An "Important and Reoccuring Sub-plot:" Hornblower plays Affectionate Husband

The mirror caught Maria's reflection, and he forced himself back into the world again. she was standing pathetically looking at him, and he put down his razor, and took up the towel ans wiped the lather from his mouth. "Not a kiss since yesterday!" he said. "Maria, darling, don't you think you've been neglecting me?" ...And while he kissed her he thought of Atropos riding to her anchor out there in the river, and despised himself as a hypocritical lover." (Hornblower and the "Atropos")

John Ford visited me at the store a few days ago. When I told him that Hornblower had become a 'real' captain he announced that he skips all the "mushy parts."

And for the first three books I didn't really understand what John was talking about; this was a series about a man in love with the sea (even though it made him violently sick and frequently led to mortal danger) and service. It was a Romance with the Sea - surely - but mushy?

That was, until Horatio got married to a sensitive, homely innkeeper's daughter. The first woman to show him kindness during a time of hard luck, Marie changes Horatio - military genius and gangly man of action - to Horry.

A pivotal point for sure, I haven't a clue why Forrester writes Horatio into Marie's stereotypically feminine arms. I could dismiss this mis-match as evidence that Forrester, like SO many male writers, simply can't imagine a 3D woman but there is a little authorial voice that peeks out once in a while to vote against such an easy dismissal. Either way, for all his lack of insight into the feminine mind I am in love with, and facinated by, this new dimension of Horatio as a BIG OL' FAKER.

I'm loving Horatio Hornblower.

Quizzes count as reading right? And doing this Superhero Lover Quiz did induce me to post...

John Ford. We met when I told him he had the name of a poet.

I complain a lot. And I do so without prejudice. But bitching sometimes leads to good things.

John Ford and I met at the store about 8 months ago when he came in to buy his Players light large regular and his reading time snacks: two chocolate bars. John's been coming in for years but it's only after bitching about the bookclub that he came into focus as more than a customer.

This happens a lot at this store. Chatting away as usual to anyone and everyone - to pass the time and due to curiosity - I realized awhile ago that my regulars and I talked about the details of our lives in a surprisingly neighbourly way. Val brought us a box of fabulous Dundas chocolates for Christmas this year and the outpouring of real sympathy (the unexpected kind, one of the best kind) for our family last year brought this fact home. But we talked without ever sharing our names. When you can't say 'thank you' because you can't put a face (or a regular purchase) to a card signed "Samantha Lowe and Family" you know something isn't right.

Anyways this is all beside the point.

John Ford, from what I have gathered, is a 55+ divorced guy who has lived alone for some time now. He would in and buy his chocolate/cigs. I'd bitch about wanting to read more. And he'd recount stories of reading Cannery Row (Steinbeck) alone outside his knee high tent in a family campground under the old mountains of in Alberta surrounded in a sea of campers and trailers. ("Haha! I freaked out all the family campers laughing. Parents probably told their kids to avoid the crazy man.")

While talking, I'd reached under the counter and pulled out my copy of a book (this time Paksanarrion) for him. He'd pass over yet another book and tell me to hurry up with his copy of a book (Horatio Hornblower because there were twenty-odd more to go) because I was slow reader "for someone who went to university." Then, more often than not, he'd run home (or to Chapters) and return with a book we mentioned.

I don't know much about him except that he has that blue collar humour i love but with a literary twist. He has his confessions too. It's these whispers over the register that keep me going. For John, he can't help but think a girl at Chapters, a girl after his own bookish heart, is 'an ugly mongoloid.' He always reports this with a sad shake of his head, as though it is too bad.

As an 'Asian' I should be horrified but it makes me giggle - the audacity - even to rewrite it here. He knows he's being bad.

Anyways, after much give and take, John and I have founded our own little Scenic Bookclub! It's not official but easy and fruitful. He's introduced me to Steinbeck and loaned me his precious Hornblower series. And I've lent him all my old Goodkind and G.G. Kay. John's a man after my own 13-year-old-boy's bookish heart but he's completely uninterested in my beloved Austen or E.B. Browning.

Oh, and the club is growing. I'm also reading Gwynne Dyer's Future: Tense (The Coming World Order) lent to me by other customer. Hm. I've got to learn his name.

Glad It's Dead

This being in my twenties business is just messed up. Cliches of searching for some path (or another) and being lost and making stupid choices and frittering away time (it seems) are all true for me and this book blog is no exception.

Yeah, I know. I haven't written in months and I'm not even sure Kara and Eileen are checking up on this site. (Oy! Eileen! Kara! Are you guys awake?)

Committing to writing often about something i love to do seemed a no-brainer; but somehow the blog always ended up being at the bottom of the priority list. So, I thought a book club was in order. More satisfying than writing to an audience of 0 to 3, a book club seemed like the perfect solution for the bored, book loving, hungry for discussion and book talk crowd.

But the club floundered, drowning to death today after a score of 1 and 1/2 books in 5 months. PAH-thetic.

The formula for a successful bookclub seemed simple. A+ B = success when A = reading the text and when B = a want to discuss the text. Simple. But somehow, in our group of casual readers other than a rare individual or two, few of the members seemed interested in actually talking about the books.

Truth be told my frustation with the club has been fairly transparent since day 2. Why couldn't we, readers in our individual right, come together as a group (commit to a single night once every 2 months even!) even when plied with wine and finger treats?

I still can't figure it out.

Long story short, the book club died today to a collective sigh of relief.