The Lenten Read - It Begins

'Tis the first day of Lent and I'm itching to begin my first forty-page foray. With the proviso that I may change my mind at any time (why yes, I am playing the female card), I have chosen the following books for my Lenten Read:

Little Hands Clapping, Dan Rhodes (Cannongate), 313 pages, 7.82 days




The Sorceress, Michael Scott (Randomhouse), 483 pages, 12.07 days




Invisible, Paul Auster (Faber), 308 pages, 7.7 days





The Missing, Tim Gautreaux (Sceptre), 422 pages, 10.55 days




Which all adds up to 38.14 days (N.B. I will always go for the good stopping point over exactly 40 pages). Interspersed with the above will be stories from Simon Van Booy's Love Begins in Winter (it won The Frank O'Connor Short Story Award this year over Wells Tower's Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned which I loved so I have high expectations (Rosita Boland asks about the influence of book awards on reading choices here)).

I've been waiting to read The Sorceress for ages after flying through the first two in the series (the fourth book, The Necromancer, will be out May 25th). I've also been waiting on Invisible, especially after hearing the author on Open Book way back in the summer of 2008, a very interesting individual indeed.

The Missing has been highly recommended and really, what's not to love about a novel set in 1920s Louisiana, "a wild world of jazz, moonshine and lawlessness"? Little Hands Clapping arrived in last week and I was hooked from the first sentence of the synopsis: In a room above a bizarre German museum, and far from the prying eyes of strangers, lives the Old Man.

In content the books are quite a mix, yet all are fiction, all written recently by Western white males. If we are to judge ourselves by what we read, I'm not sure what this says about me other than the abundantly obvious fact that I love a good yarn well told.

Daily updates on progress will be tweeted with possibly a blog post or two thrown in for good measure (if I'm not too busy reading).

~Louisa

Mountains to the Sea Literary Festival

It’s not often you meet someone that you will probably never meet again, and if you did, wouldn’t have a clue who you were, but who makes a lasting positive impression. I’m resistant to being star struck by fame or beauty alone: I love the Beatles – not the Fab Four themselves – rather their music which has always made me weak at the knees. I love broadcaster Terry Wogan ‘cause he always made me laugh when I listened in to his radio show, slightly homesick and far away from these shores; whether I’d enjoy his company without a radio between us, I’m not so sure. And as for Barbra Streisand, I could die happy listening to her sing but I’m sure she’d drive me batty in the flesh.

But, when I made a beeline for American author, Paul Auster to ask if he’d autograph Brooklyn Follies for a friend (well, it was originally for me but I’ve since decided her need is greater than mine) I ended up speaking to his wife, Siri Hustvedt, an author in her own right with two novels under her belt, another on the way. Siri stood as tall as a Viking (her roots, I hear), elegant, sweet natured and kind and she talked to me as if to an old friend. I, from my five foot two inches, looked up at her and saw someone, had things been otherwise, I would love to have as a friend.

That was at the grand opening of the Mountains to the Sea Literary Festival in Dun Laoghaire that is a mere fifteen-minute walk from my home. I am indeed blessed. The place was bursting with local writers and visitors from afar such as: Paul Auster, Sebastian Faulks, Sadie Jones, Declan Kiberd, John Carey, Douglas Kennedy, Siri Hustvedt, Patrick Gale, Anne Enright, Hugo Hamilton, Diarmaid Ferriter, Paul Howard and Maeve Binchy. And from York Road (which I stroll down almost daily) we had Marion Keyes, Julie Parsons and my good friend, Sarah Webb. The glitterati of the literati!

Yesterday afternoon, as we met for a quick chat, Sarah produced a spare ticket for the Siri Hustvedt, Paul Auster reading in the Pavilion Theatre. The place was packed. Not a single seat was vacant and the audience was hugely appreciative. When Siri read from her new novel you could hear a pin drop and Paul, after a loving glance at his wife who received such warm applause, read from his new work in progress, leaving us, mid sentence almost, wanting more.

Afterwards, we all dashed over to the Town Hall and joined a humungous queue to have our books signed. There was a great buzz as we clutched our hot-off-the-presses copy of Auggie Wren’s Christmas Story for Paul to squiggle his name on. And Siri, as good-natured as before, signed my proffered book: The Sorrows of an American. I smiled at her, as if at an old friend but she, of course, hadn’t a clue who I was; she did realise, however, that we had met. "Tell me your name again" she asked, apologetically. "Mary", I piped up, though truth be told I hadn’t told it her first time round. What gentle good manners she managed to display. Thanks, Siri!