Book bloggers are an intense bunch. Think of all that writing with no reward except to share our avidity for reading.
I was thinking about the act of book-blogging because it is National Readathon Day, a pro-literacy event sponsored by The National Book Foundation, Penguin Random House, Goodreads, and Mashable
I was busy during official readathon hours, but I made up for it later. I finished Pamela Hansford Johnson’s remarkable novel, The Philistines, an exploration of the psychology of an unhappy woman who marries a suburban banker after she realizes she has no talent for writing. Her mother, an artistic widow, is appalled.
What else should I do? I have no future.”
“There’ll be something…something.”
“Oh, something!” Gwen cried, with a bitterness that made her instantly ashamed.
From the beginning, we understand that unconventional Gwen is headed for disaster. She and Clifford live with his mother and sister, and never move into their own place.. Motherhood does not fulfill her, and the social life at the club is monotonous. She develops a crush on a doctor, and it is not returned. She fantasizes about him for years.. I was struck by the intensity of the crush, an emoition so common among women in their thirties, yet largely unwritten about in novels. Perhaps romance is more exciting, but how many women actually sustain themselves by fantasies ? More on this next week.
Johnson always breaks taboos by delving into forbidden psychological territory.
There is a new trend among book bloggers: we say at the beginning of every year we are going to read only from our shelves.
We are going to be like Susan Hill in Howards End Is on the Landing, a wonderful book about her reading from her home bookshelves for a year.
That’s what I say I’ll do, and I do read from my shelves, but book-buying is where my materialism comes in. And I recently made a very interesting discovery : I can get very cheap used books if I settle for “good” instead of “very good” or “like new” condition.
At our house it is very like a ’60s sitcom when books arrive in the mail on weekends. I wish I were like Samantha in “Bewitched” and could twitch my nose and make the books disappear. Today my husband intercepted four packages. “Is it your birthday?”
I have very good reasons for buying these books, as he shortly learned. I had to replace my copy of A Dance to the Music of Time, Second Movement, because it fell apart while I was addictively rereading Casanova’s Chinese Restaurant.
I swore I couldn’t get it at the library.
And so now I am done buying books. For the year.