Queenie had a very mixed weekend. She packed up most, but not all, of her possessions, loaded them into her dad’s jeep, and brought them down to Springtown. Now, they line the shelves of the old drugstore. Waiting for her to come home and reclaim them. It was a struggle.
Queenie sat in the garden watching Jabba the Cat mince around the puddles, trying to find a dry patch to sit in, and finally realised that she would not see her moggy for at least one year. Or her family. Or her friends. Or have a pint in Smoothies. The next few weeks will be very precious.
Packing up her books was strange too. They never really got unpacked when she moved last year. Piled up in the store room they were inaccessible, so boxing them was an hello as well as a goodbye (Queenie gets real emotional about books). She had to decide which ones to bring to Canada, so that was fun. Here’s the final cut:
The Power of Myth, by Joseph Campbell
Anyone who is going on a Quest should have a copy of this extended interview with Campbell, as it is an easy reference guide to finding tremendous import in the smallest things. Clues and such like. So Percy insisted on it. And as Myles said once, Hero with a Thousand Faces is a book that has some really kooky bits (Queenie is paraphrasing here) Plus it’s too heavy for the bag.
The Emigrants, by WG Sebald
Queenie discovered Sebald a few years ago and he blew her mind with the same intensity that Bruce Chatwin did a decade earlier when she discovered his work. Then Sebald died in a car crash in England, tragically young, as Chatwin did. Such a waste of such talent. It was a toss up between this book and The Songlines. But this won out, for a number of reasons. One, the title; as Queenie and Percy will be emigrants, it was deemed more suitable. Two, reading about the heat of central Australia in the middle of a Canuck winter will probably be depressing. Three, Queenie’s dad owns the Chatwin collection, so she shouldn’t steal it.
On a sidenote, Queenie was very excited when she found out her intellectual mentor had discovered Sebald recently. For a very petty reason. Queenie discovered him first, nyah, nyah. So she's not as stoopid slash ignorant as she generally feels when in Mentor's orbit.
The Berlin Wall Café, by Paul Durcan
Queenie’s second favourite book of poetry ever. The first being Daddy, Daddy, which has gone to live in the States with Mags and Mike. Hopefully, the two books will soon be reunited somewhere around the Great Lakes. Queenie cannot wait for that weekend! Queenie’s uncle bought this book for her in 1985 and saved her from death by the Intermediate Certificate English poetry curriculum. The book opens with The Haulier’s Wife meets Jesus on the Road near Moone, which is a wry and compassionate descriptions of loneliness, and its intersection with hope, in the life of an ordinary woman. Durcan’s feel for the inner life of women is spot on.
A Wild Sheep Chase, by Haruki Murakami
The Independent on Sunday review of this book was ‘weak-kneed with admiration’ and Queenie concurs with this when thinking about Murakami generally. In her humble opinion, Murakami is probably the best writer alive today. His Wind Up Bird Chronicle, as well as being a stonking great read, gave Queenie the tools she needed to fight off the black dog that happens along every once in a while. Now, if he appears, which thankfully he doesn’t so much anymore, she just imagines herself sitting at the bottom of that well until the thought makes her laugh. And once the facial muscles are arranged in a smile, it is impossible to take herself too seriously.
Norwegian Wood is the most beautiful love story she’s ever read. 2004 was the year in which Queenie couldn’t read any books, no idea why, something to do with work she suspects, and she started this and then left it to one side. So this one is going on the plane.
Introduction to Mythology, by Lewis Spence
Queenie bought this ten years ago in one of her irregular fits of intellectualism and then never read it. Sooooo many books found their way onto her shelves in this way!! So this will accompany the Campbell and maybe teach her a few things. On another flick through it, it looks very DIFFICULT and LEARNED. So no, Queenie is not taking bets on whether she will read it this year or not. But it’ll be a long winter, so maybe.
Station Island, by Seamus Heaney
The Queen Mother bought her this a few years ago, so that’s mainly why it’s going in the bag. But also, it’s about time that Queenie faced up to her responsibility as an Irish person and had an INFORMED opinion about Famous Seamus' oeuvre. Particularly when her family's expertise on Heaney is well known. This will be well thumbed and annotated by year end, hopefully.
Chronicles Volume One, by Bob Dylan
This is a great book! Queenie was really surprised when she read it. And then realised there was no need to be. The beauty of Dylan’s lyrics point to his talent as a writer and this book has many fine, lyrical passages. And a lot of whingeing and bitching about people who weren’t nice to Bob. A great dipper.
Where I’m calling from, by Raymond Carver, the selected stories
What can Queenie say! Down on your face girl and pay homage to the master! Every time Queenie takes a notion that she’d like to be a writer, she unconsciously scuppers herself by taking out this book to study his style. And then realises that, unless she can write like this, she doesn’t want to write. And of course she never will, so that’s grand, no need to try. Clever girl. NOT GOING TO WORK THIS TIME. Or will it? She’s deliberately not bringing any Steinbeck for the same reason. But a year without Raymond Carver is impossible to imagine.
Danube, by Claudio Magris
Okay, okay, yes, this is Queenie’s dad’s book and she’s nicking it. But she nicked it years ago and he didn’t seem to mind, so it’s not as bad as actually filching the Chatwin from the shelf. In any case, it’s Europe in 400 pages and she’s going to need some Europe to shield herself from the Americanness of the next few months. Plus, she’s never managed to read it straight through, so it’ll be good for some horrendous bus journey across Manitoba or something. And it will make up for only having one Sebald.
The Black Book, by Orhan Pamuk
This Turkish writer evokes his country so beautifully, it is as if Queenie is back there again. Her two trips to Turkey were fantastic – it really is a spectacular country – and she wishes that Turkey could be part of the EU. But there is the small matter of its human rights record to be sorted out first. However, Galip’s bungling attempts to play detective will satisfy her need for convoluted plot (as will the Murakami) and she will be able to close her eyes and hear the muezzin whenever she needs to. The Book of Red nearly made it, but this was a casualty of the year of non-reading, so it's a good opportunity to renew her acquaintance with Pamuk's second colour themed novel. (Well, second published in English).
Let’s hope they all fit in the bag. It was such a difficult choice to get it down to this pile. Queenie hopes she’s not going to have to ditch any of them. She went to Argos and bought a 132 litre rucksack the other day to ensure they could all come to Canuckstan. But any views on how she’d lighten the load would be gratefully accepted.
1 comment:
Some great choices there. Travelling and books are bittersweet companions. I had to make some hard choices moving to and from Paris and I still nearly herniated myself. I agree with you on Muramaki, though A Wild Sheep Chase isn't his best. Norwegian Wood is a beautiful love story, and an odd one to come from a guy who generally only writes one or two kinds of women.
The Power of Myth is great, as is Myths to Live By, and certainly more applicable to any real-life quest than the Hero with a Thousand Faces.
I'm not much of a poetry reader, I think I enjoy poetry I find by accident more than any one book or collection. But then there's the Carver, which is poetry too, in a sense. It's beautiful and horrible and all of life besides.
Don't wreck your back!
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