Bookwitch

I owe my friend CG this title. We had a Nordic ladies lunch about a week ago, and CG is good for stories anyway, but I felt right at home with her senior moments, because I appear to have a few of them myself. CG talks like Little My of the Moomins, which makes her literary, too. And I found a few years ago that we share Adele Geras, and I do like a shrinking world.

Anyway, it’s all about forgetting the simplest things. Not that the complicated things are easier, you understand, but there’s the professorial touch about it. I can remember (yes, really) that lesson at school when the teacher asked me what the day’s homework had been about. I couldn’t recall, which didn’t look very good. Had she only asked me a specific question regarding the homework, I’d have been fine. I knew it. Just couldn’t remember the bigger picture.

I was reminded last week of an anthology I own, because Michelle Magorian wrote one of the stories. It’s called War, Stories of Conflict, edited by Michael Morpurgo. And I’ve been ashamed for years that I’ve just not got round to reading it. So, out it came, and I started with Michelle’s story. I had read it before. Checked the other stories. I had read them, too. Somewhere, some time in the last few years I read the book, before putting it back on the shelves. I just wonder when?

Not to worry. It’s a wonderful collection, with stories written by some of our best authors. I bought it because George Layton, who’s in it, talked about it while we had lunch. It wasn’t just the two of us, unfortunately, but I did have lunch with him. George is someone I was dead keen on when I was a teenager. Weird, how things happen. He very kindly assumed I’d know all the Swedish entertainers that he knows. I do, but only from magazines and television. Nice to be treated like an equal.

Have you ever stopped and considered the books displayed in the Ikea bookcases in the shop? I sometimes find I start browsing the shelves, instead of admiring the rooms.

We went looking for some garden furniture the other evening, and as I just had to sample a sofa on the way, as an extra, the Resident IT Consultant started musing over where the books come from. I’ve always assumed they are remaindered books, that didn’t find a caring home even in the Swedish annual book sale. For one, there are always several copies of most books. This time I could have had a Julian Barnes in translation, without anyone noticing, as there were so many. Should perhaps invest in a garment with poacher’s pockets.

What do you think Ikea staff would say if I explained that I really, really wanted one of the books?

Some years ago the unkind corner of the witch’s heart smiled when she found books by someone she was at university with. If he had been slightly less sure of himself and been willing to talk to people other than the “in” people, except for that time when he was lost in Gothenburg and needed help, I might have felt sorry for him when seeing his books displayed in great numbers at Ikea. At least he made it internationally…

Needless to say two of the four chairs we bought were faulty.

The trip I made to Oxford the other week has finally resulted in another interview. Put down on the computer screen, I mean. The interviewing all got done on the day. Mary Hoffman was kind enough to spare some time to see me over pots of tea at the Q I Building in Turl Street. That counts as Pullman territory, so felt just right.

My other reason for travelling to Oxford, apart from enjoying a day out, was to meet Lowebrow, of blog fame. I first came across Lee on Dina Rabinovitch’s blog last year, before she ventured over here for a look. So, in effect, I did what I wasn’t too keen on Son doing a couple of years ago - I went to meet someone I’d met on the Internet.

It was a good day, and lovely to meet several interesting people. And thanks to Mary, Lee and I had a great Lebanese dinner. It could easily become a standard watering hole for the witch.

The insecurities take hold again. I’ve worried about my comments. Then I carelessly went on about writing and bilingualism. What on earth am I doing here, writing in English? At university we had access to a book called something like “10,000 English words for ten years of English”. I’d like to know how far I’ve got on that list. I should probably do what Anne Shirley does in the new Green Gables prequel, and learn five new words every week.

But people do write in their non-native language, without too many ill effects. At this point in my thoughts I always mutter Joseph Conrad, to myself. But it was ages since I read Conrad, and I can’t say I know how good his English is (was?). When E, daughter of School Friend came to stay, she suddenly switched to writing in English. Not faultlessly, but it’s admirable anyway. School Friend reads this blog, but complains there are too many words she doesn’t know. SF, wave if you’re here today!

And then there’s Marika Cobbold. Swedish author writing in English, and doing it so well that I go an interesting shade of green whenever I think of her. I went to get her four novels out from my bookshelves this morning, when I discovered it was five. We’re about the same age and come from almost the same part of Sweden. That’s where the similarities dry up. When Marika’s books appear in Swedish, her name has magically become hyphenated with a -Hjörne tagged on. To a Swede this is pretty much the same as hyphenating yourself Murdoch or Hearst or something. Big newspaper.

I have an uncle (there will be a point to this soon) who about ten years ago gave me a pile of old monthly (quality) magazines. I’m still reading my way through that pile, and recently I got to a brief piece on Marika and her first book, which puts the magazine back fifteen years. That’s where I was reminded of the family connections to Volvo as well. On the other hand, none of that makes Marika write good books. It’s something she does herself. In English.

The first four books all have something Swedish in them; a character, a connection of some sort. I used to think I liked that. Then came the fifth book, with no Swedish at all, and I thought it was a much better book. Though that could be pure chance. Marika’s books are well worth a look, as long as you don’t compare us too unfavourably.

I’ll hunt out a thesaurus.

It would have been impossible to foresee this. The blogging, I mean, and for it to be about books.

As a teenager I couldn’t analyse a book to save my life. I’d still not like to depend on the analysing too much, for longevity. I read voraciously, to the extent that I’d stand in the corridor outside the next classroom reading while waiting to go in. In those days it wasn’t even a ruse to cover up friendlessness with a book. I just felt that I mustn’t waste any time.

But once inside the classroom, if it was literature, I’d had it. My Swedish teacher for the last two years at school despaired. She really liked me (!), and wanted me to do well. I did well in Language, and wrote essays which she loved and was forever embarrassingly reading out to the class. (I wish they wouldn’t do that.)

Mother-of-Witch, who also taught at the school, reported being cornered by my teacher, who enthusiastically compared me to the great old poet Anna Maria Lenngren (I recommend Wikipedia). Well, it’s nice when someone can see something good somewhere. Still don’t know quite what she meant.

And it’s nice being appreciated. This teacher also taught RS, and I had her husband for Philosophy. Just their luck to get the fledgling witch in what felt like the least inspiring subjects ever. Anyway, my grades for Language were as high as you get. Grades for Literature, sufficiently low to embarrass my teacher, who felt that was no way to begin life. So between them, Mr and Mrs S “adjusted” my results.

I left school with much better marks for Literature, having paid with a middling grade in Philosophy. It’s never been that important to me, but it was lovely to feel they cared. Once at university, a few more light bulbs eventually switched themselves on, but it still feels like a joke that I’m spending my time writing about books.

Somewhere I read that to be bilingual is not to be equally perfect in two languages; it’s to use them both in daily life. I think that’s a good definition. And on that basis, I’m inching towards the idea that I could, perhaps, count as a writer. I mean, I write daily. Bilingually, if necessary.

I’d like to think that Magister Sköldenborn is sitting up there somewhere, smiling down at her difficult pupil. Do they have the Internet in Heaven? According to Eoin Colfer’s The Wish List, both St Peter and his colleague in the hot place, use mobile phones. So maybe.

I’ve had Mary Hoffman on my mind recently, so it’s hardly surprising I’ve been thinking about her Stravaganza series. What did surprise even me, was that I hadn’t written anything about the books, but there are ways of remedying such an oversight.

I’d seen the books in the school library without really seeing them. But once I’d started looking, I couldn’t understand why I’d delayed so long. So far there are three Stravaganza books; City of Masks, City of Stars and City of Flowers.

Mary has dreamed up a new - well, old really - parallel Italy in the 16th century. Perfectly ordinary London teenagers go to sleep in their beds at home, and wake up in a city in Talia four hundred years earlier. They spend their nights in this other world, where it is daytime, and then stravagate back to London for a day at school. This will explain why so many teenagers are perpetually tired.

The City of Masks is Belleza, but is really a nearly Venice. While in Talia the teenagers, Lucien, Georgia and Sky have new names, can speak to the locals, and have the most amazing adventures. They usually turn out to be material to something important going on in their respective new cities, where they can use their modern world skills to some good.

There are older Stravaganti around who help them, and many other Talians who are good to them. And then there are the di Chimicis, who are villains of the first order.

The reader soaks up a lot of knowledge on the great Italian cities, which Mary is so enthusiastic about. Personally I feel ready to take my Stravaganzas to Italy and use them as guide books. They are that good.

I’d expected the Resident IT Consultant to frown at these books. Don’t ask me why. But I think he beat me to every single one of them. Though he was a bit shocked, as he asked if it’s really all right to kill your young characters off. Well, the plot needs a bit of death here and there. And it’s only fiction…

The physical books are very attractive, too. My three Stravaganzas would look great on my red and purple colour shelf. If I had one.

is now over. It’s been the first one spent in Sweden for four years.

The fact that it happens so rarely is the reason we allow ourselves to pig out on the Shrove Tuesday buns mentioned earlier. (Like hot cross buns which appear in UK shops soon after Christmas, these “one day wonders” are available at least throughout February and March.) I reckon a bun a day is permissible for a week, seeing as the week happens less frequently than once a year.

It being winter and cold and dark, we’ve not only had plenty of time to read, but the witch played the Shakespeare game for the first time. It’s described as The Bard Game, which is a dreadful pun, when you think of it. I understood virtually nothing, but the others did fine. It helps if you know your Shakespeare, and it helps if you understand the rules. So there’s always next time…

A favourite holiday read is the pizza takeaway menu. Swedish pizzas are THE BEST. Along with the aforementioned buns, the pizzas have to be eaten often, during a short visit. Son even pondered the viability of packing some to take home, which really would make it a takeaway.

The Resident IT Consultant happened upon a radio reading of Goodnight Mister Tom on his way to the baker’s, although not in the right language for him. But he felt it was appropriate anyway, seeing as we have been peeking at Michelle Magorian’s latest book.

In an effort to compensate the neighbours for looking after the witch’s abode, we invited them to dinner one evening. And they came bearing gifts! Without knowing of the witch’s love for tulips and the colour purple, they brought purple tulips. And a copy of the first Stieg Larsson. I think I’m destined to read that book. The giver mumbled something about doing what the grandchildren said, so the assumption has to be that “everyone” talks about Stieg’s books.

At the request of Daughter we revisited the little cottage in the woods where you can buy 300 varieties of sweets. Son filled his bag so full it nearly burst. It was more exciting making our way there this time, as it was getting dark, and there’s always the question whether you’ll make it out of the woods again.

In Saturday’s paper there was a supplement with this year’s book sale catalogue. I always forget this Swedish February madness, and will report back later.

I’ve mentioned the paperback section in the local supermarket before. These books are displayed with the bread, which I find an interesting idea. But why not? As you agonise over what to make your sandwiches with, you might as well pick a book to read.

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And that’s not all that’s displayed with bread in this shop. We were intrigued to find that Blitzen had dropped in as well.

I’ve had it suggested to me that I shouldn’t mention Meg Rosoff quite so often. By Meg. I’ve tried to be good, but right now she is supposed to be in North America on tour, and so she really won’t have a clue, will she?

Recently received a copy of Just in Case in brand new Swedish translation. It’s good, just like the translation of How I Live Now. I came to the conclusion that Meg’s style is close to the Swedish way of speaking, which could explain why it works so well.

I had one gripe with HILN. I feel a translator should know the difference between a place where you drink tea, and the place where you buy it. (I do recall the young witch being offered cream tea, somewhere in Kent I think, and saying that no, she’d like it with milk… But I wasn’t translating any books then.)

In Justin’s case I looked up my favourite piece about the man who tried to rescue a goat. Unfortunately the translated man rescued a coat, which is very true, but nowhere near as funny. I’d like to think it was a carefully considered leaving out of the goat, rather than a reading error.

And no play with words as regards the title, but that would have been a lot harder to do.

I simply need to share this. I have no idea of the background, but this is why I like languages. After checking the link out, a good move would be to order the book, The Big O.

Did I ever tell you about my pen friends? I’ll skip the story about the two hundred letters from Japan, because that one always sends the Resident IT Consultant to sleep. But as a teenager I had lots of other friends all over the world, if only briefly for most of them. It’s a case of finding someone who speaks the same language as you do, and I don’t mean English.

I won’t forget the Burmese young man in Australia, who inquired as Christmas approached, whether in Sweden we had snow the whole year round, just like they do in England. The first part I’d heard before and I don’t mind people’s lack of knowledge. It was the snowy England that got to me. But I suppose he’d been looking at too many idyllic Christmas cards.

As a newcomer to England I believed the natives might find my traditions interesting, but it didn’t take long for me to realise that they didn’t. I’m sorry for any boredom caused before this enlightened state was reached. There’s an awful lot I don’t know about what others do, either. I didn’t know about displaying the Christmas cards as they arrive. In Sweden you just bung them in a pile somewhere. And most years I get to Easter Sunday and then I get the hot cross buns out, only to be informed they are two days overdue.

What this rambling account of my misspent past is trying to do, is to say that a book or two on traditions in different places is not a bad thing. I’ve just been looking through Festivals Together, A guide to multi-cultural celebration. It deals with traditions in several different religions for various times of the year. There are explanations, stories, recipes and much more. (I’ve always been intrigued to find that our Indian food favourites are Diwali specials.) Haven’t seen anything about snow covering England, but understanding that I’m a monkey to the Chinese is very useful. The witch family consists of three monkeys and a snake.

Another book Martin at Hawthorn Press sent me is Gail Johnson’s African and Caribbean Celebrations , which as the title suggests deals with one cultural background, so can cover more detail. It, too, has recipes, stories and lots of information on a great many things. Benjamin Zephaniah seems to be a fan of the book.

These two books should be good both for school use and for individuals who need to widen their horizons a bit. I once went to evening classes with a retired teacher, who mused a lot about what counts as English culture. She felt it was Shakespeare and stuff like that. I felt it was more the question of whether or not you take your shoes off when entering someone’s home. Many countries feel Hamlet is theirs, too, if only in translation. The business of making a fool of yourself in people’s houses is a much more individual cultural issue.