I start a lot of books. My bedside table is an overcrowded space and my unread, half-read pile now extends onto my dressing table, down the hall, into my study and out into the lounge. It's the repeating motif of our flat; every single room/living space has its selection of books- novels in the bedroom, Vanity Fair in the toilet, life writing/creative writing texts in the hallway, Shiv's phd-related stuff in my office, Fran's phd-related stuff in her office, a mix of literature, art, photography, non-fiction, Yiddish writings, and lots more besides in the living room. In the shop, I get excited when new orders come in, tear open the boxes, pull out the contents, pore over a few pages...take the 'worthy' ones home and add to the pile. Those that command my attention from start to finish are few. When I happen upon one that I really can't put down, I read through the night, every night until it's finished and when I turn the last page I feel saddened, like I'm losing a good friend. I can think of several books that have stayed with me, lingered on, long after I turned that last page: The Camerons by Robert Crichton, The Furies by Janet Hobhouse, The Mandarins by Simone de Beauvoir- and now I add a new best read: You Are Not Like Other Mothers by Angelika Schrobsdorff. The subject - - an assimilated German Jewish family's struggles during the Holocaust- is a familiar one. My phd, which I am now finally in the stages of writing up, focuses on Holocaust memory in elderly Lithuanian survivors. I am all Holocausted out... and yet... this book re-awakened the 'reader' in me. Is it because the mother of the title is like my own, who also was not like other mothers, or because it is written so beautifully, so lyrically and yet captures fear, anguish, guilt in such an agonizingly truthful way? Because its approach is unique? It vacillates between first and third peson. Because it has a lovely cover? Yes, I can be swayed by style over substance. Because it landed in my lap at the right time? Possibly all of these. What I can say is that I loved, loved, loved it. And that is all too rare.
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My all time favourite!
It's Saturday evening. Really I should be lying on the couch, catching up with my SKY box, watching recorded episodes of The Good Wife, Britain's Got Talent, or even Randy Jackson: America's Best Dance Crew... there's only 3% space left for recording, so I have a lot of viewing to do. Instead, I am sitting in front of my PC, pouring through publishers' back lists and trawling through my memory for favourite books to put on our international list of must-have books. Shivaun and I have decided we should each focus on our repective strengths. She's great at American, European, African and Middle Eastern authors. I, on the other hand, have a little more knowledge about Chinese and Japanese authors. This is because, in my younger days, I went through a Sino and Japanese phase. I remember how it all began. I was in the library and the cover of Yukio Mishima's Sound of Waves had caught my eye. I was 13. From then on, until about 21, I read works by quite a number of Japanese authors - Tanizaki, Kawabata, Akutagawa, even the really old classics - Murasaki's Tale of Genji and also the lesser known Tale of Heike. (I must say I actually liked Heike more than Genji. While the former dwells on the intricacies of court life, I enjoyed the historical sweep of Heike; it's an epic tome involving clan rivalry, samurai battles, honour and betrayal.) I even remember the first time I read Haruki Murakami's Pinball, 1973 and Norwegian Wood. I think this was in 1988 or 1989. A Japanese friend had bought them for me. They were English translations but unlike usual paperbacks had soft paper covers, and inside, neat, small print on soft, smooth yellow paper, typical of Japanese novels and manga, measuring only about 3.5 inches wide and 5 inches long. These stories blew me away.
And so, here I am, 20 years later, asking myself, what books will I select for the international selection bookshelves in our store? What would best represent a good cross-section of Japanese and Chinese literature? As a rule of thumb, I think they have to be pretty memorable. For example, I found myself searching for Ryunosuke Akutagawa's story The Dragon. I remember it almost as if I had read it yesterday. So surely that's got to be on the shelves. Then there's the heartwarming, heartbreaking autobiography Six Records of A Floating Life by Shen Fu, which was originally published in the 1870s. This book taught me that lesbianism was pretty common and accepted among the gentry, and dispelled for me the general notion that historically Chinese men perceived their wives as chattel. Instead (yes!) love was alive and kicking, and Shen Fu's outpouring of love for his wife is an amazing testament to read. What can I say? I hope some of the books I select will warm the hearts and stir the curiosity of others as they have done me. Now it's off to the back lists I go, or maybe, just maybe I should nick downstairs and reacquaint myself with my SKY box. - Fran Thus far I've left all the blogging to Fran. Let's face it, she's far better equipped for the task than I will ever be. She carries her camera with her as a matter of habit, ever ready to whip it out and capture aspects of the world around her which link to her current passions. Besides she usually manages to get the object of her attentions within the frame, whereas I invariably focus on legs or ceilings. She's an old hand at Twitter and Facebook and actually remembers all the relevant passcodes and how to navigate between sites. For some time now she's been saying, 'You know you can add a blog if you like.'
So here it is: This morning I awoke early to the sound of rain (in June!) and couldn't get back to sleep. I glanced over at my nightstand and realised I had no less than twenty-eight books sitting there gathering dust. I am actually reading about four of them. I then looked over at the dresser and saw another thirty or so volumes; the bedroom, much like every other space in our home is beginning to resemble a makeshift bookshop, one good reason to own one I guess. Another rationale for our latest venture is that I can't actually pass a bookshop without entering... and purchasing. I tend to judge the ciites I visit and remember them by their bookshops. Shakespeare and Co in Paris, Books and Books in Miami, The Book Lounge in Cape Town and Daunt in London are among my favourites. It is exciting to think that we might create a similar space of our own. When I enter bookshops, subconsciously perhaps, I am looking for the theme or the essence of the place. This is written not only into the selection on offer, but also into the decor, the ambience and, of course, the people who own and run it. I want to know what they like, in effect, who they are. Just as clothes, cars, homes reveal the identities of their owners, so too with books. For what's it's worth, following are a selection of books that have moved or struck me over the past few months. An Unfinished Business by Boualem Sansal, banned in his native Algeria for his criticizing the government. This book is about two Algerian brothers living in Paris who discover some disturbing truths about their father's Nazi past and undertake a foreboding journey home. I read it in two sittings. Everything is Connected, a memoir on the power of music to speak to all aspects of the human being: the animal, the emotional, the intellectual and the spiritual by conductor Daniel Barenboim. Love Begins in Winter, heartbreaking stories about people for whom chance meetings with strangers force them to face responsibility for lives they believed had continued on without them, by Simon Van Booy. The Armies, about the violent life of a small, fictional Columbian town by Evelio Rosero Last Night on Earth, a chronicle of the life and experiences of choreographer Bill T. Jones and my favourite -- Wandering Star, the moving story of two women, one Jewish, one Palestianian, caught up in the turmoil of the Middle East, but who aspire for peace by J.M.G. Le Clezio. Reading through these I am aware that they are all by male writers. Not intentional, I promise. - Shivaun |
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