Novels of great length

 Somewhere online recently, I read about the ten longest novels ever.

I was curious to see whether I had read any of them so I followed the link and this is what I found.

The Quick 10: The 10 Longest Novels Ever

By Stacey Conradi

May 16, 2008

 

1.       The Blah Story – Nigel Tomm

2.       Marienbad My Love – Mark Leach

3.       Artamene – Madeleine de Scudary

4.       A la recherche du temps perdu – Marcel Proust

5.       Mission Earth – L. Ron Hubbard

6.       Gordana – Marija Juri Zagorka

7.       Sironia, Texas – Madison Cooper

8.       Clarissa – Samuel Richardson

9.       A Dance to the Music of Time – Anthony Powell

10.   Poor Fellow My Country – Xavier Herbert

 

The Blah Story seems to be aptly titled, it has over three million words and runs to 7,312 pages.  If I found a book now that had 700 pages, I would be a very reluctant reader.

Many years ago, when I had time to read a long book, I read Poor Fellow My Country.

As for the rest, there is absolutely no chance they will make my reading list nowadays.

 

Talking about a book

Here I am, set to write/talk about a book, The Single Ladies of Jacaranda Retirement Village by Joanna Neill, a book which really doesn’t merit the time it will take me to write about it.

The Godchild gave me this book at Christmas. The storyline follows the routine days of Peggy Smart, a resident of the Jacaranda Retirement Village. The first chapters introduce the main characters; glamorous fashionista Angie, Peggy’s friend from the past and the obligatory romantic interest in the form of Brian Cornell, a fellow resident plus other bit players.

Once the introduction of the characters is complete the story meanders off into the details of the predictability of life in the village and the determined efforts by Angie to transform Peggy into something less beige and self-effacing.

The final chapters add some drama to the situation and uncover surprises from Angie’s past. In between is a large chunk of superfluous writing which could have easily been eliminated without detracting from the overall story.

If you are a reader, maybe a resident of a retirement village, looking for a lightweight read and you are enthralled by fashion, you may really enjoy this book.

I prefer a book with more substance to it.

Nothing was the same

My two reads this month, have been very different books.

The first, nothing was the same, a memoir by Kay Redfield Jamison, chronicles the time during which her husband Richard was diagnosed with lymphatic cancer and his death.

There are many strands woven through this story; while there is intense pain and unbearable grief, the brightest and strongest strand is love. Love, combined with Richard’s humour.  While his many friends in the scientific and medical community rallied to the cause and searched for the best treatment available, in the final wash-up, it was the inevitable ending for Richard, as it is for many people.   

Richard’s story, as told by Kay, stands outside many mainstream cancer memoirs on two counts. Kay Redfield Jamison also deals with bi-polar, as an inescapable part of her life, thus adding another dimension to the story. For many people with cancer diagnosis there is no support army with inside knowledge on their side. The insight into the examination of every angle, by Richard’s colleagues, not just in the USA but also in Europe as the illness progressed, was illuminating. When any of the support army learned of some new work or investigation happening in the research field, every avenue was exhausted before turning elsewhere.

This book with its lyrical prose, is a wonderful insight into the courage required to face the healing process and how to arrive at that point.  

From time to time, when reading a book, I find a chapter, a paragraph or a few lines that, for whatever reason, stay with me long after I have finished reading the book.

At the beginning of Part Two is a quote, attributed to Richard Davenport-Hines, a well-known historian.

Medical etiquette called for a physician to call for two glasses of champagne and to drink them silently with his patient when that patient was a medical man who had just passed any hope of recovery.  The meaning of champagne was understood: the need of awkward words obviated.

This was a practice dating back to the turn of the twentieth century in Germany and Russia and was seen as a stirrup cup on the journey out of this life. Maybe it could be re-introduced into contemporary society and not just for medical people; maybe it could help ease the blow for non-medical people.

The other book was Rock, Scissors, Paper, a world away from the subject matter of the previous book.

While I had heard about the Rock Paper Scissors game, I had no real idea about what it all meant.  If indeed it meant anything. I am about as informed after reading the book, as I was beforehand. Totally clueless. In fact, before I was half way through I was skimming through the pages and decided my time would be better spent reading another book from the long, long, list of books still to be read.

 Not long after I cast the book aside I was amused as one of the men at the QVMkt fish stall, where I buy my fish, made the hand signs when we had a minor debate about the price of fish.  I laughed.  He certainly knew more about Rock Paper Scissors and how to put it into practice than I did.

Borrowing books

Walking around the library this afternoon I was thinking how much I will miss the library when I am not here. Is there a crazier thought than that one?  How can you miss something if you are not here?  Read dead for not here.  You know, permanently gone.

I marshalled my thoughts into better order and moved to the idea of how wonderful it has been to be able to access to this library and its shelves of books over the years I have lived in the neighborhood.  Every shelf holds a door to other worlds whether they are practicalities, fiction, non-fiction, how do things, knitting, travel, cookery and any other subject you could care to think about.

I have no idea how many books I have borrowed in the years I have been a member of this library but I’m in no doubt it would run well into the hundreds.

When I first joined, I read methodically along the shelves in alphabetical order, choosing a book to read from each shelf which introduced me to different authors and in all this time I used this method I have never progressed beyond the first half of the alphabet before being side-tracked by some other happening in my life.  This method was abandoned quite some time back and these days I fall back on my not inconsiderable cache of A4 pages pasted all over with reviews from book sellers,  book reviews from daily papers and names and authors scribbled down on scraps of paper. 

I have absolutely no hope of reading all those either but I wouldn’t want to be left with time on my hands and no idea which book I should read next.

Passing time in the library

Once I established the opening times for the local library, I spent some time there each day.

The library has two on line options; use the library computers or take the Android Tablet along and sit in my place of choice, usually near a window and then get on with checking emails or even following some of my blogs.  All of this is online business is a mystery to MyVeryBestFriendCarmel who is not the slightest bit interested in technology, apart from her Smart Phone.

As well as the online facilities there are the daily papers, magazines and any other reading matter that I fancy.  Kale features on the menu at MVBFC’s kitchen and I found two new recipes which didn’t make it to the kitchen because my time at the library was taken up on line.  She was not all impressed with my priorities. 

Apart from computers and reading material the library was also a source for people listening.  Sitting at my computer occasionally a voice would pierce my consciousness and I would stop to listen. One afternoon I wasted the best part of fifteen minutes tuned into an English tutorial.  I was fascinated; it was Year 12 VCE class all over again.  The tutor was discussing an essay a girl had written and she was being advised about the “Show, don’t tell” maxim.  The premise for her essay was a holiday in India and she had started off with a strong and colorful introduction which petered out into ‘telling’ in no time at all.  I sat listening to the advice and her responses and I really wanted to see the next draft.

   

Another voice that stopped my on line reverie one day was that of a young Down syndrome man who was laboriously reading a simple story from a book.  By his side sat a young woman who prompted him when he was lost for the word or quietly corrected him when he stumbled.  He read doggedly on for the best part of a half hour; I was as jubilant as he was when he read a whole page without a prompt or assistance of any kind.  What a triumph.

It was also a place for meeting people; one day the Godchild’s sister and her small boy appeared at my side. Her sister lives locally and it is long time since I last saw her; her son Mitch is a live-wire.  What a lad, never stuck for a word; a trait he might have inherited from his Dad…..

Libraries are indeed wonderful places.

the library

Daily Life at New Street

Life at New Street follows a predictable pattern each day.

Before daylight each morning, from within the cocoon of my room and snug in my bed, I follow this pattern; a pattern of sounds which combine with activity.

Around six o’clock the morning bell-pressing gets under way.  If the staff, who might be in the kitchen preparing breakfast, are not smart about responding, the bell will be pressed repeatedly with an ever diminishing time gap between presses until the caller gets a response. There are mornings when the air is thick with the buzz of call bells.

The next part of the morning soundscape is the door-knock, as breakfast is delivered to the rooms. The first knock is the signal for me to clear the portable table and turn on the television. Within a space of less than 48 hours I have become a morning TV-watching addict; especially the programs which bring me the latest news and drama from all over the world in small grabs.  Plus whole lot of other rubbish.

After breakfast is dealt with I have my morning rest.  Everyone else who is not room-bound will be dressing for the day; when I hear people arriving in the dining room for morning tea I have to seriously consider dressing for the day.

As you can see, the day passes in a parade of mealtimes separated by the mundane.

Lunchtime is the big social event in my day; I sit down and the three ladies with whom I share a table start the guessing game of ‘What will be on the menu for lunch today?’ I am new to this game with no experience of past meals and my guesses are wild ones. I’m never right but the long-time residents with good memories – read Anna-Maria there – are often spot on.   

After lunch, if the weather is OK I go out for a short walk; back inside I might sit in the ‘reading room’ and glance through the papers.  The grumpy man will be in his permanent position in the corridor and Sharon, together with the owner of the small well-behaved dog and the dog, will be sitting on the couch near the door.  People are creatures of habit.

Before afternoon tea time I will be back in the snugness of my room, either resting or reading; my reading concentration, which was zilch in the hospital, is now gradually improving. I am re-reading Helene Hanff’s Underfoot in Show Business which is a highly entertaining read; it chronicles Helene’s time in New York City as a young woman, working a variety of jobs to supplement her income while she works on writing The Big Play which will be the hit of the century.  Her best friend Maxine, her sights set on a brilliant acting future, provides endless humour with her wit and creativity, especially with regard to getting into theatre performances for next to nothing. Helene Hanff is best known for her book 84, Charing Cross Road.  

As the day winds down, everybody who is able gathers in the dining room promptly at 5 pm for the final meal of the day. A small group of people move afterwards to the lounge at the front of the house to watch the evening news on the giant TV, the only place with reception for the national broadcaster. 

My evening meal is often a strange collection of what looks to be a cross between the left-overs and  a plate put together from a quick search though the cupboards; there is always a glass of fruit juice and if I’m lucky a bowl of soup. All this arrives around seven pm and little by little quiet falls as everyone settles down for the night.

I tear myself away from the television and turn off the light around nine pm; another uneventful day has passed on the road to recovery.