The faculty of imagination: #TheBookOfDust

Map of Lyra’s Oxford, with a globe showing the Eurasian landmass. © C A Lovegrove.

“No; we have other ways of travelling.”
  “The way you have,” Lyra said, “is it possible for us to learn?”
  “Yes. You could learn to do it, as Will’s father did. It uses the faculty of what you call imagination. But that does not mean making things up. It is a form of seeing.”
  “Not real travelling, then,” said Lyra. “Just pretend. . .”
  “No,” said Xaphania, “nothing like pretend. Pretending is easy. This way is hard, but much truer.”

— ‘The Amber Spyglass’ (chapter 37)

The angel Xaphania in Philip Pullman’s The Amber Spyglass (in the trilogy His Dark Materials) alludes to imagination in a way which anticipates much of the matter making up The Book of Dust trilogy. In The Secret Commonwealth Lyra and her dæmon Pantalaimon had become so estranged that Pan decided to undertake a journey to Central Asia to find what he called Lyra’s imagination, the culmination of which were the events in The Rose Field.

I owe it to several online sources to have discovered the significance of Xaphania’s name. As with an early modern literary demon called Xaphan, the angel Xaphania appears to derive their name from the Hebrew tsaphan; the verb’s several meanings include ‘to hide by covering over’, implying hoarding or reserving. On a figurative level it can allude to denial, protection, shadowing or stalking – it’s thus a fairt multivalent word.

Many of these meanings can be applied to the faculty of imagination: this form of seeing is something to treasure but not to lock away, deny, or lose. Lyra’s dæmon is trying to somehow reverse his human’s aphantasia, her inability to form mental images. Or rather, her loss of ability to form such images, because as an adult student she has learnt to only accept what seems reasonable.

Continue reading “The faculty of imagination: #TheBookOfDust”

Interpret as you please: #VintageSciFiMonth

From Athanasius Kircher’s Mundus Subterraneanus (1665).

The Blazing World
by Margaret Cavendish.
Penguin Archive, 2025 (1666).

What, said the Empress, can any mortal be a creator? Yes, answered the spirits, for every human creature can create an immaterial world fully inhabited by immaterial creatures, and populous of immaterial subjects, such as we are, and all this within the compass of the head or scull.

‘The Blazing World’ (or, to give it its full title, The Description of a New World, called the Blazing-World. Written by the thrice-noble, illustrious, and excellent Princesse, the Duchess of Newcastle) has been called many things: ‘bonkers’, for example, and the first English science fiction novel, as well as the first to be written by a woman – while ‘feminist utopia’ is also a common description.

Given that it’s the best part of four centuries since it was first published there are a few questions about The Blazing World that we might want to ask, among them, ‘Why was it written in the first place?’ and ‘Why should we moderns consider reading it?’ Is it merely a bit of fun, something to entertain us, and does it inform, is it something we can learn from? Or are we justified in giving it a miss?

I can’t guarantee I’ll end by supplying cut-and-dried answers to these valid queries but I’ll certainly make the attempt – even if the end result is to merely suggest that I’ve read it so that you don’t have to.

Continue reading “Interpret as you please: #VintageSciFiMonth”

The Ariadne Oliver enigma

‘Woman in a Blue Cloche Hat’ (1930) by Edouard Vuillard.

On this day fifty years ago the celebrated crime writer Ariadne Oliver departed this life. Her books have long been out of print but in her day she was well known as the author of at least nine novels about Swedish detective Sven Hjerson.

She was a member of the Detection Club, a society of mostly British crime fiction writers, along with such luminaries as G K Chesterton, Dorothy L Sayers, Ronald Knox, Freeman Wills Crofts, A A Milne, Hugh Walpole, Baroness Orczy, Margery Allingham, John Dickson Carr, Cecil Day-Lewis, E C R Lorac, Christianna Brand, Edmund Crispin, Michael Innes and, of course, Agatha Christie.

But sadly the glitter that is her literary legacy has somewhat faded and—— hang on! my bad, I’ve got that wrong: I’ve confused Mrs Oliver with her onlie begetter, the Queen of Crime. It’s of course Ms Christie, the half-century of whose demise I should instead be celebrating marking!

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“Rather happy tales”: #NordicFINDS

A young Tove Jansson in her studio.

Fair Play by Tove Jansson.
Rent spel (1989)
translated by Thomas Teal,
introduction by Ali Smith.
Sort Of Books, 2007.

“[A] novel of friendship, of rather happy tales about two women who share a life of work, delight and consternation.”

If Fair Play was a science fiction title one might be tempted to call it a ‘fix-up’ novel; alternatively it might be viewed as a short story cycle or story sequence, maybe even a novel-in-stories or composite novel consisting of vignettes; whatever it is it’s not what would be regarded as a traditional novel or novella with a narrative held together by strong plotlines hurtling towards a conclusion.

But, given that this is a glimpse into the fictional lives of two Finnish artists called Jonna and Mari, perhaps it would be more apt to see it as the equivalent of pictures at an exhibition, a selection of portraits, landscapes and scenes of daily life hung in the literary equivalent of a gallery or artist’s studio.

And, given that Jonna and Mari bear more than some resemblance to Finnish artists Tuulikki Pietilä and Tove Jansson it’s fair to say that what at times feels like third-person memoir amounts to autobiographical fiction or even what’s known by the clumsy term autobiografiction. Yet slotting this slim volume into a neat literary category gives no more an impression of the real nature of Fair Play than, say, describing a beloved pet cat as a ‘four-legged mammal’.

Continue reading ““Rather happy tales”: #NordicFINDS”

“Yet a stranger in the world”

© C A Lovegrove.

Last Night in Montreal
by Emily St John Mandel.
Picador, 2015 (2009).

‘Stop looking for me. I’m not missing; I do not want to be found. I wish to remain vanishing. I don’t want to go home.—Lilia’

The title of any novel is, initially anyway, often the only clue we have regarding what the novel is about, apart maybe from a striking cover design or a publishers’ blurb. So when you’re faced with Last Night in Montreal you’re already trying to make what you hope are educated guesses concerning the context.

Time and space is what the title suggests. But does it refer to the night just gone or the one about to be experienced? And is it solely about a city in Québec or, as we soon discover, also set in places the length and breadth of the United States? 

Mandel’s debut novel is rich and allusive, offering up texts and images drawn from myth, art, the Bible, Shakespeare, circus skills and disappearing languages; it also probes into familial abuse, deception and death. If it appears at times rambling, incoherent, confused and obscure, it’s nevertheless a novel I believe that repays a bit of work, with allowances made for the occasional longueurs.

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2025 described in books I’ve read . . .

Goodreads 2025.

. . . Just kidding!

Using only books you have read this year (2025), answer these prompts. Try not to repeat a book title.

Every year Annabel, Cathy and a few other cool bloggers answer a set of prompts with titles of books they’ll have read over the previous twelve months. The idea is to give a (not entirely accurate) personal impression of the year just gone entirely in book titles.

Though its origins have been lost in the metaphorical mists of time, this fun questionnaire often elicits some fascinatingly wicked – and wickedly fascinating – juxtapositions which, hopefully, form a suitable diversion from the pressing need to … formulate New Year’s resolutions.

And, being me, I can’t resist adding justifications for my choices of book titles. If my cheeky responses won’t exactly make you splutter over your mouthful of morning coffee then they may nevertheless prompt a grin or two. It’s just a bit of fun!

Continue reading “2025 described in books I’ve read . . .”

Turning points: #NordicFINDS

From a 1950 poster of Copenhagen.

The Umbrella by Tove Ditlevsen,
translated by Michael Favala Goldman.
Penguin Archive, 2025.

Included in the collection The Trouble With Happiness: And Other Stories, all translated by Michael Favala Goldman and first published in English in 2022, these ten short stories give an insight into Ditlevsen’s bleak worldview in which women and men and even children struggle to understand each other as well as themselves.

Reflecting aspects of Ditlevsen’s own disturbed life, at different stages afflicted by alcohol and drug addiction, several divorces and eventual suicide in 1976, this is not a sequence to consider tackling if you’re looking for positive, uplifting reflections on life.

But that’s not a reason for giving it a wide berth: her skill in evoking the kinds of ordinary domestic scenes and situations that are universal, regardless of period and geography, is one to be savoured; and, in depicting the kinds of turning points in life that many of us may possibly recognise in retrospect, we can start to appreciate just how well Ditlevsen can suggest so much in so few words.

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2025 in Books

Goodreads 2025.

As an adjunct to Bookwise 2025/12 here are some images offered by Goodreads.com to illustrate my bookish progress near year’s end, starting with this confusing statistic and thus raising a query: Did I, or did the pages I read, walk around the ‘pyramid of Giza’? And which structure did they mean – the Great Pyramid of Khufu/Cheops, or Khafre’s pyramid, or Menkaure’s?

If the Great Pyramid is meant (as I suspect it is) and we know its base perimeter is roughly 920 metres, then 18,900 pages works out at around 20.5 pages a metre; however, given that a mass market paperback measures on average 10 by 17 centimetres I can’t quite make the numbers add up.

I guess what I’m supposed to gather from this ‘statistic’ is that either I’ve read a lot of pages and that’s A Very Big Number, or that it would take me a year to walk around Khufu’s monument, book in hand, reading, and presumably towing a book trolley behind me piled high with 80+ volumes. Thank goodness I’ve a few pages to spare after that trek, or I would be at a complete loss what to do next…

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Bookwise 2025/12

© C A Lovegrove.

Here we are, nearly a quarter of the way through the 21st century, approaching the dying of another year and the end of another December. And naturally it’s time for the final Bookwise of 2025.

It’s also traditional to register the statistics of how many books were read, what genres were covered, what book events were successfully completed, and to tick off the nationalities and genders of all the authors who featured. But I’m not going to do that.

Why? Mainly because I can’t be bothered – yes, I’m a lazy so-and-so! – but also because I’m not sure it’s of much interest to anyone other than myself and any secret stalkers lurking online. (If it is of interest, and you’re not a stalker, I heartily apologise.) Instead, I’ll just stick up some random thoughts about the past year and leave it at that.¹ Does that suit you?

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The caustic critic

‘Mary Ann Evans’ by François D’Albert Durade (1850), National Portrait Gallery.

Silly Novels by Lady Novelists and Other Essays
by George Eliot / Mary Ann Evans. Renard Press Ltd, 2023.

Though she is known as a great English novelist of the nineteenth century, we may be less familiar with the fact that George Eliot began her literary life translating, writing for journals, and later as an editor of and critic on the Westminster Review. Just before her death she was still writing satirical pieces under the guise of pseudonymous criticism.

This selection of five pieces of varying length spans a quarter of a century, ranging from literary critique through review and on to satire. In them she is variously trenchant, parodic, insightful and splendidly opinionated, all expressed with a sure lexical skill and magisterial style.

If the writing at times appears dense and prolix, embedded in massy paragraphs, I found that reading the text out loud helped not only to clarify the points she was making but to illuminate how her prose at one moment appears conversational yet insistent and at another designed, like a public lecture, to enlighten the audience on an unfamiliar or obscure topic; and it made me wonder what it would have been like to listen to her speak and be captivated by her thought processes.

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‘Xmas’ marks the spot

© C A Lovegrove.

The Christmas Clue by Nicola Upson.
Faber & Faber, 2025.

Christmas traditionally is a time for tidings of comfort and joy, goodwill to all and peace on earth; festivities round a fire with family and friends; and leisure pursuits like charades and trivial games of skill.

Yet it’s no contradiction that it’s also a time for overindulgence, for ghost stories, and for murder mysteries. What better, then, than to read a story combining that other expected seasonal staple – snow – with rich food, a board game … and death?

So that’s what Nicola Upson serves up for us: a snowbound Tudorbethan hotel in wartime, a proposed origin for the popular game of Cluedo, and means, motives and opportunities for murder!

Continue reading “‘Xmas’ marks the spot”

“Ne had her compasse lost”: #DoorstoppersInDecember

Hermaphrodite figure with egg from 16th-century alchemical text ‘Splendor Solis’ by Salomon Trismosin.

The Rose Field:
The Book of Dust, Volume Three
by Philip Pullman,
illustrated by Christopher Wormell.
Penguin / David Fickling Books, 2025.

‘But who?’ said Lyra. ‘Who is waiting?’

For loyal readers the answer to Lyra’s question which opens The Rose Field is ‘Us! We have been waiting!’ Because it’s been six years since Volume Two, The Secret Commonwealth, was published in 2019, which followed two years after Volume One, La Belle Sauvage.

Six long years but, I think, worth the wait. Yes, it hasn’t pleased all fans, but in due course I’ll give my reasons as to why I find it a satisfying conclusion to the trilogy, even if it’s not wrapped up with bells and whistles.

We last were left wondering if Lyra would ever reconnect with her dæmon Pantalaimon after he’d left to find what he called her imagination, and the pair – along with several other key players – took their several routes across Europe and Asia Minor, heading towards a mysterious building in Central Asia. But it also turns out that at its heart The Book of Dust is not solely about Lyra and Pan but about us and our imagination.

Continue reading ““Ne had her compasse lost”: #DoorstoppersInDecember”

Ghostly goings-on

© C A Lovegrove.
© C A Lovegrove.

The Beasts of Clawstone Castle
by Eva Ibbotson.
Macmillan Children’s Books, 2014 (2005).

This is a story about two youngsters who go to stay for a few months with two elderly relatives in a run-down English castle up near the Scottish borders, and about how they use inner resources and personal initiative to right wrongs.

It’s also about beings out of history, legend and folk traditions, and how in a world with new technology the power of the old is more than equal to the lure of power and money. It’s a perennial theme of course, and no less effective for being retold.

And, in the way that Ibbotson seemed to enjoy doing with her writing for younger readers, there’s so much detail that at first seems unconnected; but her skill was to finally bring all the loose strands together, tie them up in a satisfying fashion and even add a pretty bow in the promise of a sequel!

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An excess of Cockylorum? #ReadingAusten2025

Cassandra’s sitter, her sister Jane Austen, 1775–1817.

A post to mark 16th December, the sestercentennial of Austen’s birth.

As Cassandra Mortmain was later to do in Dodie Smith’s Austenesque novel I Capture the Castle, in the late 1780s a teenage teller of tales began writing entries extending over three notebooks, entitled Volume the First, the Second, and the Third.¹

However, unlike Cassandra Mortmain, whose notebooks served as a journal, Jane Austen filled her notebooks with fiction in the form of playlets and short epistolary fiction.

Over the course of this year, the 250th anniversary of Jane’s birth on 16th December 1775, I’ve been aiming to revisit, not only the canonic six novels, but also her juvenilia and some other miscellanea for Brona’s Reading Austen 2025. Here then is a round-up of pieces in the last two categories that I’ve posted, with links, along with a few brief (!) comments.

Continue reading “An excess of Cockylorum? #ReadingAusten2025”

Elemental: #ReadingAusten2025

‘The Artist and Her Mother’ (1816) by Rolinda Sharples (1793–1838).

‘[Scraps]’ by Jane Austen,
in Catharine and Other Writings
edited by Douglas Murray and Margaret Anne Doody.
World’s Classics, Oxford University Press 1989.

Five slight pieces in Austen’s juvenilia – identified as ‘Scraps’ in Oxford World’s Classics series – make up the last sequence of items in Volume the Second, the middle notebook of her three youthful entertainments.

‘The female philosopher—’, ‘The first Act of a Comedy’, ‘A Letter from a Young Lady’, ‘A Tour through Wales’ and ‘A Tale’ are all short, barely a page or two long, but all display what Chesterton in 1922 rightly called both ‘elemental’ and ‘original’, and even ‘naturally exuberant’.

And all bear witness to an approach entirely at variance with prevailing tastes in fiction, an approach she had to severely modify in order to get published and thus, a score of years after her death,suffer the mild opprobrium of Charlotte Brontë.

Continue reading “Elemental: #ReadingAusten2025”

Humbug or holly jolly?

December. Days of darkness — at least for the close on 90% of the global population that inhabits the northern hemisphere. Twinkly lights and tinsel. Cash tills ringing out … or these days the ping of payment card readers. Inflatable Santas, giant nutcracker soldiers and glitter-encrusted reindeers edging out the traditional cribs and presepi.

And the mixed delights as carol services and pop concerts of Christmas favourites proliferate, competing with seasonal muzak piped out in every other shop. If only the general public could appreciate the joys of live music throughout the year and not just cram it all into the one frenzied month!

However, I’m not a Bah Humbug kind of musician, I must add – for though not a confident solo pianist I do enjoy performing, particularly when supporting other musicians. But you might appreciate the sinking feeling I get when asked to play yet another iteration of ‘Hark the Herald Angels’, “Away in a Manger’ or ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas’…

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“To Aleppo gone”

Basawan: ‘Young men being carried off by a Simurgh’, circa 1590.

The first anniversary of Aleppo‘s liberation from the rule of dethroned Syrian dictator Bashar al-Assad has just taken place, with President Ahmed al-Sharaa saying that the city in northern Syria had been the “gateway” for the revolutionaries entering the whole of Syria. The so-called Deterrence of Aggression battle, which began 27th November, 2024, led to the Assad regime being overthrown within eleven days.

I’m particularly reminded of the significance of the ancient city as an entrepôt over millennia as I enjoyably plough through Philip Pullman’s The Rose Field, the long-awaited third volume of The Book of Dust, the first part of which is largely set in Aleppo.

I am also reminded of its mention not just in Shakespeare’s Othello but particularly in Act I Scene 3 of Macbeth, as the three witches attend the arrival of the future Scottish king accompanied by Banquo. And I now wonder if my memory of the witches was prompted by more than just the mention of Aleppo in the Pullman narrative?

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A just reward for virtue? #ReadingAusten2025

Aquatint by Henry Haseler, engraved by Daniel Havell, 1816.

‘Evelyn’ (1792) by Jane Austen,
in Catharine and Other Writings
edited by Margaret Doody and Douglas Murray.
The World’s Classics / Oxford University Press, 1993.

“In a retired part of the County of Sussex there is a village (for what I know to the Contrary) called Evelyn, perhaps one of the most beautiful Spots in the south of England.”

‘Evelyn’ is a desperately sad and moving morality tale about a young man seeking happiness and getting constantly thwarted by the Fates, by the death of loved ones, by his own stupidity, insensitivity and… Hang on, have I got this right? Is this not really the improving story that one would expect from the majestic pen of the august Jane Austen? Is she, can she be, joshing with us?

Well yes, of course, the term Austenesque encompasses so many aspects of her writing, wit being among the chiefest. But, this being one of the pieces she began in her mid-teens – sixteen, to be precise – the wit is unalloyed with the pathos we find in her more mature works; if anything, it is bathos that reigns supreme.

And it begins with the title. ‘Evelyn’ raises hopes of it, as with Frances Burney’s Evelina (1778), being about a protagonist with that personal name, or a member of a family with that surname, but not with it being a village place name; and even that’s not certain, for all that (as she says) the young Jane knows to the contrary.

Continue reading “A just reward for virtue? #ReadingAusten2025”

Slander, lies and guilt: #GermanLitMonth

Untitled image by Czech artist Jaromír Funke from the ‘Cyklu Cas Trva’ / ‘Time Persists’ series (1932).

The Trial by Franz Kafka.
Der Prozess (1925) translated and with an introduction by Idris Parry (1994).
Penguin Modern Classics, 2015.

“Somebody must have laid false information against Josef K, for he was arrested one morning without having done anything wrong.”

Here’s a conundrum: if, when you were a child, someone in authority – a parent or a teacher, say – declared “You’ve been very naughty!” or “Oh you’re in big trouble now,” or gave you bad looks but without telling you what you’d done wrong, how would you feel?

Confusion, certainly; irritation, even anger? Very probably. How would you react? Bluster? Bravado? Or meek acceptance, resignation, even blind admission that you must have been guilty of something – the sin of omission, perhaps, or telling a white lie, guilt by association or an infringement of some sort through ignorance of a rule? And then what if you don’t recognise the process as legitimate? It’s not a parent or teacher admonishing you but a stranger, a class bully, a former friend? Does that affect your response?

Some or all of these considerations seem to pass through Joseph K’s mind as he stands accused of a crime in a Mitteleuropean city like Prague in the early 20th century. And doubtless lurking behind Kafka’s narrative is the fraught political situation in his native Bohemia while he was writing it, aged 31: between 1914 and 1915 martial law was imposed in the kingdom because Czechs in general were seen to be less keen than Germans and Czech Jews about the war in Europe in which the ruling Austro-Hungarian Empire was now deeply embroiled.

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Thinking critically: #logophile

Brain maze: way out?

It may be a reflection on state education in the UK that I, as a music specialist in a high school, was from the 1980s onwards not only called on to teach European Studies and Special Needs French but also – despite being technologically illiterate – IT skills.

However, I soon discovered that knowing the detailed differences between, say, a bit and a byte, or the CPU and a hard drive, could be safely left up to 14yo geeks, because what I really needed to teach was critical thinking, especially when relatively safe access to the internet was required for research, classwork and homework. And for personal understanding and development too, of course.

Now, several decades later – what with targeted advertising, deliberate disinformation on social media, and, especially, an armada of chatbots powered by Artificial Intelligence that potentially could offer misleading or downright false information – critical thinking about how we get our information and how we respond to it is not only more important than ever but vital to future global as well as individual wellbeing.

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Bookwise 2025/11

‘Thirty days hath September,
April, June and November …’
Has perchance some family member
Make you chant this to remember?
Soon, the ending of November,
On the cusp of dark December,
Eking out the dying ember
Of this month. What’s to remember?

Well, I’ve joined in several blogging prompts – Novellas in November, German Literature Month, SciFi Month, Nonfiction November and Reading Austen 2025 – thereby tackling, let me see, seven titles: Bainbridge’s Another Part of the Wood and Sachar’s Someday Angeline featured as novellas, Hesse’s Demian and Kafka’s The Trial (review coming soon) qualify as German literature; furthermore the Strugatskys’ Monday Starts on Saturday counts for SF, while Kishimi and Koga’s The Courage to be Happy plus Garton Ash’s We the People are my nonfic offerings.

As well as a post alphabetically listing some speculative fiction titles I’ve read I’ve also added a couple of pieces about Austen‘s Northanger Abbey, listened to a radio dramatisation of Emma, and gabbled a bit more on the art of reviewing. However,.as all bookish bloggers know (and as we frequently bewail!) there were several other possible titles lined up for some of the reading events this month, but there just wasn’t the time to fit them all in. Ho hum, c’est la vie, that’s the way the cookie crumbles, que será, será . . .

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Mischief-making: #ReadingAusten2025

Maria Bicknell in 1816, painted by her husband, John Constable.

Emma (1815) by Jane Austen.
Dramatised in two parts by April de Angelis, music by Martin Souter and Sarah Stowe, directed by Jonquil Panting.
Two episodes, ‘The Matchmaker’ and ‘Proposal’, were first broadcast on BBC Radio 4 in November 2000, then on Radio 4 Extra and BBC Sounds.

With insufferable vanity had she believed herself in the secret of everybody’s feelings; with unpardonable arrogance proposed to arrange everybody’s destiny. She was proved to have been universally mistaken; and she had not quite done nothing — for she had done mischief.

Determined to experience my least favourite Austen novel without having to re-read it, and having already watched three screen adaptations of Emma in the past, it was more than fortuitous that, in this 250th anniversary of her birth, the 2000 radio dramatisation was made available on BBC Sounds as two hour-long episodes.

Emma Woodhouse was no less irritating than before, I’m afraid, insufferable and arrogant as she herself was to admit by the end of the novel, her attempts at matchmaking ending rather in mischief-making. I did however look forward to hearing again from Jane Fairfax, whom I have long considered the shadow heroine of the novel, and whose story Austen superfan Joan Aiken was to eventually elucidate for us.

Of course all adaptations have to select, truncate or even omit incidents and characters, and this dramatised audio version was no exception, but enough that was critical to an understanding of Emma’s rise, fall and resurrection was retained along with most of the familiar cast.

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A witness to history: #NonficNov

Revolutionary flag (photo: Soman).

We the People.
The Revolution of ’89, witnessed in Warsaw, Budapest, Berlin & Prague

by Timothy Garton Ash.
Granta Books in association with Penguin Books, 1990.

Published in North America as The Magic Lantern (a title originally drawn from one of the chapter headings) We the People deliberately echoes the opening phrase of the US Constitution in proclaiming that the legitimacy of a government comes from – and resides in – its own citizens, but it also encapsulates precisely the claims of the revolutionaries described here in vivid detail.

Though a slim volume, it describes how the author was present at pivotal moments, ripe with significance for Europe’s postwar history as power was, almost bloodlessly, wrested from four countries in the Soviet bloc: Poland, Hungary, the German Democratic Republic, and Czechoslovakia.

More than just a witness, Timothy Garton Ash was on familiar terms with key players such as Adam Michnik in Poland and Václav Havel in Czechoslovakia. As an account chronicling events in the second half of 1989 and, in January of the next year, attempting a reasoned if premature summary, this document retains a rare immediacy, buttressed by well-informed assessments authored by a respected academic of contemporary European history.

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Each a magician at heart: #SciFiMonth

Baba Yaga’s hut (1959) by Vladimir Panov.

Monday Starts on Saturday (1964/5) by Arkady and Boris Strugatsky,
translated by Andrew Bromfield (2002), introduction by Adam Roberts (2016); author’s note (2016) by Boris Strugatsky, translated by James Womack.
SF Masterworks, Gollancz, 2016.

Every man is a magician in his heart, but he only becomes a magician when he starts thinking less about himself and more about others, when his work becomes more interesting to him than simply amusing himself in the old meaning of that word.

First things first: how can we best define this novel? It’s always good to know what might be letting oneself in for! Well, there are a few clues. In his afterword co-author Boris Strugatsky acknowledges key inspirations from two female colleagues, one of whom suggested a spoof Hemingway story for him to seek out – and thus a title for the brothers to later use. ‘Monday Starts on Saturday’ was in fact a satiric comment on how one’s working week is never done, for when the weekend comes you’re already aware it’ll soon start all over again, but it also has a different significance for the novel’s end.

But this novel isn’t just a satire on Soviet-era workplaces, which in this title appears to be scientific academia: the Strugatsys were best known for their science fiction, so when the story opens with a computer programmer driving his car to a rendezvous with friends in the northeast readers may be disconcerted to learn that he soon discovers witchcraft and magic in operation. More than science fiction this, then, can be classed as science fantasy – but, again, is it merely this?

No, for when the novel was first published in 1965 it was subtitled “a fairy tale for young scientists” with illustrations by Yevgeniy Migunov strongly suggesting it was a humorous YA novel, not at all to be taken too seriously. (Apparently all of the Strugatskys’ fiction was published by Detgiz, the state publisher of children’s literature in the USSR.) Satire, science fantasy, burlesque, YA fiction – it’s all these – and maybe more – wrapped up in one narrative, but does it deserve our attention? I think it does.

Continue reading “Each a magician at heart: #SciFiMonth”

Life tasks: #NonficNov

© C A Lovegrove.

The Courage to be Happy
(Shiawase Ni Naru Yuuki, 2016)
by Ichiro Kishimi and Fumitake Koga.
Allen & Unwin, 2019.

The essence of happiness is the feeling of contribution.

The follow-up to The Courage to be Disliked both reiterates the core issues discussed there and, by introducing further ideas, takes them on to notions of how we can be truly happy, all by reference to Alfred Adler’s individual psychology.

‘Individual’ is a key term here: although we are social animals, the only person who can initiate that joy within is oneself – it’s not up to other people to make one happy.

As before, there are so many ideas fizzing around that one has to resist the temptation to merely list and explain them in the authors’ own words; but I shall limit my discussion to what I see as the key points that to me seemed most helpful.

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‘The misfortune of knowing’: #ReadingAusten2025

Engraving of Bath and the Abbey.

A woman especially, if she have the misfortune of knowing any thing [sic], should conceal it as well as she can.

After my review and a post speculating on the ‘real’ Northanger Abbey I promised a discussion of the novel’s dramatis personae and Austen’s imagined geography for the novel: this therefore, dear reader, is it.

I’ve titled it with the narrator’s provocative assertion that women should hide from men any evidence of their being well-read and informed on worldly or philosophical matters, because ignorance – of facts in particular – can be an attractive feature for certain men.

Though I think that Austen is being playfully opaque here (and I’ll try to justify that a little later, if justification really is needed) I shall help counter that epigram by reference to how she demonstrates her understanding of human psychology and interpersonal relationships, and then how she creates a credible landscape to people with her characters. Time to strap in – it could be a bumpy ride!

Continue reading “‘The misfortune of knowing’: #ReadingAusten2025”