Lory

I read about half of this in December 2021 and decided I was not advanced enough in my Centering Prayer practice yet to really benefit from it. So I hope to come back to it later when I might be able to relate more to the descriptions, rather than just taking them in as cognitive content.

“We live and learn, yes. But we die and learn, too, it appears.”

Reread of what I think is Davies's weakest novel, with an interesting but awkwardly worked out premise. The idea of a recently deceased man viewing a private “film festival” of his ancestors' lives is ingenious, but hard to put into practice: describing films is the deadliest thing imaginable, and aside from a few glimpses Davies wisely doesn't try, mostly reverting to the narrative techniques that he is accustomed to using. In effect his first-person narrator becomes a third-person narrator of the scenes he is beholding, and the switching back and forth can be jarring.

I also don't feel like we get enough of Gil, the dead man - he comes to know himself through this vision of his forebears, or so he says, but who is he? Again, we get some glimpses, but then we're swept away into someone else's life, and the result just doesn't entirely satisfy.

Along the way there were some wonderful nuggets of wisdom, even if the whole didn't quite gel for me.

“Was I really such an unreflecting, uncomprehending jackass when I was alive that I supposed the sufferings and inadequacies of humanity came for the first time in my own experience? No; not wholly. But I had never applied what I knew as general truths to the people without whom I should never have experienced life; I had taken them for granted. As McWearie used to say, one's family is made up of supporting players in one's personal drama. One never supposes that they starred in some possibly gaudy and certainly deeply felt show of their own.”

In the end, the message is one of compassion and love, for the players with whom we share our little drama, but also for ourselves. And that's always worth an attempt at communication.

Read a few chapters and bailed. It was too unbearably whimsical and I could not believe in a dragon who lived on acorns. Also, how (and why) would the emperor carry around a teapot in his pocket? Why did no one ever put tea in the pot? Oh, the mysteries.

I was unsure during the first segment about a disgruntled farm wife, but once this set of linked stories moved on to the next segment I was hooked. Four Swiss women with four points of view (the outer two third-person, the inner two first-person), each of whom observes and comments on the others ... their stories deftly linked into a little chain that becomes a circle at the end, rounded out by their mutual concern with another character who at first seems to be only a minor distraction. It's a microcosm of a particular place and time in history that opens up a window into many human concerns that vex us to this day.

I don't want to give away more about the plot or characters because much of the pleasure of this slim narrative is observing how O'Dea builds it up, step by step, out of the lived experience of women's lives. On this historically significant day, these women are denied by male Swiss voters their right to participate politically in society, yet they retain the right to choose - to choose life, agency, empathy, and creativity over passivity, stasis and despair. Yes, all people deserve the right to cast a ballot, but it's our will to “vote” with our hearts that will ultimately determine our future.

This was a sweet romance with a serious message at its core. I found Georgina an endearing character, and rooted for her all the way. The pop-culture-strewn style of humor, which often leaves me cold, was in this case amusing and the verbal banter well-judged. Somehow, even with a number of truly awful characters (boss, ex-boyfriend, housemate, and stepdad from hell) the overall tone was still comic and uplifting, maybe because they were balanced out by supportive friends, relatives, and coworkers. I'll definitely read another McFarlane and hope it makes me smile as much as this one did.

A second Kate Saunders book for my “I need something diverting and unchallenging but not totally stupid to read” mood. It fit that bill well enough. The 1935 school setting was well done and Flora's gradual adaptation to her new circumstances, and her seeing sides of herself and others she hadn't before, fit believably into the story arc. The one thing that felt very “off” to me was that the point of the time-travel episode was to make Flora's grandmother a better person, one who THINKS OF OTHER PEOPLE, but then she still leaves her baby son??? That made no sense.

I have enjoyed all the “Greenglass House” books that I've read so far. The hook of this one is that it's the book Milo is reading in the first GGH book; at first it seems a loose connection of travelers' tales, but then it gains complexity as we discover more about the tellers through and between their tales. The weaving together of an overall narrative out of disparate materials is nicely done, although I didn't understand some references and wonder if they come from other works (am I supposed to know who Maisie is?)

After reading Falconer by John Cheever, I wanted to read something by an actual prisoner. Shaka Senghor's story lacks the elaborate phraseology and literary nuances of Cheever's tale, but it's clearly and lucidly written and the story itself packs a powerful punch. Senghor describes his journey into the hellish pit of imprisonment, external and internal – and wrests his freedom from within, before he is released. It's an astonishing achievement of the human spirit. He is far more insightful and self-aware than Cheever's character Farragut, who walks through his imprisonment and escape as if in a dream.

No thanks for Senghor's rehabilitation are due to the prison system itself, which seems determined to grind human beings into the dust and bring out their worst possible sides – guards as well as prisoners. But something lives in the individual spirit that can counteract these forces. What we need is to design institutions and procedures that support this spirit rather than crushing it. Accounts like Senghor's are of inestimable value as we confront this challenge.

Most striking to me was the moment when Senghor started to write down his feelings and found that this gave him enough distance and perspective to stop reacting immediately in ways that ultimately hurt him (he had just viciously attacked a prison guard who harassed him and been put in solitary confinement for an extended period). He also became a voracious reader, especially of Black history, social justice, and spirituality, and this put him on the road to self-respect and to understanding the wider context of his painful experiences. Reading and writing are not just intellectual exercises, but spiritual disciplines which release us from the prison of disconnected experience and raise us to a higher level upon which we can move and act freely, because we have not just sensations or emotions, but knowledge and insight into the whole.

A relationship begun while Senghor was still in prison played a large part in the latter chapters of the story - sadly, it seems this relationship was not as ideal as he describes it (see description of the book by his partner, Ebony Roberts). Nobody is perfect, and even those who have made huge steps in self-development can still have unhealed wounds which continue to hurt them and others. However, I hope that both Senghor and Roberts can both continue to learn and grow and raise children to a better life, none of which can happen if we keep chaining people up with our prejudices and judgment and misunderstanding.

I read this to follow up The Raconteur's Commonplace Book, and it gave more information about some of the characters that helped me make sense of that one. (Some info may also be in Greenglass House that I have forgotten.) This was satisfying, plus it was an exciting and heartwarming book on its own. Milford does an impressive job detailing forms of magic – time walking, firestarting – that have their own logic and their own consequences, and are not just waving wands and saying Latin words. Her imaginary world, even with its touches of whimsy, feels increasingly solid to me, as if it is indeed as real a place as she asserts. I'm tempted to go on a Milford binge now and put more of the pieces together.

I've known of The Color Purple for so long but never read it. The new Folio Society edition finally pushed me into reading it, and I'm so glad I did. This is a beautiful novel about love and human connection and the wonder that is the heart of all true religion, as well as the immutable reality of suffering. Alice Walker describes herself as a “medium” for her characters, and indeed they seem so real that it's hard to think of this as fiction.

“I remember one time you said your life made you feel so ashamed you couldn't even talk about it to God, you had to write it, bad as you thought your writing was. Well, now I know what you meant. And whether God will read letters or no, I know you will go on writing them; which is guidance enough for me. Anyway, when I don't write to you I feel as bad as I do when I don't pray, locked up in myself and choking on my own heart.”

Another comfort reread from Milford. I think the reviews that complain this one is more of the same are a bit unfair – a lot of the same elements from GGH appear, but there is a subtle change and growth in Milo that Milford aptly portrays through his creating a new role-playing character. The details about the latter were a little unbelievable, but maybe kids who are really into RPG do imagine themselves into the part so thoroughly? Anyway, in the context of the story I was fine with it.

Marzana was an intriguing character who could have played more of a role. It's good that she got her own book (The Thief Knot) and I hope we'll still see more of her, maybe together with Milo. I also enjoyed the lore and tradition around the Waits.

I'm going to stop now with Milford as I don't feel in the mood for the darker ones I have not yet read, The Boneshaker and The Broken Lands – but I'll get to them eventually.

Original review from emeraldcitybookreview.blogspot.com

In the early 20th century, Scottish novelist D.E. Stevenson produced a steady flow of popular light fiction. Several of these novels are now back in print, including the trio about “Miss Buncle,” thanks to Persephone Books in the UK and Sourcebooks in the US. When I read the premise of Miss Buncle's Book, it sounded irresistible: what happens when a dowdy spinster in a small English village writes a pseudonymous novel about her neighbors?

Well, Miss Buncle's Book did not disappoint. After a bit of a slow start spent maundering about the village bakery, we meet Barbara Buncle and learn about her book. This “Chronicle of an English Village” has been written in all naive simplicity in the hopes of earning a few pounds, and is devastatingly accurate in its observations because Miss Buncle “has no imagination at all.” The publisher she submits her manuscript to recognizes that it will sell like mad, and although he is surprised when the author “John Smith” turns out to be a rather unassuming lady, and that “his” witty satire is the product of a supremely innocent mind, he signs her up on the spot.

Of course, the very thinly disguised residents of the village begin to recognize themselves when the book becomes a bestseller, and work their way into various ridiculous complications according to their natures. They even start to fulfill some of the destinies that Miss Buncle (belying her own self-declared lack of imagination) has created for them.

I believe this is why Miss Buncle's Book has lasting appeal: it gives form to the truth that without imagination, without the stories we tell ourselves, there would be no movement and no development; life would come to a standstill. The imagination comes as an unwelcome disruption for those who prefer to live life as an endlessly recurring sameness, but if we follow its song it may lead us around the corner into an unexpected future.

Essential reading for anyone interested in the birth and development of the Christian Community, but with many points of general interest for students of anthroposophy.

Part of my ongoing project to better understand and heal my own gut issues. The research is very exciting and promising, if somewhat limited and premature. The authors often present not-fully-tested theories (to be fair, they do say when they are doing this) or talk about their personal choices for their own two children, which are not evidence. Along with this filler, though, is a solid case to be made that our gut microbiota has a profound effect on many areas previously thought to be unrelated, and that improvements in gut health can likewise profoundly affect our physical and even mental health. Sadly, this also means that the modern threats to said gut microbiota – especially the fiber-poor Western diet, the astronomic rate of unnecessary C-sections, the compulsion to oversanitize everything and fear dirt, and the dangerous, but seemingly unstoppable overuse of antibiotics – have had a devastating effect that may not be reversible.

“We are a composite organism, an ecosystem,” the authors say at the book's conclusion. The age of the individualistic, atomistic worldview, the prejudice that led us to see things as separate and disconnected, is at an end, a very dead end. In science, as in every other area of life, we must begin to see each part always in relation to the whole. And in terms of our physiology, that means becoming aware of and working in harmony with our invisible microbial friends. Here's to that hope for the future.

I feel as though I didn't take this in fully, reading it in a scattered way as an e-book. It would be better to take time to study and reflect on it and maybe someday I will have the chance to do that.

I do appreciate Lewis's logical way of looking at and expressing things and yet spiritually I find it increasingly dissatisfying. He's just so VERY logical. I wish at times for some chaos and disruption to shake up his ordered mind, or for him to reveal more of his personal, inner life than the generalities he tends to stick to. However, also lots to ponder and some lovely lines here. That's why I need to sit down with time and a notebook to really do it justice.

To my mind, a good romance novel is really about personal / moral development. This one is a charming example. I love how Freddy and Kitty mature and come gradually to appreciate each other. I am not a huge fan of the rake as love interest trope, so this is a nice alternative.

I read a few chapters, but the invented story of George and Megs was too artificial and contrived. I could not believe in them, nor in the idealized Saint Jack Lewis (would he really smile wholeheartedly upon an unknown girl who entered his study? Would he not look at least a little surprised or quizzical, if not annoyed?) I'd rather read a straight biography that explains how Narnia came to be, citing original sources instead of the made-up imagination of a made-up boy.

Can I just also mention here that authors, if they want to insert some kind of comment on their own books in the Review section on Goodreads (not a review, you can't review your own book!), should not rate said books written by themselves five stars. That is just pathetic.

Read for Narniathon, thoughts to come on the blog.

“Nothing whatsoever, not even the existence of God to his lovers, can be proved, but...every man, if he is to live at all finely, must deliberately adopt certain assertions as true, and those assertions should, for the sake of the enrichment of the human race, always be creative ones. He may, as life goes on, modify his beliefs, but he must never modify them on the side of destruction.”

A somewhat creaky, old-fashioned, definitely far-fetched tale of a lovely place and of the kind of delightfully varied, human characters which Goudge excels in creating and making completely real to us. Some find it “too pious,” but I find that the piety is couched in bracing philosophical terms like the above, which emphasize the bravery and daring it actually takes to be a person of faith, to place oneself on the side of creation in an age full of destruction. It's not about taking comfort in bland platitudes or fixed certainties, but it does give me comfort to think that (as is said elsewhere in the book) it doesn't matter what happens to one in life, or how long life lasts, as long as one strives to live beautifully.

This was a perfectly fine kids historical novel but I lost interest about a fifth of the way through. I'm just not in the mood for yet another WWII story. I may get back to it at some point.

Keller writes dismissively that she is not a writer, but there are some really beautiful passages here along with more ordinary, rambling and random reminiscence. It's always fascinating to me to read about her perspective on the world. Although many of her observations must perforce be filtered through the sight and hearing of another, aren't our own senses also filters that mediate the world to us? Keller is just one step removed in that process, and her powers of imagination and integration – which are the really important thing – are remarkable.

She interested me in learning more about Alexander Graham Bell, who sounds like another remarkable person. Inventing the telephone made him rich and famous but what he truly cared about was the education of the deaf. Other “friends” like Mark Twain, Charlie Chaplin, Mary Pickford, and many more are uniquely seen through her eyes. Keller is unfailingly positive, but she says that this is a choice she has made; it's not that she is never sad or burdened by her limitations. She writes with humor about the stupidity and indifference towards the deaf-blind insofar as she is personally affected, with indignation and moral fervor about the plight of many others who are poorer and more confined than she.

She also touches on some painful personal episodes about which readers are probably curious to know more ... her brief secret engagement, the departure of John Macy. She is so tactful about these episodes, that much will have to remain unknown.

I read this slowly over a period of months, while working on my own spiritual memoir, and found it really helpful. I did not do the exact exercises given but found that the general advice was sound. I especially appreciated being given permission to write my memoir first of all, for myself and not worry about an audience, initially or perhaps at all. That helped me to get going, because there was a lot that I wanted and needed to write that can probably never be published, and it was stopping me from even beginning. In the end it did really prove to be a spiritual exercise that helped me to articulate what I thought but could not cognize without this tool of language.

I also like the advice that Andrew paraphrases from a college professor, who told her to write an essay, then cut off the summary ending paragraph and put it at the head of a new essay. Start again, with the conclusion you came to through the whole process, as your new thesis. I find that that is true of my own writing – I see how what I came to at the end, can form the seed of a new project that maybe will be publishable. Or maybe not. Or maybe it needs multiple drafts to get there. I'm more at peace with the process, now, and this book is partly to thank for it.

The first 200 pages of this book exhaustively chronicled Billings's turmoil as a therapist and social worker who struggled with mental health issues and psychiatric hospitalizations of her own, then with her adolescent daughter's similar issues plus gender questioning. The author's honesty was admirable and Hannah/Avery's willingness to have their journey described was also impressive. The story of both mother and child may give hope to others who are suffering from similar painful experiences that they feel too ashamed to disclose.

I must say though, to me it felt like only half of the story was told. In comparison to this first part, the section in which Billings and her family came to a kind of stability was abrupt and fleetingly told. It could use more fleshing out, to my mind. Perhaps it was too hard to define those experiences, or to account for the reasons for healing, but more of an attempt could have been made. This also would be so valuable for our understanding.

Overall, the time jumps that frequently happened in the narrative – as flashbacks, or as jumps to a very different time or situation – were not marked well and could be confusing. Even some dingbats to indicate time passing would help!

I listened to this along with reading the less practical, more narrative complement, When Food Is Love. It covered the “Eating Guidelines” that Roth says will lead to one reaching one's “natural weight” if followed consistently. I was not so concerned about weight, but I think the guidelines can also apply to any kind of compulsive eating problem, such as in my case has contributed to lifelong digestive issues, migraines, and recently a gallbladder removal.

These are very common-sense directives (eat when you are hungry, stop when you have had enough, etc.) that are simple but not easy to follow if one has been embedded in a pattern of emotional, compulsive eating. But having already begun the process of breaking free of those patterns I found this advice helpful and supportive, along with the exercises that I chose to do out of the many Roth presents.

Roth's message is that how we eat is bound up with how we live, and you can't change how you eat without making the commitment to change your life, ultimately to connecting to the more vibrant, more alive self that you really when you find the strength to counteract those addictive behaviors. This goes along with my own experience. I find the need to work from both sides, from the physical side changing habits and what I put into my body, and from the inner side, changing my attitude towards that external input and becoming more mindful. Inching along in both aspects has helped me to come to a more healthy place and the prospects look encouraging.

The guideline I find most difficult is “eat what your body wants.” That's what I have a really hard time discerning! How do I know?!? I am not used to listening to my body, but if I take that as a goal, rather than ignoring and discounting my body as I've always done, I trust that what I need to know will eventually come to light. The guidelines do not form a rigid system of dictates like most diets, but a way to get to know one's individual needs better, and that will take time.

A reminder I especially appreciated was to put aside distractions and really experience, taste, and enjoy my food, and along with that, give myself permission to experience all my feelings and acknowledge where I have non-physical, emotional hungers that are not being met. I need to stop using food to “swallow my feelings,” to avoid unwanted feelings and cover them up with physical sensations, and also to stop trying to meet emotional needs with food, which will never truly satisfy because it is not a physical hunger I am feeling. When I can do this, and let food simply be food for my body, while I take a good honest look at my emotional hungers and how they can be met, things start to fall into place.

It has been at times scary to admit the depth of that unmet emotional hunger but it's way better than trying to fill it up with food, which will never work and has only made me sick. So I am thankful to Roth for being a help along that path.

Read this to finish off the Narniathon - it was nice to revisit the stories, and Langrish had some interesting commentary to make, but there was way too much plot summary. The book cannot be for someone who hasn't read the Narnia books – they wouldn't be interested in all the sources for something they have not read yet, and reading Langrish's paraphrases would only spoil the experience for them – and for someone who has read them, is it really necessary to go on at such length? It was more of a book-length paraphrase with a few notes scattered within, than an original book in its own right.

And most of the notes were about comparisons to literary sources of similar motifs and plotlines, which were interesting, but there is so much more to say. What about Lewis's life? What about what was going on in history and society? What about theological ideas? The latter is touched on a bit, the others hardly at all.

Some good things:

I had not noticed how full the books are of blood, vs. the bloodlessness of Tolkien, so that was an interesting point. Battles and blood have always been something I skip over and don't imagine very thoroughly though.

“Lewis is most successful when he works within the framework of his imaginary world, not when he tries to break out of it.” (Introduction) True.

“This isn't a story ‘about' repentance and baptism: this is the experience of which repentance and baptism are the symbols.” (Voyage of the Dawn Treader, about Eustace's undragoning) A neat way to put it, and points up the importance of seeing the stories as something in their own right and not just allegories.

Further to that, she quotes Lewis writing of Bunyan, “We ought not to be thinking ‘this green valley where the shepherd boy is singing, represents humility,'; we ought to be discovering, as we read, that humility is like that green valley.” (The Silver Chair) This is why the Narnia books succeed, when they do: they give us an experience of discovery of imaginative realities. When they try too hard to hit us over the head with Messages, as in The Last Battle, they don't work.

“What I drew from the Narnia books has stayed with me for life: the colour, richness and beauty, the breadth, depth, and glory of the world.” (The Silver Chair) My sentiments exactly.

The critique of The Last Battle is good. Again, I didn't notice the inconsistencies or stupid strategic moves of Tirian as a battle leader, because I never care much about battles and cannot keep geography or strategy straight in my head. I must say that I never get bored with Lewis's battles, though, unlike Tolkien's. He keeps up the storytelling pace marvellously.

I entirely agree with Langrish's critique of the treatment of Susan (the worst thing is that her family seems to write her off completely), and Emeth the Token Good Calormene, who really has no likeable qualities and also worships a horrible demon.

Oh, in the Horse and His Boy chapter she points out that Calormene can't have any magical or beautiful qualities, which could certainly well have been borrowed from the Oriental stories Lewis was imitating, because it is conceived of as the Anti-Narnia. An artistic mistake on Lewis's part, I think, which is why Horse is so dull and disappointing compared to the other books – but completely in line with his ideological program, the worst thing about Narnia.