Reading at Chez Ball

Erin has been nice enough to let me stay at her house in the gap between now and the future (which I hope will resolve itself soon.) It's a reading house - and here's what it's inhabitants are sinking their teeth into.

That heavy tome is a symbol of the weight of the law on which E is daily feeding. Strangely enough, the texts are mostly all black and red and weigh ten pounds.

Opal (O'Mitten) is very much into the first volume of Malcolm Muggeridge's Chronicles of Wasted Time.

Brody has a surprising interest in Victorian literature, with a penchant for Hardy and Bronte. And yet, both cats have absolutely no tolerance for Tennyson. When hearing any of his poems, they both run into another room. (E says they much prefer Wordsworth...)

Comments

Erin said…

We are so very cute...but what are you reading, and where is your picture?

September 1, 2010 at 11:34 PM

My Mad Girl

[A Question I am Not the First to Ask: What is it about women and madness? Are they more susceptible to delusion than men are? The subject of many books and hypotheses, we wonder if madness dogs the steps of creative women (eg. Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf, Charlotte Perkins Gilman…) Is it a biological coincidence or a recurring phenomenon? Is it socially reinforced? Do men fear the hysterical women? Is it the uterus (Greek “hysteria”) which turns the brain?] The reclusive writer, the late Janet Frame, winner of all of New Zealand’s literary prizes, spent much time in institutions and in therapy and, as far as I can tell, her novels commonly include themes of estrangement, mental health and madness. Frame considered her 1963 novel Towards Another Summer too personal be published in her lifetime. As she’d already written an autobiography ( Angel at My Table , made into a film by Jane Campion) and been this subject of several biographies, this is telling. Towards Another Su...

Before I go

I'm at the airport with too many bags. A last minute weigh in required me to pull all my books out of my bags and redistribute the weight, while the service representative had to call Iceland (where I pass through en route to London), and the fifty pairs of eyes behind me glared and grew glassy. Though this morning the weather was pure, clear and copper-sunned, the fog has descended so low that the tips of the trees are nearly obliterated. This is Seattle. This is the city I know. Here's something I wrote a month or so ago, an ode to this city, its literary scene, and its inhabitants. When I graduated from a small Midwestern liberal arts college with the music degree I knew I might never use, I felt lost looking for What To Do Next. Despite the pressure I felt alongside my friends – future accountants, teachers, and doctors - to map out a life just so, a much respected professor suggested that each step in one’s life seems microscopic, a darkened footpath occasionally lit by a...

A Shelf of One's Own

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