Yeats - once synonymous with 'yawn', now...

Forced to study it = doomed to hate it.  

This was certainly true of most of the literature I had to read at school, and also as an adult (warning folks, this is the hidden danger of joining random book clubs whose members you don't know - or worse, think you know...).  

But this is not the case with Yeats.  Admittedly, as my title suggests, there was a time when the mere mention of W.B. would send me off on a "Not now, I'm a bit busy" attempt at trying to escape an enthusiastic Yeatsophile without causing offence.  

Now.  I wouldn't go so far as to paint myself as a massive fan, but I have come to appreciate, no, er,... enjoy his poetry.  I can't quite put my finger on why this should be.  I've not studied Yeats recently - his poetry has not been presented to me in a new light by an inspiring and talented tutor.  So why should his poems suddenly appeal?  

Perhaps it's an age thing.  

I do think that my tastes in literature have changed over the years.  "OBVIOUSLY!" I hear you cry.  When we're little we like Where The Wild Things Are and Enid Blyton, we progress to The Lord of The Rings, the 'classics', an array of chick lit aimed at 20-somethings in the marketing industry (that may just be me), and, hopefully, we continue to increase our horizon of literary interest as we move through our lives - taking influences from new friends and experiences, changing politics and lifestyles, etc. etc.  

But, and this is quite a big but, poetry often does not feature too highly on our mental 'must reads' lists, let alone on our bookshelves.  

Poetry is something that you need to take a bit more time over.  You read and re-read a poem.  You go through a process of meaning-making on a micro-scale with poetry.  At first it might not make a great deal of sense - you may get a general sense of what the poem is about, but sections may be a bit unclear.  You re-read it.  This time, the meaning becomes more crystalised, but secondary or tertiary meanings appear through the mist.  Eventually, when you find a poem you love, everything in it becomes laden with meaning - every word and every blank space where, perhaps, a line ends 'early' or in the spaces between stanzas.  Even every bit of punctuation, or lack of, adds meaning to the poem.  

But this takes time.  And when there are so many books on your 'must reads' list, who's got time to re-read a poem over and over and over again?  

Not me Sir!  

And in many ways I have less time now than I did when I was a young whippersnapper.  Yet somehow poetry has made it into my tightly-packed schedule.  And Yeats has made it into my bedside stack of books (along with a couple of other poetry tomes). 

So I've made it my nightly ritual not to limit myself to a few chapters, but to include a few stanzas as well.

I highly recommend it and urge you to do the same. 

If you like the movie, will you love the book?

'Tis a poster I've seen many times in (school/children's) libraries.  
'Tis designed to get kids interested in reading.  
'Tis, however, not always true.  

I know.  This may be a contentious stance for me to take.  But there it is. 
 
I'm thinking in general terms of films that are gems of cinematography, with still moments of reflection or blowyoursockscompletelyoff action sequences. 

I don't think anyone can contest that Life Of Pi - 'the movie'  is fabulous.  If you were lucky enough to see it in 3D (and I mean proper 3D, where the 3rd dimension actually feels like part of the cinematography and not a 'pokey-pokey', 'jab-jab' afterthought) then I'm sure you left that cinema feeling as though you'd just been properly entertained in an uplifting, thought-provoking and long-lasting way.  Similarly, though admittedly in the much more distant past, The Beach bewitched audiences with its fabulous sets and script, capturing the mood of the book and pleasing even die-hard fans of the book.  Something every film maker and screenwriter must surely strive for. 

But just because the film is great, does it necessarily follow that the book will excite audiences in the same way? 

Surely a film and a book are very different beasts.  For instance, if you've both read and watched The Boy In The Striped Pyjamas you will know that the film includes a scene not in the book; the long dusty road in the book is replaced by an exciting forest in the film; the endings are different.  Similarly, in the film version of The Road, there is a scene where the son finds an insect alive and watches it fly away.  This is not in the book at all.  It was written in purely for the film.  A more extreme example is The Woman In Black where the film is so entirely different in narrative from the book that it feels almost like a different story.  But that doesn't make it a bad movie.  And in fact I think it captures the mood of the story brilliantly. 

It can often be quite galling as a fan of a book to see the film and it can be tempting to complain:  "It's nothing like the book".  "That's not right - it doesn't happen like that".  "She's not supposed to be blonde". 

Etc. 

But we have to understand that what works on a page, and in readers' minds, won't necessarily transfer to the big screen.  Watching a movie is a shared experience.  It's arguably a more passive experience.  But essentially it's about sights and sounds in a way that the written word simply cannot be. 

A great recent insight into this world is Saving Mr Banks (not be confused with Saving Private Ryan!) which follows the conflict that PL Travers faced when deciding whether or not to let Disney get their hands on her book. 

This film shines a light on the screenwriting process and highlights the need to address differences between the written word and the filmic experience in terms of audience satisfaction. 

Mary Poppins is one such instance where I think if you love the film, you won't necessarily love the book.  My 6 year old, for example, loves the film.  I very much doubt she would appreciate the darker - fewer dancing penguins - book.  But then the book wasn't devised for her particular demographic.  The film was. 

I'm not saying don't read the book on the basis that you've enjoyed the film.  Just don't have any expectations.  Go into it open minded, as you would any book.  And resist the urge to make comparisons. 

If you liked the film, you might like the book too.  Then again, you might not.  And that's fine. 

Why do some teachers hate teaching modern, accessible teenage literature?

Will my students warm to Stone Cold? 
Quite possibly not.  But I for one did when I read it back in June 2012.  Whether it bears a full 6 weeks of intense re-reading, analysis, character dissection and related tasks remains to be seen.  And I shall see it come September (I'll let you know).  

For I, among many other teachers, will be teaching this fabulous book to classes of 13/14 year olds, the objective of which will be to explore narrative voice, story-telling in multiple voices, plot development, characterisation and (most importantly in my humble opinion,) honing of reading skills and fostering reading for pleasure.  It is after all, a gripping tale which should catch the imagination of most teenagers.  

However, I seem to be alone among teachers in my fondness for this book and my high expectations of what my students will gain from it.  The main bone of contention, as far as I can tell, is that teaching this book effectively means the 'dumbing down' of the novel in classrooms.  Indeed, this particular book does seem to be reserved for the 'lower ability' classes in schools where pupils are streamed according to the very narrow measure of academic attainment.  But I take issue with this particular book as being less worthy in a literary sense than, for example, The Boy In The Striped Pyjamas or Holes (both of which have as their protagonists similarly naive and unprepossessing teenage boys) which are taught it seems, without such disparaging attitudes.  

There are two striking sylistic techniques in this novel that would be interesting to explore with students.  That of multiple narrative voices (the story is told in the first person by two separate characters), and the use of perspective of time (the child narrator is telling the story from a later point in his life, in a similar way to Dickens' narrative by Pip in Great Expectations).  This provides much 'fodder' for the classroom as Swindells uses visual techniques as well as linguistic ones to identify each narrator; they each have their own distinct font, one always has a chapter title while the other doesn't.  Linguistically, Swindells has given each voice a distinctive vocabulary and tone. 

As for subject matter, Stone Cold addresses the issue of homelessness and its associated risks; dramatically here those risks include murder by a crazed serial killer.  Fantastic!  There are passages full of suspense, dramatic irony is everywhere, there are gory bits and there's even a love interest woven in amongst the drudgery of cold and hunger which are ever-present in Link's (the protagonist's) life on the streets.  

The teaching and learning activities seem endless and I'm excited about teaching this book in the classroom.  So I'm trying to get my head around the reasons why I'm in the minority here.  

I have of course considered the option that my keenness is simply to do with my idealistic, naive outlook - I am after all, hardly what you'd call a seasoned teacher.  But I feel the gulf here is to do with more than that.  I think it boils down, simply, to literary snobbery. 

Our dear Michael Gove has already put it about that kids should be reading more Dickens and the like, and I have no issue with that as such - Great Expectations and Oliver Twist are among my all time faves.  But such literature should not be forced upon children at the expense of something more contemporary, more 'accessible', that they might enjoy more.  Variety is the spice of life is it not?  People did not stop writing brilliant books at the end of the Victorian era.  And great authors have always appealed to the masses, not the few elite.  

I have decided not to get dragged down by those who would complain about being forced to teach this book.  All teachers of English will have to teach books they don't personally like.  This is a fact.  I for one am dreading the time when I may have to teach something I hate (I mention no authors or texts here you notice.  Diplomacy.).  But when I do, I hope I will be able to distance myself enough from my own personal preferences to be able to deliver exciting and engaging lessons to my students and, equally importantly, to avoid subjecting my colleagues to demotivating, spirit-crushing monologues.  

I hope. 

Not to do with literature - but about freedom of speech & the right to assembly.  

A video made on my birthday in January.  It was very very very cold.  So an excellent time for me and Audrey to spend the day in Hyde Park, trying to work the tiny buttons on my camcorder with thick wooly gloves on.  See video here

This was a challenge.  

Anyway, this was done as part of my PGCE course in Secondary English with Media / Drama.  I've just completed this (graduating with Masters Distinction, ahem).  This PGCE has taken up most of my life during the past 10 months or so, hence my absence from cyberspace.  Maybe my NQT year will give me some time to blog again...

Enjoy.  

Skellig by David Almond. Read the book BEFORE you read this review.

OK.  I know it's another children's book, but I just couldn't keep this to myself.  I will review a grown-up book soon.  Promise.  Well, maybe in a bit...  

I'm excited by how much I love this book!

If Skellig is anything to go by, David Almond is an author I'll be reading a lot more of. 

BTW - Don't read this review if you haven't read the book as it will totally spoil it for you.  Just know that you have to read it.  Then you can read this review AFTERWARDS and let me know if you agree.  Or not.  

But first (and I want to get this out of the way), the title of this book put me off reading it for a good year or so.  Now I know that sounds ridiculous, but I just don't like the sound of it when I say it, when it rolls around my mouth.  Say it out loud for yourself.  Skellig.  It's not pleasant.  It doesn't exactly trip off the tongue.  It's feels spiky and uncomfortable.  But that's exactly what skellig is.  Skellig means "splinter of a stone".  It's almost onomatopoeic.  Skellig Michael is also the name of one of the countless rocks jutting out of the sea around the coast of Ireland.  It fits the character of Skellig absolutely.  It's completely apt. 

In fact, the juxtaposition of the uncomfortable with the beautiful is something that Almond plays on throughout the book.  And the effect is hauntingly lovely.  When Michael (interesting, don't you think, that the main protagonist is called Michael?  David Almond knows about that rock in the Irish sea doesn't he!  And that rock was home to a monastery as far back as the 6th century.  The images of angels abound...) first sees Skellig, and indeed subsequently, the description Almond presents of Skellig is unarguably grotesque.  Yet when Mina gently kisses his cheek, I found I was not repulsed.  Her immediate and unquestioning affection for him, affection for a living and neglected being, overcame any initial revulsion.

The metaphors he introduces throughout the book may be obvious to the adult reader (this is, after all, a book for children), but I still found it beautifully done and not contrived at all:  wings; bones; seclusion; exclusion; illness; death; evolution.  The owls in the abandoned loft.  The blackbird nest hidden in the tree.  The dilapidated houses and gardens.  The beating of the baby's heart inside Michael's own chest.  The constant references to the fragility of the physical body.  

I was particularly drawn to the baby's story.  Michael describes how he can feel her tiny bones beneath her skin; how he can hear and feel her heart beating alongside his own and in this way, knows she is alive and safe.  She is a nameless baby, which not only tells us that she was born early, before her name could be decided, but also makes her a bit less of a person.  She is a fragile and beautiful baby, yes.  One that Michael loves absolutely unconditionally, but without a name, she remains 'just' a baby.  Not a little sister, a little person.  He is distanced just that little bit from her.  It's not until she is well that she is named.  And it's not until Skellig begins to get stronger and fitter, gets well, that he reveals his name either.  Both Skellig and the nameless baby are close to death when we meet them.  As Skellig grows stronger, he is able to find the baby, take strength from her and in doing so, give her the strength to survive too.  

The 'dance' in which Skellig leads Michael, Mina and, later, the baby, is another aspect of this story that moved me.  The description of the hypnotic spinning, of wanting to be released but not being able to resist, and the vision of the 'ghostly wings' really resonates.  It felt absolutely real and plausible.  From Michael's perspective, he is drawn in by Mina's amazing, penetrating eyes, by Skellig's presence, swept away by the moment.  The idea that this can heal, restore and revive touches on the very human notion of 'healing hands'; that people can't survive without kindness and love.  That without this they may well 'turn to stone'.  

I love the idea that our shoulder blades are where our wings used to be, and where they will grow from again when we evolve, like Skellig.  I love the idea that Skellig defies definition - he says he is something like an angel, a bird.  We are left to infer our own opinions.  

When I put this book down after reading the last page, I felt inspired.  It's a book about many things.  About friendship, trust, learning, caring.  It's about hope and joy (or Joy).  Above all else, I felt it was about opening your mind and your heart to the world.  We spend a lot of time trying to manipulate our environment, trying to make sure we come out on top, trying to be the ones to succeed (believing that we deserve to be at the top of the evolutionary chain).  But what if we aren't?  

Lovely, brilliantly written and incredibly beautiful to read (even though the owl pellets made me feel sick). 

Buy it here. 

The Tiger's Wife by Téa Obreht

A book club review book and one I never would have picked up otherwise.  But let's just get one thing off my chest first.  Téa Obreht is unfairly gifted and talented.  Not only is she young (born in the 1980's - so unfair!), but judging by her photo inside the back cover she is also a bit of a honey.  Now that's just not on!  

Right, rant over.  Envy in check.  Composure regained. 

This book really took me by surprise.  At first it does read like an overly 'worthy' kind of first novel - lots of clever techniques (discombobulated timeline, telling the story from different points of view with different narrators, lots of little mini 'backstories') and it took me a couple of chapters to settle into it.  Or maybe it took the book a couple of chapters to settle into itself.  Whatever.  It grew and evolved as I turned the pages.  

What intrigued me most was the blurring of fact, fiction and history that Obreht magages to achieve.  Yes, it's set in a fictional town in a fictional country, but there is something so real about the place names, so familiar, that you think 'ooh I've heard that on the news. Wasn't there a civil war there?' and find yourself double-checking on google in case you're being unbelievably ignorant (extremely likely in my case - and I wouldn't be surprised if someone tells me that it's not a fictional country at all, YOU FOOL).   


I have a few issues with the heroine Natalia, whose character is not entirely believable. She is everything that I, as a 21st century woman, should be interested in:  She has a strong family, is intelligent and highly educated, is a bit of a maverick with a rebellious side, she confronts dangerous situations with confidence, she does charitable work, etc. etc.  


But I don't like her.  She's just not... likeable.  I feel mean even writing this, but she isn't a character I related to or identified with in any way.  I can't put my finger on why this is.  Maybe it's because her story is so disjointed, interrupted as it is by the various mini-stories that run throughout.  Maybe her character just doesn't develop enough for me: she doesn't seem to entertain emotions for more than a couple of paragraphs and there seem to be no consequences for her.  She serves as a vehicle for the other stories and this can come across quite clumsily in parts. 


Having said that, the overall feel of the novel is beautiful.  It has a real dreamlike quality to it.  You float in and out of the many backstories as the narrative twines around the landscape and the people, sometimes darting back to the far distant past, taking you down unexpected avenues.  The language is at times breathtakingly poetic and some of the characters from these backstories have a mythical presence: The Bear, the Deathless Man.  The story of the tiger itself, its journey from the city, was particularly well executed.  I identified much more with the tiger than with Natalia!  

I was also bizarrely tempted into sympathy with the most horrific wife-beater I've come across in recent readings.  His personal history unfolded with extraordinary grace, showing how his personality and character completely changed and he became the stereotypical feared husband.  The question of nature/nurture is brought up here which was mildy interesting (if, like many of the 'asides', I found fairly irrelevant).  My sympathy was however short-lived I'd like to add. 

If only these stories could have been brought together a bit more at the end, or if the suspense of the Grandfather's bag had been borne out, I'd have put this book down with a bit more satisfaction. 


A brilliant debut though, and I'll definitely be following Obreht's career...




Tea's official website is here 
You can buy The Tiger's Wife at Amazon here  

Ladies, do you have a room of your own?

Does it even matter? 

Virginia Woolf had one.  And she says it did matter.  And normally I would agree with most things that this awesome lady says.  But in this instance, I'm not so sure I entirely follow her argument (which is my very respectful way of saying that I don't necessarily entirely agree with her.  Ouch). 

I don't have a room of my own.  But neither does Mr. Darcy (but then, that's because our flat's been taken over by mini-Darcys, and the grown-up, self-indulgent bits of our pre-baby lives have been relegated to boxes and cupboards.  Sniff). 

But what does Woolf's "room of one's own" actually amount to?  Taken literally, we can assume she means the physical space often occupied in the early 20th Century by the husband's home office or library.  For men, these were their sanctuaries.  Children were not allowed, wives rarely permitted.  Literature is awash with throw-away references to such rooms having an intimidating air, an oppressive atmosphere, and being the room to which lesser members of the household are 'summoned' by the master.  In children's books for example, the father's study is a place to be reprimanded (and sometimes beaten).  In The Secret Garden, it is a room strictly out of bounds for the children, a room to which the father/uncle can retire and think his maudlin thoughts undisturbed.  In many 19th Century novels (such as, ooh, I don't know, Pride & Prejudice....), it's a room where the father can conduct his 'business', converse with colleagues and otherwise maintain his lofty distance from the rest of the household. 

What parallels are there for the women?  None it would seem.  For women to get some privacy and space, they must 'sneak' off to some hidden corner of the garden, or slip away to the servant's quarters when they should be at church (or invent some other dubious alibi).  Women don't have the same ownership of their physical space as do the men.  So maybe Woolf is simply referring to this.  Financially too, who can realistically afford to dedicate an entire room to themselves?  Not many of us can have a study to ourselves at home (that's the dream though.  That and an island in the kitchen...). 

But aside from having a physical room in her house, women also traditionally suffer from not having the mental space either.  Certainly on an intellectual level, women traditionally weren't encouraged to 'improve their minds' by going to university.  In the 19th Century, women's accomplishments amounted to being able to sew, sing, play a musical instrument, be 'refined' and 'fashionable' - none of which require a separate, private room.  In fact the opposite is true.  All these accomplishments were designed specifically for display and required an audience.  And women were supposed to be preoccupied with the running of the household and the bringing up of the children.  "How old fashioned!" I hear you say.  But is it really?  I can vouch for the fact that, as a 21st Century working mother, it is still very much the role of the woman to be concerned with such things moreso than the man.  Yes of course there is much more equality, but biology has a large part to play (you name me a man who can take maternity leave to breastfeed his newborn baby!) and society does still, on the whole, expect the mother to be the main caregiver.  So mentally, women are far less likely to have a room of their own to which they can retreat, undisturbed. 

However, bleating on about why it's not fair does not give Virginia's argument any credit.  Nor does her assertion that women shouldn't write with 'rage' (it sounds like women have a lot to be angry about, yes?).  Some of the most creative works of literature and art have been produced under great oppression and in extreme poverty.  And there is the argument that just such circumstances of repression actually encourage and promote creativity.  Just look at the slave songs, the writings of Nelson Mandela on Robin Island, the deeply moving literature of holocaust victims (see a list and examples here), the amazing Xinran's Good Women of China (see Xinran's blog here), etc. 

Of course it's easy for me, sitting here at my laptop in the 21st Century, with the mini-Darcys in bed and Mr. Darcy cooking my dinner, to criticise Virginia.  I've had it comparatively easy.  And sitting in an ivory tower is a very haughty place to be.  It can go to your head.  I'm not saying that Woolf's argument isn't entirely valid - women have not had it as easy as men and no, it isn't fair.  It's just that the prejudices and pressures that surround being female constitute just one of the millions of obstacles that people around the world face, and we should not get this out of proportion.  Poverty, for example, infringement of freedom of speech, lack of access to education;  all these are obstacles to writers and creators of art.  All these people need their own room. 

So maybe the concept of a room of one's own does remain true.  Just that everyone's 'room' will be different.  For Nelson Mandela, it was inside his own mind.  For the slaves in America it was in the churches.  And for me today, like so many across the globe, it's my computer. 

Read Woolf's A Room of One's Own here.