Moral Disorder
Margaret Atwood
Bloomsbury
0747581622
2006
Short story revivals are few. It seems the reader likes to enjoy the development of a character through more substantial force. Sometimes when you read a short story you can be left wanting more. The thirst that left me needing more in Spring in Fialta, for example. This latest book is an amalgam of a number of short regions of text, that all fit together beautifully. And Atwood has billed this 'almost a novel' I think its discreet parts are the rest of story you might have been left to imagine.
The pockets of life, build up the differing textures of the life of Nell, and are dotted with Atwoods dry humour, that had me laughing and grinning on crowded platforms and at bus stops. You will glide through her writing and the force of images and events leave an imprint of moments built up following a lifetime of relationships.The flow of time is disjointed sometimes from actual events. In being detached from tomorrow we get the sense of relating our own memories, for example, driving in the car and having the same conversation that we had last week; being taken advantage of by manipulative charisma, the list goes on, but the ideas and relationships reveal our emotional feelers and that launch the events of life we sometimes regret, and sometimes whose meaning and repercussions we might not realise.
It is addictive and inviting as a novel.
Second snap from Jon Mcgregor
So many ways to begin
Jon McGregor
Bloomsbury
0747579466
2006
Chapter titles are usually given to reader as aid to smooth juncture, they may result, for example, in a change in scenery, a shift in time or promote the natural end of a 'scene' with the beginning of another. So when using then, they are helpful, for both author and reader. For one in the writing process, aiding manageable sized regions of words and meaning, and thenceforth for the reader, sitting on the train or waiting for the train. So when opening to the title page and finding the chapters all represented as titles, -or perhaps clues, adds an additional dimension to their purpose. But was it useful? And what was Jon McGregor aiming to do with this, his second novel?
The story is a simple one. The lack of regional twang despite a UK-wide spread of characters adds to the simplistic sensitivity. The people are real, the reality is a luncheon of squashed sandwiches, but it is also a quiet ride on a busy commuter train. You will be absorbed into the life of David Carter, his pursuit, his love, and his so many ways to begin. A throwaway conversational title used, that resonates with your own thoughts, where did things begin, -an issue at work, a dislike of kidney beans, and perhaps a little deeper, where is life from? In studying science, you are always led on a quest for the origin, for the beginning, and its appeal is that once you know the beginning you might be able to understand the consequences. McGregor does not disguise the futility. But puts his characters not at the mercy of lost letters or violent tropical storms, but of life itself, and a subjective path. And this is perhaps why I enjoyed this book. I believed his characters, and the love which grew so naturally, I imagine is close to McGregor's own understanding. His female protagonist is portrayed with such detail and compassion, I believe, perhaps naively to be only based in experience. A stunning read.
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Hay here gone tommorow
Hay 2006
While the sun didnt shine the faux streets of the adjoining the tents of Hay unfailingly produced much to talk of. Speaking up for poetry Nick Laird, related his story by rote while wife, in attendance, Zadie Smith presumably prepared off stage for her interview with George Saunders. The George Saunders talk, for it was him whom was the new thunderbolt, did seem to relay a future theme for Smith, -therapy. While the man himself a dumbass read from his article in the New Yorker and related his pursuit of a career in writing at the age of 28, while working as an engineer, his novels have an clear and appealing style, and the man mass appeal as it would seem Zadies pupils at Harvard and she herself had tried her hand at a GSS, a George Saunders story. What came from this packed tent in a rainy Welsh field was the need for every writer to accept and find their own voice, and once found not to try and get comfortable, constantly challenging your writing as you get older. Later a real treat was related by Germaine Greer, whose analysis of Donnes 19th elegy formed the basis of her annual lecture, although reminded of her ropey scientific background, when comparing complex animal behaviours among males rather too freely by an audience member. She did however suck the marrow from to his mistress with revelation, with bite and dedication. Published posthumously, the initial indications lead the reader astray, and the title To his Mistress is unfortunately, chosen by analysis not from the author. Placed hear for your own analysis.
19th Elegy
To His Mistress Going to Bed
Come, madam, come, all rest my powers defy,
Until I labour, I in labour lie.
The foe oft-times having the foe in sight,
Is tired with standing though he never fight.
Off with that girdle, like heavens zone glistening,
But a fairer world encompassing.
Unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear,
That th eyes of busy fools may be stopped there.
Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime
Tells me from you that now it is bed time.
Off with that happy busk, which I envy,
That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.
Your gown going off, such beauteous state reveals,
As when from flowry meads thhills shadow steals.
Off with that wiry coronet and show
The hairy diadem which on you doth grow:
Now off with those shoes, and then safely tread
In this loves hallowed temple, this soft bed.
In such white robes, heavens angels used to be
Received by men: thou, Angel, bringst with thee
A heaven like Mahomets Paradise; and though
Ill spirits, we easily know
By this these angels from an evil sprite:
Those set out hairs, but these our flesh upright.
Licence my roving hands, and let them go
Before, behind, between, above, below.
O my America~ my new-found-land,
My kingdom, safeliest when with one man manned,
My mine of precious stones, my empery
How blest am I in this discovering thee!
To enter in these bonds is to be free;
Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.
Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee,
As souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be,
To taste whole joys. Gems which women use
Are like Atlantas balls, cast in mens views,
That when a fools eye lighteth on a gem,
His earthly soul may covet theirs, not them:
Like pictures, or like books gay coverings made
For lay-men, are all women thus arrayed.
Themselves are mystic books, which only we
(Whom their imputed grace will dignify)
Must see revealed. Then, since that I may know,
As liberally as to a midwife, show
Thyself: cast all, yea, this white linen hence,
There is no penance due to innocence:
To teach thee, I am naked first; why than,
What needst thou have more covering than a man?
Following Greer, she herself informally introduced the audience of the tent to Peggy Atwood. Now as a young button, the Handmaids tale had left a deep impression, and Atwood, in person, a sprightly impish woman of 71 flooded us with her charisma and a great dose of storytelling.
Nature rained and rained like a scene from a great war movie there was moments where it was expected the Welsh weather might engulf us and our tents
