Have a peek at JTizzle’s ‘New Moon’ film review if you want a bit of a chuckle at the Twilight Saga. He’s more impartial than I’ll ever be…


He’s also got a new review out on Legend, the Ridley-Scott fiasco of a movie for all you fantasy fans and cynics alike.


I have about 7 books half read at the moment (but I’m cheating because a lot of them are children’s and YA titles), but the one that’s really capturing my attention is ‘I Hotel’.
It’s not by any means a light read, as its form is experimental, and its themes range from politics to human rights to poverty in the Asian population in America. At the novel’s centre is the International Hotel, or the I Hotel, which becomes the center of the Asian Human Rights Movement in the 60s.
The ‘chapters’ are more like interlinking stories, told from different perspectives. (My favourite so far includes the postcards and letters between professor and student, each beginning with a fantastic quote from Chinese authors of the Revolution). Yamashita is a master of letting the reader figure out what’s going on by themselves – there’s one section that seems to be written by the community of dead Chinese immigrants, but it is never made explicit.
This is a book worth checking out if you are a student of literature, of Asian history, of American history, or if you are looking for a challenging and incredible read.
For a more comprehensive review, see East Los Angeles Dirigible Air Transport Lines

Tonight my mind is on a hamster wheel, trying to churn out 10 brilliant ideas at once, but managing only hamster crap. (Why do we call them hamster wheels in Australia when all we have are the slightly chunkier but eminently more edible guinea pigs?)

Reading bits of Julia Powell’s blog on cooking her way through Julia Childs’ recipes and through her abortive, yet peppy life (link is in last post, too lazy to copy & paste…how slack). Can’t help but like her cheery, ne’er give up attitude, whilst simultaneously hating her for being onto a good thing. Talking to my boy on internet chat, hating the pauses between the posts, and finding writing my new novel less interesting than researching it. Promised myself I would not get bogged down in research (not to mention the kind of self-loathing that I always get at the start of a project). Have since become not just bogged, but quagmired. My boy is helpfully supportive. When I type:  perhaps if i beat myself over the head with a cow it will aide my writing or at least my sense of humour? He replies:  you just do what you feel you need to do

I eat reheated chilli con carne for dinner despite having dreamt all day of cooking something crisp, summery and delicious after writing my last post on food writing. Heading away this weekend to pick up my stuff from my parents’ house, so haven’t done much food shopping, and have nothing in fridge because of having just got back from New Zealand.
Oh yes, parents are moving away from the town they lived in for 25 years, and which I grew up in for 19. It’s a betrayal of sorts, and I wonder if the town, the beach, the one hill, will glare at me as I drive back in to my family home for the last time. Or if they will all look a thousand times more beautiful and less hick-ish because they won’t be mine for much longer?

I’ve been thinking about a person’s claim on/attachment to place for the last few weeks. There was one town in New Zealand that I really bonded with, quickly. I fell for it hard, the people, the slow lifestyle, the oily smell of the sheep (though that particular element can be had in roughly 98% of NZ I suppose). I was there for two nights, and by the third morning, I didn’t want to leave. There really wasn’t a lot to do there it being tiny, though to give it its due there was a (very) short strip of delightful shops, not a one of them was uninteresting; there were vineyards, and a lavender farm; it was close to a seal colony, and not too ridiculously far from Wellington. My brief wanderings around the back streets while my travelling companion had her massage, yielded the kind of slow pleasures that I know I love, but can’t get in the city where I live. An old man mowed a huge block of knee high lawn as the sun attempted to stab through the thick shroud of grey cloud. Two old men wearing tweed coats with elbow patches, and pork pie hats (I swear I’m not making this up), stopped in the middle of the traffic-less road as they passed each other, to say hello. Every house was a cottage, and every one had a garden layout that looked like it had come from a House and Garden magazine, and yet was somehow uncontrived. I don’t know why I was so surprised at the way everything grew and grew. They have rain for goodness’ sake.

I digress. We were speaking about claim on place – the kind of claim that makes you belong to the place as much as you belong to it. At this house of my parents I helped shape some of the garden, I watched the trees flower and fruit, and occasionally die, and I knew from the smell of each day what season we were in. I swear on my hamster-crap novel that I can smell the exact day when the season changes there.

My boy and I were lying in bed when we got talking about scent and memory. His friend’s pillow has the same stuffing as his Mum’s, and the combination of sweat and this certain stuffing has a soporific effect on him. My father, when we lived on the one hill in town(before we betrayed that house and garden by leaving it), would always reminisce most about his childhood when our Jasmine vine was flowering – he could dip back into his boyhood when he smelt it. And today I woke up and I could smell the summer storm coming. Without being able to articulate why, I left my windows closed (in case rain came in and wet my precious laptop on which all my hamster-crap novels are stored). For a day I felt like I belonged here – just from that smell and the quick joy of heavy rain in the afternoon.
 I’ve lived in the city for five years now, and I still don’t feel like I belong – not to the land, and the land does not belong to me. My small plot of garden is perpetually dying. Flourescent lights shine into my window at night and keep me awake. I am suspicious when people I don’t know approach me. Yet little bits keep opening themselves up to me: the park at the back of my house; a particular stretch of river that is almost always deserted yet feels safe; an Italian coffee shop shoved without grace into a tight alleyway. God knows why I feel the need to hold land so tightly to me, when I have so many good and wonderful and effervescent friends. I guess it’s my old fallback from nervous schooldays.

This weekend I will get off the hamster wheel, take the four and a half hours drive to contemplate the unfathomable and terrifying future while listening to some zeitgeist music, be the child for the last time in my childhood house, and blurt (with many hand gestures and too many glasses of wine) my New Zealand stories out to my parents, who listen and listen and listen, bless them, as they have always listened to both my brilliant ideas that come effortlessly (and which I am suspicious of – which Muse sends them? And why?) and to my hamster-crap ones.

(Note: if my Muse is reading… please feel free to drop by – there’s some chilli con carne in the fridge)

Imagine a plate, white – waiting to be filled with seared scallops, or stuffed zucchini flowers, or Salad Caprese. Imagine a page, just as white, waiting to be filled with rich descriptions of these foods…The image is delicious, no?

Julie&JuliaThere has been a proliferation of books recently that divide their attentions between memoir, travel and food writing. Of course the most prominent at the moment is Julie&Julia, the book that is now a film starring Meryl Streep and Amy Adams. If you love a bit of humour, soul searching and are interested in Julie Powell’s relentless personal challenge to cook her way through a Julia Child cookbook, this is a great book to check out before/after you’ve seen the movie. Julie documented her journey at her blog, which you can check out here: http://blogs.salon.com/0001399/

Under the Tuscan Sun BookI’m currently reading an old, dog-earred copy of Under the Tuscan Sun, which I ‘borrowed’ from a gorgeous farm-stay in New Zealand, and even more than the heady descriptions of drowsy bees in olive groves, and Catholic churches, I love the simple descriptions of food. I’ve always preferred to cook ‘around’ a recipe, changing an ingredient here, and there, until I end up with something very different and not always delicious, but mine. This is why I am enjoying this style of writing so much at the moment. Instead of lists of ingredients, I am presented with a description of the deliciousness of a tomato paired with a local mozzarella, and I can visualize exactly where in Frances Mayes Tuscan Garden the vast basil bushes grow. I seem to learn so much more from these slow nibbles on food literature than I do from prescriptive cookbooks.


Food is so evocative of place and time – certainly this is true of Anna Del Conte’s ‘Memoir with Food’ Risotto with Nettles. Born in pre-war Italy, she enjoyed the table delights of her mother and her family cook’s invention. When war came to Italy, her life turned upside down, until finally, she was able to escape to England. Her memories of the tiem are vividly, hilariously preserved – from the joys of unrationed horse-meat to tomato soup at Lyons Corner House. Her Italian cook books were hugely influential in bringing Mediterranean food to Britain.  I love the way Anna’s passion for food comes through in her writing, “Myriam’s favourite pasta dish, pici alla senese, a Tuscan tagliatelle with a palate-shooting chilli sauce”. What a delicious phrase, ‘palate-shooting’!

matt_preston_ARTWORK:Layout 1

Another brilliant food-writing book that’s come out this month is Cravat-a-Licious by food journalist and judge of MasterChef Australia, Matt Preston. He takes in the history of food, pokes fun at his contemporaries (and himself) in his chapter on ‘Foodie Tribes’, revels in descriptions of unusual delicacies (toffee covered crabs and cow’s foot jelly), and unravels anecdotes like they’re spaghetti and he’s a fork. Though I find it irritating that he features both on the front and back cover of the book, it really is worth checking out – Preston knows what he’s doing, both in the kitchen and on the page, and he does it with wit and panache.

Armed with such wonderful food-writers, what other prospect is there for us all to spend a good wadge of summer consuming their books, and experimenting in the kitchen?

Parallel Importation sounds like a term from Star Trek, “Begin the Parallel Importation sequence, Scotty, and maybe you can beam me directly to the nearest Dymocks store so that I can initiate the mind f*ck that I have to perform in order to make people believe that cheaper books from overseas equals a more literary society.”

At which point Spock (and the Australian Bookseller’s Association) chimes in, “I apologise Captain, but I do not understand the logic behind your human pranks.”

All those poor Aussie battlers who Dymocks claims need cheaper books must be illiterate to begin with if they haven’t yet discovered their local library. Here’s the thing with the books in libraries: they’re free – they are a public space, and they provide a range of literature that it just isn’t possible to stock in a Dymocks bookstore. This range may include such treasures as Tara June Winch’s Swallow the Air published by UQP; a small university-based publisher which occasionally is able to snap up an overseas title to republish in Australia to make the money that goes back into the budget for publishing the next fantastic local author.

No one is saying that we shouldn’t have overseas authors published in Australia. Diversity of literature is an absolute must if we want to continue being a society that is anything more than self-interested, but here’s the thing: they should be published in Australia, not shipped in on great tankers that are using finite fossil fuels to propel crates of thin-papered novels across an increasingly dirty ocean.  Will overseas authors bother to visit us if they don’t have the contacts of an Australian publishing and publicity team?  And will the importation really be ‘parallel’ with equal numbers of Australian books being sent back on the same dirty great tankers?

Bad guys win, good guys lose, everything goes pear shaped, and then everybody loses.

Thank goodness for the Productivity Commission finding substantial uncertainty with the cultural and economic impacts of the proposed reforms.  After all, it’s a bit ridiculous to boldly go where no Australian market has gone before if we’re just going to hit a black hole straight out of warp speed!



Butterfly- Sonya Hartnett

Butterfly centers around the maturation of 14 year old Plum, who is so desperate for strength, courage and acceptance that she does something that seems strange and disturbing to her friends. Her schoolfriends hover between accepting and hating her throughout the book, and Plum is taken under the wing of her neighbour, Maureen. It is through Maureen’s four year old son, David, however that Plum finds her real voice. The contact with someone more innocent and in need of protection than her wrenches Plum briefly from the despairing self-centredness of her generation.

Thought the tone is immature in the sections which are from Plum’s perspective, there are also chapters which are very adult. Harnett manages the jump well, making this a good book for teens beginning to cross over into adult reading (from 14-18 depending on the sophistication of the reader). As usual, there is a poisonous undercurrent to the world Hartnett has created, and Plum is trapped in a series of bitter and angry relationships with friends, family and mentor. There’s not a lot of hope in this book, but a lot of it might help teenaged girls to understand both themselves at that stage of life and the adults that are dealing with them.

The writing is biting and fast, and even though there is not much happening action-wise, there is so much transformation occurring in Plum’s head, where it really matters.

The side story, which quickly blows up into the main complication is that of Plum’s much older brother, who is entangled in a relationship with married Maureen which is becoming more and more difficult to keep secret. There is something flawed about Maureen which insinuates itself at the beginning of the novel (when she tells Plum that to lose weight she should just throw her school lunches in the bin), but which only becomes truly apparent at the conclusion. There is a danger to her which threatens Plum more than her friends do, and which drives the tension of the story.

I really enjoyed Butterfly if only for an insight into an age group which I’ve almost entirely forgotten. It’s enjoyable for the same reasons that Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld, or any other boarding school type novel is: you know the cattiness is coming, but not from which direction, or whether the protagonist will crumble or rise because of it.

The Unscratchables – Anthony O’Neill

Oh, the puns there are to be had in this book. The concept alone attracted me. The Unscratchables is a cop story, with all the twists, corruption, political conniving of your average Inspector Rex episode, but with a difference: The police are dogs. They live in San Bernardo, essentially the slums of the greater city of Kathattan. The cats of course, are the Fat Cats, the puppeteers, pulling the strings of every dog election, filling the bellies of the dogs with cheap, nasty canned food, and running psychological testing out of the back of a South American fish importer.

Several killings have occurred the like of which have never before been seen, and poor old Crusher the bullie is put on the case. He’s not the smartest detective in the force, but he does his job and does it with the kind of 1940s crime noir speak that was coined by Raymond Chandler in The Big Sleep (although with ‘yap’ replacing ‘speak’, and dog slang peppered throughout). Until he’s put on the case of the dog killer with a slick Kathattan Siamese detective, Inspector Lap. Crusher has a history with the Siamese from the war in Siam, and it’s starting to affect his work. And who should he trust? His police Chief, who fought side by side with him in the war? His sidekick Bud? Or Lap, a cat well versed in dog psychology, who lets Crusher in on far too many cat secrets for a cat.

The Unscratchables is the most joyous thing I’ve read this year apart from The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie. It’s not afraid to make puns, and to lead up to them with gusto. It treats its reader with surprising respect, and it took me a few minutes to click with some of the gags, but when I did they were well worth it. It has a more serious side however, as it is, more than anything a mirror held up to Western society. It explores the dumbing down and ownership of the media, capitalization, control of hegemonies, treatment of minorities. Brilliant for lovers of Douglass Adams, Terry Pratchett and Jasper Fforde. Comedy, noir, and all the cat hair you could cough up, Unscratchables has it all.

A Small Free Kiss in the Dark – Glenda Millard

Last night I started A Small Free Kiss in the Dark and was blown away. This is the teen equivalent of a mash-up of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road and Mark Haddon’s The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time. And I don’t mean this to demean the book’s originality at all, because its evocation of homelessness in a bustling city which soon turns to mass homelessness in a war-torn city, is brilliantly done to evoke the reader’s own city. Skip is a slightly aspergian kid who’s moved from foster home to foster home after the death of his war veteran father. At the beginning of the book he is making his escape from school and a family that is not a family, to the city. He has nothing but his father’s old overcoat, his colorful view of the world through art, and his own talented artistry to help him out. Once there he meets Billy, a homeless, funny and kindhearted man, who helps Skip buy chalk to make murals on the cement around libraries and churches. For me, this evoked the Eternity Man, Arthur Stace who gave hope through his graffiti medium in post WWII Sydney. When war suddenly hits the city, Skip is sleeping in a dumpster, and can’t find his friend Billy. What ensues is an account of utter chaos, which, through the eyes of Skip can sometimes seem eerily beautiful.

“Behind me, a building erupted like a volcano, spewing red hot lava onto the streets. I turned to run and saw the church spire of St Mary’s, only it wasn’t where it used to be…The bells had buried themselves in concrete, and if you didn’t know anything about concrete, you’d think it was soft as butter.”

Skip’s sometimes halting, imagery-filled, sometimes quick-changing narration is very readable, and his character is beautifully drawn through the words he uses, and the often abstract ideas that he has. Although these ideas are not often realistic, they contain, almost without him realizing it, a lot of hope for the future.

I’m very much looking forward to finishing the book. I think Millard’s done a wonderful job and that this will make a very engaging and thought provoking book for young adults and late teens.


Her Mother’s Face – Roddy Doyle and Freya Blackwood

(picture book)

This is the most gorgeously illustrated picture book. The cover looks like a framed picture, with the bright colours and geometric patterns of Amelie – even the streets in this book are colourful and architecturally beautiful. There is something so soft about the bright watercolours that Freya Blackwood uses that fits beautifully with the story line about the huge gap that the loss of a loved one creates, and how one goes about filling it (with a little help from a conker tree and a mirror). Siobhan can’t remember her mother Ellen’s face, although she can recall things that she said, and her father is withdrawn and sad, and refuses to talk about Ellen. The story is so poignant, and yet so hope-filled, and the character of the dead mother Ellen is so full of life and cheekiness, that the book is more happy than sad. This is a nourishing book in so many ways, it shows a way to live life after a loss, and the colours reflect this amazingly. In the beginning Siobhan’s father is painted all in greys and whites even while everything around him, including Siobhan, is brilliant red, and green and orange. As Siobhan has a child of her own, named Ellen also, he begins to be coloured with dull blues and tans, but his face is still grey. When Siobhan finally gets him to talk about his dead wife, his cheeks pink up, and he recalls the happy memories that bring Ellen to life for Siobhan.

Unless some sweetness at the bottom lie,

Who cares for all the crinkling of the pie?

(‘The Art of Cookery’, William King, quoted from ‘The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie’ by Alan Bradley’)



I must admit my relationship with reading has been not so good recently as it ought to have been. Considering that I am a bookseller and writer (of once-published renown), books should be my food, my delight, my sweetness at the bottom of the pie. I’m not saying I don’t still enjoy them, just that I have more difficulty in tearing myself away from adult life to visit the proverbial Faraway Tree.

I remember when I was young that feeling of absolutely losing myself in a world that was not mine but which I quickly adopted. I recall the feeling I had for days (sometimes weeks) after finishing the book that I was still living in the story. I’m sure I misheard or didn’t hear at all many a conversation with friends when I was in this state. I realised it was escapism at the time, but it was something I craved like a drug.

I still crave that feeling but I get it more from writing these days, and the high is never so long lasting (unless I have a raging fever, that’s when it gets really fun in my head but awful on the page). I feel guilt about reading which I can only explain with the fact that I have middle class guilt about just about everything. Why should I be reading this book when I could be out doing something useful like saving the world or something (my brain tricks me, while I’m feeling reading guilt into thinking that there’s something amazing and fast that I can do to solve hunger or alcoholism or literacy). It’s kind of like reading under the desk in class. I can never properly relax into the book because there’s some stockinged teacher looking over my shoulder asking – what is it teaching me that is useful to my development (which will help me save the universe), or which will aid my understanding of the cultures and psychologies around me (which may one day help me save the universe)? What is the world gaining from my ability to read ungainly quantities of books?

Ahah. But I’ve discovered the loophole.  Loophole thy name is “Infidel” by Ayaan Hirsi Ali. This is a book I can feel and touch and taste. It navigates through Ayaan’s childhood in Muslim, clan oriented Somalia, Kenya and Saudi Arabia, and her  escape to Holland and a freer way of thinking. Its conversational style openly discusses so many questions surrounding extreme faith, equality, responsibility and so many more topics which are so relevant to anyone who breathes.  The writing is so accessible and sets forth so much about humanity, politics and ethics clearly, but without losing sight of all of their complications. This is a book I can, strange to say, disappear into. Ayaan is such a generous narrator, giving so much detail of several different ways of life in different countries which I will probably never experience, but now feel that I have.

Another book that has soaked itself into the crevices of my brain recently is “The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie,” by Alan Bradley. It’s absolutely fictional, set in rural 1950’s England, and the narrator is a chemistry obsessed 11 year old girl, Flavia. As she slowly unravels a murder of a man who she discovered dying in the cucumber patch at her grand old English home, Flavia also treats us to wonderful information about compounds and poisons (she has a chemistry lab in the bottom of the house and hangs a picture of Mr Bunsen of Bunsen burner fame in her closet). The language is colourful in the way that kindergarten children’s wax pictures are. And the facts and figures that add to this wonderfully quirky girl are wonderfully informative and humorous, “Odd, isn’t it, that a charge of lipstick is precisely the size of a .45 calibre slug”(pp10).

Though I haven’t yet finished ‘Sweetness’ I am thoroughly enjoying it without any of my usual pangs of guilt. Now I feel guilty about spending time away from ‘Sweetness’ writing this!  I come anon Alan Bradley!

(PS. Please let me know if you get reading guilt too? Maybe it’s a case of the 20’s, wanting to do something that matters and all that. Lots of people I know have been catching it. Maybe we can organise a reading guilt convention)



God I hate reading the submissions pages of magazines. “Calling all writers with a creative edge,” as though creativity is a bloody sword dripping somewhere in your closet, but cooler, hipper, with twice the depth and colour!

“We want something different from the mainstream!”  These guidelines weren’t written by a writer, they were written by a politician! ‘We must dodge any statements that give concrete information, or the public will think we aren’t edgy and subversive!’  To me it reads: We are special, you can be almost as special as us, but only if you conform to our standards of creative edginess (and only if your brand of creative edge is recognised by Ourstream). I slump, knowing I’ll never master the flippant and yet oh-so-deeply caring tone of the other writers in these magazines.

I’d try and start my own publication, but I wouldn’t get past editing the submissions page.


I think he looks cuttingly handsome!

I think he looks cuttingly handsome!


So somehow over Christmas, amid the games of trivial pursuit and the seeing of Hugh Jackman in Australia (I blocked out all the other bits…perhaps more on that later), we got to talking about the Woody Allen film Vicky Christina Barcelona for which we’d seen previews, and the upcoming Wolverine movie. And somehow from this miasma of conversational dribble, a mutant child was born…

Woody Allen…Stars as Wolverine

Which I figured would go a little something like this…


Woodverine: I’m gonna slash you, should I slash you? Right there? Okay. Well now my claws are coming out, no, they’re retracting again. Oh, there we go, (There is the sound of claws going in and out squeekily). Oh, sorry Miss I didn’t mean to…Oh, and now I’m tangled, we’re tangled up.

Girl: Watch out Woodverine, Sabertooth is coming…

Woodverine (to Sabertooth): Woah! Hold on. Put those away! You could…you could probably put somebody’s eye out with those! That’s dangerous! And, and, and violent! And here I am trying to have a nice conversation with this girl, and you’re being all violent! And I don’t get to meet many nice girls, you know, so just, just, just back off!

Woodverine and his girl ride off into the sunset on a rickety Segue.


Well I’m off to see Vicky Christina Barcelona now, just so I can get the memory of Australia out of my head. Thoughts will follow.





    Today I helped put my aged grandparents into the secure dementia ward where they will live out the rest of their lives. I learned this handy tip for all those with elderly relatives: do not visit without reading material. Hard as it may be to simultaneously block out the repetitive, demented calls of “Where are you, whereabouts are you, nurse, where are you?” whilst reading, it’s even harder to retain any of your own natural intelligence without the lurid beauty of D.H. Lawrence, or the savage humanity of Malcolm Knox. There are no books in the ward. How could I have been so remiss? Even people who only partly remember who they are need books, even if only to look at the pictures. Perhaps a photography book of flowers or exotic birds would break up the unmitigated blue of the hospital grade linoleum, bed rug and curtains.

At first the place seemed quite civil; there were grassy hills outside the windows, and an Antarctic documentary on the television. But the sounds of the British narrator weren’t even coming close to blocking out the constant refrain of my Nana’s new neighbour: “Whereabouts? Whereabouts, whereabouts, mar, mar, marshmallows. Nurse?”

    “Polar bears are twice the size of tigers,” the narrator told me, but my mind is not so large, and I needed somewhere ‘pre-created’, somewhere much nicer to slip away to while my Nana ate her mash and ham. After lunch there were Christmas carols, with a jolly chorus of “Where are you, whereabouts, whereabouts?” And my Nana put on her ‘show’ – Oprah.

     Brain, I thought, brain! where are you? Whereabouts? Oh, think of Xanadu and Khubla Khan, cling to Erik Satie, and Pablo Neruda, and even whinging old Jane Eyre.

     On the way home I visited their house to pick up some old clothes from the swinging sixties (to use for fabric, not to wear; Batik moo moos are not one of those fashions that come back in) and some pot plants. And there it was. In the bottom of the cupboard. It was heavy, and the dustiest thing there. It sat in its own black leather briefcase behind a pile of boxed reader’s digest compressed novels (which remained in their original quaint packaging with a floral mug and book in each carton). And I opened it. Oh lovely. Oh joy. A portable goddamn typewriter. A Corona, last patented in 1917, made in Brisbane by Stotts Limited (305 Queen st). Someone’s left brushes in the box to clean it with.

     It’s black, and sleek and masculine; it folds away and is possibly even useable if by some godforsaken chance I can get ribbon for it (perhaps to enquire at Stotts Limited? I think the Bank of Queensland that resides on 305 now would be unimpressed). It smells of must and suitcase, and metal, and it’s wonderful (don’t tell my laptop); and absurdly, this little relic negates worries I had about my grandparents. Its time has passed, and it is fragile, but I’ll oil it up, and I’ll press the keys to make words that are strong and coherent.

(P.S. My fave lurid and beautiful D.H. Lawrence quote comes from The Plumed Serpent, “He pulled rhythmically through the frail-rippling, sperm-like water, with a sense of peace.” Bah, Lawrence, how you do make me laugh.)

Lurid yet beautiful moo moo material

Lurid yet beautiful moo moo material

     Well, December is almost upon us. But before you scream, “Dear Crossdressing Fish on a Motorcycle!” and panic about presents, make yourself a cuppa, and sit yourself down with the Wordgardener for a wee bit of advice about book-giving in the festive season.
Alexander McCall Smith

Alexander McCall Smith

For Grandmothers and Alexander McCall Smith fans: La’s Orchestra Saves the World

          This one’s a gentle, occasionally humorous book detailing the minutae of  La’s move and subsequent settlement in a little cottage house in Surrey. My only quibble is that there are a few things unresolved, and the ending is a bit hasty, but it’s otherwise lovely. Set during World War II, there’s a little romance, a little music, a little gardening, small doses of mysterious trepidation, and much simplicity. It’s a nice little hardback in pale blue with a swallow (I love the jacket design) so it will sit pretty on your (or your grandmother’s) bookshelf.  ($34.95 isbn:9781846970924)


Mary Ann Schaffer (Allen and Unwin)

Mary Ann Schaffer (Allen and Unwin)

For Mums, cousin Janets, Aunties, and the entire population of the earth: The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, by Mary Ann Schaffer.

            This is another one set around World War II, and is also very gentle. It’s all written in letters, (each one by our heroine is signed off, Love, Juliet Ashton {Miss}) which I thought would grow tedious, but is amusing, sweet and novel the whole way through the book. Juliet Ashton, a columnist during the war, finds herself at a loose end when peace is declared. She is trying to find something to write about, and something to feel passionate about, when she recieves a letter from a man on the island of Guernsey who has an old book of hers with her name and address written on the inside. Juliet finds herself intrigued by the story Dawsey tells of the literary society formed during the occupation of Guernsey. Also a lovely romance, some amusing herbal escapades, and the kind of hope that can only be conveyed through tragedy. Glorious, glorious, glorious. Buy it for yourself for Christmas! Don’t expect a follow up though, as poor Schaffer didn’t live to see her book published. Hope through tragedy, people. ($29.95 isbn:9781741751680)


Alexie Sherman (Random House)

Alexie Sherman (Random House)

For teens: The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-time Indian by Alexie Sherman

                  This is a brilliant and humorous evocation of what it feels like to be a teenager. Except that Junior has to deal with living on a reservation, having a soft (and easily damaged) skull, and being the smartest kid to have come out of a reservation school. When Junior makes the decision to leave the reservation every day to attend the white school in the town nearby, he has to deal with bullying from his own people as well as the white kids at school. He forges forward, though with his own special brand of humour, cartooning, smarts and nerdy charm. At turns tragic and hilarious, Part-time Indian is an enjoyable and fast-paced read. It does contain a lot of swearing, though, as it’s quite realistic. This one’s already winning awards, and quite deservedly too! ($19.95 isbn:9781842708446)

Isobelle Carmody (Penguin Group Australia)

Isobelle Carmody (Penguin Group Australia)

For the kids: A Riddle of Green: The Legend of Little Fur by Isobelle Carmody

             This is the fourth in the series of velvet covered books. These books have an environmental message, but aren’t didactic. Little Fur is a half troll, half elf healer, whose attachment to the earth-magic has lead her into many adventures. She has a band of animal friends, but this series isn’t sentimental. The characters are damaged (Sorrow the fox has no self esteem having been brought up in a science laboratory and escaped into the wild), and tragic, but the endings are always redeeming. In this adventure, Little Fur learns about where she came from, and where the future of the trolls lies. These books are to be read in order from 1. ‘Little Fur, The Legend Begins’, 2. ‘A Fox Called Sorrow,’ 3.’A Mystery of Wolves’. I highly recommend them, and the velvety covers are lush and make them very gift-worthy. They are a bit reminiscent of ‘The Dark Crystal’ movie to me… (Series retails at $24.95 isbn of Riddle of Green: 9780670040957)

I hope this helps you all out with your Christmas shopping!

Cheers bookworms,

The Wordgardener

  Even though I tend to grind my teeth at the mention of literary theorists, I secretly enjoy everything about them; their mulish stubborness to engage with reality; their longwinded unreadable essays employing words that have been out of vogue for centuries; their amusing, unpronounceable names, (my highschool English teacher used to sing ‘Fish, Fish, jump into my dish’ whenever we were discussing Stanley Fish’s reader-response theory). And my favourite litty guy is good old morbid Barthes, who proposed that once an author publishes his/her work, it’s gone, poof, out of their hands and into the public’s sweaty little fists to do with as they will. Hence: the author is dead. I love this idea so much, but not for reasons Barthes would like. You see, the ‘author god’ as Barthes proposed that authors are, is not dead to me but alive and well. When I read a book, I don’t flip to the back to see the picture of the author. Until I started working in a bookstore where memorisation of titles, cover colours, vague descriptions and author names is a useful, nay, mandatory skill, I often didn’t even pay attention to the names of those hallowed ones who wrote my reading material.

  My problem is this: I can love a book. Take, for example, A Million Little Pieces, the ‘autobiography’ of James Frey, and have such a complete picture in my mind of who and what the author is that when I actually meet said author, and my visions are skewed by reality, it sends me into an existential crisis which ends up with me not liking the book so much anymore.

  But I have taken heart! Chris Cleave, author of ‘The Other Hand’ was so wonderfully nice, and such a talented and subtle authorial voice, that when I met him it just drove me to want to read his backlist, and one of my co-workers to consider polygamy.

  And there is one author who I would give a lot to meet. I wouldn’t speak to him – it would take much more courage and ego than I have to do so – but would bow at his feet, and simply bask. Oh, author god Gabriel Garcia Marquez, don’t ever die.

(check out the new biography on Gabriel Garcia Marquez by Gerald Martin, beautiful photos and all- http://www.bloomsbury.com/books/details.aspx?isbn=9780747594765 )


The Wordgardener

Having just finished reading two books in the space of twelve hours, I felt a bit bereft. All those characters I’d just met had been soaked into my consiousness, but now their stories were over what was I supposed to do? This is my solution. This will be a blog dedicated to the love of all things writing and bookish. And since so many books are devoted to writing about food (think Chez Moi, Chocolat, Pomegranate Soup) so will I be. And since my favourite foods come from my own garden, so will some of the topics in this blog (so watch your feet, be careful of falling clods of dirt, freshly shaken from my topics…)

For me, all of these things (and the occasional bit of crafting with felt or sewing) equal comfort, so pop in anytime with a cup of French Earl Grey, or Bluemountain tea – especially on rainy days – for a chat.

Cheers Chickens,

The Wordgardener

Liter of Light.

This is so cool! Made of just water, chlorine, salt and a plastic bottle, these ‘light bulbs’ provide just as much light as a light bulb during the day, lighting houses which are dark during the day because of the building materials. They are being used across the Phillipines at the moment. This is the latest initiative of MyShelter, named Liter of Light, and is brilliant because it’s a technology that can be reproduced by the people who use it. What a brilliantly appropriate solution!Liter of Light

I love the movement of Appropriate Technologies. I’ve read a few things about it in books and magazines, and really appeals to my problem solving side. It sort of evolved from the work of a rather interesting economist called Ernst Friedrich Schumaker, who would have been seen as whacked out eccentric amongst the economics circles.  I mean, a guy who wrote a chapter on Buddhist Economics advocating ” ‘How to obtain given ends’ – the dignity of the human – ‘ with minimum means’ ” (1) is not going to be popular at a table of chappies discussing production possibility curves, exponential growth and equations for how to make more money in options than everyone else.

It was basically a big finger at the ‘one size fits all’ economic growth strategy that had been.  Old Schumacher called for Intermediate Technology – a technology to fit the development level of the place it was being used in. For numerous reasons, mostly to do with the way ‘intermediate’ made the technologies seem second rate, and ignorant of social and cultural factors, the term was changed to ‘appropriate technologies’.(2)

“…it has evolved into a development approach that is aimed at tackling community development problems. Viewed in this way, appropriate technology cannot be seen simply as some identifiable technical device; rather, it is an approach to community development consisting of a body of knowledge, techniques, and an underlying philosophy.” (2)


Here are some more brilliant appropriate technologies you may not yet have heard of:


Concrete Canvas Emergency Shelters

The Hippo Roller

And a few more on youtube…


Consanguineous References

1. Timmerman, P. 2009. ‘ Schumacher, Ernst Friedrich 1911–1977’ Encyclopedia of Environmental Ethics and Philosophy. Ed. J. Baird Callicott and Robert Frodeman. Vol. 2. Detroit: Macmillan Reference USA. p237-238.

2.Akubue, A. 2000. Appropriate Technology for Socioeconomic Development in Third World Countries. Journal of Technology Studies.

When I picked up a copy of ‘Sex At Dawn’ just before Christmas I was expecting it to be verbose – God knows why, most non-fiction is pretty light on these days, sometimes too light! This is the perfect balance of well-written, curiosity satisfying, just scientific enough to convince you that if you’ve read it you’re automatically smarter, and not so scientific as to scare you away. In short, it’s the perfect book of the sociology, history, and physiology of sex and sexuality! I’m only 33 pages in so far, but I’m already captivated – so much so that I’m even bothering to read those notes they have indexed at the back of the book. There are some very quote out loudable quotes from literature and science, such as:
“Gentry had to be pitied. They had so few advantages in respect of love. They could say they longed for a kiss from a bouncy wife in a vicarage garden. They couldn’t say she roared under me and clutched my back and I shot my speciment to blazes.” – Roger McDonald, Mr. Darwin’s Shooter (Ryan & Jetha pp27).
And then there are wonderfully well turned out sentances like this: “Suddenly, women lived in a world where they had to barter their reproductive capacity for access to teh resources and protection they needed to survive.” (Ryand & Jetha pp 8).

It’s a gloriously naked romp through every aspect of human life to do with sex – and the way the authors see it, that includes an awful lot of aspects. Read it, it’ll make you cleverer and you’ll be able to voice terribly shocking opinions at garden parties and so forth!

Sex at Dawn is by Christopher Ryan and Cacilda Jetha, published by Scribe, 2010 and retails for $35