Vanessa Redgrave Books

Chariots of Fire was a very inspirational work in my life. Ian Charleson as the role of Eric Liddel was especially so. I just viewed the movie again on a video iPod while I was flying from Tucson to DC. What a wonderful movie. Even more so was Charleson's portrayal of Eric Liddel -- God fearing, disciplined, and when he ran you could see the light of God in him...

I am crushed by the fact that Ian Charleson passed away almost 16 years ago. I had no idea. I was hoping to find him.

Long live Ian.

I regret never meeting Ian Charleson but have a feeling I knew him from his work. It's too bad he didn't live longer for more to be aware of his outstanding talents and the almost effortless ability to portray just about any emotion he wished on command whether on stage or behind the camera.

I'm glad this tribute has been created so he can be remembered by those who miss him.


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Note: This is a review of the particular "Cambridge School Shakespeare" edition [Edited by Rex Gibson, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000] of As You Like it and not a review of the play itself.

This edition (a) contains the unabridged play and (b) tries to explain and elucidate Shakespeare's play to teenagers of the age of maybe 15-17. It clarifies difficult language, highlights the main conflicts, puts the play into a historical context and the context of the literary tradition that it belongs to. It encourages the reader to think of different possible ways to play the characters and different ways to understand the play.

I am not a teenager and I am not 16 years old any more, in fact, I am 53 years old with a PhD in Economics and a Masters in Psychology. I read Shakespeare for fun, to challenge my brain, and to grow personally. I found this edition of the play very helpful and enjoyable. The commentary neither spoiled my fun by overanalyzing or showing off its learnedness nor did it offend my intelligence by oversimplifying. In addition, the layout of the book is quite reader-friendly.

If you are a Shakespeare scholar or a scholar of English Lit, this edition will probably be too simple for you. For people of my caliber, however, I can really recommend this edition. Enjoy!

The Caedmon recording of As You Like It is well worth the purchase just to hear two Redgraves soar in their performances.

I recently re-read AS YOU LIKE IT prior to attending The Colorado Shakespeare Festival's performance of this play under the summer stars here in Boulder. Shakespeare (1564-1616) produced this romantic comedy in 1599 and published it in the First Folio in 1623.

Summarizing the play is rather challenging. It basically tells the story of Duke Frederick, who has banished his brother, Duke Senior, into the Forest of Arden, thereby usurping the kingdom. In his exile, Duke Senior has found a humble life of merriment with his court. Following a wrestling match, Duke Frederick also banishes Orlando (son of the late Sir Roland de Boys) and Rosalind (daughter of Duke Senior) into the forest. At the match, the two have fallen into love at first sight. Out of friendhip, Duke Frederick's only child, Celia, and the court jester, Touchstone, follow Rosalind (now disguised as a boy, "Ganymede") into the forest. Soon, Orlando, Rosalind, Celia, and Touchstone are all welcomed into the merry life of banished Duke Senior. Orlando, however, is lovesick for Rosalind, and Rosalind (still disguised as a boy) decides to cure Orlando of his lovesickness. While counseling him in the ways of true love, Rosalind (disguised as Ganymede) finds herself falling deeper in love with Orlando. Meanwhile, Celia has fallen in love with Orlando's brother, Oliver. The two decide to get married the next day. Even witty Touchstone has fallen in love with a dull-witted goatherd girl, Audrey. In the final scene, and after many hilarious mixups, all romantic entanglements are resolved by marriage; and after a sudden religious conversion, Duke Frederick returns the throne to his brother--thereby righting all wrongs and uniting all couples with love and happiness.

G. Merritt

As with all of Shakespeare, the concept of love at first sight is given far too much credit, but other than that, this is a delightful romp filled with much amusement. The language is as beautiful as one expects in Shakespeare, but is somewhat less difficult for the modern reader to follow than in some of his plays; I found myself being more distracted than helped by most of the footnotes. As with most Shakespearean comedies, it was easy to see that this play was intended for the amusement of the common people; the similarities in style between the plot here and in much modern pop culture were striking (the sexual innuendo to be had when a woman passes for a man and finds another woman falling in love with her, for instance). If it had a flaw, it was that the ending was just a little TOO pat and contrived, even for a comedy, but that's just a minor quibble.

As far as Shakesepare's comedies go, "The Comedy of Errors" will always be my favorite. And while this "As You Like It" never quite obtained the popularity of "A Midsummer Night's Dream" or "The Taming of the Shrew," one probably could argue that "As You Like It" is the best of Shakespeare's comedies. This play contains several plots that Shakespeare cleverly intertwines and it offers a happy ending with love triumphant. But more important than the triumph of love, the theme of reconciliation carries through to virtually everyone in the story. The story begins with the sibling rivalry of Orlando and his older brother Oliver who has hoarded the family inheritence. After a brief fight, Oliver hopes that Orlando may accidentally die in a wrestling match against Charles. This is where a 2nd plot comes in. The Duke Frederick (who has a daughter Celia) has banished his older brother (the true Duke who has a daughter Rosalind). But for now, Rosalind is allowed to stay and she has made good friends with Celia. Orlando meets these 2 girls and falls into favor with Rosalind. After the wrestling match, things start to go bad. Orlando learns that his brother Oliver is planning to kill him, and Rosalind is banished. But all is not lost. Orlando takes his loyal servant Adam and flees while Rosalind (in the male disguise of Ganymede), along with Celia, and the comical Touchstone will flee to look for Rosalind's father. And here is where the play becomes mostly comical. (Good comedies can often have a sad start. "The Comedy of Errors" shows this well.) Moving on, we meet Rosalind's father and his crew who have made exile into a paradise. From Duke Sr's party, we meet the melancholy Jaques. But he is arguably the most interesting character in the story. (In fact, the most famous passage from this play belongs to Jaques. The 7 stages of man which end in nothing. Perhaps Macbeth took lessons from Jaques: 'Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.') Duke Sr welcomes Orlando and Adam, and it isn't long before Orlando and Rosalind run into each other. Shakespeare maintains the comedy when Rosalinde keeps her male disguise on and tells Orlando he must practice wooing on him/her. Touchstone has some comical romantic moments with Audrey. And there is an interesting triangle where the shepherd Silvius loves Phebe, but Phebe loves Rosalinde (seeing only Ganymede)! We may recall this from "the 12th Night" when Olivia loved Viola in her male disguise. But after this comical moment, all begins to resolve. Oliver comes on the scene and he and Celia fall in love. (So much so that Oliver is willing to reconcile with Orlando and grant him all.) The play ends with not only the reunion of Rosalind and her father, but the joyous weddings of Rosalind / Orlando, Celia /Oliver, Audrey /Touchstone, and Phebe / Silvius, but more good news comes. Celia's father mends his ways and returns all to Rosalind's father. Jaques offers the crowning touch. Despite his cynical nature, he is NOT a villain. Ironically, this hermit type man converses with more characters than anyone in the story, and while he can not take part in the play's final happiness, he DOES wish everyone well. As I said, my favorite comedy will always be "The Comedy of Errors." But don't make the mistake of overlooking this comedy.

Virginia Woolf's novel "To the Lighthouse" is about the inner psyche of the Ramsay family and friends as they progress over a ten year period. It is written in an stream-of-consciousness style except for an interlude between the two major time periods. I did not find this book very interesting. Although there is a lot of prose on the pages, I found that in the end I knew very little about the major characters. This book just wasn't worth the read for me.
For those of you who don't like "spoilers" (there is one shocker at the end of the first time period), don't read the introduction by Eudora Welty found in this version. It reads like a book report and essentially summarizes the entire plot.

Lauded as a staple of the modernist canon, Woolf's stream-of-consciousness novel of alienation is better appreciated for its exquisitely delicious prose and her ability to invoke the tragic beauty of striving for intimacy and immortality (symbolized by the eponymous lighthouse), only to find it always just beyond one's grasp. Is there a sadder line anywhere in Western literature than when Mrs. Ramsey is tucking her young son James into bed? "In a moment he would ask her, `Are we going to the Lighthouse?' And she would have to say, 'No: not tomorrow; your father says not.' Happily, Mildred came in to fetch them, and the bustle distracted them. But he kept looking back over his shoulder as Mildred carried him out, and she was certain that he was thinking, we are not going to the Lighthouse tomorrow; and she thought, he will remember that all his life."

The idea of Virginia Woolf's fiction being read aloud effectively has struck me as an impossibility. The very interiority of Woolf's style seemed to suggest that readers hear the narrative voice within themselves. This reading proves me dead wrong. Virginia Leishman's reading--and interpretation--added much to my passion for a novel I have always loved. Readers--and listeners--new to Virigina Woolf need to be able to listen for long stretches of time in order to follow the stream of consciousness that propels the story. This commitment will be amply rewarded.

I am glad I purchased this. I will listen to it many, many times.

"'To the Lighthouse,'" he thought. "Yes. I shall read `To the Lighthouse.'"

The thought was not a new one to him, but this time, it had appeared in his mind almost before he realized that it had appeared. He did not know why it had appeared just now, but there it was. And it was a good thought, he decided, one that he would act upon, one he would make a success of. He was glad for his decision, for he was one of that class of people who find it difficult to distinguish between the thought and the actual practice of the thought, and so was endowed with a sense of satisfaction and bliss that he would soon be reading, once again, "To the Lighthouse."

But a second thought came to him, immediately following the first. It chided him, and said to him, you did not like the book before, when you tried to read it the first time, so why do you want to read it again now, and probably fail once more. The time is not right for you to read "To the Lighthouse."

As soon as he thought it, the new thought infuriated him and he felt that if he had a knife, or a hatchet, or a blade of some sort, and if the thought had been a person, and not just a random thought, that he would pierce its heart with the blade and kill it. He was that upset about not being able to finish "To the Lighthouse" when he had attempted to read it the first time.

He recalled the time he had first tried to read "To the Lighthouse." It was only a month or so ago. He could not recall the exact day, or the time, or even the month, but on one fine fall day, sitting in his office, Scot, sitting on the other side of the cubicle wall, had asked him, as he often asked such questions, if he had ever read Virginia Woolf. No, he had replied, he had not.

He searched his memory, seeking to find a title by Virginia Woolf that he could remember. Almost at once, he realized, after thinking about it for only a moment, that he had not ever read anything by Virginia Woolf, and wondered directly why he had not read anything she had written. In point of fact, he thought to himself, he did not even know the title of a single book by Virginia Woolf. It was strange.

Of course, he had heard of Virginia Woolf, as had anyone of his generation, for he could remember clearly the movie, what was it called, with Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. Oh, yes. "Who is Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" That was the title of the movie. But he could recall little about the movie itself, and, because it was so many years ago, he had almost forgotten its title, or even what it was about, except that it was about a college professor and his frustrated wife, and something about an imaginary child. Beyond that, he could remember nothing about the film, and had in fact wondered, even as he had watched it, first in the theater and then several years later on a television rerun, what, indeed the movie had to do with Virginia Woolf. And many years later, now, brooding about the novels of Virginia Woolf and the movie "Who is Afraid of Virginia Woolf," he was still perplexed as to what this film had to do with Virginia Woolf, for he could think of nothing, nothing at all, beyond the title, of course. Except that the husband, as played by Richard Burton, was a college English professor.

And as he often did with such thoughts, in this case, the thought that he should read a book by Virginia Woolf, he decided to follow up on it and find out more about Virginia Woolf and acquire one of her books to read. Online, he searched the catalog of the Dallas Public Library, and eventually, after discovering at last how to spell the name correctly, W-O-O-L-F and not W-O-L-F-E or some other such variation, he found the lengthy list of books written by Virginia Woolf, and was startled, for he usually knew such things, when he realized that he did not recognize even one of the titles.

In dismay, he had called back across the cubicle wall to Scot, who was sitting there patiently, doing what Scot does, whatever it is, to pass the time of day at the office. Which book by Virginia Woolf should he read, he had asked, and directly came back the reply, across the cubicle wall: "To the Lighthouse." Scot had said he should read "To the Lighthouse."

Upon arriving home from the office that day, he had discovered that he had no other pressing obligations for the evening, and so he had collected his various things to return to the library, books he had finished, records he had played, library things, collected them all together and carried them out to the car, and driven into town, directly to the library. Shortly thereafter, on the third floor of the library, in the fiction section, correctly but not predictably filed under W, for the library had recently been rearranged, and sometimes books were taken off the shelf to be part of a temporary display, or even taken downstairs to entice patrons randomly seeking an interesting book to read, he had found a copy of "To the Lighthouse."

Happily he checked it out, and took it home with him, with much anticipation of beginning it in the morning, for he planned to read it on the train while going to work.

Unfortunately, when he started it, sitting in his usual seat on the train the next morning, riding to work, he found the book uninteresting. He simply could not grasp its meaning, or follow the flow of its words, or the complexity of its sentences, or the vague and fleeting thoughts that Virginia Woolf had so carefully crafted for its pages. After all the weak romance novels, and slick mystery novels, and cheap crime thrillers, and clumsy science fiction stories that he had recently been reading, all written in the usual, direct, post-Hemingway style of contemporary American fiction, heavily laced with terse dialogue and carefully constructed plot twists according to standard formulas, the ephemeral beauty of Virginia Woolf's luxurious writing and lush prose and sketchy plot was able to make scarcely a dent in his shallow American consciousness.

So, after a few days of making little headway, even after what he considered to be an heroic effort, he snapped the book shut in confusion and frustration and put it aside. He did not like "To the Lighthouse," he told Scot the next day, and said that he had found it boring, and had put it aside. Reluctantly, of course, he had said, he had put it aside, for it was his usual custom to finish a book he had started, especially if it was a significant one, as in this case, a classic, like "To the Lighthouse."

And Scot, rather unperturbed, as was his way, did not say anything much in response to his comment. He just said that he was reading it himself because of a school requirement and was happily deciphering its meaning. That is what Scot said he liked to do, in actual fact, to decipher meaning.

And so it was now weeks later, and there it was, still sitting on the table in his house, the copy of "To the Lighthouse" he had not yet returned to the library. He saw it there sometimes, sitting on the table, and he felt that it was reproaching him, chiding him as it were, that he had not been able to finish it, scolding him because he had found it vague and frustrating and meaningless and finally, boring.

And then, just a week or so prior to his Christmas vacation, the new thought had occurred to him, the thought that he should read "To the Lighthouse" again. Yes, he decided, he should read it again, and this time he would succeed, he was sure. He would try once again to read "To the Lighthouse." This time, he thought, he would learn how to decipher its intricate text, parse its lush sentences, and find a way to penetrate to the very core of its meaning. But this time, he would not read the book, page by page, depending on his visual faculties, his eyes, to communicate the words to his brain. No. Instead, this time, he would use his ears, his auditory senses, the senses that he, as a trained musician, most favored. He would listen to someone read the text to him. Suddenly, he knew what he was going to do. He would listen to a recording of the book, read by an accomplished reader, in the car, on the trip he was about to take for his Christmas Holiday.

By a fortunate chance, he found another copy of "To the Lighthouse," an audio book on 7 CD's, eight hours long, narrated by a British actress called Virginia Leishman. And so he acquired it out and carried it with him in the car on his trip.

Time passed.

First, time passed in the car.

And then, the time of the Christmas Holidays passed, as well.

The long trip from Texas to South Carolina had taken two days, two long rainy days of bad restaurants and a cheap hotel room, and driving in the rain in heavy traffic trying to avoid an accident. And the music on the XM Radio he had just bought had managed to divert his attention away from the album of seven CD's carefully packed in the box on the back seat of his car, the audio book recording of "To the Lighthouse" that he had obtained with such anticipation to wile away the long hours on a road trip of many days, such as this one.

When he had arrived at his destination, he still had not listened to his recording of "To the Lighthouse." And while on vacation, the busy activities of the Christmas season occupied his time to such an extent that he had little time to read, much less listen to a book on tape for eight hours at a time, or even in one hour segments.

The happy days of the Holidays sped by, those short days and long nights of fun and festivity and family warmth, passing by quickly in a whirlwind of parties and dinners and gatherings and church services, those family moments that are the happy custom of celebration during the Christmas season. Suddenly, almost in a flash, he realized that the holidays were over and the joyful family celebrations and parties and gatherings were finished and it was time for him to return home.

With both a feeling of relief that the hectic holiday schedule was quickly drawing to a close, and yet with a tinge of regret that he would leave behind him once again the loving arms of his dear mother and the good-will of his family to return to his self sufficient life style, he began to make his plans for the long trek west, the journey of more than one thousand miles that he would make to return home.

On the morning of his departure, as he carefully loaded his belongings back into the car, he saw the audio book recording of "To the Lighthouse" carefully packed in the box he had placed on the back seat. This time, on this leg of his journey, he thought, he really was going to read "To the Lighthouse." At last, he was ready to listen attentively. And so he reached behind the seat and into the box to pull out the album that contained the collection of CD's that was the recording of "To the Lighthouse." He carefully placed it on the front seat of the car, within arms reach, and then placed beside it the portable CD player that he had brought along just for that purpose. Yes. Today he would listen to "To the Lighthouse," and began at once to feel a strong sense of anticipation for the reading.

But the driving conditions were poor that morning, with clouds and wind and rain and generally bad weather threatening to make the driving difficult. For that reason, he feared that, if his attention were diverted from the recorded performance by the strain of driving, he would fail in his endeavor to make a success of the reading of "To the Lighthouse." Furthermore, in case he became too involved in the story, he was somewhat frightened at the thought of having his attention averted from the road during a difficult traffic maneuver, thus putting himself in danger of an accident. For this reason, for both of these reasons, for all of these reasons, in fact, he decided to postpone his reading of "To the Lighthouse" until after he had passed over the mountains of South and North Carolina and had descended onto the plains of eastern Tennessee, where the road gradually wound down out of the mountains and gently stretched across nearly 400 miles of fertile farmland to the Mississippi River, and beyond. Making one last stop to say farewell to his mother, he carefully guided the car out onto the highway and began the difficult journey through the mountains.

The drive was indeed difficult, and the pavement, wet because of the clouds and the wind and the rain and the generally bad weather, and the heavy traffic, and the condition of the highway, which wound slowly up the steep mountain sides and then plunged down quickly, deep into the valleys, where the road ran alongside rushing rivers swollen with newly fallen rain, impeded his progress and required that he concentrate fully on the road.

On one occasion, he came upon the flashing lights of a police cruiser and an ambulance, and surreptitiously glanced at the accident and its victims as he crept by, his progress hampered by the traffic backup. Someone may have died here, he reflected, and wondered what his own fate would be if he failed to negotiate the mountain roads successfully. But no, he conceded, such a circumstance was unlikely, and he drove on. As he drove, he recalled from time to time the empty seat next to him, the seat empty of a passenger, but in which he had placed his audio book recording of "To the Lighthouse," and anticipated in his mind the time when he would be able to listen to it and give it his full attention.

Finally, after three intense hours of driving through the steep mountains in the rain and the wind and the generally bad weather, he crossed from North Carolina into Tennessee. A short time later, he stopped at the first rest stop which appeared alongside the highway. And after taking a moment to refresh himself, he was able to relax and feel the stress of driving through the mountains in bad weather begin to melt away. In a few moments, he was renewed and invigorated and climbed back into his car to continue his journey.

He re-entered the highway and joined the swiftly flowing stream of traffic driving west along the Interstate. Gradually, just as he knew it would, the road left the mountains and descended onto the gently rolling plains of eastern Tennessee. With a sigh of relief, and knowing that the trip would quickly assume a familiar routine, he settled back for the long drive that would take him through Knoxville, and Nashville, and Memphis, and Little Rock, before turning south towards Shreveport, bringing him finally to his destination, Dallas.

Now, he decided. Yes. Now is the time to read "To the Lighthouse."

Awkwardly, while keeping his eyes on the road, he reached over to the passenger seat, found the CD player, and clumsily hooked it up. Then, fumbling around again until he found the album that contained the audio book recording of "To the Lighthouse," he opened it and extracted the first CD, which he placed, still somewhat awkwardly, for it is tricky to manage a CD player and drive at the same time, into the player. He punched the button on the machine, adjusted the volume, and the words floated out of the speakers and into the car.

"'To the Lighthouse'" by Virginia Woolf. Disk One," came the announcer's voice. Then the reader, Virginia Leishman, intoned: "Prologue. Chapter One."

He began to listen, and he listened for the next 800 miles, and, listening intently, he immersed himself in Virginia Woolf's story of the Ramsay family, their summer vacation on the Isle of Skye, and their son James' much anticipated and long delayed journey to the lighthouse.

"Well done," he thought, two days later, when it was finished. And he was pleased as he congratulated himself in his own private way, because he had listened to "To the Lighthouse" in its entirety, and found it enjoyable.

Thus, he put the finishing touch on his trip, the trip that was his Christmas vacation.

***

A short time afterwards, only a few days, really, he reflected on his experience of reading "To the Lighthouse" as an audio book.

The trick to reading Virginia Woolf, he decided, is in knowing where to break the sentences, where to pause, and where to separate the subordinate clauses, so that the sentences parse correctly. If one does this incorrectly, as often happens on first reading of the printed page, the effect can be jarring, when, for example, a noun is unfortunately connected with the wrong verb, causing the sentence to go in the wrong direction, or parts of the sentence are left dangling. If such a thing happens, and it is likely to happen often on a first reading, the only solution for the reader is to re-read the sentence until it parses correctly, and the proper meaning emerges. This makes for slow going at first, when reading printed text, but if one can get the knack of the Woolf style, and if the reader perseveres, and is willing to make the effort to do a second reading whenever necessary, the inherent beauty of the text will soon emerge.

This unfortunate problem is nearly absent when one listens to the story read aloud as an audio book. On the recording, the reader, in this case Virginia Leishman, on the audio book version of "To the Lighthouse" published by Recorded Books, Inc., has of necessity, already analyzed the material, and the sentences as they are read have an ebb and flow of natural speech that is eminently satisfying. Also, the text takes on a transparent, poetic quality, as of carefully constructed blank verse, which allows the listener's imagination to free itself from the printed page, visualize in the mind's eye the situations and places described in the story, and immerse itself in the thoughts, emotions and utterances of Virginia Woolf's characters.

Listing to Virginia Woolf's prose, when read aloud and properly delivered, is both soothing and exciting. Her story, with the most sketchy of plots, and carefully constructed out of the most mundane of events of daily life, the painting of a picture, sewing, shopping, a chance encounter on the road, the preparation of a meal, and the chit chat of diners sitting at table, becomes both engaging and exciting to the listener, who feels himself becoming involved as part of the inner being of the various characters as they engage themselves in the shifting scene around them and react to the situations they encounter. Even if the mind occasionally wanders while the reading continues, it does not matter much, for in such cases, the listener's inner voice will merely merge into the texture of the tale, while the subconscious mind will continue listening to the words being read aloud, and quickly pull one back into the story after only a short moment.

The plot of "To the Lighthouse" is a simple one.

The story begins in the year 1910. The Ramsay family is on vacation from London and living in a cottage they own in Scotland, on the Isle of Skye. There are eight children in the family. Mr. and Mrs. Ramsay have also invited several guests to join them for the summer.

James, Mrs. Ramsay's youngest son, who is six, asks if they can go to the lighthouse the next day. Mrs. Ramsay agrees, but Mr. Ramsay contradicts his wife and tells his son the weather will be bad. James is very disappointed.

That evening there is a dinner party, and the next morning, the weather is indeed wrong for a boat trip to the lighthouse.

10 years pass. Mrs. Ramsay has died of unknown causes, Andrew, the oldest son, has been killed in World War I, and Prue, the oldest daughter, has died in childbirth after a short marriage. The Ramsay cottage on the Isle of Sky falls into ruin.

The year is now 1920. Mr. Ramsay decides to come back to the cottage for the summer one more time. The cottage is quickly put in order, and Mr. Ramsay arrives with James and his sister Cam and a few guests.

During this stay, Mr. Ramsay decides to take James to the lighthouse. James, who is now 16, guides the boat through the billowing waves, so that the group arrives safely. "Well done," says Mr. Ramsey to James when they arrive safely at the lighthouse, and James is secretly pleased to receive this simple declaration of praise from his demanding father. Finally, James has had his visit to the lighthouse. It is a moment of intense satisfaction for the reader.

Published in 1927, "To the Lighthouse" is Virginia Woolf's elegy for her parents--her attempt to describe and understand them through the prism of fiction. Two years earlier, Woolf had written in her diary that the book would be "fairly short" (it is) and that it would have "father's character done complete in it; & mother's; & St. Ives [the family summer home]; & childhood." It's impossible to overestimate the influence of Woolf's parents on the development of this book; a year after the book was published, she acknowledged that she "was obsessed by them both, unhealthily; & writing of them was a necessary act." As Hermione Lee put it in her biography, the novel is set in a "haunted house."

The remarkable empathy (and, to some extent, sympathy) for the novel's characters is testimony to Woolf's success: in powerful stream-of-consciousness passages told from ever-shifting perspectives, she re-creates from her own biography three entirely believable protagonists. Woolf's mother becomes Mrs. Ramsay, whose domain is largely confined to her home, her children, and her guests; like Clarissa Dalloway planning a party in Woolf's previous novel, Mrs. Ramsay sees the highlight of her day as carrying off a successful dinner for her family and guests--"she wished the dinner to be particularly nice." Her husband, a philosopher, remains aloof from his family and their social sphere; his abrasiveness is a source of occasional annoyance to Mrs. Ramsay, and his own obsession is nothing so fleeting as a dinner party but rather the legacy that will be left by his life's work.

Lily Briscoe, a young painter who is one of the guests, observes the family dynamics and critically regards the relationship between Mrs. Ramsay and her husband: "What was this mania of hers for marriage?" Lily also serves as a fictional alter-ego for Virginia Woolf herself. While working on a painting of Mrs. Ramsay reading to her son, Lily's lack of confidence is exacerbated by the opinion of another houseguest: "Women can't paint, women can't write"--a declaration linking Lily's timidity as a painter with Virginia's own qualms about the novel (she was anxious that it would be criticized as "sentimental"). Worrying unduly about what others think is inhibiting their talents.

It's become obligatory to mention the supposed lack of plot in this book--but that old saw ignores the transformation of the novel's characters and their pursuit for meaningfulness. Mr. Ramsay wants respect; Mrs. Ramsay wants to be happy in her marriage; their son James wants the approval of his father; Lily wants to be an artist--but all are thwarted in their search for happiness. One houseguest muses, "What does one live for?" Similarly, Mrs. Ramsay reflects as dinner starts, "What have I done with my life?" And Lily wonders while she works on her painting: "What is the meaning of life? That was all--a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years."

The novel's "action," then, is the quest to find the ever-elusive "meaning of life": both within a single day (during the first half of the novel) and then ten years later, after the first World War, when what remains of the shattered family returns to the summer home and finally makes a long-postponed boat-trip to the lighthouse. Not everyone finds what they are looking for, but at last Lily Briscoe, who remains behind at the cottage, understands that approval and contentment and artistic talent had been there all along--within herself. She never had to leave the shore.

Mr. Rogers never lived in Auster's neighborhoods. This dystopian tale of an unidentified city falling apart and reverting to anarchy will leave you shivering. We don't know if this societal breakdown is really a world wide phenomenon or if it only affects this one city.

My enjoyment was from the people, and their means of coping with continuing worsening of conditions. Nothing ever got better yet some still clung to hopes that tomorrow would be brighter; while others had totally given up.

Auster wants you to have to think while reading his books and they are short enough for you to maintain your concentration. This was quite enjoyable.

Paul Auster presents us with yet another must-read. This novella takes place in an unnamed city that has suffered complete ruin. There is no consistent government to speak of and anarchy rules supreme. But, the fascinating premise is that this is not a world problem, this is a city problem. It is a land cutoff from the world, and the world seems to have forgotten about it. Sound familiar? (Keep in mind this book was first published in 1987.) However, newspapers are still trying to get the scoop on what's going on, and so reporters are occasionally sent in, though most never return.

One such reporter who never returned left behind a younger sister who has traveled to the country of last things in order to find him. From a privileged family, it takes her a surprisingly short amount of time to adapt to the horrific conditions under which she must survive. She is primarily the narrator of her story, and we follow her as she experiences tragedy, death, suffering, but also, as impossible as it may seem, love and hope.

I've heard this book is about everything that can go wrong in a society and how it can leave the reader with a sense of despondency; however, I found the book to be a testament to the power of hope and love.

To touch upon Auster's style: I've read many of Auster's books, and while he explores similar themes, I've never read two books that were written in the same manner. Auster gives us something fresh and artistically progressive with each book he writes. In the Country of Last Things is virtually a how-to for any budding writer as it uses sparse detail and very limited dialogue to completely drive home the potency of the theme.

I've yet to read a book I did not like from Paul Auster, and In the Country of Last Things is certainly no exception.

~Scott William Foley, author of Souls Triumphant

The setting provides some wonderfully lurid details in Paul Auster's futuristic narrative and will keep readers turning the pages of his dystopian novel, but the so-so character development of IN THE COUNTRY OF LAST THINGS ultimately prevents this echo of Orwell from receiving the 4 stars it flirts with. There's no question that Auster is creative and compelling in describing a city gone mad with hunger, crime, and want, but once you go beyond the protagonist Anna Blume, you run into characters who are poorly developed and of little interest to the reader.

One of the book's strengths is in describing the futuristic world. It is powered by factories that burn human waste and human cadavers for energy needs, for starters. The streets are wild and dangerous, as scavengers battle over food and objects. Rife with corruption, citizens wheel and deal under a police state that often looks the other way as they break the "law." Beyond hope, many citizens choose death in interesting ways. The Leapers jump off of building roofs. The Runners run themselves into a frenzy until they collapse dead on the streets. And the Assassinators stalk people who want to die at an unknown time by an unknown method, so pay the assassinators to perform the function.

This setting and these conditions provide momentum for the book's plot as anything can happen. The "country" of the title, then, is the book's greatest strength. Unfortunately, the episodic nature of the plot sometimes gives the book a disjointed feel as characters come and go so quickly that there is little allegiance to or feeling for them on the part of the reader. Also, Auster is not above throwing in a little gratuitous sex, even when it adds nothing to the plot or the characters involved.

Despite these drawbacks, the book was intriguing in its way and should satisfy fans of dystopian fiction. I read it in a day, and although I was happy to witness Auster's artistry in creating so bleak and bizarre a world, I was just as happy to leave it and move on. For fans of the genre, this book should prove satisfying. For fans of literature, it should prove interesting, if sometimes lacking, in its ambition and reach.

It is the end of the world as we know it, and Paul Auster feels fine - sort of. His novel "In the Country of Last Things" seems to be unusual in his body work. But as the narrative advances one can notice that this novel perfectly fits his literary obsessions and constant themes. Characters live in a dystrophic world that resembles a lot the our very own world. This can be a strange and dangerous future.

This place is reminiscent of the Great Depression, when the rule is the lack - of food, clothes, services and, above all, dignity. Anna Blume is the main character, a girl who travels to this country to find her lost journalist brother. Since it's a chaotic place nor she, neither can make out what has happened.

Auster is not after a reason to explain why the world has gone rotten. The most important thing is surviving. Anna has to find means of going through hard times and yet emerge as a human being. With this device, the writer is dealing with complex and important themes.

"In the Country of Last Things", Auster exploit of the dearest issues to him: the difficult people have to communicate to each other. Sometimes words are not enough, when everything shouldn't have a limit. "You stop, but that does not mean you have come to the end. The words get smaller and smaller".

Auster, an author who has such an ease for words, here finds that one of the job of a writer is to overcome the limits that language may impose. This is the aim thing he has perceived in his career, sometime succeeding.

The future can only get worse. The city that awaits us is an scavengers' retreat. Man's umbilical cord links him not to mother, nurture or nature, but to an old, screeching shopping cart used to collect rubbish. The city is a site for decomposing parafernalia; objects expire by the side of corpses, corpses are removed of its objects: a nice suit, a golden teeth. The National Library is a crumpling building, perhaps the ultimate space for Anna Blume to find refuge from the crippling, self-enclosed cityscape. The she finds Samuel Farr, but will she ever find William, her brother? Many a Terrible Winter can be spent taking refuge among books.

The next movement in this nightmare society goes through the abolition of the academy status of religious scholars. A world devoid of religion, of culture, of academies, is not far from becoming a slaughter house, having lost the feeling for the sacredness of man.

The city of the future is the result of the extension of the ills of our present time into an unaccountable absurd. It is our duty to be attentive to present signs of disintegration and to try to remedy them. The problem of the city will be impossible to solve. On the other side of this barbaric city are sixteenth-century Spain (Isabel and Ferdinand), eighteenth-century Russia... and wherever the spirit has ever wavered between teh written word and the sacred purpose.

This is a review of the book edition. This selection from an FM station in London has a distinct British flavor. Arranged alphabetically by author, we stroll from "Dover Beach" (Matthew Arnold), to "When you are old" (Yeats). Along the way are various fun animals: Macavity the mystery cat, Blake's Tiger, Chesterton's Donkey, and Lawrence's Snake. Perhaps some of the longer poems are not to my taste (e.g. Tennyson "The Lady of Shalott"). Each poet is introduced with a short, useful biography. The most popular poem of these listeners is Wordsworth "The Daffodils".

Performers:
Eddie Albert, Stephanie Beacham, Harvey Fierstein, Elliott Gould, Joel Grey, Gregory Hines, Kevin McCarthy, Vanessa Redgrave, Jean Stapleton, Ernie Hudson, Glenda Jackson, Cheryl Ladd, Kevin McCarthy, Cathy Moriarty, Sharon Stone, Burt Reynolds, Rod Steiger, Alfred Woodard, Michael York, Ephram Zimbalist, Jr.
Original poems and introduction written by Judith Cummings.

This is a CD of straight Aesop's fables followed by the narrator trying to turn the moral into common language. Aesop's read better than they listen - at least for me. My kids really didn't like it because the stories are short (only about 1 minute) and the "real life applications" didn't make sense to them or me. Overall, I wouldn't recommend it unless you just want somebody to read the stories to you.

I'm not really sure what I expected when I purchased a used copy of Vanessa Redgrave's autobiography. Maybe, it was to get a glimpse of an artist's perspective on acting. That certainly was not however what I ended up taking away from this bio. Rather, a wealth of information about politics and the Redgrave family is quickly thrust upon you within the first few pages. Once you sort out who everyone is, then you must go and cross-reference the political background of the times. This is where things started to get rough. Redgrave's writing is peripatetic and disjoiunted in style making it a difficult read. Once you get beyond the first few chapters however, her passion for politics and acting overwhelms you (in a good way) and you become caught up in the formation of her performing and political conscious.

The best part of the bio are the early letters she includes --written to both her father and various cousins-- which are witty, passionate, and illustrate perfectly the young Redgrave's thirst for knowledge and understanding. A warning to the potential reader: if you are not well-versed in the history of England, or the political parties or politics of the East, I urge you to consider some background reading in conjunction with this book as it is necessary to have a handle on some aspect of her writing before you attempt to follow her political path.