A Christmas Carol:

Reading this book has become my only Christmas Eve tradition.  I still have the copy I got as a child one year for Christmas, the red covers somewhat faded.  For several years, I looked upon it with guilt: I was too young a reader to be interested in any passages from Charles Dickens that didn't involve children.  So although I knew I was expected to read it from cover to cover, I was an adult before I did so.  As a child, I dipped into it with growing curiosity, in search of my own kind. 

At first sight, it seemed Tiny Tim was the only child in A Christmas Carol.  He had no great adventures involving workhouses and pickpockets, but did manage to do and say everything the adults expected of him.  I didn't know whether to envy or despise the little fellow.

The story meant more when I came to it as an adult, and understood fully what it could mean to look back and realise you have wasted your life.  Understood too the miracle of being given a chance to put right those disastrous life choices from the past.  Yet Christmas past, our past as the novel reminds us, is not to be dismissed.

Reading the description of the Cratchits’ Christmas dinner, I go back to the age of nine, when I first understood the power of Dickens's language.  I can still hear the voices of the final year class, then one year above me, reciting that passage of the novel in chorus for the Christmas concert, at the English primary school I attended.  Encased in Victorian dress, they put colour and expression into their voices.  As I listened, I realised that this was not the only reason it sounded like a piece of music without notes.  It was the writer who had made the harmony, with his choice of words.

 But at that school the teachers of most consequence were those who deemed it necessary to rule by fear.  The residue of the fear is there even now, when I read the words I first heard recited in that environment.  Therefore, the more relevant passage of the book for me, at the age of nine and now, is Scrooge's liberation from his own school, revisited during his travels with the Ghost of Christmas Past. 

As a child, looking at my book's illustration of the boy reading alone, the characters from his books materialising around him in consolation, I felt sure I understood the point being made.  And the fact that Scrooge was getting out of the place for good, not just for Christmas like me, gave me a lifelong sympathy with Charles Dickens. 

I had a greater sympathy still when I realised years later what Dickens was really trying to say: that the young Scrooge had allowed the unhappiest times of his childhood to dictate his life choices, rather than keeping faith with those who had tried to save him from himself, like the young sister who came to rescue him from the school.

So today I still feel the fear and tension of those school memories.  But I also remember, with a reluctant smile, the performance my class put on next year of a reformed Scrooge's awakening to Christmas, and how my one and only bridesmaid's dress did just fine for the outfit of a Victorian lady.  Well hidden within its hooped skirts, I declaimed my lines solemnly from beneath an all-too-elaborate paper bonnet. 

And I have to recall, too, how the joker of the class, who secretly admired my dress, got hold of it backstage and threw it repeatedly in the air, while I nearly died of fright at the prospect of being found 'messing'.  But no-one caught us, and I ended up laughing with her.  The show went on, and I was another term closer to my own permanent escape from that school.  Therefore, just as I learned to do then, I push aside the terrors of childhood and leave all necessary room for the Ghost of Christmas Present.

Counting the Stars, by Helen Dunmore

The ancient world remains a popular subject for novels.  It seems that every generation tries to see its present in the past it writes  -  or, indeed, the past it reads.  This week, I again found myself reading a novel set in Ancient Rome  -  this time Helen Dunmore's 2008 recreation of the city in the time of the poet Catullus.  I also watched Mary Beard's documentary about Pompeii, on Tuesday evening.  One scene, in which Beard made a brave attempt to recline on a cold marble poolside triclinium at one of the richest villas in the excavated city, reminded me of a crucial scene near the end of Dunmore's novel. 

 

In Counting the Stars, Dunmore tells the story of Catullus's affair with Clodia Metelli, the wife of a senator and the likely inspiration for Lesbia, the fictionalised woman to whom he addresses his best-known love poems.  At first the young newcomer to Rome is fascinated by Clodia's beauty and sophistication.  Not only does she appreciate and admire his skill with words, she inspires him to write with real passion.  But as Catullus comes to understand the danger Clodia poses to all those devoted to her, he has to face up to her dark and amoral side. 

 

No-one close to Clodia is safe, from her slave and confidante, Aemilia, to her powerful husband, Metellus Celer.  The pet sparrow which awakens her tender emotions is probably the only creature she truly cares about.  In these early days of the Roman republic, life near the centre of power is never secure, and Clodia shows herself more than capable of undermining or disposing of her enemies.

Towards the end of the novel, Clodia and Catullus sit beside the fish pool Metellus Celer had built according to the latest fashion.  There are ornamental water jets, and Clodia tries to operate them without the aid of a slave.  She explains that this was intended to be a place where she could come and relax, escaping the demands of public life.

But as they look into the pool, it becomes plain that the landscaping has not worked.  The marble benches are cold and unyielding, as Mary Beard will find those in Pompeii; the water jets either refuse to work, or control themselves in a most alarming way.  And the carp in the pool, far from adding a sense of tranquillity and harmony, are either eating each other or showing clear signs of a fatal infection. 

In moral terms, then, the prestige and luxuries of Clodia's lifestyle are shown to be as decayed and redundant as the mossy garden pools of the unearthed Pompeii.  There can be no real rest for the Clodias of this world.  Catullus suggests a merciful poisoning of the fish, but Clodia is shocked at the idea of killing her pets in that way: " . . . I'll give them to the slaves.  They'll be thrilled.  I shouldn't think they've ever tasted carp."

For someone reading this in the Irish Republic after the economic boom, it is tempting to see our own society in that pool along with that of the early Roman Republic.  Whether big fish or small fish, we are all tempted now to devour each other.  The rapidly decaying ghost estates can seem unbearably similar to the emptying life of Clodia, as she sits amid the remains of her dream home.  But were we ever really in Clodia's league?  Perhaps we were more like Catullus, just passing through, our eyes gradually forced to open.  Or was it that we never really moved beyond the role of the slaves, who ran so eagerly to empty the pool and devour the decaying carp?

Death on the Nile

I've become fond of detective stories, but this is the first Agatha Christie novel I have read.  Unusually I was familiar with the story and already knew whodunnit.  The 1978 film version of the novel, with Peter Ustinov's gently probing performance as Hercule Poirot, was a great favourite of mine as a child.  I watched it whenever I could, following its every twist and turn.

This wasn't because I was any more bloodthirsty or ingenious about crime than the average ten-year-old; on the contrary, the scenery drew me to it.  I had always been fascinated by Ancient Egypt, and this was the next best thing to a film set there.  During the scenes at Abu Simbel, I was so busy staring at the giant statues of Rameses II that, like Linnet Doyle, I almost failed to notice the falling boulder.  Here are those statues now, as portrayed on the front cover of the first edition of 1937, where they have been drawn to dwarf the passing Nile cruiser.  I've been lucky enough to get hold of a facsimile of that 1937 edition.

I can now appreciate how neatly the plot has been drawn.  That small boat on the cover is a microcosm of all kinds of human emotions, from the meanest to the most honourable.  At first, the setting seems remote from modern life.  But wealthy celebrities in our times still have to be as careful about their money and valuables as Linnet Doyle was -  and find, eventually, that these possessions do not guarantee happiness.  Their presence among us sparks as many different emotions in us all as Linnet provoked in her fellow-passengers.  

However much or little money we have, most of us are also called upon to face the kind of heartbreak Jacqueline de Bellefort expresses so bitterly to Poirot.  Reading the novel in a week of icy weather, when Ireland gave up what was left of its economic sovereignty, I relished the brief escape into the heat of Egypt and the illusory peace of the Nile.  

This time, though, it was not Abu Simbel that captivated me, but the compassionate rigour of Hercule Poirot.  As Government Buildings echoed to the impotent ranting of politicians and demonstrators alike, and we all asked ourselves where the sudden boulder had come from, I felt it was a shame we could not all yield to Poirot's appeal to "bury your dead".

 

For All the Books I've Loved Before (And Now, And In Future) . . .

I've loved books all my life.  Reading has been my favourite hobby in good times.  It has also been a solace in tough times, like the ones we are experiencing at the moment, in my home country of Ireland and all over the world.  A life lived through books is not necessarily an escape from reality: reading can be a guide to living, and a way of connecting with others.  I've started this blog in the hope that I can keep writing as well as reading, and share the stories, memories and thoughts that the books I love inspire in me.  I would also love to hear the ideas and opinions that these books, along with the many I have yet to discover, inspire in other readers out there.  Below is an image that sums up my childhood idea of perfect joy:

I wasn't the only child who saw this as the ultimate happiness.  I would love to hear about your experiences with books.