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This is so much fun!

Perhaps it was from thinking about him after his death, discovering how much I remembered and how little I knew, that I learned that all human stories in this world contain many lost or unwritten or unreadable or unwritable pages and that the truth about us, though it must exist, though it must lie all around us every day, is mostly hidden from us, like birds’ nests in the woods.

Miss Iris said, “Honey, I loved your uncle Andrew. We’ll miss him, won’t we?” She bit her underlip and looked away.
Some of the others said things too. It was a little as though they wanted to ensure that their love would last by telling it to somebody young.

For a long time then I just sat in the grass, feeling clean and content, thinking perhaps of nothing at all. I was nine years old, going on ten; having never needed to ask, I knew exactly where I was; I did not want to be anyplace else.
[I can feel Berry’s presence in these words, reliving his childhood]

When I got out to the deep place I sucked in a big breath and dived. Way down where the water was black and cold it was revealed to me that if I drowned before I lived to be grown I would be sorry, and I kicked and stroked at the dark, watching the water brighten until my head broke out into daylight and air again.
I swam back into shallow water. This partial concession to my mother’s fears made me feel absolved..

“Catherine listened with astonishment; she knew not how to reconcile two such very different accounts of the same thing; for she had not been brought up…to know to how many idle assertions and impudent falsehoods the excess of vanity will lead. Her own family were plain, matter-of-fact people who seldom aimed at wit of any kind; her father, at the utmost, being content with a pun and her mother with a proverb.”

How do you draw noise, Mr Lloyd? How do I paint the clangour of battle between ocean and land, sea and rock? The sounds reverberating against the stone, cracking the air? The raucousness of gulls? Of terns? I draw them open-beaked, but still they are silent. (young James thinking to himself while drawing and painting at the cliffs)

Bean Ui Fhloinn, the matriarch:”There’s a harshness everywhere, I know, city or country, but here it is more exposed, stripped bare by the weather and our isolation. That simplicity doesn’t suit a lot of people. They say it bores them, but I have watched. It’s not boredom, JP. It’s fear. The barrenness and rawness frightens them.. In..places with trees and shelter the baseness of life is easier to disguise.

This is going to be fierce. I can feel it already.

“He closed his sketchbook and walked back up the cliff path to his cottage. He returned the kitchen chair to the slate slab and sat down, uncertain of what to do next, of how to wait in a place where nothing happens.”

I looked up the word idiomatic in a different dictionary. Thrilling to me, the variety. Thrilling both to know and to not know, to be gifted possibilities…
Like there was such a thing as a family of words, one that stretched across different languages all touching on each other…acting on each other, influencing each other, agreeing with each other…disturbing each other, doing all of these things at once.

Quite a variation between stories in terms of their ability to hold my interest.

“Was a horse more lost to the world, because of no words, or was the horse more found—or even founded—in the world because of no words?
Were we in our worded world the ones who were truly deluded about where and what we believed about all the things we had words for.”

I have read An Engineer’s Story, The Four-Fifteen Express, The Story of Salome, A Service of Danger, and Was it an Illusion with the Dickensians group. And plan to read the title story with the group later this summer while reading the remaining stories on my own.
I’m generally impressed by Edwards’ writing, her world building, characters and plots. Also her evident knowledge of the world.

Besides effigies and pictures and clothes, other creatures which inhabit this hinterland between life and non-life are people made up from inanimate bits and pieces-wooden legs, wigs, artificial hands and so forth.

The effigy, the picture, the thing with human lineaments which watches, paralysed and dumb-this supplies a major imaginative level in Dickens’ novels which interacts with the human beings just as importantly as the human beings react to each other.

From ch 4, Corpses and Effigies: “Dickens’ dead figures who subject the living to their alarmed and alarming gaze are made of wood..stone..metal..painted canvas as well as wax. The mingled terror and hilarity they cause harks back to Dickens’ toddler days. His nursery contained a monstrous collection of effigies, who pretended to be dead with alarming ill-success” Details of Dickens emotional scars follow.

Exciting and different stories

I’m going to return the book to the library. It’s old, yes, but I could read it if someone (or more) hadn’t written notes and underlined so much that it’s very distracting. Back to my want to read list.

I’ve decided not to continue reading this book. I didn’t realize when I requested it how closely connected it is to the earlier books and that knowledge of the characters would be very helpful. Rather than read without that and likely deprive myself of meaningful background, I’m going to stop now.

I’ve decided not to finish this book. Part of me wants to know how it ends but I’m very tired of the primary character, the way she is presented as somewhere between doting and deranged mother and wife with a young child who obviously has his own problems. Is there a haunting in their old house? Is this child hearing ghostly whispers? Is Elodie a loving person overwhelmed by life or deranged. Don’t care anymore