Is It Only Tuesday?

You know what I abhor? The phrase "one of them". I was told Saturday that all foreigners should leave Scotland and when the speaker learned I was foreign, he qualified his words with a "but you're not one of them" excuse. If I had a penny for every time I have heard people use that phrase, I'd be knitting cashmere sweaters. It's a lousy, cheap way of trying to seem less xenophobic and more inclusive, but the phrase only makes the speaker appear more racist and exclusive. Anyway. Sorry for that mini-rant. It has been a long week even if it is only Tuesday. My head is pounding and I still haven't had dinner (because cake does not count). Let's go for some delightful links.

+ Viktor & Rolf's Barbican Exhibition. Side-by-side comparisons of runway models and quite creepy dolls. Interestingly, it took longer to recreate V&R's clothes in doll-size than it took to create the original runway look. + Interesting Bookcases and Bookcase Designs. I used to know someone who lived in a 17thC Copenhagen townhouse and who'd use the rafters as her bookshelves. It was awesome. I really like the children's bookcase-bedroom, actually. Wonder if it would be possible to recreate that in an adult size? + The Word Clock. What it says on the tin. + Czech uranium glass buttons. Uranium?! I came across these listings on eBay and I still don't know what to make of them. + I'm not a huge fan of cupcakes but this shark attack cupcake mountain is fantastic.

Finally, Charles Bernstein on the current global crisis:

Let there be no mistake: the fundamentals of our poetry are sound. The problem is not poetry but poems. The crisis has been precipitated by the escalation of poetry debt—poems that circulate in the market at an economic loss due to their difficulty, incompetence, or irrelevance. Illiquid poetry assets are choking off the flow of imagination that is so vital to our literature.

Back To Books

I may have injured my wrist through too much knitting. Yes. Really. I'm going to see my doctor tomorrow for my usual 'why do I keep keeling over, Doctor McKay?' thing and might just ask him about my poor overworked wrists. I suspect the answer may be to lay off with the knitting for some time. At least that will give me time to finish various reads.

I'm currently halfway through Iain Pears' An Instance of the Fingerpost which reads like a mix between early Julian Barnes and Umberto Eco with a dash of classic whodunnit. David gave up on the book after about 200 pages but I find myself enjoying its slow pace, Pears' knowledge of 17th century science (unlike, say, Ross King whose Ex Libris was so, so, so inaccurate that it nearly made me cry) and the novel's multi-narrative structure. My partner bought Pears' The Immaculate Deception from Oxfam Books yesterday. It looks to be a light read, though. I might keep that for winter. I tend towards light books during the dark months.

Also on the backburner: Marilynne Robinson's Housekeeping. Back when I was in the process of moving countries, I read her Gilead. It floored me with its precise language, its exploration of 'home' and 'family' and the slow, deliberate move towards its dénouement. At that point of time, I was living out of a suitcase whilst spending nights on friends' sofas. I was susceptible to Gilead, in other words. Robinson's Housekeeping is bleaker and I cannot quite muster the calmness that her novel demands. I still adore her way of using language though.

And then there are the books which have suffered. Maps For Lost Lovers by Nadeem Aslam and Old Men In Love by my beloved Alasdair Gray (signed 1st Ed - I should scan the dedication). They're on my bedside table and deserve far more attention.

If everything else fails, of course, there's always my growing stack of knitting books..

Fantabulous Faber

Faber and Faber is sending me a proof copy of Andrew Sean Greer's new novel, The Story of a Marriage. Greer's The Confessions of Max Tivoli was excellent and I'm looking forward to see how his new novel compares. Thank you, F&F. I hope this is the start of a beautiful friendship between TS Eliot's old publishing company and yours truly.

(If you ever feel like letting me rummage through your archives, you know how to contact me)

They Used Wine Presses, You Know

Me mam's apparently doing a bit better. It's slightly strange to be in another country and not being able to rush to the hospital.

Somebody at BBC is my new friend. Stephen Fry & the Gutenberg Press is showing on BBC4 tonight so whoever greenlighted that show gets to be my friend. Yes I'll sit there with popcorn shouting at the telly whenever they say something vaguely incorrect (or get too carried away with the entire 'cultural revolution' - too Eisenstein and not enough Johns for my taste. I just know they'll fly on the wings of the "printing press as agent for change" thing and there are so many problems with that idea..). Oh, my heart be still.

Related-ish: two ways of debasing/defacing/recycling books (delete as appropriate):
+ Nicholas Jones - Book Sculptor
+ How to make a handbag out of a book

I'm not sure I approve.

Fragments

I have my book! I also have dirt on my forehead from when I blacked-out in the middle of a path and somehow avoided the broken glass bits. And in a minute or so I will have a cup of coffee right next to me. Life is so exciting! Confession: I have a weakness for very silly Ben Stiller films. Dodgeball and Zoolander, particularly tickle my funny bone. So, when I saw the trailer for Tropic Thunder, I felt compelled to spread the news: think Apocalypse Now but with Ben Stiller as an action hero, Steve Coogan as the director and, er, Robert Downey Jr as an Australian Oscar-winning ah-k-tor who takes method acting to extremes .. It'll probably be utterly naff but I like being utterly naff at times. Sue me.

Okay, less naff entertainment: do judge a book by its cover. Aww..

Careful, Stumble, You Might Fall

I'd show you a picture, but it's a bit too gruesome: I have yarn burn on my left hand. It's all band-aided up now, but I had to abandon the yarn-fest late yesterday night after it started hurting too much. Who knew that my latest obsession would turn this nasty? I'm accustomed to paper cuts, of course, and dropping books on my feet/head/other limbs - but yarn is supposed to be soft and snuggly, isn't it?

Life's small adventures continue.

I nearly had a blackout in my favourite bookshop (scroll down to end of page) the other day. Again, you might think "Fainting in a bookshop? ah, but at least they have aisles and nice sofas.." but my favourite bookshop is naturally one of those places where the books are overflowing the shelves, spilling unto cluttered piles on the floor and me keeling over dramatically would just cause an avalanche of books that'd block the entrance. Plus I might injure one of the cats or dogs.

I'm awaiting an appointment with a neurologist.

And finally, just because I have a huge stack of SF/fantasy links (mostly all from Other Half who's slightly tired of me obsessively surfing for beautiful, beautiful injury-inducing yarn): say, you want to create an alien language..?