The title of this autobiography causes the reader to take a second glance. How can Alice B Toklas’ autobiography be written by someone who is not herself? Gertrude Stein disguises herself in the character of her close personal friend, Alice, and looks at their experiences together through Alice’s eyes. There are various possible explanations for this, one being that she wanted to celebrate the life of her friend. However, it seems more likely that Stein has used this as a devise to celebrate her own achievements. ‘Alice’ refers to Gertrude Stein as a ‘genius’. This is a clever devise which allows Stein to boast about her own achievements in a way that is more socially acceptable than if she had celebrated these in her own autobiography.
The most interesting aspect of the book lies in its depiction of the early lives of famous artists such as Picasso and Matisse in Paris in the early part of the 20th century. The book exudes a gossipy appeal as we hear about the private lives of the famous artists, though at times it can seem like an exhaustive catalogue of name dropping. Also interesting were the experiences of Americans stranded in France when the First World War broke out and how resourceful they had to be.
Ultimately, Gertrude Stein is not a character who appeals to the reader. She comes across as conceited and dismissive of other people and she portrays Alice as a rather dull person who is only fit for a secondary role in Gertrude’s glamorous life.
Tuesday, 8 December 2009
Waiting Room
When we reached the top of the stairs we were confronted with an image of blue. Blue carpets, blue walls, blue blinds and teamed with the sensation in my stomach, it was like being on a boat at sea. The second thing that struck me was the emptiness and quietness of the room, despite it being located in the centre of town. The receptionist who we had announced our arrival to was also absent. Perhaps she was behind one of the many mysterious doors that were lining the edges of the room? To make the waiting process less dull, an eclectic pile of magazines was carefully stacked on a small table in the middle of the room. I shuffled through one, hoping that it would provide an alternative focus for my mind but I found myself just reading the words as if they had no meaning, they were just patterns on a page. I remember discovering a quiz in the back pages of the magazine called ‘does your man really love you?’ and I half jokingly began to answer the questions. Having found that this new tool distracted my thoughts I was slightly disappointed when I was interrupted by the opening of one of the mysterious doors. An older man came out and paced towards a different door, without acknowledging the existence of me and mum, and shut it firmly behind him. He had left the door of the first room wide open so that I was able to see a small boy sitting nervously in a chair with an abacus on the table. I clearly remember thinking, ‘I hope I don’t have to use an abacus,’ when the older man hurried out of the secret room and abruptly shut the door on the small boy and on my curious eyes.
At this point it had struck me that we must have been waiting for a long time and eventually boredom greeted me. My mother was already deep into one of her engrossing novels and seemed unavailable for conversation. When boredom kicks in the main apparatus you have to entertain yourself is your thoughts and my thoughts turned to the concept of this room. We were in a waiting room. A room which is solely used for people to wait in. Other rooms are for people to keep themselves busy in, such as the kitchen where you cook and eat, or the bedroom where you sleep, or the living room where you absorb yourself in your favourite television programme. But this is the room where you wait. This is the boredom room. Furthermore, waiting rooms never seem to have a positive or exciting outcome. They lead to you having your mouth probed and a filling drilled in to a tooth, or finding out that you have a broken leg or cracked ribs. They lead to you being grilled and humiliated in an interview, or waiting for a train which has inevitably been cancelled. Waiting rooms never have a positive outcome.
At this point it had struck me that we must have been waiting for a long time and eventually boredom greeted me. My mother was already deep into one of her engrossing novels and seemed unavailable for conversation. When boredom kicks in the main apparatus you have to entertain yourself is your thoughts and my thoughts turned to the concept of this room. We were in a waiting room. A room which is solely used for people to wait in. Other rooms are for people to keep themselves busy in, such as the kitchen where you cook and eat, or the bedroom where you sleep, or the living room where you absorb yourself in your favourite television programme. But this is the room where you wait. This is the boredom room. Furthermore, waiting rooms never seem to have a positive or exciting outcome. They lead to you having your mouth probed and a filling drilled in to a tooth, or finding out that you have a broken leg or cracked ribs. They lead to you being grilled and humiliated in an interview, or waiting for a train which has inevitably been cancelled. Waiting rooms never have a positive outcome.
Thursday, 3 December 2009
A is for Alien
By the age of six I knew I was an alien. Not the peculiar breed that are an off green colour and have enlarged heads, stretched limbs and protruding eyes. Not the kind that you would see in E.T, Star Trek, or Doctor Who. I was more subtle than this. An alien in disguise. When I was born my mother neglected to inform me of this information, even despite the fact that being a different species is quite big news. She didn’t seem very alien-like herself though, and nor did dad, and I’m not even sure if they knew that I was one despite all the clues they had at their disposal. The humans at school all seemed to know though.
My throat was becoming sore and dry but tears persisted to race down my hot clammy face. It was my first day of junior school and I needed to stop crying now but my eyes had not yet been emptied of this salty liquid. The howling was still stinging my throat as my mother carried me across the playground towards Mrs Banks. Mrs Banks was a strange looking human because none of her features seemed to fit on her face. Her nose and chin were like plants that had been kept in the dark and were extending their stems to the only slither of light that was in sight. Her hair was scraped up into a pony tail with only one long wiry strand hanging down and tickling her nose. She grasped my hand and led me into the school building, along the corridor towards the classroom where the other young humans had already gathered. I remember feeling awkward and uneasy next to this stranger but she promised she wouldn’t leave me when we entered the classroom. Still walking along the hallway I remember seeing the door which had four glass panes in the top half so I could see an old hairy human talking to the class. We reached the door and the human plant released me from her tight grasp and left. She said she wouldn’t leave. Panic consumed my body as I saw the judging eyes that were looking up at me. The old hairy human was Mr Baker, my year three teacher. He asked me some polite questions but I seized up and didn’t know how to reply, as if I had forgotten how to speak. I remember feeling exposed, as if my disguise was fading, revealing my long green limbs and my inhuman shaped head. Without saying a word I slowly walked to the back of classroom in the hope that I would become invisible and fade into the surroundings like a piece of furniture. I was seated in an empty space next to Jimmy Cork. I nervously glanced at his face to size up what this particular specimen was like but there was no comfort to be found. He stuck his unnaturally long mobile tongue out of his mouth and forced his face to look like a screwed up ball of paper. To add to my shock, Jimmy Cork slyly leaned across and, using his fingers as pincers, sharply nipped the flesh of my upper arm.
I wanted to escape from this planet because I was different to these people.
I was an Alien.
My throat was becoming sore and dry but tears persisted to race down my hot clammy face. It was my first day of junior school and I needed to stop crying now but my eyes had not yet been emptied of this salty liquid. The howling was still stinging my throat as my mother carried me across the playground towards Mrs Banks. Mrs Banks was a strange looking human because none of her features seemed to fit on her face. Her nose and chin were like plants that had been kept in the dark and were extending their stems to the only slither of light that was in sight. Her hair was scraped up into a pony tail with only one long wiry strand hanging down and tickling her nose. She grasped my hand and led me into the school building, along the corridor towards the classroom where the other young humans had already gathered. I remember feeling awkward and uneasy next to this stranger but she promised she wouldn’t leave me when we entered the classroom. Still walking along the hallway I remember seeing the door which had four glass panes in the top half so I could see an old hairy human talking to the class. We reached the door and the human plant released me from her tight grasp and left. She said she wouldn’t leave. Panic consumed my body as I saw the judging eyes that were looking up at me. The old hairy human was Mr Baker, my year three teacher. He asked me some polite questions but I seized up and didn’t know how to reply, as if I had forgotten how to speak. I remember feeling exposed, as if my disguise was fading, revealing my long green limbs and my inhuman shaped head. Without saying a word I slowly walked to the back of classroom in the hope that I would become invisible and fade into the surroundings like a piece of furniture. I was seated in an empty space next to Jimmy Cork. I nervously glanced at his face to size up what this particular specimen was like but there was no comfort to be found. He stuck his unnaturally long mobile tongue out of his mouth and forced his face to look like a screwed up ball of paper. To add to my shock, Jimmy Cork slyly leaned across and, using his fingers as pincers, sharply nipped the flesh of my upper arm.
I wanted to escape from this planet because I was different to these people.
I was an Alien.
Wednesday, 2 December 2009
Book review of Joan Didion’s ‘The year of magical thinking’
This memoir focuses on a year of Joan Didion’s life in which she is grieving for the loss of her husband and at the same time experiencing great distress as her daughter is critically ill in hospital. The title of the book, ‘The year of magical thinking’ refers to her belief that her husband will return. She expresses this conviction several times in the memoir and even keeps his shoes because she thinks he will need them for when he reappears. It is very rare that authors write about bereavement and grief to this extent. These emotions are often kept private and can sometimes be embarrassing or too difficult to discuss with others.
Initially this memoir evokes an emotional response and the reader may feel that they can relate to Didion’s shock and disbelief when her husband is suddenly taken from her and writing this was probably a cathartic experience, helping her to come to terms with her pain and to accept that he has gone. As the memoir progresses however, Didion goes over and over the same events which may be necessary for her but is not so interesting for the reader. In addition to this she introduces a lot of incomprehensible medical jargon in an attempt to understand exactly what caused her husbands death. It may be concluded that although this is a brave book to write, it fails to hold the reader’s interest.
Initially this memoir evokes an emotional response and the reader may feel that they can relate to Didion’s shock and disbelief when her husband is suddenly taken from her and writing this was probably a cathartic experience, helping her to come to terms with her pain and to accept that he has gone. As the memoir progresses however, Didion goes over and over the same events which may be necessary for her but is not so interesting for the reader. In addition to this she introduces a lot of incomprehensible medical jargon in an attempt to understand exactly what caused her husbands death. It may be concluded that although this is a brave book to write, it fails to hold the reader’s interest.
Monday, 30 November 2009
F is for forgetting
In ‘The importance of being Ernest’ Oscar Wilde once said, ‘memory is the diary that we all carry about with us’. It is an integral part of our daily routines and of our lives. But what happens if we misplace our diary? What if it gets suffocated under the pile of unnecessary junk that we refuse to dispose of? Our first loves would come and go leaving no trace of their existence, as if they were a sweet dream that managed to escape the world of reality. Our arguments, our mistakes, and our achievements would no longer exist. We would be bed ridden, we would be vegetables, and we would be dependable on everyone apart from ourselves.
Walking along the cracked pavement stones that were lined with beds of pink and yellow flowers I remember feeling confused. We were going to visit grandpa but this wasn’t his house. I remember it as a large grey building that seemed to be caught in the middle of the 1930’s, even though I have since seen photographs that showed it as a dainty and recently painted white modern structure. Perhaps my mistaken grey image was just a reflection on the day itself.
Dad pressed firmly on the loud speaker system and announced our family to the people on the other end. The door abruptly buzzed open and we all entered this unfamiliar territory. Dad stepped in front of us, leading me and mum towards the woman at the reception. He was taking charge and purposely putting on a brave face in the hope that he would fool us both into believing that this situation was just like any other day. As we walked down the hallway in the direction of grandpa’s room my eyes began to prickle with tears. My feet became reluctant to take steps forward and had to be persuaded not to turn around and run back to the safety of the car.
A nurse swept past us as we approached the door. Dad breezily opened it as it if was the door to a restaurant or a pub and we were just going in for a casual drink. He stepped in with us shuffling behind him.
‘Hi Dad! It’s Dave and I’ve bought Jess and Val with me to see you’
I crept out from behind dad and went to sit on the chair at the far side of the room. The word ‘small’ was the word that immediately struck me when I saw this man, my granddad, lying emotionless on the bed in the middle of the room. He just looked so much smaller than usual. He looked different. His skin was a dull grey colour, and he seemed to be sinking into the bed as if he wanted it to take him away. His eyes also seemed grey and were stretched wide but projected no emotion. They turned to focus on me.
‘Who’s this?’
‘That’s Jess your Grand Daughter, dad, remember?’
Dementia is a disease of the brain and can cause severe memory loss and problems with everyday functioning. As Oscar Wilde said, ‘memory is the diary that we all carry about with us’ and my grandpa had lost his diary and he never got it back.
Walking along the cracked pavement stones that were lined with beds of pink and yellow flowers I remember feeling confused. We were going to visit grandpa but this wasn’t his house. I remember it as a large grey building that seemed to be caught in the middle of the 1930’s, even though I have since seen photographs that showed it as a dainty and recently painted white modern structure. Perhaps my mistaken grey image was just a reflection on the day itself.
Dad pressed firmly on the loud speaker system and announced our family to the people on the other end. The door abruptly buzzed open and we all entered this unfamiliar territory. Dad stepped in front of us, leading me and mum towards the woman at the reception. He was taking charge and purposely putting on a brave face in the hope that he would fool us both into believing that this situation was just like any other day. As we walked down the hallway in the direction of grandpa’s room my eyes began to prickle with tears. My feet became reluctant to take steps forward and had to be persuaded not to turn around and run back to the safety of the car.
A nurse swept past us as we approached the door. Dad breezily opened it as it if was the door to a restaurant or a pub and we were just going in for a casual drink. He stepped in with us shuffling behind him.
‘Hi Dad! It’s Dave and I’ve bought Jess and Val with me to see you’
I crept out from behind dad and went to sit on the chair at the far side of the room. The word ‘small’ was the word that immediately struck me when I saw this man, my granddad, lying emotionless on the bed in the middle of the room. He just looked so much smaller than usual. He looked different. His skin was a dull grey colour, and he seemed to be sinking into the bed as if he wanted it to take him away. His eyes also seemed grey and were stretched wide but projected no emotion. They turned to focus on me.
‘Who’s this?’
‘That’s Jess your Grand Daughter, dad, remember?’
Dementia is a disease of the brain and can cause severe memory loss and problems with everyday functioning. As Oscar Wilde said, ‘memory is the diary that we all carry about with us’ and my grandpa had lost his diary and he never got it back.
Thursday, 26 November 2009
Book Review of Vladimir Nabokov's 'Speak, Memory'
‘Speak Memory’ is Nabokov’s memoir of his early life. It is subtitled ‘An Autobiography Revisited’ because each of the chapters was originally a magazine article as he explains in the foreword. These articles were written over a period of several years and when they were ‘revisited’ he made changes and corrections. Each chapter deals with a main topic which explores a particular memory. However, the chapters are not linked together into a fluent narrative which can make it difficult to follow.
Nabokov’s autobiography is a challenging read. The style is distinctive and often poetic but the sentences are exhaustingly long and the vocabulary is highly sophisticated. He includes vocabulary from a whole range of semantic fields, such as, science, literature, politics and nature and some phrases are in French or Russian.
A main theme of his autobiography is Memory itself. The title ‘Speak, Memory’ is expressed as a command as if he is urging his memory to recall significant moments in his life. In chapter 7 he states that he is aiming for precision in memory and he pushes himself until he recalls the name of the dog that he has forgotten. In chapter 8 he discusses ‘the supreme achievement of memory’ which appears to mean the way it brings together disjointed images into a harmonious whole. This description continues for a page of densely poetic writing describing images, movements and sounds to create an almost cinematic image. This style of writing contrasts with chapter three which mostly consists of a list of his family members and their brief biographies.
Parts of this book are frustratingly difficult to follow but Nabokov’s poetic use of language often compensates for this.
Nabokov’s autobiography is a challenging read. The style is distinctive and often poetic but the sentences are exhaustingly long and the vocabulary is highly sophisticated. He includes vocabulary from a whole range of semantic fields, such as, science, literature, politics and nature and some phrases are in French or Russian.
A main theme of his autobiography is Memory itself. The title ‘Speak, Memory’ is expressed as a command as if he is urging his memory to recall significant moments in his life. In chapter 7 he states that he is aiming for precision in memory and he pushes himself until he recalls the name of the dog that he has forgotten. In chapter 8 he discusses ‘the supreme achievement of memory’ which appears to mean the way it brings together disjointed images into a harmonious whole. This description continues for a page of densely poetic writing describing images, movements and sounds to create an almost cinematic image. This style of writing contrasts with chapter three which mostly consists of a list of his family members and their brief biographies.
Parts of this book are frustratingly difficult to follow but Nabokov’s poetic use of language often compensates for this.
Wednesday, 18 November 2009
Book Review of Augusten Burrough's 'Runing with Scissors'
A constant theme that runs through Augusten Burroughs ‘Running with Scissors’ seems to be surrealism and insanity. Every character that the reader is introduced to lacks traits of normality and behaves in bizarre ways. Dr Finch and his family for example, seem to possess no inhibitions or constraints as when the Doctor turns his excrements into sculpture like artefacts in the belief that they are messages from God.
Augusten has been abandoned by his insane mother and is left to the mercy of this eccentric family, this encourages the reader to feel sympathetic towards his situation. Burroughs memoir of his childhood is surreal to say the least. So much so that it almost seems like a fictionalised family from an extreme sitcom and it makes one question the reliability of his account. The main response to all this is incredulous laughter but underlying this is the serious plight of a vulnerable and neglected young person who is abandoned by almost everyone who he has come to depend on.
The amoral and crazy world in which Augusten finds himself draws the reader in until they feel disorientated because it becomes impossible to judge who is the most insane. In almost everything you read there is some character who embodies what we think of as ‘normal’ or moral standards. But in this memoir there is no standard of normality to compare the characters to, even Augusten’s boyfriend Neil, who appears to love him, displays signs of being potentially dangerous. Reading this book was an enjoyable experience. However, the unhinged characters and the alien and chaotic world they live in makes it an unsettling experience too.
Augusten has been abandoned by his insane mother and is left to the mercy of this eccentric family, this encourages the reader to feel sympathetic towards his situation. Burroughs memoir of his childhood is surreal to say the least. So much so that it almost seems like a fictionalised family from an extreme sitcom and it makes one question the reliability of his account. The main response to all this is incredulous laughter but underlying this is the serious plight of a vulnerable and neglected young person who is abandoned by almost everyone who he has come to depend on.
The amoral and crazy world in which Augusten finds himself draws the reader in until they feel disorientated because it becomes impossible to judge who is the most insane. In almost everything you read there is some character who embodies what we think of as ‘normal’ or moral standards. But in this memoir there is no standard of normality to compare the characters to, even Augusten’s boyfriend Neil, who appears to love him, displays signs of being potentially dangerous. Reading this book was an enjoyable experience. However, the unhinged characters and the alien and chaotic world they live in makes it an unsettling experience too.
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