The Seven-year Itch

I needed a book for the bath and grabbed a handful of proof copies top of which was Seven Years by Peter Stamm. It had come highly recommended by the reps but not for the content of the book, more for the dishy photo of the author on the back page; this guy is seriously hot, they said, we’d settle for him any day. None of the usual nonsense – it’s wonderful, next bestseller, perfect for bookclubs etc – just two reps with an eye on the main chance.

As I wallowed beneath the suds I read about 20 pages, not sure either way, a little irritated with the lack of speech marks, disliking some of the main characters, but wanting to read more. I picked it up again before I went to bed, read a little, became more curious about how the situation would develop and when I got up for work the next morning, I read another page or ten. Three days later and I’ve finished what turned out to be a great story that I couldn’t read fast enough but you’ll have to wait till the 5th of April before you can get your hands on a copy. It was originally written in German and has been translated by Michael Hofmann.

I hate giving away the plot of any story and the back of this book (which I normally wouldn’t read) told far too much for my liking. Suffice it to say that one man, Alexander, with two women, Sonia and Ivona, under his belt is a recipe for endless complications, misunderstandings, cock-ups and unhappiness all round until young Sophie arrives and changes the name of the game.

The Orphan Master's Son

Can you imagine having to frame two pictures, say of Enda Kenny (our beloved leader) and Eamon Gilmore (his second in command) and have to hang them pride of place in our homes? It’s ridiculous, however good these lads do their job representing us and keeping us safe. Well, were you to live in North Korea you would wipe that smile off your face, dust and polish the glass regularly, and pay homage to Kim Jong-il and Kim Jong-un. Their portraits hang in every home and place of business, even on every boat that sets sail from their shores. If you want to know anything else about The Democratic People’s Republic of Korea just look up their official website where you’ll find news, updates and travel tips should you wish to go some place different this year.

I’m currently reading The Orphan Master’s Son by Adam Johnson, a novel that promises to take you into the heart of a country so secretive that its people have no idea what goes on in the outside world, their heads bent in subservience to yet another ‘Dear Leader’. As regimes go, this has been a very successful dictatorship that started with the establishment of the DPRK in 1948 by Kim Il-sung the Eternal President and the reins have been handed down, father to son, ever since. I think (correct me if I’m wrong) that this is one of the first works of fiction set in North Korea and it is like peering into an unimaginable way of life that would be anathema to us innocents in the West. We have it so good, and cushy, and yet all we do is complain about the weather, the government, the price of spuds. There are plenty worse things to whine on about and none of them are happening to us!

Adam Johnson is an American writer who currently lectures in creative writing at Stanford University and was deemed, by Playboy Magazine, to be "one of the nation's most influential and imaginative college professors".

Lenten Read the Fourth

Lent has somewhat taken me by surprise this year. We had great plans we'd hoped would be ready for this year but Christmas was only just recovered from when suddenly there were pancakes appearing everywhere. Optimism remains for a charitable read next year.

If you are new to the idea of a Lenten Read, there is an introduction to it, plus 2010 and 2011's choice of books.

My selection this year:

I loved Kate Grenville's The Secret River and Can. Not. Wait. to get stuck into her latest, Sarah Thornhill, which continues the story. 307 pages.






For months I've been meaning to read Josh Ritter's debut novel, Bright's Passage. Now is the perfect time, not least because New Island recently secured rights to publish it here in Ireland - expect it on the bookshelves in April. 193 pages.



It's my two year anniversary of discovering Mr Rhodes. I love his writing. My expectations are so high for this book, I'm getting vertigo. The publisher says 423 pages but that's suspiciously long for a Rhodes novel. Verification when it is released on March 1st.



The first line of Carson McCullers's The Heart is a Lonely Hunter remains one of my favourite openers: In the town there were two mutes, and they were always together. Those words set my expectations high and I was not disappointed. This one is a slip of a novel at 176 pages but I'm willing to bet they'll be 176 pages of, as the literary critics say, awesomeness.

I've read a couple of William Boyd novels and enjoyed the pace of them. He is more narrative driven than many authors I read but that's not a bad thing when he has an intriguing story to tell. Plus, there was a good interview with him on Open Book recently which piqued my interest. 353 pages.


I may regret this last choice, not because of content but because I suspect I won't want to rush through it. His book War Is A Force That Gives Us Meaning is highly recommended - it gave me a much better understanding of how this world works on individual and societal levels. I anticipate that this book will do the same. 256 pages, though I'll only get around half way though it before Easter.

These are the intended but we'll see what life throws in my general direction over the next six weeks. I will be taking a break from my Poem-for-today posts but they will resume Monday 9th of April.

I'll be tweeting my reading progress daily using #lentenread, please do join in!

~Louisa

He Tells Her

....
In altercations fierce and long
She does her best to prove him wrong.
But he has learned to argue well.
....

A gift from Wendy Cope to anyone who has ever found themselves in an argument with somebody factually incorrect, arrogant, obstinate and above all, a skilled debater. There are few situations so frustrating, so irritating as an obdurate individual who will categorically and patronisingly deny the remotest possibility that they are anything less than 100% right about something that you know to be complete rubbish. It is an impressively dispassionate poem.

Dead Cow Farm

....
Under her warm tongue flesh and blood
Blossomed, a miracle to believe:
And so was Adam born, and Eve
.....

This is a poem of two halves; Robert Graves weaves a creation myth from earth and ancient tales, warm and nurturing, to bring forth the world. The tone alters in the second half to imply that the cold science of evolution has obliterated the magic of the old and replaced it with an apocalyptic desolation devoid of life.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

....
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
....

One line? One line from the whole of The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock? Yes but what a line. On first reading T.S. Eliot's poem, one would be forgiven for feeling a little overwhelmed. A Leaving Cert. student might roll their eyes and wonder wtf was he on about. I was fortunate to have an English teacher advise his class to find one line - one line - that made sense to them. Once your foot is in the door, slowly slowly the rest opens up.

Oh! Mr. Best, you're very bad

Oh! Mr. Best, you're very bad
And all the world shall know it;
Your base behaviour shall be sung
By me, a tunefull Poet.
....

It's proclamations like this that make me think I wouldn't have liked Jane Austen very much at all. And not just because she rhymed know it with poet. Her moral high-ground is somewhat compromised by her threats to publicly deride this Mr Best if he does not conform as she believes he should, and frankly the whole passive-aggressive approach does her no favours at all. This poem is an excellent example of why one should always be wary of upsetting a writer; whatever about mightier, in the right hands the pen can certainly be sharper than the sword.

On Raglan Road

On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;
I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way,
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.
....

You've been there too? Their dark hair, their dark eyes, their smile that twists your heart fit to burst and you know, you know it'll end with tears and beers but you take their hand anyway, ignoring the inevitability of tomorrow because you have been, as Patrick Kavanagh so aptly puts it, enchanted.

Evening Solace

....
Then in our souls there seems to languish
A tender grief that is not woe;
And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish,
Now cause but some mild tears to flow.
....

As might be expected of Charlotte Brontë, this is a melancholic poem, yet one essentially of optimism as it recognises the dulling effect of time on misery and torment. It gives perspective to those in the midst of sorrow - when the heart is freshly bleeding - the promise that their pain will not remain acute. I hope her father read it; he must have had a great source of strength to survive burying his wife, his son, and his three daughters.

The Grey Monk

....
But vain the Sword and vain the Bow,
They never can work War's overthrow.
The Hermit's prayer and the Widow's tear
Alone can free the World from fear.
....

William Blake has two associations for me: the beautiful, wild illustrations he used with his poems, and Johnny Depp in Dead Man. Perhaps because I associate rhyme with a sense of whimsy, it's hard for me to fully feel the depth of sentiment Blake pours into this poem. The pace of it is almost jaunty when the subject matter cries out for serious consideration, almost mocking of the sincerity of the monk and the emotional and physical pain he is enduring. The structure and content make strange bedfellows but perhaps that is the very reason I remember it.

L'amoureuse | The Beloved

....
Ses rêves en pleine lumière
Font s'évaporer les soleils
Me font rire, pleurer et rire,
Parler sans avoir rien à dire.

....
Her dreams in broad daylight
Make the suns evaporate
Make me laugh, cry and laugh,
Speak with nothing to say.

Another love poem, this one from Paul Éluard, a French poet who was one of the founders of the surrealist movement. There is intoxicating joy in his words with the swirling possession of love taking on his human form. The last lines speak to the hysteria she is causing in him, the fine line between, or overlapping Venn diagram of, love and madness.

Mirror In February

....
Below my window the wakening trees,
Hacked clean for better bearing, stand defaced
Suffering their brute necessities;
....

One of the two Thomas Kinsella poems that have stayed with me since school fado, fado, in particular the idea of being hacked clean. The pivotal moment of the poem is his realisation that he is no longer young, that age has left its physical mark on him. It's a very different reading experience for a 16yr old and someone in middle-age, and I expect will be different again twenty years hence. As with The Road Not Taken, the last two words can be read with optimism or pessimism depending on ones misanthropic tendencies or lack thereof.