Rejoining the dance

Arrived home the day before yesterday, late, worked all day yesterday, happy to be back in front of my computer, that left Colette on her own, but I think she coped.

We were on Stewart Island, in the nature reserve, Rakiura. On Mason's Bay beach watched the seagulls and oyster-catchers dancing a sort of minuet with the waves, a la Lewis Carroll,

will you, won't you,
will you, won't you,
will you come and join the dance?

The beach extended far into a haze, and you could see the black dots of the birds all along it within a narrow band, like a ribbon.

Not much reading during this time, except for finishing Jeanette Winterson's Art and Lies. It was an effort, her prose is so rich and poetic. Sometimes she goes off on a rant, which can be a relief.

When I got to the end, the last chapters which explain so much, I felt a bit sick and it took me several days to get over it. All the people in her book are warped in terrible ways, either doing evil or bearing the results of it on themselves, within themselves. Or both. Two babies are born in this book, neither wanted. The only good man is emasculated. Sex is mostly perverse.

Once we got out of the bush and had washed the mud off, I found two books in a Salvation Army shop, Zadie Smith On Beauty ($5,-, hardback, good condition) and Bob Jones' Letters ($3,-, hardback, with author's signature).

I laughed out loud all the way through Bob Jones' book, though I do not like him at all as a person. He'd probably say I was dumb to spend even $3,- on his book. Peter said that the letters were petty and put the book down after a few pages.

The Zadie Smith I could not read, that was the second time I tried. I skipped the first part and went straight to On beauty and being wrong, because being wrong interests me particularly. I stopped at a scene of a man having sex with one of his students. Not that again, I can't be bothered. (The Cricket: You're jealous. Suzannah: Yes, ZS looks gorgeous (and young) on the dust cover.)

I left both the books with the lady who ran the B & B where we stayed. I told her where I got them, she shouldn't feel grateful.

Bought the latest Henning Mankell in Twizel for under $10,- (why am I writing about the price of books suddenly?). No good either, though I finished it. He is crusading on behalf of Africa and Mozambique. It does not make for good writing. Cliche-ridden, not enough editing.

Have just put the timer on for the last ten minutes, have probably written too long anyway.

Spent yesterday reading greedily about Waslawa Szymborska again, researching her on the Net, it was fun discovering poems I had not read in other people's blogs. I shall write a review of her book for Thursday week (1000 words). Had thought it had to be finished for this Thursday until Hinemoana emailed me that we're on holiday. Relief. At night picked up Theroux and Vidia again.

Started writing a poem about the seagulls and the oyster-catchers on Mason's Bay. It has to rhyme.

Jeanette Winterson

Read her book Oranges are not the only fruit, which I did not like. I'd bought it at The Ferret together with another one of hers entitled Art and Lies.
Well!
I am being stretched, her writing contains so much, both the thinking/feeling underlying it and the style, that I'm left a little breathless, as if I was walking with someone whose legs are longer than mine. She makes no concessions. Writing about the library in Alexandria, she puts in a half-page paragraph quoting Pliny the Younger in Latin. It doesn't feel as if she's showing off.

I haven't understood the shape of that book yet - its' subtitle is A piece for three voices and a Bawd, published by Vintage in 1995. The table of contents reveals that the three voices are Handel, Picasso and Sappho in alternation, but from reading up to page 39, I know that most likely the Handel and Picasso and Sappho are not the well-known ones. The Bawd has already appeared, called Doll. She is taking shape slowly.
All Winterson's prose is a kind of poetry.

I am also reading a translation of Julian Green's The Apprentice Writer, the title was irresistible, and I was in the section of the library that deals with translated literature. All wrong, I should be looking among the English poets. Next time.
In the mean time am enjoying Green who wrote in the 20s in France. I remember people talking about him, I wondered about the English name since he wrote in French. I read him before going to sleep.