Of Time, and Other Musings

Time is a fascinating subject to catch hold of...on rainy days, brooding about, it is a balm--to the lovelorn, the brave, the bored, the foolish, the splendidly happy, the mournfully lonesome--all things pale before this consideration.

We profess to know so much about it: 'Ten twenty-five,' said I promptly in response to a bewildered passerby this morning.
'A.M.--that's in the morning, is it?'
'...yes.'

For it had not occurred to me, you see, that it could be otherwise than ten twenty-five AM. And yet, this bewildered soul was quite right: there is not a topic on this earth, or outside of it, about which we know less.

For example, does it run in circles? Is it, then, the ever-present whirlpool? A matrix, perhaps? Or a drudging line, stretching out into oblivion, never to return whence we have come? Can past and present exist at once? And how would one know? It is the eternal mystery, of all the mysteries in this thing we call life.

I am aware that I may be delving into morose monstrosities of brooding here, but never fear: it does wrap round to return to publishing in the end.

For if time is not an arrow, but a sphere, then all the ideas, all the experiences we have been carrying about within ourselves for years (and doubtless wish to banish many from the groove of our memories) are as fresh and new as they were when they sprung into being. Thus, though we grow and learn beyond our stories' capacity, betimes, we can never leave the feelings that once we owned. Every instance of great feeling seems, to me, an hour-mark, every moment of passion or sorrow or envy or joy a tick-mark, a sundial-slash in the fluid sand of one's life. Tho' the tide of years may come up and seem to wash the mark away, it remains. It is ever being made, and disappearing, at once.

It may not be true, but what a good brooding introductory theme it makes.


© 2009 Creative Works Int'l Media, all world rights reserved

Why Read Children's Books, or, Editor Julian North's Personal Business View

As perhaps our readers may have guessed by this time, and judging from our list of 'Books to read Aloud,' I am unquestionably in love with children's books.

(Good children's books, that is. The world of children's publishing is full, it is true, of irritating, puerile characters and brash stereotypes, but the certain class of book I am talking of is less commercial than it is authentic.) One might wonder why...

I give myself free leave to be serious, I am afraid, in this post.


Children's authors, as Joan Aiken perceptively observes, have a much bigger responsibility than authors of the common sort (I use this qualifying term with all due respect). A child will only read, it is estimated, a certain number of books during the course of childhood; thus, every book counts, when it comes to informing, enlightening, and above all kindling a sense of wonder without being dreary or didactic.

Children's books, I find, are very often truer in perception of character than the rest of the vast ocean of literature. They depict characters which, though often oversimplified, are true in essence--for a child will not abide stodgy characterisations or a lack of heart. The issues presented are so often so much nearer the mark, when it comes to an understanding of human problems..

..for often, in our multivariating world, the common author seeks to depict only suffering, without meaning, or plot, without purpose. Why lapse into nihilism if there is a chance of a happy ending? Happy endings breed optimism, which in turn cultivates action. Cynicism, or nihilist/existentialist dilemmas do just the opposite. For if a person believes there is no reason to hope, why would they strive for the best, for change, growth, life?

Likewise, it takes a true maturity to exhibit optimism--for, as we have all doubtless seen, any adolescent can dowse into cynicism.

This maturity, children are born with. If they lose it over time, it is our responsiblity to look to ourselves, to see what in us is fostering this unnatural trait. All of nature is in a constant state of change, of growth, cycles of birth and ephemery. Let us keep the fade-and-fall of optimism, of hope, of expansion, alive. Let us do it through literature.

Business Philosophy. Part I. Or, Why Publish BOOKS in This Day and Age?

Well. Books are essential, even in this day and age--more than that, they are themselves essences. At risk of being effusive, allow me to explain:

The touch and smell of a book. Books found, in mouldy corners, on dusty bookshelves, books discovered in a great-aunt's attic, books seized upon under cover of rain. Books opened, quested, to find--a world anew. There is no electronic equivalent.

Suppose, for one, you went to an open-air flea market. It is quite a gypsy flea-market--summons to mind those medieval portraits of fairs, bright colours encamped near bright colours, wagons, tents, camel-like horses chafing at the bit, dazzled onlookers seeking to buy their copper's worth of ribbon, of silk, of silver. You needn't be a connoisseur. The secret alcoves, containing hidden treasures--an old bird-cage, wrought in gargoyled iron; an ancient lamp, dusty with adventure; a roll-top desk perfect for writing letters of intrigue and experience (' Dear Isidore, Our hearts can no longer contain each other, for our lives have grown too full. Remember me, as I remember you, and above all remember that summer we spent by the sea, in which we discovered that cave, from whence the dread secret has encumbered our lives...).

And a stack of old books, ripe for opening. The world is yours...

Imagine this: a scene in which a child as well as a wizened sage may take pleasure.

Now, imagine a virtual marketplace, filled with the same wares...but in what form? Two-dimensional echoes, devoid of sensory value--no scent, no feel, no sunlight, no sound. The hawkers' cries do not ring out, all moves on a flat screen.

There is simply no comparison.

Books are artifacts.

So it is with books--so it is with literature. Take away the sense and smell and feel of the covers, the bindings, the pages, the ink-pressed characters that enfold to tell a tale, and you are lost. It is not literature, simply information, processed and uniformly packaged. And what mystery in a screen?

Dr. Johnson's Dictionary, or, Things Lost Beneath Beds

Dr. Johnson's Dictionary, or, Things Lost Beneath Beds

I intended to make this blog more than, as mentioned, Yet Another Literary Blog. I intended to begin with a pithy quote from Johnson's Dictionary, a tingling word to excite the senses and stir the mind. The latter intention, it seems, shall have to wait.

Why is it that books disappear beneath beds? There is a sort of piquancy to it, almost--a twist of fate that, if written the right way, could lean towards the tragic...

Nevertheless, we shall see about the first intention. My work takes me to far-off climes and dangerous territories of the imagination. I shall endeavour to explore dark secrets, heroic attempts, fantastic feats of courage and alliteration. There is much to learn in the world of books beyond what is written in the pages; one must go deeper still, to the essence of them, the heat and heart and light of which they are (at centre) composed.

Dr. Johnson will have to wait.