Another Reason Why Books Rule

"A book reads the better which is our own, and has been so long known to us, that we know the topography of its blots, and dog's ears, and can trace the dirt in it to having read it at tea with buttered muffins."  

~Charles Lamb, Last Essays of Elia, 1833

I know Kindles, Nooks, etc. represent a great leap in technology and are "green" and "convenient" and "economic." But I don't like them. I don't think I ever will. I will not berate anyone who owns one; but I will brutally kill anyone who thinks it's a good idea to buy me one for Christmas. Brutally. Kill.

I will not list my reasons why I dislike Kindles because e-books are pretty neat, and it's hard to list reasons why they suck. But I will proclaim, from time to time, in an often oblique manner, the many reasons why books are better. 

Bath: Even Jane Austen Didn't Really Like It After a While

I'm a country girl. Having grown up in the suburbs of Suffolk County, Long Island and the suburbs of Southeastern Connecticut, I've become accustomed to Neighborhoods (with a capital N), woods, farms, and shore. I attend UMass in Amherst, and while all the Eastern Massholes will tell you there is nothing in Western Massachusetts, I quite like it. Neighborhoods, woods, farms...I think it's beautiful. 

That's not to say I dislike cities. I will always love The City (nowhere like New York), and I've grown to really love Boston as well.  I'm sure I'll end up living and working in one of these two metropolises, but when it comes down to it, my soul dances faster for the reel of fresh air and the hum of flora than for the dazzling lights of the hustle and bustle. 

Jane Austen was as much a lady of the country as I am. She grew up the village of Steventon in Hampshire, dancing, reading, writing, and basically enjoying herself in the British countryside. She started a fair number of works there, including Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice. And then her dastardly devil of a father decided to move the family to Bath, of all places, when she was twenty-six (Her father was actually a wonderful man, and he had just retired from the village rectory). 

While Austen began writing Northanger Abbey before moving to Bath, the novel tells the mockingly Gothic story of Catherine, a seventeen-year-old Gothic novel aficionado who visits Bath for the first time. When asked if she is fond of the country, Catherine initially responds, "Yes, I am. I have always lived there, and always been very very happy. But certainly there is much more sameness in a country life than in a Bath life. One day in the country is exactly like another." But she soon tires of and learns to detest the superficial city life of Bath, finding "society" all rather silly (see note).
Jane did not like Bath. While initially enamored by the bustling city, she soon found it stifling, superficial, and depressing. As a result, she was hardly productive in the literary sense at all (although this should also be attributed to the hard times which befell her family after Poppa Austen died). It wasn't until she moved back to the country in Chawton that she continued to write, polish, and publish her stories.
"Oh! Who can ever be tired of Bath?" says Catherine.
I can tire of Bath rather easily, as it turns out. The first few glances are filled with appreciation for the clean yet decorous Georgian architecture, the Romanesque facades. And then you turn one corner, and then another, and you find more and more of the same yellow-grey stone buildings shooting up right from the curb. The buildings turn into walls, the windows become eyes surveying you through snooty lace curtains, the socialites (while not quite from London) stalk the streets in their smug raincoats...Even the small, green lawns of carefully constructed parks seem so trite, so dreary.

But I might be a little crazy and overly dramatic about Bath. There is really pretty river that runs through the city, and one can visit the Roman Baths...in Bath. The folks at the Jane Austen Center were also quite friendly, and while the exhibits were poorly put together and very sparse, I left learning quite a bit about Jane Austen. I also left with a lovely writing set, which cheered me up considerably. Besides, it was on and off rainy the day we visited. Bath might be a wonderful city when the sun shines for more than a few hours, though god knows when that happens here.


Note: I've only ever read 1.5 of Austen's books to tell you the truth. I fear this is becoming a trend; me, always writing about books and authors I don't seem to know much about. I do my research though! *cough*wikipedia*cough* And besides, I do like Austen. Well, I like Pride and Prejudice. I tried reading Emma and, much to my dismay, found it to be rather akin to girly rubbish. Ah well. 

Stone Henge

Whenever I think of Stonehenge, the mysterious, droning chant of a thousand druids starts to play in my head (in much the same way "doink doink" pops up when I think of Law and Order). The druids, however, didn't really have anything to do with Stonehenge. John Aubrey, this antiquary and writer, first suggested in the 1600s that the Henge was constructed by Druids; there isn't any evidence for this, although today's revived Druids certainly seem to like the place. 

When my September Program group arrived in the Stongehenge parking lot in Amesbury, a rag-tag group of Stonehenge junkies were in the process of leaving. Perhaps "junkie" is too strong a word. These modern-day druids looked more like aging hippies than anything else, and I can't blame them for wanting to enjoy the site before it actually "opened." Yes, Stonehenge has opening and closing hours. They also have Stonehenge Cafe, Stongehenge gift shop, and Stonehenge WC.

This awesome circle of rocks has a role in one of the greatest legends (if not the greatest legend) in all Britannia: King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. In 1136, Geoffrey of Monmouth, a cleric and major figure in the development of the Arthurian tales, wrote The History of the King's of Britain. 

According to his text, the rocks of Stonehenge were healing rocks called the Giant's Dance, which giants had brought from Africa to Ireland for their healing powers. Aurelius Ambrosias (fifth century ruler), wanting to erect a memorial to the 3,000 nobles who had died in battle with the Saxons. At Merlin's advice, he chose the mystical Giant's Dance rocks for this purpose. Merlin, Uther Pendragon (Arthur's father), and 15,000 knights made their voyage to Ireland and slew thousands of Irishmen (for very little reason, I'm sure). Try as they might, however, they were unable to make the magic rocks budge. Merlin, using his mysteriously mad skillz, easily dismantled the stones and sent them to Britain, where they stand today. Soon after, Aurelius died and was buried beneath the monument, or "The Giant's Ring of Stonehenge." 
Another folktale from the seventeenth century surrounds one of the outlying stones, called the Friar's Heel. The Devil bought the stones from a mystical old woman in Ireland, wrapped them up, and brought them to Salisbury plain. While constructing the stone circle, the Devil began to think very highly of his work and genius and boasted that no one in the nearby village would be able to count all the stones. After about a dozen different village folk came up with varying counts, a local friar sidled up to the Devil and said that "there are more than can be counted." This was an appropriate answer, and the Devil became so cross at being proven wrong that he picked up one of the great stones and hurled it at the friar, where it struck him on the heel. The stone stuck in the ground and is still there today as the Heelstone.

The story of the Friar's Heel varies from source to source. Sometimes the Devil bets that the stones cannot be counted the same way twice; in others, the Devil throws at the stone because the Friar is spying on him; in one other, the Devil boasts that no one will ever guess why the Henge was constructed, and the Friar contradicts him.

But the Devil might be right. No one today truly knows why or by whom Stonehenge was constructed.

There are so many theories and stories behind the reason for Stonehenge, and yet I am still most awed by its sheer existence. People decided to move giant rocks and place them in a circle. Many of these rocks come from about 25 miles away. The bluestones come from about 150 miles away. These rocks weigh up to 50 tons. And people decided to construct this thing in the middle of nowhere. Fields and hills for miles, and then Stonehenge. I keep asking myself, why did they build it there? And there very well may be a decent theory out there, but all I can think of is Neil Gaiman's American Gods passage:

No, in the USA, people still get the call, or some of them, and they feel themselves being called to from the transcendent void, and they respond to it by building a model out of beer bottles of somewhere they’ve never visited, or by erecting a gigantic bat house in some part of the country that bats have traditionally declined to visit. Roadside Attractions: people feel themselves being pulled to places where, in other parts of the world, they would recognize that part of themselves that is truly transcendent, and buy a hot dog and walk around, feeling satisfied on a level they cannot truly describe, and profoundly dissatisfied on a level beneath that.

Gaiman is talking about the American version of exactly what happened here. For some reason, perhaps mystical and perhaps not, people were called to this little green spot to construct a circle of rocks. And even today, people come from all over the world to see it. They may come to see an agreed-upon World Marvel, they may come for the mysticism of the Ancients, they may come to see some nifty Neolithic craftsmanship. But they come. And they see. And they leave feeling a little different than when they arrived. And I think that's pretty cool.  

Bookshelf Porn: Lewes

Walking into a great bookstore is kind of like walking into a whore house (see note 1) . Paperbacks and hardcovers lounge on their shelves, their spines polished up and their titles gleaming, waiting for the next fool to passionately and reverently rifle through their pages. The Borders and Barnes & Noble types look clean, but they're too new. A used book, however, isn't afraid to show off its experience because it knows its good at what it does. As the prospective customer, it's more than a little daunting to be presented with such beautiful works; there are so many to choose from, but the money in your pocket says you can take only one home with you tonight. Sometimes you don't even wait until your home. And after every escapade, you are still left wanting to spend a little more time with Austen or Yeats. Next time you're in the area, you might just pick up a new favorite, or if you're lucky, two. 

The U.S. is too concerned with the new and modern to care for the independent book shop; and on top of that, it simply isn't old enough to have the sort of shop that makes me weak in the knees: musty, mysterious, and so-very-romantic. 

Lewes ("Lewis"), a small town very near Brighton, seduced me with its book stores. 

I fell in love in Lewes. 

Bow Windows Bookshop

Specializing in "old, find, and rare books," this store prides itself on being simple, yet very elegant. Bow Windows does sell more modern used books as well, but I was captivated by the shelves of "finer things." These books were particularly wonderful: richly illustrated children's stories from days gone by, cloth-bound texts with gold-ink cover art, and of course the always-alluring leather-bound beauties. Many of the books were first edition, or special edition, or rare in some other way I could not understand. Coupled with their splendid appearance, I was not surprised to find books in the price range of several hundred or even thousand pounds. A few highlights behind glass: The Complete Works of William Shakespeare in six handsomely leather-bound volumes from Houghton, Mifflin, and Co. 1883 (£575); Tolkien's The Hobbit, clothed in dark-green leather, first-edition, illustrated by the author, printed 1937 (£2,250); Milne's The House at Pooh Corner, first deluxe edition from 1928, signed by the author (£2,500); one of forty copies printed on [some sort of special paper] of The Diary of T.E. Lawrence (£3,750). 

The books were gorgeous, but it was a "look, don't touch," kind of place; or, rather, a "look, flip through the pages, see the price, put gingerly back on the shelf" kind of place. Bow Windows did inspire, however, a current desire of mine to be an antiquarian book connoisseur. 

The Fifteenth Century Bookshop

If you are wider than two feet or taller than six feet, you may never get into this store. Fifteenth Century is housed in a wonderfully restored beamed building dating back to (you guessed it) the fifteenth century. Unfortunately, due to the historically small door and the invading bookcases, it is quite difficult to enter such a building. As this store specializes in classic as well as modern children's books, I like to think the entrance serves to keep out grumpy, old grown-ups. 

Upon squeezing through the front door, I was confronted by more books than I would ever think could physically fit into the building. I would not be surprised if the place was held together by magic. Books were piled on every available surface, including tables, chairs, windowsills, and even bits of floor-space tucked into corners. The shelves were stuffed to burst. Most impressively, the front windows were absolutely packed with books without any regard for orientation or order. A sign politely asked customers to ask for help before picking a book out of the window-wall-o'-books because it was obviously created by a Tetris master, and only a Jenga master could successfully navigate the arrangement. None of the books in the store seemed to be organized beyond "children's fiction" and "not children's fiction," but I have no issue with that. This shop is strictly for browsing. 

The prices were very manageable--£2 for an old copy of Dahl's Matilda--but the shopkeeper (who was surprisingly stern-looking for such a child-friendly store) did not have enough change to break my tenner. So despite my long hour browsing through this wonderfully messy, claustrophobic bookshop, I yet again left empty-handed. 

A.Y. Cumming Antiquarian Bookshop

Small, warm, and intimate, this place made me feel like I was in a close friend's personal library. 

With floor-to-ceiling shelves filled end-to-end with beautifully antique and used books--and all other surfaces piled high with even more texts--there was surprisingly great variety in such a small shop. I found Einstein's Relativity, Tom Brown's School Days, The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire, children's books, gardening guides, philosophy texts, history books, photography and art books, poetry collections. And of course, the classics flourished. 

I was also pleasantly surprised to find acceptable the price range ran. I found a carved-leather copy of Othello for £70. But I also found a battered copy of The Complete Works of Shakespeare for four quid;  you better believe I bought that baby faster than you can say "Wherefore art thou, Romeo."

*Note 1: I feel I should state that a) I have never been to a whore house, and so this metaphor is based on speculation and romantic notions taken from literature; and b) I do not have a book fetish.

But here is a great website to look at more bookshelf porn!!!

The Turkish Delight

Edmund was already feeling uncomfortable from having eaten too many sweets, and when he heard that the Lady he had made friends with was a dangerous witch he felt even more uncomfortable. But he still wanted to taste that Turkish Delight more than he wanted anything else.

--The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe, C.S. Lewis (see note 1)

Oh, Edmund. Your desire for Turkish Delights almost destroyed you, your friends, the entire world of Narnia! What were you thinking?! Right; those were enchanted candies, and anyone who ate one "would want more and more of it, and would even, if they were allowed, to go on eating it till they killed themselves." 

I perused the candy aisle in the campus Co-op today and was instantly drawn to a small, pink, foil-wrapped square of something that must be as delicious as it was tempting. 79p later, I was the excited owner of one Fry's Turkish Delight (see note 2).  

This candy was not enchanted.

To tell you the truth, I didn't know what a Turkish Delight was until I bit into the bar. I quickly realized that Fry's Turkish Delight is very similar to a chocolate-covered slab of bland jelly that has sat too long in an opened jar, similar to pudding- or jello-skin. It was not what I was expecting, and I certainly won't be begging a White Witch for more. 

Invented in the 1700s by a confectioner in Istanbul, Turkish Delights (or lokum) are traditionally squares of gelatin, usually rosewater or lemon flavored, decorated with walnuts, pistachios, or dried dates, and dusted with powdered sugar. J.S. Fry & Sons (presently a part of Cadbury) decided it was a good idea to coat thin rectangular pieces of the rose-flavored gelatin with chocolate. Apparently, they are immensely popular in Australia and New Zealand, as they are privy to a whole range of "Turkish" products, including Turkish Easter Eggs. Of course, we have to remember that people from down under also appreciate Vegemite.

*Note 1: I confess I have never read The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe nor any other Narnia book. But I watched the first three movies, and my already-little-desire to start reading the series pretty much fizzled out after that.

*Note 2: Here is a commercial for Fry's Turkish Delights from 1984. It really makes you appreciate how much Imperialism has influenced England, even into the 80s. It also makes you NOT want to eat a Turkish Delight. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qAY_o36paQ0&feature=player_embedded

Welcome to Bloody England

An American girl in England! What a novelty! And she's studying English at an English University for an autumn? Isn't that unique as cantaloupes? 

After travelling through Luxembourg and southern Germany with my family, I've finally stopped off in Brighton, Sussex, United Kingdom. Hail Britannia. The University of Sussex is a lovely campus, much smaller than my home school of University of Massachusetts, Amherst. The architecture is similar though; 1970s-80s brick and cement and glass and grassy areas all around. There's farmland crawling up the rolling hills on one side, and to the other is the Sea. Brighton is right on the English Channel, but even on the clearest days you can't see France. Shame. 

Food is all on me. As expensive as everything is (£1 is about $1.70), the Pound Stores are very handy, and you'd be surprised at the lovely prices in an Indian grocery store. I can buy lamb testicles there!! So far I've only settled for pastas, chicken tikka masalas, and left-overs quesadillas (a trick from my mom. Everything tastes good in quesadilla-form). 

Cooking isn't a big problem, but it's kind of a ghost town on campus until the real term starts. The September Program is for those international students who need the extra credits to make the abroad thing worthwhile. So far, there are about fifty Americans and a handful of exotic students sitting around this one area of campus. 

As friendly and outgoing as I am, I feel it would be much more beneficial to myself to spend this time watching Misfits, tooling around Brighton, and reading...at least until some proper students show up. It's been a blast.

So what about excitement? Adventure? Fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes, True Love, miracles...? 

Hello, my name is Caity, and I'm a bibliophile. Sitting here in one of the great lands of literary history and influence is like a catholic visiting the Pope's dressing room. I intend to thoroughly investigate the Kingdom's drawers and find what Shakespeare, Barrie, Doyle and the rest discovered and celebrated in their works of art. That's kind of what the title of this blog comes from. The line comes straight from this little receipt on my desk I received from the campus library, but it may also refer to all the pieces and ideas of England that authors borrowed, messed with, disfigured, celebrated, and ultimately gave back to the people in a wreath of paper and magic. 

So here's to grabbing an umbrella, a pint, and a battered copy of Peter Pan and hitting the cobbled streets of bloody England in the footsteps of those sneaky and wonderful thieves.