This Is the Forest Primeval
June 25th, 2011
Practically the last book I read before leaving for California earlier this month wasn’t a book at all. It was a slim volume containing Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s immortal poem, Evangeline.
Evangeline tells the sad tale of the Acadian expulsion of 1755, when the prosperous French settlers were turned out of Canada by their new British rulers and forced to sail down the Mississippi river to their eventual home in Louisiana. I’ve long reserved a soft spot for the Acadians, ever since I sewed and wore an Acadian folk costume for my fifth grade social studies project (yes, I’ve always been like this). But this was the first time I thought to read Evangeline. It was on sale for 50 cents at Housing Works; how could I resist?
Considered by some to be Longfellow’s most famous poem (sorry Elaine), Evangeline was written in 1847. That’s less than 100 years after the historical event that inspired it! Oh, for the civilized era when tragic events were commemorated by epic poetry rather than made-for-TV documentaries. Sure, I don’t know much more about the actual facts of the expulsion, or the political machinations that were its cause. But my sympathy has been stirred to a depth that film footage with a suave voice-over could never touch. And in the end, that’s really what matters.
And yes, I cried. If you wish to know what tickled my ducts, well, you’ll just have to read the poem and find out for yourself.
Can You Forgive Me?
June 23rd, 2011
I am just returned from a fortnight’s sojourn in sunny California, and I have a confession to make. I was wrong about Anthony Trollope.
Flowered Fence
Three days after we arrived, an old ballet injury that had been aggravated by the plane ride began to act up with a vengeance. I spent the next week lolling about with an ice pack. Despite the pain and frustration, I have to admit that there are worse places to be stranded with a sore back (note the snapshots littered throughout this post) and I was waited on hand and foot by the world’s most attentive helpmate. Plus, for the first time I can remember, I was allowed to read just as much as I liked.
Diving into a freshly plowed field
Among others, I made my way through two more from the Barsetshire Chronicles: Barchester Towers and The Small House at Allington. (Yes, I know I missed a couple in between, but my favorite Central Coast bookstore didn’t have them in stock.) I have to admit they were beyond charming. I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough, and spent any number of chapters laughing myself silly. I still hold that The Warden doesn’t show Trollope at his best, but perhaps he was still hitting his stride. And yes, I guess it took me a little while to get used to his style. It was sort of like the first time I read Murders in the Rue Morgue and bewailed its lack of sophistication when compared to later crime dramas; forgetting of course what those later, slicker stories owed to Poe’s trailblazing.
Bitty Bungalow
So I bow my head with just a touch of shame for my prior jump to conclusion, and present myself as very fond indeed of Mr. Trollope, with thanks to all those who encouraged me to give him a second chance.
Picking Walnuts
Since I didn’t sew a single stitch while I was away, you’ll probably hear next about the rest of my recent book pile while I get back into the swing of things with my needle. It was lovely to be away; the weather was ideal and we stayed in a real California Bungalow of the most darling proportions. Despite my injuries I still managed to drink more than one cup of tea with dear friends, soak in the palm-bedecked Avila sulfur spring, and even got to feed carrots to a certain threesome of handsome horses.
Our Friends' Goats
Shhhhhhhherlock
June 3rd, 2011
My latest treasure from Ebay arrived by today’s mail: a DVD copy of the very first Sherlock Holmes movie, with John Barrymore in the titular role. Made in 1922, it’s a silent adaptation of William Gillette’s stage play, based on Arthur Conan Doyle’s stories.
I haven’t watched it yet, but am very eager to do so. Not only because it promises to be the most palatable adaptation of A Scandal in Bohemia ever committed to celluloid, but also to see the screen debut of another favorite actor:
Yes, that callow youth on the left is none other than William Powell!
Redeemed by the Ending
June 1st, 2011
Well, I have to admit that the final chapters of Anthony Trollope’s The Warden (released in 1855) went much faster than the earlier ones. It’s actually a very short novel, purposely so, according to the author, who wanted to publish it in a single volume (longer works were usually issued in two or more parts during the 19th century). If you’re at all interested in the politics and finances of mid-19th century England, or if you have a fondness for church dramas, The Warden may be right up your alley. The romance between Mr. Bold and Eleanor Harding is rather an afterthought, though it does add a certain lightness to an otherwise serious plot. I did like the way Mr. Harding played his imaginary cello whenever he was nervous — I’ve occasionally caught myself doing the same thing.
After finding the ending of The Warden so much more engaging, I have been forced to revise my hastily-formed opinion of Mr. Trollope’s scribblings. I will, at least, give him another go round. I’ve got a copy of The Small House at Allington all ready to go, though it may be a few weeks before I actually get to it. And of course, I am eager for suggestions — what is your favorite book by Trollope? Or would you rather recommend another author altogether?
Just don’t bring up Zane Grey please. As soon as I finished The Warden last week, I headed for Stairs of Sand. Boy, oh boy. I’m hooked by the story, so will put up with the dialogue to find out what happens, but sheesh. My eclectically well-read husband questions whether Zane Grey actually existed, or if he was just the nom de plum of a group of early 20th century western wordsmiths, getting paid by the pound to churn out pulp. I heard a radio interview last month with a man who claimed to have seen a cancelled check endorsed by Zane Grey at auction, so I think he did exist. Whether that existence can be justified by this book, well that’s beyond the scope of even my pretensions.
Further proof that he existed — this is Mr. Grey posing with his horse, Juan Carlos.
Bored in Barchester
May 28th, 2011
It grieves me to say it, but I don’t think I like Anthony Trollope very well. I began The Warden a few days ago, and have so far yawned my way through about two-thirds of the novel. I find the characters insipid and inconsequential, and while his arguments are interesting (I am very fond of church disputes, though prefer the doctrinal over the financial), the satire is ruined by too much cleverness without enough content.
I suppose Trollope’s defenders might argue that his finest barbs are soaring over my head. Or the less dogmatic among them might suggest I chose a poor specimen of his work with which to begin. But I can’t help feeling him to be a sad mix, combining the worst of the maudlin mid-19th century with a crude beginning of the delicate wit that characterizes so many British works of the later 19th and early 20th centuries.
Being nearly incapable of leaving a story half-finished, I suppose I will finish The Warden. Who knows, I may try another of his novels after that, just to be sure of my own feelings. I am generally quite fond of curmudgeons — even those who wear checked trousers.
« Newer Posts — Older Posts »