Thursday 30 September 2010
Wednesday 29 September 2010
Fatherland - Robert Harris
I mentioned in my post here that I was reading Fatherland by Robert Harris. I first picked it up as part of a one-off rummage through the shelves of Waterstones/Ottakars/Whatever-it-now-goes-by, in order to get a 3 for 2 discount. Definitely worth the extortion (though I eventually read the copy on my Kindle instead...) This book is good in numerous ways, but especially in the amount of research behind it, and its attention to detail. In short terms, it is a historical mystery/thriller set in 1960's Berlin in a universe where the Nazis won WWII and the Third Reich was allowed to grow into fruition. Albert Speer's 'Germania' had been built, and everything was trundling on with benign obliviousness to the horrors of the war crimes committed by the Nazi Government during the war. That is, until Xavier March, divorcée, Kripo officer and suspected defector finds himself dragged into something that he probably oughtn't to be!
The plot (which I won't divulge because we all hate spoilers!) weaves in and out of true events and documents, and is set in the run up to the Fuhrertag, Hitler's 75th birthday.
Overall: For the interesting plot, delightful levels of author research and its sheer readability, it's a great book. (Y)
Tuesday 28 September 2010
The Frankly Inconceivable.
Again, blogging when I ought to be busy dashing out essays and whatever, but I have just had my world rocked by change and it's taking some coming to terms with.
My dad has just pointed out to me the horrible (and hereunto ignored-by-me) truth that, while I may be excited by the prospect of university, it's heralding a rather traumatic change within the family at large. The discussion came down to - wait for it, and try to avoid cringing! - the dreaded C word.
Christmas. Now, in order for you to appreciate the problem, let me briefly explain the Eames Christmas Scenario as it has stood until this day:
The first mention of the C word (usually at around this time each year) has always been an event so unthinkable and undesirable because of the contention it aroused. There has been a long-standing tradition that we (mutti, vati and myself) spend Christmas alternately with each of the sides of the family. One year, down south with the Eames branch, the next, up North with Clan Draper-Halliday. This has always brought me great distress as, while I love the cosy tradition and formality of the Eames Christmas with a passion, my relationships with the Northern side of the family have always been fraught. Therefore, Christmas up North is one of the least bearable experiences of the year (I am not one for sitting about, shouting at one another with the TV blaring in the background on the birthday of Big J) - made palateable only by the prospect of its sandwiching on either side by Eames joy!
Now, with my mother being as ill as she has been, last Christmas was something of a no brainer: we stayed down South. Southern Christmasses are synonymous with a fairly large and lovely gathering, intense riddle and clue-guessing over presents and a sumptuously well cooked silver-adorned dinner.
This idyllic Christmas tradition, I have recently been told, is at risk of dying out, never to return. With both of my cousins splitting Christmasses among themselves and their long-term partners, and with us hopping from place to place each year, too, the list of regular guests is dwindling considerably. I cannot quite explain the lump of horror in my throat when my Dad explained that this year (if we were to follow tradition and descend upon Liverpool) there would be only my aunt, my uncle and my granny.
It seemed disastrous, catastrophic, and as though someone had snuffed out the candle of my childhood. Moreso when he suggested that, with such a small gathering, it might be seen more apt to go out for a meal, rather than having my aunt pursue her culinary magic! Not only would the tradition of a family christmas be stifled for the Eames family, but also the tradition of a proper, home-roasted Christmas dinner would be (possibly eternally) damned into non-existence.
I wept at the prospect.
As such, I have (naturally) formulated the most logical, fair and infallible proposition of our staying here this Christmas. One, frankly horrendous tradition sacrificed for the sustenance of another, much more affable one. If I have to stay here alone (and though I've said this before, this time I mean it) I shall.
So yes; while university is the sort of change which broadens one's horizons, it is important not to allow it to become the cut off point for family. Christmas is the one day in which childhood should endure as long as possible, and the day that feeling of excitement peters out, is one I'd rather not live to see.
My dad has just pointed out to me the horrible (and hereunto ignored-by-me) truth that, while I may be excited by the prospect of university, it's heralding a rather traumatic change within the family at large. The discussion came down to - wait for it, and try to avoid cringing! - the dreaded C word.
Christmas. Now, in order for you to appreciate the problem, let me briefly explain the Eames Christmas Scenario as it has stood until this day:
The first mention of the C word (usually at around this time each year) has always been an event so unthinkable and undesirable because of the contention it aroused. There has been a long-standing tradition that we (mutti, vati and myself) spend Christmas alternately with each of the sides of the family. One year, down south with the Eames branch, the next, up North with Clan Draper-Halliday. This has always brought me great distress as, while I love the cosy tradition and formality of the Eames Christmas with a passion, my relationships with the Northern side of the family have always been fraught. Therefore, Christmas up North is one of the least bearable experiences of the year (I am not one for sitting about, shouting at one another with the TV blaring in the background on the birthday of Big J) - made palateable only by the prospect of its sandwiching on either side by Eames joy!
Now, with my mother being as ill as she has been, last Christmas was something of a no brainer: we stayed down South. Southern Christmasses are synonymous with a fairly large and lovely gathering, intense riddle and clue-guessing over presents and a sumptuously well cooked silver-adorned dinner.
This idyllic Christmas tradition, I have recently been told, is at risk of dying out, never to return. With both of my cousins splitting Christmasses among themselves and their long-term partners, and with us hopping from place to place each year, too, the list of regular guests is dwindling considerably. I cannot quite explain the lump of horror in my throat when my Dad explained that this year (if we were to follow tradition and descend upon Liverpool) there would be only my aunt, my uncle and my granny.
It seemed disastrous, catastrophic, and as though someone had snuffed out the candle of my childhood. Moreso when he suggested that, with such a small gathering, it might be seen more apt to go out for a meal, rather than having my aunt pursue her culinary magic! Not only would the tradition of a family christmas be stifled for the Eames family, but also the tradition of a proper, home-roasted Christmas dinner would be (possibly eternally) damned into non-existence.
I wept at the prospect.
As such, I have (naturally) formulated the most logical, fair and infallible proposition of our staying here this Christmas. One, frankly horrendous tradition sacrificed for the sustenance of another, much more affable one. If I have to stay here alone (and though I've said this before, this time I mean it) I shall.
So yes; while university is the sort of change which broadens one's horizons, it is important not to allow it to become the cut off point for family. Christmas is the one day in which childhood should endure as long as possible, and the day that feeling of excitement peters out, is one I'd rather not live to see.
Monday 27 September 2010
Bookythought
Pondering about the relevance of WWII in 1984 as I potter my way through Fatherland by Robert Harris (which I heartily recommend, by the way) and was wondering about the inspiration behind Orwell's Newspeak abbreviations of the ministries in Oceania - MiniLuv (Ministry of Love), MiniTru (Ministry of Truth) etc.
In Nazi Germany, the polizei departments were commonly abbreviated in a similar way - the most often seen one being the Geheime Staatspolizei - the Gestapo. This was the same for the Kripo (Kriminal Polizei) and the Orpo (Ordnungspolizei) too.
Now, while obviously the point of Newspeak is to minimise the potential for thoughtcrime through language, I also read somewhere that some of the concepts behind 1984 lie in Orwell's vision of a Nazi-dominated world. For example, the Thought Police strongly resemble a hyperbolised gestapo, and the ideas of perpetual war would have appealed greatly to Hitler etc. So the influence coming from there would make some sense!
I do love when history happens in books. Nom!
In Nazi Germany, the polizei departments were commonly abbreviated in a similar way - the most often seen one being the Geheime Staatspolizei - the Gestapo. This was the same for the Kripo (Kriminal Polizei) and the Orpo (Ordnungspolizei) too.
Now, while obviously the point of Newspeak is to minimise the potential for thoughtcrime through language, I also read somewhere that some of the concepts behind 1984 lie in Orwell's vision of a Nazi-dominated world. For example, the Thought Police strongly resemble a hyperbolised gestapo, and the ideas of perpetual war would have appealed greatly to Hitler etc. So the influence coming from there would make some sense!
I do love when history happens in books. Nom!
Keep Calm and Get Blogging!
Darling Blogosphere,
Okay, so this is my *new* blog, as the old one was filled with frankly embarrassing toss! Hopefully (though not likely) this one won't go the same way.
So, I am currently sitting on my bed amid and absolute deluge of rubbish, including a pile of knitting, numerous books and bits of shredded paper having managed to achieve precisely nothing. Needless to say, as it's nearing 8pm and I've decided (through some absurd logic) that now is an excellent time to not write an essay on anything worthwhile, but to expound my inner thoughts into the webasphere, I'd hazard a guess that nothing will be done this evening.
Anyhow, I was going to start this by discussing the apocalyptically retarded examiners who need me to write in explicit detail on every item of my graphics work that they have been produced by none other than my own fair hand, but that is dull and you would much rather be doing something fun like making cakes, or discussing child labour, or anything other than hearing me whine.
ALORS, instead I am going to offer some sage advice on a topic that is dear to all our hearts: muffins.
I was recently introduced to the concept of a 'cup muffin'. For those of you who are unaware of this idea, it is exactly what it says on the mug: a muffin, made and cooked in a mug. I shan't go into details (though if you would like a recipe for a rather disastrous version of said muffins, refer to my Tumblr ) but basically, you throw a few ingredients into a cup, mix them together, plonk them unceremoniously into the microwave (a.k.a. The Devil's Advocate of kitcheneering) for mere moments and Hey Presto! MUFFINS!
...if only it were quite so simple. The concept fails de facto, leaving you with a very messy cup (and sideboard) and a blob of semi-cooked, oversweet, throat-cloggingly unhealthy faeces. Palateable only by those who have blasted their tastebuds to Hades through years of volcanic curries - when we made these, neither Anna or I managed to finish our (frankly modest) cup-sized portions, and even then, with the aid of copious amounts of milk.
Therefore, in earnest hope of saving somone (anyone!) from this travesty, I'd advise you to avoid cupmuffins like the plague and stick to good, old-fashioned baking, in an oven, in a cake-tin, without molecule-vibrating-bastard-technology.
That is all,
Your culinary cousin-in-arms,
Rachel Fountain Eames
Civil Servant and Health Advisor.
Okay, so this is my *new* blog, as the old one was filled with frankly embarrassing toss! Hopefully (though not likely) this one won't go the same way.
So, I am currently sitting on my bed amid and absolute deluge of rubbish, including a pile of knitting, numerous books and bits of shredded paper having managed to achieve precisely nothing. Needless to say, as it's nearing 8pm and I've decided (through some absurd logic) that now is an excellent time to not write an essay on anything worthwhile, but to expound my inner thoughts into the webasphere, I'd hazard a guess that nothing will be done this evening.
Anyhow, I was going to start this by discussing the apocalyptically retarded examiners who need me to write in explicit detail on every item of my graphics work that they have been produced by none other than my own fair hand, but that is dull and you would much rather be doing something fun like making cakes, or discussing child labour, or anything other than hearing me whine.
ALORS, instead I am going to offer some sage advice on a topic that is dear to all our hearts: muffins.
I was recently introduced to the concept of a 'cup muffin'. For those of you who are unaware of this idea, it is exactly what it says on the mug: a muffin, made and cooked in a mug. I shan't go into details (though if you would like a recipe for a rather disastrous version of said muffins, refer to my Tumblr ) but basically, you throw a few ingredients into a cup, mix them together, plonk them unceremoniously into the microwave (a.k.a. The Devil's Advocate of kitcheneering) for mere moments and Hey Presto! MUFFINS!
...if only it were quite so simple. The concept fails de facto, leaving you with a very messy cup (and sideboard) and a blob of semi-cooked, oversweet, throat-cloggingly unhealthy faeces. Palateable only by those who have blasted their tastebuds to Hades through years of volcanic curries - when we made these, neither Anna or I managed to finish our (frankly modest) cup-sized portions, and even then, with the aid of copious amounts of milk.
Therefore, in earnest hope of saving somone (anyone!) from this travesty, I'd advise you to avoid cupmuffins like the plague and stick to good, old-fashioned baking, in an oven, in a cake-tin, without molecule-vibrating-bastard-technology.
That is all,
Your culinary cousin-in-arms,
Rachel Fountain Eames
Civil Servant and Health Advisor.
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