Chatty Books

 

I listen to the birds chirp on this and every morning, delighting in their musical nature of calling across the streets to one another. Every morning is different - sometimes the owl is very vocal. Sometimes not. Sometimes the blunt, sweet chirp of the cardinal is abundant. Or maybe the warbler or sparrow. 

All this got me pondering as I aim to promote each morning - why can books not do the same? It is a silent call, written in ink and not sung by a scattering of birds, but transported across time and space (and the landscape of my tiny home) through reading eyes and sharing thoughts. I would like to think about how my books speak to one another on my shelves. 

Lewis: Ah, jolly good day, Tollers.

Tolkien: Indeed, mighty fine day, Jack. The sun is just cresting over the verdant land and the bird song is rather cheery.

Lewis: It all makes me think of a good stroll. I shall go for a walk, later, care to join?

Tolkien: Rather, I would love to see the other shelf sometime. Oh, hallo Augustine.

Augustine: Greetings, gentlemen. Most pleased to see you. Shall we greet Dante over yonder? He seems awakened with some brightness.

Dante: O Love! Love that moves the sun and other stars. Can you not feel the movement in the spheres my friends?

Tolkien: Oh yes...

Lewis: Tell me more about it. Let's sit down for a chat and I will make some tea...come up to my rooms.

Okay, maybe not. Sometimes one needs to have a little bit of fun for no reason.

What I actually mean is how one book makes you think of another book or phrase that reminds you of  another book, which then circles back to another book. Authors across time can bounce off one another. I love when that happens as I read a book and am reminded of something another author wrote about related to it. Then I go pick up that book from my shelf and discover a new meaning by letting one author speak to another.

Book of Letters

 

Writing letters is a bit lost in today's modern society of instant communication. When is the last time you wrote a letter and mailed it to someone? Was the letter more than the length of a card interior? I admit I do not write many letters anymore, but writing one slows me down to think in the best ways as my hand forms words that will be zoomed through the space of physical distances.

I recently finished reading this first volume of Dorothy L. Sayers' letters from 1899 - 1936. I always feel a bit awkward reading letters of a favourite author, because it is likely they did not think anyone except the recipient would ever read the letter, but here I am in 2021 reading private letters written by a wonderful writer and thinker.

Reading these letters was like listening to her thoughts and feelings, and I was particularly keen on learning her thought process behind developing her Lord Peter mystery books. For example, there were several letters back and forth with a doctor friend who helped her brainstorm insights and conduct experiments with poison (specifically related to the death cap mushroom scenario she was toying with for the next mystery book she was writing), and it was fascinating to learn how she developed the plot from an idea of a murder and how the murderer would do it. She then created a story around that main inkling, fleshing out every detail and what made sense. My writer-self was taking notes.

Anyway, the letters. Sayers is a very entertaining letter writer (I rank her up there with C.S. Lewis as my favourite letters to read) and not just humorous but also very insightful and full of wisdom. Often some deeply thoughtful writing went into these letters (developed explanations), as well as some difficult family issues such as her covering up having a baby whilst unwed, and seeing that unfold in the letters (her conscious choice to keep that secret, even from her son). An interesting study of the human condition and expectations.

I found it funny that in a large majority of letters she wrote to family, she would begin the letter saying that nothing was going on and she almost no news to share, except.....and then she would go on with something interesting. It is funny because I feel that a lot, like I have nothing to share, or sometimes nothing to write, and yet if I just sit down and begin it reveals itself through words.

I could say that we do not have time to write well-thought letters in our lives today, and yet I find that I write letters everyday at work and personally (painstakingly well-thought I should hope) except in email form. Of course, it's not the same. The flourish of handwriting and the crinkle of paper can never be replaced with electronic devices, but I actually do spend a lot of time writing letters. But I would say that my letters are definitely not worth publishing. 

Spring Like Dreams

 

I tuck my spring like dreams into the snow-like pages of my journal with words hinting at distance in them. Places not seen in a time and a longing to be able to go there. Wonder in words, but not discontented notions. Just dreamlike inklings of a day some time off, into a world changed by the last year, and yet so alive with the wonder and loveliness of creation. 

The last year has kept me tucked away in my tiny home, away from all my favourite travels. I reflect in thanks for those days past and continue to dream, but stay rooted in the blessing of where I am in my cosy home, surrounded by books and gentle reminders of all the good we have in the everyday. This right here is also a dream. A lovely place to be.

It is pouring now. Sky open, gushing rain like it hasn't rained in months. Cleansing, heavy rain from the dense grey sky. Clouds of moisture and swirling weather. I am quietly eating my porridge and reading Psalm 86 when it comes swiftly - the darkened sky coming over my home causing my natural light to dim dramatically. I do not use overhead lights, so I am usually running by the light of nature coming into my home through sheer curtains. The atmosphere turns cosy - the suddenly desire to curl up with a book and blanket sweeps over me. Yes, rain, you are lovely. 

The petal carpets are all soaked and flattened into the ground now. Such as the spring like weather brings. Outside in nature, you are at the mercy of nature. We humans are so used to having the sense of wanting control over everything, but nature does not really allow that. So even we are at the mercy of nature in many ways. We cannot control the weather, thank goodness, but what if we could? Would it be used for good or ill? Anytime we have control or power over something, the risk is always there to use selfishly and for destruction. 

We were made for good, and to do good, and yet so often what we do is not good. But do we stop doing anything with the possibility of using it for ill just because it is possible? That's a risk, too. Opening up to the possibility of good also opens us the possibility for ill. We try to do our best, to do good as we can. And there is always risk.

Magical Reading

 

After a short silence, Strange said, "You advise me to read this book?"

"Yes, indeed. I think you should read it," said Mr. Norrell. 

Strange waited, but Norrell continued to gaze at the book in his hand as though he were entirely at a loss as to how to proceed. 

"Then you must give it to me, sir," said Strange gently.

"Yes, indeed," said Mr. Norrell. He approached Strange cautiously and held the book out for several moments, before suddenly tipping it up and off into Strange's hand with an odd gesture, as though it was not a book at all, but a small bird which clung to him and would on no account go to any one else, so that he was obliged to trick it into leaving his hand. He was so intent upon this maneuvre that fortunately he did not look up at Strange who was trying not to laugh.

Mr. Norrell remained a moment, looking wistfully at his book in another magician's hand.

(Page 301)

A humorous scene that pretty well sums up these two magicians and how different they are. Mr. Norrell, older, cautious, guarded, protective of his thousands of books, reluctant to try anything out of the ordinary. Jonathan Strange, young, vibrant, daring, willing to try anything no matter the risk, open to the ideas and wildness of the unknown. 

So sets the stage for this wonderfully written, flowing, witty, lengthy 1006 pages of a novel that takes you to 1806 - 1817 England during the Napoleonic Wars and meeting these two magicians. As history intersects with the story, Strange and Norrell each take part in the war against the French. Magic was long thought to be dead in England, and yet, these two magicians are able to assist the English in the war efforts. 

But that is just part of the story, as there is another deeper mystery at hand after Mr. Norrell raises a young woman from dead by summoning a fairy. This character mysteriously enchants with his powers, pulling humans into the land of faerie with dark consequences. If you read fantasy novels that follow tradition of England and how it used to be open to the faerie realm, you know that faerie is a perilous realm full of magic and tricks. 

This sweeping novel is beautiful and atmospheric. From the rainy streets of London to the vast regions in Yorkshire (northern England), and to the canals of Venice, you are taken on a journey with these magicians who start as friends, but because of their differences become rivals leading them to different paths.

There are so many glimpses into truth and wisdom throughout this book. As characters make choices, you are faced with the decisions with the characters, and it feels like there is a taste of the Lewis and Tolkien kind of fantasy wisdom, with elements of George MacDonald. I saw it described as Harry Potter for adults, and it certainly has that magical curiosity and fun about it that leads you into another realm that is so delightful to me. This is darker than Harry Potter, though. You enter a realm where you aren't quite sure what could happen and you have a lot of fun not knowing where it is going to take you.

White Book Shelves

 

White Book Shelves

My heart bursts with a thrill
of empty, clean white shelves -
Ready to hold the weight, the still
presence of books aplenty.

Judge not the weight of a book
as if value is based on number -
But weigh and measure as you look
from the words on pages, to the world.

The gentle gaze of a waiting story,
perched high there on a shelf -
Lingering in tales of wisdom and glory,
just waiting to share thrills with you.

A sneak peak at my new bookshelves! I am still waiting for the other shelf to arrive and then I can fully organize all the books (as there are still five tall book towers by my bed waiting for their shelves). Once the other shelf arrives I will be able to do a nice, clean organize which I am very excited about!