Hello St Marks

From brilliant new Australian fiction to blockbuster American girlie pulp: Judy Blume's 'Summer Sisters'. Mildly entertaining chick lit about a rich girl/pool girl friendship across a couple of decades. Judy Blume is a name from my early teenagerhood; I'm sure she wrote 'Are You There God, it's Me, Margaret', which I remember as a dangerous book for 12 year old girls. Moved on to finish John Marsden's 'The Journey'. I have a lot of respect for John Marsden, as a teacher, an advocate for literacy and young people; he wrote the 'Tomorrow' teen series and a stack of books about boys and powerful, thoughtful parenting. But 'The Journey' is wierd; it's a piece of fiction tracing the rite of passage to adulthood of a 15 year old boy who sets out from his home, alone, to travel the country, broaden his horizons and grow into a man. So he discovers his body, comes to respect nature, becomes independent and resiliant, works, meets oddi...

It's hard to write about 'The Slap', by Christos Tsiolkas, because it was gripping and devestating in one. I had read a short review about this book and knew it had a great set-up - a suburban BBQ in Melbourne, where a dad slaps another person's toddler - but I didn't know anything about Tsiolkas. I'm unresolved on this book. I couldn't leave it alone; it was an obsessive read, with the story - told by each of the key characters in sequence - completely absorbing. The moral issue is explored, a sequence of events revealed, all this is clever and credible, but as each voice is introduced and their actions are described and dialogue provided, under it all we hear their inner voice and it's bleak stuff. Racist, self-serving, self-centred, deluded, mediocre, mean-spirited suburban mums and dads and grandparents and teenagers who Tsiolkas submits as regular folk. I still feel affected by it, drained and exhausted by it. Before Tsiolkas I read 'The Best Am...

Forget John Marsden, I'm reading 'Deep Survival' by Laurence Gonzales. It's dazzling. I bought this book for $2 at a garage sale, which is an unprecedented sum given it had no slipcover. With no slipcover I had no cues to follow, no back blurb, no subtle dance of graphics and typeface to lure me in, so the few paragraphs I browsed in the garage were mighty persuasive. Gonzales writes about why some people live through great adversity, and some don't. There is a lot to say about this book, but here's a little bit that gave me pause: "Most people operate in an environment of such low risk that action, inaction, or the vicissitudes of brains have few consequences... Mistakes spend themselves harmlessly and dies out unnoticed instead of growing out of control." And isn't that the decription of a Sydney marketing manager's life mode? Gonzales says most people don't get any practice in pain or crisis, so we have no mental map for it, and conseque...

It may die in the ass, but I'm engaged with the idea of noting down everything I read this year. I restarted reading on 1 Nov, not a moment later, and began immediately with shiny Sunday supplements and nasty junk reading, of course. I have no restraint at all. It took weeks to catch up on all the glossies which had been waiting for me in their bags. It was delicious, and overwhelming. My first post-denial book-reading was Nick Harkaway's 'Gone Away World'. It was a brilliant premise, wildly imaginative. The first half was amazing, delicious, then it fell apart for about a third, then came together again to finish. I may not have done it justice, though; reading it when I was starving, I gulped it up and had no patience. I'll read his next book, when it comes. Nick is John le Carre's son, so it was a literary sensation, much-anticipated, etc, and worth the hoo haa. I finished Barabara Kingsolver next. She's great. She'll stay with me. Oddly, one of the m...

October is dead, long live November. It was much harder than I thought to go 31 days without reading, but it's done and I'm a better woman for it. For a little while, at least. I spent the weekend with friends in print: I read Maggie Alderson's whimsies, Adele Horin on school league tables and Stephanie Dowrick on reading, of all things. Stephanie was writing about reading as part of a communion of ideas; that writing and reading are fundamental social activities. She wrote: "We read books individually, but part of their wonder is how authentically they connect us to other people, regardless of where those people are." I exit one book-free month in compete agreement with Stephanie, and with some guidelines for future reading: Reading is food. Choose wisely, limit the junk, balance main meals and dessert. I'm talking about a little less fantasy, but I'm really putting the stopper on shiny Sunday supplement stories about trends, food and relationship case st...

30 minutes on public transport without a book is cruel and unusual punishment. I read the ads. I almost read Rebus over a shoulder. Eventually I chewed over my current preoccupation: brain food. Reading is a brain food delivery system. If junk food tastes good but has no enduring value, so too a narrow diet of fantasy fiction (or romance, or crime, or whatever your junk preference). Choose from the healthy options menu and you'll grow up big and strong. I need to balance my diet of Barbara Kingsolver (more please) and Robin Hobb (only for treats). This metaphor could go far. So if you don't read, are you starving your intellect? I'm stretching a metaphor but there may be a chicken nugget of truth in it.

One more week to go. Things I have done in the past 3 weeks which I wouldn't otherwise have done: Written a blog. I like it. Gone for a walk, just for the hell of it. I like this too. Painted a large abstract canvas with the boys in the garden. It's called 'Flower of Truth', named by G. I don't know what it means, either. Discovered several new TV shows on Foxtel: 'Breaking Bad', and something about a psychiatrist. Online shopping. A lot of washing. Stupid amounts of Work. Things I have not done in the past 3 weeks: My tax return. Read other blogs (where do they all live?). Gone to the dentist. In the past 3 weeks Work simply expanded to fill the space left vacant by reading, especially after the boys' bedtime. Every night the dilemma, what to do, what to do? Bedtime is horrible without a book, so I'll prop myself on the sofa with a movie and my laptop and get a whole lot of Work done. After 10.30 I'll watch any old bit of Lifestyle Channel tat, ...

I am becoming less interesting, this is certain. My internal dialogue is boring even me. Coming out of my mouth is chat about kids, work, property, schools, gardening, family news and gossip plus old views, established opinions and well-rehearsed positions. In the absence of new inputs I'm stalling. I think if this went on too long I'd stop altogether. How does the brain stay fluid if you don't read?

I was the library lady today, stacking books at G's school. I like to do it when I can, and J seems to enjoy it, or enjoy the box of dinosaurs under the counter. I drifted over to the FAN shelves - did you know that primary school libraries devote an entire wall to Fantasy? Is this a Harry Potter-inspired recent phenomenon? At G's school the fiction department has Wonderland (picture books), Middle (chapter books) and Fantasy, each of about equal heft. I think that's remarkable. Anyway, I made sure to sort the FAN books so I could browse the shelves and borrow a couple of books for myself, thinking the last couple of Sonya Hartnett books looked good... old habits die hard. I note for the record that I have received 4 lovely magazines in the mail this past fortnight, which remain in their shiny plastic bags, quietly tormenting me.

Another highly productive weekend. I'm exhausted. There are two big piles of books in my house; one in the living room (books in transit) and one by the bed. To occupy the empty (book-free) hours while the boys sleep, I'm sorting out the living room pile today. It's illuminating. Waiting to be read: Barbara Kingsolver, 'Animal, Vegetable, Miracle' (I didn't finish it before the new world order commenced; I've been describing it to everyone I know based on the half I have read, probably wildly innacurately.) Celia Lashlie, 'He'll be OK' (About raising boys into good men; barely skimmed the first chapter so far and I'm a bit scared of it. Parenting books are usually exhausting and demoralising.) Philip Reeve, 'Mortal Engines' and 'Predator's Gold' (Young adult fantasy about vast mechanised cities which float above the ground and prey on each other for raw materials; a really great idea I think.) Sherri S Tepper, 'Shad...