Magpie Hall by Rachael King

Last night I had the pleasure to finish Magpie Hall by Rachael King, she of the great blog of writing.

Magpie Hall tells a story - part mystery - part gothic romance of taxidermy, tattoos and birds native to New Zealand. The novel intertwines the modern story of Rosemary with her imaginings of her ancestor Henry and his wife Dora. I loved the sense of place, the sparse evocative language, like a stone skipping across water. I loved the tale of Henry and his pursuit of the Huia bird. Magpies, Australian ones and some of my favourite avian friends, play a sinister albeit Hitchcockian role in the lives of the characters, a literate fancy rather than the real thing. All these things build to a surprising climax.

The novel is yet to be released in Australia, but surely it will soon. My only quibble was that I felt the story was rushed in a few places, I would have loved more - more of the characters, more details more, more, more. Please Rachael I want some more. Perhaps I will have to wait for the next novel.

Highly recommended.

Lips Touch: Three Times

Have been reading the latest book by fabulous blogger, Laini Taylor, Lips Touch: Three Times. Firstly, the book is beautifully made, the cover, the print, the illustrations, I real treasure to hold in the hands. I am sure the YA audience snapping up this book will keep it on their shelves for a long time. Secondly, the writing is crisp and gallops along, the plots take surprising turns.

Lips Touch reminds me of those fabulous Misty annuals that came out from England in the 1980's, gothic tales for girls (in fact the cover illustration looks like the enigmatic Misty herself, a Kate Bushesque queen) meets Angela Carter's Bloody Chamber. My favourite story so far is the reworking of Christina Rossetti's Goblin market. Congratulations Laini. I am sure the film right have already been snaffled!

Just thinking of which 15 year old romantic girl I can pass my copy along to?

Parrot and Olivier Completed

Dear me, what a book - the imagery, the command, the voice, the virtuosi of imagery and metaphor, the delicious web of Story, sustenance for the intellect and the soul, a master writing at the top of his game. In one word - sublime.

Are there any minor quibbles - was Queensland named so when mentioned in the book, was Vermeer well known then too, would a French aristocrat know about using a bower bird for a metaphor, would American settler students read Austen in schools???

....Oh minor, so minor compared to the true joy of this book.

Seamus, the Blackbird and me

Sleep deprivation can have one thinking like a saint of old. When I was in Ireland many years ago I spent some time in Glendalough, stepping around the ancient church ruin of Saint Kevin. Those Irish Saints have been in my mind lately. Whether it was the Saints who lived in their beehive huts in the middle of nowhere with only the wind for company and the odd puffin or the monks who swirled the Book of Kells into being with their stylus and ink, pagan creatures coming out of the Holy.

Most of all, I find myself thinking of Seamus Heaney, the peaty-ness of his writing, spare and striking always takes me back to those strange and remote places. I have a tape somewhere of him reading his work, so much earth in his calm voice. This poem for me evokes the feeling of sleep deprivation, for offering oneself up - whether it be for a work of words or a baby. In the middle of the night, I find myself thinking I am Saint Kevin, the eggs fragile as life in my hands.

St Kevin and the Blackbird

And then there was St Kevin and the blackbird.
The saint is kneeling, arms stretched out, inside
His cell, but the cell is narrow, so

One turned-up palm is out the window, stiff
As a crossbeam, when a blackbird lands
and Lays in it and settles down to nest.

Kevin feels the warm eggs, the small breast, the tucked
Neat head and claws and, finding himself linked
Into the network of eternal life,

Is moved to pity: now he must hold his hand
Like a branch out in the sun and rain for weeks
Until the young are hatched and fledged and flown.

*

And since the whole thing's imagined anyhow,
Imagine being Kevin. Which is he?
Self-forgetful or in agony all the time

From the neck on out down through his hurting forearms?
Are his fingers sleeping? Does he still feel his knees?
Or has the shut-eyed blank of underearth

Crept up through him? Is there distance in his head?
Alone and mirrored clear in Love's deep river,
'To labour and not to seek reward,' he prays,

A prayer his body makes entirely
For he has forgotten self, forgotten bird
And on the riverbank forgotten the river's name.

Charlie Cook's Favourite Book - a life of true luxury

I picked this little gem while racing in my half hour reprieve. I couldn't go past a children's book honouring the delights and joys of curling up in one's favourite chair and reading. I would like my little pixie to develop a delicious taste in reading, it is one of life's true luxuries. It was read to me with baby in one arm, bottle in the other, and even though it is meant for children, like all brilliant children's books, delights both adult and child.

In this little treasure, Charlie Cook reads about all the characters in his book. The characters also read and in a time bending swirl, a russian doll effect - a pirate, the three bears, a knight and a dragon, a frog, a rook, a thief, a crocodile, a Queen, a ghost find out they have all been reading about Charlie!