these diary extracts written in the muddle and confusion of unfolding events. Particularly early on, some of our diarists maintain that Hitler has his good points and that Britain could do with a dictator of their own. There is open anti-Semitism, even toward refugees from the Nazis, and Italians living in the UK have their shops smashed. Dunkirk, now familiar to us by its shorthand name, is referred to as 'the evacuation' (remember 2001, before we decided to call the bombing of the World Trade Centre and the Pentagon simply '9/11'?)

This volume only covers the first year or so of the war, ending just after the Blitz sets in. And for our diarists, despite the fear and uncertainty, it's often domestic concerns that preoccupy them -- how many tins to buy, how to protect their windows from the possibility of bombing, whether it's worth getting out of bed when the air raid siren sounds, how to repay money owing. Life goes on.

I'm convinced that Anthony Horowitz  must have studied the Mass Observation diaries when he was researching Foyle's War. They provide a unique and vivid snapshot of the immediate experience of a nation at war -- not remembered afterwards, distilled into anecdote or agreed attitudes, but as they felt at the time. Fascinating and sometimes disconcerting stuff.

7.5.18

Station Eleven

I'm not a huge fan of dystopian novels (though I did enjoy The Girl With All The Gifts), but Station Eleven, by Canadian author Emily St John Mandel, was recommended (and lent to me) by Kirsty Murray, whose judgement I trust. As usual, she knew what she was talking about!

I may not be fond of dystopias, but I do love interlocking stories, and novels where characters brush past each other and wander in and out of each other's lives. It was a strange echo of King of Shadows that Station Eleven opened with a performance of King Lear, in which the lead actor, Arthur Leander, dies on stage. This event occurs a few days before a real catastrophe hits -- an outbreak of a deadly flu which spreads so swiftly that it soon extinguishes almost every human on Earth. The novel follows several characters who are all connected to Arthur in some way -- his first ex-wife, a child actress in the same play, the man who tries to save his life, his old friend. Their experiences weave in and out of the narrative, crossing and re-crossing, tied together strangely by a comic book created by Arthur's first wife.

As apocalypses go, the "Georgia Flu" is a relatively gentle one. Death is swift and not too painful, and while it's hinted that the first year after the epidemic was brutal and horrific, we don't see much of that. Violence intrudes only at the end of the novel. Mind you, this is set mostly in Canada; I can imagine that south of the border, things might have been a lot worse: all those guns and doomsday preppers! It was good to read a story set in an unfamiliar (to me) landscape -- Toronto and the Great Lakes -- which was an excuse to run to Google Maps and orient myself.

An excellent read, but if you're looking for horrors, look elsewhere.

30.4.18

Stranger In The House

Stranger In The House makes an interesting companion read to Julie Summers' book on the Women's Institute, Jambusters. This earlier book is shorter and less densely packed with research, but makes up for it with its moving first-hand stories from women who had to cope with either the loss of their men during World War II, or their return, irreparably changed: mothers, widows, wives, children and grand-children. Some men were physically wounded, most were psychologically affected. Some couples found the disruption of the war years impossible to adjust to. Hardest hit were the prisoners of war, particularly the prisoners of the Japanese.

Every year when Anzac Day rolls around, I'm prompted to reflect on what those big wars mean to me. I don't have a relative who fought or was any way involved in combat. It's startling to realise that when I was born, the end of WWII was far closer than my university years are to me now -- and they seem like only yesterday.

Sometimes it feels as if Australia's participation in the First and Second World Wars (especially the First) is our nation's only history -- or at least the only portion of our history which we are prepared to face and explore head-on. Pre-settlement history is largely a blank to most Australians; the post-invasion century is largely too painful to be honestly examined. But we can be proud of our diggers, and more proud, weirdly, when they lost (eg Gallipoli) -- because they were valiant without actually defeating anyone? I don't know.

Anyway, these British women were certainly valiant too, and so were the Australian women who shared the same experience, shockingly without any official support or assistance. Most suffered and coped in silence. Speaking of university days, it was nice to see the work of a friend from long ago, Dr Joy Damousi from Melbourne Uni, cited by Summers.

Lest we forget.

22.4.18

King of Shadows

For some reason, it hadn't really occurred to me that Susan Cooper might have written other books after she finished the superb Dark Is Rising series. Luckily for me, she did, and the first one I've laid my hands on is King of Shadows. Time slip! Shakespeare! Two of my favourite things! So I knew I was onto a winner.

And it is. Nat Field, a young American actor brought over to London to play in the 'new' Globe theatre, wakes up one morning to find himself not just in Shakespeare's London, but part of Shakespeare's company. Cooper manages with a light touch to evoke the atmosphere of Elizabethan times and the bustling but much smaller city, and also weaves in Nat's emotional journey with a gently political plot.

It was a little disorienting to read yet another version of William Shakespeare, having recently re-read Antonia Forest's The Players and the Rebels, which covers much of the same ground and characters (the clown Will Kempe, distinguished actor Richard Burbage etc), and even watching the Doctor Who episode, The Shakespeare Code, filmed in the Globe itself. All these different versions of Will's world, overlapping, contradicting, reinforcing, much as the different iterations of Shakespeare's play echo down the centuries. But I can't help feeling that Will himself would approve.

21.4.18

Musicophilia

I've been learning piano for a couple of years now, and I borrowed Musicophilia from my teacher (composer Chris McCombe, who has been my dear friend since we met at college thirty-three years ago). I'm the first to admit that I am not, and never have been, a musical person, despite my debut novel being The Singer of All Songs. I've never learned an instrument, and while I love to belt out a Christmas carol or an eighties pop song in the car, I can barely hold a tune. Working in the industry for a decade and a half has put me off going to see bands, or even listening to music on the radio.

And yet I've loved learning, in my stumbling way, to pick out tunes on the keyboard, discovering how chords fit together, the mysterious interaction between mathematical precision and soaring emotion that music can engender. When I'm sight-reading a new piece, I can feel the gears of my brain grinding as I try to relate the marks of the notes on the page, to the movements of my fingers on the keys, and the sounds I can hear. A whole rich and complex world has opened up before me, even if I'm only capable of appreciating a tiny slice of it.

Oliver Sacks led an intensely musical life; these relationships which are still mysterious to me are a world through which he moved with confidence and ease. This dense but lively book explores the interaction between music and the brain from many fascinating angles: from the ability of some aphasiacs to sing the songs of their past, though they can't utter a spoken word (sadly, this hasn't worked with my father), to musical savants, and those who suddenly gain or lose musical ability or obsession after a neurological event. At one point Sacks makes a comment about 'the music that runs through our heads all day', and I thought indignantly, not through mine! But I've since realised that I do indeed have music running through my head most of the day, without even knowing it.

My musical journey has a long way to go, but I enjoyed this glimpse into a strange, rational, yet mysterious world.

18.4.18

The Shape of Three

Excuse the ropy photo: couldn't find one on the internet and the dog jiggled me as I was taking this one. I've never read any Lilith Norman books, but I was alerted to her by a reference to a novel of hers called The Fire Takers which is about some supernatural force sucking the creativity out of an artistic family -- that sounds interesting! I see now that she once worked under Patricia Wrightson at The School Magazine, and that she died last year, aged 90.

Anyway, The Shape of Three is not all supernatural. Written in 1971, it concerns two Australian families whose lives painfully collide, entangle and then fall apart when it's discovered that two of their children were accidentally swapped at birth (not a spoiler -- the reader guesses this on the very first page, then has to wait about four chapters for everyone else to catch up).

This book, despite its rich premise, has dated very badly. There is legal action, off screen, but the decision to swap the two boys back is apparently taken without any support or assistance from any agency -- I can't imagine this happening today without an army of psychologists, social workers, school counsellors and other support services being involved. The boys' respective schools aren't even told what's going on, and the only counselling one of the boys receives is a brief chat with a local priest (in itself probably not likely to happen these days without an observer present!)

File this one under Interesting Curio.

17.4.18

The Girl With All The Gifts

Our theme for the Convent Book Group this month is... Zombies! I'm not sure exactly how we arrived at this particular subject; it wasn't my idea. I must confess that I didn't finish the selected junior fiction title. Life is too short. And I wasn't really looking forward to reading M.R. Carey's The Girl With All The Gifts, especially when I saw how looooong it was.

But before long I was well and truly sucked in. MR (he's a he, that's all I know) is an experienced writer of comics and graphic novels, and he knows what he's doing. The Girl With All The Gifts is a taut, highly competent thriller set in a dystopian world where most of humanity has been wiped out by a fungal infection that turns people into mindless, flesh-eating 'hungries.' But Melanie is not like the other hungries; she is highly intelligent. Perhaps the future of the world lies in her hands...

The ending was not at all what I expected, in a good way. Apparently MR wrote the screenplay for a film at the same time as the novel. I might have to check out if it's on Netflix!

11.4.18

Deep Time Dreaming

As soon as I read the recent review of Billy Griffiths Deep Time Dreaming in The Age, I knew I had to have it. Cue Kindle impulse buy -- but this book is so wonderful that I might have to buy the hard copy as well.

Deep Time Dreaming is a breathtaking history of archaeology in Australia, from the early days of last century when it seemed urgent to record all traces of Aboriginal habitation before they, and the Indigenous peoples themselves, vanished forever, to the most recent discoveries of 2017. Each chapter follows the life of an individual archaeologist, embedding their work in a specific region as the incredible history of the first peoples of this land is pushed further and further back in time, beyond the very limits of carbon dating technology to the latest estimates of at least 65,000 years, or even longer. Griffiths discusses the chance (or was it?) finding of Mungo Man and Lady, the battle to save the Franklin River and the fight for land rights in the context of archaeological work, providing a history of Australian politics to parallel the emerging pre-invasion history.

The most fascinating tension, for me, lies between the need to balance respect for traditional culture with the impetus to add to the sum of human knowledge. Increasingly, ethnographic and archaeological work in Australia takes place in the context of collaboration and respect, but as Griffiths explains, this was not always the case, and great damage was done to mutual trust when secret and sacred knowledge was revealed to the world. Is it more important to repatriate human remains to country, or examine them for what they might tell us about the deep past? Of course, there is a shameful history of institutions hanging onto remains without bothering to examine them, which undercuts the argument for academic work somewhat. This is a real and passionate debate, with strong beliefs on both sides, and has given me much to think about.

6.4.18

Zen and the Art of Knitting


This little book was part of a recent gift from my dear and highly talented friend Sandra Eterovic, who has encouraged me in my faltering attempts to learn to knit. My mother, an accomplished knitter, taught me the basics years ago, but I've only ever made the simplest of scarves. 

I took up the needles last year to make another simple scarf: a Hufflepuff pattern, for Evie. 
Then Alice wanted me to knit her a jumper. 'I can't do that!' I said, but she overrode my objections and I unravelled a huge, neglected scarf I'd made for her years ago and to my own surprise, managed to make a passable jumper out of it (with a little assistance form my mum). 

I was hooked. I bought a book (of course! It's Knitting for Beginners, by Sasha Kagan) and taught myself to decipher knitting patterns. I made loads of squares of different stitches with magical names (moss stitch, trinity, cable, basketweave, seed stitch) and sewed them together to make a rug for the dog. I even knitted a dog pattern into the centre square!
 And now I'm making another blanket, a huge one, for Alice. (As you can see, there is still some distance to go!)
It doesn't involve anything complicated, just hundred and hundreds of little squares. I can't watch TV now unless I have my needles in my hands. Just as Bernadette Murphy's book says, I find the process of knitting to be calming, satisfying, almost spiritual. My ambition is to be a creative knitter, not a pattern-follower; I'm still at the very beginning of my journey.

The other part of Sandra's gift was a leather case containing dozens of knitting needles, which once belonged to Betty Collins, the mother of another friend. Betty was a lovely, generous lady, who died several years ago. Though she wasn't a particularly keen knitter, she was efficient, and she accumulated the needles of other knitters in her church community when they died. So now they have all passed to me -- a wonderful collection of all sizes, colours and materials. I'm now using a pair of small, smooth, pink, bakelite needles which are much easier on my back than the long bamboo pair I started with. It's a wonderful thing!


28.3.18

The First Stone

I was prompted to return to Helen Garner's most controversial book, The First Stone, after reading A Writing Life, and talking to an old friend who admitted she was reading Garner's book for the first time (after years of pretending otherwise!)

Wow. The world has certainly changed a lot in the last twenty-five or so years. After the earthquake of Harvey Weinstein and the aftershocks of #MeToo, it's evident that the landscape of sexual harassment has seismically altered. It no longer seems 'disproportionate', 'ferocious', 'priggish' or 'punitive' to accuse the head of a residential college of sexual assault for groping female students.* Instead, it's Garner's claim that the young women should have 'handled' the incidents in the moment that seems naive and unrealistic.

Again and again, Garner's own personal history and sympathies lead her into collision with a new brand of young feminists. They don't understand her, and she doesn't understand them. They are supposed to be on the same side, but they are speaking utterly different languages. And Garner's early, impulsive letter of support to the accused man at the centre of the controversy brands her as being irrevocably on his side; the two young women and their supporters refuse to talk to her. Why would they?

And yet bewilderingly, Garner observes and sharply describes the structures of patriarchal power all around her. Two 'Ormond men' stand over her impassively as she scrambles out of their way in a court room, ignoring her. The photographs in the college entranceway are dominated by male figures. She recalls incidents of harassment and violence from her own life and those of her friends. But stubbornly she insists on discrimination between 'real violence' and 'a boorish pass.' Repeatedly Garner refuses the idea that it might be more helpful to see these events on a single sliding scale, of men objectifying women, refusing to see them as fully human -- not the same thing,  but part of a single pattern of thought and behaviour.

The book ends with a bitter line: 'If only they hadn't been so afraid of life.' (They being the young women.) She grapples with the 'passivity', the freezing of so many women when men transgress, just closing our eyes and hoping it will stop. She guesses that we are conditioned to be afraid of denting male egos. I don't know about that. Maybe it's more simple; maybe, on some deep primal level, we are afraid of male anger, of the very real possibility of male violence. A friend of mine was murdered by her partner. Who was it who said, 'Men are afraid that women will laugh at them. Women are afraid that men will kill them'? Garner tries to argue that women have their own power to command in these situations -- the power of Eros. Hm. Maybe that's true, sometimes, but Mars can overcome Eros in a heartbeat.

I would love to know what Helen Garner thinks of this book now, so many years on. I doubt we'll ever know. She copped so much criticism for what is, in the end, a searching, thoughtful book (even if I disagree with its conclusions) that she probably never wants to discuss it again.

*Likewise, the idea that the college should acknowledge the Aboriginal owners of its lands no longer seems astonishing, but reasonable.

27.3.18

The Nargun and the Stars

Patricia Wrightson's award-winning The Nargun and the Stars was first published in 1974 and has been reprinted many times, with many different covers. The one pictured above, the one I own, is about the ugliest version I've come across. Ah, well.

I thought I had already read this book, but it seemed unfamiliar. Wrightson was one of the first Australian writers to incorporate Indigenous myth and stories into her works for children -- she recognised that instead of European elves and fairies, this land had its own sprites and spirits: the Turong tree-spirits, the mischievous Potkoorok, the menacing rock-creature, the Nargun, the little cavern-dwelling Nyols.

Patricia Wrightson was initially acclaimed for popularising a distinctly and proudly Australian form of fantasy writing; later, she was criticised for appropriating Aboriginal cultural material for her own gain. Certainly if Wrightson were writing today, she would need to consider issues of consultation, sensitivity, and cultural dispossession. But back in the 1970s, it was a worthy project to introduce non-Aboriginal Australian kids to the rich heritage of Indigenous legend.

Wrightson always tried to distinguish between magical 'folk' creatures, which she felt comfortable to write about, like the ones in this book, and sacred figures like the creator spirits, which she was careful to avoid. However, there is an argument that in Aboriginal culture, this is actually a meaningless distinction -- everything is sacred to some degree, and it's disrespectful to describe the Potkoorok, for example, skipping around his swamp and gleefully playing tricks on the Boy.

One aspect of this book that definitely makes me uneasy is the complete absence of 'the tribes' who once populated this country. The spirits remain, but the people have vanished -- or been obliterated. In later books, Wrightson would address this more directly, but in The Nargun and the Stars, it is a glaring gap in the narrative.

22.3.18

Riding The Black Cockatoo

It's been almost ten years since I first read John Danalis's Riding The Black Cockatoo, but I well remember the deep impression it made on me at the time. I was working on Crow Country, and my editor at Allen & Unwin recommended it to me. Later that year I was lucky enough to meet John himself at a festival, and he was just as lovely as he seems from this book. And it was through his involvement in the events of Black Cockatoo that I made contact with Gary Murray, who so generously consulted on my own novel.

Riding The Black Cockatoo is a truly extraordinary story. John grew up in a house filled with weird and wonderful curios -- including the skull of an Aboriginal man (nicknamed Mary) on the mantelpiece. From the moment it first dawned on adult John that something should be done about this, that the remains should be returned to their original resting place, events seemed to gather their own momentum. It so happened that a return of remains to the right area was about to take place, just in time for Mary to be included; the right people appeared at the right moment, a rare black cockatoo greeted John as he rode through the bush, instinct (or the universe, or the spirits) seemed to lead John down the right path.

It's a deeply moving and poignant journey, which took an immense personal toll on John himself, which he frankly recounts -- as if echoes of all the pain of dispossession and cruelty is visited on his own psyche. This book helped to open a window on Indigenous culture for me. I think it should be compulsory reading in every classroom, and for every Australian adult, too.

21.3.18

A Writing Life: Helen Garner and Her Work

As a long-time deep admirer of Helen Garner's work, I was very excited to see Bernadette Brennan's A Writing Life pop up on Brotherhood Books. Why do people get rid of these amazing books? Lucky for me that they do.

A Writing Life is not a conventional author biography. Rather, it examines Garner's body of work, volume by volume, and relates each publication to events in Helen's life at the time. Though Brennan had access to journals and letters, much remains private -- though Garner has always admitted that the substance of her own life has provided the material for her writing, the line between fact and fiction often blurred. From the seminal Monkey Grip (the famous Monkey Grip house is just opposite my daughter's school, where Garner herself was a teacher for a time), through largely autobiographical short stories and novellas, to her later non-fiction examining questions of justice and responsibility (Joe Cinque's Consolation, This House of Grief), Helen Garner has mapped her own relationship to a wider world and wrestled with the same questions through a long and productive life.

This survey of Garner's work has revealed the gaps in my reading -- incredibly, I think I've managed to miss a handful of early stories and essays. And it's also fired me to reread some books that I might understand better for having read Brennan's insightful observations and analysis. The controversial The First Stone will, I think, make more sense to me now. As soon as I get a chance, I'll be returning to it.

20.3.18

The Lie of the Land

Look at this gorgeous cover -- how could I resist snapping up this book? I've also been drawn lately toward books about landscape and relationships to country; I guess Ian Vince's The Lie of the Land takes the concept a step further by examining the geology of the British Isles, the rocks beneath the surface and how they effect what lies above.

Now, except for specialists, geology is not commonly regarded as a particularly interesting topic (my thirteen year old has just finished a Geology unit at school and declares it to be the most boring subject EVER), but Ian Vince has done a commendable job injecting humour and human interest into his survey to create a surprisingly entertaining journey which travels both back into deep geological time and around the corners of Britain. He also throws in more modern history -- tin mining in Cornwall, slate in Wales -- and anecdotes about his own research process, tramping up mountains and exploring wilderness, to bring the landscape to life.

I'd love to read a book like this about Victoria. The geological chapters I've come across in local history books are dry as old toast. The Lie of the Land manages to be a thoroughly engaging read.

17.3.18

The Story of the Lost Child

Wow. And so I reach the end of the saga -- the final volume of the Elena Ferrante's Neapolitan novels, The Story of the Lost Child.

As I foresaw, the canvas of the story broadens out in this last book to take in a wider world. Now a celebrated author, Elena travels to France, Germany and the United States; meanwhile, Lila, her reflection and double, remains within the tight-knit community of the old neighborhood. Perhaps inevitably, Elena too is drawn back to the familiar streets (not a spoiler: I always knew Nino was a rat!) and ends up living in the same building as her old friend. Never have their lives been so closely entwined, as they both bear daughters, one fair, one dark, a new version of Lila and Lenu's coupling. But there are still shocking events to come.

I crammed down this novel hungrily, too fast perhaps, and when it was finished I still wanted more. The power of female friendship, stronger sometimes than family, stronger than the ebb and flow of love, is a topic under-explored in literature. Hopefully the success of Ferrante's novels will change that. Meanwhile, I need to find a quiet corner and digest what I've read.

5.3.18

Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay

I needed a couple of breaks to make my way through this, the third volume of Elena Ferrante's Neapolitan novels. As usual, I found the first fifty pages hard going, but then it was a race to the finish.

The two friends, Lena and Lina, are now adults, negotiating relationships, children and careers. At the beginning of the novel, life is looking rosy for the narrator, Lena, whose book is a success and who is about to marry into a distinguished academic family. It seems she has escaped the old neighborhood with its deep-rooted, sordid power struggles. In contrast, her friend Lina seems to have made all the wrong choices -- she's run away from her husband after a failed affair, working in terrible conditions in a sausage factory, supported by a childhood friend, Enzo, whom she does not love.

But soon enough the scales begin to tilt the other way. Lena finds herself suffocating in domesticity, her brief moment of fame snuffed out, while Lina and Enzo are successful early experts in computers. The neighborhood reaches out its tentacles around both of them as Lina decides to work for the shady Solara brothers and Lena's first unrequited love, Nino reappears to throw her life into chaos...

While My Brilliant Friend was confined to the handful of streets that comprised 'the neighborhood,'
The Story of a New Name broadened the canvas to include the whole of Naples. Those Who Stay and Those Who Leave widens the focus still further as Lena moves to Florence, and the characters are engulfed in the conflicts of 1970s Italian politics, battles between fascists and communists, the elite, the criminal classes and the workers. Fittingly, the book ends with Lena aboard an aeroplane for the first time, heading for France -- will the final volume moe out of Italy to encompass other countries?

I'm going to the library today to pick up The Story of the Lost Child, so I'll soon find out.



4.3.18

A Wink From The Universe

I've been waiting for this book for AGES -- Martin Flanagan's account of the Western Bulldogs magical, unexpected 2016 premiership. So when my preordered copy hit the doorstep, I took a brief, indulgent break from Elena Ferrante so I could gobble it down.

Martin Flanagan, more than any other football writer, captures the mystery and the drama and the poignancy at the heart of the game of AFL rules, and he gets the Bulldogs. He helps explain to me how I, a football hater, became drawn in to the community of this particular club, and how I too gradually got it.

His writing is superb. Every page sparkles with a perfect metaphor, a brilliantly drawn description. He writes about the history of the Bulldogs, an egalitarian club, a working man's club from the wrong side of the river. He writes about Bob Murphy, a footballer with rare wit and soul, the premiership captain cruelly denied his place in the playing team. He writes about Luke Beveridge, an ordinary player who became an extraordinary coach, a passionate story-teller who wove the power of his belief into a team without superstars, and transformed them into winners, a team surfing a wave he created right up to the ultimate prize.

Flanagan's account of the Grand Final match itself makes me want to go back and watch it again with the book in my hand, to pick out the same moments he narrates with such perfect, lively description. Any excuse!

But this is not just a book for those with 'Bulldog dreaming.' It's a fairy tale, a story about the power of belief, about the magic of belonging, and a joy long-denied.

1.3.18

College Life

Residential colleges have been in the news. Horror stories of bastardisation, bullying, cruel and demeaning 'initiation ceremonies,' a culture of alcohol abuse and sexual misconduct.

I spent my first two years at university living in a residential college. It was a long time ago, more than thirty years -- generations of students have passed through 'my' rooms since then. I too heard horror stories, mostly from the larger colleges (the ones that used to be males only). I had the impression that the smaller colleges, like mine, which had previously been women's colleges, had a more healthy atmosphere.

Sure, we did some stupid things, things that might be frowned upon these days. During Orientation Week, after a chicken and champagne breakfast, we 'freshers' were asked if we'd like to swim across the Yarra, and a handful of us were dumb enough to volunteer. But we were asked, not coerced, and we were picked up on the other side. (I only just made it.) We stood on the roof and dropped water balloons on fellow students returning from the pub. We partook in a mid-year scavenger hunt which involved, frankly, the theft of private and public property. There was a lot of free alcohol sloshing around, and not everyone handled it well. Actually, no one handled it well.

It wasn't until the novelty had worn off and I made friends with some older, more cynical residents, that I recognised the unhealthy aspects of college life: the reckless encouragement of binge drinking, the sexist attitudes of some of the male students, the superficial categorisation of residents as 'good blokes' or 'sluts' or 'dags' or 'up themselves.' But I made some lifelong friends, and I learned a lot, about life and love and myself -- not much about law, though, which I was supposed to be studying. Mostly  my experiences were positive, but two years was enough for me.

It was like no other time of my life. I took risks I never would have taken otherwise, befriended people I never would have met on campus, had my first sexual encounters (some great, some terrible), lived with strangers for the first time, fell in love with unsuitable people, made enemies, lost control sometimes, learned to say no. And while I certainly wouldn't wish on anyone the kind of abuse that I've read about, for me, some of the negative college experiences were the most important ones.


24.2.18

The Furthest Station

I reserved this novella at the library so long ago that the notice that it was available came as a complete surprise. I managed to sneak in The Furthest Station while I was deep in the middle of the third Elena Ferrante Neapolitan novel, as light relief (the Ferrante is quite grim). It was sheer pleasure to find myself back in Peter Grant's London, where ghosts appear on the Underground, talking foxes stalk the tunnels, and baby river gods appear in the suburbs. Much too short, though; it just whetted my appetite for the next full-length Peter Grant adventure, where hopefully some questions about those pesky foxes might be answered. The ghost/kidnapping story, while apparently resolved, also raised some troubling questions about the nature of physical reality. Unless I've missed something, which is quite possible. Aaronovitch's universe becomes more complex with each outing, so I might have lost track.

Just bloody hurry up with the next one. Please!

20.2.18

Hillbilly Elegy

I borrowed JD Vance's best-selling Hillbilly Elegy from a friend (thanks, Juzzy!) after seeing numerous recommendations online, and indeed the cover of the edition I read is thick with gushing praise, including the claim that it 'explains Brexit and the rise of Trump.'

That's a big call for a fairly little book, and one I don't think is entirely justified. It's also, as far as I can tell, not the intention of the writer.

JD Vance is a young writer, only about thirty, but he tells his story with clarity, insight and keen  awareness of the connections between the personal and the political. He grew up in Ohio, but from 'hillbilly' stock: fiercely loyal, resentful, a law unto themselves. JD's childhood was marred by domestic violence, parental substance abuse and instability. He was saved by the unstinting love and hard work demanded by his grandparents, which saw him eventually graduate in Law from Yale. This is a postcard from the heart of Trump's America, though as Vance is a conservative at heart, he ultimately lays blame for America's malaise on a lack of personal discipline and responsibility rather than systemic political failures.

Some parts of Vance's story were utterly foreign to my own life -- screaming parental fights, wild spending on showy consumer goods, using a pay-day lender to survive till the next pay cheque. But other parts resonated with my own experience. Vance ends up at Yale and realises he has entered another world, one where he doesn't understand the rules of the game.

He was one step ahead of me when I landed at Melbourne University Law School -- I didn't even realise there was a game. Networking, making contacts, befriending lecturers who might give you a recommendation -- I just didn't know that this was part of what university was supposed to give you. But to play the game, you have to understand that the game exists. I was totally clueless. But like Vance, I was the first member of my family to attend university; there was no one to tell me how things worked. It's not enough just to gain access to the institutions of power (interestingly, I'm also now reading about Elena's experience of the same situation in Elena Ferrante's Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay). You also need to navigate the unseen rituals, dress properly, speak properly to the right people, ingratiate yourself, submit articles to the journals that count. And nobody explains that stuff: you're supposed to just know. These are the unseen barriers that shut off opportunities to the poor, even if they scrape into the bastions of the elite.

15.2.18

One Would Think The Deep

Claire Zorn's third YA novel, One Would Think The Deep, won the CBCA Older Readers Book of the Year last year, and I can see why. Wow. Zorn's writing is amazing -- clear and powerful, unpretentious but resonant, a perfect voice for young adult writing.

But jeez, it's bleak stuff. As the book opens, Sam's mum has just died suddenly. The only relative he can contact is his estranged aunt Lorraine, who grudgingly accepts him into her chaotic household with his two older cousins, hostile Shane and bouncy Minty, who is an extraordinary surfer. The surfing scenes in this book are the best I've read. Sam is smart and sensitive (he adores Jeff Buckley's music), but he's also self-destructive. When the black hole inside threatens to overwhelm him, he looks for someone to fight. Will Sam destroy his tentative relationship with Gretchen, possibly the best thing that's ever happened to him? And will he find out what blew his once close family apart?

Set in 1997, the music of the nineties is threaded through the book. Tumbleweed, Shihad, Jeff Buckley, Chili Peppers, Tori Amos -- these were all the artists who were around when I was working in the music industry and the book brought back some powerful memories. I can also well remember the wave of shock and grief that rippled through us all when Jeff Buckley died -- followed by the unseemly scramble to package up and market every scrap of music he had ever recorded. Lucky Sam didn't really just how tawdry the music business could be, or he'd be even more cynical.

13.2.18

Rockhopping

Next month in the Convent book club we are looking at the winners of the 2017 CBCA Awards. Trace Balla's Rockhopping was the winner of the Younger Readers' Book of the Year category (an award I was also honoured to win with Crow Country a few years ago).

I thoroughly enjoyed this book. It's like a cross between a picture book and a junior graphic novel, with a deceptively simple cartoonish style which contains lots of marginal detail: birds and insects, wildflowers and trees. Clancy and his uncle Egg take a hike through Gariwerd (the Grampian mountains near Melbourne), with detours and adventures along the way. Indigenous placenames are foregrounded, with European names given in parentheses. While Clancy and his uncle are not Indigenous, Uncle Egg's best mate is Aboriginal, and gives snippets of local knowledge and mythology which are respectfully received by Clancy and Egg. There is humour and danger, and Clancy discovers he is more resourceful than he thought.

Of course I was always going to enjoy a book set in Victoria, and especially when Clancy and Egg set off from near Merri Creek, my own local waterway. Designed for younger readers, this book will be enjoyed by curious travellers of all ages.



12.2.18

The Midnight Folk

The copy of John Masefield's The Midnight Folk that I found secondhand was published in 1957 -- it cost 3/6! -- but the book was first published in 1927. I picked it up because Susan Green had mentioned it as a favourite childhood book, and during the Dark Is Rising twitter read-through, several participants talked about The Midnight Folk and its sequel, The Box of Delights, as formative fantasy texts.

The Midnight Folk is a strange little book -- not so little, actually, it's over 200 pages in fairly small font. Young Kay Harker embarks on a quest for the lost treasure entrusted to his ancestor, Captain Harker, which has been stolen and mislaid several times over, and in so doing he tangles with witches and talking animals, walks into portraits and meets many peculiar characters, human and non-human.

Several times I was reminded of other books, which shows how influential this novel has been. Kay tries on bat wings and otter skin which enables him to fly and to swim, which reminded me of the Wart's educational experiences in TH White's The Book of Merlyn. The witches, and especially Mrs Pouncer with her wax face, foreshadowed Roald Dahl's witches. The talking portraits took me straight to Hogwarts.

I'm not sure this book would appeal to a modern audience, though it would make a great read-aloud -- there are heaps of opportunities for funny voices, and it's actually pretty humorous, though I suspect children might need to be led through some of the jokes. I found the whole treasure plot quite confusing, though I must admit pirates and treasure aren't really my cup of tea. I'm glad I've read it though, and I will keep a look out for Kay's further adventures in The Box of Delights.

8.2.18

The Story of a New Name

The Story of a New Name is the second volume of Elena Ferrante's Neapolitan novels series, which I borrowed from the library (there were many reservations ahead of me, so I had to wait a while). This copy was obviously well read, with a cracked spine and soft pages -- lovely to handle!

At first I had some trouble getting back into the story. Who were all these people again? The cast of the 'neighborhood' had faded from my memory and I found it hard to pick up the threads. It also takes me a while to adjust to Ferrante's style: the long, complex sentences, the detailed dissection of emotion and, in contrast, the almost complete lack of physical description.

But soon I was wrapped up in the story -- the complicated web of interpersonal relationships, love and hate, jealousy and obligation that criss-crosses the neighborhood; and the equally complex inner lives of the two young friends, Elena and Lina/Lila, at the centre of the narrative. When the story opens, Lila is newly married (at sixteen!) but the relationship soon founders. The most compelling section of the novel centres on a summer holiday at the beach on Ischia, where Elena, Lila and another friend meet up with a boy from the neighborhood who Elena has always loved. The painful account of Elena's repressed feelings, her growing conviction that Nino also cares for her, and the inevitable betrayal when Nino and Lila begin a clandestine relationship, is absolutely gripping and agonising. It brought back terrible memories of unrequited love from my own youth. From there I raced to the end of the book, and I've just reserved the next volume!

This is a novel of contrasts. For the first time the story creeps out from the narrow bounds of the neighborhood (apparently based on the Rione Luzzatti district of Naples, which is tiny) to explore other areas of the city and the island of Ischia. Lila, so tempestuous and unpredictable, seems more brilliant and gifted than conscientious Elena, and yet it's Lila who finds herself trapped in her marriage and the business of grocery store and shoe factory, while Elena escapes to study in Pisa, opening the door to a yet wider world.

At the start of the novel, Lila seems to have it all, wealth, love, glamour and power, while Elena is her timid shadow; by the end of the book, the scales have switched and Elena is the successful one, while Lila appears to have lost everything.

Yet again, I've turned to Google Maps and images to give me a visual sense of the setting. Thank God for the internet!

31.1.18

Tuck Everlasting

I had never read this 1975 American classic, though I know it's a popular set text for primary schools, and Evie is familiar with the musical version. It was a quick and easy read, divided into very short chapters, and with a simple and straightforward story that nonetheless raises some big ideas.

Young Winnie Foster encounters a friendly family and learns their tightly-kept secret -- they have accidentally drunk from a magical spring which has given them eternal life. They will never grow older, and never die. For me, the most interesting aspect of the tale lies in Winnie's attraction to the youngest son, Jesse, who offers to share the gift with her when she turns seventeen -- though she finds it pretty easy to refuse. The book is a reflection on the pattern of life -- the Power of Becoming, as the Tremaris books would have it -- birth, change, aging and death. The Tucks have been removed from this cycle, and so their lives have become meaningless.

I don't know if I'm entirely convinced by the book's argument, but certainly I wouldn't want to live forever either, and I'm pretty sure that Winnie made the right decision.

30.1.18

The Mitfords: Letters Between Six Sisters

I came across The Mitfords: Letters Between Six Sisters months ago in a second hand bookshop in Sydney - at over 800 pages, it was way too heavy to bring home!
'Haven't you got that one already?' asked Michael. 'Didn't you have that in St Kilda?'
'No, no,' I said. 'That was letters between Nancy and Evelyn Waugh [mysteriously went missing, long story, I was very cross]. I don't have this one.'

So when I found it again on Brotherhood Books, I bought it, and I've spent many happy hours in this hot week trawling through the correspondence between these fascinating, complicated, witty, sometimes cruel, sometimes deeply touching sisters, who led such varied and intriguing lives and spanned almost the whole of the twentieth century.

From Nancy, successful novelist but unlucky in love, to Pamela, food and dog-loving countrywoman, to Diana who scandalously left her husband to marry Oswald Mosley, leader of the British fascists (they were both imprisoned during the war); to poor Unity, who loved Hitler and tried unsuccessfully to kill herself when war was declared, to Jessica, a socialist who ran away to America and became a 'muckraking' writer, her life marked by personal tragedies, to Deborah, the Duchess of Devonshire, who turned Chatsworth estate into a successful tourist enterprise. Between them, the Mitford sisters seem to have crossed paths with almost every noteworthy character of the twentieth century.

Sometimes I find them exasperating, racist, conservative, snobbish, judgmental, bitchy. Sometimes I can hear the voices of my English aunts. But whatever I think of their politics or their personal lives, I keep being drawn back to the Mitfords because they are simply wonderfully entertaining company. And I imagine that is why people adored them in real life, too.

Halfway through this very weighty volume, I was sorting through my bookshelves when I discovered an overlooked volume:
Yes, it's the same book, different cover. Dark spine rather than light spine. I had it all along. No wonder some of those letters seemed familiar. To misquote the title of one of Nancy's novels: Don't Tell Michael.

29.1.18

Northern Lights

... and the next book to reach the finish line was Northern Lights, which I picked up after reading La Belle Sauvage, which is a prequel to this first volume of His Dark Materials (confused?)

I read this years and years ago when it first came out but I had never reread it. The story came back to me in patches and occasional vivid images, though there were whole sections I had completely forgotten. As always, the business of Dust confused me (despite the primer of La Belle Sauvage, which did help a bit). Lyra is obviously intended to be a vivid, feisty, courageous character, but somehow she never quite came to life for me. The armoured bear Iorek Byrnison, on the other hand, is a fabulous, magnificent creation! I was pleasantly surprised to discover a couple of characters from the earlier/later book, ie Hannah Relf and Farder Coram (who seems like a completely different person). Hannah Relf must come into more later in the trilogy (I forget) because she does nothing in this book except be 'elderly' which I don't think she was in LBS.

When Alice and Evie saw me reading this, they both had comments to make.
Evie: Oh, I remember that book, it was boring and confusing and I never understood what was happening. I only wanted to read it because it had an animal on the cover. [Prob my fault, I think I gave it to her too early.]
Alice: It was terrible, it was SO SAD! I wanted an animal buddy, and then they CUT THEM APART.

So anyway, it made an impression.

28.1.18

Built On Bones

The trouble is, I've been reading three books at once -- since I found each of them individually, for different reasons, too much to tackle in one hit, I've been reading a chapter from each in turn. Which has slowed down my rate of book consumption considerably!

First one completed was Brenna Hassett's Built On Bones, which Evie thought I would enjoy for Christmas, all about the lethal consequences for the human race of settling down into agriculture and cities from a hunting and gathering life (particularly interesting to read after Dark Emu -- unfortunately Hassett, a bioarchaelogist, has Not One Word to say about Australia!) After discussions of plague, violence, domestic animals and sexually transmitted disease, Hassett's conclusion is that the real killer is inequality, which urbanisation facilitates (the shift from shamans to temple priests etc). However, she ends on the optimistic note that living in cities, which encourages specialisation, also encourages adaptability, and she is sure we can adapt our way out of our problems.

It took me a while to adapt to Hassett's style, which is part breezy American and part dry English irony, with much heavy academic detail leavened by lame jokes in the footnotes. But I did learn a huge amount about the history of cities, agriculture, and archaeology, which is a good thing.

17.1.18

Richard Hittleman's Yoga 28 Day Exercise Plan

Something a bit different today. I've had this book for 20 years and returned to it many times, but it's been neglected for the last three or four years -- but I pulled it out again 26 days ago and I'm back, baby!

I'm not a great one for signing up to classes; I prefer to learn things from a book, privately, and work at my own pace. Richard Hittleman's 28 Day Yoga program is perfect for that. It leads you gently, step by step, through 38 basic yoga positions over a month, building steadily and carefully to ever-greater challenges, and leaves you with three basic daily routines to practise at the end. I followed those daily routines for many years -- not always daily, but regularly. But it's been great to go back to the start and ease into it again. Having not done yoga at all for a long time, I can really feel the difference in my body -- I feel looser, lighter, fitter and more supple.

A word of warning: the book was first published in the 1970s, and it shows. Each day's program (taking about 20 minutes to complete) ends with a 'Thought for the Day' on topics like nutrition, smoking, the benefits of gentle stretching etc. There is much wisdom here, but also much dated hilarity. The reader is assumed to be a 'housewife.'
If the activities of housework (cleaning, shopping, child care) constituted true exercise we would not see the housewife tense, irritable, overweight, flabby, depressed and complaining of many aches and pains.
There is also an unhealthy emphasis on how yoga will make you beautiful! So take all that with a pinch of salt. But the exercises themselves are fantastic, and the program is so carefully structured, it's a wonderful introduction to yoga.



12.1.18

La Belle Sauvage

From the snow and thunder of The Dark Is Rising, to another flood engulfing the landscape -- and once again it's the Thames that bursts its banks and sweeps away everything in its path.

This long-awaited prequel to Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy was one of my Christmas presents, and we are also reading it for the Convent book group, where our next theme is Water. I must confess to ambivalent feelings about His Dark Materials. I think the trilogy is a magnificent achievement, brimming with imagination and big ideas: the animal daemons, the subtle knife that cuts into parallel worlds, the armoured bears, the alethiometer (which was always going to appeal to an occasional tarot card reader like myself!)

And yet I have never gone back to re-read them. I admired the books, but I didn't love them.

Maybe I'm just too old to fall in love with books like that any more? Perhaps it's partly because, as a lover of Narnia, I was slightly resentful of Pullman's deliberately anti-Narnia project. But reading La Belle Sauvage, it occurred to me that the difference between the two series for me was not whether they were pro- or anti-Christianity. For me, the difference is that the Narnia books were written out of a deep and almost incoherent love, an emotion that could sweep along talking beasts and Greek gods and the figure of Christ transformed into a lion (to return to the flood analogy). But Pullman's books seem to have been written from the intellect more than the heart. However brilliant they are, however clever and carefully constructed and layered, for me that crucial element of love is missing.

I enjoyed La Belle Sauvage and I will read the rest of the sequels when they appear. I might even, finally, return to the original books. Perhaps my analysis is wrong, and it might be fun to find out.

6.1.18

The Dark Is Rising

A terrible muddy image, but the only one I could find of my beloved copy of Susan Cooper's The Dark Is Rising books in one volume. I reckon I haven't read The Dark Is Rising for about thirty years, though it always occupied a treasured place in my reading memory. But then I was alerted to a special event taking place on Twitter, and all at once I was catapulted back into the snowy, enchanted world, menacing and strange, of Will Stanton, Merriman Lyon, the Signs and the Old Ones, and the Rising of the Dark.

Late last year, Rob MacFarlane and Julia Bird decided to host a communal reading event via Twitter: The Dark Is Rising, read in 'real time' (is there any such thing?) over the days when the action of the book itself occurs, from Midwinter Eve to Twelfth Night. This idea snowballed into a wondrous collective reading experience, #TheDarkIsReading, with readers sharing their own insights, favourite moments, quotes and memories. A parallel group spontaneously sprang up to accompany the reading, #TheArtIsRising, where people posted artworks, drawings, paintings and photographs which beautifully expanded the reading experience. Spookily, the weather in England began to echo the events of the book, with unusually heavy snowfalls, storms and floods appearing as if on cue. And as we shared our immersion in this wonderful fantasy, it was as if a circle of Old Ones joined hands around the world to recreate our own magic and drive back the Dark together.

Though I am far from the cold and snow of this quintessentially wintry story, I was pulled back into the atmosphere of a northern-hemisphere Christmas -- a wonderful, magical way to end one year and begin the next.

3.1.18

End of Term

Is it terrible of me to confess that I own not one, not two, but three copies of Antonia Forest's End of Term? I bought the first, a Puffin edition, in 1991, in an op shop in Scotland, and it reminded me just how wonderful Antonia Forest's books were (I had discovered some, but not all of them, in my school library). The second copy, pictured above with a very ugly cover, was ordered from Girls Gone By last year. And then I found another, less battered Puffin edition in my local secondhand shop -- probably discarded by someone who had also upgraded to a GGB edition!

But I don't care, because I love this book. I didn't re-read it when my GGB copy arrived, but waited for Michelle Cooper's read-through on Memoranda. I've read it so many times that I almost didn't need to refresh my memory, but revisiting it was a pure pleasure.

In this fourth Marlow book, and the second of the school stories, the action twists between two plot strands -- the netball team, which Nicola is inexplicably left out of (thanks to the machinations of her nemesis, Lois Sanger) -- and the Christmas play, which Lawrie, the fabulous actress, is inexplicably left out of (thanks to the dubious judgement of the headmistress, Miss Keith, who has her own ideas about casting this particular piece and feels that reverence and religious feeling should be more important than talent). These twin disappointments are the backdrop against which various friendship dramas play out (see what I did there?), with Nicola finding herself isolated from her sister and her former bestie, Tim, and making two new friends in spiky Miranda and shy Esther.

There is another strand woven skilfully and unusually through this book, which is religion. Miranda is Jewish, therefore also excluded from the play. And Nicola's friend from home, Patrick, is Catholic, and a sincere believer, who still feels passionately grieved about the Reformation and the martyrdoms of 500 years ago. Nicola is a puzzled agnostic, who tends to think that people used to believe 'properly' in the distant past, but that 'science changed everything.' And her twin Lawrie is a cheerful and unabashed heathen who thinks the whole Christian story is completely imaginary (and there are plenty of readers who would agree with her!) Their various viewpoints are inserted subtly into the story -- much more subtly and entertainingly than in later books (I'm looking at you, Attic Term).

Antonia Forest is at the peak of her powers in this, and the next few books in the series. An absolute delight.