JayBloPoMo: Day 6

I have finally started reading The Elements of Eloquence, the third book by Mark Forsyth (aka the Inky Fool). It's been sitting on my bedside table for more than six months, waiting patiently. I've been reading Alexandra Horowitz's On Looking: Eleven Walks with Expert Eyes for most of this year; even though it's interesting, it was taking me ages to get through it because I wasn't reading it every day - or even every week.  

Then a week or two ago I watched the episode of Australian Story about young Victorian Brooke Davis, whose debut novel has caused a huge stir in the literary world. She wrote Lost and Found seven years after the sudden death of her mother to help her answer the question: How do you live knowing that anyone you love can die at any moment?  Sounds morbid, I know, but it's a question that's exercised my mind over the past few years too. 

The book isn't morbid. It's been described as heartwarming, quirky, and a "fantasy fable that asks big existential questions with a very light touch". 

While I was at it, I also bought Burial Rites by another Australian, Hannah Kent. Like Lost and Found, Burial Rites was Hannah's debut novel, written as part of a university writing course, and threw the literary world into a tizzy. I decided to buy it because it's set in Iceland (a recent fixation of mine) and a friend highly recommended it. 

I'm keen to start reading them, but I made myself finish On Looking first and I knew I couldn't keep neglecting The Elements of Eloquence any longer. I wouldn't have expected to laugh out loud at a book about the figures of rhetoric, but I have several times so far. (The chapters are brief which makes it perfect for bedtime reading when you're tired!)

The element of surprise

The other book I was waiting for arrived today. It's Mark Forsyth's new one, The Elements of Eloquence, which is a departure from his previous works because it isn't a collection of odd, interesting or amusing words. This one is about stringing words together well - that is, the figures of rhetoric. 

I was pleased when it arrived, but I was thrilled when I got home and opened it to find that IT'S AUTOGRAPHED!!! I gasped and sat there, mouth agape, for about a minute. Now I don't feel so bad about ordering it online from Book Depository, which I only did because it isn't available here yet and I had to get my mitts on it. 

I can't start reading it until I finish my current book, and The Little Prince, but it's going straight to the top of my still-to-read pile. 

Another NaBloPoMo in the bag

That's my third - or is it fourth? -  NaBloPoMo over and done with. It has had the intended aim of getting me back into the groove of regular blogging, although I would have done a better job of it if I wasn't plagued by fatigue and headaches, and hadn't left it so late in the day to write my posts.  (I will get to that word nerd post.)

I was half-expecting no one would still be reading after my absence, so thank you for not forsaking me, and for taking the time to comment (especially you, Lindy!). I'm still terrible at replying to comments, but I do read them all. 

My Sydney trip: Part II (The best bit)

So...on with the rest of my Sydney visit then. No more messing about! Mark Forsyth's show Around the World in 80 Etymologies was an enjoyable etymological jaunt from England to Sydney, with a brief stop in Melbourne to consider the glory that is Batmania. Much to my delight, of course.  

For those who don't know, Melbourne was once briefly known as Batmania, after one of its founding fathers, John Batman. The settlement was eventually named after William Lamb, 2nd Viscount Melbourne, some poncey English bloke who'd never even visited the place.  

The mention of Batmania was my favourite part of the event. I would share some other snippets with you except that my fatigue and migraine had severely diminished my brain's capacity to retain any information. 

Oh, I just remembered (go, brain!) that when asked to nominate his favourite etymological connection, Mark mentioned that 'shit' and 'science' have a common word ancestor. Don't tell that to the climate change deniers, OK? Don't ask me to explain it either. 

After we'd been around the world in 80 etymologies, I nipped downstairs and nabbed a spot  right at the front of the book signing queue. *fist pump* I had Mark sign The Etymlogicon  "To Jayne from Batmania...". Naturally. 

At around this point Miss Jane (fellow Melburnian and word-nerd blogger at Six Degrees of Sir Thomas Urquhart, who was also in Sydney for the Writers' Festival) tweeted me and invited me to come for a drink with Mark after the book signing. She's a friend of Mark's you see. *gulp* I was going to decline since I was already thrilled to have my book signed and because I had started to entertain the idea of catching an earlier flight home on account of feeling quite rubbish, but in the end, I thought, "Ah, what the hell. You've been to work feeling worse than this dozens of times! Harden up! To the bar!" 

So, off I went to hang out with Jane and her mother, Mark and a few other friends, fans and associates. We whiled away a few pleasant hours sitting in a nearby waterfront bar, sipping on champagne as the sun set (and developing a raging face full of rosacea if you were me. Mental note: No. More. Champagne. Again. Ever.)  

I didn't have much of a chance to chat to Mark, but I didn't mind because I probably would have been rendered completely dull merely from being in his presence -  or my pounding head would have actually exploded from the awesomeness of it all. He was apologetic about not having had a chance to talk to me, which is rather lovely, isn't it?  

I did have a chance to chat with an older Irish gentlemen in our party. As a tall ship sailed past us, he told me he once used to work at sea. I commented that it must have been a hard life, but he said it wasn't and told me that he once saw the captain have a poop overboard. 

I only realised later - as in half an hour ago, by accident when I was looking at the Sydney Writer's Festival site - that he is Dermot Healy. The festival guide introduces him thus:

Described by Roddy Doyle as Ireland's greatest writer, the poet, novelist and playwright Dermot Healy is an unconventional and original storyteller and a master of character.

Oopsie.  I'm a philistine. 

Oh, by the way, Mark has another book in the works. Hurrah! 

I headed back to Circular Quay a little before 6.00 to get a train to the airport. I was just in time to see the kick-off of the Vivid Festival, Sydney's festival of light, music and ideas, which lit up the Opera House and buildings around the Quay. It was very pretty, but I didn't linger. I was desperate to get home to bed. 

I slept long and well that night. 

My Sydney trip: Part I

I've been very slack blogger the past week or so...actually,  a very tired blogger to be precise. But tonight I'm going to push through the fatigue. Lots of gleeful stuff has happened and I want to get it out there. 

First up, my much-anticipated day trip to Sydney to see Mark Forsyth, author of The Etymologicon, at the Sydney Writer's Festival.  I arrived in sunny Sydney at around 11.00am, giving me 3.5 hours to fill before seeing Mark.  I had originally planned an inner city ghost sign hunt, but I was exhausted (partly due to excitement-induced insomnia) and my head was aching quite badly (confounded noggin!) so I just um...wondered around the city for hours instead.

I did find one ghost sign in the city, on George Street, if I recall correctly. Well, a tiny bit of a ghost sign. 

Life?

I also came across the graveyard of a demolished building like the one in the Carlton Gardens in Melbourne where fragments of the Colonial Mutual Life Building now lie. I couldn't find anything on site to say what this Sydney building once was. Anyone?

 Thanks to Luke's googling, I now know these things, 

usually found at the top of columns, are called 'capitals'

An old YWCA building?

I eventually made my way to Walsh Bay, nestled near the base of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. I even knew where I was going since I'd wandered about the area when I was in Sydney in  December. 

There's something about this woman that makes me 

suspect she came up from Melbourne too  

Sorry, but I'm going to leave this here without telling you about the Inky Fool event because it's taken me ages to write this and now my brain is worn out. Next time... 

I'm going to Sydney!

I'm off to Sydney to see the Inky Fool! Just booked my ticket and flights before. I contemplated staying Saturday night as well to see Cheryl Strayed (author of the memoir Wild and writer of the Dear Sugar advice column on The Rumpus), but the return fare for the Sunday was significantly more expensive, and I'm supposed to be saving money for a trip to the UK with Luke in August. 

I'm still pretty excited about it though. I've never flown anywhere just for a day before. I must remember to take my copy of The Etymologicon with me in case I have an opportunity for Mark to sign it.  (Incidentally, Mark doesn't look the way I imagined. I expected an older, fusty man, perhaps with a bit of ear hair, but no.)

Speaking of Cheryl Strayed, when I read Wild on my Christmas holidays, I made a note of a quote from it that resonated with me and reminded me of the George Bernard Shaw quote in the sidebar of Gleeful, but I forgot to mention it. Now seems like the time to do bring it up.
  
Wild recounts the story of Cheryl's physically and emotionally gruelling solo trek of more than 1,000 miles up the west coast of the US four years after the death of her mother and breakdown of her marriage. She was a novice hiker lugging a pack almost as heavy as herself on long distances nearly every day for months, in ill-fitting boots that caused painful blisters and the loss of several toenails. Add to that the risks of encountering big cats and strange men and dealing with extreme weather (including snow)... Anyway, she wrote:

"In the moments among my various agonies, I noticed the beauty that surrounded me, the wonder of things both small and large: the colour of a desert flower that brushed against me on the trail or the grand sweep of the sky as the sun faded over the mountains."

Life wasn't meant to be easy...but it can also be delightful.


Fancy some cow facts?

Someone I follow on Twitter tweeted a link to a story on the Top 10 facts about cows. My favourites: 

• In Moscow circuses cows have been trained to play football. Circus cows! Playing football! 
• A group of 10 or more cows is called a 'flink'. 
• In 1983, a Czechoslovakian was refused Swedish citizenship because of his dislike of cowbells, which showed he hadn't assimilated successfully despite living there for 14 years. The Swedish citizenship forms must be quite a read.