It must be spring — the signs . . . → Read More: Hamish (Spring at the Estate Tale. Sort of.)]]> ‘Are not all stories, all books — and indeed all of us — connected to something bigger? Always implying what came before and what might come after? The question is – what’s the value of the fragment you are encountering in the given moment?’ — Orla Melling

It must be spring — the signs are unmistakable, even for those who never look out the windows or walk out the doors. Hamish, our resident hedgehog, has started wandering ’bout the offices, singing his spring song, which sounds a lot like a deaf penny whistle with a head cold. But it’s a sure sign of the changing season.

What’s amazing this year is where the rascal hibernated away the winter. Most years, you’ll find him snoozing in his Moses basket, near the fireplace in the Robert Graves Memorial Reading Room. MacKenzie, our Librarian, doesn’t mind, as the wee hedgehog doesn’t chew on anything so long as Iain provides a small bowl of warm milk mixed with raw egg and whatever berries are to be had — and a few fat worms from time to time! And he loves havin’ his wee head scratched. But this year he was nowhere to be seen and MacKenzie wouldn’t say where he was. Attempts to shadow MacKenzie to see where Hamish was (we’re reduced to indoor tracking in the winter) were as successful as catching a djinn in one’s hands. And it was indeed a djinn who gave away the tiggy’s location — the Arabian Nights room, which he said is indeed one of the most unique aspects of The Library. It’s a room that most of the staff have never even seen!

It’s a smallish room with a low ceiling of painted plaster, shaped into billows and swoops like a tent. Carpets of varying ages and conditions cover the floor, overlapping each other and rising into drifts in the corners. Where the walls are not covered with shelves, still more carpets hang, absorbing sound and hushing every noise to the whisper of a turning page. The carpets on the floor are beautiful, but the ones on the walls are perfect: you’d have to stare for hours to find the Divine Flaw the devout weavers left in, and by that time your brain would have dissolved into the geometry of the patterns. Even the resident djinn grudgingly admits he couldn’t have designed a finer place, and wishes he’d done this one.

There are no chairs, but lots of cushions on the floor, and the rugs pile up here and there at just the right height for a reclining elbow. There’s a camel saddle up against the wall in one corner of the room (Hamish spent his winter under it), and several low, inlaid tables. It looks like it might be a harem chamber for an especially intellectual sheik. Being as it’s actually a Library, though, what it’s full of is neither hubble-bubbles (MacKenzie would have a fit) nor houris: it’s manuscripts. Slotted, stacked, piled, and draped everywhere; looks like some of the rugs on the walls may even be woven pages in their own rights.

The manuscripts are in every imaginable form, you see. Some, of course, are classic scrolls – and from the look of it, there are some there that have been considered lost for well over a millennium. Others, actual bound books, are in leathers so old you’d have to suspect the beasts that provided them have since gone extinct; and some of those bindings make you hope they were, indeed beasts — MacKenzie and the Djinn both just smiled when I asked. But I’ll tell you: I’ve never seen a cow with either scales or a tattoo.

And what are these books? The Arabian Nights! All of them, every one, in version after version. There’s a first edition of Galland’s version, which dates from the early years of the eighteenth century; there’s the original seventeen volume set that was privately printed by the Burton Club for Subscribers Only. That one is in a locked cabinet. The lock makes rude gestures and giggles.

What isn’t a form of the stories is ancillary material. Maps of its weird and wonderful country (no two agree). Books of critique and analysis; there is even one that MacKenzie insists is Scheherazade’s own rough copy, dictated to her baby sister Dunyezade! Of course there are all the volumes of all the translations, including the first of the children’s version with Maxfield Parrish’s incomparable illustrations. Donna Bird is reading that one right now.

And yes, there are lots of brass lamps in there, and braziers too — MacKenzie won’t allow an open flame in any other room of the Library, but he claims these are lit by djinni. And being as djinni are heatless, smokeless flames, the lamps are no danger. Well, not a fire danger. Just don’t try to polish any of them!

It smells… interesting in there. It’s a complex perfume, not just books: a mixture of old wool, old leather, dust, dried dung and maybe sandalwood. And maybe hedgehog. The smell of coffee pervades the air, as well, thicker than the never-ending night, richer than an emir — or, as Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord preferred it, ‘Black as the devil, hot as hell, pure as an angel, sweet as love.’

Just in case the original Arabian Nights don’t keep you awake, you see.

First, some music, namely some modern-day folk from the Bowerbirds, The Clearing. Brace yourself — this one packs a punch.

Next, a taste of what’s happening in Finland, courtesy of Värttinä’s new release, Utu. Did we mention the . . . → Read More: Our Usual Mix ‘n’ Match]]> The problem sometimes is trying to figure out if anything matches. Oh, well. . . .

First, some music, namely some modern-day folk from the Bowerbirds, The Clearing. Brace yourself — this one packs a punch.

Next, a taste of what’s happening in Finland, courtesy of Värttinä’s new release, Utu. Did we mention the Balkan flavoring on some of the tunes?

And from our Archives, an interview/commentary with John Convertino of Calexico. There’s not a lot to say about this one — read it.

And for you Amber fans, Roger Zelazny’s most popular series gets the full treatment in The Complete Amber Sourcebook by Theodore Krulik. Everything you’ve ever wanted to know about Amber — and maybe a little more.

From there we move to a cookbook, Vincent Guihan’s New American Vegan. It seems a mixed bag, give or take the attitude, but let our reviewer clue you in.

And finally, a little fun — a group of charming sea creature from our old friends at Folkmanis Puppets. A winning group, to be sure.

That’s all for now, but check back soon — the review bin is close to overflowing.

So “white knowledge,” as that quote . . . → Read More: White Knowledge]]> He continued, slowly, by a process of osmosis and white knowledge (which is like white noise, only more useful), to comprehend the city, a process that accelerated when he realized that the actual City of London itself was no bigger than a square mile. — Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere

So “white knowledge,” as that quote clearly demonstrates, is any knowledge that is gained without conscious effort on the part of the person. Terry Pratchett notes here how it is used in his writing:

If I put a reference in a book I try to pick one that a generally well-read (well-viewed, well-listened) person has a sporting chance of picking up; I call this “white knowledge,” the sort of stuff that fills up your brain without you really knowing where it came from. Enough people would’ve read [Fritz] Leiber, say, to pick up a generalized reference to Fafhrd, etc. and even more people would have some knowledge of Tolkien, but I wouldn’t rely on people having read a specific story.

I like doing this kind of thing. There are a number of passages in the books which are “enhanced” if you know where the echoes are coming from but which are still, I hope, funny in their own right. (as quoted in Words from the Master)

Think of white knowledge as what happens in a tea cup culture. And keep in mind that we all live in tea cup cultures even if we’re not aware we are doing so. Another way you can see white knowledge at work is in a reading group, i.e. the one now discussing Ellen Datlow’s Haunted anthology is more aware of the background in the story as collectively they notice more small details.

For example, I recently enjoyed dancing while the Neverending Session played for a Christmastide Ceilidh here in the Great Hall. One of the players, a pretty red-headed fiddler dressed all in green, remarked that the building and its inhabitants formed what she called a ‘tea cup culture’ in that one could learn all one needed to know about what was going on here over a cup of tea and a tatty scone or two while sitting in the kitchen on a winter’s afternoon gossiping with the staff. Couldn’t disagree with her as I’ve heard more interesting news over a few pints of Little Sir John Ale than bears ‘membering. And much of the white knowledge isn’t what you gathered from whomever you’re talking with but rather from scraps of conversation you hear in passing. You might not even be aware you heard something but later on you remember when the subject comes up again.

Much of it is rather mundane — oh, a musician telling another musician that their band which was River Gods is now called Grendel’s Den as they’ve added a carnyx player to the band and the sound is really dark now. Or the concertina player with Nobody’s Wedding Guests was telling the tale of what she called the ‘blood wedding’ where everything went wrong. I’m still not sure the priest could have done that, but Reynard, anti-papist that he is, says anything is possible with a priest. Especially a defrocked one. Maybe that was why it all went wrong!

Another bloke at the Bar that afternoon was telling the tale of having traded teaching Bela a war carol that is the darkest Christmas song I know that exists — and no, I’m not saying what it was! — for Bela providing the recipe to the Kitchen here for a tasty Hungarian stew that uses venison and root veggies. I must be around when that gets made as Bela promises to provide a most excellent Hungarian wine to drink it down with!

More tea?

Dear Bird,

I send you a few simple rules for Life in London.

Wash early and often with soap . . . → Read More: Rudyard Kipling’s Fatherly Advice on Visiting London]]> On June 9th of 1908, as his youngest daughter, twelve-year-old Elsie, prepared for a visit to London, author Rudyard Kipling wrote her a letter in which the following list of rules for Life in London was included.

Dear Bird,

I send you a few simple rules for Life in London.

Wash early and often with soap and hot water.

Do not roll on the grass of the parks. It will come off black on your dress.

Never eat penny buns, oysters, periwinkles or peppermints on the top of a bus. It annoys the passengers.

Be kind to policemen. You never know when you may be taken up.
Never stop a motor bus with your foot. It is not a croquet ball.

Do not attempt to take pictures off the wall of the National Gallery or to remove cases of butterflies from the National History Museum. You will be noticed if you do.

Avoid late hours, pickled salmon, public meetings, crowded crossings, gutters, water-carts and over-eating.

Ever your

Daddo

Source: O Beloved Kids: Rudyard Kipling’s Letters to His Children (edited by Elliot L. Gilbert)

Let’s do something a little out of the ordinary (if you can figure out what “ordinary” is for us): We have a look at a version of Sergei Prokofiev’s perennial favorite, Peter . . . → Read More: What? More Music?]]> Of course. (Well, it’s about music, even if it’s not really music itself. Mostly.) Why would we want it any different?

Let’s do something a little out of the ordinary (if you can figure out what “ordinary” is for us): We have a look at a version of Sergei Prokofiev’s perennial favorite, Peter and the Wolf by the Friday-Seezer Ensemble, with a booklet illustrated by none other than Bono, of U-2 fame. (Yep, you read that right.)

And now, for a slightly more modern classic, let’s see what our reviewer has to say about David Rees’ Minstrels in the Gallery: A History of Jethro Tull. Yes, it’s a biography of a band. (Not that we’ve never done anything like that here.)

From there to another biography of another icon, Jimi Hendrix: Musician by Keith Shadwick. Lots of picture in a very substantial book. And we have two biographies of Hendrix this time, the second being Sharon Lawrence’s Jimi Hendrix: The Man, the Magic, the Truth. It’s really much better than the title might suggest, according to our reviewer.

And to finish off for today, something completely different, found in our Archives: Anerca, by the Figures of Speech Theatre — a puppet show unlike any you’ve ever encountered — unless you’ve traveled in Asia. Sounds fascinating.

I see we’ve got more in the bin, so I’ll be back soon. See you then.

Let’s start with a look at stories of the Viking Age, William R. Short’s Icelanders in the Viking Age: People of the Sagas. Our reviewer is at pains to . . . → Read More: Well, Let’s See. . . .]]> I go away for a week, and all sorts of stuff magically appears. (Didn’t know I was gone did you? The marvels of modern technology.)

Let’s start with a look at stories of the Viking Age, William R. Short’s Icelanders in the Viking Age: People of the Sagas. Our reviewer is at pains to point out that these are not the sagas, but a popular study of the people who lived them. That’s good enough for me.

The Norse myths themselves get a similar treatment from Heather O’Donoghue in From Asgard to Valhalla: The Remarkable History of the Norse Myths. Sounds good — can’t have too much readable scholarship, I always say.

And as long as we’re re-examining old stories, we found editor non-pareil Terri Windling’s anthology The Armless Maiden and Other Tales for Childhood’s Survivors, which sounds . . . well, it’s Terri Windling, so you know it’s going to be good.

There’s scholarship, after a fashion, in some early music, The Medieval Experience and the Venere Lute Quartet’s Sweet Division, which brings us a little forward in time to the Renaissance.

And for a complete change of scene, how about the story of a man in London who decided to buy a “fixer-upper” — just outside of Casablanca? That’s what we get in Tahir Shah’s The Caliph’s House, which sounds like a lot of fun.

And on that domestic note, I see the Archives need dusting again. But I’ll be back with more goodies.