Search results matching tags 'Round Rock Public Library' and 'Round Rock New Neighbors Book Discussion'

Don't cry for me, Athelhampton

Linda Sappenfield — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 22:39:00 GMT

I still own a copy of Thomas Hardy's Jude the Obscure. I didn't burn mine--unlike a number of Victorian readers who vehemently disapproved of it back in 1896. Jude still incites controversy, as proven by today's Round Rock New Neighbors book discussion (at the La Frontera Barnes & Noble).

A couple of attendees found themselves unable to finish despite their best efforts. "Oppressive grimness" was, I believe, the cause: the story offers ample evidence to support that claim. Veteran Hardy readers come to expect this tone. Either you decide that you're not up to the inevitable intensely dramatic consequence at this point in your day/week/life, or (if you're a fan like me) you ramp up the page-turning velocity in order to confront it sooner rather than later. It won't be pretty, but it'll be memorable.

As happens in successful groups, disagreement fostered a spirited dialogue today. Those who wished that just about any other title had been chosen this month still ventured thought-provoking questions about, for example, the author's intent, degree of autobiographical influence, and the strictures of society.

Hardy's response to the virulent criticism of his day may not surprise you. Numerous sources state that he announced it had cured him of the habit of novel writing. Jude the Obscure was his last novel; he concentrated on poetry thereafter. I'd worked up some righteous indignation on the author's behalf, then consulted a few of the library's literature commentaries. As it happens, poetry had always been Hardy's first love; he was no stranger to rejection and likely knew what to he was up against; he also realized that poetry offered greater scope to express "unconventional" views without inspiring protest.

It's difficult to pity an author who was frequently acclaimed and who achieved financial success in his lifetime. Hardy enjoyed the friendship of luminaries and earned one of Britain's highest honors: his ashes are interred in the Poets Corner of Westminster Abbey. Except for his heart, that is; it was buried in the Stinsford parish churchyard. However, many argue that such is not the case. Allegedly, the housekeeper placed the vessel containing the heart on the kitchen table, and a cat ran off with it.

What, then, would be buried under the monument? Guessed one member of the group: the cat.

Good news: no recalls for reading acceleration

Linda Sappenfield — Wed, 10 Feb 2010 18:12:00 GMT

I'm living on the edge these days. And I'm not referring to the 2009 Toyota that awaits me in the library parking lot. The book bag on the front seat bulging with selections from five different reading discussions--that's what triggers my panic attacks.

Yesterday, for example, I showed up right on time for the 1:00 Baca Center book discussion on George Bernard Shaw's Major Barbara, hoping that the pages of the book weren't somehow smoking from the laserlike intensity that propelled me through the final thirty pages during my 12:00 lunch hour. That was a close one.
Another group I attend chose Rembrandt's Jews for their meeting later this month; it's more of a challenge for interlibrary loan than I'd expected. My husband and I both need that copy, so the book's last-minute arrival will likely instigate a marital share/read/who-has-it-now routine rivaling anything ever scripted on I Love Lucy.
Thanks to some speedy readers ahead of me in the queue for Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, my turn came up several days in advance of next week's Round Rock New Neighbors group meeting at Barnes and Noble. I'll return the favor and check the volume back in promptly.
A library colleague and I challenge each other to read work-related nonfiction titles, and we're finishing up Paco Underhill's Call of the Mall and Why We Buy before our discussion date next week.
I'm familiar with W.P. Kinsella's Shoeless Joe (it inspired the movie Field of Dreams) but need to re-enjoy it before the library's adult book club discussion on March 2.

To complicate matters, I'm compelled to indulge in non-discussion books, probably to sustain the illusion of being in control. Though currently engrossed in Elizabeth Kostova's The Swan Thieves, I had reluctantly bypassed it for several weeks in favor of assigned reading. Swan Thieves is wonderful, and I regret not giving in and picking it up sooner. Here's just one reason why: the book is an ARC (Advance Reading Copy) intended to be perused and remarked upon prior to publication.

What sort of infraction does one commit by reading an ARC when the final version is now available? Will be a citation be involved, or does a subtle shift in the space-time continuum occur? I'm reminded of Steven Wright's announcement that "I put instant coffee in a microwave oven and nearly went back in time."