Kristin Lavransdatter: The Wreath

Just finished The Wreath, the first book of Sigrid Undset's trilogy Kristin Lavransdatter, translated by Tiina Nunnally. I'm reading along with Emily and Richard and a number of other bloggers (for which I'm very late, but here it is).

The Wreath was neither gripping nor compelling as I expected. It was a little too underwhelming. Did engage me but failed to impress. Still, in a cozy way, I liked it. Particularly for the setting and the era.

In light of historical fiction, I thought this was an excellent piece of literature. The author painted quite a stunning picture of Norwegian medieval countryside, but did so subtly that, while I focused mainly on the story, it was evident that the backdrop of the place and time was so much more the highlight than it first appeared to be.

I haven't read many historical fiction, but not because I don't want to. In fact, quite the opposite: the Middle Ages fascinate me. It's just that the books I've picked up in the past were somehow disheartening, being so poorly written. (Any suggestions?)

So, even if I wasn't exactly in love with the story, nor with Kristin and any of the other characters, I did fall in love with the setting. Pictured myself running along the meadows, with snow-capped mountains not far ahead (even though I don't ever run), feeling kind of like Maria in The Sound of Music.

I think I understand why this may have been considered a modernist novel. Published in the 1920s, Kristin's sentiments and behaviour reflected that of wantonness and impropriety. Hardly shocking now, but at a time when personal values were still so extremely conservative, she came off as willful and strong-headed. Kristin's struggle with her guilt over premarital sex may seem like a non-issue today, yet it actually made the story believable and authentically medieval. What cares they had that we so overlook today! Religion and faith were evidently big players in society and the individual psyche.

I found Kristin's own feelings for Erlend somehow wavering. The bouts of tenderness she felt towards him were constantly tainted by guilt and contempt. She may have felt lovesick, but I felt they were more fits of passion than true affection. I actually saw her as, not cold exactly but, guarded, as reflected by her encounters with Arne the summer before he left Jorundgaard. Not quite convinced that she completely opened her heart to Erlend. To me this made her more real and human, more believable as a character. As with the time when Erlend visited Jorundgaard to remove Kristin's belongings to Husaby and Kristin noticed for the first time how Erlend walked a little crooked. And her wedding day, when she was gripped with despair instead of happiness.

I'm also not convinced yet that Sigrid Undset deserved the Nobel Prize, but still hopeful that the rest of Kristin's story will prove otherwise. Somehow positive that it will be more than just a romance. So far both plot and writing have not been very remarkable, but after this section's ending I expect the rest to be more enthralling. (I'm especially hoping to read more about Lavrans's and Ragnfrid's past.) Expecting to be, maybe not blown away, but at least moved, further on.

In the Mail Today

The Persephone Biannually, Autumn & Winter 2009-2010.

It feels crazy amazing to be quoted and to see my name (well, my blog's name) in print! And doubly so, being among blogging buddies Paperback Reader and things mean a lot and Book Snob and Bloomsbury Bell. (Plus a few other bloggers, veteran Persephone advocates, I also follow.)

Which reminds me. Book Psmith is hosting a lovely Persephone gift swap for the holidays. While I don't really celebrate Christmas any longer (long story, religious reasons), I don't mind a little gift-giving in light of community and friendship.

The best thing of it is the surprise. I wonder how my gift-giver will perceive me as a reader, which Persephone they think will match me? I also can't wait to pick a book for someone else! Hope I get it right for him or her.

Now I must leave you as I am eager to sample, finally, a Dorothy Whipple. Her short story, A Lovely Time, within the pages of the biannually. No exaggerating, but I'm giddy with excitement.

P.S. The bookmark I received was from Laski's To Bed with Grand Music, which is a title I so covet and hopefully will have in my hands soon.

(If you received the biannually, which bookmark did you get?)

The Temple of the Golden Pavilion

Standing on the small bridge, we gazed absently at the water. Amid all one's wartime memories, such short absent moments leave the most vivid impression. These brief moments of inactive abstraction lurked everywhere, like patches of blue sky that peep through the clouds. It is strange that a moment like this should have remained clearly in my mind, just as though it had been an occasion of poignant pleasure. [45]

And that night, indeed, this young man with his stinging tongue, who usually seemed interested in beauty only in so far as he could defile it, showed me a truly delicate aspect of his nature. He had a far, far more accurate theory about beauty than I did. He did not tell it to me in words, but with his gestures and his eyes, with the music that he played on his flute, and with that forehead of his which emerged in the moonlight. [130]

Later, when I came to know Kashiwagi more intimately, I understood that he disliked lasting beauty. His likings were limited to things such as music, which vanished instantly, or flower arrangements, which faded in a matter of days; he loathed architecture and literature . . . Yet how strange a thing is the beauty of music! The brief beauty that the player brings into being transforms a given period of time into pure continuance; it is certain never to be repeated; like the existence of dayflies and other such short-lived creatures, beauty is a perfect abstraction and creation of life itself. Nothing is so similar to life as music . . . [131]

Above excerpts from The Temple of the Golden Pavilion by Yukio Mishima. Translated from the Japanese by Ivan Morris.

Based on a true event, this is a dark, psychological novel of unsettling beauty and depth. In fact, beauty and depth are preoccupations of the main character.

While reading, I was in awe, thinking, this writer deserved to have gotten the Nobel Prize. Afterwards, I checked and discovered he was indeed meant to receive the Nobel Prize for literature the same year he committed suicide by seppuku.

Photograph of Yukio Mishima by Shirou Aoyama (1956).

This is Not Goodbye

This is not goodbye.

I'll still be here.

But. As if my posts weren't short and infrequent enough, they're going to be even shorter and more infrequent in the coming months.

I love blogging and getting to meet you all and can't simply walk away. But between family and friends and work and reading, I guess blogging has to take the back seat.

But I'll still be here. Reading books, reading your blogs, commenting.

Just thought I should warn you. Blog content will be different. In lieu of review-ish posts, in lieu of opinions and impressions, in lieu of my own voice, there will mostly only be other writer's voices.

Which is to say: my posts will consist mainly of passages that struck me along the way, while reading, or after putting down a book. Letting books and authors speak for themselves.

Maybe occasionally I'll type in notes, an impression or two. But mostly I just want to relieve myself of any type of articulating.

Because I still want to take part in the community, reading along with you, reading what you have to say, reviews (getting recommendations) and what-nots, commenting (though maybe not as often), and all that, this is the only way I could think of to minimize my time in front of the computer. I would really rather spend more time with my children, read my books, read your thoughts on your books, than write.

Ultimately, my love for reading (and my family) so greatly overcomes writing. I hope you understand.

Xoxo, dear bookish friends. See you in a while.

Like They Say

LIKE THEY SAY

Underneath the tree on some

soft grass I sat, I

watched two happy

woodpeckers be dis-

turbed by my presence. And

why not, I thought to

myself, why

not.

~Robert Creeley

(More free verse at Cara's blog.)

Readathon Hour 24

Good morning. The sun is up. I've had my morning tea. It's 7:47 AM as I type this. 13 minutes left to the Readathon.

Managed to finish one last book just in time. The slimmest one from my pile, with only 81 pages to it. And I succeeded because the boys were still sleeping.

I can't even begin to express how much I love Jamaica Kincaid. This isn't her best, probably even my least favourite of her books so far. Still, it is beautiful and I loved it. My heart soars when I read her. Maybe it's because I've grown to love her writing so much. But for those reading her for the first time, this won't make much of an impression.

A Small Place is nonfiction. It's a mini-history of sorts of Antigua. Very few details, mostly a general overview. It's also a rant against colonialism and capitalism.

It also reads like fiction. She is so poetic. But not the verbose, overwrought type. She has a penchant for repetition. Like a rhyme that lulls you. Which would sound silly by any other writer, yet in her hands feel so natural.

Now it is over. We've made it. Will now go visiting as I hadn't checked back on you for hours.

It feels so quiet. Hello?

Total pages read:  546

Total books completed:  4

Total time spent reading:  6:55

Memorable passage: I look at this place (Antigua), I look at this people (Antiguans), and I cannot tell whether I was brought up by, and so come from, children, eternal innocents, or artists who have not yet found eminence in a world too stupid to understand, or lunatics who have made their own lunatic asylum, or an exquisite combination of all three.

Readathon Hour 23

Since my last update at Hour 15 (not including the mini-challenge at Hour 18), I have:

Had chow mein for dinner.

Napped for 3 hours.

Finished 1 more book. (Accompanied by my baby's dog friend. Used him as a head prop and then an elbow prop.)

Gourmet Rhapsody, by Muriel Barbery (and translated from the French by Alison Anderson), follows the life of the wealthy, snobbish food critic that we have met in The Elegance of the Hedgehog.  In his deathbed, he longs for a particular taste that eludes him. And so his last hours are spent digging up memories and contemplating dishes that have made lasting impressions on his palate.

Am sorry to say that I found it much inferior to The Elegance of the Hedgehog. It wasn't as captivating. But I quite enjoyed the fact that I had met some of these characters before. I also quite enjoyed the heavenly food descriptions.

True sashimi is not so much bitten into as allowed to melt on the tongue. It calls for slow, supple chewing, not to bring about a change in the nature of the food but merely to allow one to savor its airy, satiny texture. Yes, it is like a fabric: sashimi is velvet dust, verging on silk, or a bit of both, and the extraordinary alchemy of its gossamer essence allows it to preserve a milky density unknown even by clouds. The first pink mouthful to evoke such a thrill was salmon . . . I would clumsily pick it up with my chopsticks, which only complied with difficulty, and place it upon my tongue . . . and I would shiver with pleasure. [73]

So now we are coming to the last hour. I had spent way too much time doing other things instead of reading. Maybe next time J will be home from work and be able to help me with the kids more.

Not sure if I should pick another book up. Maybe. Wonder how everyone is doing?

Total pages read:  465

Total books completed:  3

Total time spent reading:  6:02

Favourite line: We were breathless.