Consolation

It's been a while since I read a book, it really has. I've been spending most of my time reading scripts and watching films, so when a friend of mine gave me this book and assured me it was "my type" of book I was simply annoyed. But she was right, it is completely and absolutely my type of book and it is exactly what I needed to read this weekend.

I shall link to this article here, which I think does a very good job of describing the many joys hiding between the covers of this book. The joys and treasures are indeed hiding, because the beginning of the story is dark, slow and mysterious. The way to read the first few chapters is to be completely open to the not-knowing, what I mean by this is that you have to almost pretend that you understand the intricacies of characters and plot, go with the flow, and have faith that all will become clear. It all eventually becomes miraculously clear, and then you suddenly feel this tremendous surge of love for life which could only have been created through those final revelations.

It's a story about parenting and mothering which actually, really and truly, I swear, captures that painful struggle and those moments of joy. It's a story which I wish I had read a decade ago because I could have used some of its consolation; then again, reading it now is pretty much damn perfect. So many wonderful scenes at the end of this novel, oh boy, so many smiles I smiled. I don't want to give anything away, but there's a scene with a selection of cookie-cutters that simply kills me, and a story told by a little girl after an architect builds her a play-house, and...all right...I'm not going to say anything else. I'll leave it for you to discover.

107 interpretations

My parents, who are enjoying a holiday in London at the moment, spoil me terribly. It's a tremendous burden, but I do the best I can with what I have been given. In this particular case, I have been given an armchair holiday, meaning that all I must do is sit back and enjoy their travels stories, while occasionally needing to stand up and open my front door so as to accept the latest package they send me.

Their apartment is walking distance from this shop. Needless to say, a package is on the way. Dad says it'll arrive on Friday, and I believe him. Dad loves tracking parcels and often calls me 5 minutes after I have signed for a package to tell me: "You just received the package, I know."

Another package arrived yesterday, and Mom (I write the American "O" in Mom, but only for my mom, because she's American and hates being "Mum") had already told me that "It's a book from the most wonderful exhibition, well...we liked it...but we kept saying that YOU should have been there." See what I mean, spoilt rotten. Sigh.

This is the exhibition, and this is the book. Mom and Dad were quite right, I really should have been there, I ADORE this project by Sophie Calle.

I believe that my experience of blogging is equivalent to Sophie's collection of 107 interpretations. Every time I publish a post, I receive in return interpretations of the words I have sent out to the world. Each interpretation is unique, and each has something to give and something to teach. At times, my words may be misunderstood, just as I may misunderstand my commentboxes, but the free flow of communication continues and everything is better understood in the process.

Some of the women who interpreted Sophie's break-up email:
Cartoonist
Lawyer
Teenager
Talmudic exegete
Children's writer
Schoolgirl
Composer
Ikebana master
Rifle shooter
Latinist
Philosopher
Mother
Screenwriter
Chess player
Diplomat
Sound engineer
Radio host
Translator in SMS language
Psychoanalyst
Headhunter
Nursery school teacher
French intelligence officer


If you like, tell me which one interests you and I might post a few quotes.

Oh, and out of interest, what do you think of letters which end with the phrase "Take care of yourself" ?

The only fictional character to be honoured with a front page obituary in The New York Times

Miss CB and I spent the day together, it's been a busy month and it felt right to take a day off to unwind and reconnect. We ignored our respective to-do lists and settled on the sofa to watch an Agatha Christie mystery. We both love dear Dame Christie, and we both agree that David Suchet is the perfect Hercule Poirot (Peter Ustinov is a close second).

David Suchet's Poirot almost always wears a tiny vase as a lapel pin, with a miniature flower in it, usually white, but often red and even purple. Is it called a boutonniere? It's more than just a flower, it's a tiny water-holding VASE. Miss CB and I want one each, we have decided Poirot will now be our fashion icon.

But Monsieur Poirot is really much more than that. Poirot is really my first love. Stop it Eurolush, stop LAUGHING, that is NOT funny. Hmph.

Now, where was I? Ah. Yes. I first met Poirot when I was 10 years old and I came across an entire shelf of Agatha Christie books in my local library. I proceeded to read every single Christie starring Poirot, I tried Jane Marple but it just didn't feel right. Only Poirot would do.

I also liked to read Poirot's dialogue out loud, and I often did, so often in fact that my family took it for granted. "Oh, that noise from Eleanor's room? Why, no, she doesn't have a deep-voiced friend with a French accent, that's just Eleanor reading Poirot. To herself. Out loud. It's nothing."

Poirot actually helped me learn English, because a little Israeli girl with a thick Hebrew accent needs to practice reading English quite a bit. That can be pretty dull and often frustrating and difficult, and sometimes a little Belgian friend with a thick accent and a disdain for British pomposity is just what is needed. N'est-ce pas?