Being a book worm....

I've just finished yet another great book, The Glass Castle, by Jeannette Walls. Whilst it really was a very good story (and surprisingly a true story), but I'm actually quite glad it's finished now as I've been staying up late reading a lot lately and I hate feeling groggy in the mornings...not great since I've just started a job in the book selling industry, which is the first step into what I hope will be a successful book-related career.

It's funny, but the last three (non- Dean Koontz) books I've read have all been about the lives of children and their families, particularly children who are growing up in unusual or unfamiliar circumstances.

The first book was Pigeon English by Stephen Kelman about a young and ingenuous boy Harrison who moves to England from Ghana with his Mother and teenage sister, and who must learn about 'growing up' in a curious and at times violent place, without the guidance of his father who has stayed in Ghana with the rest of the family until they can afford the plane tickets, and without much intervention from his mother who works long hours as a midwife. It's a brilliant story told through the eyes of an naive outsider in a world that is both exciting and and full of wonder - every day it seems Harrison, like a sponge, absorbs some new information about his new home and the people in it - but it is also a dangerous world, full of corrupting influences and 'role models' as Harrison struggles to maintain his christian and moral values as the temporary 'man of the house' at the same time as trying to fit in with his peers. I don't want to spoil any of it but some of it is quite sad as it deals with violence and what seems like senseless crime, but in spite of his somewhat grim surroundings, Harrison is such a cheerful, family-oriented boy who rejoices in the small things in his new life, things that others don't necessarily appreciate, like the way his baby sister shouts his name over the phone back in Ghana, making footprints in wet concrete, running in the rain with his eyes closed, and chatting to the pigeon who comes to perch on his balcony, even though everyone else tells him it's nothing but a filthy bird. I suppose what's most sad about Harrison's story is that, although a lot about England is unfamiliar and unusual to him, the story of gang violence in deprived areas and the struggle of immigrant families is all too familiar in the UK...

The second book that I read recently about a child in unusual circumstances is Room, by Emma Donaghue. This is quite simply one of the best books I've ever read. It's told from the perspective of Jack who is 5 years old and has spent his whole life locked inside an 11ft squared room with his Ma and knows nothing else of reality. The language used by both Jack and his mother reveals bit by bit the life that they have built inside their little 'planet'; furniture and household items, such as Rug, Blanket, and Meltedy Spoon all have special significance for Jack and become characters of their own in this strange but creative world. Despite the circumstances of their existence, which becomes apparent as the story unfolds, Jack's Ma is able to create a happy and educational routine for Jack out of the meagre resources available to her, making toys out of leftover egg shells, like Snake who lives under Bed, telling him wonderful stories where he is the main character, singing along and dancing with Jack and his friend Dora who lives in TV, and every day or so playing Scream - stacking furniture up on Table underneath the skylight and shouting as loud as possible - as Ma cryptically says, 'just in case'. Every night Jack is tucked up to sleep inside Wardrobe with the doors shut tight, always before the door beeps to signal Old Nick coming in...

I read this book in one day, I was absolutely, 100% absorbed in it, so compelling was the story, but also the language. For about two weeks after I'd finished it I was still capitalising items of furniture in my head. So imagine what it must be like for little Jack who has known nothing else but Room and all his friends in it, to suddenly find out that there is an Outside. With this life-changing discovery he has to try to comprehend why all his wonderful friends in Room, why everything he has ever loved is no longer enough for Ma, and what that means for their future. Again I don't want to reveal anything too specific about the story, but it is just brilliant. I've lent it to my Mum right now but I think I'll read it again when I get it back, or give it to Tom to read, and then read it again.

The final, most recent book that I read is The Glass Castle, which is the true story of the dysfunctional and impoverished upbringing of Jeannette Walls and her three siblings by her highly intelligent and aspiring, but alcoholic father Rex, and her artistic and at times immature and irresponsible mother Rose Mary, who are constantly dragging their children around the country as they do the 'skedaddle' from one place to the next. In spite, or perhaps because of, her chaotic childhood, Jeannette is determined to make a success of herself, which she eventually achieves as a well-known journalist and columnist in New York, but she later struggles to reconcile her new lifestyle and successes with her roots, feeling guilty and ashamed about her swanky apartment in Park Avenue, while her parents are sleeping rough on park benches.

My own mother is the polar opposite of Rose Mary Walls - my Mum was (still is) a feeder, who I believe has an addiction to food shopping, and while I was at uni she used to insist that I had a friend (preferably of the large, male, rugby-playing variety) to walk me across the large and well-lit open space of Great Court at night, just in case some pervert had managed to sneak past the porters (Cambridge-speak for ex-army security). I always used to joke that he'd have to be the flattest pervert in the world to hide amongst the well-cut lawns of the courtyard, but at least my mother didn't abandon me to the prying hands of actual perverts, or spend all her money on paint instead of clothing her children, or leave us to feed ourselves from rubbish bins at school. Although there are some moments where you feel the love that Rex in particular has for his daughter, and you can appreciate what they were trying to achieve in the 'education' and life experience, in particular the appreciation of nature, that they gave their kids, this book made me feel damn grateful for everything my Mum (and Dad) have ever done for me, and makes me even more keen to make sure I do well in this job, so that I can eventually pay them back (not necessarily financially) for everything they gave me.

Although I absolutely loved each of these books, lately I do feel as if I've read too many brilliant books too quickly and in too quick succession, which I think is why I want to read Pigeon English and Room again, to give them the time and respect they deserve individually. I've been a bit of a book worm of late, which I think is an apt description of how I've been reading. I'm not normally a reader of bestsellers, as my personal tastes are a bit 'different' to the mass-produced consumer market, but it's fair to say I have certainly 'consumed' a lot of literature over the last couple of weeks. Like I said about the Diving Bell and the Butterfly, it's not always a good idea to read books too quickly, and since I hate the idea of books as a 'consumable' item, to be discarded as soon as you've 'used' it once like so many things in today's society, I think I'm definitely going to read some of these books again. I may or may not intersperse them with some Dean Koontz, just to balance out the brilliant-trashy book ratio :)

Ok, it's getting late and I've needed to go to the bathroom for about half and hour now, so I think that's enough rambling book talk for one night. I'll leave you with this, which makes me smile every time.

Goodnight everyone!
xx