To the heartless Hamiltonian | 31 July 2008

To the heartless Hamiltonian who put all three Sir Charles Grandison books on hold at the library before I could take the third out, when they could see that the first two books were currently checked out but not yet the third, thereby leaving me today gaping brokenheartedly at the shelf on the second floor where it was supposed to be safe from being checked out by anyone else because who else in this city could want to read it (the old “Date Due” sticker on the back of the first and second books indicates that [after the set was acquired on November 10, 1975] they were not borrowed between July 27, 1984 and May 13, 1989, and the next two times the first was borrowed, on October 9, 1990 and March 30, 1991, the second was not borrowed — this might suggest that the next person to be interested in the whole set needs to wait a year or two): I’ll return the first two books after you bring back the third. And I promise to bring it back when if not before the four weeks are up (and if you read the first and second in four weeks, I will congratulate you). But if you persist in your heartlessness, I’m going to have to use my university library card.

Grandison | 27 July 2008

At the city library a couple of Fridays ago, I picked up the first of three books of Sir Charles Grandison, the 1754 seven-volume epistolary novel by Samuel Richardson. My intention was to have a look at it to see if I was really interested in all 1500 pages of the thing — because after the occasional tediousness of Pamela, I did have my doubts — rather than to actually start it.* I should know myself better by now — I have been enjoying it from the first letter, and started the second book this weekend. I’m even trying to figure out just how impossible it would be to buy the whole Oxford edition for myself. But I’ve heard that a new four-book edition is in the works (the notes on the current edition are only a little bit helpful, so that’s good news), so perhaps I’ll wait.

There are occasional author-approved goings-on and pronouncements that make me bite my lip in these modern times and wonder that I can enjoy a book that is so accepting of the period’s social norms and expectations (mainly concerning women). Contrary to the notion that a book of this length and age and assumptions would be work to get through, it feels like something of a guilty pleasure to me, because my conscience doesn’t think I should be enjoying such things.

Richardson took a lot of flack over all his novels for not having every minute detail of his heroines’ letters, actions, and feelings up to par with the idealistic virtuous expectations of the time. Sir Charles seems to be a culmination of all that he learned from criticism of Pamela and Clarissa, and so far the extremes of virtue have been piled high, and I can’t imagine how many more good and generous things our hero and heroine could have left to do.

One of my attractions to Richardson is his connection to Jane Austen, as one of her early influences, along with Fanny Burney and Maria Edgeworth (and of course others). They wrote conduct literature, in which the main character(s) are too perfect to possibly be real, or even to identify with at times, although women of the day were supposed to take them as role models. Austen’s juvenalia is also extra-realistic, but in an opposite way, as a vicious, violent, and hilarious reaction to their work. In adulthood, she (compromised? settled?) wrote realistically, with flawed protagonists who are sometimes able to correct their errors but can’t promise to be perfect ever after.

Although I genuinely have a good time reading his novels (as well as Burney’s and Edgeworth’s), I read them in part to understand what Austen was reacting to and moving away from. I think she respected them (in spite of what her juvenalia might suggest) but chose her own way. I read them for the quasi-guilty pleasure of the plots, the language, the virtue on display, and with relief that society has chosen another way since then.

Julys and Novembers | 15 July 2008

Scott and I got married two years ago today, in July 2006, after he became a Permanent Resident of Canada and moved in with me in November 2005, after he applied for residence in July 2005, after he moved from Charlottesville to Buffalo in July 2004 so that our relationship could be long distance no longer, after we first met in person in November 2003, after we first corresponded by email in November 2001, after we each first saw the other’s website at some unknown time and liked it. Six years and eight months of knowing each other, and almost five years of being each other’s favourite person.

Soaked | 12 July 2008

I too was caught in yesterday morning’s thunderstorm. It being a Friday with no meetings on or bosses around and therefore the ideal time to deviate a little from my regular dress code, and my feet being blistered and bruised from the ultimate frisbee game the night before, I wore cloth sneakers and jeans, which were both soaked through up to the knees by the time I was two blocks from home. I trudged onward on the far side of the sidewalk to be sprayed nonetheless by oncoming vehicles slicing through the trenches of water running downhill with me. The umbrella kept my glasses dry, but that was about it. The rain had soaked the dye of my sneakers into my socks, as I found out when I removed them and attempted to blot the rain from my person with paper towels, leaving wet footprints on the carpet. I spent the morning at my desk in tight sodden jeans with bare feet in wet sneakers. I called Scott to see if we could work something out at lunch to get me some dry pants and shoes and maybe a hot water bottle as well as an electric blanket and a toque, so he picked me up, I changed at home, we had lunch and coffee and talked about end of life scenarios, he drove me back to work, and I finished the day late feeling as though I’d accomplished something.

More flea than antique | 11 July 2008

In fact we did visit antique shops along our route to Lake Huron, one to which we went out of our way (we’ve been before) and a couple more we found along the way, the latter with real antiques, labelled with their provenance and correspondingly high prices. After those two, we found a little home decor shop that was a refreshing change from objects too old and valuable to allow even a momentary spark of greed to flare up in me. (One exception was a piano stool with the seat upholstered in a muted chartreuse velvet with tufting. It was missing most of its tag, but I didn’t dare ask about it.) From the little shop, I bought a metal candle wall sconce, in part because it would work perfectly in the condo we’d like to buy next year, and Scott bought some metal bugs. From the messy and dusty store in Cambridge, we found two items more flea than antique:

One of the main characters in Harry Mulisch’s The Discovery of Heaven keeps on his fireplace mantel a small ever-changing selection of his favourite books (one of which is never rotated out — something by Kafka). It’s a romantic idea, and these bookends are suited to the task, and our mantel more or less up to it, but I would be in danger of rotating the books based on their aesthetic rather than literary value, and that would be wrong.

Something that excited me almost more than anything else on the trip was the discovery of a huge outdoor antique flea market on Sundays just down the road from the Pinery. We didn’t stop because our picnic lunch wouldn’t let us, but in any case we’ll be visiting the beach again soon.

Pinery | 9 July 2008

After another hearty breakfast and a long, meandering Sunday drive, we arrived at the beach in the Pinery Provincial Park on Lake Huron, where we’ve been before.

We ate our picnic lunch and waded in the lake and tried not to get sunburned. I think I may have napped under my hat while I was eavesdropping on our neighbours. But the beach itself was only half the point — the best part was in getting there. Deciding at a certain point to ditch the directions, hauling out the gigantic road atlas, taking roads that kept us going in the right general direction, slowing down to coast through inhabited intersections serving as towns — even without air conditioning in 27°C and a cloudless sky, it was good.

On the way home, we stopped for ice cream at a shop that was part movie rental and part ice cream parlour in a small town on a road we took on a whim. At a certain point, in the interest of having enough time left in the day for pizza and a movie at home, we left the country roads and took the highway. We forewent the many Tim Hortons stops along the way and stayed awake through the cooling drowsy evening by the power of loud music.

Imaginary destination | 5 July 2008

I took Friday off work, so we drove northwards with a specific destination in mind which never actually existed. These photos pretend that the day was all food and lake and beach, but in fact it was mostly sunshine and asphalt and ice cream and sunset. After not finding the place we had planned to go, we drove south along a road named after a beach, but all we found was a tiny strip of sand overlooking a bit of bay with big houses on islands and a swanky private marina on the shore. Tomorrow we’re off to a real beach, stopping for another greasy breakfast on the way and keeping a lookout for antique stores and flea markets.

Rainbows | 23 June 2008

More Bubble Thing here and here.

Hello, white sofa | 18 June 2008

Our new sofa is here, and it is white. Not a fake white like ivory or cream, but a real white that you’re scared to touch. Things that we thought were white are white no longer once seen in its company. It’s not even slipcovered. It will match any and every accent colour combination I could fantasize about.

Initially, we were looking for something in dove grey, but that proved more or less impossible, and since the runner-up was a great overstuffed thing in berry red velvet (which I would still buy in a heartbeat if we needed a third sofa), the wedding cake sofa was it.

Lightning | 15 June 2008

We’ve had a few nighttime thunderstorms over the past while, and good lightning-watching from our window, although tonight I spent more time watching the camera trying to keep it steady and wishing it wouldn’t take so long between shots while I sat mesmerized trying to capture the bolts, than actually watching the lightning itself.

Alexander | 2 June 2008

My nephew, Alexander Jeffery, born today at lunchtime, shown here yawning. He has a lot of hair, an overbite, and an infrequent mewling cry (at least for now). He had the hiccups the entire time I held him.

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