The Grinning Cats hope sincerely that you’ll find here some suggestions for an enjoyable reading experience and a cosy place to exchange impressions about our favourite books
It is not our intention to propose novelties in the world of books; this space is not intended to be a review facility for recently published works.
We simply intend to share with you our liking for some books; some of which might be well known classics, or books published a few years ago, or indeed in some cases they might also be brand new books, but there is not any strict criterion of presentation.
We’ll try to express what might motivate us to appreciate or dislike a specific book and we are open to all your remarks and opinions.
Whenever it’s possible we try to read a book in its original language, but this may be an option which is not always available or possible for one reason or another, unfortunately.
In that case we will try to arrive at the author’s thoughts, intentions and emotions through what we hope to be a good and faithful translation.
All the books we intend to consider are real books made of real paper, even though some may be a little worn out occasionally, and which find their home in one of the two Grinning Cats’ bookcases. We are committed to stating that the books will have been carefully read until the last line ( if not, we’ll indicate the reasons for our dislike and disappointment).
“Books are lighthouses erected in the great sea of time”
“You know you've read a good book when you turn the last page and feel a little as if you have lost a friend.”
The Grinning Cats' Book Club has two locations:
here where you are right now, you can read the reviews of Grinning Cat 1.
Then, if you click HERE you'll be redirected to Grinning Cat 2's virtual home
and read another view on the same books.
22-OCT-2010
The Gospel according to Jesus Christ by José Saramago
This I found to be an extraordinarily interesting read, as it is written from the viewpoint that Jesus himself might have of the events of his life as opposed to the sometimes contrasting viewpoints and memories the other four evangelists gave of Jesus in their accounts of his life on earth.
Saramago has brought life to often repeated stories, parables and miracles surrounding Jesus, and has achieved this in a moving and indeed entertaining way. I loved the Mary Magdalen involvement, and having her as the sister of Martha, the fanatical housewife and entertainer, is a stroke of creative genius. She makes a far more interesting character than the nun-like personnage presented to us traditionally as Catholics. We even had that story as a gospel reading in our church some months ago, and the priests did their best to champion the big-heartedness of Mary who, in the giving of her time and listening ear to Jesus, did as much to show him true hospitality as the fussy Martha.
Saramago's image of Jesus' mother, after whom I imagine many of us Christian women may well have been named, is presented to us in a way that allows ordinary women to identify more readily with than with the iconic perfect creature presented to us in the traditional art and literature of the Church. He presents the suffering she endured in her life on earth, and the reality of the life she lived once Jesus started to attend to his father’s business.
I love the way Saramago has taken various tales, eg. the one of the Lost Sheep and woven it into a very credible,charming and moving story. Saramago’s capricious depiction of God is making more regular appearances at this stage of the story, and I was rather amused about the way the miracle of the fishing catch was presented so cleverly.
I read this book slowly, coming back to it intermittently and as I got close to the end I found myself being disturbed somewhat by the implacable God figure whose harshness has been searingly underlined by the author, with all due historical references. I had been enjoying getting to know the human Jesus, who possessed a form of kind strength that I regard as Christian, a man who had dealt with family difficulties, who had grown in stature from adolescence, who was able to live with the devil for years and not be corrupted, and who, according to Saramago had been used for dissent rather than unity.
Towards the end of the book Saramago suggests a vision of God that I've not encountered before this, and it engaged my racing mind and my waking hours. I wrangled with the cruelty of it all, with the obduracy. This is not the God that we have learned to call Father. It is not the God that I have always regarded as having a listening ear. This is rather the God who apparently doesn't pay any heed to the third person of the Trinity, the holy Spirit, the pure Spirit of love as we have been told. It's not that I will reject my vision of my God, but Saramago's other account is thought-provoking and makes me search and think as I still profess to hold on to my own belief. It may not be logical, but it is deeply engrained in me, and I suppose I am like many others from generations of mankind before me. If I were born in Egypt many centuries ago I'd probably have given homage to their gods, in Rome to theirs, in Greece to theirs, and in ancient Ireland to our own Celtic pantheon. I probably belong to that line of primitive people who try to look upwards rather than parallel at either side of me. And as I enter the final quarter or third of my earthly life, I still hold on to the wished for belief of something more than just a peaceful non-existence as I return to dust.
22-OCT-2010
The Gospel According to Jesus Christ - by José Saramago, p.16
Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, nothing begins without coming to an end, every beginning comes from some ending. Mary was puzzled and asked him, What does that mean, but the beggar simply replied, Good woman, you have a child in your womb and that is man’s only destiny, to begin and to end, to end and begin, How did you know I’m with child, Even before there is any swelling, a child can be seen shining through its mother’s eyes, If that is true, then my husband must already have seen his child in my eye, Perhaps he’s not looking at you when you look at him, Who are you who knows so much without hearing it from my own lips, I am an angel, but tell no one.
Just then his shining robes turned back to rags, the giant unexpectedly shrivelled up as if licked by a tongue of fire, and this wondrous transformation was enacted just in time, thanks be to God, for no sooner had the beggar quietly disappeared than Joseph emerged in the doorway, his suspicions aroused by whispering voices and Mary’s prolonged absence. What else did the beggar want, he asked, and Mary, at a loss for words, could only repeat, From Earth to earth, from ashes to ashes, from dust to dust, nothing begins without coming to an end, nothing ends without having a beginning. Was that what he said, Yes, and he also said that a father’s child shines through its mother’s eyes, Look at me, I’m looking, I can see a gleam in your eyes, said Joseph, and Mary told him, It must be your child.
23-SEP-2010
Flaubert's Parrot by Julian Barnes
While not being a huge fan of biographies this very clever biography of Gustave Flaubert, using a fictional narrator to present the minutiae of Flaubert's life, is a thoroughly engaging read.
Julian Barnes' prodigious research leaves no stone unturned, no parrot omitted, and even includes an exhaustive account of all the family pets and dogs owned by the Flaubert family.
This book was a gift to me, and in order to expand my enjoyment of it I decided to re-read Madame Bovary, having first read it in French many years ago as a text on my university course. This time I returned to it in translation, as an e-book downloaded on my iPhone. Emma Bovary's self-indulgence, her constant and rather selfish agonising about her own life were very good cures for many nights of insomnia in the past couple of weeks.
On reading Flaubert's Parrot I came to a better understanding of the comparisons between Emma's discomfort in her small provincial environs, her longing for a brighter and more interesting life, and Flaubert's own background and attitudes. Emma's lack of commitment to her marriage to Charles mirrors Flaubert's rejection of marriage and longterm relationships in favour of a number of what might be called "liaisons dangereuses". Both Emma and Flaubert share the habit of living in their heads so constantly, with the result that the life of their imagination becomes more of a reality to them than the daily life they lead.
Flaubert's Parrot gives Julian Barnes the opportunity to allow his narrator, a retired English doctor, Geoffrey Braithwaite, to air his opinions of literary critics, to list his objections to certain forms of the novel, to champion the writer rather than the scholar who deconstructs the work of the writer, often inaccurately. Enid Starkie comes in for a significant blast of criticism for her inaccuracy in the matter of the colour of Emma Bovary's eyes. There are numerous lists compiled by Braithwaite that make very interesting reading, and at the same time reveal a great depth of research by Barnes as he prepared the ground for the presentation of this material.
Julian Barnes' writing style is most engaging: there are pithy sentences throughout this book that are worthy of the wit of Oscar Wilde eg "It is not just the life that we know. It is not just the life that has been successfully hidden. It is not just the lies about the life, some of which cannot now be disbelieved. It is also the life that was not led." (p. 121) Or later on in the book you come across pithy maxims such as "You cannot change humanity, you can only know it. Happiness is a scarlet cloak whose lining is in tatters. Lovers are like Siamese twins, two bodies with a single soul..."
The unfolding of Flaubert's life, from what is known, from what is imagined, from what did or didn't happen, all revealed through the passionate narrator's engagement with his subject makes this an interesting and fascinating book. Parallels can be drawn from how Flaubert led his own life and how he approached the creation of his characters. It could be said that Madame Bovary has more than a touch of Flaubert's own personality and behaviour patterns in her life, and in dealing with this consideration Geoffrey Braithwaite has to come to terms with the ultimate tragedy of his own marriage, as he rationalises his wife's infidelity in a rather sad and realistic way :
"But she (Ellen, Braithewaite's wife) was honourable; she only ever lied to me about her secret life. About that she lied impulsively, recklessly, almost embarrassingly; but about everything else she told me the truth. A phrase used by the prosecutor of Madame Bovary to describe Flaubert's art comes back to me: he said it was 'realistic but not discreet'." Even in the midst of his mourning and heartbreak Braithwaite takes solace in Flaubert.
As my other Grinning Cat colleague has stated in her review which you may read, clicking on the reading black cat icon,
it is worthwhile reading or rereading Madame Bovary in tandem with "Flaubert's Parrot". And as she also stated at the end when one might ask a reviewer about what part the parrot played in all of this? Well to begin with, I think he provided a rather lovely cover for the different editions of this book, as our photos show at least two of them. And of course Braithwaite discovers more than one parrot as he progresses through his research. But ultimately I think that Braithwaite himself has taken on the role of a parrot who has memorised his master's sayings. Braithwaite has immersed himself so very deeply in Flaubert's life that he can "parrot" or mimic the writer's sayings, his thoughts, his imaginings and give a very rounded picture of his life.
I loved this book. It is not a "quick" read: it repays a more leisurely pace of reading, to give time to the reader to ponder a little what has been disclosed and discussed in each chapter. I shall shortly start another Julian Barnes novel, because as he himself put these words into Braithwaite's mouth I found more than an element of truth about myself in them: "If you quite like a writer's work, if you turn the page approvingly yet don't mind being interrupted, then you tend to like the author unthinkingly". (p.127)
After reading this book another one by Barnes waits tantalisingly in my book pile.
23-SEP-2010
Flaubert's Parrot by Julian Barnes Chapter Ten - Excerpt, p.132
Three points need to be made. One is that the writer chooses - as far as he can - the extent of what you call his involvement in life: despite his reputation, Flaubert occupied a half-and-half position. 'It isn't the drunkard who writes the drinking song': he knew that. On the other hand, it isn't the teetotaller either. He put it best, perhaps, when he said that the writer must wade into life as into the sea,but only up to the navel.
Secondly, when readers complain about the lives of writers - why didn't he do this; why didn't he complain to the newspapers about that; why wasn't he more involved in life? - aren't they really asking a simpler, and vainer, question: why isn't he more like us? But if a writer were more like a reader, he'd be a reader, not a writer: it's as uncomplicated as that.
Thirdly, what is the thrust of the complaint as far as the books are concerned? Presumably the regret that Flaubert wasn't more involved in life isn't just a philantropic wish for him: if only old Gustave had a wife and kiddies, he wouldn't have been so glum about the whole shooting match?..... For myself, I cannot think that, for instance, the portrait of provincial manners in Madame Bovary is lacking in some particular aspect which would have been remedied had its author clinked tankards of cider every evening with some gouty Norman bergere.
28-AUG-2010
"The Food of Love" - by Anthony Capella
It is some years since I read this book, which I got as a gift after spending an Easter holiday in Italy. I loved the notion of a book set in Italy that gave a significant focus to the art of Italian cooking. The device used by the author to exploit the Cyrano de Bergerac story in this context seemed to be far more clever and attractive than an American film starring Steve Martin that utilised the same story.
The art student Laura was typical of a rather naive foreign student who allowed herself to be seduced as much by her surroundings as by the handsome Tommaso, who proves himself to be a really insincere Lothario, the very cliché of an Italian lover who preys on unsuspecting gullible tourists. Far more sympathetic is the character Bruno, who feels as strongly about his food as he does about Laura, and who applies himself to expressing those feelings as expertly as he can in constructing meals and menus that Tommaso will exploit in his seduction of Laura. Bruno expresses himself best by going through the canon of Italian cuisine rather than the French cuisine of the rather pretentious Roman restaurant he works in. As he prepares his menu in secret for Laura, it is an opportunity for him to give rein to his passion for Italian regional food and as a poet might pen his poetry to the object of his desire so does Bruno construct each recipe as a love letter to Laura. The fact that it is Tommaso who will benefit from Bruno's devotion is the Capella take on the Cyrano story.
There were elements in this book that did stretch the willing suspension of our disbelief, especially the episodes in the mountainy regions, but in general I found this to be an entertaining and enjoyable read.
But then, I am one of those Anglophone tourist women, mentioned by Grinning Cat 2 in her review. She being an expert on all things Italian has taken a totally different outlook on this book, and some of her remarks were eye-opening for me. Nonetheless, I still retain an affection for this story, even though my knowledge of Italian is not sufficient to translate the complexities of some of the phrases mentioned by my co-reviewer, nor to understand the apparent vulgarity that is hidden in some of them. The fact that the book was an enjoyable read without the need to understand these elements might indeed indicate their unnecessary superfluity.
This is still a book that I will remember as an enjoyable read; one that made me want to taste some of the dishes which seemed so delicious in their description, and made me wish to have the courage to drive through some of the Italian countryside regions that are scene settings for parts of the book.
My co-reviewer,Grinning Cat 2, has agreed to differ with my opinions on this book and you may read her well-worded revuew HERE
Wolfgang at the "Blue Note"
If I were chosen to play the part of Eve in the story of herself and Adam, I think it would not be the apple on the tree that would have tempted me to transgress a rule or a hard agreement. Rather it would be a book that is tantalisingly near, and yet unavailable. This is the case with this current selection Marisa has chosen to present for us here. She is so enthusiastic about this book that she kindly translated excerpts from it for me to get a flavour of it. I've found them most enjoyable, and hope that soon the publishers will expedite its translation to English, as I would like to have the whole story unfold for me.
In the extract below you may read a most enjoyable account of how Mozart secures himself a part-time job as a jazz piano player in a night club in modern Vienna.
By clicking on the contented Grinning Cat in the library you can go to Marisa's gallery and read her full review as well as one additional translated short extract from the book.
From " Herr Mozart wacht auf" by Eva Barensky - Translation by the Grinning Cats Even though he hated that kind of begging, one miserable evening he took his courage in both hands.
He had just got into the club and the stage was empty, so he went to the counter all lit up in blue and addressed himself to the black bartender, formulated his request and asked for the owner.
The owner, who looked like an overgrown child, had to bend his head when he walked under the door arch.
“There is no vacancy for staff currently” he grunted, without looking at Wolfgang’s face either, and started keying on the cash register.
“Noble and distinguished sir, with all the respect you deserve....”
Wolfgang perched on the footrest bar of the counter, stretched as high as he could and put one hand behind his ear.
“The one who plays this evening is a mere strummer, one who knows about music exactly as much as Satan knows about Vespers. Listen to that stuff! Have you realized how out of tune he is? What? You haven’t? Not at all? It’s really extremely bizarre....”
The owner stretched out his chin toward the blabbing little man :
“I’m perfectly capable of making an ass of myself on my own, without any help from you!”
“ Of course, Monsieur, I have not the slightest crumb of doubt about that, but allow me to assure you that I’m an expert in a quite different way”. Wolfgang smiled suddenly and bowed to him imperceptibly. “An expert of music, sir, precisely of music.”
“Did you run away from a Circus or what? This is not a cabaret. We don’t need any other musician. Nearly every night we have different players and I have a more than sufficient turn-over. Insisting is not worthwhile with the few clients we have.”
“Well, if this evening there is not better musique , it’s a good way to drive out the few ones who have remained.”
Wolfgang stared with intensity at the man with an aggressive look who wore a black polo-necked pullover.
“I will play for you three passages; in exchange I only want food and beer. If you are not satisfied I’ll accept your decision and I won’t insist and you’ll be free to let that thing down there...” Wolfgang pointed at the now calm and sleepy piano “to keep on working without me. Does this idea meet your taste?”
The owner rushed against Mozart with his eyebrows meeting in a furrowed angry line, pushing a finger on his chest.
“We were waiting exactly for you! Do you know how many young men like you end up being mocked? “
Before Wolfgang might reply, the black bartender turned to the owner and spoke two words which immediately changed his attitude.
The big man shrugged his shoulders.
“That’s ok then”. He nodded toward the blue piano. “He says you are good. Then let us listen to something decent.”
And Wolfgang played.
He played what came to his mind in that very moment: old, new, all at once, interwove thoughts to get new, audacious variations, lost the perception of time and little by little all the places by the stage started to fill up . He had the impression that the club was getting lively.
When because of thirst he got up from the piano and went to the counter, he realized that nobody was in the dark and far corner of the Blue Notes anymore. They had all moved to be beside the blue piano.
Even the owner stared into the empty space with blank eyes. In front of him lay an open book, as if it were dozing on the table surface.
Wolfgang climbed up on one of the stools and felt like a child who tries to conquer the Mount Everest of a kitchen chair.
Then he addressed himself to the black bartender.
“Now Mister Owner can see very clearly that if he wants clients he needs a good pianist”
He nodded at the landlord who was behind him.
“Well, now that I have accomplished my duty, I’d say I have deserved the promise of the owner, or rather his duty I mean, that is the beer he offered to me to relieve my thirst . What do you think?”.
The black man nodded in return and smiled “You deceived him, the old chap. I bet he will engage you for the whole week”. He gave a glass to Wolfgang and reached out his hand too.
“Czerny”
“All the pleasure is mine.” Wolfgang shook his hand “ Moz...s hum stermann. Wolfgang Mustermann”...
Wolfgang tries to find his house.
If I were chosen to play the part of Eve in the story of herself and Adam, I think it would not be the apple on the tree that would have tempted me to transgress a rule or a hard agreement. Rather it would be a book that is tantalisingly near, and yet unavailable. This is the case with this current selection Marisa has chosen to present for us here. She is so enthusiastic about this book that she kindly translated excerpts from it for me to get a flavour of it. I've found them most enjoyable, and hope that soon the publishers will expedite its translation to English, as I would like to have the whole story unfold for me.
In the extract below you may read a touching account of the moment when Wolfgang really becomes aware that all his familiar points of reference have disappeared.
By clicking on the contented Grinning Cat 1 you can go to Marisa's gallery and read her full review as well as one additional translated short extract from the book.
From " Herr Mozart wacht auf" by Eva Barensky - Translation by the Grinning Cats Trembling, as if only the cold stone of the pavement were enough to annoy him, Wolfgang leant his fingertips against the corner of the building.
A marble plate fixed on the wall at almost three metres height nearly escaped his notice and he had to twist his head to decipher the golden words.
“In this place until 1894 stood the house where Mozart died on the 5th of December 1791”
He gazed around, looking for something which might seem familiar to him, something he could recognize, understand.
His chin trembled. Wolfgang leant his hands on that black and rough pavement, which covered the street like a coffin lid, he passed his fingers on the edge of the sidewalk and scratched with his nails the grooves in the stone, as if it could be enough to take off that superficial and gloomy layer to find, immediately under it, the old irregular surface of the clayey ground, full of footprints of the old street he was used to.
“Did you lose anything?”
He looked up.
In front of one of the entries of the building there was a person with a voice similar to a mezzo-soprano, a woman who scanned him from the top of a pair of dark glasses.
He stared at her in return, realizing she was waiting for an answer and nodded mechanically.
“Contact lenses?”
Wolfgang got up with pain, moved one step away and inspected the lady from one end to the other, lingering on her tight blue trousers, the white shirt with a collar.
“Please, Madame, be so kind to tell me what day is today”
This is what poor Wolfgang managed to say.
“Tuesday”
“And the date, I beg you, the date, I must know it urgently”
“It’s the 5th, I think, or am I wrong...”
“Decembris?”
“Uh y-yes, but are you okay?” Her voice had lowered a tercet.
“I beg you again, Madame, to inform me in what year we are living”
“OK, but now go away from the shop window, you are scaring my clients!”
The woman slammed the door and Wolfgang saw her through the lit space while she shook her head in disgust.
Wolfgang turned his eyes away and walked over until she was not in sight anymore.
In the place where the entry porch of his house would have been supposed to be, he let himself sit down on Enno’s bag, embraced his knees as once he had embraced his mother’s waist, bent his head and cried until the cold made his wet face burn.
21-AUG-2010
"The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society"
At the end of the Second World War, as the writer Juliet Ashton is considering what the subject for her next book might be, she receives a letter from a stranger on Guernsey island,Dawsey Adams, who has seen her name inscribed on a book by Charles Lamb.
The correspondence that begins between Juliet and this rather formal and shy man opens up a whole new realm of possibilities for Juliet, both in her personal quest for a new book subject and in the expansion of the horizons of her personal life.
The novel unfolds in the form of letters to and from Juliet, and thus we meet her close friends, her publisher, her American suitor who pursues her doggedly, and even more importantly we get to know the one character who is actually absent from the book: the haunting personality of Elizabeth, the founder of the society that has given this book its title.
As Elizabeth's life circumstances are revealed to us through the information Juliet receives about her from others who write to her we sense the empathetic bond that Juliet is forming with this absent character. Elizabeth's spontaneity and bravery find a deep resonance in Juliet's response to her story, and in her reaction to the way different people on the island have interacted with Elizabeth.
The members of her spontaneously formed literary society do in fact develop an interest in reading, although some of them become fixated on certain authors and styles. In all cases however, there is a humorous tolerance of one another as they explore their new-found interest in literature.
The backdrop to all of this is the dreadful shadow of the Second World War and the effect the German occupation had on this small island. The portrayal of the Germans is most interestingly achieved: it is not at all stereotypical, and it allows for individuals to reveal many facets of their lives and personalities. The social deprivation suffered by islanders and indeed people in Britain during the war years is well depicted, and the scenes of children being sent to war-torn Britain for their own safety are heart-rending.
Not all the characters in this book are positive and good people. There are mean-spirited backbiters who write Juliet letters with nasty undertones; there are double-dealing journalists and others who think only of the profit to themselves in their encounters with some of the characters in the book.
There are moments of great humour, as well as moments of great sorrow and pain in this book, but it is a book that leaves one with a sanguine hope for the future of its characters, many of whom we feel we have come to know very well as we peruse the letters they write.
Juliet's decision to go to Guernsey, to meet the correspondents she has come to know, is a turning point in the book and in her life.
It is interesting that Mary Ann Schaffer and Annie Barrows succeeded in maintaining the momentum of the story line by continuing with the letter-writing device to bring the novel to its dénouement.
This is another book where I felt I got to know the characters, and one I was sorry to have to finish, but it is one I will share with many of my friends who, I'm sure, will also enjoy it.
You might click
on the little librarian black cat
to read the impression of Grinning Cat 2
on this book.
21-AUG-2010
"The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society" - Incipit
Mr. Sidney Stark, Publisher
Stephens & Stark Ltd
21 St James’s Place
London SW1
8th January 1946
Dear Sidney,
Susan Scott is a wonder. We sold over forty copies of the book, which was very pleasant, but much more thrilling from my standpoint, was the food. Susan managed to get hold of ration coupons for icing sugar and real eggs for the meringue. If all her literary luncheons are going to achieve these heights, I won’t mind touring the country. Do you suppose that a lavish bonus could spur her on to “butter”? Let’s try it – you may deduct the money from my royalties.
Now for my grim news. You asked me how work in my new book is progressing. Sidney, it isn’t. English Foibles seemed so promising at first. After all, one should be able to write reams about the Society to Protest Against the Glorification of the English Bunny. I unearthed a photograph of the Vermin Exterminators’ Trade Union, marching down an Oxford street with placards screaming “Down with Beatrix Potter!” But what is there to write about after a caption? Nothing that’s what.
I no longer want to write this book – my head and my heart just aren’t in it. Dear as Izzy Bickerstaff is – and was – to me, I don’t want to be considered a light-hearted journalist anymore. I do acknowledge that making readers laugh – or at least chuckle – during the war was no mean feat, but I don’t want to do it anymore. I can’t seem to dredge up any sense of proportion or balance these days, and God knows one can’t write humour without them.....
19-AUG-2010
"The Uncommon Reader"
In this delightful short novel we encounter someone who epitomises the notion of being uncommon, the Queen of England, suddenly discovering the pleasures of the common pursuit of reading.
With her well known penchant for horses, dogs, and the outdoor life, it comes as a delicious surprise to find Alan Bennett playing with the conceit that she is now throwing herself into the pleasures of reading with equal enthusiasm and dedication.
Bennett's use of the mobile library as her introduction to the pleasures of reading brings this most uncommon reader into the world of the common people who borrow their books regularly and whose lives are enriched by the interaction between them and the writers' imaginations.
The Queen enjoys borrowing and reading to such an extent that she allows herself to become passionate about it and begins to neglect her duties, even reading in the ceremonial carriage as she absentmindedly waves her gloved hand through the window.
Her reactions on works ranging from Samuel Johnson to the memoirs of Lauren Bacall are fresh, original and amusing.
The interplay of courtiers and aides reveals them to be distinctly unamused as the queen engages in a more sincere and forthright manner with people on her official duties by asking them what they are currently reading, and thus causing ripples in the time-honoured formal conversational etiquette of such occasions.
Bennett explores the imaginative conceit behind this gem of a story in an utterly charming way, and manages to leave a surprise for the delighted reader in the final pages.
This is an utterly enjoyable book, one I didn't want to put down at all, and unfortunately, consumed, like a delicious dessert, in far too short a time.
Click HERE to see the impression of Grinning Cat 2 on this book
19-AUG-2010
"The uncommon reader" - Incipit
At Windsor it was the evening of the state banquet and as the president of France took his place besides Her Majesty, the royal family formed up behind and the procession slowly moved off and through into Waterloo Chamber.
“Now that I have you to myself”, said the Queen, smiling to left and right as they glided though the glittering throng, “I’ve been longing to ask you about the writer Jean Genet”.
“Ah” said the president. “Oui”.
The “Marseillaise” and the national anthem made for a pause in the proceeding, but when they had taken their seat Her Majesty turned to the president and resumed.
“Homosexual and jailbird, was he nevertheless as bad as he was painted? Or, more to the point” – and she took up her soup spoon – “was he as good?”
Unbriefed on the subject of the glabrous playwright and novelist, the president looked wildly about for his minister of culture. But she was being addressed ny the Archibishop of Canterbury.
“Jean Genet,” said the Queen again, helpfully. “Vous le connaissez?”
“Bien sûr” said the president.
“Il m’interesse”, said the Queen.
“Vraiment?” The president put down his spoon. It was going to be a long evening....
Just finished reading "An Uncommon Reader." Delightful! Thank you so much for starting your book club. I've already read "Guernsey sometime ago," so now I'll have to find "Food of Love."
Well, as I said on Marisa's site, I must now get a copy of the "Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society"! The descriptions from both of you make me think strongly of the wonderful book (which I have read many times), by Helene Hanff, "84 Charing Cross Road". This virtual book club is a great idea!
Turning to the other book, "The Uncommon Reader", I have not read that either but have heard of it and now that too looks like it might be an interesting read. Thank you both.
some of which might be well known classics, or books published a few years ago, or indeed in some cases they might also be brand new books, but there is not any strict criterion of presentation.
