Be like a duck. Calm on the surface, but always paddling like the dickens underneath.

Hello, hello, hello, it has been far too long, hasn't it?

I only just noticed that I am unintentionally working my way through British actors of the later part of the last century. I've already read the autobiographies of Michael Crawford, Dawn French and Michael Caine, and I'm almost finished Stephen Fry's one. I wonder if John Cleese and Rowan Atkinson have written any memoirs yet? Hmmm, according to wikipedia Cleese has and Atkinson hasn't. Guess what I'll be looking up at the library next time? :-P

I've decided to review these two books together because, well, just because I want to. It's been ages since I last posted something here, so it is certainly quite a while since I read either of these books. I had to take them back to the library a while ago, so there's a few things I planned to quote and compare that I can't now. Not ideal.

I loved The Elephant to Hollywood. It was one of those books I read aloud to irritated family members and quoted anecdotes from in conversations. Michael Caine's writing is not particularly stylish or writerly, but his method of going chronologically through his life and picking out interesting stories to tell is engaging. Throughout the book he exudes affection for the people and incidents described and his awe at meeting great actors is actually endearing rather than annoying. Even when Michael Caine talks about hard times he does it in a brief and interesting way - like sitting about in a cafe waiting for an agent's call - with Peter O'Toole and Sean Connery! Or, after shortly describing being neglected and abused by the family who took him in during the war, talking about how he loves to do work for children's charities now because of that. I really adored this book.

My reaction to The Fry Chronicles was more... complex. There's no doubt that Stephen Fry has a positive gifting when it comes to word choice and style. He's a born writer, to be sure, but I was more than a little bothered by the content of his book. I think that one could open The Fry Chronicles at any page and learn that Mr Fry has a self esteem issue. Which is incredibly frustrating for any reader; being told about his multiple achievements, positive traits and accomplishments in a self deprecatory tone very quickly grows aggravating. And even more aggravating is his awareness of the reader's aggravation and the apologetic tone he takes. Why can't the man forgive himself for being successful? He constantly deviates into long passages describing a personal trait of his own that he doesn't like or a reason that people might dislike him. I just felt so, so sorry for him after reading the book. And more than a little irritated. I know that Stephen Fry suffers from bipolar disorder, but the book left me feeling rather depressed - not a pleasant sensation for a book to leave for a reader! I didn't not appreciate the book for what it was, but I am somewhat conflicted about my overall response. Mr Stephen Fry, dear, please look into some sort of therapy.

Having a great intellect is no path to being happy.
Stephen Fry

"I write this sitting in the kitchen sink."

I finished I Capture the Castle about a week and a half ago; don't know why I haven't thus far written about reading it, but here goes.

This book was splendidly written. I loved the setting, I loved the style, I loved the characters. I hated the plot with a very real hate. I Capture the Castle was really let down by its plot. I suppose the lack of satisfaction felt by the reader at the end is supposed to reflect reality in some fashion, but the big twist near the end was so unlikely and badly foreshadowed that any resemblance to reality was drowned in a whelming wave of 'Yeah. Right.'
The characters were very well realised and endearing in themselves, but the relationships between the characters were not. Cassandra, the protagonist and narrator of the story is such a detached observer (though her interest and sympathy make her very relatable) that the other characters are never, somehow, given all that is due them.
But watching the movie first alleviated much of this disappointment. Because I already had been so thoroughly disappointed by the film, I already expected the awful storyline (or lack thereof for the first chunk of the book). So I enjoyed the book a lot more than I expected to. Because, after all, it is so very well written. And has a great many quotable lines.

"Noble deeds and hot baths are the best cures for depression."

Anyone with the veriest speck of sensibility would feel for my plight! I am escaping from the most odious persecution

Finished The Corinthian by Georgette Heyer last night. It was delightful. The plot was a little convoluted, particularly towards the end, and Heyer's style could use some editing here and there, but on the whole I really enjoyed this book. If you like Georgian England, madcap escapades, brigands, tomboys, and a Percy Blakeney-esque hero, look no further. Heaps of fun. I certainly recommend this book.

Give thy mind to books and libraries, and the literature and lore of the ages will give thee the wisdom of sage and seer.

Library trip this morning - well, sort of. For some reason I asked for that the books I put on hold at Rockdale library be pick-up-able from Bexley North library. Which was stupid because Bexley North library, even though it is quite the closest to my house, closes at six on weekdays (making it impossible for me to race there from work in time). Forgot about this and yesterday went to Rockdale for the books in response to the customary email. They told me that the books were at Bexley North, and that the latter library shuts at one on a Saturday. Couldn't go this morning until ridiculously late, because I had to wait at my parents' house (ironically, I appear to be the only one of my siblings who has a house key). Got to the library at 12.50. Got my books from a very grumpy librarian, who obviously couldn't wait to go do whatever it is librarians do on a Saturday afternoon.

But I now have my mitts on Michael Caine's The Elephant To Hollywood and The Fry Chronicles by (naturally) Stephen Fry. Delightful :-) As well as a Terry Pratchett (Unseen Academicals), the soundtrack to Moulin Rouge, and a DVD of Agatha Christie's Appointment With Death.

"When I read a book, I put in all the imagination I can, so that it is almost like writing the book as well as reading it...

Currently reading:

Jane Austen for Dummies - very interesting so far; I quite like the more obscure 'For Dummies' books. I already own Tolkien's Middle Earth for Dummies, which I recommend to any real fan of Tolkien and his amazing world.

I Capture The Castle by Dodie Smith, who, incidentally, wrote the original book of 101 Dalmatians - there's some trivia for you! I saw the movie of this a while ago - I must have been housesitting for my grandparents (not the ones I live with - the other set!) at the time, because I was alone at their house when I watched it. Such a disappointing film: if it had been less pretty I would be less torn about how little I enjoyed the story and how frustrating I found it. So far, the book is beautifully written - really enjoying it, though I dread the plot kicking in.

The Corinthian by Georgette Heyer - I've only read about eight pages of this one; so far it's shaping up to be exactly like the other Georgette Heyer Regency novels I have read. Which isn't such a bad thing. I like her snarky dandified heroes; her silly young Lydia-Bennet type ladies; her sensible governess types and helpless male wannabes. Fun reading.

"It is sometimes easier to be happy if you don't know everything."

Howdy.

Finished two books last week - Morality for Beautiful Girls by Alexander McCall Smith and The Jane Austen Book Club by Karen Joy Fowler. Think I'll start by talking about the latter.

I watched the movie of The Jane Austen Book Club last year or the year before - hated it with a passion. I heartily wished death on all the characters, they were so irritating - except perhaps Emily Blunt's character. Then again, I only liked her out of spite, because she was so obviously meant to be the irritating one. Hugh Dancy sank about six rings down the ladder of my estimation because of his involvement in this film - fortunately there weren't any other actors I like involved. And the ferocity with which it stuck to the 'chick flick' genre! Grrr. This film made me so angry with its stupidity and boring-ness. I don't know why I bothered with the book. The book was, somehow, just as bad as the film it inspired. The characters were all two-dimensional stereotypes, none of whom inspired my sympathy. The recently-single woman was too much of a doormat; the assertive one was just an emotionally blind meddler, the one and only male character was a wuss, the chatty one was depressing to read, the 'so Frenchy so chic' girl was so obviously meant to be unsympathetic (I wonder why one would bother writing such a character?) and the lesbian girl was so inexplicably messed up and whingy I wanted to slap her. The first person narrator was infuriatingly ambiguous - I gave up trying to work out what was going on with her (or, what the heck, it could have been a him).
There was no plot. There was no purpose. No storyline went anywhere. And if I ever pick up a book with that much pointless, useless backstory again I will to take a match to it. Am infuriated that something like this can put a 'Jane Austen' label on itself in any form.


Morality for Beautiful Girls was a much better book. There's no way Alexander McCall Smith will ever put a book in my top 100 list, but The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency series are enjoyable, light reads. The mysteries are never very mysterious and the pace is ponderous and slow-striding, but in an acceptable way - and the African vibe is very naturally done. I don't have an awful lot to say about this book - but it's an OK read.

WHAT CAN THE HARVEST HOPE FOR, IF NOT FOR THE CARE OF THE REAPER MAN?

Back again.

Finished Reaper Man a little while back - on Sunday, I think, but I've been too crazy busy to sit down and write about it before now. Sooo, Terry Pratchett's Reaper Man.
Discworld's anthropomorphised Death character is only my second favourite personification of Death - but only because of this book:
...which was a book that I feel completely in love with, because it's miraculously wonderful.

Terry Pratchett's Death is a sympathetic character, just as Marcus Zusak's Death is - and, in this book, that characteristic proves to be his undoing. The 'Auditors', mysterious beings who keep reality in order (hmmm, my brain just made an interesting connection - I watched an advanced screening of The Adjustment Bureau last night...) decide that Death is becoming too sympathetic and humanised for his occupation, so, while looking through his shelves of 'lifetimers', (hourglasses with people's names on them - showing how much life they have left to live) Death discovers a new lifetimer - his own. And he's running out of time. So Death leaves his office, abandons his job and finds a new one - as a farmhand - while he waits for his time to run out.
But, in the meantime, people who ought to be dying... aren't. Sort of. I didn't really understand how this part of the story worked, so much - and I didn't actually care, because Death's storyline was the part of the book that had my interest. The main character of this plot is Windle Poons, a 13o-year-old wizard who knows that he ought to be dead (because wizards always know) by a certain day, but, finding that he isn't, struggles trying to find out why and what he should do. There's a long and complex plot-thing involving snow globes, shopping trolleys and the birth of cities, but, to be quite frank with you, I had no idea what was going on.

This wasn't my favourite Discworld book at all, but it was enjoyable. I only understood and relished one of the plotlines, but it was a pretty good plotline. :-)