Bleak House: Chapters 33 to Chapter 38

Just as I supposed: Lady Dedlock is Esther's mother, and it is in this illustration above that they meet to discuss it on the Ghost Walk.

"I knew I was innocent of my birth, as a queen of hers; and that before my Heavenly Father I should not be punished for birth, nor a queen rewarded for it. I had had experience, in the shock of that very day, that I could, even thus soon, find comforting reconcilements to the change that had fallen on me. I renewed my resolutions, and prayed to be strengthened in them; pouring out my heart for myself, and for my unhappy mother, and feeling that the darkness of the morning was passing away. It was not upon my sleep; and when the next day's light awoke me, it was gone."

I love Esther Summerson for her eternally bright optimism and goodness.


I am reading this book for the Bleak House read-along hosted by Amanda at The Zen Leaf.

The Talented Mr. Ripley

The white, taut sheets of his berth on the train seemed the most wonderful luxury he had ever known. He caressed them with his hands before he turned the light out. And the clean blue-grey blankets, the spanking efficiency of the little black net over his head - Tom had an ecstatic moment when he thought of all the pleasures that lay before him now with Dickie's money, other beds, tables, seas, ships, suitcases, shirts, years of freedom, years of pleasure. Then he turned the light out and put his head down and almost at once fell asleep, happy, content, and utterly, utterly confident, as he had never been before in his life.

I gotta tell you, that would not be my immediate reaction after doing what Thomas Ripley had done. No, sirree, if I'd thrown a man overboard after smashing him on the head with an oar, and stealing his identity, I would not be experiencing a happy, content, and utterly confident sleep.

It is therefore with wonder that I continued on in this novel. Like watching a slow motion train wreck, I grappled with my fascination in the plot and my horror at Tom's behavior. How can he possibly think he will get away with it? How can he manage the deception long term? How can he tolerate the guilt?

But, when I came to this part, it made a tiny bit of sense:

He went on packing. This was the end of Dickie Greenleaf, he knew. He hated becoming Thomas Ripley again, hated being nobody, hated putting on his old set of habits again, and feeling that people looked down on him and were bored with him unless he put on an act for them like a clown, feeling incompetent and incapable of doing anything with himself except entertaining people for minutes at a time. He hated going back to himself as he would have hated putting on a shabby suit of clothes, a grease-spotted, unpressed suit of clothes that had not been very good even when it was new.

That gets me thinking. For haven't you hated something about yourself at least once? Haven't you wished there was something about yourself you could change? If you had the chance, would you swap identities with someone else? Would you leave New York for Rome? (The later? I would in a heartbeat!)

None of us would kill another. But, the idea of abandoning one's identity, in one way or another, is a little compelling to me. It makes me grasp just how talented, albeit psychotic, Mr. Ripley is.

Find another review from Richard, who was the first person to make me want to read this novel which I did for my own personal pleasure as well as Carl's RIP V.

Sunday Afternoon...a Perfect Peace

It's my favorite time of the week: Sunday afternoon.

The work week is done.

The house is clean.

The parties from Saturday night are over.

The roses are blooming.

The book into which I'm currently enmeshed is waiting: The Talented Mr. Ripley. If you haven't yet read it, stop. Go, get yourself a copy. Then you'll know what I mean.

Clementine, Friend of The Week

When I read the book Clementine, Friend of the Week aloud to my class this month it was the first time I'd read a book by Sara Pennypacker. Reminding me of Junie B. Jones (by Barbara Park) and Beezus (of Beverly Cleary fame), Clementine can stand on her own as a precocious little heroine. I was a bit embarrassed when I read that she named the cat Flomax (explain that to eight year olds and hope their parents don't call you later on), but her antics were ingenious and her sorrow over the (temporary) disappearance of her kitten heartfelt. 

Perhaps it would be most helpful to hear the opinions on this children's book from children themselves. Here are the good, and the bad, reviews from a few of my third graders:

   We read Clementine, Friend Of The Week. I thought this book wasn't that good. I did not like Clementine's ideas because they were kind of boring. I felt that the pictures were not that creative. I didn't like that Margaret was acting so weird. I would recommend this book to a friend, but I would rather read Thumbalina. ~Riya

     This book was very funny! I thought this book was funny because Clementine comes up with the best bathroom names for her pets, like Flomax. "Moisturizer" (her cat) sounds like a sanitizer. And, I thought the funniest part was the picture that she drew of Moisturizer. I'm looking forward to another Clementine book. ~Vismay

     I loved Clementine, Friend of the Week! I liked how she was so funny. I also liked how she was nice and offered decorations to her friends. But I really loved how she never gave up looking for Moisturizer. This book is thrilling. ~Kimberly

     We read Clementine, Friend of The Week. I didn't like the book because it was not interesting, it was not mysterious, or any genre that I like, and it was really boring. ~Karthik

     I liked this book! I like the part when she called brother names like Turnip and other vegetable names. I like when her father said, "You are also a friend of the strong." The last part I liked was when she asked her friends if they would like to use her father's decorations for the bike rally. I think this book was sensational! ~Aimee

    We read Clementine, Friend of The Week. I  love this book. I like Clementine because she has whacky ideas. She is very weird because she calls her brother vegetable names. She comes up with names from the bathroom for her pets. She is also very funny. This is a great book. ~Chloe

It appears that the general consensus is in Clementine's favor. It was a fun book to read and seemed the most popular with the girls in my class. As you might expect.



Special thanks to Disney-Hyperion for the advanced copy to review.

How Do You Review?

There seems to be a general malaise from more than a few of my blogger friends. Heat and humidity, combined with overwrought work schedules, and we find ourselves in a bit of a drought.

It interested me when I read this point on Claire's post today: "I have a bad case of review-block.  Review-block occurs when you allow blog reviews to stack up to an almost unmanageable amount and proceed to temporarily lose access to your review notes."

It made me smile.

And then it made me think. Because, personally? If I don't post a review immediately after reading that book, or at least within twenty-four hours, forget it. I don't have a prayer of being able to relay exactly what that book meant to me with ease.

I'll remember a general mood. I'll remember the plot. I'll remember my favorite characters. But, I won't be able to convey it all quite as clearly if I let too much time pass.

So, I'm wondering, how do you review? Immediately? Or, when you look at a stack of reviews which have laid a bit longer than you'd like?

Light Years

"How can we imagine what our lives should be without the illumination of the lives of others?" p. 161

This is exactly what James Salter does: he illuminates the lives of Viri and Nedra so artfully that after reading it we in turn examine our own. Are we as selfish and beautiful as Nedra? Are we as weak and ineffective as Viri? Is there a marriage which can sustain adultery and still survive? If we surround ourselves with wine and friends, wood fires and dinner parties, are we happy?

"There is no happiness like this happiness: quiet mornings, light from the river, the weekend ahead. They lived a Russian life, a rich life, interwoven, in which the misfortune of one, a failure, illness, would stagger them all. It was like a garment, this life. Its beauty was outside, its warmth within." p. 69

But, does this life stay happy?

I have never read a novel by James Salter before, and I was mesmerized by his words. His non-existent transitions whisked me from one setting to another, from one character to another, from one paragraph to the next. It was disconcerting at first, but then, as one must do with all exceptional authors, one gives oneself over to his artful hands. In succumbing to his style, we dwell in his world, and become part of it ourselves. While still able to make judgements from the outside edges.

My Apologies to Jamie Lee Curtis

Ever since I heard Jamie Lee Curtis was coming to our elementary school, I've been making Activia jokes. Or, Halloween jokes. Or, in general, less than praiseworthy comments.

I was wrong.
Jamie Lee Curtis, daughter of Tony Curtis and Janet Leigh, is a spitfire of enthusiasm and joy. She speaks, and reads, to children with aplomb. She was a delight in every way, and all this coming from someone who is cuter than a bug's ear and not much bigger.

She told how she wrote her first book after her then four year old daughter stomped into Jamie's  bedroom and announced, "When I was little I used to have a diaper, but now I use the potty!" and stomped out again.  (How proud would you be to be the 24-year old listening to her mother tell that story now? :)

But, today she read from her latest release, My Mommy Hung The Moon. The kids wrote their mommy's names on a sticker, and underneath what their mommy does for them, like this:

It touched my heart to see the millions of things they notice that their mommy does. "She rubs my back." "She tucks me in after reading me a story." "She makes me laugh."

So, thanks Jamie Lee. Not for helping our irregular bowels with yogurt, but for reminding us how much we love our mommies.

No matter how old we are.

Hiroshima In The Morning...With An Invitation

Knowing of my great affection for Japanese literature, Amy asked if I'd participate in the tour for Hiroshima In The Morning.  I readily accepted, and I will post my review of this novel within the next two weeks.

In the meantime, there is going to be a party celebrating it's release. Find the invitation below, along with information about how you can win:

When: September 22, 2010 8:30 PM EST

Where: Facebook. Be sure to like Rahna Reiko Rizzuto on Facebook.

Who: You!

What: A Live Chat with author Rahna Reiko Rizzuto about her new book, Hiroshima in the Morning. There will also be a chance to win a Koa carved bookmark from Hawaii and receive an entry into the grand prize (1 package 100% Kona coffee, 1 package of Maui pure cane sugar, 1 package organic luau seasoning rub, 1 pound Alaea Red Sea Salt, and 1 box chocolate covered macadamia nuts, along with a copy of Hiroshima in the Morning).

Best of luck to you,

Bleak House: Chapters 20-25

I am so thoroughly engrossed in Charles Dickens' novel, Bleak House, that I've gone ahead of the schedule set for us by Amanda at Zen Leaf, our hostess for this read along. As I write these thoughts, it is only September 6, but I've had a vacation for Labor Day, and I've been reading pages by the hundreds all day on the couch.

As I complete these chapters, I find myself contemplating the role of parenthood that Dickens portrays in this novel. Caddy Jellyby's mother is a useless example of motherhood as she lets her children squall on the cold stone floor of the kitchen while she opens innumerable letters pertaining to who has gone, or is going, to Africa. The betterment of the human race is her focus, while completely neglecting her responsibilities to her own family.

Contrasting with her, but in a different way as he cares for nothing but Deportment, is Mr. Turveydrop, Sr. He is the dance instructor's son, one who is very elegant, with quality things, and the perfect epitome of Deportment if that means sitting on a couch before one's tea and whining.

My favorite, of course, is the guardian Mr. Jarndyce. We do not fully know his relationship to Esther Summerson, yet, except to say how clear it is that he loves and cares for her in action and deed more than in words. He has just taken in Charley to be Esther's maid, rescuing the former from the garret she was barely maintaining for her brother and baby sister on their parents' death. Good is he to these three children, better yet to Esther.

I wonder if he's her father? I wonder if Lady Dedlock is her mother? This is yet to be discovered; all I can say with certainty is I'm glad that neither Mrs. Jellyby nor Mr. Turveydrop are of any relation to Esther. Or, for that matter, me.


p.s. I believe that Amanda from Zen Leaf, our hostess, is not posting for Chapters 20-25 due to all the activities for BBAW. However, posts will resume for our readings next week.

Alone On A Rainy Saturday

I went to breakfast this morning, in the gray mist of an early September morning. It was the perfect day to sit with friends from school: Linda and Laura, Kae and Susan, Lisa and Linda's friend, Deb.

There was lots of news to share as we kick off the new year. Linda's getting ready for Jamie Lee Curtis' visit to our elementary building on Friday. "I hope she brings a lot of Activia," I said, but she's coming to read her new book. Yogurt, literature, whatever.

Deb has to transfer to three different buildings to teach Art, but the Music teachers can stay put. Apparently, Music is more valuable to the district administrators; the instruments must be harder to move than tempera paint and glitter, construction paper, glue, and racks of scissors.

Laura's brother is getting a divorce, finally, and Susan's son started smoking. Kae's going to be a grandmother, and just what do you call a grandmother in Swedish anyway, because no body wants to be called Grandmother anymore. It's so, I don't know, aging.

I look over at a booth as I absorb everyone's comments, and there's a woman nibbling on her toast. Alone.

I can't decribe the sorrow I feel for a person who's dining alone. I watched her, as she looked around, not smiling, but not crying, and I wanted to slide into the seat across from her. I wanted to say, "You don't have to eat alone. I see you didn't bring a book (what were you thinking?!) but do you want to talk?"

I didn't, of course. Why would she come out to eat alone if she didn't want to? She could have stood at her kitchen counter waiting for the toast to pop out with the television rebroadcasting all the events of 9/11 behind her. She could have eaten it discreetly on the phone, talking to someone.

Or, maybe she couldn't. Maybe that's the problem: no one to talk to. No one to smile with. No one from whom to sit across during breakfast on a rainy Saturday morning.

Maybe it shouldn't have, but it broke my heart.

Apparently, there IS a good reason for playing with your pencils...

Did you see these creations made of pencil lead?

Talk about learning your alphabet...

There are more examples of this pencil lead art here.

A New Austen Blog Opens Today

It is named Austen Authors, begun by Sharon Lathan and Abigail Reynolds. They have contacted 20 contributors of Jane Austen fiction which will be contributing to their new group blog.

"Starting on September 6, daily blogs posts will be put up, celebrations of new books going into stores will be had, and for the launch month of the blog, many giveaways and contests will be held!", writes a publicist from Sourcebooks to me, and I wanted to be sure to spread the word so you could have a chance to win.

This Winter I'll be reviewing A Darcy Christmas, which will be published in October, so also look for a give-away of that Austen novel. In the meantime, happy Austen reading! (Oh, and Happy Labor Day! I hope you're taking the day off. ;)

Dickens' Writing: Can I Tell You How Much I Love It?

Probably not. I certainly don't have the way with words that he does, a way that portrays the characters so clearly, or the picture of London, the mood of the Victorian times, the suspense and mystery that is slowly unfolding within the pages of Bleak House. But, I will leave you with this piercing passage about Lady Dedlock and her husband, Sir Leicester, to prove my point:

"...only last Sunday, my Lady, in the desolation of Boredom and the clutch of Giant Despair, almost hated her own maid for being in spirits.

She cannot, therefore, go too fast from Paris. Weariness of soul lies before her, as it lies behind-her Ariel has put a girdle of it round the whole earth, and it cannot be unclasped-but the imperfect remedy is always to fly, from the last place where it has been experienced. Fling Paris back into the distance, then, exchanging it for endless avenues and cross-avenues of wintry trees!

...Sir Liecester is generally in a complacent state , and rarely bored. When he has nothing else to do, he can always contemplate his own greatness. It is a considerable advantage to a man, to have so inexhaustible a subject."

I am reading Charles Dickens' Bleak House for the read-along hosted by Amanda at The Zen Leaf. It also qualifies for Carl's RIP V. Perhaps you have time to join us?