Ironic

"Sometimes it is better to let your thoughts out before they consume you."

Scrolled like a lover's message on the bark of a tree, the girl stood an stared at the message.
She tilted her head in deep thought. Ironic it was, considering what the message was trying to convey

No room for thought

Sunburn: An excerpt.

All things considered though, the new school wasn’t really bad. The students were more welcoming than the students at my old school would have been, something that surprised me. It was almost like they were competing with each other as to who could be the nicest; who could win me for their group of friends. It was a little disconcerting, I’ll own, but it was better than being ignored, or teased, or hated and alone.

My form class were especially nice- something that I would later learn was specific to that form. They got a lot of new students in that class, at least one every year, a boy proudly told me. For all that, they were close knit.

On the first day, I got told by six different people from six different groups that I was welcome to join them at break or at lunch if I wanted. I ended up going with whoever asked me just before class finished- it was easier than trying to search through the crowds for the face of someone I barely remembered the name of.

***

To those wishing to read of the wondrous well of Sunburn, just comment and I shall get it to you, one way or another.

Sunburn

Recently, I've been re-writing a story I started an age ago in an exam. I've shifted the perspective from that of the main character to another (almost as important) character as when I first wrote the story I found myself having him as a narrator more than my protagonist.

The story, which used to be called Jesse, is now called Sunburn, after the song by Muse.

It follows Matthew Hilton who is moved from Kent to London in his last year of school after his father gets a new job.

The story focuses mainly on Matt trying to understand the real protagonist, Jessica Priestly, with his bad relations with his father as a sub-plot and a small possible romance on the way.

An excerpt can be found here.

Tatty bye!

Happy Blogging

Lots of Love

Little Newman

xxx

Lit Corner

I've finished American Gods and The Importance of Being Earnest this week. Both are wonderful books, although quite different, and not just in terms of form. Neil Gaiman weaves a deliciously intricate plot about gods and mystery and love that is just stunning. It's a large book for a large subject, but the length doesn't detract or spoil the book in any way. In fact, one rather finds oneself wishing that it would never end because the world he creates is just so completely fantastic.

The Importance of Being Earnest is as ridiculous as American Gods is fantastic. Its frivolous and silly, and it makes fun of its characters in a manner that is beautiful to behold. It is very Wilde; I'm sure there is no one else in the world whose pen it could have come from.

That was impressively pompous. Learning French has made me view the use of 'one' as a pronoun (personal or otherwise) in a far more favourable light.

So, the rest of the books I have been reading this week

On Saturday, I started reading The Republic by Plato. I'm still at the intro, but I'm enjoying it. The translation I have is easy to read, with clear footnotes that ensure the meaning of the original text is not lost.

I have also restarted reading The Hundred Secret Senses by Amy Tan. I adore her writing style. It reminds me, in the way that it alternates between our world and a dream world that seems to be the past, of The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy. Tan's writing style is humorous yet slightly heavy. You feel the weight of the issues and emotions of Olivia, who narrates, but you can get past her mortification enough to chuckle at Kwan, who makes the best of every situation.

I'm pushing my way through chapter thirteen of The Picture of Dorian Gray. Pushing is very necessary, it is without contest the dullest and most needless chapter of the book, for the most part, but I see the light at the end of the tunnel and I'm using the hope it gives to guide me through. I've already read the end, a while back, when I despaired of ever being able to get past chapter thirteen. I'm looking forward to reading the entire book in the order it appears, with the middle, middle and the last, last.

I'm rereading Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen, along with a collection of her Juvenilia. It is incredible to see the similarities and differences between her earlier writings and her later- the way her subjects are treated (she always satires, but her mockery is more subtle in her later works and therefore less ridiculous). It's quite nice to watch her grow- I feel almost like a proud mother, or her mentor :')

I have also started reading In Rememberance of Times Past (A la Recherche du Temps Perdu/In Search of Lost Time) by Marcel Proust. Well, when I say started, I mean I know what the title of the first part is, and it's very possible I have started reading the first sentence. I mean, it's Proust. I'm pretty sure carrying it your bag counts as starting it. Opening it marks you as literary elite. (Those who have actually read it are the ruling classes. Those who have read all of it -past Volume I!- are priceless gems who should be sought out and cut as such.)

I intend to finish at least another two of these this week, as well as to start Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier, The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan and Madame Bovary by Gustav Flaubert- in both French and English.

In other news, I am trying to teach myself Russian.

I'm doing this, for now, through poetry.

225 by Osip Mandelshtam and that poem by Boris Pasternak that appears nameless but begins 'February. Get ink shed tears...'

Soviet Russia. Cheerful as ever.

I'm learning the alphabet first, pronunciation etc. I think it's be easier that way.

So.

Happy blogging and happier reading!

This has been a literary post

Lots of love (and admiration for those who've made it through- for a while I wasn't even sure if I would make it!)

Little Newman

xxx

Miscellanea

#225 - Osip Mandelstam

After midnight the heart picks the locked silence
right out of your hands. Then it may remain
quiet, or it may raise the roof.
Like it or not, it's the only one of its kind.

Like it or not, you may know it but you'll never catch it,
so why shiver, now, like a thrown-out child?
After midnight the heart has its banquet,
gnawing on a silvery mouse.
Moscow. March 1931