BOOKS: Four Legs Good, Etc.

Yann Martel has just sent Prime Minister Stephen Harper a copy of Animal Farm.

That's a little... obvious, don't you think? What's next? Machiavelli's The Prince?

ETC: Hey There, Cupcake

I don't seem to have much in the way of words this week. Thank god for pictures. Glorious, thousand-word-equalling pictures.

I'm making cupcakes this weekend, so I looked around the web for inspiration. Can someone remind me again: what did we do before the internet?

Hmm... I'm leaning toward making those little sea-anemone-looking buddies up there. You may be spiky, but you don't scare me, cupcakes. Maybe something in a devil's food cake with cream cheese frosting? Too rich? Not rich enough? I'm such a poor judge of these things, probably because I eat sticks of butter for breakfast.

These are all from a Flickr user called chotda. Check out the other 38 images in his/her/its cupcake photostream.

"Cupcake photostream." There's a phrase I bet you couldn't have predicted ten years ago. These are, indeed, magnificent times in which we live.

BOOKS: Form Following Function Following Form

Once I figured out what I was looking at, this curving bookshelf made of recycled books on a metal frame really started to grow on me. Now all I have to do is completely gut the rabbit warren of rooms in my house to make room for it...

(From German design house Studio Aisslinger, via Dwell)

BOOKS: Juxtaposed

"5,084,000,000 people, 5,360 pages, 3,700 years, 243 countries, 7 books, and 1 shelf. For the first time, the world's most influential religious texts are brought together and presented on the same level, their coexistence acknowledged and celebrated."

(From blankblank by way of Dwell)

BOOKS: If Thomas Hardy Wrote Children's Books...

...they might look something like this:

(Ups to Yomama, whose 12-year-old has this poster on his wall, for the pic. If Sam is that cool when he gets older, I'll be one proud mom.)

Found Poem for a Second Birthday

It's the most terrifying day of your life,
the day the first one is born.

Yeah. Nobody ever tells you that.

Your life,
as you know it,
is gone.

Never to return.

But they learn how to walk,
and they learn how to talk, and...

and you want to be with them.

And they turn out to be the most
delightful people
you will ever meet in your life.

BOOKS: What Is Stephen Harper Reading?

Perhaps the talk of poutine was a foreshadowing of this post... a cheesy, gravy-smothered foreshadowing. Be that as it may, you may be interested to know that Yann Martel, author of the love-it-or-hate-it award-winning novel Life of Pi, has decided to send Prime Minister Stephen Harper a new book every fortnight, along with a letter explaining why he has chosen each particular book.

Dear Mr. Harper,

The Death of Ivan Ilych, by Leo Tolstoy, is the first book I am sending you. I thought at first I should send you a Canadian work—an appropriate symbol since we are both Canadians—but I don’t want to be directed by political considerations of any sort, and, more importantly, I can’t think of a work of such brevity, hardly 60 pages, that shows so convincingly the power and depth of great literature....

I know you’re very busy, Mr. Harper. We’re all busy. Meditating monks in their cells are busy. That’s adult life, filled to the ceiling with things that need doing. (It seems only children and the elderly aren’t plagued by lack of time—and notice how they enjoy their books, how their lives fill their eyes.) But every person has a space next to where they sleep, whether a patch of pavement or a fine bedside table. In that space, at night, a book can glow. And in those moments of docile wakefulness, when we begin to let go of the day, then is the perfect time to pick up a book and be someone else, somewhere else, for a few minutes, a few pages, before we fall asleep...

You can track the subsequent books, along with any response Martel gets from the PM's office, in the unlikely event that a response is forthcoming, here.

Apparently, this project was born of Martel's -- and other Canadian authors' -- frustration with the government's funding cuts to the arts. It'll be interesting to see if this protest gets results, but I'm not holding my breath. I have a hard time believing Harper will even make it through Martel's letters, let alone actual novels.

Besides, I understand the PM's kind of busy working on his own book.

WORDS: Adventures in Bilingualism

"Did I just overhear you telling Sam that 'chien' is the French word for 'frog'?"
"Oui!"
"But it's not. It means 'dog'."
"Non!"
"Er, yes."
"..."
"..."
"Je m'appelle poutine!"

ETC: Needless to Say, Poop Everywhere

It's been an emotional Tilt-a-Whirl of a week. So now I offer you a rather amusing story about our man Sam, for you to read and enjoy at your leisure:

Before Sam's afternoon nap, I had to change his diaper, because he'd had a huge poop. So I did this, then left him in his room while I went to the washroom to wash my hands. I put the diaper on the banister in the hallway (en route to its final destination in our outdoor garbage bin), so as not to stink up his room, because I'm a thoughtful parent that way.

I come out of the bathroom, and the diaper is gone. I look downstairs to see if it's fallen off the banister, but it's not there. I go into Sam's room, only to see him helpfully trying to stuff the poopy diaper into the Diaper Champ.

Needless to say, poop everywhere.

Much hand-washing was involved.

And then he pooped again.

The end.

(This story kind of puts mine into perspective, though. At least Sam didn't pee on the dog.)

RIP Kurt Vonnegut: "Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt."

Kurt Vonnegut is dead. This upsets me more than I would have expected.

I remember the first Vonnegut novel I read. It was God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater. I was sixteen or seventeen. I don't think I really got the book at the time. Actually, I know I didn't. I'm not sure I do now, despite having read it -- along with most of Vonnegut's other novels -- at least a half dozen times. But I remember the following passage, which has been seared into my memory since I first read it:

The client who was about to make Eliot's black telephone ring was a sixty-eight-year-old virgin who, by almost anybody's standards, was too dumb to live. Her name was Diana Moon Glampers. No one had ever loved her. There was no reason why anyone should. She was ugly, stupid, and boring. On the rare occasions when she had to introduce herself, she always said her full name, and followed that with the mystifying equation that had thrust her into life so pointlessly:

"My mother was a Moon. My father was a Glampers."

It sounds almost breathtakingly cruel, this passage, and I'm pretty sure that was my impression twenty years ago, too. But something about this Vonnegut meanie kept me coming back for more. I read all the mainstays: Slaughterhouse-5, Breakfast of Champions, Cat's Cradle. And then I read the lesser-known books: Galapagos, Player Piano, Jailbird, The Sirens of Titan (and many more). And then I read the essays and various pieces of short fiction (of which there are many). Every three or four years, I would feel this powerful compulsion to go on a Vonnegut bender, and I would read five, six, seven, or more of his novels in a row. At the end of each binge, I was very little wiser, but strangely satiated.

After all this reading, I don't know how much I know about Vonnegut. I know that that first passage about Diana Moon Glampers that so fascinated me probably captures, as well as anything does, the complexity of Vonnegut's writing. Because you pity Diana Moon Glampers, don't you? But don't you also hate her a little bit, for being so stupid and helplessly cowlike? And she makes you afraid, doesn't she, because deep down in your egalitarian, humanist heart you don't want to believe that there are really people like that, not really REALLY? Because if they do, then why? What is their purpose? What does it mean? And what are YOU supposed to do about it? Are you even SUPPOSED to do anything?

This is the terrible dilemma that Eliot Rosewater, the fourteenth-richest man in America is in. He has a pathological need to help the Diana Moon Glamperses of the world, even when his help is dubiously received and has questionable success. And you sort of pity and hate Eliot Rosewater, too, and you want to shake him for launching this futile project. But at the same time you love him, and it makes your heart happy that he's out there trying.

This is kind of how I feel about Vonnegut. He's been described as a pessimist, and I guess he is (was). But it seemed like he always felt that you should still struggle for goodness and compassion and love -- and that he knew what these things are and that they exist and are real and are probably the ONLY things worth fighting for -- even if your struggle is probably doomed.

These days, it seems like pessimism and cynicism and irony are pretty thick on the ground. And when we do encounter idealism, it's overly earnest and unpalatable. Vonnegut made our idealism real and noble and, even in failure, heroic and tragic. I don't know when or if another writer like this will come along.

ETC.

WEB: Why Does the Internet Hate Books?

I have no idea why, but I'm on the mailing list for the Webbys. Which, fine, I'm as competent at ignoring those emails as I am at ignoring all the others. But then I got an email announcing the nominees for 2007, and as a productive member of the internet once said, WTF? Of the many, many categories up for grabs, books don't even come up once? We see all the other media and "arts" represented – music, radio*, movies (or as some like to call them, "films"), television, fashion, newspapers, even friggin MAGAZINES – but no books?

Does the internet hate books? Does the internet need to be reminded that books are pretty much what catapulted the written word into public prominence and kept the written word afloat for a couple hundred centuries or so until the internet came along? Is the internet ashamed of this? Don't be ashamed, internet. These are your roots. Love your roots.

Or is it because, deep down, the internet knows that, when the end times come, books will still be around long after every server in the world has become an oversized doorstop? Admittedly, these doorstops will prove handy when barricading oneself against hordes of irradiated mutant zombies, but is this enough to placate you, internet? I think not. Your bitterness is, perhaps, understandable.

Or is the internet too busy nominating its favourite insurance and pharmaceuticals websites for awards to care any more?

Oh, internet. Books love you. Why don't you love books?

*Speaking of which, Rusty's site is nominated in this category. So to prove to him that I have no sour grapes -- despite having EVERY GOOD REASON TO -- I'd like to gently suggest that you check it out, then perhaps toddle over and vote for it in the Radio category.

Me? I'm off to book a space on this cruise. Do you think it's toddler-friendly?

LIST: Books I've Read (but May as Well Not Have, Because I've Forgotten Every Damned Thing about Them)

So, get this. Our refrigerator died on Friday, but lo! Our new refrigerator arose on Monday! Coincidence? Divine intercession? Blasphemy? All three? You be the judge!

Anyway. I was chatting with my friend K8T about books, and she asked me if I've ever read The Englishman's Boy, which she's currently reading. I told her I have, but it was several years ago and I couldn't remember much. She described the plot to me, which lead to the following exchange:

"So that's up to where I'm at."
"Wow. That sounds like a really good book."
"Is any of it coming back to you?"
"Not a bit."

I'm not exaggerating. I literally remember nothing of this book. By virtue of the title, I'm able to extrapolate something about a boy, and I suspect a gentleman of the English persuasion may be involved, but that's about it. Oh, and based on the cover design, something about cowboys.

So I started wondering how many other novels I've read whose plots and characters have completely, and no doubt permanently, escaped me. It turns out, after a quick scan of my shelves, quite a few!

The Winter of Our Discontent by John Steinbeck
This is where titles are helpful. I may not remember anything about this book, but I can still bask in that wintry, discontented vibe when I look at it.

The Long Valley by John Steinbeck
Don't get the impression that I can't remember anything by Steinbeck. I have many chunks of East of Eden and Travels with Charley committed to memory. But The Long Valley? I dunno, dude. Has anyone other than me even read this? Care to refresh my memory?

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce
I'm not even one hundred percent sure I read this book. I think I did, because I had to for school. But maybe I didn't. I don't know what to believe any more, man.

Bleak House by Charles Dickens
See above.

Islands in the Stream by Ernest Hemingway
I like a lot of Hemingway a lot. This book? Not so much.

The Moon and Sixpence by W. Somerset Maugham
You know how it is when you read a couple of great books by a writer and then you go on a bender and read everything else you can get your hands on, including the lesser books? And then you may as well not have bothered because later you can only remember the first two books anyway? Yeah.

Put out More Flags and Officers and Gentlemen by Evelyn Waugh
See above.

The Longest Journey by E.M. Forster
Er. See above.

The Ghost Writer, Letting Go, Zuckerman Unbound, Deception, Our Gang, and Goodbye, Columbus by Philip Roth
Philip Roth, it seems, is incapable of writing a single memorable word. Wait, that's not quite true. I can absolutely recall the scene in Portnoy's Complaint when the main character describes a moment in his adolescence when he ejaculates into his own eye (by accident, HE CLAIMS) while masturbating. It's easy to see how that scene could stick (so to speak).

Jailbird by Kurt Vonnegut
This is a rarity. Generally, Vonnegut creates images that are permanently branded onto, uh, whatever part of my brain remembers these sorts of things. But hey, everyone's entitled to an off day, right?

The Fourth Hand by John Irving
For all I know, this story is about a group of eccentric bridge players. Tell you the truth, knowing Irving, I wouldn't even find it that surprising.

Solomon Gursky Was Here by Mordecai Richler
OR WAS HE?

Man. And that's just a sampling from books I still have lying around the house. I couldn't even begin to speculate on how many have been lost to the ages because I purged them or returned them to the library. Lost. All lost. And don't even try to calculate how many lost reading hours this amounts to. (Answer: A lot.)

Question is: I've still got all these books. Do I re-read them, assuming that, if I haven't purged them, there must be SOMETHING I liked enough to want to keep them around? Or do I assume that, if I can't remember a blamed thing about them, they obviously suck -- or at the very least are tragically mediocre -- and should be tossed to make room for more memorable books?

ETC: "A terrible beauty is born"

I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road.
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.

Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse -
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

W.B. Yeats, "Easter, 1916"

BOOKS: I Gush, Therefore I Am

Well, colour me embarrassed. We're halfway through Buy a Friend a Book Week, and I've been so busy kvetching about my little problems (and railing against extreme right-wing conservatives, because sometimes I enjoy exercises in futility) that I plum forgot all about it.

This is all the more shameful because I have, of late, been on the receiving end of an unexpected (and, it must be said, undeserved) parade of books from various friends, loved ones, and well-wishers. (What do you call such a collection of books? A bounty of books? A bumper crop of books? A gratitude of books?)

You know that feeling when the world seems full of amazing books you have yet to read? That feeling you get after an especially awesome birthday haul, or when all your special orders come in at the library at the same time? How is it that that feeling transmutes into a general sense that the world is a good and wise and generous place? And that you're as lucky as you've ever hoped to be, and far luckier than you deserve?

If you could bottle this feeling and administer it in pill form, it'd be an end to war and unhappiness. Better idea: Let's just slip it in the water supply.

I'm off. Gotta go buy a friend a book.

ETC: Other Folks Do Things So We Don't Have To

I feel like poop. And not just boring old regular poop.

Have I ever told you that my dog Dobbs is a poop-eater? (Apparently, it's a dominance thing. According to dog logic, if you poop and Dobbs eats it, Dobbs wins. This is why (a) you should never make the mistake of thinking dogs are like people, and (b) you should never kiss dogs.) Despite our best efforts to prevent this, sometimes Dobbs eats too much poop, or the wrong kind of poop, and it disagrees with him and causes him to then output his own special brand of recycled poop that Rusty likes to call "Twice Poo."

That's the kind of poop I feel like.

Fortunately, there are other folks out there doing interesting things so that I don't have to.

.......

The Best of Blogs awards
The finalists are up, so haul ass over there to get in your vote for Best Book/Literary Blog. You can vote every single day between now and April 13. There are some worthy contenders, which I should know because I was on the panel that helped pick the finalists. Ideally, by the time the voting is over, your blogroll -- and democracy at large -- will be a better place.

.......

Kimbooktu invention contest
As someone with a big pile of unfolded laundry gathering dust on my bedroom floor, I admire the wherewithal of someone who takes the time to administer a contest. Kimbooktu is challenging readers to design an original book gadget/thingy (pardon my technical jargon), with the winner receiving a gift box full of other cool book gadgets and thingies.

I'll be curious to see the entries in this one. My own invention -- a book that also FOLDS LAUNDRY -- has gotten stalled at the R&D phase.

.......

Where the Wild Things Grow
A landscape designer named Tiggy Salt has recreated the setting for Maurice Sendak's story Where the Wild Things Are for the 2007 Chelsea Flower Show:

Tiggy's vision for the garden combines the familiar with the fantastic - a juxtaposition of cottage garden plants with exotic jungle foliage to capture the moment when the everyday environment of Max's room transforms into his vivid fantasy world...

This fills me with awe. It also fills me with guilt about the lone plant in our house -- a defenceless little bonsai -- that we're in the slow process of torturing to death.

[Thanks for the link, Anonymous, wherever you are.]

.......

Emily's reading nook
This project also fills me with awe, but no guilt! Emily took an IKEA room display as a jumping-off point to create her own much cozier reading nook. She also found a nifty way to incorporate floating book shelves into the space.

While it looks like a bit of work (Emily tells me it took a day, including shopping time), it still looks do-able, even to me.

[Thanks for the pics, Emily!]

.......

Britain's 'Gay Lit' experiment
With the goal to stop, or at least reduce, homophobic bullying in schools, the UK has embarked on a bold new endeavour:

No Outsiders is the name of a research project funded by Britain's Economic and Social Research Council that shares the same aim. The project is trying to address sexuality equality in primary schools and the researchers are doing this, in part, by introducing literature with gay themes to children aged four to 11 at 14 U.K. primary schools.

Fortunately, conservative Christian groups are on standby to protect humanity's long and storied tradition of intolerance:

The group Christian Voice opposes the concept. It says the British government promotes homosexuality and recently held a vigil outside Parliament as the House of Lords voted to support gay equality legislation.

Stephen Green, the group's national director, believes literature with gay themes is dangerous for children.

"They're trying to say to children that homosexuality is fine, so it's blatant propaganda… I just don't reckon school is the place for that. I just don't want children to be mentally interfered with in this way," he said.

On the other hand, mentally interfering with children to convince them to believe in an invisible patriarchal entity who dictates that you never, ever question authority... well, that's A-OK.

ETC: To Sleep, Perchance

Insomnia. Tired. So tired. Gah.

One thing my fellow insomniacs may relate to: How non-insomniacs like to give us helpful advice. Such as "Just close your eyes" and "It's all in your head" and "Get over it."

Why, THANK YOU. None of those things had OCCURRED TO ME. I will just close my eyes and use my phenomenal brain power to GET OVER IT. Where do you live? I'd like to send you a flaming bag of dog poo a nice thank-you note.