Happy Birthday Elizabeth Barrett Browning!

I'm a few hours late to the game on this, since Elizabeth Barret Browning's birthday occurred yesterday. Yet after a reminder from Oxford World's Classics, I would feel quite remiss not giving her a little shout out:

Happy 207th Birthday, Elizabeth!

The Birthplace: Coxhoe Hall, Durham

One of my dissertation chapters focused on EBB, as I fondly refer to her in my notes. In studying the relationship with her spaniel, Flush, I felt I got to know her a little bit as well -- particularly through the perusal of her letters. Her passion and zeal immiediately won me over. Reading details about her secret courtship with Robert Browning and their plans to run away together felt both like reading a sensational novel and like I was intruding upon the privacy of a lovely couple (and actually, I suppose I was).

With spring break happily dawning before my eyes, I'm hoping to read her long poem Aurora Leigh. Though with my holiday reading list growing like a proverbial weed, I must concede this ambition may never materialize. In the meantime, I shall leave you with one of her poems about Flush, one that's not as widely read. A wonderful canine companion, he comforted her, just as her words provide solace and inspiration to readers two centuries later.

Flush or Faunus

YOU see this dog. It was but yesterday

I mused, forgetful of his presence here, 

Till thoughts on thoughts drew downward tear on tear;

When from the pillow, where wet-cheeked I lay,

A head, as hairy as Faunus, thrust his way

Right sudden against my face; two golden-clear

Large eyes astonished mine; a drooping ear

Did flap me on either cheek, to dry the spray!

I started first, as some Arcadian,

Amazed by goatly god in twilight grove.

But as my bearded vision closelier ran

My tears off, I knew Flush, and rose above

Surprise and sadness; thanking the true Pan,

Who, by low creatures, leads to heights of love.

The last line is my favourite! I'm tempted to make some saccharine analogies about how we are all low creatures and love and art lift us to the great heights Barrett Browning describes...but I'll spare you. Have a happy Thursday!

P.S. This intriguing article discusses the various words attributed to EBB in the OED, abandonment and goatly among them. I guess only a few of them stuck? :)

End of Year Book Survey 2012

 

As mentioned in my Classics Club Readathon post, I picked up Anthony Trollope. I didn't get far before having to set it aside for work. Currently I'm investigating nineteenth-century sexuality in literature, so I've been reading some...colorful (for lack of a better word) texts as a result. 

Full confession: I'm starting to feel like a pervert!

Yes, it's all in the name of the research, but reading about a man who essentially sexually abuses the girl he's raised as a daughter yet has no qualms about it (as I've been doing this weekend) does tend to leave a bitter taste in one's mouth. 

And don't even get me started on the looks of inquisitive surprise the librarians give me as they hand over these 'colorful' inter-library loans. Time to cleanse my literary palate.

I thought now would be a good time to reminisce about the wonderful literature I read in 2012. While it's a bit woefully late, here are my responses to the questions posed by Jamie for her annual end of year survey.

Best book you read in 2012?

I Capture the Castle! As soon as I read Dodie Smith's memorable opening line, 'I write this sitting in the kitchen sink,' I was hooked. After devouring it in a matter of hours on New Year's Eve 2011, I wondered how any book could top it. Though I experienced some fantastic new stories throughout the year, no book ever did. Top it, that is. The delightfully quirky characters, the prose that creeps under skin, the charm of the castle in ruins: everything about this book enchanted me. This is an instant favourite I look forward to reading again and again...and again

More after the jump...

A Victorian Celebration: Wrapping Up

Despite what the absence of posts related to this summer's Victorian Celebration might suggest, I did actually read for this event. In fact, I was so preoccupied with my nineteenth-century reading that I opted to stick my nose between the pages rather than sit down to write on my silly little blog. 

The Victorian period is my golden age, my belle epoque. So I truly appreciated Allie giving me an excuse to revel in this beloved era. I've read some fantastic literature, some old and some new (to me). A summary of what I got up to over the past several weeks is just ahead. But first...

 London 1888 -- I adore Victorian photography!

And now we return to our regularly scheduled programming.

Lady Windermere's Fan by Oscar Wilde: This play has more gravitas than The Importance of Being Earnest, but I loved what Wilde had to say about the hypocrisy of polite society in late Victorian England.

Lady Audley's Secret by Mary Elizabeth Braddon: My reading provided me with yet another fascinating Lady. How I would like to be a Lady! But to the point...this nineteenth-century mystery is full of murder, deception and madness. I can't wait to read more from this genre.

Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning: In a word, stunning! This collection of poems Barrett Browning wrote for her husband, fellow poet Robert Browning, are passionate and poignant. I read some of the letters this literary couple wrote to one another for my MA research, so I'm somewhat familiar with the details of their courtship and marriage. It was fun tracing biographical elements in these sonnets.

The Professor by Charlotte Bronte: I have now read every Bronte novel. Wahoo! This isn't Charlotte's finest work. I struggled through the first chunk of the novel, but its strong second half made the effort worthwhile. Now that I've finished all the Bronte novels, I'll be moving on to biographies and juvenilia. 

What Jane Austen Ate and Charles Dickens Knew by Daniel Pool: Not yet finished, but I've been reading small doses of this intriguing work of non-fiction here and there. Pool's book elucidates all those little details of nineteenth-century life present in Victorian fiction that, over the years, have become enigmatic to the majority of twenty-first-century readers. Some of the information is a refresher course in what I already know and some sections are enlightening. I'm looking forward to discovering what else this text has in store for me.

Increasing my breadth of reading was a New Year's resolution of mine, so I'm proud of the range I managed --even when sticking within the parameters of the Victorian period. Two novels, one play, one collection of poetry and one work of non-fiction. Success! I'll be sharing more about these texts in future posts.

Although the Victorian event has concluded, I won't be straying too far from it in the immediate future. My dad, sister and I will be reading Bleak House together. The truth: I'm a wee bit nervous about it. I'll also be participating in Adam's Austen in August event. Austen + The Victorians = Fantastic Summer!

What have you been reading? Any tips on how best to approach a beast like Bleak House?

Library Loot

The recently established library in my small town is microscopic. Case in point: any title not aimed at children is placed in one of two sections, fiction and non-fiction. That's how little material these humble shelves hold. It wasn't until I discovered they miraculously had a copy of The Name of The Rose, and just in time for my recent readathon, that I bothered obtaining a card. 

As a compulsive book buyer, I generally prefer to purchase my books. The temporary non-existence of my book budget has compelled me to seek new titles in frugal ways. Though books aren't as plentiful as I would like them to be, I was surprised at how many of the library's titles called to me. I entered intending to get a card, check out the Eco novel and leave.

Somehow I left with an additional six titles. Whoops. I'm not sure how it happened. The chance of completing these texts before their impending due date is as probable as the library suddenly ballooning overnight. But it's nice to have options. I've discovered there's a great deal of satisfaction in walking away from a library, a goldmine of literature tucked under my arm, with the knowledge that I didn't pay for them! Free books for everybody!

Until the inevitable late fines accrue. Oh, late fees, I wish I knew how to quit you.

So, in this addition to the Library Loot event hosted by Claire and Marg, here are the treasures I've borrowed this week.

Sylvester by Georgette Heyer

After posting a request for Georgette Heyer recomendations, I shrieked with delight when I found two of her novels on the shelf. (But only on the inside. I wouldn't wish to disturb other book fiends.) The dear friend who kindly gave me Frederica as a gift also had Sylvester, or The Wicked Uncle highly recommended to her, and it's also a favourite of Claire's (otherwise known as The Captive Reader). I can't wait to dig into this one!

Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

I studied some Barrett Browning for my dissertation and came to the conclusion that she's currently underrated. It seems like people feel the need to take sides and camp with Team Elizabeth or Team Robert. Can't we just acknowledge that both are wonderful in their own unique way?

Poetry has been calling to me as of late, and this volume is on my Classics Club list. Many birds, one stone.

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows

Although this one was frequently requested when I worked at the bookstore, but I never paid it much heed apart from taking note of the unusual title. Whenever a customer said they were looking for a book with a strange title, something about Guernsey or potatoes, I knew exactly to what they were referring.

Since my dear friend said it reminded her of me I've been dying to read it. And I love epistolary narratives. I don't care how many people diss them!

The Finer Points of Sausage Dogs by Alexander McCall Smith

Speaking of unusual titles, this novel surely wins the prize for most fabulous title of the century. At the very least it should be nominated. Though I've heard some enthusiastic McCall Smith recommendations, I would be lying if I said that's why I picked this little book off the shelves. This selection is entirely based on the awesome title and the fact that there's a cute little dog on the cover. I can never resist a cute dog. Seriously, never.

Under the Black Flag: The Romance and the Reality of Life Among the Pirates by David Cordingly

In the past few months I've come across some pirate documentaries on The History Channel that have been vastly entertaining and educational. When I learned that while pirate law forbade the presence of women on the ship there were still famous female pirates, my curiosity increased ten fold. Girl power?

Hopefully I'll be able to pick more fascinating fun facts from this work of non-fiction.

Lost in Austen: Create Your Own Jane Austen Adventure by Emma Campbell Webster

This specimen of Jane Austen kitsch looked too hilarious to pass up. I have yet to fully look into it, but merely flipping through has led me to some statements that are comical in their absurdity: 'Add "Insufficient Knowledge of Embroidery" to your list of Failings. This has seriously compromised your chances of attracting a rich husband.'

Oh, dear. Is this why I'm single? Should I stick to my sampler and forget the books?

As you see I am spoiled for choice. What are you reading this week?

Happy National Poetry Day!

I have another confession to make: I don't love poetry the way I love a nineteenth-century novel.  My motivation to read novels far exceeds my desire to dig into poetry.  Yet when I make the effort to get into it, I am always amply rewarded.  I need to redouble my poetic exertions.  In the meantime, I would like to share a few favourite poems to honor the many great poets who have contributed to the literary canon.

My favourite poem of all time comes from The Bard, but I suppose that's hardly surprising.  It's 'Sonnet 116.'  I think it's a fantastic representation of what a fierce love should be.  Here's a testament to my geekiness: one day during my high school years I decided I should know my favourite poem, so I sat down and spent a chunk of time memorizing it.  (Like I said, geeky.)  I've been able to recite it ever since.

I am a fan of anything that can make me laugh, and poetry is no exception.  For that I turn to mock epic poems of the eighteenth century.  They're such a hoot!  I love the mock epic style so much that I write mock epic prose in emails to my friends.  This is yet another instance of my literary nerdiness -- I'm on a roll today!  Alexander Pope's The Rape of the Lock is the mock epic I find myself turning to again and again.

Here's a hilarious passage from Canto IV in which Belinda laments the loss of her perfect curl of hair:

'O wretched Maid! she spread her Hands, and cry'd,
(While Hampton's Ecchoes, wretched Maid! reply'd)
Was it for this you took such constant Care
The Bodkin, Comb and Essence to prepare;
For this your Locks in Paper-Durance bound,
For this with tort'ring Irons wreath'd around!
For this with Fillets strain'd your tender Head,
And bravely bore the double Loads of Lead?
Gods! shall the Ravisher display your Hair,
While the Fops envy, and the Ladies stare!
Honour forbid!'

 The fatal deed

If you're interested, you can read the poem in its entirety here.

Finally, I always dig some John Keats.  I prefer him to all other Romantic poets and was fortunate enough to visit his grave this past April.  I remember when I saw the Keats biopic Bright Star.  The part of the film that struck me the most was, quite unexpectedly, the credits.  Lead actors Abbie Cornish and Ben Whishaw recited Keats' words accompanied by instrumental music as the credits rolled.  It sure did lift the soul and all that.  Can we say music to my ears? (Music to my ears.)  

Since we are getting deeper into the fabulous month of October and the best of all seasons (fall), I thought it would be appropriate to highlight his 'Ode to Autumn.'  I can practically smell the crisp Autumn air as I read it:

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Who are your favourite poets?  What are your beloved poems?

A Percy Post

As of late, my humans have made mention of a phenomenon they refer to as Skype.  Now and again, I find myself hauled up to the study where all the humans in my family gather round a moving screen. The most astonishing thing then occurs: I suddenly hear the voice of my mother emanating from its general direction.  She calls to me in her most pathetic tones and inquires if I am 'being a good boy'.  Humph!  Am I ever less than a gentleman?  However, if she believes I will condescend to respond to her exclamations after heartlessly forsaking me, she is sorely mistaken.  Am I wrong, dear reader, in feeling slighted by this abandonment?  I cannot believe that I am.  Therefore, I shall continue to toss my head from side to side and feign deafness.  

 Attacking his beloved toy: The Cuz

Photo by Chelsea

A note from the puppy parent:

I am currently reading Virginia Woolf's semi-fictional, semi-biographical narrative of Elizabeth Barrett Browning and her dog for my dissertation.  Flush: A Biography (1933) is proving to be an enchanting tale as Woolf imaginatively conjures up the spaniel's perspective.  The following scene in which Elizabeth and Flush meet each other for the first time was, for me, particularly poignant:

     
'Oh, Flush!' said Miss Barrett.  For the first time she look him in the face.  For the first time Flush looked at the lady lying on the sofa.

     Each was surprised.  Heavy curls hung down on either side of Miss Barrett's face; large bright eyes shone out; a large mouth smiled.  Heavy ears hung down on either side of Flush's face; his eyes, too, were large and bright: his mouth was wide.  There was a likeness between them.  As they gazed at each other each felt: Here am I -- and then each felt: But how different!  Hers was the pale worn face of an invalid, cut off from air, light, freedom.  His was the warm ruddy face of a young animal; instinct with health and energy.  Broken asunder, yet made in the same mould, could it be that each completed what was dormant in the other?  She might have been -- all that; and he -- But no.  Between them lay the widest gulf that can separate one being from another.  She spoke.  He was dumb.  She was woman; he was dog.  Thus closely united, thus immensely divided, they gazed at each other.  Then with one bound Flush sprang on to the sofa and laid himself where he was to lie for ever after -- on the rug at Miss Barrett's feet. 

Barrett Browning and Flush

Image via Google

I blubbered like a baby when I read this passage in the library.  I, too, was an invalid when Percy entered my life as a wee pup; and his company was medicinal.  Like Elizabeth and Flush, my mum maintains that he and I look alike.  One thing that astounds me about animals is the way in which, despite the communication barrier of which Woolf writes, they manage to make themselves heard.  Percy and I have certainly found a way to understand one another -- even if I speak, and he is dumb.  Except...Percy is not dumb.  He barks and growls to high heaven!  I feel quite lucky to know that he is being pampered and well cared for by my parents while I work towards my graduate degree.  But I sure do miss him. 

'She was woman; he was dog.'

Another great photo by Chelsea