I need books like I need air. Like I need water, and food, and human contact.

The moment I started reading, I started sleeping again. Okay, there were also a few other changes; but there was a direct correlation between the stack on my bedside table and the length of time it took for my eyes to shut.

I guess sometimes you have to stop doing something before you fully appreciate just how much it means.

I am pleased to report that I am back on the books. I started with ‘Her Fearful Symmetry’ by Audrey Niffenegger, even though I am still to catch up with ‘The Time Traveler’s Wife’. It was a little disappointing, if I’m honest, but the first two-thirds had me totally gripped. Intriguing characters, evocative descriptions, the familiarity of Hampstead and Highgate jarring with the bizarreness of the ghosts and the story –

This is what I love about fiction. It takes you on a journey. It’s my buffer between the real world and the imaginary world that comes when you let go and sleep.

After Niffenegger, I returned to Emily Dickinson for a little bit. I brought all her poems one year, and will be reading them for the rest of my life. Every experience, she manages to articulate. Every feeling, she translates into words; and, if it wasn’t for the jolt of familiarity, I wouldn’t even have anticipated that the feeling existed, let alone that it was shared –

I have learnt as much, through reading, as I have through being in the real world.

Anyway, I’m now tackling a chunky new Barbara Kingsolver, The Lacuna. I am not gripped, quite yet, but I am starting to see the colours and hear the sounds. At some point, it will come to life and the characters will seem to exist, in my mind, re-awakening each night with the words…

This is part of what was missing.

I need books, I think, like I need people, and water, and warmth, and air.

Emily Dickinson, from a letter to Mrs J.G. Holland, May 1866.

I wanted to find a snappy quote for Friday, but I fell over this.

Make of it, what you will: Emily Dickinson defies intepretation, and I have resisted the temptation to google her words into meaning.

She might be referring to food – which opens up the whole idea of exploring the tastes and is a lesson, for me, in itself…

Or she might be talking about life, in which case, I concur.

It is, indeed, a “vast morsel”.

After a week of flashes – and sparks – and unexpected-clicking-into-place, this quote works well. It works more than well, actually; it captures both the senses that have been awakened, and the appetite that I have now found. It reflects the colour with a tint of chaos; the playful delight of new sights; the ‘gosh did that really happen’ feeling that I totally get, even though no circuses have been parading outside my window….

It’s just that I’ve started seeing – and tasting – and sensing life.

Figuring that I deserved a break – after such a marathon – I was delighted to find (!) the latest Marina Lewycka on my shelf, and decided that a touch of humour and a very attractive front cover exactly met my need.

Lewycka’s first two novels – ‘A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian’ and ‘Two Caravans’ – got my nod of approval. They weren’t the kind of books I normally go for, but I fell in love with the colourful characters and their warmth; and I was struck by the unusual mixture of laughing – and learning – that went on. I enjoyed the interplay between cultures, and characters, and history, cleverly blended with a dash of the slapstick, and an interesting take on the English language that kept me engaged and amused –

‘We Are All Made Of Glue’ didn’t quite hit the mark. I laughed (a little) and formed a few (fragile) connections to the characters; but the message – aka the title – was slightly too over-powering and the emphasis made the story seem quite trite.

We are made of glue. We fall apart. We come together. We stick to other people. We get unstuck. That kind of thing.

True, there were some interesting facts about displaced Jews in the Second World War and a clash of cultures that is still relevant today. And yes, there was a cast of slightly eccentric louder–than-life characters, with an array of accents and the potential for a few comical scenes –

But it didn’t quite gel. Which is somewhat ironic.

Written in a first person narrative, ‘We Are All Made of Glue’ is the story of Georgie Sinclair, a middle-age-ish woman who is going through a bit of a rough patch. Recently separated from her husband, her life appears to have lost structure and direction – and therefore takes some unusual turns. Befriended by an elderly, slightly unhinged, and often quite repulsive neighbour, known as Naomi Shapiro, Georgie gets pulled into a squabble over a coveted mansion; various entanglements with estate agents and social workers; a re-visiting of Jewish and Palestinian conflicts; the piecing together of Mrs Shapiro’s history; online Armageddon; repairing her own broken marriage and breaking children….

It’s clear where the glue and adhesive bit comes in. It just felt a little bit too much.

Anyway, I don’t imagine that Lewycka is meant to be taken all that seriously; and it wasn’t all bad as I made it to the end. Moreover, a few kind of funny images are still lingering on the sidelines (PVC windows on a rambling mansion in the heart of Islington; a middle aged woman strapped to the bed with furry handcuffs when her son returns home – that kind of thing); and the warmth with which Lewycka writes about people and relationships did, at least, remain intact –

It’s just a shame that some of the other bits stuck.

Like an unexpected reflection, quotes seem to be a way of knowing ourselves – through hearing another – and reaffirming what we do (or don’t) believe. They are a reminder – when I instinctively presume that “no one else feels like me” – that, actually, we quite often feel the same.

And have for years.

Since discovering twitter, I have moved away, slightly, from the random page-turned-down quotes that normally serve to locate me. My books continue to bear testament to my emotional state, but I am privy to a daily stream of snippets that seem to capture my mood or make me stop –

to consider.

I am well positioned for maximum exposure and some satisfying sense making as the quote come flying by, nudging my insights into place.

Last night, I wrote about the importance (to me) of my One Life. This morning, a few lines have caught my eye and compounded the message. I’m sure there’s a little selective reading occurring; but, it’s great to have a few pithy touchstones to hang my emotions on, and reinforce the messages which I don’t always believe, when I come at them alone –

Like – It is never too late to become what you might have been. George Eliot – which is a timely combat to my “but it’s too late for me” complaints.

Or – Genius is the ability to put into effect what is on your mind. F. Scott Fitzgerald – which encourages me to actualise my ideas and feelings, rather than stumble blindly over them, pretending that I can’t hear.

“If you enjoy the process, it’s your dream. If you are enduring the process, desperate for the result, it’s somebody else’s dream” Salma Hayek – which reminds me to distinguish between my personal ambitions, and those imposed by others -

In conjunction with – What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us – Ralph Waldo Emerson – suggesting that I am able, if I chose to, to succeed.

And this one, which I’ve used already, but might need a little action before it steps out of my head…

Most of the shadows of this life are caused by standing in one’s own sunshine. Ralph Waldo Emerson

It has taken me over three months to reach the final page, smashing any contenders for the ‘longest read ever’ title.

In most cases, I would have given up weeks ago; however, bought on the back of a respected recommendation, and prompted by a timely post asking at what point a book should be abandoned, I realised that this wasn’t the kind of novel I could shrug my shoulders and walk away from – and refocused my efforts in a dash for the end.

I am not sure what to make of it.

I have an English literature degree. One of the few things that I should feel on safe grounds with is analysing texts –

But with this novel, I’m surprisingly stumped; and resisting all urges to google its meaning and squish it into a nice, neat storyline and generic box.

I know that part of my confusion comes from the stopping – and starting – and putting down – and picking back up – of it, which I would therefore not advise (block out a few days and go with the absorption).

I appreciate that it is a bit different to the stuff that I normally read and is, quite possibly, intended to be multi-dimensional and intricately layered (as life itself is; and the characters, themselves, are)…

But, instead of the expected structure of a beginning, middle and tidily resolved end, I am left with a lot of questions; and a mishmash of brightly coloured images and vividly constructed characters. Of places and events and experiences that have been illuminated – and then whisked away again.

Maybe it is this quality that kept me going back for more?

Maybe there’s a parallel between the reader’s experience and that of the protagonist, a character who seems to attract, like a magnet, strange occurrences; to totally surrender himself – and his mind – to experiences; and, to search for an answer that is far from forthcoming.

Or maybe it’s as simple as the fact that life is made up of multiple stories, and layered with coincidences and connections and things that we will never fully understand. And, okay, Murakami takes it to the extreme with a (mysteriously) scarred-face narrator who spends a considerable amount of time sitting at the bottom of a dried up well – and a parallel story line of a Japanese officer in the second World War – and two women who are named after countries – and a man, called Cinnamon, who is unable to speak (to name a few); but who’s to say what’s real and what’s not, or what should be considered a story and what left behind on the shelf?

In some ways, Murakami lets us make that choice, as readers; and, I know exactly what I’m taking away from the novel, whether I missed the point or my confusion hits the nail on the head –

My fondness for the slightly directionless but nonetheless attractive protagonist, who I (sometimes) knew intimately and was rooting for all the way along.

The fascination of learning about a history (Japanese) and a culture, that I had minimal-to-no previous understanding of.

A better appreciation that things are rarely real – or unreal, fiction – or fact; and that life is a strange blend of the two. And that’s okay.

And, a commitment to never spending over three months reading a book again.

P.S. Options for the next book are as follow…

• ‘We Are All Made of Glue’ (Marina Lewycka)
• ‘Life Class’ (Pat Barker)
• ‘Between the Assassinations’ (Aravind Adiga)
• ‘The Children’s Book’ (A.S.Byatt)

Any ideas?

This afternoon’s performance at the Haymarket made me cry, which is not something I thought Matthew Kelly (of all people) would ever achieve. It reached somewhere I don’t think I accessed when I was studying the text; and touched a nerve that has only tingled in all the interim readings, of which there’ve been quite a few –

I’ve always been under the strange impression that, if I master Beckett’sWaiting for Godot, I’ll get the meaning of life. That, amongst the mishmash of feelings, and words, and conversations that all seem to merit a turned over page corner or a highlighted circle, I’ll find an answer to whatever it is that I am waiting for.

This is, of course, the joke. Or the tragedy.

If there’s one thing that’s clear in Waiting for Godot, it’s the impossibility of working out the meaning of life –

But at least we are not alone in the confusion.

In the interval, my sister asked me to explain what was going on. Whilst it would have been great to appear knowledgeable, I stuttered, and shrugged, and eventually gave up. For those who aren’t familiar with the play, a dramatist called Jean Anouilh summed it up better that I ever will: “Nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes, it is terrible”.

This is not an exaggeration. In Act 1, we have two guys (Estragon and Vladimir) standing under a tree waiting for Godot, joined by two more guys , one (Lucky?!) of which is roped up like an animal, and is serving the other (Pozzo). In Act 2, a similar thing happens, though it’s all a bit more unhinged. There is no reassuring plotline for the audience to rely on; no relief from the stark stage and the intense dialogue; no “ah ha” moment –

Other than the realisation that Beckett seems to have captured the essence of life or, at least, honed in on its futility.

This is what made my cry this afternoon. After nodding my head at the unreliability of the human experience (“I don’t remember exactly what it was, but you can be sure there wasn’t a word of truth in it”); and appreciating how cruel (“You’re being spoken to, pig! Reply!” – and how kind (“There…there…it’s all over”) – we seem to be; and almost getting the performance – life discussion (“Is everybody ready? Is everybody looking at me?… …I don’t like talking in a vacuum”), the closing scenes tipped the welling emotion right over the edge:

“Astride of a grave and a difficult birth. Down in the hole, lingeringly, the grave-digger puts on the forceps. We have time to grow old. The air is full or our cries. (He listens.) But habit is a great deadener. (He looks again at Estragon.) At me too someone is looking, of me too someone is saying, he is sleeping, he knows nothing, let him sleep on. (Pause.)I can’t go on! (Pause.)What have I said?”…

Vladimir, Act 2.

At the end of the play, shortly after this speech, Vladimir ( Roger Rees) and Estragon (Ian McKellen) did a funny little dance that I watched whilst reminding myself to breathe. Scraping the now exposed nerve, I’m not sure whether this made the Waiting for Godot experience better – or infinitely worst.

It is one thing to brilliantly portray the pointlessness of life and the desperation with which we seek meaning when, ultimately, we’re all just waiting our days out; but to then add in the flashes of compassion and kindness and connections and humour only made the blow harder. Or it did for me, anyway.

It seemed to hit a kind of deep-rooted sympathy for man that might be the big difference between humans, and the brutes that we were constantly being reminded of. To reaffirm my impression that we’re all struggling, together, to make sense; and that the only light relief comes through the moments of human connection.

But then again, it might mean absolutely nothing.

The person behind me was in hysterics through most of the play….

It didn’t disappoint.

Whilst the story (the piecing together of why Iris Lockhart’s previously unknown great aunt has been locked away in a psychiatric unit for 60 years) got me curious, Maggie O’Farrell’s style has me hooked –

Because, there’s something in the vivid way that she uses language that turns me into a kind of human sponge, absorbing the emotions and experiences of the characters so that, when I lay the book down, it takes a minute for the room to re-shape as my room and a moment for me to catch my breath –

And, in the shifting landscape of past-present-past-present-present-past and the turns and twists of the narrative, there’s an element of disorientation that renders me completely under her control, because the anchors I’d normally rely on aren’t always there –

I might be confused if it weren’t a perfect encapsulation of the human experience and a constant reminder that the past and the present are inextricably linked; that the former shapes the latter– and we understand the present through looking back at the past.

It might all get a little intense, if it wasn’t for the gripping mystery that keeps me turning the pages and the sudden sharp moments of insight that make me stop –

And think –

Like: “We are all, Esme decides, just vessels through which identities pass: we are lent features, gestures, habits, then we hand them on. Nothing is our own. We begin in the world as anagrams of out antecedents.” (p.134)

Brilliant.

And: “She checks herself quickly. Can she think about this? And she decides yes.”(p.146)

Spot on.

Exactly how I feel when I’m trying to keep myself safe and making sure that my feelings are where they should be.

The other thing about ‘The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox’, of course, is that I can relate to the story. That the concepts of ‘madness’ and institutionalisation and lost lives have a certain resonance which would be horrifically painful –

if it wasn’t explored and represented so intelligently, and I hadn’t fallen until Maggie O’Farrell’s spell.

Twice.

This is a rare feat for an author. It might well be a first and, it’s definitely a sign of Maggie O’Farrell’s word wizardry: she hasn’t just created characters, she’s managed to create emotions as well.

A few years ago I was warned not to read ‘after you’d gone’ if I was feeling the least bit depressed. Being a little unhinged at the time, the warning sounded sensible and I stored the book away for a time when I was slightly more hinged. A couple of weeks ago, it re-surfaced; and, after a quick emotional self assessment, I decided that my mental state was suitably robust to tackle a little hard core literary trauma.

As I reached the tragic revelation at about quarter to twelve one night and was overwhelmed by a gut wrenching sense of loss and a palpable sense of dread (‘please god, don’t let this happen’), I could understand the concern…but I wouldn’t have missed the experience for the world; and I will be recommending the novel, regardless of the reader’s state of mind –

Because it captures what you risk when you love.

And it shows you why the risk is worth taking.

‘after you’d gone’ is the story of Alice Raikes, a quirky yet immensely likeable protagonist whose comatose state provides an unusual backdrop for the subsequent piecing together of her story.

Yo-yo-ing between past, present, and narrative voice, the novel is as much detective story as it is personal drama; and, it is perhaps this combination that makes it so powerful.

With no time – or space – for lazy readers, it is hard not to become entangled in the narrative and the characters; and, it is almost unavoidable to maintain any emotional distance –

Which might be why ‘after you’d gone’ made me cry (twice) –

And, is definitely why I will be reading Maggie O’Farrell again.

And they’ve helped me work out who I am.

A good book is a gateway to another way of being, it’s a way of exploring and travelling and seeing. It gets you in to different ways of thinking.

A good character can tell you heaps about yourself, can test your emotions and responses, challenge your perceptions and assumptions. It helps work out who you are.

A good author can say the things that you can’t put in to words, can articulate the things you’ve thought and felt. It helps to see that you’re not unique.

A good read makes it all better.

These are shamelessly off topic, but here are some of my book reviews!

• We Are All Made of Glue
• The Wind Up Bird Chronicle
• The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox
• After You’d Gone
• This Book Will Save Your Life
• The Pesthouse
• Talking to the Dead
• The White Tiger
• The Book Thief
• Middlesex

Seeing yourself in someone – or something – else is like a big breath of relief: suddenly, it all makes sense or answers the question that you hadn’t quite realised you were asking.

Some books do it through the characters and the events; others, Aesop-fable-like, through the story; and, some, just give it to you on a plate.

‘This book will save your life’ fits into the latter.

Literary classic it may not be (although it has achieved Richard and Judy recognition) but there are some great messages in amongst – or highlighted by – the froth, and a wad of turned-over-page quotations is always a good sign…

Like page 14 – “He’d so far removed himself from the world of dependencies and obligations, he wasn’t sure he still existed” – or page 107- “it’s delicate – this process of waking up, coming in from the cold – you can’t do it overnight” – and page 185 – “everything feels strange now, nothing fit. I’m not who I thought I was.”

Okay, so it’s not just the quotes that have kind of struck a chord: it’s the experience of stepping perilously close to the edge and being forced to have a look at your one-shot-at-life that is so resonant.

Richard Novak is about as dissimilar from me as you can get – but the experience and the thought processes are not that different.

‘This book will save your life’ is the story of a wealthy, divorced, American (Novak); who uses his money to fund a life which is wholly dependent from the rest of society – including his son.

With superfood meals on wheels, a personal trainer, and sufficient technology to run his life – and his business – from his LA mansion, Novak has little reason to engage with the rest of the world – until he believes that he is dying.

Taking a blunt look at his world – and his place in the world – encourages Novak to make a dramatic change of direction; resulting in the next 350 pages of madcap adventures and attempts to engage with the world.

Miss out the madcap adventures (I work on a budget); tone down the Malibu gloss (Hertfordshire, not LA); and, bang, that’s exactly the experience that I have been going through in my recovery.

Removed from the world? Yep – hiding behind an eating disorder, and excusing myself from all normal interaction; because, like Novak, I might get hurt.

Coming in from the cold? Definitely – although I didn’t realise quite how cold it was until I had the comparison on human warmth.

Not quite sure who I am? Well, as the novel concludes: “none of us are”. So, even if you can’t share the sudden realisation that you’ve been wasting your life on things that mean very little (money / food), it’s reassuring to know that we’re all a little bit lost –

And that someone (A.M.Homes) has written a book about it.