garments

I thought I would continue the "g" theme, tho' there was actually no calculation involved in doing so. Laurie King's writing has simply sent me to the computer again to record:

When he first saw our conjuring and magic, Bindra was apprehensive, but once he had witnessed the similar reaction of the rustics, he immediately took on the garments of sophistication and scorned to gape, other than secretly.

"took on the garments of sophistication"

So pleasing.

I am rather timid in saying this (as a homeschooling mother), but I have never been very good at remembering what various literary devices are called (or grammar either, for that matter). But I do know what I love, what speaks to me, what "conjures" up evocative images in my mind as I read certain words strung together...and Laurie King seems to string words together in ways that make me very happy.

One day I will move on to another author, but I am still intrigued by Mary and Holmes, and their adventures are especially satisfying on these rainy days we are enjoying. A log fire and a scalding cup of tea would make for perfection.

gleanings

(from Laurie King's Mary Russell books-still gladly in the midst of them!)


I love this for its aptness:


"Badger Old Place welcomed us with all its run-down, shaggy magnificence, like and old friend shifting to make room on a bench."

And I love this because it is wonderful to spend time with a friend in the way the last six words describe, and because this is illustrative of the abundance of comforting drinks and cosy places in which to drink them that happily dot Laurie King's novels.


"Mary! What are you doing here? Looking for me? But why in heaven's name didn't you come and find me--you must be in an advanced stage of ice cube-ism. come along; we'll find a warm corner with drinks in it and bemoan the state of the world."

There was also a lovely sentence with something about "grasping the nettle" along with Holmes' hand or some such....but I had to return the book to the library before I could find the beloved sentence. I have since looked up "grasp the nettle" online and it seems to mean forging ahead with something difficult or unpleasant, tho' you know there will be a sting. On my first visit to England in the early 1980s I was thrilled to come across a patch of nettles in Cornwall and proceeded to swish my forearm across the leaves. The resulting tingling accompanied me for quite a while as my friend and I walked to the sea, but I was foolishly glad to have at last experienced what I had read about so often in my books!

glorious

"A brief hour's tramp through wet woods brought us to the village of Lydford, nestled along a river at the very edge of the moor's rising slopes. There we succumbed to the temptations of the flesh and spent a glorious thirty minutes in front of an inn's blazing fireplace, drinking coffee and steaming our boots."

-Laurie King


Tho' I had only just reclined upon my sofa and begun the first paragraph of Chapter Four in The Moor by Laurie R. King....I made myself go to the computer to place those few sentences into my word nest....because they capture some of what I have so been enjoying in the reading of the Mary Russell series (I am on book four with many more to go-thank goodness!). The wonderful detail, the intelligence, the utterly satisfying and lovely writing that leads you on and on, the fascinating cases and settings, the intriguing relationship between Mary and Holmes....I highly recommend them.

And I thank whoever it was that recommended them to me (Barry? One of my readers at the Bower when I asked for ideas for a good read?).

They are making for delightful reading this Summer and will take me contentedly into the Autumn.

A Year by the Sea

I have begun a book by Joan Anderson, one of the books I brought home from the library
last week....biographies, of women, to help me in my search to find the wellspring (there is a lovely word! def. "Original and bountiful source of something") of my current life.

I am going to record the passages that speak to me here...perhaps they will speak to someone else, as well.

All quotations are © Joan Anderson, italics are mine.

"Circling my head is a Monarch butterfly, which long ago should have been on its way to Brazil. "Perhaps you, too, need some extra time by the sea," I say, as it flaps it wings and settles on my shoulder. I eventually wander down from the bluff to the calm surf, where the water is not going anywhere, neither coming in nor going out, ebb tide, I suppose-the sea at a standstill, as am I. It was always the nothingness of ebb tide that drove me to distraction--when the wind stopped breathing and the water was still--when there wasn't enough depth to have a good swim and not enough current to make it a challenge."



"My soul is as drab as the September beach upon which I sit. I must be still and listen to the primitive squawk of birds and breathe, breathe deeply of the moist, clean air and be open to whatever comes my way."



"My instinct tells me to lie low, to process the grief that is the partner of change, but I am also aware that I should begin to do something."


"I was utterly entranced by one such child at the beach whose mother kept calling to her, "Victoria do this...Victoria do that." Victoria would have none of it; she was simply too immersed in her environment to eat or take a nap or be part of her family group. No, Victoria was in her wond world--breaking all the rules, naked to the waist, hair caked with salt and sand--the embodiment of bliss."


"Woman must come of age by herself. She must find her true center alone." Anne Morrow Lindbergh-Gift from the Sea (A chapter heading in this book....it takes me back to when we had a summer reading club a few years ago and read GFTS. Reading this book seems almost a continuation of reading that one. )


"But every time I replay the phone call of the other night I feel relieved, even privileged, to be apart from those who for so long looked to me to make everything work, to be without duty or schedule. Instead I stand here and dream and wonder and watch as the empties and fills itself up again."


"I am deep into my time-out season of life, where it seems best to be actively passive, involved in little, aware of much."


"...continuing on my private pilgrimage as I grapple with darkness, in hopes of seeing the light."


"I am beginning to grasp some idea of what I want. For starters, I want to take no action,"pursue that which is not meddlesome," says the Chinese philosopher Lao Tzu. Having taken myself away, I am in a frame of mind to wait and see rather than manipulate and direct. Living with nature had taught me the dignity of being without motive. Occupying this tiny cottage with no clutter, only barren essentials, has served to help me find more in less."


"I read somewhere that the Frenchwoman's role is to please others, but to please herself in the process!"

sound fruit

I am under the weather today, just a little touch of something, leaving just enough energy after hanging out the wash to choose a D.E. Stevenson novel from the book basket and retire to the couch. If you ever want and easy and interesting read, full of wholesome things like fresh-baked scones and country holidays and gentle romance, do find anything by D.E. Stevenson.

I am reading _Bel Lamington_ and took myself to the computer to share this interesting thought:

"It was surprising to find that Louise was so capable for Bel had always thought her a butterfly-she had seemed a butterfly at school-but Bel had a theory that people don't change, they merely develop. Who would think that the lovely fragile blossom upon an apple-tree would develop into apples? It was almost incredible when you thought about it-but so it was. The germ of the apple was there from the very beginning...and the same with Louise who had been fragile fairy-like blossom and was now sound fruit, sweet and juicy."

At Louise and Bel's age, I would have only wanted to be the "fairy-like blossom"...but at fifty-one, I am deeply happy to be "sound fruit-sweet and juicy".

hush

It has been a long time since I last posted here.....a few months of mostly reading
non-fiction to help me along my way with my mother. I have read a few very pleasant novels over March and April, but no lines or words begged to be captured here, so all has remained quiet.

But a few days ago, a rainy day I do believe, I was filled with an overwhelming urge to read
a good story. I didn't have any from the library and it was late at night, so I was in our temporary bedroom (my eldest son's-who is away at college). The bookshelves lining one wall are, therefore, filled with children's books....from picture books to Star Wars novels....all the years of his reading. My eyes were drawn to the top shelf and the little yellow spine of a book I bought to read myself many years ago, but that my sons also enjoyed.

Wise Child by Monica Furlong, has been the perfect companion for me over the past few days. Within its pages I found so much to share, mostly at The Bower, for the passages I marked are thought-provoking and perfect for musing upon. But one line I marked just because it made me smile with its beauty and perfection.

"It was very quiet in the wood, and the bright light of the sky filtered through the leaves and made patterns on the forest floor. We moved, slowly, silently as if the quiet of the place put a finger on our lips."

I hope it will not be so silent here in the months to come.

a glass of blessings

I scooped this book off the shelf during my last flying-visit to the library. I have always wanted to try Barbara Pym and this one had the prettiest cover, so....

It was a pleasant read and I found several lines that brought me here to set them down...but on the whole, I couldn't get close to it. The characters seemed so detached and sophisticated that I could never warm up to them.

But here are some delightful, sometimes picturesque snippets:



"...I came to the conclusion that people who went to evening classes were all more or less odd. It was unnatural to want to acquire knowledge after working hours."




"Some graves were very old, their headstones broken and overgrown with ivy, reminding me of tumbled unmade beds."




"I really cannot wait in the queue. I am Miss Daunt,' I heard her say in a loud ringing tone. 'My blood is Rhesus negative, the most valuable kind. I have a letter from the Regional Director. This precious blood,' she read,'that is the phrase used.'


'This precious blood,' she murmured, and began muttering to herself, first about her blood and then about irrelevant things which I could only half hear-a quarrel with somebody about a broken milk bottle and what they had said to each other. It seemed like a 'stream of consciousness' novel, but i was relieved when she stopped talking for I had been afraid that she might address me. Virginia Woolf might have brought something away from the experience, I thought; perhaps writers always do this, from situations that merely shock and embarrass ordinary people."

This scene caught my attention because I have Rh negative blood and then just made me laugh. Now when I give blood it will be hard not to dramatically refer to my "precious blood"!




"But in the meantime there was the excitement, which I still felt, of the Christmas post arriving two or three times a day in the week before Christmas Day."


*sigh* Imagine a world where that still happened!




"There is another little parcel you seem to have forgotten,' said Sybil, pointing to a little soft square package wrapped in holly paper. 'Oh dear, it's two handkerchiefs from Mary,' I said, 'and I didn't give her anything."


I liked this because I could imagine the soft little package with two hand-embroidered handkerchiefs inside, folded many times into a small bundle, something that seems a sweet and satisfying gift to make and give.




"But there was hardly time to consider whether we should ring or not, for the moment we set foot on the doorstep I noticed a curtain at the ground floor window being flicked aside and heard footsteps within. Evidently Mr. Bason had been watching for our arrival in a rather Cranfordian way.


I finally discovered Cranford this Winter (not the book yet, just the Masterpiece Theatre) so I could truly appreciate this.




'No, I despise women who are always knitting,' said Sybil. 'Buti it can be a useful occupation-the kind of thing one can do when talking.'

'I wonder if women brought their knitting when Oscar Wilde talked,' said Piers.

'I daresay not,' said Sybil calmly, 'but that doesn't mean they wouldn't have liked to.'