If I make a list of New Year resolutions . . .
(N.B. Prisoner of Tehran by Marina Nemat defended by Arlene Dickinson.)
(CBC/Books)
Showing posts with label Iran. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Iran. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Tuesday, November 02, 2010
Sic vita est
Time flies. With three children in the house and two courses on the go, my reading has lapsed. This isn't to say that I haven't read; in fact, considering everything, I've probably done pretty well. Mostly, I've picked up titles that I could read in a very short time and postponed longer titles for the not-too-distant future.
In spite of myself, I did read Adrian Mole: The Prostrate Years. Sue Townsend could leave the series here and not feel guilty about it. He's grown; hell, he's old (40ish, like me) and we've seen him mature and/or resign to his lot in life. It is a rather bleak tale without as much of the humour as I've come to expect from the series. At any rate, I think he and I will part ways here. Really, it's over. I'm not going back. And, truthfully, I think it's him, not me.
Graphic novels are a great sanctuary for me -- especially those in the memoir or journalistic vein -- and I surprised myself this week by reading Nylon Road by Parsua Bashi. Why surprised? Because it -- the graphic novelization as much as the subject itself -- is not exactly a new idea: a journey from girlhood to womanhood during Iran's revolution. But it was fresh and original and, of course, inevitably linked in my mind to Marjane Satrapi's Persepolis series from frame to frame.
Three days ago, I read 9/11 Emergency Relief, a graphic novel anthology compiled in aid of the American Red Cross. I'd picked it up used for about five dollars at my favourite comic/graphic novel store last summer because I thought it would be an interesting read. It ended up being a surprising array of talent and an excellent opportunity to sample the graphic wares of dozens of artists/writers. (I've burrowed through quite a few graphic novels over the years and I'm always impressed by the originality of the inking, colouring, and lettering styles of each artist.)
The day before yesterday, it was Rutu Modan's Exit Wounds. I think I understand why it was received with such critical acclaim. The story -- both mystery and romance, set in Tel Aviv -- is very moving and it flows seamlessly. I loved the plot twists. This g-novel won the 2008 Eisner Award. (I really enjoyed her graphic blogging, Mixed Emotions, on The New York Times website in 2007). The next stop for me where this author is concerned is Jamilti -- I almost finished it, several times. It's not that I'm not interested; I just keep putting it aside right next to Asterios Polyp by David Mazzucchelli.
Last night, I sped through Clubbing (Andi Watson/Josh Howard) -- 176 pages -- a graphic novel for the Young Adult audience. There isn't much to say about it: breezy, brief, and enjoyable.
And I have no idea where I'm headed next.
In spite of myself, I did read Adrian Mole: The Prostrate Years. Sue Townsend could leave the series here and not feel guilty about it. He's grown; hell, he's old (40ish, like me) and we've seen him mature and/or resign to his lot in life. It is a rather bleak tale without as much of the humour as I've come to expect from the series. At any rate, I think he and I will part ways here. Really, it's over. I'm not going back. And, truthfully, I think it's him, not me.
Graphic novels are a great sanctuary for me -- especially those in the memoir or journalistic vein -- and I surprised myself this week by reading Nylon Road by Parsua Bashi. Why surprised? Because it -- the graphic novelization as much as the subject itself -- is not exactly a new idea: a journey from girlhood to womanhood during Iran's revolution. But it was fresh and original and, of course, inevitably linked in my mind to Marjane Satrapi's Persepolis series from frame to frame.
Three days ago, I read 9/11 Emergency Relief, a graphic novel anthology compiled in aid of the American Red Cross. I'd picked it up used for about five dollars at my favourite comic/graphic novel store last summer because I thought it would be an interesting read. It ended up being a surprising array of talent and an excellent opportunity to sample the graphic wares of dozens of artists/writers. (I've burrowed through quite a few graphic novels over the years and I'm always impressed by the originality of the inking, colouring, and lettering styles of each artist.)
The day before yesterday, it was Rutu Modan's Exit Wounds. I think I understand why it was received with such critical acclaim. The story -- both mystery and romance, set in Tel Aviv -- is very moving and it flows seamlessly. I loved the plot twists. This g-novel won the 2008 Eisner Award. (I really enjoyed her graphic blogging, Mixed Emotions, on The New York Times website in 2007). The next stop for me where this author is concerned is Jamilti -- I almost finished it, several times. It's not that I'm not interested; I just keep putting it aside right next to Asterios Polyp by David Mazzucchelli.
Last night, I sped through Clubbing (Andi Watson/Josh Howard) -- 176 pages -- a graphic novel for the Young Adult audience. There isn't much to say about it: breezy, brief, and enjoyable.
And I have no idea where I'm headed next.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Serendipity!
Back in my teen years, one of my best friends was from Lebanon. I'm not sure how it came to be that I was always at their house but my favourite memories are somehow connected to the aroma of Mrs. T's cooking. Sometimes, I was able to help prepare a meal; or, at least, pretend to help so that I could get an advance taste of the repast.
My favourite meal was dolmeh -- grape leaves stuffed with an aromatic ground meat mixture.
It just so happens that Pomegranate Soup by Marsha Mehran -- a book I'd requested for Christmas -- contains, in its prologue, the very recipe of my youth!
I'm overjoyed and I'm on a mission to find grape leaves.
My favourite meal was dolmeh -- grape leaves stuffed with an aromatic ground meat mixture.
It just so happens that Pomegranate Soup by Marsha Mehran -- a book I'd requested for Christmas -- contains, in its prologue, the very recipe of my youth!
I'm overjoyed and I'm on a mission to find grape leaves.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Molly and the Middle East
I'm lying in bed with my latest book propped up against my knees. A sickly Molly is lying beside me because her illness has been concerning despite antibiotics. I'm exhausted but she's not tired.
"Molly, you need to go to sleep. I'm doing research."
She loves to "do research" with me. So, really wanting her to go to sleep, I realize I shouldn't have said this but, oh well. You can't unring a bell.
"So, tell me about that fancy pen of yours," she says, smiling up at me. It's often easy to forget that she's only two but, at this moment, the fact that she's only two has hit me. Hard.
"It's a highlighter," I explain, a sense of dread creeping up on me because I have taught her not to write in or otherwise destroy books. Could I really end up unravelling a couple of years' worth of her learning in this regard, end up changing her relationship with books?
"How does it work? How do you draw with it?"
"Well, you don't draw with it. Sometimes, in special circumstances, in special books, for special reasons like research, you use it to mark words that you want to remember."
She's really happy to learn, I think, that she may one day be able to write in books and she asks me to show her what highlighting a word actually means.
It's not a "dry" read by any means -- a memoir of travels in a Middle Eastern country -- but I can't imagine a two-year-old enjoying it or that I may be able to edit effectively as I read. But she wants me to read aloud.
"It's about a country called Iran," I tell her. "It's part of the Middle East."
"Could we travel to there?"
I pause. I don't want to tell her about visas and the difficulties one apparently encounters while trying to secure them. She is, after all, only two.
"Yes, we can one day."
She smiles and hugs me. For a moment, I imagine the two of us travelling to the far reaches of the globe together.
"We can travel there now, tho', in our imaginations. We can pretend we're there. Books help us do that. You can go all over the world by reading books."
And I start reading to her. There's really nothing obviously inappropriate in the passages I've reached thus far and, when something questionable arises, I omit it. If she notices, she doesn't let on. She listens attentively as the narrator recounts how his faith in humanity has been restored following an act of kindness by locals.
Time has stopped for a brief period. I'm no longer thinking that it doesn't feel like 8:30 at night; I no longer feel exhausted. As the story escapes my mouth and the words fall and settle between us, there's a calm sense that she and I have started something that we'll always love to do together.
"Molly, you need to go to sleep. I'm doing research."
She loves to "do research" with me. So, really wanting her to go to sleep, I realize I shouldn't have said this but, oh well. You can't unring a bell.
"So, tell me about that fancy pen of yours," she says, smiling up at me. It's often easy to forget that she's only two but, at this moment, the fact that she's only two has hit me. Hard.
"It's a highlighter," I explain, a sense of dread creeping up on me because I have taught her not to write in or otherwise destroy books. Could I really end up unravelling a couple of years' worth of her learning in this regard, end up changing her relationship with books?
"How does it work? How do you draw with it?"
"Well, you don't draw with it. Sometimes, in special circumstances, in special books, for special reasons like research, you use it to mark words that you want to remember."
She's really happy to learn, I think, that she may one day be able to write in books and she asks me to show her what highlighting a word actually means.
It's not a "dry" read by any means -- a memoir of travels in a Middle Eastern country -- but I can't imagine a two-year-old enjoying it or that I may be able to edit effectively as I read. But she wants me to read aloud.
"It's about a country called Iran," I tell her. "It's part of the Middle East."
"Could we travel to there?"
I pause. I don't want to tell her about visas and the difficulties one apparently encounters while trying to secure them. She is, after all, only two.
"Yes, we can one day."
She smiles and hugs me. For a moment, I imagine the two of us travelling to the far reaches of the globe together.
"We can travel there now, tho', in our imaginations. We can pretend we're there. Books help us do that. You can go all over the world by reading books."
And I start reading to her. There's really nothing obviously inappropriate in the passages I've reached thus far and, when something questionable arises, I omit it. If she notices, she doesn't let on. She listens attentively as the narrator recounts how his faith in humanity has been restored following an act of kindness by locals.
Time has stopped for a brief period. I'm no longer thinking that it doesn't feel like 8:30 at night; I no longer feel exhausted. As the story escapes my mouth and the words fall and settle between us, there's a calm sense that she and I have started something that we'll always love to do together.
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