Captured!

Well, I threw caution to the wind and released Bury My Heart on a table outside Jimmy Watsons on Lygon Street - and it was caught! Hurrah!

The finder says : "At work when release alert popped into email. First ever book I have captured!Will release back into the wild once had a read.The effectiveness of notifying the "exact" time book was to be released was not lost on me!"

Happy days. Happy bookcrossing.

Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee by Dee Brown

This is my grandfather's favourite book, and I suppose the inspiration for this reading adventure. I'm quite pleased to place it unobtrusively as the seventh book in my reading - neither a scary 'first step' nor a scary 'final stop'.

It's just come up as I found a copy of it - in that gloriously impenetrable beast of a secondhand shop down from the Westgarth in Northcote. I scrabbled the book out of a wicker shelf at the door and exclaimed at the serendipity of the find. The small woman sitting crosslegged on the floor of the shop looked up from her game of Patience. "What've you found?" she asked. I held out my trophy. "Oh, it just gets you right here, doesn't it?" She thumped one hand on her heart. I wasn't sure what to say; I hadn't read it yet.

Paul and I clambered down through half the rest of the shop and back up the other side (you can only get halfway down before the mountains of furniture and decaying whitegoods prevent any further exploration). I confused the card-playing shop owner by attempting to make changing a $50 note easier by handing over $53 for an $8 book (it's a habit that I get from my father. Because then you see she only has to give me back $45, without fiddling for change...oh forget it).

Anyway, the book. I hardly ever read non-fiction, let alone history. So I approached this book with confidence.

I was confident that, as a history of colonisation, it would be a story of cruelty, suffering, misplaced trust and unimaginable ignorance.

I was also confident of my own ignorance, given that the majority of my knowledge of American Indian history is gleaned from Ed from Northern Exposure.

Beginning with the Long Walk of the Navahos in 1860 and concluding with the massacre, twenty years later, at Wounded Knee, Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee is an account of the systematic destruction of the Indians of America (I'm going to use the book's terminology). The story is an all-too-familiar one for any colonised country: invasion, casually brutal massacres, and 'treaties' that cheat the Indians of their land in return for a pittance while forcing them onto barren reservations where they either starve, freeze, or are shot for trying to escape. Brown's book was very controversial for presenting a view of the so-called 'opening' of the West that portrayed white settlers as (with only occasional exception) cruel, brutal, greedy and untrustworthy. Since its release in 1970 it has sold over 5 million copies and been translated into 17 languages.

Brown's narrative is distinguished by his measured prose style that means this book never becomes a voyeuristic 'dramatised' history. You can't get lost in the horrors as if they were part of a Law & Order episode. Nothing is embroidered or melodramatised. But this isn't to imply that the book is blandly written. Brown uses, for example, the Indians' evocative and lovely form of chronology - instead of describing an event as occuring in March, or Winter, we are told that something happened during 'the moon when the ponies shed' or 'the moon when the deer paw the ground'.

But what makes this book so effective is Brown's use, wherever possible, of documents from the time - the words of the Indians themselves (translated from speeches, letters and interviews by Indian interpreters) and reports of soldiers. Like Brown's own writing, these are often all the more shocking for their lack of emotionalised details. It's rather like in the 1940s film of Oliver Twist where Sykes is beating Nancy to death. All we are shown is Sykes' dog scratching desperately at the door to get out; even his own dog can't bear to be in the room with him. What we are not shown is what we then imagine. In Bury My Heart, Brown quotes from a soldier's report of a Cheyenne massacre:

"There were some thirty or forty squaws collected in a hole for protection; they sent out a little girl about six years old with a white flag on a stick; she had not proceeded but a few steps when she was shot and killed. All the squaws in that hole were afterwards killed, and four or five bucks outside. The squaws offered no resistance. Every one I saw dead was scalped. I saw one squaw cut open with an unborn child, as I thought, lying by her side. Captain Soule afterwards told me that such was the fact...I saw a little girl about five years of age who had been hid in the sand; two soldiers discovered her, drew their pistols and shot her, and then pulled her out of the sand by the arm."

Small things amongst huge horrors also become significant. The Navahos of Canyon de Chelly were "especially proud of their peach orchards, carefully tended since the days of the Spaniards." When Kit Carson ordered the invasion of the canyon, arrest of the Navahos and destruction of their possessions, this included the destruction of their peach orchards; "more than five thousand trees. The Navahos could forgive the Rope Thrower for fighting them as a soldier, for making prisoners of them, even for destroying their food supplies, but the one act they never forgave him for was cutting down their beloved peach trees."

Perhaps most heart-breaking is the way the Indians trust the white men over and over again, and every single time they are killed or cheated for it.

It's an awful, fascinating, angering read. It's a book you feel you 'should' read - these are often the toughest. It's taken me a few months, and sometimes I needed a break. But if you can take it on, even as something you gradually work through, I think you will be sadder and richer for it.


I don't want to release this book into the wild, but I do want to release it to someone. I'll register it on Bookcrossing, and if you'd like it, send me an email at greenknowe@hotmail.com and I'll post it to you.

Hand-writing my blog - a sinister interlude

I'm left-handed.

I also hand-write my blog before I type it in.

Combined with keeping a diary and having 18 snail mail penpals (at last count), this leads to a condition unique to left-handers. I have dubbed it Sinistink - the permanent ink stain colouring we molly-dukers who hand-write a lot.



I think I'll start a support group.

Incidentally, hand-writing my blog first isn't a techno-phobic thing, it's just that my laptop weighs 8kg and my moleskine weighs 24gms. Guess which one I carry with me at all times?

Nearly finished the next book..it's non-fiction, so it's taking me a while. I'm not used to facts!

Bread and Jam For Frances by Russell Hoban

From the favourer: "It's all about food, and so am I."

Did you go through a phase as a kid where you refused to eat anything except one food? When one of my cousins was little he would only eat vegemite sandwiches. Even at Christmas lunch where everyone else was chowing down on cold meats, seafood and all manner of Christmassy goodness, we had to make him vegemite sandwiches to stem the tears. I don't know if I had a single-food phase exactly, but I was a fussy little bugger. Between the ages of about 2 and 10 (possibly longer, but then it starts to get embarrassing) I would only eat pasta if it had butter and absolutely nothing else on it. When I ordered this gourmet delicacy at the very accommodating Paragon Cafe and my meal came with a garnish of parsley, I would cry.

Frances the badger loves bread and jam. She loves bread and jam so much that she doesn't want to try eating anything else, because, as she informs her parents:

"there are many different things to eat,
and they taste many different ways.
But when I have bread and jam
I always know what I am getting, and I am always pleased."

But Frances' mother, tiring of cooking meals that don't get eaten, decides that if bread and jam is what Frances wants, bread and jam is what Frances will have. As Frances' committment to bread and jam begins to waver, she sings:

"Jam for snacks and jam for meals,
I know how a jam jar feel -
FULL...OF...JAM!"

Bread And Jam For Frances is one in a series of Hoban's Frances picture books that has also been translated into Spanish (Nicely titled Pan y mermelada para Francisca), and illustrated by his wife Lillian Hoban. The two-tone illustrations are soft and charming, but seemed a bit samey to me at first glance and I wondered if they actually added anything to the story. Most of them have a character placed centre-stage with only their very immediate surroundings detailed.

Then I remembered to read the book as if I couldn't read yet.

After this I found ways in which the illustrations complement this gentle story. Kids can see Frances' expression gradually change from cheerful to sad as she tires of her one-track meals, and point to the different components of her school friend Albert's excellently varied lunch. That lunch is guaranteed to make you hungry, even if like me you're scoffing the pictured pan y mermelada as you read the book. The way Albert eats his cream-cheese-cucumber-and-tomato-on-rye plus its accompaniments to finish everthing at the same time is lovingly methodical (and might even be worth a go to get fussy eaters to eat a bit of everything they're given):

"He took a bite of the sandwich, a bite of pickle,
a bite of hard-boiled egg, and a drink of milk.
Then he sprinkled more salt on the egg and went round again.
Albert made the sandwich, the pickle,
the egg, and the milk come out even.
He ate his bunch of grapes and his tangerine.
Then he cleared away the crumpled-up waxed paper,
the eggshell, and the tangerine peel.
He set the cup custard in the middle of the napkin on his desk.
He took up his spoon and at up all the custard.
Then Albert folded up his napkins and put them away.
He put away his cardboard saltshaker and his spoon.
He screwed the cup on top of his thermos bottle.
He shut his lunch box,
put it back inside his desk, and sighed.
'I like to have a good lunch,' said Albert."

While Hoban is writing for very young children in this book, his trademark humour is probably what has kept this book in print for over 43 years. My favourite moment is where Frances, on her umpteenth slice of bread and jam, attempts to offhandedly relieve Albert of his lunch:

"...'And I had bread and jam for dinner last night and for breakfast this morning.'
'You certainly are lucky,' said Albert.
'Yes', said Frances. 'I am a very lucky girl.
But I'll swop if you want to.' "

Very generous. But how can Frances go back on her committment to bread and jam now? Perhaps some conveniently selective memory is required...

But now, if you'll excuse me, I'm feeling a little peckish.

The joys of Daylesford (a bookish aside)

Just as I realised that this reading project is a really good excuse to buy books (whether I can bring myself to release them into the wild after I've read them is another matter), Paul and I conveniently went to Daylesford, home of the Lake Daylesford Book Barn and the Avant Garden bookstore. I took a list of your favourites, and decided I was going to buy any of them that were under $10. I've come home with 19 books. Eep.

The Book Barn, which I've been visiting since I was about the size of my profile picture, was up for sale the last time we visited. Sob! No more pot belly stove in the middle of the store, no more old dog warming his bones in front of it, no more Kerry recognising me each time I visited over the years (each time I was generally taller, but with the same haircut). But on this visit, I discovered that the store has been rescued! It's been bought by a chap who is continuing to run it as a secondhand book store - only with coffee! Hurrah! This works especially well when the person you're in the store with gets sick of browsing while you're still going, because then they can have a coffee and not just hover around asking if you're ready to go yet. Long may the Book Barn endure. But the favourite part of my visit was discovering a new section in the store. So you've got your 'Australian Literature' section, your 'Military History' section, your 'Music' section, etc...and then you've got your:



section. I had a quick scan of the books that have been classified under this label (expecting, I don't know, maybe some Wodehouse?), but I'm still not sure what the criteria is...


One more sight to share with you - outside the restaurant Frangos & Frangos are its principal patrons at their permanently reserved table, with cushions:



They were there every day, all day. Anyone for puppacino?

Dragons of Autumn Twilight (Dragonlance Chronicles, Vol. 1) by Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman

From the favourer: "You asked for it...you can't unask for it...it's my favourite because it was the first fantasy book I read and introduced me to what is now my favourite genre. Apart from the classic fantasy elements in there, there was also a good mix of characters that had a bit of depth to them. Well, at least more depth than the typical fantasy character (case in point, Conan the Barbarian!)"

Firstly, I knew when I started this reading adventure that there'd be surprises. I expected surprises about the books people nominated, about others' reactions to the books people nominated, and about the books themselves. I'm extra-pleased when the favourer doesn't feel they have to nominate a dead-white-male-canonical-(possibly-boring-but-who-am-I-to-say)-classic as their favourite, but actually goes for the heart and nominates something they love.

Because - as I finally found the words for last night when I'd had too much wine and was having earnest discussions with Paul, my very tolerant husband - the point of my reading these books isn't to give a distanced, objective review of your favourite books. This would require some sort of complicated standardising procedure that my year 12 Maths Methods score just isn't up to. That would be HARD.

The point is for me to find out why these books are your favourites. I don't particularly care about the subject matter or standard of writing. (Length is an issue. But I'm working with myself intensively on that prejudice.) Basically, I want to read them, and to understand, quite simply, what makes you love them. That is EASY.

Secondly, I want to state that I'm not one of those people who say loftily, "Oh, I don't read fantasy" (a breed of folk closely related to those who say "Oh, I don't watch mainstream films.") I do read fantasy, but mostly Young Adult fantasy. And when I say 'mostly', I actually mean 'solely, apart from Terry Pratchett'.

Thirdly, I want to offer a word of advice to the lonely: if you read Dragonlance books on the train, you will make friends.

I made my first Dragonlance friend during Monday evening peak hour, standing up on the 6:08pm Hurstbridge train with only room to hold the book about 5cm from my nose. Good thing I'm short-sighted.

"They're making a movie of it, you know," said the man standing unavoidably a little-bit-too-close to me.

I looked up. (Well, I moved my eyes sideways.) "Are they?"

He nodded, and started to push towards the doors as the train slowed. "It looks crap so far," he called as he stepped of the train, "Stick to the books!"

My second Dragonlance friend was a man named Chen on the 7:38am to Flinders Street Station. Dragonlance book covers are instantly recognisable (in the same way that Discworld cover art can be spotted from at least 23 miles away), and Chen was reading War of the Twins, another in the series. We spotted each others' books at the same time.

"Going back to where it all began?" he asked.

"Actually, I've never read one before, [insert repetitive explanation about reading adventure here]" I said.

"Oh, it must be great to be reading it for the first time," said Chen wistfully. And conversation continues until Chen gets off at Fairfield.

See? Read Dragonlance, make friends.

Caveats and RSVP-aspirations over. On to the book.

Five friends meet in a tavern after many years apart. They're a motley bunch - Flint the dwarf, Tanis the half-elf, twin brothers (Caramon the boofy warrior and Raistlin creepy mage), and Sturm the knight. Yes, it's all very Lord of the Rings, but so is Harry Potter. They're joined accidentally by Tas the kender, a 4-foot-tall kleptomanaical species that knows no fear and is as such perpetually getting into trouble. Last time they met, it was under happier circumstances. There's bad stuff goin' down in the land. Hobgoblins are a new and menacing presence in the usually peaceful town of Solace, and there's rumours of war and monsters in other cities.

After a chance encounter with a healing blue crystal staff, a bunch of hobgoblins and a good old fashioned bar brawl, the five friends (plus the kender) find themselves fleeing the tavern with two strangers. One is the bearer of the magic staff, Goldmoon, the other her Plainsman guardian Riverwind. All of them are initially unsure of their direction and almost go their separate ways, but eventually embark on a journey to find out the purpose of the magic staff, and whether it can play a part in arresting the torrent of evil that is engulfing their home towns.

It's not so much the novelty of plot that entertains in this book as it basically goes: "fight a battle find the object go to the next place fight a battle find the next object go to the next place fight a battle etc." As the favourer notes, it's the characters that make the next battle worth reading for. Tanis the half-elf (whose half-breed status manifests in that unlike other elves, he can grow facial hair) is constantly torn between his human and elf instincts and loyalties. Caramon the warrior, who would otherwise be a big bland ball of muscle, is constantly hungry and gets amusingly nostalgic for meat when feasting among the vegetarian elves. Raistlin the mage, whose name just works so well, has sacrificed his physical wellbeing for his magical powers and sees everyone as dying by inches, all the time. Tas the kender is just lovely, a cross between the brownies of Willow and Nanny from Count Duckula. Sturm the knight is hilariously and touchingly loyal to his outdated knightly code, to the point where the others have to work him around to doing what will actually save his life rather than satisfy his honour:

"'Sturm!' Tanis said urgently. 'Come on! We've got to get out of here!'

'Run?' The knight appeared astonished. 'From this rabble?'

'Yes.' Tanis paused; the knight's code of honour forbade running from danger. He had to convince him. 'That man is a religious fanatic, Sturm. He'll probably burn us at the stake! And' - a sudden thought rescued him - 'there is a lady to protect.'

'The lady, of course.' Sturm stood up at once and walked over to the woman. 'Madam, your servant.'"

I think character for me is the appeal of series fantasy. In many books I read (of various genres), when I reach the end of the book, I just don't want to let the characters go. In fantasy, I don't have to. I also think this sort of fantasy evokes a kind of longing, the same kind I feel when I watch Doctor Who or read the Narnia books. If you love Doctor Who, you've already had this thought: 'If David Tennant asked me to step into the Tardis, I would go.' If you love the Narnia books, you've already had this thought: 'If any wardrobe keeps going, I'm going to see where it goes.' That's the longing. You want to go. You're basically ready to go. At any time. So when in this book you read -

"Tanis and the dwarf both turned and looked down into the quiet valley. Lights began to wink on, making the homes in the trees visible among the vallenwood. The night air was still and calm and sweet, tinged with the smell of wood smoke and from the home fires. Now and again they could hear the faint sound of a mother calling her children to dinner."

- you think 'Wow what a cliche' and 'How lovely I wish I was there.'

It's a longing here for a romantic rustic fantasy setting that is conveniently absolved of the problems that come with lack of sanitisation, infection, feudal politics and general discomfort.

It's also a longing for a sort of heroism which is basically impossible, where there's just good and evil. It can take a while to get there and you can't always tell which is which at the time, but you know it's going to be clearly one or the other eventually.

It's a nostalgia for something you've never actually experienced. But I guess that's what nostalgia is - a longing for something that never really happened that way in the first place.

And in the case of The Dragons of Autumn Twilight, it's also pretty funny and exciting. I actually missed my train station one morning. I'm not exaggerating for effect here, I actually went through Melbourne Central to Flinders Street. If you know my general standards of organisation, you'll know I don't miss my train station.

But you know how I was talking about surprises? TRACY HICKMAN IS A MAN. Paul, who like the favourer also loved this book as a teenager, has had his world turned topsy-turvy since I've told him this. But Margaret Weis is still a woman, so he's going to be okay.

Huck is found by another Bookcrosser!

My book release for Huckleberry Finn has been caught! Hurrah!

It's finder says: "Caught the book while returning a library book at the RWL. Perfect timing, as I needed another fix anyway, and I've always been tempted by huck finn and friends... I think I might try and leave it where a nice Apollo Bay person can give it a go..."