A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini

A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini
Published by Bloomsbury 2007
384pp My rating 4/5

I was attracted to this book by its cover's myriad shades of yellow, from the palest lemon to the deepest ochre, with tiny bursts of gold and hints of gamboge and orpiment; not a thousand shades but certainly a splendid array. Yellow is the colour of hope, happiness and joy and, despite the terrible events described in the book, there is an underlying optimism that cannot be destroyed.

Unlike most people, I have not read Khaled Hosseini's acclaimed début novel, The Kite Runner and my knowledge of Afghanistan is limited to what I have gleaned from news reports of conflict, oppression and drought. I hoped this book would help me to understand more about the people and how they live in those terrible conditions and I was not disappointed.

A Thousand Splendid Suns is the story of the relationship between two women of different generations and backgrounds, a relationship which begins with hostility, slowly grows into friendship and eventually develops into a profound mother-daughter love. As we begin to understand these two women, what they have to endure and how they contrive to survive, we start to understand the enormous cultural difference between the Afghan people and ourselves. Khaled Hosseini succeeds in taking us right inside the experience of Mariam and Laila and I have to admit here that, following my usual practice of not reading the blurb or any reviews before starting a book, I was half way through before my surprising discovery that the author was a man.

Mariam is the elder of the two women. The story begins when she is a young child, living in poverty and isolation with her unmarried, epileptic mother outside Herat. Mariam's only happiness comes from the weekly visit of her wealthy father, who gives her trinkets and sends food but denies her the things she longs for, education and a place in his family. Mariam's misjudgement of her father's character leads to tragedy and the first of a sequence of events where her gender and poverty leave her powerless to choose her own way in life.

Married against her will to Rasheed, an older, brutish man, Mariam is taken to Karbul, forced to wear the burka and to live, once more, isolated from the rest of society. Years pass, Mariam's pregnancies all end in miscarriage and her husband treats her with increasing cruelty. There we lose sight of her as we are introduced to Laila, the darling daughter of a 'modern' Afghan family. Laila has all that Mariam lacked, education, a loving family and freedom from the more radical aspects of Muslim law. A surprising benefit of the Soviet occupation is the opportunity for women to have access to education and employment.

Life changes dramatically for Laila as the Soviets depart and the Mujahideen fail to form an effective government. No longer having a common enemy, they break into warring factions, bringing destruction and misery to the people of Karbul. Laila's happy, carefree life is tragically changed and she finds herself subjected to the same cruel treatment as Mariam, at the hands of Rasheed. The two women are brought together and the rest of the story reveals their growing mutual respect and affection, their courage and endurance.

Hosseini explains the political situation in Afghanistan in so far as it impacts on the lives of the two women: the chaos of the indiscriminate shelling of the city, the personal tragedies and then the horrific Taliban regime. It is a simplified presentation but it has given me enough information to make sense of what I now see in the newsreels.

This is a compelling read; perhaps not great literature but the characters are engaging and the pace never slackens. I found myself thinking of Thomas Hardy's novels as I read A Thousand Splendid Suns; the young Mariam makes a wrong choice which has disastrous consequences and, like a Hardy character, she is set on a path ruled by fate, with no hope of escaping the course of events. There is a sort of happy ending for Laila but it lacks conviction, a bit of wishful thinking perhaps on the part of the writer, who doesn't quite share Hardy's fatalism.

Valencia - water, bridges and fountains

Wherever I went during my brief visit to Valencia, I was reminded of the significance of water in the history of the city. The cultivated plains (huertas) outside the city depend on an irrigation system established in the 8th century. This is so vital to the prosperity of the area that a special Water Court (Tribunal de las Aguas) meets weekly to settle disputes between the farmers of the huertas. Every Thursday for more than a thousand years, this court, made up of eight elected farmers, has met outside the cathedral. Often they meet simply to announce that there is no business but it is a great tourist attraction.

The architecture of Valencia is stunning but I will limit myself to pictures of a few of the many fountains I saw as I walked around:





The river Turia used to run through the city but it often flooded with disastrous results. After a particularly devastating flood in 1957, the city authorities decided to divert the river three kilometres towards the south. This massive project began in 1964 and was completed in 1973. The 10 kilometres of dry riverbed have been developed as parks, gardens, play areas and sports arenas. I was particularly fascinated by the bridges which can now be seen in their full splendour, no longer half below water. Here are just a few of the many:


Everything in Valencia is done on a grand scale and two of the latest bold projects involve water. First, the City of Arts and Science, is a series of museums designed by Santiago Calatrava. My pictures show the Oceanographic Park, L'Hemispheric (an enormous Imax) and the Museum of Science.


The opera house is also in this complex but I can't locate the photos I took so I'll keep those for another post, along with pictures of the Marina Real.

Holiday snap

For D, by special request - what I really got up to in Valencia!

Back to an English summer

Yesterday I was seeking shelter from the sun in Valencia and today I'm back to the reality of raincoat and brolly in not-so-sunny Devon. From 36 to 17 degrees centigrade (96F to 62F) in two hours!It was a short break but we packed a lot in and I will post a few facts and photos when I get myself organised. My overall impression of Valencia is one of boldness - in planning, design and structures. I took lots of photos of the buildings, the gardens, the wonderful ceramics and the new Marina Real development. More about all of that in the next few days; in the meantime, I wonder what I have been missing while I was enjoying my horchata and fartons in the Horchateria de Santa Catalina? One very pleasant surprise on opening my email was to find a message from Michele of HedgelandsGlassLassGems, saying that she had nominated me for a blog award! Michele said some very nice things about Random Distractions, for which I am most grateful.
Now, of course, I ought to nominate five more people for the award but, having been away while all of this was happening, I missed out: all of my favourite bloggers have been nominated already. If your blog appears on my side bar, then you know I think you add 'beauty, love and joy' to the world of blogging, I could add humour, intelligence and interest to that list.
More on Valencia tomorrow but, for now, here is a contrasting picture of the Devon sky.

Off to Spain

Zimbabwe - what are the good people doing?

"All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing." Edmund Burke

In May, I chose Zimbabwe as the subject of my post on Bloggers Unite for Human Rights.
Since that time, the situation in Zimbabwe has deteriorated even further, while those who might have some influence remain silent. The governments of Tanzania, Swaziland and Angola have spoken out but the more powerful and influential neighbour, South Africa, still says nothing.

Today I received a letter from one of the aid agencies that I support, informing me that they have been forced by the Zimbabwean government to suspend all their field operations. (Click on the letter to enlarge)This ruling affects all groups giving humanitarian aid as well as those working on long-term projects to help the people of Zimbabwe to support themselves.

The latest news suggests that Morgan Tsvangirai may withdraw from the run-off election; while this may alleviate the immediate suffering of his supporters, it can only prolong the agony of the people of Zimbabwe. For more information visit the frequently updated Zimbabwe Situation or the Zimbabwe page of the Guardian's on-line news service.

Get that baby out of here!

I was going to write my first post for RD last week, and I had intended to describe the various pros and cons of having a baby in North London, but events got the better of me.

A couple of gallstones, which had been grumbling around inside my gallbladder for the past ten weeks, decided to make a bid of freedom at 5am last Tuesday. Unfortunately, they did not get far, and took up residence in my bile duct turning me an interesting shade of orange. Thankfully, they were removed on Friday and I was able to return home from hospital on Saturday evening in time to prepare for Millie's Christening the following morning.

The drama of the episode was not so much about what was happening to me, but how unprepared the hospital was. As a breastfeeding mother of a 13 week old baby, I needed to be accommodated in a family room. Which the hospital does not possess. I cannot believe that I am the first ever mother to be admitted in this condition, and yet we had every ward manager, bed manager, head of family and women's health and countless others running around in various states of panic trying to work out what to do with us. It came down to this:

• Hospital policy is to promote breastfeeding;

(Millie would not take a bottle at all and would rather starve than drink formula)

• Hospital policy would not allow any member of staff to help me with the baby at all, and it was strongly suggested that my husband should take her home;

(My husband was on hand to help with changes, feeds and hold her while I was in scans etc)

• Hospital policy would not allow Millie to stay in an unlocked ward in case of abduction;
• The only locked ward that would accept me with Millie was the gynaecological ward;
• No men are allowed to stay on the gynaecological ward.
  

Since I was in no fit state to care for the baby on my own, and their own policy stated that they must promote breastfeeding, the multitude of managers eventually relented and allowed my husband to sleep in a chair in the room with me. Had I been a single mother, or if my husband had been abroad, I can only assume that they would have taken Millie into Care rather than help me with her.

I was completely baffled that there were no provisions for this sort of circumstance, and that Millie had to sleep in a cot designed for a newborn, while my husband spent four nights in an upright chair (after 2 nights they gave him a blanket). I hope that this may lead to a change in policy somewhere, but I won't hold my breath. I'm due in again soon to have the offending gallbladder out, so watch this space...

Here's Millie, just fitting into the cot that they provided:

Amelia Catherine centre stage

Yesterday I was in London for Millie's baptism. I was generally too busy or in the wrong place for taking photographs but here are a few snapshots of the day.

Here is Millie with proud parents, Tanith and Peter. The christening gown was previously worn by Millie's mummy, her uncle, grandfather, great grandmother and many other members of the family. (The sharp-eyed among you will notice that I have changed this picture

(The sharp-eyed among you will notice that I have changed this picture in order to show Tanith wearing a Hedgelands necklace - a piece of Lowestoft seaglass)

At the church with godmother Anna and godfather Stephen.

Stephen's son, Alfred, insists that he is now Amelia's 'godbrother',

Back home, where even godbrothers get fed up with crying babies.

Enough of all this partying ..... time for bed!

The Collector of Worlds - Iliya Troyanov

This is my review of my latest Early Reviewers book from the LibraryThing and another entry for the Orbis Terrarum Challenge.

The Collector of Worlds by Iliya Troyanov
Translated by William Hobson
Published by Faber and Faber
454 pages

The Collector of Worlds is a novel inspired by the life and works of Sir Richard Francis Burton, the notorious nineteenth century English soldier, explorer, writer and translator of works such as The Kama Sutra, The Perfumed Garden and the ten-volume Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night.

The novel begins and ends with Burton’s death: “He died early in the morning before you could tell a black thread from a white.” The young priest, pressured by his bishop and Burton’s wife into administering the Last Rites to the dying man, is uneasy. He senses that something is not right about the situation; he wants to know more about the life of this man and his beliefs. In a way, the reader stands alongside the priest, pondering the myths and mysteries that surround the exploits of Richard Francis Burton and, at the end, both priest and reader are left with those mysteries unresolved. The man remains an enigma.

Although Burton is the central figure in the novel and extracts from his own writings are incorporated into the text, we never engage directly with him. The author uses a variety of narrators to reveal some aspect of his behaviour but there is no real insight into his character or beliefs.

The book is divided into three distinct sections, each dealing with a major period in Burton’s life. The first, longest and, for me, best part depicts his time as a young officer in the East India Company, stationed in the remote outpost of Baroda. Boredom and ambition lead Burton to take his natural interest and facility in learning languages to a new and dangerous level; his fluency allows him to disguise himself as an Indian and he becomes a useful spy for the British government.

The narrators in the Indian setting are Burton’s former servant, Naukaram and the professional letter-writer he employs to write down his story. The encounters between the two of them and the flights of fancy employed by both in embellishing the tale are quite humorous and entertaining. These two and Upanishe, Burton’s wise teacher are the best-developed characters in the book.

The second part of the book deals with Burton’s pilgrimage to Mecca, disguised as an Arab. This is probably his most outrageous and dangerous exploit; if his disguise is penetrated he faces certain execution. After successfully completing the Hajj, he returns to England and publishes a book about his adventures and our insight into the affair comes from the imagined investigation by angry and offended Arab officials, who interrogate Burton’s companions who had been completely taken in by his disguise.

The final section is set in East Africa and concerns Burton’s attempt to discover the source of the Nile. The narrator is a former slave, employed as a guide and interpreter on the expedition. His family and friends find his account boring and self-indulgent and they have a point; I found myself skimming the pages in these final chapters.

Burton is a well-known figure in English history but there is no sense of his personality or his ideals in this novel; he isn’t the hero of the story. The book takes us to unexplored and dangerous places but it isn’t a conventional travel book or tale of derring-do. It is difficult to categorise it, although it is an impressive book and one I will return to because of the ideas it explores. It probably belongs in the philosophy rather than the fiction section of the library. It is a timely consideration of the difficulty, perhaps impossibility, of someone fully comprehending another culture. It looks at language, religion, slavery, loyalty, honour, exploitation and many other aspects of human behaviour. It certainly isn’t a light read but it is an enjoyable one.

More glass gems and beads

In May, I wrote about the visit that friend Diane and I made to see the gifted Hedgelands Glass Lass demonstrating some of her jewellery-making techniques in the shop at Rackenford. I bought a few pieces on that occasion, as gifts for other people, but now I am indulging myself (well maybe some of these bookmarks will go to good homes but I get first pick!)

First of all we have the Beautiful Blue Squiggle described by Michele thus: "The blue is a lovely rich mixture of cobalt and velvety navy and a few highlights of lighter birds egg blue. Also a labrodorite bead and a couple of swaro crystals."

Next, the Gorgeous Green Squiggle, which has an artisan bead made locally by Manda in Barnstaple.

The Fabulous Purple Celtic bookmark, with its crystal and lampwork beads is definitely going to grace my books.

This is another one that I don't think I could bear to part with. It is called Mersea Deep Green Heart Celtic. To discover the fascinating link between Mersea seaglass and Michele's Hedgelands jewellery go over to the Muddy Island and read all about it.

I will be going back to the Rackenford shop soon to select some different pieces of Michele's lovely work. Ideas for Christmas and birthday gifts will be no trouble at all this year.

Soothing jazz for the frazzled nerves

It has been a hard day and nothing but a little Oscar Peterson will settle the nerves. Add some Count Basie and I'll be thoroughly defragmented in no time. Enjoy!

June winner

There were only four entries in the June book draw so I put the names in this bowl from my blue glass collection.
And the winner is .....
Congratulations, Lizzie. Send me your address by email and Good Behaviour will be on its way to you. I hope you enjoy it. I'm re-reading it for the ?th time (too many to remember) and loving it all over again.

Absurd age-branding of books

Can you tell from this picture which child is the most competent reader?

Can you tell which one loves books and which needs encouragement and support?

Can you tell which child enjoys fairy stories, which likes poetry or which one loves mystery and adventure?

Only a fool would judge a book by its cover and only a bigger fool would attempt to assign books to particular age groups.

And yet, if you look around the book blogs this morning you will see that, based on research done by a marketing company, many publishers are planning to affix stickers with age-bands on the covers of their children's books. You can read more about it on Musings from a Muddy Island, Vulpes Libris, Fidra and by following many of the links recommended on those sites.

As a teacher and a parent, I know that the best gift I could give to a child is a love of books. I know that reading skills are easier for some children to acquire than for others. I know that coming upon a book that is just right for a particular child can spark an enthusiasm which will last for life. Imagine finding just such a book but with the 'wrong' age label, the youngster refusing to read it because it is meant for younger children; opportunity not only lost for this occasion but perhaps for the child's reading future.

All the arguments, from the writers' perspective as well as parents and teachers can be found on the links I've suggested above. Then go to sign the protest on No to age-branding.

I know that I'm fond of absurdities but not this one!

Grandma's Bookshelf

I am assembling a special bookshelf for Amelia (and any future grandchildren we might have visiting!). I am going through my shelves to find old favourites but I can't resist buying new books too. I think the shelf will soon become a dedicated bookcase!

These were all popular with my own children. I am lucky to have any left as they have both removed as many of their favourites as possible. I wonder who has The Elephant and the Bad Baby, Dogger, The Hungry Caterpillar, Max Yak and the rest? At least I still have this copy of Peter and the Wolf that I bought to read to my first class of 7 year-olds in 1967.
I couldn't resist buying this set of Usborne First Reading Books, a real bargain from the Book PeopleAnd that fount of information on children's books, Juliet recommended the Wibbly Pig books by Mick Inkpen, to combine my love of books and pigs. Book Rabbit added the Peppa Pig book as a suitable (and much appreciated) free gift.
The collection grows but I think it will be quite a while before Millie can tackle Chaucer!
All recommendations for suitable additions to the Grandma bookshelf will be gratefully received.

Job satisfaction

I sometimes look with envy at the opportunities available to young people nowadays. They have a great deal more to choose from in terms of study, travel and work. 'In my day' we chose a career (or it chose us), studied for the necessary qualifications and then entered a profession for the next 40 years or so. Yes, we had a certain security in our lives but today's youngsters have far more glamorous prospects, or at least that's how it appears to me.

Still finding my way in my retirement, I wonder how things might have been if I had not been brought up with a great sense of duty and responsibility. What if I'd had the courage to simply pack a bag and set off into the unknown? Well, that's the stuff of dreams and I try to be content with enjoying hearing and reading about the adventures of more free-spirited people.

I like to think that I played a small part in enabling and encouraging a few of my students to go out and do exciting things. It was always my aim, especially in my work with deaf youngsters, to make them feel that they could do things, rather than thinking they should feel handicapped by their deafness. So my job satisfaction is great when I hear of their achievements.

Oliver, now aged 27 and looking a little different from when I taught him, has just become the first deaf man to walk to the North Pole, raising £24,000 in sponsorship for charity. His mum emailed me to say how proud she was of his many achievements: he has run marathons, 20Ks and taken part in triathlons in London, Stockholm, Brussels, Paris, Lisbon, Warsaw, Prague, New York and Rome; he'll be representing GB in Turkey in September and is a hopeful to represent the British Deaf in the Para- Olympics. Oliver hasn't only had great success in sport, he got a good degree, runs his own web design company and has done voluntary work in Singapore.

The email from proud mum, Sue, also said: I always remember when you first met Oliver and you said that he was special! And so he was; even at 18 months he was obviously an exceptionally intelligent and determined boy. He's already achieved a great deal and I'll have to be satisfied with my small part in that.

That's my boy!

I have noticed a a sense of ennui around the blogs recently; a feeling that some people are struggling to think of things to write about while others, once prolific, are not writing at all. Then we have the blogger's angst, the 'why am I doing this?' or 'why are my stats falling?' and 'does any of it matter anyway?' that besets us all at some time.

Yesterday, even Bryan Appleyard, was pondering on the 'obsessive absurdity' of blogging. He links to a poem called The Blogger's Lament written way back in 2006 for The Daily Duck by Brit, aka my son, Andrew. I've had an interesting time following all those links, revisiting my own early days of blogging and seeing the names of old correspondents I haven't spoken to in a while.

Some blogs never change, especially those devoted to politics and/or religion, where the writers are so certain of their ground that there is no point in offering an alternative opinion. Visiting some of those blogs two years on, I see the same unshakeable views being expressed and I wonder what has been the point of it all? No-one has learned anything from anyone else, no-one has really communicated. I prefer the self-contradiction that Bryan Appleyard identifies in his own blogging history. To change one's views shows an openness to other opinions and a willingness to learn, so I hope Thought Experiments will continue to 'contain multitudes.'

On a lighter note, I think it is not only possible but also desirable to hold contradictory views. How awful to be utterly predictable: no surprises, no shocks, no excitement in life. No random distractions! Isn't variety meant to spice life up a bit? Robert Herrick thought so:

A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness:
A lawn about the the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction:
An erring lace, which here and here
Enthrals the crimson stomacher:
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbands to flow confusedly:
A winning wave (deserving note)
In the tempestuous petticoat:
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility:
Do more bewitch me, than when Art
Is too precise in every part.

June book draw

My Virago Modern Classic give-away this month is Good Behaviour by Molly Keane.

Molly Keane was born in County Kildare in 1904, into the crumbling Anglo-Irish aristocracy. She started to write for publication at the age of 17, to supplement her dress allowance but she used the pseudonym M. J. Farrell "to hide my literary side from my sporting friends". She published ten novels under this name between 1928 and 1961 then stopped abruptly when her husband died.

Then in 1981, Good Behaviour was published under her own name. It was an instant success and short-listed for the Man Booker prize. She continued writing until her death in 1996.
Her books are dark satires of the life of the Anglo-Irish circle that she inhabited: hunting, fast cars, balls, crumbling country houses and impoverished estates. Good Behaviour is all about keeping up appearances in this fast disappearing world of privilege. Whatever happens, appearances must be preserved, no-one must betray any signs of fear, affection or grief even within the family.

The story opens with a murder. The narrator, Aroon St Charles, feeds her frail mother a rabbit mousse, knowing that it will kill her. The rest of the book is devoted to showing us why she did it.

I first read Good Behaviour in 1982 and I can recall sitting up late into the night to finish it, despite having to be up early next morning for my two young children. All of Molly Keane's books are shocking and funny; the Virago Press website compares her to Evelyn Waugh. If you would like to own the 2004 edition pictured above, which has an excellent foreword by Marian Keyes, leave a comment on this post or any other in the next week or so, indicating that you want to enter the book draw.