Showing posts with label London. Show all posts
Showing posts with label London. Show all posts

05 June 2018

Chapter Six: The Shoemaker: A Tale of Two Cities with Women

For background on the project and to see all the chapters at once, go to the tag A Tale of Two Cities Project.

Chapter Six: The Shoemaker

“Good day!” said Madame Defarge, looking down at the white head that bent low over the shoemaking.

It was raised for a moment, and a very faint voice responded to the salutation, as if it were at a distance:

“Good day!”

“You are still hard at work, I see?”

After a long silence, the head was lifted for another moment, and the voice replied, “Yes--I am working.” This time, a pair of haggard eyes had looked at the questioner, before the face had dropped again.

The faintness of the voice was pitiable and dreadful.

29 May 2018

Chapter Four: The Preparation: A Tale of Two Cities with Women

For background on the project and to see all the chapters at once, go to the tag A Tale of Two Cities Project.

Chapter Four: The Preparation 

When the mail got successfully to Dover, in the course of the forenoon, the head drawer at the Royal George Hotel opened the coach-door as her custom was. She did it with some flourish of ceremony, for a mail journey from London in winter was an achievement to congratulate an adventurous traveller upon.

By that time, there was only one adventurous traveller left be congratulated: for the two others had been set down at their respective roadside destinations. The mildewy inside of the coach, with its damp and dirty straw, its disagreeable smell, and its obscurity, was rather like a larger dog-kennel. Ms. Lorry, the passenger, shaking herself out of it in chains of straw, a tangle of shaggy wrapper, flapping hat, and muddy legs, was rather like a larger sort of dog.

“There will be a packet to Calais, tomorrow, drawer?”


16 April 2018

Chapter Three: The Night Shadows: A Tale of Two Cities with Women

I have the next chapter ready and I think instead of waiting for Wednesdays to roll around I will post chapters as I finish them. 

For background on the project and to see all the chapters at once, go to the tag A Tale of Two Cities Project.

Chapter Three: The Night Shadows

A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other. A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city by night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it! Something of the awfulness, even of Death itself, is referable to this. No more can I turn the leaves of this dear book that I loved, and vainly hope in time to read it all. No more can I look into the depths of this unfathomable water, wherein, as momentary lights glanced into it, I have had glimpses of buried treasure and other things submerged. It was appointed that the book should shut with a spring, for ever and for ever, when I had read but a page. It was appointed that the water should be locked in an eternal frost, when the light was playing on its surface, and I stood in ignorance on the shore. My friend is dead, my neighbour is dead, my love, the darling of my soul, is dead; it is the inexorable consolidation and perpetuation of the secret that was always in that individuality, and which I shall carry in mine to my life’s end. In any of the burial-places of this city through which I pass, is there a sleeper more inscrutable than its busy inhabitants are, in their innermost personality, to me, or than I am to them?

11 April 2018

Chapter Two: The Mail: A Tale of Two Cities with Women

For background on the project and to see all the chapters at once, go to the tag A Tale of Two Cities Project.

Chapter Two: The Mail

It was the Dover road that lay, on a Friday night late in November, before the first of the persons with whom this history has business. The Dover road lay, as to her, beyond the Dover mail, as it lumbered up Shooter’s Hill. She walked up hill in the mire by the side of the mail, as the rest of the passengers did; not because they had the least relish for walking exercise, under the circumstances, but because the hill, and the harness, and the mud, and the mail, were all so heavy, that the horses had three times already come to a stop, besides once drawing the coach across the road, with the mutinous intent of taking it back to Blackheath. Reins and whip and coach person and guard, however, in combination, had read that article of war which forbade a purpose otherwise strongly in favour of the argument, that some brute animals are endued with Reason; and the team had capitulated and returned to their duty.

Chapter One: The Period: A Tale of Two Cities with Women

It's getting ready! I have a number of chapters to post. Since there's not much difference in the first chapter, I'll be posting the first two chapters today. More will follow in the coming weeks, probably every Wednesday. 

For background on the project and to see all the chapters at once, go to the tag A Tale of Two Cities Project.

Chapter One: The Period

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way--in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

There were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a plain face, on the throne of England; there were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a fair face, on the throne of France. In both countries it was clearer than crystal to the lords of the State preserves of loaves and fishes, that things in general were settled for ever.

It was the year of Our Lord one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five. Spiritual revelations were conceded to England at that favoured period, as at this. Mrs. Southcott had recently attained her five-and-twentieth blessed birthday, of whom a prophetic private in the Life Guards had heralded the sublime appearance by announcing that arrangements were made for the swallowing up of London and Westminster. Even the Cock-lane ghost had been laid only a round dozen of years, after rapping out its messages, as the spirits of this very year last past (supernaturally deficient in originality) rapped out theirs. Mere messages in the earthly order of events had lately come to the English Crown and People, from a congress of British subjects in America: which, strange to relate, have proved more important to the human race than any communications yet received through any of the chickens of the Cock-lane brood.

France, less favoured on the whole as to matters spiritual than her sister of the shield and trident, rolled with exceeding smoothness down hill, making paper money and spending it. Under the guidance of her Christian pastors, she entertained herself, besides, with such humane achievements as sentencing a youth to have her hands cut off, her tongue torn out with pincers, and her body burned alive, because she had not kneeled down in the rain to do honour to a dirty procession of nuns which passed within her view, at a distance of some fifty or sixty yards. It is likely enough that, rooted in the woods of France and Norway, there were growing trees, when that sufferer was put to death, already marked by the Woodworker, Fate, to come down and be sawn into boards, to make a certain movable framework with a sack and a knife in it, terrible in history. It is likely enough that in the rough outhouses of some tillers of the heavy lands adjacent to Paris, there were sheltered from the weather that very day, rude carts, bespattered with rustic mire, snuffed about by pigs, and roosted in by poultry, which the Farmer, Death, had already set apart to be her tumbrils of the Revolution. But that Woodworker and that Farmer, though they work unceasingly, work silently, and no one heard them as they went about with muffled tread: the rather, forasmuch as to entertain any suspicion that they were awake, was to be atheistical and traitorous.

In England, there was scarcely an amount of order and protection to justify much national boasting. Daring burglaries by armed people, and highway robberies, took place in the capital itself every night; families were publicly cautioned not to go out of town without removing their furniture to upholsterers’ warehouses for security; the road agent in the dark was a City tradesperson in the light, and, being recognised and challenged by her fellow-tradesperson whom she stopped in her character of “the Captain,” gallantly shot her through the head and rode away; the mail was waylaid by seven robbers, and the guard shot three dead, and then got shot dead herself by the other four, “in consequence of the failure of her ammunition:” after which the mail was robbed in peace; that magnificent potentate, the Lord Mayor of London, was made to stand and deliver on Turnham Green, by one road agent, who despoiled the illustrious creature in sight of all her retinue; prisoners in London gaols fought battles with their turnkeys, and the majesty of the law fired blunderbusses in among them, loaded with rounds of shot and ball; thieves snipped off diamond crosses from the necks of noble ladies at Court drawing-rooms; musketeers went into St. Giles’s, to search for contraband goods, and the mob fired on the musketeers, and the musketeers fired on the mob, and nobody thought any of these occurrences much out of the common way. In the midst of them, the executioner, ever busy and ever worse than useless, was in constant requisition; now, stringing up long rows of miscellaneous criminals; now, hanging a housebreaker on Saturday who had been taken on Tuesday; now, burning people in the hand at Newgate by the dozen, and now burning pamphlets at the door of Westminster Hall; to-day, taking the life of an atrocious murderer, and to-morrow of a wretched pilferer who had robbed a farmer’s girl of sixpence.

All these things, and a thousand like them, came to pass in and close upon the dear old year one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five. Environed by them, while the Woodworker and the Farmer worked unheeded, those two of the large jaws, and those other two of the plain and the fair faces, trod with stir enough, and carried their divine rights with a high hand. Thus did the year one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five conduct their Greatnesses, and myriads of small creatures--the creatures of this chronicle among the rest--along the roads that lay before them.

Chapter Two will be available shortly.

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31 January 2018

What Happens When You Switch the Genders?

Image from Wikipedia
A few months ago I had an idea. I wanted to take some classic works of literature and change the genders of all the characters to see how it changes the story.

So for the last few months I’ve been working my way through Charles Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities doing just that.

I find it fascinating, the changes it makes to the story. All of a sudden, women are lawyers, doctors, carriage-drivers, and innkeepers. Some of the behavior that was attributed to female characters in the original is downright silly when attributed to male characters now, which highlights to me the silliness of accepting or expecting that behavior from women in the first place. Crowd scenes are suddenly populated with men and women, not just men.

I’m hitting some road bumps, though. I’m trying to decide what to do with historical figures such as the kings and queens, George Washington, and God. Changing the genders of the general population changes some of the history, of course, but part of me wants to keep the story in a realistic historic period. I’m not doing a simple search and replace of all the pronouns and calling it a day. I’m going through line by line, making decisions about changing genders or making certain terms gender neutral to be all inclusive rather than all female. Do I change the genders of the horses pulling the carriages? I’m changing some of the clothing references (but I like the idea of keeping women in trousers and frock coats) and removing facial hair for the most part.

I’d like to share this eventually. Maybe chapter-by-chapter here on my blog. But I still have a lot of work to do before I’m at that point. Hopefully in the next month or two I’ll be ready. Even if no one else is fascinated by this idea, I am and it’s keeping me going.

I know that this is still going to be a very white and very cis/straight and very British story. Here’s the thing, though. If you want to read a Black version, or a trans or gay version, or a version that takes place in India and Pakistan rather than London and Paris, or any other version, go ahead and write it. And share it with me and I’ll read it, too. We are limitless in our possibilities. (I downloaded a copy for free from Project Gutenberg. I’m not a copyright expert, though. It’s up to you to read the fine print when it comes to sharing it if you’re going to do something.)

There will be more to come on this.

28 April 2017

Book Review: The Princess Diarist by Carrie Fisher


After you've read something, please consider leaving a line or two on Goodreads and Amazon. The authors appreciate it!

Here's my review as it appears on Goodreads.

The Princess DiaristThe Princess Diarist by Carrie Fisher
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I was a little disappointed with this book. I'm not quite sure what I expected. But the main realization that Carrie Fisher and Harrison Ford had an affair during the filming of Star Wars had been released with the book and there were no other real surprises within. Some readers have said they're disappointed to learn that Ford was so quiet and aloof, but I already figured that about him. He's always been a fairly private figure. Have you ever seen him on a talk show?

Thirty-three-year-old Harrison Ford took advantage of a nineteen-year-old Carrie Fisher. Maybe there's even more to it than Ms. Fisher revealed but from her telling of it I can't see Mr. Ford in a more flattering light over the affair. I know affairs happen. I'm not naive. Ms. Fisher tells us that Mr. Ford isn't a bad guy and that we should take her word for that despite all the evidence she provides that leads me toward not having any sympathy for Mr. Ford in that situation.

I also found the actual reprinting of her journals written when she was nineteen years old to be as tedious as any other nineteen year old's journals, including my own. I'm not sure what they added other than the thrill of voyeurism. I didn't find any deep insight in them.

I didn't hate the book. I found some of the personal details interesting although I found myself skimming through many paragraphs to find one of those interesting details. I'm still a fan of Carrie Fisher and of Princess Leia. I'm just maybe not a fan of Ms. Fisher's writing.

View all my reviews

23 September 2016

Book Reviews: Birdsong by Sebastian Faulks and an Emmanuelle de Maupassant Short Story

After you've read something, please consider leaving a line or two on Goodreads and Amazon. The authors appreciate it!

Here are my reviews as they appear on Goodreads.

BirdsongBirdsong by Sebastian Faulks
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I was swept up in this book from the moment I started it. I didn’t know that much about it but a trusted source recommended it. I jumped in with both feet and got lost in it. It’s sensual and romantic, then heartbreakingly depressing as the story moves from a love affair in a French town to the battlefields of World War I. The writing pulls you along and you struggle with the hero every step of the way.

Stephen Wraysford is the hero but he’s a bit of an anti-hero. He’s young and passionate. He’s weird and quiet. He loses his passion throughout the war but works hard to do his job, and job that would be difficult for most people to fathom performing unless they were there themselves. The author writes with such emotion and leads you to believe that he really was there on the battlefields and in the trenches. The dramatic tension is amped up by anyone who knows World War I history. The reader who knows which battles are coming up will be struck with a particular horror, knowing the ending before the characters do.

I had a problem with the end of the book that keeps me from giving it five stars. And I really wanted to give it five stars. Not the ending itself; I’m satisfied with how the plot tied itself up. But the last couple of paragraphs. The point-of-view changed to a character that I don’t feel deserved it.

For me, this was a summer read for lazy afternoons in the hot sun, but it’s definitely worth reading anytime. Love, war, and history, it will appeal to many.

Because BeardsBecause Beards by Kacey Shea
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I received an ARC of Emmanuelle de Maupassant's story in this anthology. Ms. de Maupassant story, "Highland Pursuits," is delightful. She injects so much personality into her characters and settings and I love her combination of erotica with playful humor. I love reading how much her characters enjoy each others' company. And the story, of course, has some very steamy, satisfying moments.

I fully plan to buy the book and read the entire anthology when it comes out because it features some of my favorite erotica authors.

View all my reviews

08 September 2007

Want a great way to lose a few pounds?

Visit London!

(Ha ha ha, get it? Pounds?)

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London was the last stop on our trip and we knew it would be pricey, but we're used to paying San Francisco area prices so didn't think it would be too bad comparatively. You think at first, "Okay the 3 pound cappuccino, same as the 3 dollar cappuccino at home." Nope. Everything was actually double. The exchange rate was such that 1 pound equaled 2 dollars. So that 3 pound cappuccino was a 6 dollar cappuccino.

What really killed us was going to the movies one night. If the movie had been better, we might not have minded so much that the tickets were 9 pounds, i.e. 18 dollars, each. No popcorn and sodas for us! We were well above our entertainment budget for the day. And the movie was terrible. It was Eagle vs. Shark, a New Zealand film that I don't think has opened in the U.S. yet. It's gotten rave reviews from some pretty credible sources and won awards at festivals and all. And it started out sort of funny and charming. But then it got grating and annoying and I wanted to rip my eyes out by the end. Then you're sitting there thinking "When will this movie be over?" and your mind wanders to the fact that you just paid $18 each to see this, so you don't want to walk out on it. After the movie, back at the Tube station near our hotel, we ran into one of the Lebowski Fest organizers, Will, and his special lady. They had been in the same movie! And he had liked it! (And they were staying at a hotel near ours. We ran into them several times in the Tube station and around the city.)

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Going to Platform 9 3/4 at Kings Cross to catch the Hogwarts Express

We're not really ones to harp on the prices of things too much. We weren't on a strict budget but couldn't exactly just throw money around. When the 5 pound lunch special is really costing you 10 dollars though, you have to reign in the spending a bit. By the last day we were so tired in general that even going to a restaurant seemed exhausting. We bought fruit and cheese and snacked all day long.

We took a tour on one of those double-decker open-air busses, which was really fun. If you're on the top you can see a lot and we had a hilarious tour guide. It was a great way to rack up the sights without spending too much time and energy. Our guide also included the spots where various members of the Royal Family had their stag parties and many celebrity apartments. And of course the "Parliament, Big Ben" roundabout from National Lampoon's European Vacation.

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Our tour guide pointed out this restaurant, The Texas Embassy, saying that many confused Americans who've lost their passports end up there.

We definitely plan to go back because there's so much to see and we just scratched the surface. And next time it should be at the begining of our trip rather than the end, because we were just too tired to appreciate everything. Oh look, another castle, another old church, another pub... yawn.

(Clicking on any photo will take you to the full size on flickr.)

01 September 2007

All the photos...

are now up. Here on flickr. Now I feel nearly as sick as Mike did yesterday. Between jetlag and germs, we're both struggling to stay awake until it's dark enough to go to bed.

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Overlooking Edinburgh
(Clicking on the photo will take you to flickr.)