So this weekend I have so far: 

- spent nine hours in a car...

- driven through three different nations...

- drunk only seven cups of tea...

- written two poems...

- argued with my brother about parcel-opening etiquette, the pronunciation of 'demeanor', the existence of Sean Kingston and the first appearance of James May on Top Gear...

- saved a dying plant...

- and ignored most of the work I was supposed to to over Easter.

Sigh.

I had a very nice time in Edinburgh last week though. Lots of tea was drunk, I got to see Char, I ran an okay 5k and met some people from Fetch, which is my favourite (not-an-actual-) place in the world. I bought myself a new collection of poetry, and then I bought Anita Diamant's The Red Tent, and finished it in a matter of hours. Genuinely, the best thing I've read in... Christ, ages. 

It's weird, I haven't really had much time to read what I've wanted to read while I've been at university, which is kind of depressing in itself. What's been more depressing though is that I hadn't really enjoyed anything I'd had to read for uni. With just three exceptions. 

Exception No. 1: Samuel Beckett - Waiting for Godot.

Which I was sort of already in love with. I wrote my extended essay for my IB about Waiting for Godot... I was also in it before (I was Vladimir, which was interesting) so I knew it pretty well. So I'm not counting this as a book I read for uni. So, really, it's not an exception at all. I'm confused...

Exception No. 2: Angela Carter - The Magic Toyshop.

We read this one just after Christmas. I originally wasn't even going to bother reading it because my edition has quite a horrible cover and I'm quite easily influenced. But I got very taken in by it and basically existed in a trance until I'd finished it. And then we did Freud who totally ruined it for me, but I'm working on forgetting about him. Freud never happened. We never talk about Freud.

Exception No. 3: Primo Levi - If This Is A Man

Weirdly, weirdly gripping and wonderful. ALSO, absolutely horrible and heart-breaking. I had to hide it in a spare pillowcase for a few days after I'd finished it so I wouldn't have to look at it. 

When I read The Magic Toyshop, it renewed my faith that there are actually good books out there. Somewhere out there between the Conrads, Ngugis, Bowens and Kureishis there are people who write interesting, engaging and imaginative thinks. Thank GOD.

And then I had a good week when we read Primo Levi. But whenever I think about Primo Levi, I can't help but feel like I have to read some Dave Gorman or Danny Wallace to counter the utter sadness. 

That's not to say that Levi is... it's not like he wallows in self-pity and he always seems quite calm and... well, he has the odd burst of venom - there's one point where he says something about all Germans having an infantile delight in shiny, many-coloured objects - but you can't ever really get away from the actual subject. It's a very, very good book and I'm glad I've read it and I want other people to read it, but it is depressing.

But apparently reading The Truce afterwards will reaffirm some faith in humanity. Books to read: The Truce.

So, anyway. The Red Tent is the best book I've read in a long time, and it's the only book I've been able to read for myself since July. Sob. And it was brilliant - it took me until 2am one night to finish it and I went to bed in an absolute state and felt in pieces for all of the next day. Which clearly is the marking of a good book. Clearly. 

Anyway, now I'm going to make another list. This time it's going to be a brief list of my favourite books. And we're not including poetry, because it's a Sunday, and I'm hungry and supposed to be working, and poetry would just take too long:

10. Gustave Flaubert - Madame Bovary

Here is quite a big secret: I hate Flaubert. I read Madame Bovary for the first time over a period of a few days while lying in the front garden with my feet in a small children's paddling pool. I read a very bad translation and often got distracted because the Tour de France was on and it was distinctly more exciting than Flaubert. Flaubert also has this annoying habit of using six hundred words when one will do. A description of a woman's hands may take five pages, for example. And, of course, there are basically only five points in the plot, but Flaubert stretches them out to cover about a million pages. BUT, and this is something we never talk about, Madame Bovary is genuinely a very good book. It's long and flamboyant and really, really irritating. But, it's also weirdly compelling. And it gives you a nice feeling to finish it. But, anyway, we never talk about Madame Bovary.

9. Leo Tolstoy - War & Peace

Now, in utter truth, I haven't yet finished War & Peace. I desperately, desperately want to, but I can't. This is because Tolstoy has already killed off my favourite character and it was looking more and more likely that he was going to kill off my new favourite character, who I'd also fallen in love with by this point (sigh), so I had to stop reading. I can't cope with it just yet. Sorry. But I can't. It's just too awful. The book, however, is brilliant. Tolstoy gives us a ridiculously long and detailed lesson in Russian history, with slightly dull and unnecessary focus on its military tactics and dealings. Somehow though, he still manages to give extraordinary personalities and development to every one of his characters, and the (STUPIDLY LONG) story is beautifully told. But, it is absolutely crucial to have the Anthony Briggs translation. His translation has this real vividness and liveliness that I couldn't find anywhere in any other version. God help anyone who tries to read an earlier edition.

8. Glen Duncan - I, Lucifer

Not the most serious of books, but fantastic for it. The voice is sharp, witty, charming, disgusting and deliciously insane. The narrative is massive and wandering and doesn't like to be confined by silly things like time or realism. The plot is odd, but interesting - Lucifer is offered what he views as a holiday, a chance to live in a human's body (the body of a writer, to be precise, the imaginatively named Declan Gunn) on Earth for a bit. It's very playful, very daring and very, very funny. 

7. Charles Dickens - Hard Times

I've come to the conclusion that I don't really like Dickens when he writes things set in London. Not really sure why this is. The solution, however, is the Coketown setting of Hard Times. It's surprisingly easy reading - you don't even have to think for yourself because Mr. Dickens is only too happy to tell you what you think. It is also nice to occasionally read something which you know will have all its loose ends securely tied by the end. The only downside, really, is Dickens' awful attempt at writing a working class accent. Please, Charles; don't try.

6. Malorie Blackman - Noughts & Crosses

Okay, yes, so strictly speaking it's a children's/young adults' book. But that doesn't change the fact that it's written beautifully and uses the story of Romeo & Juliet better than Romeo & Juliet. It's also one of those devastating books that you may find yourself still getting upset over years lately. Sob.

5. Dave Gorman & Danny Wallace - Are You Dave Gorman?

Not very literary, not very serious, but fun, obsessive and wonderfully self-indulgent and ridiculous; Dave Gorman tries to prove that he can find and meet 54 other people called Dave Gorman. His sheer madness is countered brilliantly by Danny Wallace as the voice of reason. Who, er, isn't always the voice of reason at all, and in fact often turns out to be the voice of the devil on Dave Gorman's shoulder. Excellent book.

4. Angela Carter - The Magic Toyshop

A very weird little book with a diabolical plot. It can be ruined a bit by going in and analysing every paragraph and I really do think that ignoring all Freud references is the way to go, but Carter's writing is undeniably fantastic. The story is disturbing and engaging, and wonderfully told. 

3. Anita Diamant - The Red Tent

Another weird one - Diamant imagines and tells the story of the Biblical character Dinah and her family. It's a pretty epic book, which manages to start about twenty years before the narrator, Dinah herself, is even born, and continue until after her death. It also manages to pull this off, which is no mean feat, considering. The plot is long and fairly devastating, but it is also extremely hopeful, life-affirming and weirdly empowering. 

2. Danny Wallace - Yes Man

I firmly believe that if any book in the world, in any language and from any time, had the ability to change a person's life, it'd be this one. It sounds like a contrived premise (Wallace decides that he will say YES to every question, invitation and suggestion...) but it is by no means a contrived story. It is horrendously, outrageously funny, and deliciously happy and joyful. Cannot be recommended highly enough.

1. Kate Chopin - The Awakening

I had to read The Awakening for college a couple of years ago, and was quite worried when I was told that it had the same plot as Madame Bovary. Which is true. It has pretty much exactly the same plot as Madame Bovary. However, Chopin's Edna is much more likable and understandable than Flaubert's Emma. While Flaubert seems to be even cruel towards his character, Chopin writes Edna Pontellier so that we understand her and are sympathetic towards her. The whole novella feels carefully worked and written, but it still feels free-flowing and always seems to have a sense of purpose. It's also just a little bit heart-breaking.

we never talk about our sleeping patterns

Mine are quite weird at the moment. Last night was supposed to be an early night, but was delayed until half past one by the presence of the Lord and the Cat and me not wanting to go to bed for fear of having another nightmare.

I've been having a lot of nightmares lately.

On one of my first nights back at university, I dreamt that someone was breaking into our house, and when I looked out of my bedroom window I saw a man running around our cul-de-sac carrying a pizza box. I thought he must be delivering a pizza, but then he looked up and saw me, and through the box at my window. I screamed and my parents ran in. My dad called the police and my mother insisted on hiding all the Christmas presents in the attic so that no prospective burglar would find them. When the police arrived, they parked in our front porch and insisted on talking about the weather, and Christmas, and Sunday lunch before they'd talk about the creepy man running around in circles outside.

And earlier this week I had a dream which is pretty hazy now, but somehow included a highly dangerous, laser-filled garden, Alicia Silverstone, Alicia Silverstone's birthday, an evil stepmother, a swimming pool, a plunge pool that descended into the ground, a shower cubicle, and a rendition of Eternal Flame performed by The Bangles.

It also featured a bloke called Adrian, whose main purpose in the dream appeared to be pausing significantly mid-sentence.

He also bore a striking resemblance to a bloke I used to have nightmares about when I was a kid...

When I was about six I had recurring nightmares about running through a field of yellow, knee-high wheat (the field looked exactly like a field in one of our parents' friends' gardens only in real life it was just long, dying grass), away from the cut and trampled path that ran in a triangular shape from one corner of the field to the centre on the opposite side, and then back to the other corner on the opposite side. I was being chased by someone, this bloke, who I couldn't see but I could hear behind me, and when he finally caught up with me he took me somewhere with lots of tents and said something I never heard. In retrospect, it wasn't very scary. His name was Ollie and he wore his hair in blonde curtains. In my dream the other night, this very 90s vision of the male was updated and so the mysterious Ollie became the mysterious Adrian, and he'd had a haircut.

I'm starting to wonder about what I eat before I go to bed.

But then, I've always had really weird dreams.

When I was sixteen I had nightmares about several London museums. Only now I can't remember them very well and sometimes I wonder if I made them up afterwards. In any case, we never talk about the London museums.

I also once had a dream that my GCSE Chemistry teacher was systematically poisoning our year group with science goggles filled with bright red liquid cancer. Although, to be fair to him, he did offer one boy the choice of a leprosy sandwich, with or without tomatoes.

I think in that dream we were eventually rescued by one boy dressing up as Peter Pan and providing us all with Chemistry-resistant drugs, which looked suspiciously like Mint Imperials.

I bet Freud would really like this.

We were studying Freud last week... I think it was generally agreed that he's sometimes a useful starting point, but that it's essentially all... well, I can't put that nicely. So, er, maybe it's best that we never talk about Freud.

Anyway, moving on from that...

I finished reading If This Is A Man today. I actually quite like it, which feels a bit sick to say considering what it's about. But it's quite... I like that it's understated, how Levi doesn't feel the need to spell out on every page just how awful it all was. I like how he just gets on with his story, with telling us what he experienced, and because he only tells us what he experienced himself he focuses more on the living than of the dead, which makes it somehow simultaneously both more and less bearable as a subject.

When I was a kid, I remember being thrilled when I discovered the word 'simultaneously' in a Jacqueline Wilson book. I also remember being thrilled to discover 'in unison'. I guess I must've been pretty easily pleased as a child.

Anyway. I'm sure there was a point to this. Or maybe I'm just killing time again.

I'm kind of dreading tomorrow. It starts with the seminar on If This Is A Man... I'm dreading it because I'm not really sure how you start talking about something like that. I mean, generally our seminar discussions start with our tutor asking us all how we liked the book and someone saying that they really enjoyed it and then someone else groaning and saying it was awful. And that probably won't happen with Levi.

I sort of want to read some of his other stuff now. I want to read The Truce and The Periodic Table because I felt like his voice was kind of reliable and honest and I thought he put things incredibly well. Like, there's this bit where he writes:

It is lucky that it is not windy today. Strange, how in some way one always has the impression of being fortunate, how some chance happening, perhaps infinitesimal, stops us crossing the threshold of despair and allows us to live. It is raining, but it is not windy. Or else, it is raining and it is also windy: but you know that this evening it is your turn for the supplement of soup, so that even today you find the strength to reach the evening. Or it is raining, windy and you have the usual hunger, and then you think that if you really had to, if you really felt nothing in your heart but suffering and tedium - as sometimes happens, when you really seem to lie on the bottom - well, even in that case, at any moment you want you could always go and touch the electric wire-fence, or throw yourself under the shunting trains, and then it would stop raining. (Primo Levi, If This Is A Man, trans. Stuart Woolf)

And I liked that bit, because as horrible as it is, I felt like it was quite a clever and accurate observation, and he put it very simply... It also reminded me of a poem 'Luck in Sarajevo' by Izet Sarajlic, which goes:

In Sarajevo
in the spring of 1992,
everything is possible:

you go stand in a bread line
and end up in an emergency room
with your leg amputated.

Afterwards, you still maintain
that you were very lucky.

Which is the same idea - that however awful it is, it could always have been worse, and you do still consider yourself lucky that it is not windy, and that you have only lost your leg.

Sigh.

This isn't really helping with what to talk about in the seminar, I'm not making any sense, and I've got work to be getting on with and a fresh pot of tea that needs drinking.

Have a wonderful evening. You look lovely tonight.

You know when you feel like you've had a really good idea and then you, like, wake up and realise that you have absolutely nothing to say?

Well, I think I just had one of those moments.

I'm not totally sure what to say on this thing. In fact, I don't really feel like I should be here. I've kept a blog on a website for runners (www.fetcheveryone.com) for over a year, and I'm still keeping it. This feels like cheating on it. I feel dirty.

And I think about six months before that I got an account on LiveJournal, and I think I only ever put one entry in there and that was about this dream I had in which me and some friends ended up in the Maritime Museum and then I think we were at some football match where the stadium kept moving like some kind of radical fairground ride. No wonder THAT blog never took off.

I think that maybe this blog should try and be a bit more serious, but, er, I kind of don't like being serious about anything, ever. I mean... Well, I mean if it ever comes down to either jeans or a suit, it's a pretty obvious choice, isn't it?

Anyway. At the moment I'm trying to keep my eyes open after downing a load of Piriton to counteract the Penicillin the doctor gave me this week when I was ill. Turns out I'm actually allergic to Penicillin, and, also, it turns out that 'drowsy' is an amazingly fun word but really not a fun thing to be when you're desperately trying to revise for your French exam next Wednesday.

So in the end I spent the afternoon kind of collapsed on the sofa watching Amelie. Which counts, right?

It's also really windy outside and the windows are starting to sound strained. Also, one of the plants in the front garden just flung itself rather strongly against the double glazing. That's not so good.

That means the cat will be sleeping in the all-new dip in the flowerbed tomorrow. Ugh.

Also, my parents are now arguing about their seating arrangement in the next room:

MUM: YOU have the big chair!

DAD: I don't WANT the big chair, YOU have it!

MUM: *I* want the SOFA!

DAD: Well, *I* want the sofa!

I mean, I kind of thought the point of sofas was that more than one person could sit on them at a time? But apparently not.

But, yeah, basically, I'm eighteen, I live in Swansea and do the International Baccalaureate. I'm in the middle of my final exams and relying quite heavily on the healing powers of cocoa to get me through them. In the time I've been writing this, I've forgotten the first three paragraphs of a French essay I tried to memorise this morning so that I might be able to do the writing paper next week.

That's some achievement.

Anyway, because I feel I should put SOMETHING serious in here, and because I've just worked out how to copy and paste using the shortcuts on an Apple keyboard:

PERFECT DAY
Kathleen Jamie


I am just a woman of the shore
wearing your coat against the snow
that falls on the oyster-catcher's tracks
and on our own; falls
on the still grey waters
of Loch Morar, and on our shoulders
gentle as restraint: a perfect weight
of snow as tree-boughs
and fences bear against a loaded sky:
one flake more, they'd break.