Kongwak Market

The market, held every Sunday, in Kongwak, Gippsland (it's not even really a village, since the dairy closed) and is we're told, very popular, and it was full of people - none of whom are in this post.  This is a shot of the shed's roof and wall.

Door.  The Newport's the UK one.

Sort of essential, now not.

The Comet racer, heading into shadow-cloud...

Assemblage 1.

I like the idea of a slow motion slide button... On an Elmo 8mm projector.

Assemblage 2.

Fonts and missing bits.

Not for dusting the dairy.

Colonised gutter.

Yet now the whole building is heading to waste.

Used to be a filling station outside the general store.

James

Still life with pumpkin

Sometimes the composition occurs naturally, over time.  Winter is coming, the pumpkins are now inside.

James

Icebergs of art & artifact

This article in The Age is actually a good general introduction to the realities of museum and gallery storage and display issues. Like the famous example of the iceberg, most museums and galleries have only a small proportion on show; the rest often being out of view, and often (literally) underneath.

The picture above was taken from a staircase in the Louvre, Paris, while the statistics below relate to the National Gallery of Victoria:

"At last count, the collection contained about 67,000 works, of which only around 5 per cent can be on public display in the institution's two buildings in St Kilda Road and at Federation Square."

The majority of large, national or significant collection have the majority of their material in store. A global figure is hard to arrive at, but if we had only one fifth of the world's greatest museums artifacts on show we would be doing much better than the current reality. Some figures of major UK collections here show 90% or more in store - that's less than 10% on show.

Cataloguing is a lot harder than it looks. Some of these artifacts are labelled 'object' because we don't know what it is, while other equally obscure things are classified thanks to specialist knowledge. Consider the cost of this kind of core museum storage across thousands - sometimes millions of objects, and some of the remarkable costings become understandable.

What's immediately obvious from the figures above is the difference between the art galleries (good percentages on show) and museums - ranking in the ninety-percents in store. That has a lot to do with the nature of artworks vs artifacts. And then there are exceptions like the Wallace Collection, mandated to have it 'all out at all times'. (But the Wallace is an all-around exception, being also prevented from loaning anything out, either.)

Another set of figures here come from checking some of the hyperbolistic writings of a currently fashionable writer on the Smithsonian, in the USA. Though most of what the writer puts in his book is tall tales, here the reality exceeds even his grandiose claims.

Some thing are easier to conserve and store than others. Even so, something as solid as stone can suffer from continuing decay from nasties in the air and rainwater, lichens et al. And how many of these church carvings should be preserved? It's a harder call than it may seem.

It is not that there is 90% more 'cool stuff' socked away, but that most collections have huge volumes of middling interest items that are important in the mass, but generally not individually. There's a huge number of other reasons this stuff's in store - including the plain fact that it's embarrassing. Some items can't be on show much (light sensitive works) or for political reasons (a birds egg collection, once an acceptable country museum cornerstone is a hot topic on show in the 21st century).

A collection of Kestrel eggs in the Oxfordshire Museums store. Once not an uncommon collection, from a scientifically minded person, creating such collections nowadays is essentially illegal. Many museums have such collections, inherited or from confiscated by the police. For obvious reasons putting such collections on show needs to be carefully considered, while they also remain an important biological source.

National level collections like this don't store stuff in leaky sheds (or they're not supposed to, anyway) and while the higher levers of security, protection, climate control etcetera are laudable, the usually cost top dollar - for things that ultimately aren't even seen. A (small) percentage will eventually get shown, other items will find a role for research, and a few will be 'deacessioned' a clumsy term for a tricky, and risky, museum task.

What are museums and galleries for?

Andrew Sayers, director of the National Museum of Australia, wrote last year: ''We need to redefine museums as educational resources rather than as buildings where collections are held. In fact, it is probably true to say that collections are seen by governments as more of a problem - the source of demands for ever-increasing storage facilities - rather than the assets they are.''

Some artifacts are of unarguable permanent display status, a few others should be got rid of. It's the huge number in the area between the two poles that provide the museum and gallery challenge.

James

All images by & copyright the author.

The Advent of Moomins

A parcel marked PRIORITY, came from beyond the Arctic circle,

Bearing a franked Santa and a Little My stamp, inside of which was the Advent of the Moomins, arriving just in time, all the way from Finland,

To go up on the picture wall and have door ONE opened on the right day,

While others were borne to Northcote and Kingston, and no doubt other places exotic.

James

[Thanks to Bev, Ottobre Magazine, and, critically, Tove Jansson. Pic 3 by Meghan.]

Rare Inspiration I

"When the poet Paul Valery once asked Albert Einstein if he kept a notebook to record his ideas, Einstein looked at him with mild but genuine surprise. "Oh, that's not necessary," he replied . "It's so seldom I have one."

— Bill Bryson (A Short History of Nearly Everything)

See: Rare Inspiration 1 and spot the difference.

James

Lysander Wordle

This 'Wordle' is based on my Lysander book's text. It's a kind of summary, but I'm not sure it does proper credit to the research. Still, it looks pretty. A bit like writing the book, it's rendering down a huge amount of information into a much smaller, easier format. This does that all over again.

James

It's the Shunting, Innit?

What is going on?

A persistent accompaniment of dark muttering and shouting, together with a brisk tearing of wood and metal reminiscent of early Walpurgis Night in a local cemetery, suggest to the more imaginative of the passengers that the engine is being dismantled and put together again.

See over on Anno - Libro to find out. Have a look around at the other posts while you are there.

James

The Troll in the Cottage

I've taken to referring to myself as the troll in the cottage these days, as it seems I barely want to go out at all, apart from great excursions into the garden every day.

Moomin Cookbook
Originally uploaded by SelfMadeHero

But there's one advantage to being a troll: Moomintroll cooking!

Jo and Paul very kindly gave this to me for Christmas and it's packed with recipes -- the expected and the unexpected. It runs from berry soup to smoked fish and several variations on porridge (which I don't think I'll be making in any big hurry). It's definitely an introduction to Finnish cooking, as the subtitle would have it, and although lots of the recipes are incre-dibly simple, it's got a slightly unexpected character to it. And lots of quotes. Plus super fantastic illustrations.

Tonight for dinner? Well, seeing as we have not left the house and do not, no no never have visited the Troll Supermarket, tonight's dinner is Little My's peppery spaghetti. We have ham! And cream, and pepper... we eat!

Tomorrow I suppose we must go out...

How do you like your cherries?

The recent extremely cold weather in the UK in particular has had a number of odd or unusual effects. My friend Rob Leigh was recently surprised in the morning:

"I opened my car door this morning to find what looked like a shower of broken glass all over the back seat and around the centre console. There was also a strong smell of cherries.

It had got so cold overnight that a couple of cans of coke had exploded. Luckily the contents weren't liquid and it was easily brushed up. That's the last time I leave cans in the car when it's that cold. I'm up in Congleton at the moment. I don't know what the overnight temperature was but at nearby Woodford it was -16 C." [3 F]

I was reminded of Rob's experience when Bev went to fish in our car's centre console for some sweets on a journey home. As you may recall, we had a 44C (111F) day here recently, and that's the shade temperature. Inside a dark grey car parked all day in direct sunlight, it would have got a lot hotter. However there was a graphic demonstration of quite how hot it got coming up. Instead of a bag of hard cherry sweets, there was one, big, bag-shaped example. We are all familiar with the chocolate that ends up melted like a juice in a bag, this must've got to a similar liquid form, but if you had picked it up, it would've burnt.

These sweets are basically sugar and a little cherry flavoured syrup. A quick check by Bev in Stephanie Alexander's Cook's Companion reveals that sugar melts in this form at 112 - 130 C (233 - 266 F).

That's HOT.

More seriously it's been interesting that we've had several responses from UK friends, family and correspondents regarding the 40+ temps as being in some way enviable. Temperature, like other things has often to be experienced to be taken seriously. I don't have stats, but it's fair to say that the heatwaves here in Australia are as lethal as the current below zero conditions in the UK. Unprepared people outside have just died, and numbers of the elderly and infirm haven't made it through even in their own homes - in Victoria from heat, in the UK, from cold. Costs and demands for heating or air conditioning have caused spikes and shortages in both places.

Most of the debate on the issues to do with climate change miss one essential point - we are going to have to get better at coping with weather extremes than we are now. I like my cherries fresh or in Amarena, not burnt or frozen.

James

Italian biscuits and bookshops

I've been cooking and reading and thinking. (Oh, and eating, heh heh.)

A very happy place: in a slow food restaurant in Arezzo, Italy, 2008.

Last weekend, James and I went exploring up the hill. Just a few minutes' walk from home, where there were several empty shops, half-hearted kids' clothing boutiques and refurbished fridge sales rooms, now there are... bookshops.

Yes, we know what that means. Divine, glorious, unrelenting temptation. Just ten minutes from home. Almost close enough to warrant the excuse: 'I'm just going out to walk the dog for a few minutes / to the post office /pharmacy / newsagent... oops! And they had this lovely book in the window, so I just popped in....' The dead giveaway is the long walk after which the dog is irritated and not at all tired. ('Here I am, sitting on my tush outside another damn bookshop', thinks the dog... 'Good dog, blah blah blah - where's the park?')

Not being the type to kid ourselves (ahem), we agreed it would be lunch and then bookshop-shopping. There's the remainder bookshop, been there a couple of years, and avidly watched for occasional golden finds in history and fiction. There's a new second hand bookshop, which - oh heavens bless it! - has an amazing cookbook section. And there's a shambolic, traditional second hand bookshop spilling over with piles, heaps, towers of books. We reckon there's the occasional treasure in amongst the worn-out high school biology textbooks. And we were right.

So, off down the street, swinging our bag with the lovely, early-arrived Christmas cheque in it. Can you hear that little Christmas cheque quaking in fear? - Or perhaps in anticipation of fulfilment in nirvana of bookshopness? Delights!

This is what I got, and it's been inspiring much delicious reading:

Now, I've known about this book for a while. Never looked very closely at it, but when I did I was delighted: a proper cookbook that tells me WHY. Not just pretty pictures, artfully styled, and one recipe per page. Marcella talks about market-shopping, selecting fruit, fish and meat, why to use certain cuts, what stirring a risotto is all about, and more, more.

I realise that I'm no longer excited by the presentation cookbooks unless they have something very unusual, enticing, about the recipes. This book has lots of reading in it, and although it's clearly written for the American market, I'm fine with converting and finding equivalent types of fish, cuts of meat, etc. We can deal with that.

But here's the point. I've been realising the Italian cooking is, in many ways, about texture as much as flavour. Of course you use good ingredients and coax out their flavours, but texture, too. Risotto with the creamy outer sauce and a bite to the central kernel in the rice (did you know that a good risotto rice grain -- arborio or carnarola - will be translucent around the edges when you hold it up to the light? The central kernel is hard starch which will hold its toothiness, while the clear white glowing outer shell is softer starch that melts off the grain at a specific temperature when heat and oil and moisture are combined and sustained.) Ah-ha. Well it tastes damn fine, too.

I realise now that I have three cookbooks largely covering cooking from the Emilia-Romagna and Veneto regions, Piedimonte and the North. They are what I turn to when I want to try just a little harder, creating something intended, but simple. They're what I like best.


So we've had some nice risottos (risotti?), there's a slow-cooked stew planned for tonight, and biscuits.

Oh, the biscuits. They deserve a post ALL of their OWN, she says, brushing the crumbs off her shirt.

Mmm-mm.

Delicious.

As I write this, there's the sound of a bowl being enthusiastically licked across the floor by the dog. I've just finished a most satisfactory lunch, from a made-up recipe, and I'm calling it a success. (Toby seconds the motion).

Beetroot. Not normally looked on with favour...

Recently, James and I have been reading the Inspector Montalbano books (and reading aloud the good bits to Toby). Ross recommended them last year, in Italy, and when in the UK we dipped into his collection -- the English ones, that is. The Montalbano detective stories are written by Andrea Camilleri and set in Sicily -- a sort of metaphorical Sicily of beaches and food, twisted government contracts, equally twisted construction and roads, and mafia activity. They have been appearing in translation over the last several years, and we highly recommend them for Dashiel Hammet--meets Maigret--meets Lindsey Davis' Falco. And the food is inspiring.

Today, Sunday of the long weekend, I've been lounging on the sofa with a faithful hound snoring at my feet, reading The Terracotta Dog. Like I said, I read the good bits out loud for Toby, especially the bits with the beautiful dog in them. (He thinks Inspector Rex is dull.) Outside it's grey and damp: winter started this week.

If you've read any of these novels, you'll know that an important feature of Montalbano's character is his reaction to food. Food that brings a great sense of well-being. (Sound familiar?) While I'm unlikely to go racing after mafia contacts on blasted Sicilian outcrops, I am completely alongside the idea that good cooking makes the world a clearer, better place.

So, up I hopped. A beef stew, aromatic with orange peel, thyme and red wine, now simmers in the oven. Beetroots from the market, round and dark and the size of a small fist (after all, winter has only just begun) are roasting in their skins, carefully wrapped in foil to keep in the steam. Beetroot: that's about as bloody as it gets around here. I've been pulling beautiful radishes from the big black pot in the garden (I'm also growing spinach). And I looked at the lovely red beetroot stems I'd cut off, and I thought;

'Hm, I wonder what I could make with these? What would Montalbano's cadre of Sicilian chefs do?'

Down comes the big fat Italian cookbook. Mmm. Beetroot in bechamel. Beetroot salad. Beetroot with onions. Beetroot with anchovies - um-huh, mm, yes, that's it!

So my recipe is based on the recipe in The Silver Spoon, but is totally different, if you see what I mean.

- Rinse the beetroot stems (tops) carefully to remove all grit. Keep the few tiny baby leaves and discard any tough, brown or broken bits.

- Set a pan of water to boil, with a steamer on top. Meanwhile, finely chop one schallot and saute it in a generous glug of olive oil (out 3 tablespoons) over medium heat.

- Pop the beetroot stems in to steam.

- When the schallot is starting to soften, scoop out two anchovy fillets from a good quality (not that horrible dry pasty crap) little Italian jar of anchovy fillets in oil. Chop them roughly and add to the schallot. Cook slowly, stirring occasionally - I think it was about 8-10 minutes. I didn't check.

- By now your beetroot tops will be wilted and hot. Transfer them to the frying pan, using tongs. Toss and stir and fry it all together for another 2 minutes. Check the seasoning and add lots of black pepper.

- Finally, put it all in your big, flat bowl and add a squeeze of fresh orange juice and a tiny dollop of sweet butter. Lunch is ready!

I quartered the orange that I had zested for the beef stew, and had delicious cold orange quarters in between bites of warm, tangy beetroot tops*. Divine.

Now it's pouring with rain, and I'm thinking, a cup of coffee, a small glass of red wine, and a piece of dark chocolate would go down perfectly well at 2:30 on a cold Sunday afternoon.

Yeah. We love Italian food. We agree with Montalbano that food makes the world a better place. And we really love holiday weekends.


* PS If you are silly about anchovies, having only had dried curls of salty sea-turd on pizzas, I half forgive you, but I implore you to take yourself to your nearest good Italian grocery, get a tiny jar of a reputable brand in OIL, chop them and fry them with onions until they melt and almost disappear, and prepare to be converted.
If you don't, there's no hope for you. (so there. Food rant over.)

Why kids' books are important

I would say that children's books are the most consistently under-rated type of book. A moment's thought would indicate how powerful an effect they can have, and most of us will remember certain childhood books in ways 'more important' literature fails to stick as it drains from the memory. A successful children's book will achieve classic status in a way few other books ever can.


Recently, I was making a list of the greats in kids books. To make it harder, I had to pick just one from each country I could think of. Some were shoo-ins, others fought hard to squeeze into the niche. And then there are those that were the result of a multi-national background. I was aware that Eric Carle's The Very Hungry Caterpillar was from a German-American, and so much of what it is comes from his background, but I didn't realise how much of it. This recent Guardian interview (well worth reading in total) takes us through the story behind the story. And it's an amazing one.

Carle, like many who have seen the worst in the world (he was forced to dig the Sigfried Line as a 15 year old, with people dying around him) appreciates the motivation deprivation gives, something the affluent don't have. Like many authors his work comes, in part, from his old environment;

For his first six years, Carle lived in upstate New York with his parents, who had emigrated from Germany. In the mid-30s his mother, homesick, took the family back to Stuttgart at a time when everyone was trying to move the other way. War broke out, his father was drafted into the German army and spent eight years as a prisoner of the Russians. Before the war, he had been his son's great ally, a gentle man, an amateur artist. When he came back, he was broken. Carle turns over the memories of this period slowly. He is very careful to get things right.

His mother was supportive of her son's love of art - "in awe" of it, in fact - but was in other ways a rather distant figure. She was not a "warm" individual. "She was a good mother. But ... I hate to say this... I loved her, she was responsible, she was good ... But I don't have this feeling which I have towards my father, as something incredibly deep. When I was little, from the beginning, he read the funny papers to me, told me stories, drew pictures, went for walks. Telling stories and walking and stopping and looking; nothing terribly important. But that has been so important in my life. The older I get, the more I know that's so true."

Carle was 10 when his father left for the army and 18 when he came back, "this sick man. Psychologically, physically devastated." Did he try to coax him back to his old self? "We didn't talk any more much. Only superficial things. I had other interests. I was in art school, an artist. I was interested in women." He puffs out his chest in parody of his 18-year-old self. "This old man, coming from Russia, we got along without you." That's pretty much how it felt, he says. "It's so sad."

And art, as so often was important - perverted for power or (as the Nazis had it) 'degenerate':

The other seminal figure in his childhood was Herr Kraus, his high school art teacher, who at great personal risk noticed Carle's talent and invited him to his house to look at banned art; in Carle's memory, it was Klee, Matisse and Picasso, but he can't be sure. Anyway, it was expressionist and it made a profound impression on him. "I didn't have the slightest idea that something like that existed, because I was used to art being flag-waving, gun-toting Aryans - super-realistic Aryan farmers, the women with their brute arms. That was art. Of course. That was a shock."

Eric Carle. Photograph: Maggie Steber, via The Guardian.

As ever, the involvement of others than the author was critical; and discipline in content another critical factor:

The Very Hungry Caterpillar was initially conceived of by Carle as a hungry bookworm, eating its way through the pages. His long-time editor, Ann Beneduce, wasn't sure about a worm as a central character and suggested a caterpillar. "Butterfly!" exclaimed Carle, and so it was born.

"I often joke," he says, "that with a novel you start out with a 35-word idea and you build out to 35,000 words. With a children's book you have a 35,000-word idea and you reduce it to 35. That's an exaggeration, but that's what's taking place with picture books."

It's easy to project meanings into these books. As vehicles for acorn imaginations, they can be a lot of things. Adults, as ever, can be pretty crude.

The book's success has spawned a lot of crank interpretations. It has been described as an allegory of both Christianity and capitalism. "Right after the Wall fell, I was signing books in the former East Germany and was invited by a group of young librarians to have lunch with them. One said the caterpillar is capitalist, he eats into every food one little bit and then the food rots away. Wasteful capitalist. Interesting. I think that if you're indoctrinated, that's how you will see it."

As a kid myself, I was never a fan of The Very Hungry Caterpillar; my graphic requirements from books were always more stringent than the rough-edged collage of Carle. I may not have been a fan, but I can certainly respect the achievement. It remains a justified best-seller.

But the story makes the best-seller for lots of reasons; one key one, according to Carle (here on the Penguin Books website) makes a lot of sense to me:

The success of my books, I think is also due to their emotional impact. Caterpillar, for instance, is a book of hope. It says that you too - an ugly, little thing - will open your wings and fly. Kids who are insecure and young identify with that."

Insecurity? They know that the future is unwritten, and who knows what current activities will help them in the future. Perhaps they are just more realistic about life's potential.

James

Here there (used to) be monsters

A view of Windemere from our 2008 Lakes visit. B

The Lake District in the UK has a fascinating, complex, layered history, and is one of our favourite spots in Britain - not least because it has mini-Rockies in it, good for a Canadian's heart.

Is there one of these* monsters...

One of the most secret bits is the fact that there was a big aeroplane factory** there during W.W.II. Some time ago I hooked up with Allan King, online, and last year, when Bev and I were visiting the area, we were able to finally meet Alan and have a very nice lunch. Allan had been researching the story of this essentially forgotten factory, and the local people involved, for many years. There was a Loch-Ness-aeroplane story involved, and Allan has the answer...

...lurking under here? J

We (MMP, my publishing company) were able to publish Allan's book, which is now out, and thanks to Allan's PR skills, he scored a signing session at the local Waterstones and a feature in a spot on the BBC, available on the website, here, where Allan reveals the solution.

Well done Allan.

If you can pop by to see the exhibition at the Visitor's Centre at Brockhole, please do, otherwise you might like to buy this very fine book, from here. [shameless plug]

James


*The Short Sunderland in the Imperial War Museum, Duxford. One of all too few survivors. **It was a small factory for big aeroplanes, or a big factory for big aeroplanes, depending on your point of view. The Sunderland is a beautiful but big flying boat, and capable of lurking like a behemoth. Monstrous any which way.

Around the World in 80 Books

Well, I'm still travelling.

You might have seen my previous posts, in which I decided to hop on the idea of the good folks at The Penguin Blog, and head around the world in 80 books.

Three stops, and I've already proven a few things to myself:
1. I'm not so hot at going in a straight line.
2. I'd better have a good budget for this trip, because I seem to be indulging in a lot of trans-Atlantic travel.
3. I'm keeping pace with the Penguin blogger, but I'm off in a totally different direction.

So, what happened?

Well, after France, I'd had enough of the rain, the misery and the dead bodies everywhere (Simenon's Sixth Omnibus). So I headed straight for Italy, and for the cooking of the northern regions.

Second stop: Italy, of course!
Book: Regional Foods of Northern Italy, by Marlena de Blasi

Even though I am a cookbook nut, and adore to cook, this time I decided that I was going to sit down and read the entire cookbook, cover to cover. Ingredients, directions, notes. I'd like to say I managed it, but that would be a lie. I came pretty close, but some recipes just didn't take my fancy, and so, after reading the ingredients, I let myself move on.

Conclusions as a traveller:
Stock up on pancetta, and invite a few friends around. There's lots!

And after our lovely time in Northern Italy in mid-2008, I can imagine the landscape, picture the towns, and almost smell the markets.

Mmmm.

The scene: France, 1950s

I thought it was time for an update on my quest to read my way around the world.

In case you're wondering, I'm still in France. I did mention that the Simenon that I was reading is an omnibus, right? So I'm on the second novella of three.

It's still raining, and there's still a lot of booze going down.

Luckily - I suppose, (though that could be debated) - most of the meteorological and spirit-ual activity is on the page. Here in Melbourne, it's been windy and dry, and suddenly hotter than French Algeria (as I believe it to be). On crowded, hot trains -- that is, when they are not cancelled -- I read of the infidelities and petty lives of Parisian characters. (It's almost better when they are cancelled, because then I read on train platforms and can make believe I'm in a nice park somewhere, and that I'm not going to be late for work again.) There is much sleeping around, mentioned in off-hand manner. Murders happen. People get desperate, and depressed. Maigret goes home for lunch. (Madame Maigret is unflappable, as ever. I'm sure her tailoring is immaculate. Black and white; Eau de Nil.)

In Melbourne it's hot; but in Paris it still rains.


I still haven't decided where to go next, and although I wanted it not to be England (too predictable), I'm flirting with a lovely new book just arrived from Margo -- a book of maps and memoires and the countryside of the Cotswold. It's cheeky and cute - just what you want in a flirt. But there's a hint of more intelligence on closer acquaintance.

Will it be -?

We'll see. Maybe the weather will change.

Bev

Round the world again...

Well folks, I'm off. Round the world again, wandering from country to country and checking out the sights.

'What?' you say, 'So soon?'

Sure! I'm taking up the reading challenge on the Penguin Blog: Round the World in Eighty Books. Sam the Copywriter intends to read from country to country around the world, without leaving home. It's inspired me, and I'm off on my own journey.

Here's a quote from Sam about the rules he's made for himself:

1. I can travel only between countries that share a border, or are either side of a body of water that needs crossing. Thus, I could go England-France-Spain-Portugal-Morocco-USA, but not Japan-Mongolia-Finland. I'm sorry if you could all work that out that without having to refer to a map - geography is unfortunately my Achilleus' heel.

2. The suggested book can be set in the country, set in one city of that country, or even set in space but by a famous author from that country. Translations get bonus points, but not if they are so complex that my eyes start revolting [-or is that 'revolving'? - B]. And I'd prefer fiction, but if pushed will do the odd non-fiction.

3. Hopefully that's it. More rules may appear should I find the current ones make this as much effort as stressful real travel.

Check out the full post on the Penguin Blog for the fabulous first instalment: "The marshes, and London, England".

Are you tempted to play along? I think I will! I may make my own rules, or follow lines of conquest and colonisation, but the idea is great, and I need to break out of a reading rut.

So, last night's book is as good a starting point as any:

First stop: Paris -- with Georges Simenon's Inspector Maigret.

Book: The Sixth Omnibus: Maigret and the Wine Merchant
(My edition is published by Penguin, 1972.)

Ross introduced me to the sheer variety of Maigret novels, and I read several of his copies when we were in Halifax in July. So when I hit the buy-sell-trade bookshop last week, BookTalk Cafe, and I saw a row of Simenon novels on the shelf, I knew that some of them would make up an essential part of my trade for the day.

I picked up two Omnibuses and a single title. They're wonderful light reading, and I'm enjoying Paris.

Conclusions as a traveller:
Invest in a bottle of Cognac and a warm overcoat.

Where am I going next?
I'm not sure! From France, according to the rules, I can go to Spain, Germany, Italy, Switzerland or Belgium - or I can cross the Channel to the UK, or hop a ship into Northern Africa. I would even let myself visit any of the former French colonies. Suggestions welcome!
Stay tuned for postcards.

Bev

PS. James says he can go all the way around the world reading only Biggles books. Bah.

The writers room

An excellent audio slideshow on the BBC website at the moment features photographs by Eamonn McCabe of writers' rooms.

Much more than meeting the real person behind the novels or poetry, their rooms and bookshelves tell us a lot about them.

Eamonn McCabe, Beryl Bainbridge’s Room. From Writers’ Rooms. Archival digital print 29.5x42cm, paper size. Madison Contemporary Art, London.

A revolver on the desk is perhaps trying a little hard for the Gothic writer persona, don't you think, Beryl? I do like the ship model though (Of course it'll be the RMS Titanic, won't it...).

Some are exactly what you might expect, others surprising in other ways. Have a look at the show, and I suggest you do it with the captions 'off' first and see if you can match anyone's writing style to their room. Few seem to have too much of the 'look at me' wall, and there's a good sprinkling of inspirational objects, pictures and material tacked to walls, or spread around. Some rooms provide comfort for the natural 'floor pile filers' among us.

Eamonn McCabe. Craig Raine’s Room, from Writers’ Rooms. Archival digital print, 29.5x42cm, paper size.

The exhibition is on at the Madison Contemporary Art gallery in London.

Unlike many other professionals, such as musicians, or even sports people, writers remain people who can be their own best manager or worst enemy, the writer's methodology and technique being entirely up to them and ranging as widely as can possibly be imagined and a bit beyond. The book Writers on Writing is fascinating on the topic, while the NY Times has an online version.

It's fascinating peeking into other writer's working places. I'll never forget the photo I saw of the interior of Roald Dahl's shed. But there's a more egalitarian version online too. 'On My Desk' is a great blog, and well worth a dip into. (And a 'G'day' to our friend near the top of that one, too.)

Whichever writer said 'a writer has to write' was right. So I've got to go and do some.

Cherio!

James

Librarians hot in pursuit

Every week or so, I receive an e-newsletter from the British Library. If you're like me, I usually skip over e-newsletters until I've got a dull moment, and then quickly skim - or not - before deleting. They're not, generally, riveting or inspiring reading.

Today, I paused.

"Library Thief Convicted", the headline proclaimed. And I felt that chill touch down my back, that someone - anyone - could desecrate a library. Books, for heaven's sake. Libraries. The British Library. Oooh. Not good.

The courtyard in front of the new British Library on the Euston Road. Photo by James.

But then I read the rest of the newsletter (reproduced in full below), and I started thinking. I've got (like many) a romantic, educated and probably middle-class fondness for libraries and books. I love libraries. I love that they are free. I adore the prospect of exploration. I'm excited about how the libraries in Melbourne have recently awoken, and they're cool places to be, to socialise and exchange ideas and learn and listen and read, of course, of course, to read is at the heart. I love to wander the shelves, trailing my fingers over spines, snuffling the pages, occasionally finding bookmarks, receipts, other people's library check-out tickets.

The old British Library building in the centre of the British Museum. Who knows, the previous reader of the book could have been Karl Marx. Photo by James.

But there's another side, as ever. Books can be political. They are. Books can represent views that harm, that twist and deny events or conflicts that are of prime importance to us. That's why books get banned, burned, banished, black-listed. That's also why they get written, debated, promoted, passed around. The infinite variety in humans? Well, of course it spawns infinite variety in the books we humans write.

And so I wonder: why did Mr Farhad Hakimzadeh steal those books and pages? Why would an academic and researcher into the Mughal Empire, take these documents? Profit or politics? Academic involvement with his subject, to an overweaning degree? What prompted it? Why?

Reading the newsletter, it soon becomes apparent that the librarians are upset about precisely the same question. Dame Brindley and her minions are on the warpath. You can almost hear them howling "But he's an academic! Why would one of our own harm our precious books?" And I don't blame them. It is - as they all immediately point out - an enormous breach of trust. And the library's promise to pursue thieves with 'utmost vigour' - while it brings to mind a rampage of librarians on the warpath - is laudable and should be supported.

I'll be interested to read more about the case. The whole newsletter is reproduced below for your interest, and there's an interesting interview with the Head of Collections.

Bev

• A short audio clip: an interview with Dr Kristian Jensen, Head of Collections at the British Library.

• British Library Website
  

LIBRARY THIEF CONVICTED

Mr Farhad Hakimzadeh, a former British Library Reader, is due to appear at Wood Green Court today (Friday 21 November). Hakimzadeh has pleaded guilty to ten counts of theft from the Library, and asked for further charges to be taken into account. He has also admitted theft from the Bodleian Library in Oxford. Sentencing in this case is expected later today and you may have seen coverage of the case in this morning's press.

Hakimzadeh used considerable skill, deceit and determination to steal leaves, plates and maps from collection items. In many instances his thefts were initially difficult to detect. The items he mutilated are mainly 16th, 17th and 18th century items, with a lesser number of 19th and a few 20th century items. The predominant subject area is the West European engagement with Mesopotamia, Persia and the Mogul [Mughal] empire (roughly the area from modern Syria to Bangladesh), and western travel and colonisation / exploration.

Readers should be assured that theft from the British Library is an extremely rare occurrence. As Readers will appreciate, we are a library, not a museum. We are committed to making our collections available in the interests of scholarship and research, and to do this an element of trust is necessary. Hakimzadeh fundamentally betrayed this trust.

I know that Readers will share the anger we feel about this crime. The Library takes very seriously its duty to protect the collections for your use, and for the generations of Readers to come. We have zero tolerance of anyone who harms our collections and will pursue anyone who threatens them with utmost vigour.


Danger - Armed Librarians On Site.

The successful prosecution of Hakimzadeh follows a thorough and detailed investigation by Library staff and the Metropolitan Police. This led to the recovery of some of the items stolen by Hakimzadeh, and civil proceedings are now underway to recover further items and to seek financial compensation.

The Library has been heartened by the generous co-operation it has received during this investigation from a number of institutions and from other libraries in this country and abroad.

Should any Reader have a concern about the security of a collection item, please do speak to a member of Reading Room staff.

Dame Lynne Brindley
Chief Executive Officer
The British Library

Washing the dog

You probably know that you are working too hard when washing the dog seems like a bit of a break. But Toby did need a wash, not because he was dirty, but because he's itchy and allergic and unhappy.

He doesn't enjoy the experience at all, but he wants to do the right thing, so he just huddles there, looking thoroughly miserable, and wet, with his normally perky ears right down, and a vanished tail, and making you feel like a remarkably imaginative and soulless torturer.

But it's soon over, and it's off to 'My new favourite thing!' a W-A-L-K, which is a reward, as Bev says, for all the pack.

Mine, all mine!

After the walk and the transformation of the washing room from a stable block with the stable-boy on strike back to human-habitable, one begins to notice the smell of the dog shampoo.

It's mild, like some other hardworking smells - woodworm treatment comes to mind.

But pervasive.

We'd changed all our clothes, but we smell of the damn stuff. The bathroom smells of the damn stuff - Toby of course, stinks of it, and it slowly becomes clear that the house smells of it, which is where the woodworm treatment comparison comes back to haunt. Are we going to have this for months?

Losing one's special biscuity smell must be some offence against the Declaration of Basic Dog Rights. Perhaps this smell is a subtle revenge? Smell, as any dog will tell you is very, very important. How else do you know who's who?

There could be no photographs, for reasons all-too-obvious, but our illustrator has stepped into the breech, sketching madly-away like an Official War Artist in a combat zone...
As I write this, someone's lying asleep next to me, working on getting 'his' smell back, dreaming doggy dreams, and looking like a little bear.

I wonder if he remembers enjoying the towel?

James - with illustrations, of course, by Bev.

PS: Talking of washing dogs, like all real dogs, there's a bit of Harry the dirty dog in Toby.

It's a great book, by Gene Zion and Margaret Bloy Graham, well worth seeking out. It seems to be filed in the kids' section which is clearly a mistake; it's wasted on them. And a big thanks to the local Darebin councillor who ensured Harry was enshrined on a mosaic covering a street tree planter. Harry, local hero.