Florida

I'm in Florida! Having so much fun visiting my cousin. June has been packed, I feel like I've hardly seen my family and I'm sort of starting to miss them! Thankfully we'll all be together again soon...
My cousin has a beautiful new baby girl whom I am positively in love with. She was a week old and making eye contact with me - just studying the world. I have never seen anything quite like it. She's so tiny and delicate, like a little porcelain doll. She has the most wise eyes and amazing, smooth skin. It's really unreal. She hardly ever cries. She's just so content. She loves watching the colorful fish in her daddy's aquarium - she just stares and wonders. She just looks intelligent, like she's really pondering all she sees.
Also there is my cousin's little two-year-old boy - he is such a sweetie, so helpful and sweet! He's such a good child. He's going to be the most wonderful big brother, I'm sure they'll be best friends when they get a little older. I feel so privileged to have had this time to watch them. These early days are so precious and formative and wonderful. I have had such a wonderful time visiting with my cousin, and experiencing her young family in a way I never have before. I hope they can all come up and visit us sometime!
Also, I love Florida. I just miss it sometimes. It's nice to see a lot of palm trees, tan people, and chickens running all over downtown like they own the place. (Okay, so that's not a widespread Floridian trait - I'm pretty sure that's just concentrated to our little area).
Also, it's been really interesting to do stuff until you feel it's done - and then have a lot of terribly quiet free time! So different after coming from a big house and a big family. Not quite sure how I feel about it...but I love having uninterrupted time to write, read my bible, and read a little fiction - all in one sitting, uninterrupted! It's wonderful.
I've been reading mainly two things, one of them being Saki's short stories. I got a 'complete works' in Boiling Springs back home. I was at Gardner-Webb University for the Charlotte Mason conference, which I hope to write more about later, and picked up a lot of wonderful books there.
Also I've been reading The Lovely Bones, which my cousin loaned me. I heard a little about the book before the movie came out, but I just wasn't sure if I was into the heavy plot line. Due to my penchant for depressing literature of late, I thought it was very appropriate to have Saki's terse, laugh-inducing short works to counterbalance.
The Lovely Bones starts off intense. I'd compare it to a punch in the gut. It made me feel so entirely unhappy that I put it down, intending to stop reading. (Which is a big thing for me. I'm sort of obsessive about finishing books). However, predictably, I have continued. Because I want to know how it ends! And it better be good.
But wait! Intense books really have no relation to Florida, I just do that anyway. But what is associated with Florida? The beach! I went with my cousins last week. I got a wonderful sunburn, which left me at first a deep, rich red, giving the vague impression of someone in a spandex Santa suit. It then faded off to a dull cherry glow - it was an inspiring color, really - and now I have a light tan.
I prided myself on not peeling. Until this afternoon I looked in the mirror and thought I had dandruff. No. My hairline sunburned, and is now peeling. And managing to pollute much of the surrounding area.
Then I realized my back is a little too. And just now I itched my shoulder. And started flaking. But despite my brash words of before, I've realized that Summer wouldn't be Summer without me flaking like a diseased reptile.
All that aside, the beach was wonderful. The water was unbelievably clear and beautiful, I could see all around me at all times, even when I went in up to my chest. (And this is the part where I do not comment on the oil spill). So anyways, I felt pretty sure I would at least not be surprised if a shark decided to maul me.
And of course we brought the little man with us, and he is a beach loving fiend! He spoke of nothing else for several days, and formed his own sentence around that theme: my cousin and I were talking, and I mentioned that I loved something or other. He suddenly looked up from his toys and said, "I love the beach." You could tell he was surprised and delighted to make the connection. It was adorable!
Okay, enough random post for tonight. My plan of one hour ago was to be asleep by this time.

Gone With the Wind Quotes

In honor of my second reading of Gone With the Wind, by Margaret Mitchell (I read it for the first time about six years ago, and now I'm reading it again, to be followed up with Scarlett, the sequel) I offer up my two favorite quotes, so far. (The subject matter is rather typical). If you like it, I suggest reading the book. My copy is 1037 pages long and they are the most easily-read pages I have ever enjoyed.

The heavy hominy stuck in her throat like glue and never before had the mixture of parched corn and ground-up yams that passed for coffee been so repulsive. Without sugar or cream it was bitter as gall, for the sorghum used for "long-sweetening" did little to improve the taste. After one swallow she pushed her cup away. If for no other reason she hated Yankees because they kept her from having real coffee with sugar and thick cream in it.

Now that's real privation. That last part is the one I identify most with - it's so easy to harbor bitter feelings for anything that comes between me and my coffee.
This next part is very beautiful. I love when people talk about a love of the land, it's something hard to explain, sometimes, and Margaret Mitchell always puts her finger right on it, and keeps it there. She really understood the South. Since the sequel Scarlett was written by a different author, I hope she keeps that spirit intact.

When she looked at Tara she ecould understand, in part, why wars were fought. Rhett was wrong when he said men fought wars for money. No, they fought for swelling acres, softly furrowed by the plow, for pastures green with stubby cropped grass, for lazy yellow rivers and white houses that were cool amid magnolias. These were the only things worth fighting for, the red earth which was theirs and would be their sons', the red earth which would bear cotton for their sons and their sons' sons.

And from Gerald O'Hara, Scarlett O'Hara's father:

"Land is the only thing in the world that amounts to anything...for 'tis the only thing in this world that lasts, and don't you be forgetting it! 'Tis the only thing worth working for, worth fighting for - worth dying for."
"Oh, Pa," she [Scarlett] said disgustedly, "you talk like an Irishman!"
"Have I ever been ashamed of it? No, 'tis proud I am. And don't be forgetting that you are half Irish, Miss! And to anyone with a drop of Irish blood in them the land they live on is like their mother. . ."

Summer Reading

And finally: the most important thing.
Summer reading!
So here's a list of the things I've been reading. . . I love summer because I can spend so much time on my own reading, rather than just school stuff.
I've discovered Agatha Christie, the obvious alternative when you've run out of Sherlock Holmes. ;-) She's quickly becoming one of my favorite authors. If only I could write mysteries with such brilliancy!
By her I've read:
Death on the Nile (Excellent unexpected ending!)
The A.B.C Murders (Another book with a twist at the end).
And Then There Were None (did I mention the excellent unexpected ending?)

By Ann Rinaldi I read The Coffin Quilt. An excellent book about the Hatfield's and McCoy's, I really enjoyed that one. I just finished it today. She didn't take many liberties, actually, and the ones she did I approved of. Of course she had to imagine a great deal about what people said and felt, but if she hadn't it would have only been a history book. Also, she took up the side of the McCoy's (while still showing that both families were wrong), which I highly approved of. My maxim is, "When in doubt, side with the most obviously Scottish people."

And of course, why bother going to the library at all if you're not going to get a few history books? I rarely draw the line at one. This month I read:
Witness to the Holocaust, by Azriel Eisenberg
and
Poland in the Second World War, by Józef Garliński

I highly commend both authors.

I strongly recommend Eisenberg's book. I think it's important to seek out first-hand accounts whenever studying history, but with subjects such as the holocaust I find this especially true. This book is very informative and vivid, and overall real. It doesn't beat around the bush or tone down it's message for the benefit of the reader. Not the sort of thing you read at breakfast. (I discovered).
Many of the accounts were never before translated into English. I can't imagine the massive amount of work that went into this book's creation. Azriel Eisenberg was certainly on a mission, one very important to him: he didn't want anyone to forget. He certainly succeeded: I don't think anybody could forget a single word read from that book.

Józef Garliński's book is lovingly and painstakingly put together. Maybe I only think so because I'm not Polish, but it seems to me Mr. Garliński has an astonishing affection for his country. It must have taken a lot of work to organize all those facts, although perhaps not, as I think they were probably burned into his memory eternally. Garliński also wrote the bestseller, Fighting Auschwitz. I haven't read that.
In all honesty, I am not too far into Poland--it takes me awhile to absorb the political things which are so important to understand. I just learned the rudimentary steps to pronouncing Polish, and am incredibly pleased with myself, now that I can actually sound out and understand place and people names. However, now it's due to be returned to the library, which sort of took the wind out of my sails. Actually it was due two days ago. Since I can't renew it anymore, I'll have to return it--but I will check it back out and finish it!

And of course, the dose of classics: F. Scott Fitzgerald. I've read:
The Beautiful and Damned
and
The Great Gatsby

Gatsby was by far my favorite. A wonderful story. The Beautiful and Damned--ah, it's worth ploughing through all that self-imposed heartbreak just to get to the sardonic, priceless ending! Never saw it coming.
Both books provide good lessons that I intend to take to heart. The characters made themselves absolutely miserable by their own personal choices. (In much the same way as was shown in The Coffin Quilt). I do really pity Gatsby and Daisy, and poor Nick too, forced into the middle position--everybody's confidante. That is a great burden.
However, I didn't feel one whit sorry for Anthony and Gloria of The Beautiful and Damned. I thought they were great selfish children. (Well, I did feel a little sorry for them, in the beginning. But soon it was simple to see they brought it all upon themselves).
I got out Fitzgerald's book The Last Tycoon, which I haven't started yet. I know it was his last book and it is unfinished, so the whole thing will be bittersweet, as I know I'll never truly know the ending.

So, that's my summer reading.
Well, I've really got to go get some sleep--I think we'll be dropping by the library tomorrow, where I hope to grab a few more Agatha Christie mysteries...
;-) Kaley

Uncle Tom's Cabin

"My view of Christianity is such," he added, "that I think no man can consistently profess it without throwing the whole weight of his being against this monstrous system of injustice that lies at the foundation of all our society; and, if need be, sacrificing himself in the battle. That is, I mean that I could not be a Christian otherwise, though I have certainly had intercourse with a great many enlightened and Christian people who did no such thing; and I confess that the apathy of religious people on this subject, their want of perception of wrongs that filled me with horror, have engendered in me more scepticism than any other thing."
"If you knew all this," said Miss Ophelia, "why didn't you do it?"
"O, because I have had only that kind of benevolence which consists of lying on a sofa, and cursing the church and clergy for not being martyrs and confessors. One can see, you know, very easily, how other ought to be martyrs."
"Well, what are you going to do differently now?" said Miss Ophelia . . .

The West End Horror, a Posthumous Memoir of John Watson - by Nicholas Meyer?!?!

Recently I had the good luck to discover the book The West End Horror, the plot of which centers around Sherlock Holmes and his faithful friend, Dr. John H. Watson. By Nicholas Meyer...not Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

At first I was a skeptic. Seeing the novel sitting so tantalizingly on a friend's bookshelf, I chose to ignore it. How dare somebody presume to even consider trying to fill in Doyle's literarily stunning footsteps? What impertinence.

The next visit to the friend's house found me cautiously handling the book with the mistrust one usually manifests towards the Ark of the Covenant - and finally, cracking it open and reading the description.

What? This book throws Holmes and Watson alongside legends such as Oscar Wilde, Bram Stoker, Bernard Shaw, Ellen Terry, and Gilbert and Sullivan? How extraordinary. I read a bit of it.

The next time, I recklessly immersed myself in the book, and gratefully accepted when I was given the opportunity to borrow it.

I just finished reading the book. It is fascinating, I must admit, although I was mostly plunging on so obsessively so that I could find more devious ways to criticize the person who dared attempt to measure up to Doyle. (Alright, I admit it...I'm a possessive, crazed fan).

The book was published in 1976, Meyer's second venture at writing a Holmes novel, apparently: the first was The Seven-Per-Cent Solution.

The plot covers the strange and bizarre events that occur in London circa 1895. It is a miserable, dreary March...and what better to add interest to the fitful, wintry weather than the mysterious murder of a scathing, indiscriminate critic by the name of Jonathan McCarthy, followed by the equally puzzling demise of a young actress? The evidence mounds up as usual, but with the equally usual confusion and general disconnect. In that, Mr. Meyer did his work well.

And the ending is satisfying surprising, yet also a credit to the usual jolting flavor of a Doyle ending. I'll admit, it was an enjoyable read. I wish someone could come along to keep us amused with Holmes stories, or - better yet - that Doyle had written more! When you're an obsessive fanatic such as I, you'll take anything as compensation after you've read all the real stories a dozen times over.

Now, after saying nice things, I'm going to be critical and satirical to my heart's content.

First off, the thing that struck me as the most obviously nonsensical thing: Holmes getting teary-eyed? (The subject of his emotion is an unjustly accused man, who is in prison with scant hope of reprieve).

This is completely out of character and borderline ridiculous. The rare occasions in which Sherlock Holmes does express emotion is done in an effectively English and dissatisfying manner. Tears? Please. You'd sooner find a posse weeping over the plight of their quarry than the character of Sherlock Holmes getting teary over the prospect of a man being convicted unfairly. Holmes is a doer; if he were so upset by this matter, instead of slogging around a bleary-eyed mess he'd immediately move on and find a way to fix the situation - id est, find the real murderer.

In the defense of Mr. Meyer, I will state that this was an observation of Watson's, which Holmes was taking pains to conceal, and which passed fairly quickly - although Holmes was apparently emotionally shaken by practically everything that happened along the way, also frightfully uncharacteristic. Usually Holmes displays about the same amount of emotion as a cat - which is almost none at all. Not to say he is a heartless creature, but rather than moping around weeping over the horrors of the world and at his wit's end, Holmes promptly sets about righting things to the best of his abilities. And he does want to right things, proof enough of his goodness and compassion for his fellow man. I suppose my point is, Holmes may state his distress, regret, or any other emotion, but it doesn't physically manifest itself.

Also, Nicholas Meyer's Sherlock Holmes showed an uncanny openness, and Watson displayed an extraordinary propensity for constantly barraging his friend with questions. In my experience I find that Watson has learned to leave Holmes to his thoughts until he is ready to disclose them on his own time.

And, of course, Doyle's sublime Holmes would have figured things out quite a bit sooner. Also the fact that - especially towards the end - Watson displays a completely unforgivable lack of medical knowledge, not to mention a very loose grasp on the happenings in the outside world. Really, an unemployed bachelor would certainly have expansive knowledge of what was going on in China or India in his day.

I also thought Meyer went a step too far when he used these telegraphs from Shaw (in reference to his play Pygmalion, a great favorite of mine, and coincidentally the only Bernard Shaw play I have ever read) to Winston Churchill:

"Have reserved two tickets for first night. Come and bring a friend if you have one."

Churchill responded:

"Impossible to come to first night. Will come to second night if you have one."

And then claimed the wires were between Shaw and Holmes. Now I know he didn't mean it seriously, but I find too many liberties with historical fact misleading and annoying. Especially since I would have liked the correspondence to be between Shaw and Holmes...

Overall, I suppose I enjoyed the book thoroughly - for the opportunity it furnished for me to be nit-picky, as well as its entertainment. I found Meyer's Holmes and Watson to be a thinner version of the original blueprint - something I can't quite explain, like jelly when it's spread too far, or the difference between honeysuckle perfume and smelling the real thing. It was unexplainable and strangely disappointing.

However, reading Meyer's acknowledgements was satisfying. He took a very humble approach to everything, stating that any inaccuracies were all his own - and therefore very meekly assuming that there are mistakes.

Otherwise, Mr. Meyer did his Holmesian research with devotion and care, and did a better job than I could ever hope to do. The ending was rather in Doyle's style.

And the bottom line is? I may criticize, belittle, berate, and harp all I want to; but no matter how many mistakes he made, Nicholas Meyer is a published author, and I am not. So he must have done something right!