The 1953 musical comedy Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, starring Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell, screened at the Auckland Film Festival a few years ago, so I took my mum and daughter along to watch it on the big screen. There is a particular scene where Marilyn and Jane enter the ship’s ballroom and literally bring it to a standstill as they look so stunning. It had the same effect on the movie audience, who actually gasped as they appeared onscreen.
After reading this article on How to write a sentence and How to read one by Stanley Fish, I promptly downloaded the book and have had a lovely time reading it. I have a slight addiction to writing books, and I sometimes wonder if I enjoy reading about writing more than actually writing as it requires far less effort. Continue reading Wreaking havoc on the English language→
What a cool date. Probably couldn’t find a better date to pick things up again as the 1/1/11. I have one New Year’s resolution and that is to practise my writing on a regular basis. If you think about it, write a page a day, and by the end of the year, you will have a full length novel.
Of course, stream-of-consciousness may have worked for James Joyce, but for most others, it tends to be boring gibberish. Humans, it seems, like stories. So much so, it is almost innate. In fact, narrative seems to be a way we make sense of our world – we are hard-wired to turn our lives into stories. Continue reading 1-1-11→
So many bad habits – where to begin? Judging from the other #30daysofme blogs I have been reading, procrastination is so prevalent it should be considered a normal human behaviour. I have all the usual bad eating, drinking and lazing habits that abound among humans, so the habit I’ll focus on, because it is combines with why I’m doing this challenge, is my habit of buying writing books instead of actually writing.
Now, they are all great writing books, and I love reading them, so much so that I’m always buying another. But apparently you are meant to put what they say into actual practice! Even odder is that I enjoy writing – once I start. Sadly, I’m realising it is just the sin of procrastination in another form.
One of the most delightful books of the last two centuries has to be Three Men in a Boat by Jerome K Jerome published in 1889. It is nothing more that the title suggests, three lads on a rowing holiday on the Thames, but in Jerome’s hands, every interlude comes to life and shows that the more things change, the more they stay the same. One of my favourites is the tale of the tin can.
A Fearful Battle To return to our present trip: nothing exciting happened, and we tugged steadily on to a little below Monkey Island, where we drew up and lunched. We tackled the cold beef for lunch, and then we found that we had forgotten to bring any mustard. I don’t think I ever in my life, before or since, felt I wanted mustard as badly as I felt I wanted it then. I don’t care for mustard as a rule, and it is very seldom that I take it at all, but I would have given worlds for it then.
I don’t know how many worlds there may be in the universe, but anyone who had brought me a spoonful of mustard at that precise moment could have had them all. I grow reckless like that when I want a thing and can’t get it.
Harris said he would have given worlds for mustard too. It would have been a good thing for anybody who had come up to that spot with a can of mustard, then: he would have been set up in worlds for the rest of his life.
But there! I daresay both Harris and I would have tried to back out of the bargain after we had got the mustard. One makes these extravagant offers in moments of excitement, but, of course, when one comes to think of it, one sees how absurdly out of proportion they are with the value of the required article. I heard a man, going up a mountain in Switzerland, once say he would give worlds for a glass of beer, and, when he came to a little shanty where they kept it, he kicked up a most fearful row because they charged him five francs for a bottle of Bass. He said it was a scandalous imposition, and he wrote to The Times about it.
It cast a gloom over the boat, there being no mustard. We ate our beef in silence. Existence seemed hollow and uninteresting. We thought of the happy days of childhood, and sighed. We brightened up a bit, however, over the apple-tart, and, when George drew out a tin of pine-apple from the bottom of the hamper, and rolled it into the middle of the boat, we felt that life was worth living after all.
We are very fond of pine-apple, all three of us. We looked at the picture on the tin; we thought of the juice. We smiled at one another, and Harris got a spoon ready.
Then we looked for the knife to open the tin with. We turned out everything in the hamper. We turned out the bags. We pulled up the boards at the bottom of the boat. We took everything out on to the bank and shook it. There was no tin-opener to be found.
Then Harris tried to open the tin with a pocket-knife, and broke the knife and cut himself badly; and George tried a pair of scissors, and the scissors flew up, and nearly put his eye out. While they were dressing their wounds, I tried to make a hole in the thing with the spiky end of the hitcher, and the hitcher slipped and jerked me out between the boat and the bank into two feet of muddy water, and the tin rolled over, uninjured, and broke a teacup.
Then we all got mad. We took that tin out on the bank, and Harris went up into a field and got a big sharp stone, and I went back into the boat and brought out the mast, and George held the tin and Harris held the sharp end of his stone against the top of it, and I took the mast and poised it high up in the air, and gathered up all my strength and brought it down.
It was George’s straw hat that saved his life that day. He keeps that hat now (what is left of it), and, of a winter’s evening, when the pipes are lit and the boys are telling stretchers about the dangers they have passed through, George brings it down and shows it round, and the stirring tale is told anew, with fresh exaggerations every time.
Harris got off with merely a flesh wound.
After that, I took the tin off myself, and hammered at it with the mast till I was worn out and sick at heart, whereupon Harris took it in hand.
We beat it out flat; we beat it back square; we battered it into every form known to geometry – but we could not make a hole in it. Then George went at it, and knocked it into a shape, so strange, so weird, so unearthly in its wild hideousness, that he got frightened and threw away the mast. Then we all three sat round it on the grass and looked at it.
There was one great dent across the top that had the appearance of a mocking grin, and it drove us furious, so that Harris rushed at the thing, and caught it up, and flung it far into the middle of the river, and as it sank we hurled our curses at it, and we got into the boat and rowed away from the spot, and never paused till we reached Maidenhead.
Sometimes it seems people pass through through our lives for no other reason than to leave us with something we really love. In this case, it was Cider With Rosie by Laurie Lee. A poet and a storyteller. The book tells the story of his early life growing during up the 1920s in a Cotswold village. Lee has a beautiful way with the english language.
We kissed, once only, so dry and shy, it was like two leaves colliding in air.