A Peek in to My World

I thought today, rather than my usual Sunday papers review, I'd give you a little peek in to my world. This is a snap of my desk and some of my books. I tidied my desk especially for you all, I hope you appreciate it.

I'm going to a firework display this evening. I hope you all enjoy your Sunday, take care.

Seasonal Prose

As it is bonfire night/ firework night/ guy fawkes night, I thought I'd share with you a few poems. The first is a more historical work, whilst the last two are fun little rhymes. I hope you enjoy them, and have a fun but safe night.

The Gun Powder Plot Poem

Some twelve months ago,
An hundred or so,
The Pope went to visit the devil;
And as, you will find,
Old Nick, to a friend,
Can behave himself wondrous civil.

Quoth the De'il to the Seer,
What the De'il brought you her
It was surely some whimsical maggot:
Come, draw to the fire;
Nay, prithee, sit nigher:
Heree, sirrah! lay on t'other faggot.

You're welcome to Hell;
I hope friends are well,
At Pareis, Madrid, and at Rome;
And ,now you elope,
I suppose, my dear Pope,
The conclave will hang out the broom.

Then his Holiness cry'd,
All jesting aside,
"Give the Pope and the Devil their dues;"
For, believe me, Old Dad,
I'll make thy heart glad,
For, by Jove, I do bring thee rare news.

There's a plot to beguile
An obstinate isle;
Great Britain, that heretic nation,
Who so shyly behav'd,
IN the hopes of being sav'd
By the help of a d--d Reformation.

We'll never have done,
If we burn one by one,
Tis' such a d--d numerous race!
For no sooner one's dead,
Like the fam'd Hydra's head,
Than a dozen spring up in his place.

But, believe me, Old Nick,
We'll play them a trick,
The like was ne'er hatched in France;
For this day before dinner,
As sure's I'm a sinner,
We'll burn all the rascals at onece.

When the king with his son
To the parliament's gone,
To consult about old musty papers,
We'll give them a greeting,
Shall break up their meeting,
And try who can cut the best capers.

There's powder enough,
And combustible stuff,
Inf fifty and odd trusty barrels,
Which will blow all together,
The Devil cares whither,
And decide at one blow all our quarrels.

But this was scarce said,
When in popp'd the head
Of an old Jesuitical Wight,
Who cry'd You're mistaken,
They've all saav'd their bacon,
And Jemmy still stinks with the fright.

Then Satan was struck,
And said 'tis bad luck,
But you for your news shall be thanked:
So he call'd to the door
Seven devils or more,
And they toss'd the poor dog in a blanket.

Watts, Isaac, Horae lyricae. Poems, By I. London, 1706

The next two are written by children, taken from www.bonfirenight.info

Fireworks bang
Bonfire sizzle
Laughter breaks through
A November drizzle
Sparklers burn down
Right down to the core
A sound of disappointment
But wait there is more
The fireworks ended
It’s time to go now
As the people hustle and bustle
In my head it’s still wow

 

 

 

Bonfire Night Poem

Look at the big Rocket, Mother,
Leaving burning, fairy flowers
Showering from the skies.

Watch the Roman Candle, Mother,
See it shoot and spark,
Why! There's fiery, golden rain,
Patterns in the dark.

Catherine Wheel, Oh, Catherine Wheel,
I love to see you spin,
Look at all the magic fire
Circling round the pin!

The sky is full of trees, Mother,
See their blossoms shake,
Painting all the dreaming air
Like a Magic Lake.

Oh, now look at the sad, old Guy,
He's very nearly gone,
His hat has toppled over,
But still he blazes on.

The Fireworks have all ended, Mother,
The Bonfire's nearly done;
But weren't the colours bright, Mother?
Didn't we have fun?

Childhood Horror

I think I am becoming slightly addicted to childhood literature. I'm hoping it is not just me that finds this riveting. The Daily Telegraph last week published an article entitled 'Early memories of horror' in which various authors and writers reveal the stories that gave them sleepless nights in their childhood. Jeffrey Archer reveals finding Bill Sykes from Oliver terrifying, Amanda Craig recollects 'absolute terror' at Alice in Wonderland. Emma Donoghue disturbingly remembers reading a Victorian novel in which a child is kidnapped and sold in to the white slave trade, she becomes a child whore and lays down and lifts her skirt whenever a man enters the room. Both Charlie Higson and Alexander McCall Smith both express utter fright at Der Struwwelpeter. For me, well I had was scared witless by Pinocchio, the thought of those children turning in to donkeys disturbed me permanently.

The article was of particular interest to me as I am currently studying how much unpleasantness can be embedded in to a fairy tale before it becomes damaging to the child. Fairy tales of modern society have been significantly watered down in comparison to their eighteenth century counter parts in which brutal revenge is common, and blood, gore and violence the norm.

What books or tales do you remember finding particularly terrifying as a child?

Crimson China by Betsy Tobin

Perhaps the appeal of this book is that, despite being a work of fiction, the idea is entirely plausible. So plausible, in fact, that I found myself wondering if one day the events that unfold in Crimson China will turn out to be factual.

Crimson China is based around the Morecambe Bay tragedy, when twenty one illegal Chinese migrant workers drowned and a further two went missing on 5^th February 2004. This tragedy haunted Tobin who ‘kept a file of clippings before eventually embarking on the novel in 2007, some three years after the disaster’.  Indeed she is finds it poignant ‘that you could journey to a strange land and perish without any lasting imprint of your presence seems unimaginably sad’. The story builds on the possibility that maybe the two workers who went missing did not drown, but survived, somehow evading death by the freezing waters that took the lives of their fellow cockle pickers. From one of the cockle-pickers whose body was never found Tobin creates Wen, an illegal immigrant who is miraculously pulled from the water by Angie who is attempting suicide. As Angie immerses herself in the water she is faced with Wen, seeing this as a sign that now is not the time to take her own life, she rescues him and takes him to her home.  Rather than relish in the fact that he survived when so many perished Wen is ashamed of his fate, believing that there are others who deserved to live so much more than him, that he allows the world, including his twin, to believe he is dead. Lili is Wen’s twin, and the other strand to this cleverly woven story. Devastated by the death of her brother she goes to London to find and free Wen’s spirit. Little does she realise that her brother kept many secrets from her, including the price he paid for his migration.

Although one would expect emotional melodrama, Tobin ingeniously manages to portray events with a tragic realism that doesn’t call for theatrics. Instead there is a deep rooted emotion here that doesn’t require fireworks, rather it is an aching throb that seeps through the novel. Wen, despite earning less than £2 an hour for most of the laborious jobs he is forced to undertake as an illegal immigrant, rarely complains, nor does Angie who despite being an alcoholic somehow manages to plod through life with minimal self pity. Within this patchwork of underground activity, often fuelled by desperation, is a struggle of identity. Tobin has ‘always been drawn to the notion of identity and culture’. For the Chinese immigrants in her novel, as in real life, living in the illegal Chinese community in Britain is extremely isolating. As one of the characters in the novel insists, the Chinese living illegally in Britain ‘are like shadows, and when a shadow disappears, nothing remains’.

Crimson China is well informed, it realistically represents life as an illegal immigrant and the risks involved. Similarly, even for those such as Lili who arrive with a visa and work as a teacher, Tobin successfully uncovers the mystery of British culture and the battle to maintain your own identity whilst also embracing a new one. At the same time she considers the many different faces of loss and how to deal with grief, whilst all the while creating a novel that oozes survival and maybe even contentedness, even when life is dealing you all the bad cards.

Tobin aimed to ‘create a lasting monument to those died: to carve into our collective memory so they would not be forgotten. But also to conjure a tale of hope, rather than despair’. She is successful both by her own standards, and by those of her readers, for she has created a captivating novel with a marvellous realism.

UK and US Bestsellers

It has come to my attention that quite a lot of the people visiting this blog are from America, so I decided to have a look at the bestsellers lists for Britain and for the USA and see how much of a difference there is. Quite a lot of difference it turns out. There are of course some similarities as the Millenium Trilogy by Stieg Larsson features in the top ten in both charts, as does The Confession by John Grisham and Worth Dying For by Lee Child. The Help by Katheryn Stockett appears in the top twenty in both too, though it is currently doing better in the UK. But other than that I found myself rather baffled by the US chart.

The UK Bestsellers list is fimiliar to me. I have read a good many of them, a good many more are on my 'to read' list. Even those that I have no intention of ever reading, I recognise the author and know the style. In comparison, from the US list I have never heard of Nora Roberts, Vince Flynn or J. D. Robb. I have no idea what I would be purchasing if I was to indulge in The Reversal, Shaken or Safe Haven.

I decided to do a little more delving in to the differences, but my finds weren't very illuminating. One source claims that American books are considerably cheaper than in Britain, but The Girl who Kicked the Hornets Nest, for example, is £3.86 and $9.99. Another academic source insists that in England novelists gradually become well known, but if they are fortunate enough become famous they will probably remain so. In America, apparently, fame is likely to wash over a writer overnight, but is equally likely to leave them in a second. Other sources claimed that British taste in literature is more limited, yet another claimed in fact the opposite was true with British tastes providing variety.

As I have only briefly travelled to America, and I do not have an American friend or relative to consider this with, I will leave to you, my dearest readers, to let me know your experiences and opinions. In the mean time, I am going to try to sample more authors popular in America, rather than just here in England.