Sunday Salon: à bientôt , Juillet!

I counted the days I have left of Summer. Do you know how many are left?

Eleven.

Eleven days before I have to end this bliss I've been living called ride-my-Cannondale-as-much-as-I-can-in-90+-temperatures, read-as-many-books-as-I-can-while-I-have-the-time, grab-a-moment-with-the-heir-apparent-between-when-he-gets-up-and-when-he-goes-to-work.

Soon I'll be sweating-to-death-in-the-classroom, going-to-meetings-and-collecting-data-ad-nauseum, and asking-Jerod-to-get-out-from-under-the-table. Wait. It's a new year. This year, Jerod won't be under my table.

I loved July. Did you love July? Did you read and read and read? Did you read anything for Paris in July II? I did! I read A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway, The Paris Wife by Paula McLain, Night Flight by Antoine de St. Exupery, and the first story in Mavis Gallants' collection Paris Stories. (Not enraptured or else I'd have read more.)

But, it's not over yet even though July is over. As of 11:59 p.m. today. I am still going to read and review Tout Sweet, a book about a fashion designer from London who "hangs up her heels for a new life in France".

Don't tempt me, Karen, I just may have to hang up my chalk and come join you.

The Quiet Gentleman

Through the course of my blogging travels, I have seen the name Georgette Heyer appear from time to time on a few of the blogs I love to read. Totally unfamiliar with this famous and prolific author, I agreed to review The Quiet Gentleman for Sourcebooks.

Georgette Heyer's writing quite resembles that of Jane Austen's. (What an adjustment from the likes of Hemingway whose writing I've feasted on this summer! Consider these two descriptions of spring, the first from Georgette: "It was a fine day towards the close of March, the ground rather heavy from recent rains, but fast drying under a strong wind, blowing from the east. The hedgerows were bursting into new leaf, and the banks were starred with primroses." Compared to Ernest: "In the spring mornings I would work early while my wife still slept. The windows were open wide and the cobbles of the street were drying after the rain." from A Moveable Feast)

Like Austen's novels, The Quiet Gentleman is categorized as romance; however Heyers' writing can be differentiated further into the category of Regency romance because it contains elements of mystery and satire, lots of dialogue between members of the opposite sex, and detailed descriptions of balls, hunting, riding, theater, suppers and other social activities pertaining to 19th century England. Here is one of the first bits of mystery in The Quiet Gentleman:

He awoke very suddenly, he knew not how many hours later, as though some unusual sound, penetrating his dreams, had jerked him back to consciousness. The room was in dense darkness, the fire in the hearth having died quite away; and he could hear nothing but the rain beating against the windows, and the howl of the wind, more subdued now, round the corner of the building. Yet even as he wondered whether perhaps he had been awakened by the fall of a tile from the roof, or the slamming of a door left carelessly open, he received so decided an impression that he was not alone in the room, that he raised himself quickly on to one elbow, straining his eyes to see through the smothering darkness. He could hear nothing but the wind and the rain, but the impression that someone was in the room rather grew on him than abated, and he said sharply, 'Who is there?'

Such suspense! Reminiscent even of Jane Eyre, this passage had me caught up in the intrigue wondering what, in fact, was going on. All I knew was that Gervase Frant, the seventh Earl of St Erth, had returned to his home after the death of his father. At this home, Stanyon, live his stepmother, the Dowager, as well as Martin, his brother, and Theo, his cousin. A heated rivalry has occurred between Martin and Gervase because Martin felt threatened about losing the affections of Marianne Bilderwood to his elder brother.

Suspicious events occur: the omission by Martin of informing Gervase that the bridge is not safe to cross when Gervase is out riding his grey horse, Cloud; the aforementioned intrusion into Gervase's bedroom in the middle of the night; and then a cord, stretched across the path, causes Cloud to stumble and Gervase to lie stunned in the middle of the road where house guest Miss Morville comes upon him and rescues him. Is anyone attempting to take Gervase's life? Is it, in fact, Martin? Who will win the lovely Marianne Bilderwood's affection? These are a few of the plots within this novel, one which I was surprisingly delighted to read.

There is enough romance, enough ridiculous repartee, enough family drama to enrapture any one's heart. Even mine which, rather jaded, tends to scorn books in the romance department.

Perhaps you know that one of the highlights of my summer was reading Hemingway's A Moveable Feast. It prompted me to pick up The Paris Wife  which was equally engrossing, and now I want to read everything Hemingway's ever written.

I'd stop every so often while reading their story told from his first wife Hadley's point of view to look up his works she'd just mentioned. Yesterday I grabbed the short story collection I'd purchased at the bookstore of his home in Key West so that I could read My Old Man (a heartbreaking work about a young man's love for his father, a jockey with less than an honorable character). Last night I stopped in the middle of the description of the Hemingways' visit to Pamplona, Spain, to see the bullfights so that I could order The Sun Also Rises. Today, I downloaded a sample of The Torrents of Spring on my nook because I wanted to read the satire he wrote about Sherwood Anderson, John Dos Passos and other writers of this era.

But, it's more than the background of Hemingway's work which has me enthralled. It's the story of a marriage, told so eloquently through Hadley's eyes, that has me anxious to get home from graduation parties and errands so that I can continue reading. I spent all day yesterday on the couch reading, ever so slowly, of their young love. Of their apartment in Paris, trips to Austria, parties with Gertrude Stein and the Fitzgeralds, birth of Bumby. And now we come to the affair with Pauline Pfieffer, and I feel the conflict as acutely as they must have suffered it themselves.

Paula McLain wrote a mesmerizing biography of this famous couple, a deeply compelling read which will stand next to Hemingway's memoir as two of the most fascinating reads of my Summer.

Find more thoughts on this book from A Work in Progress, A Book Sanctuary,  The Crowded Leaf, Bookbath, and Christbookarama.

I Loved You, Borders

(photo credit here)

"We had worked very hard for a different outcome. The fact is that Borders has been facing headwinds for quite some time,  including a rapidly changing book industry, the e-reader revolution and a turbulent economy. We put up a great fight, but regrettably, in the end, we weren't able to overcome these external forces."

Behold a passage from the letter I received from Borders today. It scares me to death as I feel that some day books may be lost to us forever. Technology is not always a good thing. Not when people won't support the turn of a page, nor the scent of the paper.

Vol de Nuit by Antoine de St. Exupery. And Guerlain.

Perhaps Antoine de St. Exupery is best known for his novel Le Petit Prince. Far from a typical children's book, Le Petit Prince closely examines matters of the heart, and in my opinion is best suited for adults. Or, for French V students as when I read it en francais for the first time at seventeen.

But, he also wrote Vol de Nuit (Night Flight), a novel published in 1931. This slim volume of only 87 pages is exceptional. Its subject matter is the mail flights which went to Patagonia, Chile, and Buenos Aires in the middle of the night so that the mail could be there in the morning. Its subject is the courage of the pilots who not only thrilled to the dangers of their job, but fought the fear inherent to its very nature. Its subject is  Riviere, the leader of those men in aviation who challenges them to live up to honor and integrity, and Fabien, the pilot who encounters a storm during one treacherous night which is the central plot in this novel.

Antoine de St. Exupery's writing is a masterpiece. Practically every page has a phrase to reread, or a description to ponder:

Somewhere, too, the planes were fighting forward; the night flights went on and on like a persistent malady, and on them watch must be kept. Help must be given to these men who with hands and knees and breast to breast were wrestling with the darkness, who knew and only knew an unseen world of shifting things, whence they must struggle out, as from an ocean. And the things they said about it afterwards were--terrible! "I turned the light on to my hands so as to see them." Velvet of hands bathed in a dim red dark-room glow; last fragment, that must be saved, of a lost world. (p. 38-39)

St. Exupery himself surely knew of which he wrote, for "In 1944 he flew his plane over the Mediterranean on a World War II reconnaissance mission from which he never returned."

Here is a close up of my bottle of the fragrance by the same name. It is a scent lovely beyond compare. "Vol de Nuit (1933) derives its name from the novel by Antoine de Saint Exupery, which relates the drama and excitement of the early years of aviation. In the novel, a pilot, newly wed, loses control of his aircraft, while his wife in the control tower waits feverishly for a sign of life. Vol de Nuit is a vibrant homage to this moving love story and to women who know how to live with danger." Neiman Marcus

I read this novel for Paris in July II hosted by Tamara and Karen; I highly recommend it.

Origami Stars...Origami Wreaths...Original Ways I'll Decorate My Classroom

Don't tell Alexandre Dumas. I used the pages from my paperback edition of The Count of Monte Cristo for some things I wanted to make out of origami. (Read, reuse, recycle, right?)

First, I tore out the pages:

Then, I cut them into 4cm by 8 cm rectangles:

to make little dog-eared pieces like this:

By inserting one into the other, all eight together make a wreath like this:

which I plan on hanging from real pine branches (thank you, storms from the Springtime) in my classroom with these:

Aren't they intriguing when piled on top of each other?

I can only imagine them suspended from a green silk ribbon, gently swaying above our desks...It's projects like this which make me excited to go back to school. As if I was eight years old myself.

(If you want to make the wreath, I found the directions here. As to the stars, they're in one of my origami books.)

The Girl In The Garden

Aba's words drifted back: There's nothing more thrilling than digging for the truth and finding it. All this time I had been giving into fear. What would Aba say if he knew what a coward I had been? Yes, there was no question, I had to go back...

My decision to go back to the garden made me feel both exhilarated and lonely. An invisible wall had been erected between me and my cousins. This was not an adventure that I could bring them along for, not even Krishna. I had to do it alone.

So atmospheric, so mysterious, The Girl In The Garden reminds me a bit of The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett. Why have a secret garden? Who's in the secret garden? How is it that a child will uncover what adults try to hide?

Kamala Nair's story is told from the perspective of eleven year old Rakhee who lives in Minnesota with her Amma (mother) and Aba (father). When blue envelopes begin to appear, which are written in an unfamiliar hand and addressed to her mother, Rakhee notices a change in Chikra. Together they travel back to India, to Chikra's home, and at first Rakhee is very happy playing with her cousins. She is not so happy, however, with some of her aunts and uncles nor with leaving her father behind.

When she sees one of her aunts, and her mother, go off into the forest when they assume she is sleeping, Rakhee's curiosity is aroused. Although she is told not to go there, for sinister beings inhabit the darkness, she nevertheless sneaks into the forest only to discover a garden holding a hidden girl.

The novel explores secrets from the past which have enormous impact on the present. As an adult, Rakhee cannot continue with her plans for marriage until she has resolved the repercussions which came from the girl in the garden. She must also come to terms with her parents' marriage, and more importantly her mother's life, before she can move on with her own.

Find more thoughts for The Girl In The Garden here.

Kamala Nair was born in London and grew up in the United States. A graduate of Wellesley College, she studied literature at Oxford University and received an M.Phil in Creative Writing from Trinity College Dublin in 2005. She currently lives in New York City, where she has worked at ELLE DECOR.

An Object of Beauty

One has a hard time determining if the object of beauty Steve Martin is talking about is that of Lacey, with whom the narrator is obviously smitten, or the art which inspires Lacey, and others, to collect.

I am amazed at Steve's ability to write about such work. Consider the following painting by John Singer Sargent and Martin's description of it:

In front of them was Sargent's El Jaleo. At almost twelve feet long, it had not been imagined by Lacey to be so monumental, and she felt now that as she approached it, the picture would engulf her. a Spanish dancer, her head thrown back, an arm reaching forward with a castanet, her other hand dramatically raising her white dress, steps hard on the floor. Behind, a bank of guitarists strum a flamenco rhythm that is impossible for us not to think we hear, and one hombre is caught in midclap, a clap we finish in our minds. Another is snoring. The scene is lit from below, as though by a fire, throwing up a wild plume of shadow behind the dancer. The frenzy and fever of the dance, the musicians, and the audience are palpable.

In Lacey, the picture aroused her deeper hunger for wild adventure that could not be fulfilled by a trip to Boston in modern times. She longed for wanton evenings spent in a different century, her own head tilted back, flashing a castanet and a slip of leg, and sex with men no longer among then living. Just then, Joshua leaned in to her and whispered, "That dress is fantastic."

Filled with double entendres, and a wonderfully dry sense of humour, I'm not sure where Steve is going with his heroine. As of now, I have no respect for her. But, for Steve? I applaud his writing, let alone his knowledge of art and the fools in Manhattan who sell themselves for it.

The Confession

I wouldn't be giving away any of the plot by telling you that the murderer confesses to his crime within the first twelve pages of this book. At which point I asked myself, "Why am I reading this? I already know who did it." But, it was a sufficiently interesting enough ploy that I continued on...reading Grisham, as one does, for the story with legal ramifications.

And, there's another thing that impresses me: his use of faith. I first noticed it in The Testament, and I noticed it again here. Whole passages which are dedicated to the issue of belief, and if I may be blunt, Christianity.

However, after witnessing the execution, Keith was a different person, or at least a different preacher. Suddenly, confronting social injustice was far more important than making his flock feel good each Sunday. He would begin hitting the issues, always from the Christian perspective and never from the politician's, and if it rankled folks, too bad. He was tired of playing it safe.

"Would Jesus witness an execution without trying to stop it?" he asked. "Would Jesus approve of laws that allow us to kill those who have killed?" The answer to both was no, and for a full hour, in the longest sermon of his career, Keith explained why not.

The novel does not come across as a sermon. It is a very moving examination of the death penalty, of innocence and guilt, of police work gone wrong and laws which are worse. I found it very thought provoking, and I'll be thinking about it for a long time to come.

And you? Do you have an opinion on the death penalty? Or, on those who are to uphold the law and instead only uphold their own agenda?

Astrid and Veronika

'A good father,' Astrid said. 'A loving father.' She looked up. The wine had painted her cheeks pink and Veronika suddenly thought she could again see beauty in the old face. 'Parents have such formidable power. They can protect you from all the pain in the world. Or inflict the hardest pain of all. And as children we accept what we get. Perhaps we believe that anything is better than that which we all fear the most.' She looked out the window, where the hot summer air stood still. 'Loneliness. Abandonment,' she said. 'But once you accept the fact that you have always been alone, and will always be, then your perspective can begin to change. You can become aware of the small kindnesses, the little comforts. Be grateful for them. And with time you will understand that there is nothing to fear. And much to be grateful for.'  She lifted her glass and drank the last mouthful. 'For me, the realization took a lifetime. Don't let it take you that long, Veronika.' (p. 189)

(Karin Boye is a Swedish poet whose work Linda Olsson includes in this book, and whom I had not known of before reading Astrid and Veronika. Perhaps you know of her already?)

Feeling the need for a bit of color in my header...

I love the black and white photograph by Nina Leen in my header. I do. I'm going to keep it as my 'gravatar' forever. But...

I'm itching for a bit of color up top. What do you think of these?

 

painting by Julius Garibaldi Gari Melchers

painting by Winslow Homer

Victorian Woman Reading



Woman Reading In a Garden by Harold Harvey



Woman Reading, Alexander Deineka

Repose by John White Alexander

While I like them all, there's one I'm particularly fond of. Which just very well may appear on the top of this blog sooner than later.

But, I'm wondering: do you have a favorite from this selection?

Paris in July II: The Perfect Colour and The Perfect Book

When Molly came to my mother's tea party, she left her iPhone on my end table. Knowing that she needed it to remind herself when to take her medication in the evening, I ran out to her Saab convertible where she was pulling out a silver case.

"Need to put my lipstick on while driving through downtown!" she happily explained.

"Molly!" I said upon seeing a black lacquer rectangle inside, "what colour is that?!"

I grabbed it from her as quickly as I could because I am not to be daunted in my discovery of the Perfect Red Lipstick. Which I've apparently found this time for sure.

The case said "Paris". It's from the Rouge Coco collection, and it's number 22. It's also the colour that Sandra Bullock wore when accepting her Oscar last year, but I didn't know that until I'd conducted further research on the colour.

Anyway, you see it pictured here above one of the books I'm going to read for Paris in July. Tried the collected stories of Guy de Maupassant last night, and just about died of disappointment. After Fitzgerald's? They're horribly disjointed and lacking impact.

So, Paris in July will be celebrated not only with Mavis Gallant's Paris Stories, it will be celebrated in style with Chanel's lipstick in the same name. Vivre Paris!

Oh, Those Japanese...Even Their Bookshelves Are Perfect

Behold one of the rooms in the Shelf pod designed by Kazuya Morita.

Surely he sees how us bibliophiles would really like to live.

Of Things We Like. Or, Not.

I had a tea party for my mother today. And long after we ate the red pears with Gorgonzola, the orange currant muffins with Black Forest Ham, the pecan chicken salad on cucumber rounds, followed by the poppyseed cake, there was a conversation about this blog.

"Tom likes your blog, you know," said his wife Amy. "He really does."

A look of small surprise from me, that my pleasure would strike this judge's fancy.

"But," said Tom, "I really want to know what you think of the book."

"Hmmmm?" I say, thinking that my reviews give an indication of what I liked.

"If you really enjoyed it," he said, "I want to know. Or, if you think it's just so-so, I want to know."

I'm so busy worrying about hurting someone's feelings, that I don't say, "Hey! This book is meaningless drivel." When I have said that, about one or two, I'm anxious I've offended the author especially when I'm reviewing per request. (Which I'm determined to do less of, but that's a post for another day.)

"I think it would be very helpful," said my mother, "for people who know you, and trust you, and read your blog, to have your honest opinion."

"Yeah," said my husband, "you could give it five quills or something. Five bookmarks, maybe."

"Or three," said Amy.

And so, I think I'll go back to rating the books I've read on a five star basis. As I used to do in 2008 or so. The elementary teacher part of me, the part that has to be an encouragement to every child in the room, will be laid aside in the name of blunt truth on my blog. I loved this book. I hated this book. I think this book is okay. From here on out.

Ellis Island

The final leg of my journey took less than ten minutes. As the barge drew into my final port, Manhattan, my eyes strained into the sun as it glittered off a million windows, buildings that stretched up to the sky--yearning toward God Himself. This was a new world, a new life, a new beginning, and for the first time since leaving Ireland I felt intoxicated. My fear turned, finally, to excitement. I wished John was with me, but this was an adventure I would have to experience alone.

I stepped of the boat onto the jetty at Pier A and then onto solid ground at last.

Ireland was in my heart, but under my feet was America.

This is the story of Ellie, a girl who could have been one of many who left Ireland in the 1920s for the opportunities available in America. When her life-long love, and husband, was shot while with the IRA, there was no money for his surgery, no hope for his recovering the use of his leg. So Ellie bravely went to New York to live with her childhood friend, Sheila, as maids for a socialite. Ellie becomes accustomed to the bounty America has to offer, from lipstick and hooch, to delectable foods, to starched, crisp linen and electricity. Even more importantly, she has the wisdom to seek skills which will make her independent; she convinces Sheila to go to secretarial school, and she attends herself at the offer of Sheila's fiance.

Yet all this time, Ellie is away from her husband, John. She doesn't want to return to Ireland; he doesn't want to come to America. It is a crossroads for her, where she must determine what she will make of her life. Should she continue to live in the luxury of America? Or, should she return to the small town in Ireland, without its everyday conveniences, but with her husband?

This is a light read which covered a myriad of difficult topics: how do we fulfill our dreams when they are at cross purposes with another? How do we make ourselves content with what we have? How do we stay loyal to our commitments? How can we overcome the past? I thoroughly enjoyed Ellie's story, especially in the light of this July 4th holiday. Because while America has so much to offer, we find what we need most at home.

Find the author's website here, and the link to the book here. Other stops for the tour are here.

Paris In July II: A Little Advice, Please

Behold the French literature which is already in my nook (click on each title to visit the link at Barnes and Noble):

Twenty Thousand Leagues Under The Sea by Jules Verne

The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexander Dumas

Eugenie Grandet by Honore de Balzac

A Journey To The Center of The Earth by Jules Verne

Les Miserables by Victor Hugo

Lost Illusions by Honore de Balzac

Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert

The Man in The Iron Mask by Alexandre Dumas

Nana by Emile Zola

The Phantom of The Opera by Gaston Leroux

Pierre and Jean by Guy de Maupassant

The Collected Stories of Guy de Maupassant

Sentimental Education by Gustave Flaubert

The Hunchback of Notre Dame by Victor Hugo

The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas

Such a selection to choose from for the Paris in July II that I'm baffled. Have already read Madame Bovary (three times), The Count of Mont Cristo, and Les Miserables. Loved Therese Raquin which I read last year. I should also add that I've read Candide (in French!), Around The World in 80 Days, and of course Le Petit Prince (also in French). I think that's it, but it's just a drop in the bucket when I look at what's around me.

Have you any suggestions for what to read this year? Where to start? Care to join me in any of the above titles? I'd love your input!