Enjoy The Heroine’s Barshelf.

In re-reading Harry Potter for the first time in over six years, it’s fascinating to come into the world of the books now having watched most of the films at least twice a year. I was struck throughout my read of this first book with the fact that I knew so much more than Harry did-about everything. It was difficult to imagine what I would have thought of the story if I wasn’t already embedded in the mythos of Hogwarts, Diagon Alley and Dumbledore. My impression from this revisit is that I would have found it hard to enjoy any of the characters.

It’s initially difficult to understand how Harry is even a functioning human being after the hyperbolic amount of child abuse that is his upbringing. Perhaps we’re supposed to treat Harry’s childhood like a fairy tale: that because he is our hero, his inner virtue somehow carries him through the terrors of being forced to live in a cupboard, treated like a servant, insulted and hit regularly, and given “gifts” such as old socks and coat-hangers. But Harry didn’t just move in with his evil relations after a happy childhood with his caring family. No, these people have raised him from age one. If the Dursley’s treated 3-year-old Harry the way the treat 11-year- old Harry, then I don’t know how Harry would be able to form attachments of any kind or feel anything but contempt for himself. Perhaps Rowling trusts our suspension of disbelief for the sake of a magical story, but Harry’s orphanhood in the books is to such an extent that from the get-go, I’m suspicious of the author.

Another major challenge was the caustic and insulting way everyone speaks to one another. Half way through the book, nearly every main character has been told to “Shut Up” or has lobbed the phrase at someone else. I quickly began noting the places were Hermione is treated as or explicitly called a nag (marked as “Hag” -”Hermione Nagging”). Rowling even has the narrator imply that Hermione is somehow wrong for refusing to let Ron and Harry copy her homework. Apparently a good friend would let you cheat? And while Neville finds ways to stand up for himself and is rewarded by Dumbledore for his bravery, the trio (and the narrator) generally talk about him like a pathetic pain in the ass. Overall, there is little kindness, compassion, or genuine connection between the characters. Even noble-hearts like Hagrid and Dumbledore often read as comically sentimental or stupid. In reading, I felt was being invited to despise people rather than identify with them.

DId I like anything? Yes. Once we finally left the Muggle world, I still found myself relishing every magical and mysterious detail of Hogwarts, as I do with the films. I also appreciated how swiftly the story moved along, compared to the film (and most of the books to come). But I REALLY enjoyed reading the UK version. First of all, it’s always bugged the heck out of me that the term “Sorcerer’s Stone” was used in the US, seeing as there is no such thing as a sorcerer’s stone. The idea of the Philosopher’s Stone goes back hundreds of years in the lore of alchemy. How sad that publisher’s trusted 10 yr olds in the UK to know what the philosopher’s stone was, but feared American kids wouldn’t be willing to find out. I felt proud to be carrying a book with the true title.

Also, in choosing the read the UK edition, I immediately found myself noting certain phrases and spellings so I could cross-reference them with the American version. I LOVED this. It was surprising to see what was kept, what was replaced, and what was simply clarified. UK “Hamburger Bars” became “Hamburger Restaurants,” “revision timetables” became “study schedules,” “football” became “soccer” of course, and “Hallowe’en” became “Halloween.” But I still don’t know what a “knickerbocker glory” is, and surprisingly the US edition didn’t help me.

Ultimately I’ll never know if I would have fallen in love with this world if I’d met it first through this book. My gut says no. But then again, I remember relishing the first three books when I read them back in the fall of 2004 before I had the chance to memorize the films. I’m hoping that some character depth and truthful interactions begin to emerge as the books go on. Frankly, I think if these books had been written by a man, the portrayal of Hermione alone would have sparked public book burnings.

Here’s hoping the wonder, bravery and tenderness of the films’ world begins soon to prove revelatory of its roots in the original texts.



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For the House Candles, they had to fit the House colors, evoke an essence of the House Founder, but mostly, fit the atmostphere of the common rooms. (Yes, Ravenclaw is a Hanukkah candle, but I think the scent is perfect).


Gryffindor
Mulled Wine:
A seasonal favorite the inviting aroma of Fruit with a touch of clove and other spices warms the spirit.









Hufflepuff
Golden Spiced Pear:
A savory blend of warm pears, cinnamon, nutmeg and vanilla bean.








Ravenclaw
Festival of Lights:
A blend of savory spices, rich cinnamon and sweet potpourri to celebrate the season.









Slytherin
Rainforest:
Fresh, slightly moist air with hints of exotic flowers and greenery.








Argus Filch
Moonlight Harvest:
Hints of pumpkin and spice from the kitchen window float on the cool breeze of an autumn night.




Madame Poppy Pomfrey
Country Linen:
Imagine a weekend at a cozy bed and breakfast with warm sunshine, crisp cotton sheets, and the sweet scent of spring flowers.






Professor Pomona Sprout
Beautiful Day:
Life is good with this happily enchanting mix of sunny fruits, pretty flowers and spicy herbs.







Cedric Diggory
Sun and Sand:
A tropical beach breeze of sweet orange flower, lemony citrus, fresh lavender and powdery musk.







Victor Krum
Siberian Silver Fir:
From snow-covered arctic peaks, discover the unique crisp freshness of pure Siberian silver fir oil.






Seamus Finnegan
Root Beer Float:
The delicious aroma of old-fashioned spicy sweet root beer and creamy rich vanilla ice cream.

For those expecting “Diaries of a French Burlesque Dancer”, prepare to be disappointed. While one may approach Colette’s behind-the-scenes of a traveling pantomime artist in turn-of-the-century France expecting it to be flavored with salacious frivolity to match Colette’s reputation, what you’ll find is more an existentialist rumination on ambivalence, than story of a passionate life. In fact, if there’s one thing that most defines the divorcee-turned-stage-performer Reneé Neré, it’s her distrust of passion. Colette’s largely-biographical novel tracks the frustrations, distractions and depressions of a woman in her early thirties whom, in the fallout of a disastrous and damaging marriage, chooses a life of solitude on the stage, rather than one of societal rules. But it’s not a story of the gay and free life of an artist. Instead, the monotony and doubt expressed by Reneé are all-too-recognizable for any single woman reader today, particularly if that reader is in-between jobs and still trying to figure out what to do with her life, with men, and with herself. (ahem).

Did I enjoy this book? Not particularly. The protagonist’s reflections on self-doubt and self-denial are disruptive, and even at times, numbing.
Do I respect this book? Absolutely. To read something that speaks so frankly about women’s experience, women’s fears and women’s strength much less about a woman living in her own apartment and making her own living during a time when corsets were still ubiquitous, is both humbling and empowering. But to spend time with Reneé Neré, is to linger in a space of dissociative hesitation and unconscious compulsion. It’s uncomfortable, but truthful.

Read, respect, but do not expect to revel.



**The Dover Edition is terrible. Stanley Applebaum’s introduction is meant to replace what endnotes would be, but this book desperately needs endnotes for the cultural and historical references. Also, Applebaums new “Americanized” translation reads at times like an Archie comic book. The Enid MacLeod translation may be 60 years old and egregiously British, but it’s still better.**



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Certainly an enjoyable read, but it necessitated wearing my “early 19th-century” lenses to be carried into it. Not sure if as literature it resonates beyond its own context. In other words, I was really only ever impressed or amused by the book when I tried to imagine how it would have been received by novel readers in 1832. Would they have identified with the heroine? Been annoyed at her earnestness? Would they have rooted for the love affair only to be shocked (or insulted) when it became clear the guy was a narcissistic idiot, and she, a dupe? Or does Sand truly think her heroic? Was Sand playing with her readers’ expectations to mock to mock them or just to mock society?

Having never read Sand’s work before, I couldn’t tell. But the character of Raymon, and our access to the inner-logic of his self-inflation is priceless. If ever there was a more cowardly, self-deluded, empty-headed romantic hero, I don’t think I’ve found him. As much as you hate him (which you are most definitely meant to do), he’s still the best character in the book, or at least the only one you’ll groan over and chuckle about, not just groan.

I recommend Indiana as an historically interesting satirical novel, but really only as that. It won’t stir you much beyond the chance to enjoy a 19th century woman’s critique of men. Though where the line between critique and praise for women is considered, you may be baffled.



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“for biography, read Johnson’s Lives of the Poets, Boswell’s Life of Johnson, Southey’s Life of Nelson, Lockhart’s Life of Burns, Moore’s Life of Sheridan, Moore’s Life of Byron,”

…and so on. So entering Gaskell’s Life of Brontë is to some extent, an expedition into the world of those leather-bound tomes full of dates, correspondences, and panegyrics from one great author to another. As one who reads 150 year-old fiction on a nonstop basis, this genre still felt quite foreign.

In persevering, though, I found some things well worth the search. I read the Oxford Classics edition and highly recommend it for its notes. The main challenge in reading, is that Gaskell is bound both by Victorian propriety and by perceived obligation to her friend Charlotte, to protect both her privacy and her reputation. Thus, no juicy bits or suppositions about what’s happening in-between the lines of her letters (and life). But the Oxford notes offer great annotations and corrections when possible. That enervating habit of 19th century authors to blank out names of people and places, gets filled in by flipping to the end notes. Hallelujah. (Though this did triple the length of reading time).

I still felt pretty distant from the Charlotte Brontë presented in the pages. The version of her you get is so much Gaskell’s redaction, that despite 70% of the text being letters from Brontë’s own hand, it still feels emotionally and contextually distant, (at least for this modern reader). But that’s likely a genre and context issue. It’s clear that Gaskell wanted Brontë’s critics to know that the author of Jane Eyre, Shirley and Villette was an unassuming and unpretentious woman who lived a quiet life of suffering and struggle, and who shied away from fame. Against Brontë’s detractors who accused her pseudonymous “Currer Bell” of being “course” and “un-Christian,” Gaskell displays the deep moral and spiritual convictions, reservedness and compassion that epitomized this Yorkshire curate’s daughter.

Though Gaskell’s Life of Brontë is perhaps less illuminating of Brontë’s relationships and life choices than is contemporary scholarship, the work is indeed, as Charlotte’s father Rev Patrick Brontë said, “in every way worthy of what one great woman should have written of another.”

What I enjoyed most was the amount of correspondence time Brontë takes in recommending and critiquing literature. Her relationship with her publishers turned into what seemed a perpetual book club of trading books and reviews. And what sticks out so often is that Brontë rarely mentions plot construction, setting or even language. Her responses almost always center on what the author uncovers or expresses of true human nature, or how the heart and mind of the author is revealed in their writing. That’s how I read Brontë’s writing as well. Not surprising then that it was in these passages that I got the clearest sense of who this woman was, and as a result, drew nearer to her.

Gaskell’s Life of Brontë is a must-read for any Brontë devotee, even if only to gain respect and sympathy for the short and impacting friendship shared by two culture-shaping women, who could never have predicted the reach of their legacies. This is Elizabeth mourning the loss of her friend Charlotte, in the kindest way she could think of. It is much appreciated.



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