War Horse

War Horse is a children's book by Michael Morpurgo. I just saw a non-children's movie based on it, and it was a well-done story. (Seriously, though, I don't think it should be for children.)

The reason I bring it to your attention is something the author said about its making:

One of the kids who came to the farm from Birmingham, a boy called Billy, years and years and years ago now, the teachers warned me that he had a stammer ... and told me not to ask him direct questions because it would terrify him if he had to be made to speak because he doesn’t speak. They said ‘He’s been two years in school and he hasn’t said a word, so please don’t confront him or he’ll run back to Birmingham’, which is a long way from Devon and they didn’t want that. So I did as I was told and I stood back and I watched him, and I could see that he related wonderfully to the animals, totally silently, never spoke to the other kids at all, and then I came in the last evening, which I always used to do, to read them a story. It was a dark November evening and I came into the yard behind this big Victorian house where they all live, and there he was, Billy, standing in his slippers by the stable door and the lantern above his head, talking. Talking, talking, talking, to the horse. And the horse, Hebe, had her head out of, just over the top of the stable, and she was listening, that’s what I noticed, that the ears were going, and she knew - I knew she knew - that she had to stay there whilst this went on, because this kid wanted to talk, and the horse wanted to listen, and I knew this was a two way thing, and I wasn’t being sentimental, and I stood there and I listened, then I went and got the teachers, and brought them up through the vegetable garden, and we stood there in the shadows, and we listened to Billy talking, and they were completely amazed how this child who couldn’t get a word out, the words were simply flowing. All the fear had gone, and there was something about the intimacy of this relationship, the trust was building up between boy and horse, that I found enormously moving, and I thought, Well yes, you could write a story about the First World War through the eyes of a horse, let the horse tell the story, and let the story of the war come through the soldiers: British soldiers first of all, then German soldiers, then a French family with whom the horse spends winters, and that maybe you’ll then get a universal idea of the suffering of the First World War. So in a way I just took a gamble and went for it, and then wrote like a horse for about six months.

More? Here.

The Wood Beyond the World

Read this. It's pretty good.

It's an adventure.

A Tippy Canoe and Canada Too

As soon as I finished "Eeny, Meeny, Miney, Mo -- and Still-Mo" I reached for the next book in the series "A Tippy Canoe and Canada Too," which Jonathan had recently completed. Again Campbell's tales of his neighbouring animal friends entertained me, along with the new young human friend he makes. But the parts I most enjoyed, all the pages I earmarked to write about, came during a canoe trip Campbell, his wife, Giny, and their solider friend, Sandy, took up to the Canadian lake region in the last half of the book. I could say more, but I think I'll just leave the book to do the talking.

Some of these quotes spoke to me, some made me ponder, and still others made me think in new ways. And a few of them I just plain loved.

"Sometimes we forget in our habits of living that insulation works both ways. The fine structure of homes that keeps out weather and temperature, keeps us in as well. Seldom can we think beyond our walls. The seething, natural world of winds and wild ways is pictured as a kind of enemy against which we must fortify ourselves. The thicker the walls the greater our protection -- but the deeper our confinement. One is nearer to nature in a house than in a great hotel. The separation is thinner still in a tent, where only a layer of cloth lies between us and the universe. Thought can filter through the warp and woof of the canvas and mingle with trees and stars. Sounds can come in. We get within speaking distance of nature in a tent. However, the feeling that we are 'a part of all our eyes behold' really comes when all invented dwellings are thrust aside, and we sleep under the star-studded canopy of heaven." (pp. 179-180)

"...but problems are purposeful because they offer the opportunity for triumph."
"Our minds were ready to receive great thoughts in such surroundings. One's wealth in this world is measured by his thinking."
"Whatever work a person does in life, his success really is rated by the character he has developed." (pp. 212 & 214)

"What a vast vault memory must be to take in such a volume of experiences and still offer room for as much more."
"In every way it surpassed our expectations, as reality always does." (p. 233)

"My inclination, after years of observation, is never to charge anything to chance in nature. It is all cause and effect. Intelligence, often of a higher order than what we call reasoning, guides the people of the forest. As a rule, I believe the best thing happens that could happen under each circumstance." (p. 237)

"When beauty reaches such heights there isn't really anything to say -- you just have to look and love." (p. 242)

Eeny, Meeny, Miney, Mo -- and Still-Mo

Since the summer of 2009, I've keep a record of the books I've read, creatively calling my spreadsheet "Books Read List." The other day, after finishing Sam Campbell's "Eeny, Meeny, Miney, Mo -- and Still-Mo" I opened my spreadsheet to document my completed book. The sight that greeted my eyes was dismal, to say the least. And here's why: since getting back from Tanzania at the end of April, I have only read four complete books. FOUR! In more than four months! That is disturbing, despairaging (a good word for this situation), and despicable! And you want to hear the really, really ugly news? (You probably don't, but I'm going to tell you anyway.) I read only one full book between returning from Africa and my wedding on August 1. The only other book I attempted to read before the wedding was started on May 3, but not completed until August 16. I feel like a failure of a reader...and this from a self-proclaimed readaholic!

On the brighter side of this appalling realization, since returning from my honeymoon, I've read three books and started two others (which I have yet to finish and probably won't for awhile since they belonged to someone else and I just picked them up to look at while camping -- hopefully I can get to a library sometime soon to check them out and finish them). Those statistics are starting to sound a little better, right? Phew! Can't wait to get fully back into my readaholic ways. :)

And now, after all that preamble, here's what I really meant to say about the first book I've started and completed since my wedding:
When Jonathan and I were packing to go down to New Jersey and visit his grandparents, I looked around his bookshelves for a few books to supplement my own reading materials. My eyes caught sight of the Sam Campbell series and I grabbed the first couple books in the lineup. The first time I'd heard of Sam Campbell was when my sister was in grade 5 and had a teacher who loved Sam Campbell's books and read them to the class during reading time. She would come home to repeat the stories at our dinner table. After her lavish storytelling, I noticed the series in our library, but figured I didn't need to read the books myself since I already knew most of the details from Bryn's suppertime anecdotes. Boy was I wrong! Once I opened the first book (which I only found out later was really the third book in the series - they weren't in the right order on Jonathan's shelf...), I was enthralled. Yes, Sam Campbell's writing style might be a bit old-fashioned, but the books were published in the 1940s. I actually think his writing is completely appropriate for the subject matter. His animal descriptions are so spot-on that any reader will be able to imagine the exact motions and mannerisms of each animal. Campbell's descriptions of the setting -- usually his little island Sanctuary or the lakes, rivers or forest trails surrounding it -- are vivid and beautiful, pulling the reader back into the wilderness where fascination and wonder were born. I loved reading about the "Squints," the five orphaned baby squirrels that Campbell, his wife and their young visitor raise to adolescence and release back into the wild. Probably my favourite part of the whole story about the Squints is how well the human caregivers knew their wild pets. After an initial phase of spray-paint identification, they spent so much time with the baby squirrels that once the spray paint wore off they could consistently tell the five siblings apart by their specific features, attitudes and mannerisms. I have to say, I'm quite hooked on Sam Campbell now and have already started reading the next book in the series, "A Tippy Canoe and Canada, Too."

Here are some of my favourite quotes from the book:

"Then came one of those periods of silence which are as much a part of true companionship as conversation. Sometimes I think of this as one of the tests of true friendship. With acquaintances we must always be saying something, and silence seems to be evidence of indifference or disinterest. But with a friend who is proved real and true, we are not afraid of the wordless moments. Sometimes it is then that the heart speaks plainest." (p. 142)

Campbell asks his young friend, Duke, if he has ever looked up the word alone or knows its derivative. When Duke answers no, Campbell explains:

"It is made up of two little words glued together: all and one. Our natural desire to be alone is that we instinctively want to be all one, that is, complete in ourselves, no part of our true selfhood lacking. Among people, we have so many little nips taken out of us, and we are always reacting some way or other to the opinions people hold of us. This leads us to feel incomplete, sometimes to be something other than what we are -- at least, not the complete one we have been created. Your thought is calling for you to be all one, your complete selfhood, which you can see clearest when you are alone and quiet. You are going back in the woods not to sweep up little pieces of yourself and paste them together, but to get rid of things in your mind, little illusions that say you have lost some part of your individuality. You need to be, and you are alone -- all one." (p. 147)

While Campbell and Duke watch a dragonfly in its larva stage become a full-grown insect:

"'Wouldn't it be grand if we could climb out of some of our mental shells that way?' Duke was saying. 'Boy, if we could leave our sorrows, our regrets, our envies and hatreds like that -- what a world we would see!'
'Right, Duke!' It was fine to see this boy thinking his way through. 'And experience shows that people can climb out of those old skeletons when they try. We don't have to drag along these worn-out garments of our old ways of thinking if we do not want to.'" (pp. 173-174)
"'Do you know, Duke, I wonder if it isn't that way with us,' I said. 'The insect pulled out of an old skeleton, left it behind and went flying away to a greater way of living. If nature so takes care of his future, it seems certain that it will look after us in some such manner, too.'" (pp. 175-176)

"All you birds and beasts, get busy at your woodland lives! You trees and flowers, you sunsets and dawns, you stars and rainbows that make life lovely, live on in increasing splendor! You mountains, hills, valleys, lakes and streams, get out your grandeur! Enrich all solitude, deepen all silence. It is within your sacred power to point the thoughts of tired people to God." (p. 237)

The Murder of Bindy Mackenzie

This teen flick is set in Australia, which I think is pretty cool. It's written as a collection of journal entries/musings/assignments, sort of like Love That Dog, which I also think is pretty cool. It was written by Jaclyn Moriarty, which is very, very cool indeed.

(Why are you still reading this? MORIARTY IS A WOMAN, AND SHE WROTE THIS BOOK! GO GET A COPY NOW! )

Still reading? Okay, then. It's about a girl who is extreme. She is the best at everything, lives in the 99th percentile (there IS no 100th percentile), and is just generally superlative. The other characters are pretty much typical teenagers.

The story tells what happens when Bindy finds herself part of a FAD ("Friendship and Development") class-- something new the administration has added this year (led by a tiny teacher named "Try"). This is difficult for her because she doesn't exactly have what people would call "friends." So she gets to know a bunch of people, intensely dislikes them, and hijinks ensue.

I'm not really giving this story enough credit. I liked it. The ending was not typical (did I mention that MORIARTY wrote it?). I'd tell you more, but I think you should go read it for yourself.

Seabiscuit: An American Legend

I'm guessing you know the story. A knobby little cow pony of a horse, son of the bad-tempered Hard Tack, goes from losing races and being entirely unloved to Horse of the Year in 1938, gets injured in 1939, and makes a comeback to win a $100,000 race in 1940.

Meanwhile, his jockey makes the same journey.

Meanwhile, his owner finds joy after great loss.

Meanwhile, his trainer gains appreciation and respect.

Once I started this book, written by Laura Hillenbrand, I couldn't put it down. I love horses, and I'm interested in racing (not just because my horses used to race, though they raced with sulkies), but there's something more to my appreciation than that. It's well written, of course, and the races are alive and practically pulsing off the page, but yet there is something more. Maybe it's Hillenbrand's respect for each person in the book, from Seabiscuit's old rival War Admiral to the jockey who only rode him once.

Maybe it's just the terrific struggle to survive and thrive captured in each character, the real depiction of real life that makes this book so compelling.

Then again, maybe not.

But this book has something to it.

__

The horses strained onward, arcing around the far turn and rushing at the crowd. Woolf was still, his eyes trained on War Admiral's head. He could see that Seabiscuit was looking right at his opponent. War Admiral glared back at him, his eyes wide open. Woolf saw Seabiscuit's ears flatten to his head and knew that the moment Fitzsimmons had spoken of was near. One horse was going to crack.


As forty thousand voices shouted them on, War Admiral found something more. He thrust his head in front.


Woolf glanced at War Admiral's beautiful head, sweeping through the air like a sickle. He could see the depth of the colt's effort in his large amber eye, rimmed in crimson and white. "His eye was rolling in its socket as if the horse was in agony," Woolf later recalled.


An instant later, Woolf felt a subtle hesitation in his opponent, a wavering. He looked at War Admiral again. The colt's tongue shot out the side of his mouth. Seabiscuit had broken him.


Woolf dropped low over the saddle and called into Seabiscuit's ear, asking him for everything he had. Seabiscuit gave it to him. War Admiral tried to answer, clinging to Seabiscuit for a few strides, but it was no use. He slid from Seabiscuit's side as if gravity were pulling him backward. Seabiscuit's ears flipped up. Woolf made a small motion with his hand.


"So long, Charley." He had coined a phrase that jockeys would use for decades.


(p. 273)

Draußen vor der Tür

Draußen vor der Tür is a play in German. Hold with me, now. This may be my first post on this blog, but I decided it was time to go big or go home.

Draußen vor der Tür, which means "outside, in front of the door" in German, is a play about a man named Beckmann, which is how I will refer to the play from this point on. Description of the character? Don't mind if I do!
Beckmann is male. He has a stiff leg from his time in Russia during WWII, and he looks like the thing the cat dragged in after you turned down the first thing it dragged in. What I'm trying to say is that he looks horrible. He has gas-mask glasses because he can't afford real glasses, so he might as well keep his regulation glasses (which he painstakingly explains four times during the play ["These are gas-mask glasses that fit under a mask and I can't afford new ones because my life is so hard waaaah can't you see the symbolism of me seeing everything through glasses of death waah waaah to further reinforce this theme the only time I'm happy at all is when I'm with a girl who takes off my glasses waaaaaaaah]). He served in the war, feels horrible about his part in it, and comes home to find a cheating, unrepentant wife and a dead son. So Beckmann is depressed.

This play is so dense, (because it's a 20th century play) I'll do my best to give an overview of the plot.

There are two scenes before the first scene. The Vorspiel is Death and God talking about how nobody likes God anymore and Death is all "I wiiiin I wiiiiiin burp excuse me." The dream sequence has Beckmann talking to the river Elba. Beckmann tries to drown himself and the river is like "hecks no, son."

Scene 1: Beckmann wakes up on the shore to find a faceless character, "Der Andere," who acts as his conscience and contradicts everything Beckmann says. Then, a young woman finds him, says clever and witty things, calls him her "fish" and "spectre" (he's cold and wet on the shore, and he feels himself not quite real), and takes him back to her place.

Scene 2: At the girl's house she snuggles up and tries to hit on him. She gives him her husband's coat who has been gone too long to Russia in the service. Beckmann sees her husband (who came back with one leg and may or may not actually exist outside Beckmann's head). Beckmann feels convicted because he found another man in the exact same place he's in now--with his wife. He runs out.

Scene 3: Beckmann tries to give his responsibility back for the 20 men placed under his command in Russia. He finds the colonel from his post in Russia, tells him a gruesome dream that he's been having, and asks him to take back the "Verantwortung" or responsibility. The colonel laughs and says his horrific dream (featuring bone xylophones) would make a good comedy.
Scene 4: Beckmann is at a cabaret (I'm adding all the transition there is in the play, too. Crap just jumps about without a care in the world) and tries to sell a song he's written. The song, predictably, is so sad it makes me want to cut myself just to fit in. The cabaret director loves it, but says it's too clear and obvious. (Again, 20th century play. It's actually not clear at all.) Beckmann about implodes.

Scene 5: Beckmann goes to see his parents (confused? So was I). He finds Frau Kramer living in his house. Predictably, he's completely incapable of dealing with it like a human. He implodes. To be completely honest, Frau Kramer did kind of crack wise about how his parents died. (They left the gas on in their kitchen. They died like Jews can't you see the symbolism gosh it's just so intelligent and so buried you'd have to be intelligent to find it). So Beckmann gives up and tries to die. He sits down on the step and has a pages-long argument with der Andere. He talks to God and basically . . . God has nothing intelligent to say. That's why atheists shouldn't write dialog they don't believe in. Then Death comes and offers Beckmann a door. He gives up on everything else. Then, in quick succession, he meets and blames the colonel, director, and his wife for killing him. Dunno how that works. He's committing suicide. Nobody else is responsible for that. He meets the girl again from scene one and two, and she convinces him to live. Yay! Then her husband shows up. Boo! So Beckmann freaks out. The "Einbeiner" or "one legged man" blames Beckmann for his death. Apparently, Beckmann can take it, but he can't dish it out. As soon as he's not blaming and is being blamed, he collapses like a house of cards. He calls for der Andere and nobody's there. He calls for God and nobody's there. The play ends with Beckmann calling

Wir werden jeden Tag ermordet und jeden Tag begehn wir einen Mord. Und du - du sagst, ich soll leben! Wozu? Für wen? Für was? Wohin sollen wir denn auf dieser Welt! Wo bist Du jetzt, Jasager? Jetzt antworte mir! Wo ist denn der alte Mann, der sich Gott nennt? Warum redet er denn nicht!
Gebt doch Antwort!
Warum schweigt ihr denn? Warum?
Gibt denn keiner Antwort?
Gibt keiner Antwort???
Gibt denn keiner, keiner Antwort???

You can translate that on Google, but it basically comes to "Will you give no answer? Is there not a single answer?"

Beckmann is a screwed up son of a gun.

Basically, this story has no hope. Don't read it unless you're ready and willing to deal with that. It was written by a man who lived through it and didn't have any answers. If the author has no answers, he can give no answers. He can just depress you.

Finally: Borchert--the author--died just days before his play was performed for the first time. Coincidence? Or fortune? We'll never know.

Eats, Shoots and Leaves

I bought this book brand new for $3.76 on abebooks.com after a friend said that she had considered getting it for me for my birthday. The two of us had spent some time in Barnes & Noble, and she had pointed this book out to me, so I read the introduction and was hooked. Let me just share part of that with you.

Either this will ring bells for you, or it won't. A printed banner has appeared on the concourse of a petrol station near to where I live. "Come inside," it says, "for CD's, VIDEO's, DVD's, and BOOK's."

If this satanic sprinkling of redundant apostrophes causes no little gasp of horror or quickening of the pulse, you should probably put down this book at once. By all means congratulate yourself that you are not a pedant or even a stickler; that you are happily equipped to live in a world of plummeting punctuation standards; but just don't bother to go any further. For any true stickler, you see, the sight of the plural word "Book's" with an apostrophe in it will trigger a ghastly private emotional process similar to the stages of bereavement, though greatly accelerated. First there is shock. Within seconds, shock gives way to disbelief, disbelief to pain, and pain to anger. Finally (and this is where the analogy breaks down), anger gives way to a righteous urge to perpetrate an act of criminal damage with the aid of a permanent marker.

I couldn't stop laughing. This is me. I have what Lynne Truss designates as the Seventh Sense. If you're reading this blog, you probably do, too.

Anyway, the book continues with this type of sarcastic and sometimes dull humor, as it explains the history surrounding various forms of punctuation and how to use punctuation properly today (the British way).

I think my favorite part, though, was the introduction to the chapter on dashes:

In 1885, Anton Chekhov wrote a Christmas short story called "The Exclamation Mark." In this light parody of A Christmas Carol, a collegiate secretary named Perekladin has a sleepless night on Christmas Eve after someone at a party offends him--by casting aspersions on his ability to punctuate in an educated way. I know this doesn't sound too promising, but stick with it; it's Chekhov, and the general rule is that you can't go wrong with Chekhov. At this party, the rattled Perekladin insists that, despite his lack of a university education, forty years' practice has taught him how to use punctuation, thank you very much. But that night, after he goes to bed, he is troubled; and then he is haunted. Scrooge-like, he is visited on this momentous Christmas Eve by a succession of spectres, which teach him a lesson he will never forget.

And what are these spectres? They are all punctuation marks . . .

I have got to find that story! Anyway, overall Eats, Shoots and Leaves is a pretty humorous book, if you're in the right mood, and somewhat educational. But if you're going to read it, find the illustrated version. It makes a big difference. Trust me!

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

This book, by Jonathan Safron Foer, is about a boy named Oskar who lost his dad in 9/11 and misses him terribly. His dad used to give him mysteries to solve, and they had been working on a mystery before he died, and Oskar tries to solve the mystery, but he can't. Then he finds a key in a vase in his dad's closet and goes to search for the lock that it opens.

But really, this story is a tapestry of life. It's also about Oskar's paternal grandparents, and it's about a gazillion people named Black, and it's about Oskar's mom.

It's wicked sad. It's one of those books that lightly torture me the whole time I'm reading, opening cans of worms and rotten things I thought I'd thrown out years ago.

But that's also part of the beauty of this book. It's an attempt to deal with the tough stuff. It says, "Yes, there is pain. What are we going to do about it?"

This book doesn't really offer much of an answer. It's very . . . postmodern, in that regard. It knows what the right questions are, but it doesn't know what comes next.  I have a feeling the author would say something along the lines of, "Everyone asks the same questions, but everyone should find a unique answer that works for him or her."

I think this is a book worth reading. It's not a relaxing afternoon experience, though. It's tough and deep. It's just a little bit . . . lost. But through all of that, it tells a wonderful story and it speaks to the heart of a nation. It also reminded me that each generation has its problems, and each generation leans on the ones around it. It spoke to unselfishness, too.

I'm grateful to have had the opportunity to read it.

Here's a much better review, with quotes: http://girlwithacoin.wordpress.com/2008/08/21/extremely-loud-and-incredibly-close-quotes/ 

How I Became Stupid by Martin Page

This book is really interesting. I believe it was originally in French. Anyway, it's about a guy named Antoine who is tortured by his own intelligence and tries to get rid of it in various ways. He tries being an alcoholic, considers suicide, and finally gets rid of all his intellectual stuff and starts working for the stock market. Of course, that doesn't work, so he finally finds himself back where he started . . . but different somehow.

It's not the best of books, and it's not one you should base your philosophy on (as if any of you would), but it is worth a look, if only because it gives you a great idea of how other people see the world. Yep. That's about the gist of it.

Secrets of the Vine by Bruce Wilkinson

This book takes the first section of John 15 (the metaphor of the vine and branches) and runs with it! The author's association with a vineyard owner/vinedresser answered a lot of his questions, which he beautifully passes on to the reader. There's so much depth to the metaphor in relation to our growth in Christ and His patience in working with us throughout our lives! All I can think to say is READ IT. (It's short and great for daily devotions.)

Editing Fact and Fiction

is a wonderful book for those contemplating the publishing field! It takes you through the process a manuscript undergoes to become published, it explores all the different kinds of editing, it teaches how to edit (as much as is possible in a chapter), and it explains how to find jobs or further your education in the field. The only slight negative about it is that the book was published in 1994, and therefore, the second-to-last chapter on computers in the publishing field is highly outdated. Nonetheless, I would highly recommend the book! :)