Rachael Eyre's Blog, page 8
May 30, 2016
Formative Books: The Claudine Series by Colette
Every now and then I'm going to examine books which shaped me as a reader and a writer. This could be for any number of reasons: plotting, writing, a strong female protagonist (always a selling point). Even if they've lost their lustre over the years, they're still influential and worthy of inclusion.
I discovered the Claudines when I was working as a volunteer in a charity shop. It was my first real job and on the tedious side - I remember it as continuous cups of coffee while I waded through puddles of nylon knickers, not always clean. Since the role wasn't customer facing, I was allowed to read as I worked. Something about this one book - the title, the cover - caught my eye. I opened it and learned it was translated from the French by Antonia White, one of my favourite writers. Intrigued, I started to read.
Now I know Colette is one of France’s most prolific authors, revered and reviled in equal measure. A woman of many transformations, she developed from the child bride of notorious rake Monsieur Willy, to a bisexual musical hall artiste, to an accomplished lady of letters. I didn't know this at fourteen. As I read further I was surprised, shocked - and hooked. Having raced through Claudine at School, I wanted more. I was delighted to hear there was a whole series and tracked each book down.
Claudine at School
The original and best instalment, it drops us straight into the world of our protagonist, fifteen year old Claudine. She’s a terrific, vividly realised character: intelligent, reckless, opinionated, bullying and romantic. In other words, she's fiction’s first teenager, as likely to punch you as fall in love with you.
Indeed, it's matters of the heart Claudine is preoccupied with, and not in the way you would expect. Growing up in a single sex environment, her crushes are on girls - particularly Aimee Lanthenay, the pretty young assistant mistress. Incredibly, Aimee returns her feelings, and they have a brief dalliance before they're rumbled by the Headmistress, the fearsome Mademoiselle Sergent. Rather than be appalled by her minion’s misconduct, Mademoiselle steals Aimee for herself!
In the hands of a lesser author, this might have been trashy pseudo porn. Instead Colette captures the essence of childhood: the friendships, feuds, infatuations and intrigues. Whether it's her school chums or the sex mad adults, the supporting cast are unforgettable.
Claudine in Paris
Colette took a risk in uprooting Claudine from her beloved Montigny. Yes, it echoed real life, but would it work as literature? Luckily the experiment is a success.
Claudine and her eccentric malacologist father move to Paris, inspiring her to keep her diary again. We’re introduced to a bevy of new characters, most significantly her considerably older cousin Renaud and Marcel, his bitchy twink of a son. What begins as a culture clash comedy becomes a love story as Claudine and Renaud grow closer.
Though not as fresh as its predecessor, it has its moments. Marcel may err on the side of caricature, but since he’s one of the earliest depictions of an openly gay man, we’re grateful for his presence. The chapter with Luce, where we learn what's happened to her since she ran away from school, is heartbreaking. The only sour notes are period appropriate anti Semitism and a pointless cameo from Maugis, Willy’s theatre critic persona.
Claudine Married
Sometimes translated as The Indulgent Husband, this is the tale of Claudine’s disillusionment with her marriage. No longer on his best behaviour, Renaud has revealed his true colours as a sleazy old reprobate - and she doesn't like what she sees.
Distraction arrives in the form of Rezi, the comely wife of a burnt out officer. The two women are instantly attracted to one another. Renaud, wanting to compensate for his shortcomings as husband, plays the pimp. Little does Claudine know that such largesse comes at a cost ...
At the time of writing it was transparent autobiography; everyone on the Parisian literary circuit knew the identities of the threesome. While it's still steamy and portrays a lesbian affair with remarkable frankness, I couldn't help wishing Claudine had chosen someone worthier of her affections.
Claudine and Annie
Strictly speaking this isn't a proper Claudine novel, since our redoubtable heroine is no longer the diarist. That duty is taken over by Annie, a meek young woman married to the unbearable Alain. He's a mansplainer a century before the term was coined.
Claudine still shows up, she still sparkles. Yet something is missing from this account of an almost affair. You sense that Colette’s growing bored with the format, treading water. Though there's salacious goings on between the bit parts, the only scenes to count are those featuring Claudine and the naive diarist.
Retreat from Love
The Phantom Menace of the series. While Claudine and Annie felt as though Colette was going through the motions, this seems like a conscious effort to finish off the series for good.
When Renaud falls ill, Claudine is left alone in the country, opening her doors to waifs and strays. One is Annie, who, having left Alain, has regressed into an empty headed trollop; the other is Marcel, licking his wounds after another scandal. In keeping with this new nympho Annie, she decides she must have him.
It's never included in collections, and you can see why. It's like watching your favourite singer make a comeback with a tone deaf cover of Agadoo. Avoid.
***
The Claudine books are typical of many a debut series in that they veer between marvellous and mundane; Colette herself was ambivalent about them. You can see signs of real promise - she had already mastered characterisation and description. We should also bear in mind the conditions under which they were created. Colette was originally drafted in as another of Willy’s ghost writers, then, when Claudine at School became a bestseller, he made her produce a novel a year. The description of Luce’s sex games with her uncle - she dresses as a schoolgirl while he forces her to do arithmetic - is surely a sly reference to this.
Speaking as a lesbian reader and writer, the series’ outstanding legacy is its queer characters. Marcel might be a shrieking queen but he refuses society’s verdict that there's something wrong with him and is unapologetic about who he is. It is the first - and only - series I've read where a lesbian or bi woman doesn't face prejudice and rejection (though Renaud/Willy’s declaration that affairs between women are of “no consequence” makes me want to slap him). If schoolgirls in 1900 can accept that their friend likes girls as well as boys, why can't adults in the modern day?
The Complete Claudine
I discovered the Claudines when I was working as a volunteer in a charity shop. It was my first real job and on the tedious side - I remember it as continuous cups of coffee while I waded through puddles of nylon knickers, not always clean. Since the role wasn't customer facing, I was allowed to read as I worked. Something about this one book - the title, the cover - caught my eye. I opened it and learned it was translated from the French by Antonia White, one of my favourite writers. Intrigued, I started to read.
Now I know Colette is one of France’s most prolific authors, revered and reviled in equal measure. A woman of many transformations, she developed from the child bride of notorious rake Monsieur Willy, to a bisexual musical hall artiste, to an accomplished lady of letters. I didn't know this at fourteen. As I read further I was surprised, shocked - and hooked. Having raced through Claudine at School, I wanted more. I was delighted to hear there was a whole series and tracked each book down.
Claudine at School
The original and best instalment, it drops us straight into the world of our protagonist, fifteen year old Claudine. She’s a terrific, vividly realised character: intelligent, reckless, opinionated, bullying and romantic. In other words, she's fiction’s first teenager, as likely to punch you as fall in love with you.
Indeed, it's matters of the heart Claudine is preoccupied with, and not in the way you would expect. Growing up in a single sex environment, her crushes are on girls - particularly Aimee Lanthenay, the pretty young assistant mistress. Incredibly, Aimee returns her feelings, and they have a brief dalliance before they're rumbled by the Headmistress, the fearsome Mademoiselle Sergent. Rather than be appalled by her minion’s misconduct, Mademoiselle steals Aimee for herself!
In the hands of a lesser author, this might have been trashy pseudo porn. Instead Colette captures the essence of childhood: the friendships, feuds, infatuations and intrigues. Whether it's her school chums or the sex mad adults, the supporting cast are unforgettable.
Claudine in Paris
Colette took a risk in uprooting Claudine from her beloved Montigny. Yes, it echoed real life, but would it work as literature? Luckily the experiment is a success.
Claudine and her eccentric malacologist father move to Paris, inspiring her to keep her diary again. We’re introduced to a bevy of new characters, most significantly her considerably older cousin Renaud and Marcel, his bitchy twink of a son. What begins as a culture clash comedy becomes a love story as Claudine and Renaud grow closer.
Though not as fresh as its predecessor, it has its moments. Marcel may err on the side of caricature, but since he’s one of the earliest depictions of an openly gay man, we’re grateful for his presence. The chapter with Luce, where we learn what's happened to her since she ran away from school, is heartbreaking. The only sour notes are period appropriate anti Semitism and a pointless cameo from Maugis, Willy’s theatre critic persona.
Claudine Married
Sometimes translated as The Indulgent Husband, this is the tale of Claudine’s disillusionment with her marriage. No longer on his best behaviour, Renaud has revealed his true colours as a sleazy old reprobate - and she doesn't like what she sees.
Distraction arrives in the form of Rezi, the comely wife of a burnt out officer. The two women are instantly attracted to one another. Renaud, wanting to compensate for his shortcomings as husband, plays the pimp. Little does Claudine know that such largesse comes at a cost ...
At the time of writing it was transparent autobiography; everyone on the Parisian literary circuit knew the identities of the threesome. While it's still steamy and portrays a lesbian affair with remarkable frankness, I couldn't help wishing Claudine had chosen someone worthier of her affections.
Claudine and Annie
Strictly speaking this isn't a proper Claudine novel, since our redoubtable heroine is no longer the diarist. That duty is taken over by Annie, a meek young woman married to the unbearable Alain. He's a mansplainer a century before the term was coined.
Claudine still shows up, she still sparkles. Yet something is missing from this account of an almost affair. You sense that Colette’s growing bored with the format, treading water. Though there's salacious goings on between the bit parts, the only scenes to count are those featuring Claudine and the naive diarist.
Retreat from Love
The Phantom Menace of the series. While Claudine and Annie felt as though Colette was going through the motions, this seems like a conscious effort to finish off the series for good.
When Renaud falls ill, Claudine is left alone in the country, opening her doors to waifs and strays. One is Annie, who, having left Alain, has regressed into an empty headed trollop; the other is Marcel, licking his wounds after another scandal. In keeping with this new nympho Annie, she decides she must have him.
It's never included in collections, and you can see why. It's like watching your favourite singer make a comeback with a tone deaf cover of Agadoo. Avoid.
***
The Claudine books are typical of many a debut series in that they veer between marvellous and mundane; Colette herself was ambivalent about them. You can see signs of real promise - she had already mastered characterisation and description. We should also bear in mind the conditions under which they were created. Colette was originally drafted in as another of Willy’s ghost writers, then, when Claudine at School became a bestseller, he made her produce a novel a year. The description of Luce’s sex games with her uncle - she dresses as a schoolgirl while he forces her to do arithmetic - is surely a sly reference to this.
Speaking as a lesbian reader and writer, the series’ outstanding legacy is its queer characters. Marcel might be a shrieking queen but he refuses society’s verdict that there's something wrong with him and is unapologetic about who he is. It is the first - and only - series I've read where a lesbian or bi woman doesn't face prejudice and rejection (though Renaud/Willy’s declaration that affairs between women are of “no consequence” makes me want to slap him). If schoolgirls in 1900 can accept that their friend likes girls as well as boys, why can't adults in the modern day?
The Complete Claudine
May 26, 2016
Love Your Library
The UK's libraries are in crisis.
They were once the cornerstone of a community, the cure for rainy day blues. A series of spending cuts have meant that three hundred and forty three British libraries have closed their doors in the past six years, with a further ten percent under threat. Many libraries, including that of my neighbouring town Morecambe, face reduction to a self service system with a limited catalogue.
Never mind local councils are legally obliged to provide their constituents with 'a comprehensive and efficient library service' according to the 1964 Public Libraries and Museum Act. Our clueless Prime Minister David Cameron informed a ten year old boy that libraries are 'less necessary' due to 'technological change.' In his privileged little snow globe, perhaps.
Libraries stand for something revolutionary: universal education. A library card is a passport to thousands of free books. Whatever your socioeconomic background, you can educate yourself and escape to other worlds. Growing up in a one parent, low income household, our library was an absolute necessity; it was babysitter, entertainment centre and fount of knowledge in one. I doubt my sister and I would have been able to pursue our crazy dreams - she as a historian, me as a writer - if the library hadn't inspired us with a deep love of learning and literature.
If you don't have regular Internet access, library computers are a godsend. Everyday transactions - job applications, online banking, keeping in touch with loved ones - are increasingly difficult if you don't have broadband or a Smartphone. Thanks to your library membership you can book an hour's session on one of the machines - and ask a librarian for help if you get stuck.
What about clubs and other events? Libraries are a hub of community activities: ours hosts book clubs, concerts, workshops and festivals. It's nothing out of the ordinary to see a mock up of a crime scene or the shelves emblazoned with Shakespeare quotes. If you're new to the area or live alone, it's a great way to take up a hobby and make friends.
In the past we've taken libraries for granted, cracked jokes about musty old battleaxes who "Ssh!" anything that moves. They've always been there, a fact of life; why would you worry about the sun? Now they're endangered, we need to pull out every last stop, make as much noise as we can. Tell Westminster mandarins that they're still an integral part of people's lives, desperately needed and loved. It'd be awful if the next generation missed out due to a shortsighted government policy.
Love your library. Don't give it up without a fight.
They were once the cornerstone of a community, the cure for rainy day blues. A series of spending cuts have meant that three hundred and forty three British libraries have closed their doors in the past six years, with a further ten percent under threat. Many libraries, including that of my neighbouring town Morecambe, face reduction to a self service system with a limited catalogue.
Never mind local councils are legally obliged to provide their constituents with 'a comprehensive and efficient library service' according to the 1964 Public Libraries and Museum Act. Our clueless Prime Minister David Cameron informed a ten year old boy that libraries are 'less necessary' due to 'technological change.' In his privileged little snow globe, perhaps.
Libraries stand for something revolutionary: universal education. A library card is a passport to thousands of free books. Whatever your socioeconomic background, you can educate yourself and escape to other worlds. Growing up in a one parent, low income household, our library was an absolute necessity; it was babysitter, entertainment centre and fount of knowledge in one. I doubt my sister and I would have been able to pursue our crazy dreams - she as a historian, me as a writer - if the library hadn't inspired us with a deep love of learning and literature.
If you don't have regular Internet access, library computers are a godsend. Everyday transactions - job applications, online banking, keeping in touch with loved ones - are increasingly difficult if you don't have broadband or a Smartphone. Thanks to your library membership you can book an hour's session on one of the machines - and ask a librarian for help if you get stuck.
What about clubs and other events? Libraries are a hub of community activities: ours hosts book clubs, concerts, workshops and festivals. It's nothing out of the ordinary to see a mock up of a crime scene or the shelves emblazoned with Shakespeare quotes. If you're new to the area or live alone, it's a great way to take up a hobby and make friends.
In the past we've taken libraries for granted, cracked jokes about musty old battleaxes who "Ssh!" anything that moves. They've always been there, a fact of life; why would you worry about the sun? Now they're endangered, we need to pull out every last stop, make as much noise as we can. Tell Westminster mandarins that they're still an integral part of people's lives, desperately needed and loved. It'd be awful if the next generation missed out due to a shortsighted government policy.
Love your library. Don't give it up without a fight.
May 17, 2016
Sherlock Holmes's Strangest Cases
The news that Toby Jones will play an "iconic" villain in the next series of Sherlock has excited a great deal of comment. The Conan Doyle canon has a cornucopia of bad guys, unfairly overlooked due to the obsession with Professor Moriarty and Irene Adler. Begging the question: which stories will Gatiss and Moffat adapt for season 4?
Though we can't rule anything out, it almost certainly won't be one of these ...
Silver Blaze
The eponymous horse is the most sympathetic murderer in the series, acting in self defence against his scummy trainer. Although this tale of race fixing and corruption is as topical now as on publication, it's hard to imagine Cumberbatch making the big reveal with a straight face. A pity - as well as being one of the best adventures, it coined the phrase "the curious incident of the dog in the nighttime," where the fact a dog didn't raise the alarm holds the clue to the mystery.
The Yellow Face
Although liberal for its day, this story of race relations hasn't worn well, coming across as patronising and - dare we say it - racist. It's bad enough that Elsie feels the need to disguise her little girl with a mask (the 'yellow face' of the title), but the assertion her late husband was remarkably handsome and intelligent despite his colour, and Grant Monro's hesitation over whether or not he can accept a black stepchild, won't fly with a twenty first century audience.
The Three Gables
Oh, Sir Arthur. The good intentions of The Yellow Face are severely undermined by this, the most problematic story of the sixty. The portrayal of thuggish black boxer Steve Dixie is cringe making; the Great Detective's naked prejudice, abusing Dixie's smell and 'woolly head', even worse. The villain is a femme fatale called Isadora Klein - is he commenting on her heritage as well? Best avoided.
The Creeping Man
A dirty old git and quack science result in this, the oddest story Conan Doyle concocted. Professor Presbury worries he'll disappoint his considerably younger fiancée, so starts taking a rejuvenating drug. Which causes him to develop monkey like characteristics. Oh, dear.
The Illustrious Client
At times Holmes doubled as an agony aunt, helping clients with messes they could have easily solved themselves. One such case was preventing the marriage of Violet de Merville to Baron Gruner, seducer, murderer and general bad lot. The whole thing plays like a telenovela. It opens with the boys chilling down the Turkish bath (slash fics ahoy!), takes in the Baron's playbook and culminates in his Cockney ex flinging acid in his face. Lovely!
Honourable mentions
A consummate tease, Watson tantalises us with cases he never makes public. Who wouldn't want to see the giant rat of Sumatra or Ricoletti of the club foot, abominable wife in tow? Perhaps the most evocative of these glimpses is "the politician, the lighthouse and the trained cormorant -" we demand to know more!
Though we can't rule anything out, it almost certainly won't be one of these ...
Silver Blaze
The eponymous horse is the most sympathetic murderer in the series, acting in self defence against his scummy trainer. Although this tale of race fixing and corruption is as topical now as on publication, it's hard to imagine Cumberbatch making the big reveal with a straight face. A pity - as well as being one of the best adventures, it coined the phrase "the curious incident of the dog in the nighttime," where the fact a dog didn't raise the alarm holds the clue to the mystery.
The Yellow Face
Although liberal for its day, this story of race relations hasn't worn well, coming across as patronising and - dare we say it - racist. It's bad enough that Elsie feels the need to disguise her little girl with a mask (the 'yellow face' of the title), but the assertion her late husband was remarkably handsome and intelligent despite his colour, and Grant Monro's hesitation over whether or not he can accept a black stepchild, won't fly with a twenty first century audience.
The Three Gables
Oh, Sir Arthur. The good intentions of The Yellow Face are severely undermined by this, the most problematic story of the sixty. The portrayal of thuggish black boxer Steve Dixie is cringe making; the Great Detective's naked prejudice, abusing Dixie's smell and 'woolly head', even worse. The villain is a femme fatale called Isadora Klein - is he commenting on her heritage as well? Best avoided.
The Creeping Man
A dirty old git and quack science result in this, the oddest story Conan Doyle concocted. Professor Presbury worries he'll disappoint his considerably younger fiancée, so starts taking a rejuvenating drug. Which causes him to develop monkey like characteristics. Oh, dear.
The Illustrious Client
At times Holmes doubled as an agony aunt, helping clients with messes they could have easily solved themselves. One such case was preventing the marriage of Violet de Merville to Baron Gruner, seducer, murderer and general bad lot. The whole thing plays like a telenovela. It opens with the boys chilling down the Turkish bath (slash fics ahoy!), takes in the Baron's playbook and culminates in his Cockney ex flinging acid in his face. Lovely!
Honourable mentions
A consummate tease, Watson tantalises us with cases he never makes public. Who wouldn't want to see the giant rat of Sumatra or Ricoletti of the club foot, abominable wife in tow? Perhaps the most evocative of these glimpses is "the politician, the lighthouse and the trained cormorant -" we demand to know more!
May 14, 2016
DNF: Why There's No Shame in Discarding Books
We all have guilty pleasures when it comes to reading. Some devour 17th century bonkbusters set on pirate ships; others love old school sci fi with laser guns and talking lizards. For me it has always been bargain basement World's Greatest Mysteries books. Big Foot, flying saucers, the Bermuda Triangle, Lord Lucan - I can't get enough. And as any true mystery nut would testify, the granddaddy of enigmas is Jack the Ripper.
When I heard there was a new Ripper book that "debunked" the myth, I had to borrow it. I wondered who the candidate would be. Dr Gull, the bookies' favourite? James Maybrick, purported author of The Diary of Jack the Ripper? Walter Sickert, a wildcard theory that has gathered momentum in recent years? Or some rank outsider pulled out of a hat?
I will never know. A mere thirty seven pages in - possibly a record - I dumped it. I wanted a well researched, convincingly argued case. What I'd got was a paranoid polemic about the Victorians, chalking everything up to a shadowy Masonic conspiracy. It pinballed from the Cleveland Street sex scandal to doomed military campaigns, leading me to exclaim, frustrated, "What does this have to do with anything?!" It was like listening to the ravings of a ballroom dancing devil worshipper. (True story - I'll share it sometime).
What I'm trying to demonstrate, albeit in long winded fashion, is there is no shame in discarding books. Thanks to attitudes instilled at school - you must read this in order to pass your exams, you have to write it up in your Reading Diary etc.- people acquire the notion that dumping a book is somehow ignoble and dishonest. The sense of guilt continues into adulthood, changing slightly. You ought to read a certain novel to seem up to date/educated/participate in the latest debate. It's why we have all these Big Reads and book bucket lists. "You haven't read the complete works of F Scott Fitzgerald? What's wrong with you?"
What these busybodies tend to overlook is that books = time. Time is a luxury many people can ill afford, meaning the majority of reading is done at the weekends or on holiday. If you're settling down at the pool side, what will you reach for? The new Gillian Flynn or Gatsby? Thought as much.
In the old days, you felt a terrible obligation to finish books because they cost money, or - worst case scenario - they had been given as presents. If a relative handed you a book you'll "absolutely love", you couldn't say, "That's pants and it's going straight down the charity shop." You smiled and forced yourself to read it. "It's great!" you'd cry hysterically when asked, wondering how long you'd have to keep up this charade.
Now we have more choice than ever before. Your reading material isn't limited to gifts or your local library, so why not spread your wings? There isn't a recording angel knocking points off your score card if you ditch the latest bestseller one chapter in.
Is the plot dull and predictable? Dump it. Is the main character an implausible Mary Sue? Are you offended by the author's worldview? Dump it. Is the writing so bad it makes the language weep? You get the message.
Life is too short to trudge through a book you're not enjoying. There's no point in being a martyr - this is your precious leisure time that you'll never get back. The instant a book begins to smell, do the honourable thing.
When I heard there was a new Ripper book that "debunked" the myth, I had to borrow it. I wondered who the candidate would be. Dr Gull, the bookies' favourite? James Maybrick, purported author of The Diary of Jack the Ripper? Walter Sickert, a wildcard theory that has gathered momentum in recent years? Or some rank outsider pulled out of a hat?
I will never know. A mere thirty seven pages in - possibly a record - I dumped it. I wanted a well researched, convincingly argued case. What I'd got was a paranoid polemic about the Victorians, chalking everything up to a shadowy Masonic conspiracy. It pinballed from the Cleveland Street sex scandal to doomed military campaigns, leading me to exclaim, frustrated, "What does this have to do with anything?!" It was like listening to the ravings of a ballroom dancing devil worshipper. (True story - I'll share it sometime).
What I'm trying to demonstrate, albeit in long winded fashion, is there is no shame in discarding books. Thanks to attitudes instilled at school - you must read this in order to pass your exams, you have to write it up in your Reading Diary etc.- people acquire the notion that dumping a book is somehow ignoble and dishonest. The sense of guilt continues into adulthood, changing slightly. You ought to read a certain novel to seem up to date/educated/participate in the latest debate. It's why we have all these Big Reads and book bucket lists. "You haven't read the complete works of F Scott Fitzgerald? What's wrong with you?"
What these busybodies tend to overlook is that books = time. Time is a luxury many people can ill afford, meaning the majority of reading is done at the weekends or on holiday. If you're settling down at the pool side, what will you reach for? The new Gillian Flynn or Gatsby? Thought as much.
In the old days, you felt a terrible obligation to finish books because they cost money, or - worst case scenario - they had been given as presents. If a relative handed you a book you'll "absolutely love", you couldn't say, "That's pants and it's going straight down the charity shop." You smiled and forced yourself to read it. "It's great!" you'd cry hysterically when asked, wondering how long you'd have to keep up this charade.
Now we have more choice than ever before. Your reading material isn't limited to gifts or your local library, so why not spread your wings? There isn't a recording angel knocking points off your score card if you ditch the latest bestseller one chapter in.
Is the plot dull and predictable? Dump it. Is the main character an implausible Mary Sue? Are you offended by the author's worldview? Dump it. Is the writing so bad it makes the language weep? You get the message.
Life is too short to trudge through a book you're not enjoying. There's no point in being a martyr - this is your precious leisure time that you'll never get back. The instant a book begins to smell, do the honourable thing.
May 11, 2016
Guest Blog on Jim Vines Presents
My first guest blog! I discuss how I became a writer, the inkling behind each of my books and my method (generally have a beer and see what happens).
http://jimvinespresents.blogspot.co.u...
http://jimvinespresents.blogspot.co.u...
May 7, 2016
Weird Girl Notes: The Lesser Spotted Intelligent Woman
My name is Rachael and I'm an intelligent woman.
Why is my instinct to look around guiltily or expect to be smited? I write, I read widely, I love to learn. I do Sherlock scans and smash pub quizzes. Yet the instant the thought "I'm actually quite clever" floats across my consciousness, I panic. I clap concrete flippers on it and cast it out to sea.
Here's the unpalatable truth. It isn't nice. There's sure to be a chorus of noisy denials.
Women aren't meant to be intelligent. If by some fluke they are, they're encouraged to keep schtum about it. It's fine for a man to pontificate about his abilities and vaunt his vast vocabulary, but if a woman does the same, it's bad taste and bad manners.
I first noticed this curious double standard at school. I used to sit with my hand in the air, bursting with the answer, only to be ignored. The teachers were too busy trying to coax answers from the boys. Once I was even admonished for "talking too much" in a workshop. If the other (male) students remained mute, what was I supposed to do? Before you assume I had unusually chauvinistic teachers, they were mostly female.
Around that time I started going to my friends' parties, birthdays in theory but Heineken fuelled orgies in practice. I'd lurk at the edge of the action, watch as my classmates copped off with the grammar school boys. Although I was 95% certain I was as gay as a window, I wasn't ready to label myself. So if a boy slithered over and struck up a conversation, I'd reply.
After we'd swapped names and how we knew the hostess, there was a moment's silence where he tried to look seductive and I tried to repel him. It was thus I discovered the most effective cock block known to man.
"I want to be a writer. How about you?"
Any love or lust fled his eyes. You could hear the sirens squealing, "Abort! Abort!" He'd claim he needed a drink/fresh air/piss. Half an hour later I'd fall over him wrapped around another girl, presumably not a writer.
For years I thought I'd committed a gross breach of etiquette. I'd been too honest, too pushy, too immodest. These boys wanted to hoover my tonsils, not hear my autobiography. I was going to uni soon. Maybe they'd react differently there.
They didn't.
Since then, I've met girls who have been dumped for "lying" about their intelligence. Others have said that if they mention an intellectual interest during a date - writing articles, politics, law - they're jilted without explanation. One of the cleverest girls I've known studied physics at uni. As she was also the definition of a blonde bombshell, people thought she was joking when she said she wanted to be a scientist. She endured endless inappropriate comments from staff and students alike. I hope she gave them all the finger when she earned her First!
This issue is bigger than a handful of insecure, ignorant men threatened by a brighter partner. It's ingrained in our society. It's why it's successful women who overwhelmingly suffer from the imposter phenomenon - the conviction you're faking your way to achievement and one day will be exposed. It's why Nobel laureate VS Naipaul can claim that no female author, living or dead, is his equal. It's why the recent obituaries for comedian Victoria Wood and writer Colleen McCullogh focused on their appearances and personal lives rather than their considerable accomplishments.
As girls and women we are taught that nothing is more important than conformity. We can't say or do anything that upsets social equilibrium. Don't make a literary allusion or a sophisticated joke, it makes other people feel stupid. Don't contradict a man in a position of power, even when he's wrong. Never suggest you're proud of your talents. To which I say: balls.
Your brain is your most valuable asset. Use it. Whether your gift is engineering or design, do whatever you can to pursue that dream. Never hide it or feel ashamed of it. It's what makes you unique, more than symmetry of feature or superficial charm. Don't listen to that hateful inner voice saying you're showing off or you're not good enough. If anyone slights you for being an intelligent woman - well, they're not worth knowing.
Why is my instinct to look around guiltily or expect to be smited? I write, I read widely, I love to learn. I do Sherlock scans and smash pub quizzes. Yet the instant the thought "I'm actually quite clever" floats across my consciousness, I panic. I clap concrete flippers on it and cast it out to sea.
Here's the unpalatable truth. It isn't nice. There's sure to be a chorus of noisy denials.
Women aren't meant to be intelligent. If by some fluke they are, they're encouraged to keep schtum about it. It's fine for a man to pontificate about his abilities and vaunt his vast vocabulary, but if a woman does the same, it's bad taste and bad manners.
I first noticed this curious double standard at school. I used to sit with my hand in the air, bursting with the answer, only to be ignored. The teachers were too busy trying to coax answers from the boys. Once I was even admonished for "talking too much" in a workshop. If the other (male) students remained mute, what was I supposed to do? Before you assume I had unusually chauvinistic teachers, they were mostly female.
Around that time I started going to my friends' parties, birthdays in theory but Heineken fuelled orgies in practice. I'd lurk at the edge of the action, watch as my classmates copped off with the grammar school boys. Although I was 95% certain I was as gay as a window, I wasn't ready to label myself. So if a boy slithered over and struck up a conversation, I'd reply.
After we'd swapped names and how we knew the hostess, there was a moment's silence where he tried to look seductive and I tried to repel him. It was thus I discovered the most effective cock block known to man.
"I want to be a writer. How about you?"
Any love or lust fled his eyes. You could hear the sirens squealing, "Abort! Abort!" He'd claim he needed a drink/fresh air/piss. Half an hour later I'd fall over him wrapped around another girl, presumably not a writer.
For years I thought I'd committed a gross breach of etiquette. I'd been too honest, too pushy, too immodest. These boys wanted to hoover my tonsils, not hear my autobiography. I was going to uni soon. Maybe they'd react differently there.
They didn't.
Since then, I've met girls who have been dumped for "lying" about their intelligence. Others have said that if they mention an intellectual interest during a date - writing articles, politics, law - they're jilted without explanation. One of the cleverest girls I've known studied physics at uni. As she was also the definition of a blonde bombshell, people thought she was joking when she said she wanted to be a scientist. She endured endless inappropriate comments from staff and students alike. I hope she gave them all the finger when she earned her First!
This issue is bigger than a handful of insecure, ignorant men threatened by a brighter partner. It's ingrained in our society. It's why it's successful women who overwhelmingly suffer from the imposter phenomenon - the conviction you're faking your way to achievement and one day will be exposed. It's why Nobel laureate VS Naipaul can claim that no female author, living or dead, is his equal. It's why the recent obituaries for comedian Victoria Wood and writer Colleen McCullogh focused on their appearances and personal lives rather than their considerable accomplishments.
As girls and women we are taught that nothing is more important than conformity. We can't say or do anything that upsets social equilibrium. Don't make a literary allusion or a sophisticated joke, it makes other people feel stupid. Don't contradict a man in a position of power, even when he's wrong. Never suggest you're proud of your talents. To which I say: balls.
Your brain is your most valuable asset. Use it. Whether your gift is engineering or design, do whatever you can to pursue that dream. Never hide it or feel ashamed of it. It's what makes you unique, more than symmetry of feature or superficial charm. Don't listen to that hateful inner voice saying you're showing off or you're not good enough. If anyone slights you for being an intelligent woman - well, they're not worth knowing.
April 30, 2016
Mad About the Bard
Last week saw the 400th anniversary of Shakespeare's death, also his 52nd birthday (that must've put a dampener on proceedings). It highlighted the complex, contradictory relationship Brits have with the man from Stratford. The rest of the time we pretend his plays are outdated curios, enjoyed only by academics and luvvies - or (the real reason for people's dislike) the subject of impossible exam questions. But come the anniversary of his birth, we let our hair down and reflect on what has made him so durable, iconic and eminently quotable.
I bloody love Shakespeare. And I can tell you precisely how it began: getting my grubby mitts on a copy of A Midsummer Night's Dream aged ten. I can't say I understood all of it, but I loved the poetry and the situations. The fairies' custody dispute! The lovers' switcheroo! The mechanicals putting on their shambles of a play! (Shakespeare has always made me break out in exclamation marks).
This love didn't pall even once it was shoved under the microscope. I relished the gender bending of Twelfth Night, although I found the gulling of Malvolio barbarous. Romeo and Juliet was gorgeously written and accessible to teens, though a little emo for my taste. (I never forgave Romeo for killing Paris - a detail that's excised from most adaptations). I will always feel wretched about The Merchant of Venice, whatever modern, sensitive spin they choose to put on it. Defend the Bard all you like, but it was a blatant attempt to cash in after the success of anti Semitic plays like Marlowe's The Jew of Malta.
Which brings us to his other race relations play set in Venice, Othello. This is, to my mind, the pinnacle of Shakespeare's achievement. While past critics have denounced it as sordid, and hardly the stuff of tragedy, it's this smaller, more domestic sphere that makes it so good. Who hasn't doubted their partner's fidelity or placed their trust in the wrong person? And is there any fictional character more disturbing than Iago, a man so petty and evil he destroys lives on a series of pretexts? His plot is finally exposed by Emilia, his long-suffering wife. Brave, intelligent and a feminist centuries before the word was coined, she is the true heroine of this play.
Bearing in mind that Shakespeare's heroines would have been played by boy actors, they're a compelling, diverse bunch - arguably superior to many penned by male authors today. Think of Lady Macbeth, the original woman behind the man, or Cleopatra, who's much more than a queenly cougar. The "breeches" plot may have been done to death, but it allows various heroines to bond with their lovers in ways that would have been unthinkable otherwise.
True, his record isn't spotless. It's difficult to know what to make of The Taming of the Shrew, an early work that reads like straightforward domestic abuse to a twenty first century audience. And of course there's Titus Andronicus, a play so violent and depraved historians used to deny he had anything to do with it. Though even this schlocky horror show of rape, mutilation and cannibalism contains this gem:
Chiron: Thou hast undone our mother.
Aaron: Villain, I have done thy mother.
Zing!
The secret to Shakespeare's longevity - and why he stands up to repeat viewings and readings - is how open to interpretation he is. Is Hamlet genuinely mad or faking? Did Lear abuse his daughters? Is Prospero a benevolent magician or a despotic colonialist? Is Falstaff popping up in what's effectively a romcom (The Merry Wives of Windsor) a cheesy excuse to reuse a popular character or a stroke of meta genius? Can the Roman plays serve as commentary on contemporary politics?
Ignore the trendy teachers who say he's irrelevant, or the lunatic fringe who claim a glovemaker's son couldn't possibly write such wonderful plays. The jobbing actor, bisexual sonneteer and eventual gentleman was one of a kind. The canon would be far poorer without him.
I bloody love Shakespeare. And I can tell you precisely how it began: getting my grubby mitts on a copy of A Midsummer Night's Dream aged ten. I can't say I understood all of it, but I loved the poetry and the situations. The fairies' custody dispute! The lovers' switcheroo! The mechanicals putting on their shambles of a play! (Shakespeare has always made me break out in exclamation marks).
This love didn't pall even once it was shoved under the microscope. I relished the gender bending of Twelfth Night, although I found the gulling of Malvolio barbarous. Romeo and Juliet was gorgeously written and accessible to teens, though a little emo for my taste. (I never forgave Romeo for killing Paris - a detail that's excised from most adaptations). I will always feel wretched about The Merchant of Venice, whatever modern, sensitive spin they choose to put on it. Defend the Bard all you like, but it was a blatant attempt to cash in after the success of anti Semitic plays like Marlowe's The Jew of Malta.
Which brings us to his other race relations play set in Venice, Othello. This is, to my mind, the pinnacle of Shakespeare's achievement. While past critics have denounced it as sordid, and hardly the stuff of tragedy, it's this smaller, more domestic sphere that makes it so good. Who hasn't doubted their partner's fidelity or placed their trust in the wrong person? And is there any fictional character more disturbing than Iago, a man so petty and evil he destroys lives on a series of pretexts? His plot is finally exposed by Emilia, his long-suffering wife. Brave, intelligent and a feminist centuries before the word was coined, she is the true heroine of this play.
Bearing in mind that Shakespeare's heroines would have been played by boy actors, they're a compelling, diverse bunch - arguably superior to many penned by male authors today. Think of Lady Macbeth, the original woman behind the man, or Cleopatra, who's much more than a queenly cougar. The "breeches" plot may have been done to death, but it allows various heroines to bond with their lovers in ways that would have been unthinkable otherwise.
True, his record isn't spotless. It's difficult to know what to make of The Taming of the Shrew, an early work that reads like straightforward domestic abuse to a twenty first century audience. And of course there's Titus Andronicus, a play so violent and depraved historians used to deny he had anything to do with it. Though even this schlocky horror show of rape, mutilation and cannibalism contains this gem:
Chiron: Thou hast undone our mother.
Aaron: Villain, I have done thy mother.
Zing!
The secret to Shakespeare's longevity - and why he stands up to repeat viewings and readings - is how open to interpretation he is. Is Hamlet genuinely mad or faking? Did Lear abuse his daughters? Is Prospero a benevolent magician or a despotic colonialist? Is Falstaff popping up in what's effectively a romcom (The Merry Wives of Windsor) a cheesy excuse to reuse a popular character or a stroke of meta genius? Can the Roman plays serve as commentary on contemporary politics?
Ignore the trendy teachers who say he's irrelevant, or the lunatic fringe who claim a glovemaker's son couldn't possibly write such wonderful plays. The jobbing actor, bisexual sonneteer and eventual gentleman was one of a kind. The canon would be far poorer without him.
Character Interviews: An Interview with Alfred Wilding (Love and Robotics)
Douglas Schwartz of the Support for Indie Authors group had this recent brainwave: to run a series of interviews with fictional characters from indie novels on his blog.
It's a smashing idea. Not only is it a great writing exercise, allowing an author to fully inhabit their character, it lets readers find out what that character's about and whether they'd like to spend a book in their company.
Here is an interview with Alfred Wilding, Lord Langton from Love and Robotics. Quite a coup, considering his antipathy to all forms of media!
http://pegamoose-g.livejournal.com/97...
It's a smashing idea. Not only is it a great writing exercise, allowing an author to fully inhabit their character, it lets readers find out what that character's about and whether they'd like to spend a book in their company.
Here is an interview with Alfred Wilding, Lord Langton from Love and Robotics. Quite a coup, considering his antipathy to all forms of media!
http://pegamoose-g.livejournal.com/97...
April 25, 2016
Not All Antagonists are Mwahahaha
Thanks to a diet of Saturday morning cartoons, we know how to spot a villain. The men tend to be massive and moustachioed, garbed in the colours of hellfire, either with a dodgy doctorate or morally bankrupt corporation. (Donald Trump would fit right in). The women are often slinky vamps, fixated with a cause; think of the ladies of Batman. Animal rights, the environment and ... being a groupie? This activism is frequently forgotten when she meets A Man - sexist stereotyping at its most odious. I prefer scenarios where she hooks up with another villain and they become a force to be reckoned with.
This is all very well for children's stories, where everyone's written to a formula, but what about fiction for adults? Looking around, it's barely more sophisticated. Authors seem unable to believe that anyone ugly could be good or devotion to a cause could be anything other than sinister. They may provide back story - a lifetime of ill treatment has made the character bitter and twisted, they're continuing the fight of their late spouse - but these are incidental. We end up with the same crude archetypes: boring obligatory serial killer, man eater who tries to beguile the hero etc. It can make reading fiction a wearing experience: this guy again?
People don't have nemeses in real life. You may think your boss is out to get you, but the likelihood is she isn't plotting some diabolical scheme. She's counting down to retirement, just like everyone else. The same goes for the brother in law who tries to outdo you at every opportunity. In all probability he doesn't know he's being a dick.
This realisation results in far more realistic and original antagonists. Perhaps the word itself is to blame: while "antagonistic" suggests someone hostile and horrible, all it means is someone who gets in the protagonist's way. In classic comic strip Calvin and Hobbes, the designated antagonists are Calvin's mum and dad - not because they're cruel or bad parents, but they're trying to put their bratty little son to bed or give him a bath.
An interesting variation is when the protagonist is the unreasonable one. As a child, you support Kitty's campaign against her mum's new boyfriend in Goggle Eyes. As an adult you realise poor, beleaguered Gerald has only two faults: he's an old fashioned Tory and he isn't Kitty's father. He has our sympathy.
Sitcoms are the best at these non threatening antagonists. In Blackadder Goes Forth, Blackadder despises Darling, the General's sycophantic aide. He's oblivious to what's all too apparent to the viewer: he and Darling are strikingly similar, with exactly the same goals. When Darling is sent to the front, their enmity ends. All Blackadder sees is a terrified man who doesn't want to die.
Most sitcoms don't have such high stakes. More usual are the likes of Gus, the vacuous and profoundly useless boss in Drop the Dead Donkey, or Dwayne Benzie, the smarmy city boy who steals Tim's girlfriend in Spaced. (Though in a typically surreal move, actor Peter Serafinowicz recycles his Darth Maul voice). You can almost see the writers filing through their memory for every jerk they've known. The Red Dwarf creators always maintained weaselly, neurotic Rimmer was drawn from life, begging the question: does the original recognise himself?
After writing dastardly antagonists in The Governess and The Revenge of Rose Grubb, I thought I'd take it down a notch for Love and Robotics. Yes, there's Nick, the mad scientist turned cult leader, but he isn't the primary obstacle to Josh and Alfred's happiness. People sometimes do more harm from love than hate, so I gave them both a meddling loved one: Dr Sugar for Josh, Gwyn for Alfred.
Of the two, Sugar is indubitably the more sympathetic. All his actions stem from his paternal love for Josh - and when he realises he was wrong, he's desperate to make amends. Gwyn by contrast is sulky and immature, resenting the new man in her uncle's life. She inflicts more damage on the budding romance than any bad guy with a vendetta. You can choose your foes but not your family, unfortunately!
This is all very well for children's stories, where everyone's written to a formula, but what about fiction for adults? Looking around, it's barely more sophisticated. Authors seem unable to believe that anyone ugly could be good or devotion to a cause could be anything other than sinister. They may provide back story - a lifetime of ill treatment has made the character bitter and twisted, they're continuing the fight of their late spouse - but these are incidental. We end up with the same crude archetypes: boring obligatory serial killer, man eater who tries to beguile the hero etc. It can make reading fiction a wearing experience: this guy again?
People don't have nemeses in real life. You may think your boss is out to get you, but the likelihood is she isn't plotting some diabolical scheme. She's counting down to retirement, just like everyone else. The same goes for the brother in law who tries to outdo you at every opportunity. In all probability he doesn't know he's being a dick.
This realisation results in far more realistic and original antagonists. Perhaps the word itself is to blame: while "antagonistic" suggests someone hostile and horrible, all it means is someone who gets in the protagonist's way. In classic comic strip Calvin and Hobbes, the designated antagonists are Calvin's mum and dad - not because they're cruel or bad parents, but they're trying to put their bratty little son to bed or give him a bath.
An interesting variation is when the protagonist is the unreasonable one. As a child, you support Kitty's campaign against her mum's new boyfriend in Goggle Eyes. As an adult you realise poor, beleaguered Gerald has only two faults: he's an old fashioned Tory and he isn't Kitty's father. He has our sympathy.
Sitcoms are the best at these non threatening antagonists. In Blackadder Goes Forth, Blackadder despises Darling, the General's sycophantic aide. He's oblivious to what's all too apparent to the viewer: he and Darling are strikingly similar, with exactly the same goals. When Darling is sent to the front, their enmity ends. All Blackadder sees is a terrified man who doesn't want to die.
Most sitcoms don't have such high stakes. More usual are the likes of Gus, the vacuous and profoundly useless boss in Drop the Dead Donkey, or Dwayne Benzie, the smarmy city boy who steals Tim's girlfriend in Spaced. (Though in a typically surreal move, actor Peter Serafinowicz recycles his Darth Maul voice). You can almost see the writers filing through their memory for every jerk they've known. The Red Dwarf creators always maintained weaselly, neurotic Rimmer was drawn from life, begging the question: does the original recognise himself?
After writing dastardly antagonists in The Governess and The Revenge of Rose Grubb, I thought I'd take it down a notch for Love and Robotics. Yes, there's Nick, the mad scientist turned cult leader, but he isn't the primary obstacle to Josh and Alfred's happiness. People sometimes do more harm from love than hate, so I gave them both a meddling loved one: Dr Sugar for Josh, Gwyn for Alfred.
Of the two, Sugar is indubitably the more sympathetic. All his actions stem from his paternal love for Josh - and when he realises he was wrong, he's desperate to make amends. Gwyn by contrast is sulky and immature, resenting the new man in her uncle's life. She inflicts more damage on the budding romance than any bad guy with a vendetta. You can choose your foes but not your family, unfortunately!
April 16, 2016
In Praise of Kindles
Kindles are the bee's knees. The cat's pyjamas. The dog's bollocks (sorry, why is that considered positive again?) There are few things in life that give me a bigger buzz than curling up with a brand new ebook, scrolling and clicking on my early model Kindle. (It must be coming up for six years old now).
This wasn't always the case. While not a technophobe exactly, I eyed them with suspicion - pretty much how Caxton's contemporaries must've reacted to his boast his product was "hot off the press." How could this souped up calculator* replace the experience of reading a print book? The crispness of the pages, the smell of the ink, the sensation of holding one in your hand or hugging it to your chest - I'd felt a kinship with books for as long as I could remember.
Like most of my possessions, it was secondhand. My other half had moved onto the latest model, so - having heard many a diatribe against them - tentatively gave me her cast off. I reasoned that if I hated it I could always donate it to EBay.
Segue to a falling in love montage. I took my new companion everywhere - on my break, with a cake, on a train, out in Spain. I acquainted myself with its wonderful parts. It could browse the Net (sadly discontinued). It could recite your book a la Professor Hawking. Best of all, you had the world's largest bookstore at your finger tips, the ebooks affordably priced! What's not to like?
Perhaps I'm a traitor to my former bibliophile self, but nowadays I prefer to read on my Kindle. Yes, it's gone eccentric in its dotage. It jams, goes blank, leaves me to stare at portraits of Famous Authors (Zombie Emily Dickinson is terrifying). The formatting in the cheaper classics leaves a lot to be desired. I accept that one day I'll have to give it a Viking funeral. But think of the pluses!
If you're on your Kindle, nobody knows what you're reading, hence the boom in erotica and LGBT titles. You won't get people spoiling the ending or using it as a pretext to chat you up. (Wannabe Romeos, don't interrupt a girl's reading time unless you want the book inserted in you). When you go on holiday, you don't have to lug a library around but have your whole collection to choose from. You have access to fantastic indie books you'd never hear of otherwise.
You can change the font size, meaning that squinting at tiny old print or dropping half a ton of book on your nose is a thing of the past. If a book isn't to your liking, you can exile it to your Archives rather than fob it off on charity shops or assorted relatives. Above all, if you borrow a Kindle book it won't be dog eared, covered in dubious stains or littered with distracting margin notes ('OMG, this happened to me!' doodled over Wuthering Heights). You can rest easily knowing that if there's gubbins on the cover or a crack in the screen, it's your own personalised grot.
Prophets of doom like to scaremonger and say it's a death knell for the traditional book. I don't see why they can't co-exist, and continue to do so for years to come.
*I don't have anything against calculators, by the way. I lose the ability to count once I've run out of fingers and toes.
This wasn't always the case. While not a technophobe exactly, I eyed them with suspicion - pretty much how Caxton's contemporaries must've reacted to his boast his product was "hot off the press." How could this souped up calculator* replace the experience of reading a print book? The crispness of the pages, the smell of the ink, the sensation of holding one in your hand or hugging it to your chest - I'd felt a kinship with books for as long as I could remember.
Like most of my possessions, it was secondhand. My other half had moved onto the latest model, so - having heard many a diatribe against them - tentatively gave me her cast off. I reasoned that if I hated it I could always donate it to EBay.
Segue to a falling in love montage. I took my new companion everywhere - on my break, with a cake, on a train, out in Spain. I acquainted myself with its wonderful parts. It could browse the Net (sadly discontinued). It could recite your book a la Professor Hawking. Best of all, you had the world's largest bookstore at your finger tips, the ebooks affordably priced! What's not to like?
Perhaps I'm a traitor to my former bibliophile self, but nowadays I prefer to read on my Kindle. Yes, it's gone eccentric in its dotage. It jams, goes blank, leaves me to stare at portraits of Famous Authors (Zombie Emily Dickinson is terrifying). The formatting in the cheaper classics leaves a lot to be desired. I accept that one day I'll have to give it a Viking funeral. But think of the pluses!
If you're on your Kindle, nobody knows what you're reading, hence the boom in erotica and LGBT titles. You won't get people spoiling the ending or using it as a pretext to chat you up. (Wannabe Romeos, don't interrupt a girl's reading time unless you want the book inserted in you). When you go on holiday, you don't have to lug a library around but have your whole collection to choose from. You have access to fantastic indie books you'd never hear of otherwise.
You can change the font size, meaning that squinting at tiny old print or dropping half a ton of book on your nose is a thing of the past. If a book isn't to your liking, you can exile it to your Archives rather than fob it off on charity shops or assorted relatives. Above all, if you borrow a Kindle book it won't be dog eared, covered in dubious stains or littered with distracting margin notes ('OMG, this happened to me!' doodled over Wuthering Heights). You can rest easily knowing that if there's gubbins on the cover or a crack in the screen, it's your own personalised grot.
Prophets of doom like to scaremonger and say it's a death knell for the traditional book. I don't see why they can't co-exist, and continue to do so for years to come.
*I don't have anything against calculators, by the way. I lose the ability to count once I've run out of fingers and toes.
