Category: Books

Just when I am in the knitting (and winter) doldrums, the new Vogue Knitting is kind enough to come knocking on my door.

Since I was itching for a bit of distraction, curling up with a new mag and a cup of coffee seemed like the perfect afternoon retreat.

The nautical-themed storyline did nothing but two of the sweaters were of marginal interest.  I do like the rope-like cables on the front of this cardigan it is something I would probably actually wear, even though sun and sea are not really my thing.

This sideways knitted sweater caught my eye and I like the intarsia waist inset with cable.  It is an interesting sweater, but I am not yet sure if my interest is more academic or along the lines of something I would actually wear.   Even as I write this I have to admit that it is a wearable sweater, and one that would be flattering to me, but still I waver.

Although I have gotten more interested in lace than I would once have ever suspected was possible, The Case for Lace left me cold and, with the exception of the Debbie Bliss baby coat, Baby Couture was far too cute for me to ever knit for any child I would know.

The Paper Chase was a real winner however.  I love the tailored look of the kimono jacket by Jeannie Chin.

And although I find knit skirts to be difficult unless they have a certain weight and structure, I am willing to think that in the right yarn the suit will be just as lovely to wear as it looks in the magazine photo.

(love the shoes too)

And last, but certainly not least (it may be the first thing from this issue I knit), this short fitted cardigan is more than lacy enough for me.

Started rereading Even Cowgirls Get the Blues today and I immediately fell back under its spell, savoring the words and the story and remembering past readings. It had been some time. The book was stored in a stack, not immediately visible as I am working on increasing and rearranging book storage facilities in the house. A chance remark brought it back to memory. For that I am thankful.

I first read this book in 1977 in a college course on 20^th century fiction. The reading list was diverse and difficult, much of it like nothing I had read before, completely foreign to me, and I struggled at first but came to love everything we covered. That course changed much of the way I looked at reading, although it never stole from the secret thrill of escaping into an imaginary world with an occasional bit of trash fiction. We read Beckett, Brecht, Jean Genet, John Barth, Tom Robbins, early Milan Kundera (The Book of Laughter and Forgetting), and, oh dear, I forget what else. Many of the books became permanent fixtures in my library and I read other works by the same authors. They are all old friends now. Ahh the path of memory is long and winding.

I read Cowgirls that year, and then I read it again shortly after I graduated from college, probably in 1981 or 82. Somewhere in the late 80’s I lent it to someone, big mistake, I was still young and naïve then and would lend out books, most of which have never come back to me. I had to replace it so my current copy is newer. I read it at that time but probably not since. At that time I was trying to reduce the inventory of paperbacks in the house, a mission undertaken every few years as I have a tendency to hold on to all books. They aren’t all friends though. There are those books with which one never connects even if the tale is well told and the writing beautiful. There are the many books that are good for a one-time escape and then are forgotten, never bearing up to a second reading, and there are the books that are not so great in terms of literature or writing but hit a chord, bring up some forgotten memory or remind of us a particular time or place. The merit of these books is more than the book itself – it is the relationship, almost like a friendship, that has been formed. And of course there the books that can bear reading over and over, sharing something new with each rereading.

You know, I rarely lend out books anymore, unless I know the person feels as I do about books, treats them as treasured friends and would never dream of not returning one. I don’t know many people like that. Occasionally I will lend something to the kids, but never anything that cannot be easily replaced. It seems the only books that come back are the ones that I wish would stay away, the mistakes or misbegotten gifts from others, books like WICKED which everyone I knew loved, and which kept coming back to me despite my deep disappointment in it.

There is nothing quite as enjoyable as good writing.  A good novel, beautifully written exists far beyond the level of just the plot and the story, although plot and story are also important.  Every bit is a treat to savor.

From Almayer’s Folly, probably the only Joseph Conrad novel I had not previously read:  These passages are from the ending, the tragedy of Almayer.

    He ceased, and they both sat silent side by side, not looking at each other, but gazing at the vast expanse of the sea.  Almayer’s words had dried Nina’s tears, and her look grew hard as she stared before her into the limitless sheet of blue that shone limpid, unwavering, and steady like heaven itself.  He looked at it also, but his features had lost all expression, and life in his eyes seemed to have gone out.  The face was a blank, without a sign of emotion, feeling, reason, or even knowledge of itself.  All passion, regret, grief, hope or anger — all were gone, erased by the hand of Fate, as if after this last stroke everything was over and there was no need for any record. 

and a little later on, how well Conrad captures the loss, the regret, the failure that shaped these lives and their expectations:

"I would have rather strangled you with my own hands," said Almayer, in an expressionless voice which was such a contrast to the desperate bitterness of his feelings that it surprised even himself.  He asked himself who spoke, and, after looking slowly round as if expecting to see somebody, turned again his eyes toward the sea.

‘You say that because you do not understand the meaning of my words," she said sadly.  "Between you and my mother there never was any love.  When  I returned to Sambir I found the place which I thought would be a peaceful refuge for my heart, filled with weariness and hatred — and mutual contempt.  I have listened to your voice and to her voice.  Then I saw that you could not understand me; for was I not part of that woman? Of her who was the regret and shame of your life" I had to choose–I hesitated.  Why were you so blind? Did you not see me struggling before your eyes?

Conrad is a master. And from The Return-

     He came to himself with a slight start, and became aware of an oppressive, crushing desolation.  It was only a feeling, it is true, but it produced on him a physical effect, as though his chest had been squeezed in a vice.  He perceived himself so extremely forlorn and lamentable, and was moved so deeply by the oppressive sorrow, that another turn of the screw, he felt, would bring tears out of his eyes.  He was deteriorating.  Five years of life in common had appeased his longing.  Yes, long-time ago.   The first five months did that — but . . . There as the habit — the habit of her person, of her smile, of her gestures, of her voice, of her silence.

These are not Conrad’s "Great works" the novels we have all heard of, but Conrad’s mastery of language and the human soul still comes out.

And from another great novelist, the opening of my new book All the Pretty Horses  by Cormack McCarthy.  A novelist I have only recently come to appreciate.

The candleflame and the image of the candleflame caught in the pierglass twisted and righted when he entered the hall and again when he shut the door.  He took off his hat and came slowly forward.  The floorboards creaked under his boots.  In his black suit he stood in the dark glass where the lilies leaned so palely from their wasted cutglass vase.  Along the cold hallway behind him hung the portraits of forebears only dimly know to him all framed in glass and dimly lit above the narrow wainscotting.  He looked down at the  guttered candlestub.  He pressed his thumb print in the warm wax pooled on the oak veneer.  Lastly he looked at the face so caved and drawn among the folds of funeral cloth, the yellowed moustache, the eyelids paper thin.  That was not sleeping.  That was not sleeping.

No thoughts, just reading.

When I started reading Mohammad Yunus’ Banker to the Poor  I was immediately struck by how little the poor people who are helped by the Grameen Bank needed to help themselves build a better life.  Of course I was also struck by the ways in which these same people find themselves locked into a cycle which they have no way to escape, unless someone will lend them a hand (or a little money).  After reading the first couple of chapters I had to put the book down and think about it a few days.  The same thing happened when I read Nickeled and Dimed  by Barbara Ehrenreich and actually, although the situations are different and the countries and the status of our poor and nearly poor people, there are very strong similarities in that in both cases the people about whom I was reading were locked into a self-perpetuating system that will never allow them to break free and become self-sufficient.

Both books opened my eyes to things that I never really thought about.  Oh I knew the poor existed.  Who does not?  But I never thought much about why they were poor, or how they could stop being poor, except for the standard pap that we all tell ourselves.  But much of the standard pap is wrong.

I have never been poor.  It is highly unlikely that I ever would be — I was born with too many advantages.  But Yunus is right in that there is no reason on earth why anyone should be poor, so poor that they cannot provide shelter, food, clothing, and health for their families.  Granted not everyone may be rich, and not everyone even wants to be rich.  This rethinking of my basic assumptions is tiring work.  I am sure it is worthwhile in the end.  If we all managed to do it, how much better would the world be?

At the end of the book, there were so many ideas and beliefs I was overwhelmed.  I took pages of notes.  I cannot condense them into a smaller space.  Yunus is revolutionary and whether one agrees with him or not, his goals are admirable.  To achieve them would require a complete restructuring of human society.

At the moment I will leave you with these two quotes:

Poverty does not belong in a civilized society. pp 236

and
Charity is not a solution to poverty.  Charity only perpetuates poverty by taking the initiative away from the poor.  Charity allows us to go ahead with our own lives without worrying about those of the poor.  It appeases our consciences  pp237.

There are many more profound, more thought-provoking, and more controversial statements.  At the moment, this strikes me as the gist of the matter. 

Now, how do we change the world?

A Dash of Daring was a fun, entertaining read about a very interesting woman.  Not many remember Carmel Snow, she was a star before fashion editors and magazine editors were stars.  Still, reading her biography one can easily see how much of the fashion publishing business, the role played by editors and the fashion industry was created in large part by her influence.

It is a fascinating read, and lots of fun too, there is enough juicy gossip mixed with the fact and the photographs to keep one wildly entertained.  Although it is not a particularly serious book, and the writing is not stellar, it IS a lot of fun.

If you are interrested in fashion, or fashion magazines, this book is highly recommended.

I finished reading Thomas Hager’s The Demon Under the Microscope two days ago, but have not really had a chance to put my thoughts together.

It was a fun book to read and interesting because although I knew a little bit about the discovery of penicillin and its role in shaping modern medicine, I knew very little about sulfa drugs, their discovery, and the major role they played up until penicillin came to the fore.  It is a fascinating story and because it is told in story form more than as a scholarly tract, it really made me think about how this discovery affected life and the practice medicine.  It certainly gives one pause to think about the changes in the knowledge and practice of medicine in the last 70 years, one lifetime really.  Oh I knew this intellectually.  But what we know in our heads doesn’t always make us think about what how we perceive our lives on a daily basis.

That said the book is a very easy and entertaining read, and in some ways is more gripping and suspenseful than some novels I have read.  It is obviously written for a lay audience, and a broad-based one at that.  The language and the story line reminds me, in attitude at least, to some of those biographies and histories I read when I was young, the ones aimed at the "young adult" market.  I would plow right through them, reading them like I was eating candy, learning something on the way that often led me to pursue subjects further, in much more scholarly works.  This book is like that: fast, readable, not too difficult but full of information.  It seems to be well researched and well thought out.  The lack of footnotes were frustrating at first, when I wanted to find a reference for something, but soon I just sat back and enjoyed the story. Generally I did not look up the notes at all while reading, just enjoyed the act of reading, eager to find out what would happen next, although the end result was obvious all along.  In the end, when I had questions about this or that, the notes turned out to be handy.

The book has its biases.  At times Hager does not sound at all happy with the modern world of scientific drug research and physicians who hand out prescriptions right and left.  He seems to prefer his noble researchers and their "selfless" pursuits.  I would accuse him of romanticizing the past somewhat.  And I am not saying that modern medicines and drugs are perfect.  We have solved so many things, but we do get carried away with new inventions, using them far more heavily and more things that perhaps we should.  It is good to be cautious.  To a certain extent we are a population of guinea pigs (Hager does NOT say this) growing up using and be surrounded by things that were unknown to generations upon generations of human beings.  There are bound to be side affects and effects of things that only turn up after 30 or 40 or 50 years or more.  But at the same time these inventions have also done so much good.  We take so much for granted today, we forget that a simple infection, the flu, pneumonia, could kill not all that very long ago. Reading Hager’s account reminded me of how truly far we have come, and how easy it is to become excessive in our enthusiasms for new things.

The new Vogue Patterns magazine arrived yesterday and it was a welcome treat after a couple of long days with no further opportunity to work in the sewing room.

  I have to admit that I was thrilled from the moment I saw the magazine and it took some discipline to put it aside and wait until I had finished with the day’s tasks before losing myself in its pages.

I am afraid it was rather late by the time I got to the magazine, after 10:30.  Although I had taken a break to eat dinner, I wanted to finish my various accounting tasks before the weekend officially began and I still had a few bills to pay.  Friday had been supposed to be my day to close out the 2006 office accounts and finish up the payroll and payroll forms for the year, and it was estimated tax day at home as well so I was busy just doing general end-of year accounting as I went along.

But the daytime hours ended up being occupied with a plethora of conversations with carpenters, contractors, and the engineer, as I learned that a few things hadn’t been communicated to other parties involved. we were behind on an inspection, the blueprints hadn’t been updated to show the new changes even though the contractor had told the carpenter to go ahead with them, and the engineer did not approve the plan. Something that had been in the plans didn’t work with the aluminum substructure for around the pool, in another area the deck was going to end up being 1 inch higher than the door into the house because we had to raise one side of the pool to level it. It all seems to be standard little problems that no one thinks about until it bites them, and then no one is responsible and no one is at fault. Meanwhile it was getting on toward late afternoon and I needed a new set of blueprints that matched the actual job before the building inspector comes on Tuesday or Wednesday, and it was looking like there would be less and less chance of an agreement and time to draw up new blueprints over a long weekend.

What a headache.  Even paying taxes felt like a relief after the afternoon’s negotiations. I was very happy to curl up with my magazine and a glass of white wine for a bit before rolling off to bed.

And the verdict is……I love the magazine.  Oh I have subscribed for years, although for a while there the magazine had gotten pretty boring.  I would look at the patterns decide which ones to buy and toss the magazine.  But recently the articles have been more interesting and more informative.  And the styles and patterns pictured look very intriguing as well.

First off, there is that blouse on the cover.  I have been thinking about a ruffle front blouse, somewhere on one of the smaller back burners, for some time now, but I haven’t found quite the pattern I wanted.  I am behind enough that I didn’t want to draft my own either.  Voila!  Pattern found! Just in time for spring as well.

Then there are several intriguing looking new patterns coming out; a couple of them already have me reassessing a few fabrics in my stash that might be slated for spring sewing.  I will have to wait for the patterns to be posted on Vogue’s website, then I can let you know what interests me, but at the moment I am still in the "everything" stage.  I like everything, I want everything.  I want it all.

I finished "The Beautiful Fall" and I have to admit that I grew bored before I finished the book.  It was interesting enough, I certainly have heard of many of the names involved, and being an avid reader of fashion magazines, I had vague inklings of some of the personalities, but otherwise it is a world completely beyond my ken — beyond my comprehension even.  Perhaps it is true, I am too serious and too boring.  That kind of life never appealed to me (although the clothes and jewels and pretty objects certainly do).  Too bad that they so often seem to go hand in hand, the beautiful objects and the wild lifestyle.

It wasn’t really that the book was badly written, although I did think it took itself too seriously at times, and could have used a lighter hand, but that in the end I found the characters to grow tedious and I lost interest in them.  A shame really.

However, in another take on the "fashion scene" I am now reading Penelope Rowland’s "A Dash of Daring" which is about Carmel Snow.  This book is much more entertaining, certainly far better than the novel "The Devil Wore Prada" which was rather whiney.  Carmel Snow is interesting and there are certain parallels between her career and personality and Miranda in the novel/movie.  The book is also written in an entertaining, sometimes gossipy, style.  I have trouble putting it down; it appeals to my sense of fashion, gossip, and has just enough snark to keep it entertaining, although the author does have a habit of interjecting parenthetical asides, which although sometimes useful, are used far too frequently.  I keep sneaking moments with the book whenever I walk through the family room.  A terrible temptation and distraction.

I have been reading The Beautiful Fall by Alicia
Drake and it even thought it is not about the clothes as such, but about the
life of the designers and the lives of the “beautiful people” in the 1970s, it
has still fed my fashion obsession because I remember some of the collections
so vividly.

Although I am enjoying the book, I alternate between being
fascinated and appalled.  I am familiar with the designers and the
personalities discussed from reading fashion magazines over the years. I remember many of Saint Laurent’s collections but I was
basically only marginally aware of Karl Lagerfeld before he became the designer
for Chanel. The personalities and
lifestyle are not something I ever found appealing and I don’t believe I would
like either designer, but that doesn’t really change my opinion of their
talents as designers. I have never
really confused a person’s creativity with their personality and I have never
been one to be disillusioned or disappointed when a favorite philosopher,
writer, or designer turns out to be truly dislikeable person.

What I am enjoying is the general descriptions of the mood
and the time and place evoked by the story. I am mostly attracted to the aspects of the story dealing with Saint Laurent; simply because I have always been attracted to
Saint Laurent’s
clothes. They are definitely clothes
that define a persona, but it is one I always found appealing and one that
attracted me long after Saint Laurent stopped designing new and groundbreaking collections. I liked the combination of sensuality and untouchability
combined in the clothes, be they the day suits or the wildly impractical
collections such as the Opera collection.

I realized early on, perhaps because I was shy, the power of clothes as a mask,
of a way to present a persona to the world. When I was young I was fascinated with clothes even as my mother had
trouble getting me to comb my hair and look neat. I was fascinated by the idea of clothes as
role-playing just as I was fascinated with play-acting. I suppose I still am to some extent, but not
as much so as when I was then. Perhaps
it is just that I no longer feel as strong a need to hide behind the mask. When I was young and working in a much more
corporate environment I was attracted to suits in the Saint Laurent vein far
more than the standard, dowdy, shapeless, sexless suits that my colleagues wore
and corporate (at least IBM style corporate) America seemed to espouse. I like the powerful image of a well-cut suit
and I liked a suit that also celebrated being female. Yves Saint Laurent did this kind of suit very
well, and although many were not appropriate for business, much of his day look
could be adapted. Dressing in this kind of suit was a statement of confidence
and strength, strength I could shore myself up with even when I personally felt
insecure. Insecure, quiet, and something of a doormat I might have been, but
there was a part of me that was smart, competent, and very proud of being a
woman with all that the words female and feminine entailed. I saw no reason why I couldn’t be smarter
than the men I worked with and enjoy clothes.. Perhaps this was an extension of those confused childhood dreams I
always had, where I was the princess in the tower waiting to be rescued by the
handsome prince; except my prince always got in trouble and I had to go out and
rescue him.