Christmas Presents

Christmas has resulted in an embarrassment of riches. I now have books piled up on every available surface in my bedroom, as well as some hidden behind various articles of furniture so that my parents don’t trip over them and demand another book cull. The memories of the last one are still too fresh.

On the list of new acquisitions are several novels by David Lodge, the new Cassandra Clare book (which I can’t even start as I haven’t finished the first book in the series yet), two books by Nancy Mitford and oodles more.

I made steady progress. Between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day I finished How Far Can You Go by David Lodge, and The Seven Sisters by Margaret Drabble. The Lodge book was brilliant; as a bit of a lapsed Catholic myself I could identify somewhat with the sense of Catholic guilt that pervades the whole novel. I’ve also had many conversations with my Nana about the revelation that was Vatican II, so those sections raised many a chuckle. The Drabble was also a good read, but I found Candida, the narrator, very difficult to warm to. I think that’s supposed to be the point though; you empathise with this cold, bitter woman in spite of her flaws.

I was also on the receiving end of some teeny-bopper novels, for which I have a great fondness. The best of these was Haunting Violet by Alyxandra Harvey, which I read in one sitting and loved to bits and pieces. The eponymous Violet lives in Victorian London and is the daughter of a sham medium. Her mother is an absolute weapon, as my Nana would say. She uses her daughters’ beauty to further her phony career, wrangling an invitation to perform a séance at the house of a landed gentleman in the country. Violet, her mother and Colin, the Irish manservant, depart to the manner where Violet quickly makes three discoveries; she really can see ghosts, the daughter of the neighbouring manor house has been murdered and she may or may not be in love with Colin.

This was a lovely little book. I’ve been having a love affair with period drama novels of late and this was right up my alley. I imagine anyone who has read Cassandra Clares’ Clockwork Angel would enjoy Violets’ story, as I’m told they are in much the same vein. Sadly, the aforementioned Clare novel is still in my to-be-read stack and probably won’t be touched this side of Uni exams.  Oh well. I have a week of before the second semester starts in February…we’ll see about it then.

Delayed Post

This was written a couple of days before Christmas but with all the excitement I forgot all about posting it

This weekend I fell home from work with three bags of books to be given out to friends, relations and neighbours as Christmas presents. My mum got books (to go with the very desirable boots she emailed me the sales link for). My brothers got books, in addition to a Playstation 3 game I couldn’t dissuade them from. My baby neighbour, who is one and cannot read yet, is getting a copy of Owl Babies. Start ‘em young.

My reasoning for this? The print book is dying. While Amazon (who I do buy from, I won’t lie) are counting the squillion pounds they have made from their Kindle, three bookshops I used to frequent have closed down. Nearly sixty people, all knowledgeable and endlessly helpful, are out of a job. This is why I am trying to single handedly boost consumer spending with my book buying, and have also hidden my mother’s Kindle charger; I don’t have anything against them on principle, but they just aren’t books.

Books have a smell. The paper of a fresh, unread book has feels lovely as you open it for the first time. Know what else is lovely? The sound of the spine cracking on a brand new paperback as you sit down with it, prepared to while away a few hours in blissful enjoyment.  You can’t go into a bookshop and browse new e-book downloads, can you? Clearly not. You have to buy them via the t’internet, which means you are stuck to your iPod or iPad or smartphone or whatever other gadget is currently replacing proper social interaction in your life.

True, you could also say that books make you antisocial, what with reading being a fairly solitary activity, but at least to get your hands on a physical book you had to go into a shop and interact with a sales assistant. Or if you borrowed the book from a friend or relative, then the chances are you had some sort of a conversation about the novel you were both going to end up reading. My nana and I had a mutual squealing fit at one another this week, all over a paperback novel. We were passing through the book department in the department store where I work, and happened upon the new PD James, called Death Comes to Pemberley. I mentioned, idly, that Pemberley is where Mr. Darcy lives in Pride and Prejudice, which of course spiked my Nana’s interest because she is of a generation that loves Jane Austen. It transpired that this novel was, indeed, a continuation of The Elizabeth and Darcy story, which meant my Nana and I had to chase each other to the till to each buy a copy. Why? Because a book about Elizabeth and Darcy is only ever a good thing.

My reason for the above digression? My Nana is (excuse the expletive) screwed if they stop printing books. She can’t even switch her DVD player on, let alone work out how to use Whispernet. And she’s fairly techie, compared to my Grandad and their circle of friends. My great-aunt finds electric windows on cars to be a challenge, so the whole realm of the E-Reader would most likely make her want to give up on life all together. I don’t think she’d want to live in a world where Mills and Boon weren’t easily available.

Don’t get me started on library closures. I think I’ve vented enough for one evening.