Woo hoo! Double digits. Now I’m making progress.

My tenth book was The Little Prince,by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. I have been meaning to read this one for years, literally. It seems that every time I read anyone’s list of favourite books, this is on it. Now I understand why.

This fable of love, loss and friendship is so simple, and so touching, that it was a pleasure to read until the last page. I don’t necessarily think I’ll need to re-read it; the message comes across so clearly that it will remain in my mind always.

If you haven’t read it, you probably should take an hour and do just that. It really is a sweet little morsel of a book.

John Elder Robison’s memoir Look Me in the Eye is honest, touching and enlightening. As a teacher who deals with Aperger’s kids on a daily basis, I was very interested to hear exactly how Robison views the world.

I was surprised, in some ways, how not different he is- to me, to my friends, my loved ones. I was pained by the descriptions of his disrupted, sometimes violent childhood. I found myself cheering him on to each new and unexpected (but seemingly inevitable) achievement. What incredible things he has seen and done! I also found fascinating his musings on neuroplasticity, to which he credits his ever-growing set of social and personal skills- skills that obviously do not come naturally to him.

A worthy read. I’m glad Robison wrote it. I’m glad it made it into my 52.

Miles Halter is fascinated by famous last words and tired of his safe life at home. He leaves for boarding school to seek what the dying poet Francois Rabelais called the “Great Perhaps.” Much awaits Miles at Culver Creek, including Alaska Young. Clever, funny, screwed-up, and dead sexy, Alaska will pull Miles into her labyrinth and catapult him into the Great Perhaps. 

Several years ago, all my Year 9 (and Year 11) girls were obsessed with this book. It’s all I heard about for weeks, and I watched it make its way from student to student in our Wide Reading periods. I read many, many assignments on it.

And somehow I never read it.

I remedied that yesterday.

I began John Green’s Looking for Alaska in the break between the reserves and the seniors matches while watching my Great Love play soccer. I finished it curled on the couch later that night.

This is a beautiful, introspective kind of book. In its melancholy search for answers, it brought to mind The Virgin Suicides,which is one of the most poignant books I have read.

I understand why my girls loved this book. I loved it too. I’m glad it made it onto the list.

In my 52 book challenge, I have actually read more books than this blog would suggest.

But writing about them? Oh how behind I am. And oh, how tedious to go back and try to catch up. So I’ll keep it brief, and do a few at a time.

Book #5- The MIdnight Zoo, by Sonya Hartnett.

Her muzzle wrinkled, and Andrej saw a glimpse of teeth and pale tongue. ‘They smell the same, ’ the lioness murmured. ‘My cubs smelt as she does. Like pollen.’ She breathed deeply again, and Andrej saw the missing cubs returning to her on the wings of the baby’s perfume. ‘All young ones must come from the same place,’ she said: then sat down on her haunches, seemingly satisfied.

Under cover of darkness, two brothers cross a war-ravaged countryside carrying a secret bundle. One night they stumble across a deserted town reduced to smouldering ruins. But at the end of a blackened street they find a small green miracle: a zoo filled with animals in need of hope.

A moving and ageless fable about war, and freedom.

Let me preface this by saying that Sonya Hartnett is one of my favourite authors. The first book I read of hers was Thursday’s Child, a poignant, melancholy study of a family faced with an indecipherable riddle of a child. The second was Sleeping Dogs, which drew me into its troubled, trapped characters, then held me captive, reading helplessly as their destiny arrived like a freight train; unstoppable, unmoveable. I was haunted by Hartnett’s plot line for weeks, years.

So I was very excited about this new one. When I checked out what others had thought, he readers online raved and raved.

I certainly enjoyed this fable about two young brothers escaping a war and trying to protect their baby sister. And yes, the talking animals they found in the zoo were beautifully created characters who shed light on the nature of humanity and what it means to love, to survive, and to be free, but…

…well, I found myself missing the engulfing, delicious darkness I have come to expect from Ms. Hartnett.

Book #6- Lucia, Lucia by Adriana Trigiani.

It is 1950 in glittering, vibrant New York City. Lucia Sartori is the beautiful twenty-five-year-old daughter of a prosperous Italian grocer in Greenwich Village. The postwar boom is ripe with opportunities for talented girls with ambition, and Lucia becomes an apprentice to an up-and-coming designer at chic B. Altman’s department store on Fifth Avenue. Engaged to her childhood sweetheart, the steadfast Dante DeMartino, Lucia is torn when she meets a handsome stranger who promises a life of uptown luxury that career girls like her only read about in the society pages. Forced to choose between duty to her family and her own dreams, Lucia finds herself in the midst of a sizzling scandal in which secrets are revealed, her beloved career is jeopardized, and the Sartoris’ honor is tested.

This book may as well have been written with me in mind. Firstly, the cover. Could I ever have resisted? This little powderpuff of a book was all 1950s, fashion, Italy, sewing… all the things I love, spun into fairyfloss just perfect for consuming whilst having a bubblebath and a glass of red. Which is exactly what I did.

Little substance, lots of fun.

Book #7- The Book Thief, by Markus Zusak.

It’s just a small story really, about among other things: a girl, some words, an accordionist, some fanatical Germans, a Jewish fist-fighter, and quite a lot of thievery… .

Set during World War II in Germany, Markus Zusak’s groundbreaking new novel is the story of Liesel Meminger, a foster girl living outside of Munich. Liesel scratches out a meager existence for herself by stealing when she encounters something she can’t resist–books. With the help of her accordion-playing foster father, she learns to read and shares her stolen books with her neighbors during bombing raids as well as with the Jewish man hidden in her basement before he is marched to Dachau.

This is an unforgettable story about the ability of books to feed the soul.

I actually read this very close to the start of the year, and I have put off writing about it because anything I say will fall so, so far from its true value.

I bought this book several years ago. I bought it because everyone I met seemed to love it. I left it unread on my shelf because I made the silly, silly mistake of assuming it to be historical fiction, a genre I find it ever so difficult to get into.

Stupid, stupid me.

But the wonderful thing about books is that they are patient creatures. They will wait until you are ready to hear the story they hold.

I’m not going to tell you all about it. What I will say is that in the ocean of novels I have read in my years, this one floats above as one of the finest pieces of writing I have encountered. It is beautiful, it is heartbreaking, it is staggeringly original. Markus Zusak is blessed with the kind of creativity that leaves me feeling both inspired and defeated.

Buy it. Don’t bother borrowing it from the library or a friend.

You need to own this book.

Just listen, Adam says with a voice that sounds like shrapnel. I open my eyes wide now. I sit up as much as I can. And I listen. Stay, he says.

Everybody has to make choices. Some might break you. For seventeen-year-old Mia, surrounded by a wonderful family, friends and a gorgeous boyfriend decisions might seem tough, but they’re all about a future full of music and love, a future that’s brimming with hope.

But life can change in an instant.

A cold February morning …a snowy road …and suddenly all of Mia’s choices are gone. Except one. As alone as she’ll ever be, Mia must make the most difficult choice of all.

If I Stay, by Gayle Foreman, has readers gushing and gasping in the comments section of Goodreads. I enjoyed this book, as I enjoy lots of teenage fiction, but I don’t think it will be one that stays with me. It was a quick read and I had sympathy for the characters. Most of all I liked time setting of the book- the way it flipped between Mia watching over her comatose body in the ICU after the accident that killed her family, and flashbacks to her childhood and early teenage years.

Still, I don’t feel the need to linger over it. I am immediately off to the next read- being as horrendously behind in my challenge as I am. I am mid-way through several books as we speak, so the optimist in me pictures a flurry of updates on this topic over the next week or so.

But still. By my count, this is the end of week 17. As you will have noticed, oh observant reader, this was book number 4. Oh dear.

 My third book for the year was Drawn from the Heart, by Ron Brooks.

Let’s be honest- I was hooked on the gorgeous cover design. Yes, I do judge a book by its cover. Still, I was intrigued to read the story of this Australian artist, who fell into the world of picture story book illustration almost by accident, and went on to create the images for some of the most memorable books of my childhood.The story of his quest for perfection in his art, and the struggles he sometimes conquered but often stumbled upon, was told honestly and simply.

But my favourite part of this book was the discovery I made at the beginning. How lovely to open it, as I sat under the shade of the tea trees at Betka Beach at Mallacoota, and read in the first two lines that as a boy, Brooks grew up in this very town. Of all the places, Mallacoota. I sat and read, the salty ocean air skimming past me, feeling as though the author were sitting beside me telling me the story himself.  All the places of which he spoke rose clear and fresh in my mind, almost as familiar to me as they must be to him.

Well. Ahem.

I’m not sure there could be a bigger difference between my first book for the year and the second. Let’s just say that I won’t be recommending this one to my teenage students for their Wide Reading sessions. Oh my.

What did I know about the Bride Stripped Bare? That it was the story of a new bride’s sexual awakening. That it caused huge controversy upon its release; intended to be published anonymously, the author was famously ‘outed’ by a journalist before the release date. The erotic novel went on to sell stacks and stacks of copies. Silver lining! Everyone seemed to have read it, everyone had an opinion.

So after several years of being out of the loop, when I spotted a copy at the op-shop I forked out my three dollars (my manic op-shopping of late is a post for another day!) and trotted off home to read it.

Oh. My. Gosh.

I am easily shocked, somewhat prudish, and my friends delight in opportunities to make me blush. Had I known what was inside this inconspicuous cover, I would have been too embarrassed to buy it! I just kept thinking, “Thank God I’m not on public transport right now.” What if someone was reading over my shoulder?!?

Anyway, don’t let that put you off! Is it entertaining? Yes. Raunchy? Yes. Worth the controversy? Probably. I didn’t love the ending, but that’s personal preference.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to find some nice, safe teenage fiction…

So I’m working a little backwards here, in my New Year’s not-really-a-resolution challenge. I have a few books already under my belt, so I need to start writing them up! March is breathing down my neck already!

The first book I read this year was Shift, by Em Bailey (who I was pleased to discover is an Aussie expat living in Germany. Go Oz!).

Olive Corbett is definitely NOT crazy.

Not anymore. These days she takes her meds like a good girl, hangs out with her best friend Ami, and stays the hell away from the toxic girls she used to be friends with.

She doesn’t need a boyfriend. Especially not a lifesaver-type with a nice smile. And she doesn’t need the drama of that creepy new girl Miranda, who has somehow latched on to Olive’s ex-best friend.

Yet from a distance, Olive can see there’s something sinister about the new friendship. Something almost… parasitic. Maybe the wild rumours ARE true. Maybe Miranda is a killer.

But who would believe Olive? She does have a habit of letting her imagination run away with her…

Quite the psychological thriller, this little bit of teen fiction was certainly a page-turner, and I polished it off in a couple of hours. I can see lots of my Year 9 students being drawn to this- it’s a little dark and twisted, with a supernatural edge creeping quietly in. A suitably speedy opening to my book-reading year.

(By the way, nobody minds if these aren’t actual book reviews, do they? God knows there are enough of them out there if you want to read them! I really just want to keep track of my books and stay motivated. And trust me, if a book grabs me and there’s a lot to be said, I’ll be saying it!)

I have found myself leaning toward one or two new challenges this year. Not the grand, check-list style offerings of last year (I will talk more about my lack of New Year resolutions later, when my rationale has more fully crystallized in my mind), but the kind of tweaks to my everyday living that will bring me closer to, well, me.

If Italy gave me the chance to discover myself- to meet and explore this strange new creature, to get to know her and live with her day after day- then my return to Australia just as swiftly shelved her, popped her conveniently away in the shadows, to be replaced by the previous version of myself. How quickly old habits creep in.

There must be a way, I thought, to remedy this.

SO.

This real, more true-to-myself, from-the-soul me? Who is she?

She is a writer.

An artist.

A seamstress.

An observer.

She is pensive.

Joyful.

Eager.

She wants a life that is colourful.

Environmental.

Creative.

Mindful.

However… writers? They write. Artists create art. Seamstresses sit their butts down in that chair and whip up some new fabulous-ness. In short, I need to take action.

It seems to me that past all the resolutions, each year we live inevitably has some sort of theme running through it. A mood that underpins all the activities, all the epiphanies and disasters. When I think of 2010, in Italy, one word comes to mind. Discover. 2011 was simply, hang on. Some days it was all I could manage.

But now, the new year is well and truly here, and overwhelmingly, the mood is:

Take action.

My first mission is to start reading again. How ridiculous, not to mention hypocritical, that as an English teacher I don’t consider that I have time to read! Well, boo to that!

Though it is a mere shadow of the way I used to devour books in my youth, I hereby pledge to read 52 books in 52 weeks. By the time this year waves us goodbye, I will have added to my life 52 new worlds, new communities, new perspectives. No re-reading of my old faves here. All new stuff.

And I’ll write about all of them here.

When I was young, I read. A lot.

I can remember being in Primary School during recess and lunch, and while I certainly was not short of friends, somehow in my memory they are fuzzy, disappearing into my peripheral vision. What I do remember, with clarity, is sitting at the top of the steps outside the library, reading. The library door was sheltered from the elements by a tiny, covered porch, just the right size for a very small girl and her book.

During break times I would sit, completely entranced, oblivious to the shrill squeals of the Prep kids playing on the swings and slides just in front of me. You see, for that hour, I was not there at all. I was somewhere else. I was inside my story, walking side by side with my protagonist. The bell would ring to go back to class and I would snap back to reality, squinting into the green-tinged sunlight like someone stepping out from a darkened room into the bright, shiny day. Regretfully, and with pins-and-needles prickling their way down my numb legs, I would wander my way to class.

Like the cobbler’s children who have no shoes, my life as an English teacher affords me little time to read for pleasure. As a child, and even as a teen, books were a staple for me: food, water, oxygen, words. Now they are assigned the title of ‘luxury,’ a guilty pleasure, often overshadowed by the things I “should” be doing.

So it was with a sense of bubbling glee I tucked myself into the corners of my couch late last week. I opened Rebecca Stead’s When you Reach Me, and I was gone.

Two hours later, I emerged from the tightly woven mystery like a little girl tumbling out of a maze. This young adult novel is a gem. So enraptured was I by the clever unfurling of the plot, and the characters (oh, the characters! The sassy, the sullen, the surprising characters!) that I was once again transported to my childhood. To a time when a book could add a layer over my real life, a parallel dimension, a space where events unfold both within my world and separate from it, where time stretches and stops all at once.

One of my favourite blogs, Grosgrain, is hosting a giveaway. I love this blog so much that I usually check out any links Kathleen might provide, and I think I found another, new favourite!

Magpie Patterns is a shop, a blog, a generally creative-crafty-type place. It gathers together all kinds of amazing patterns from all kinds of amazing creators, all available to purchase all in one place. Want want want. Ohhhhhhh so many things I want.

I’m not trying to sell this place to you. Rather, it works in my favour if you don’t fall in love with Magpie Patterns and don’t thereby enter the Grosgrain giveaway to win a $50 dollar gift voucher, Because if you don’t, and I then win, here’s how I’ll be spending my loot.

The Handmade Home, by Amanda Blake Soule. Wonderful book; just so happens to be written by the author of my absolute favourite blog, Soule Mama.

The Lady Grey coat pattern from Colette patterns. I have watched enviously as blogger after blogger has whipped up this foxy piece. It must be mine. Possibly in leopard print. Or red. Or red with leopard print lining. Or leopa… you get the idea.

The Genevieve Cowl pattern from Tickled Pink Knits. I will learn to knit that baby or die trying. So snug. So sassy. So very very ace.

And with my last two buckeroos?

This sweeter-than-sweet Crocheted Flower pattern from MarianneS. What’s that? Yes, I know I can’t crochet. Shush.

And when these babies are all mine, and I have lovingly (slavishly?) made them all up, I shall don my coat and my cowl and as many flowers as I can fit upon my person, sit cross legged on the floor in the middle of my apartment, and dream of all the self-made, eco friendly home decorating I can do as I flick through my magnificent new book.

So. Wish me luck. I shall be terribly upset and horribly deflated if I don’t win now. The downside of visualization.   :)

As I may have mentioned in previous posts, before I was completely and utterly overtaken by the urge to collect vintage sewing patterns, I collected Marilyn books.

I don’t remember when the Marilyn obsession began with me. I don’t recall which was my first book, or how old I was when it came into my possession. She has just always been there, the perfectly imperfect ideal of woman.

Tucked safely into my storage unit in Oz I have somewhere in the vicinity of 70 books about her- some novels, with one foot planted in fact and the other firmly in fiction, some biographies, which claim to solve the mysteries of her death, others still which tout themselves as ‘autobiographical’, having lifted her own words to fill their printed pages. Many of my favourites are simply big, heavy hardcovers, with picture after glossy picture of the lady in her early days, her ‘rise’ to stardom, her heyday, her decline. I could literally sit for entire afternoons poring through the pages of pictures I already know by heart.

And into this much-loved collection I welcome this new book.

Titled Marilyn Monroe Fragments (poesie, appunti, lettere) and published by Feltrinelli, it is a collection of her writings and diary entries, her notes and letters. I’d show you the inside were it not for the fact that I’m not opening it. Yes, the shine you can see in the photos is indeed plastic wrap! I had a brief, beautiful, tantalizing flick through the display copy in the bookshop, and that will have to suffice (for me and also for you!). I can tell you that on the inside the layout is clean and uncluttered, with colour pictures adorning the left hand pages- the covers of her diaries, her notes, her crossed-out, rewritten musings- and the typed transcripts placed in the right hand pages, first in English and then Italian.

This book is a joy. I am so excited to have it in my collection!

If, perchance, you want to check it out too, try here for the English version, or here if the Italian translations add something to the romance of it!

And yes, I will be hunting down and purchasing the English version when I come back to Oz. After all, it’s a collection, no?