Tag: creativity

Just one of many reading lists – part 3

**Please don’t assume that you have to, nor would I ever expect you to,  read any or all of these books.  You don’t.**

Everyone, it seems, will publish what they call the top 100 books that you should read. Some are voted on, some belong to the opinion of the editor of the book review section of a newspaper, and, as you know, there are a lot of newspapers, a lot of editors, and a lot of opinions.

I’m not a newspaper, I’m not an editor, but I have a list, based on personal experience, and many, many years of reading.

It’s in no particular order.

41.  The Hound of the Baskervilles by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, as well as a host of other Sherlock Holmes stories

42.  The Secret Agent by Joseph Conrad, one of Conrad’s later political novels, set in London in 1886 and deals with anarchism and espionage.  In those days spies were called anarchists.

43.  The Ipcress File by Len Deighton, introducing us to Harry Palmer, who was personified by Michael Caine and led to Horse Under Water, and Funeral in Berlin.  More of Len Deighton later on in the list

44.  The Remorseful Day by Colin Dexter introducing the somewhat enigmatic detective, Morse, his first name not revealed for a long time but oddly, Endeavour.  John Thaw brought him to life

45.  Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky, hard to pronounce and even harder to read, but perhaps worth it in the end.  By the time I read this I was wishing for a Russian writer had could use an economy of words

46.  Dr. Zhivago by Boris Pasternak wasn’t it.  A vast and lengthy dissertation on lost love, I felt very sad for Zhivago in the end.  I saw a stage play of the same name, and I’m sorry, but it’s a few hours of my life I will never get back

47.  Casino Royale, the first of the James Bond novels by Ian Fleming.  I have to say these are among my favorite spy books.  I must say I preferred the new James Bond in Casino Royale, though Sean Connery still rules!

48.  The Day of the Jackal by Frederick Forsythe, a fascinating story about an assassin

49.  Anything written by John Le Carre, but in particular, the George Smiley collection.  Finally unmasking his nemesis the Russian spymaster made it all so satisfying.

50.  The Bourne Identity by Robert Ludlam, inspiring a long series by both Ludlam and Eric Lustbader makes entertaining reading, but the first, the man who did not know who or what he really was, was excellent.  Matt Damon didn’t harm his persona either.

51.  Murder Must Advertise by Dorothy Sayers, whose detective is Lord Peter Whimsey, a 1933 mystery novel that’s eighth in the series

52.  Gorky Park by Martin Cruz Smith.  You have to admit that his Russian detective Arkady Renko is up against it when his investigation goes in a direction that uncovers corruption and dishonest in his superiors

53.  The Way of All Flesh by Samuel Butler, a semi-autobiographical novel written between 1987 and 1884, and published in 1903.  The story of the Pontifex family.

54.  Howards End by E. M. Forster, first published in 1910, is an interesting insight into the behavior of the, and between the classes, with the Schlegels acting as the catalyst.

55.  Washington Square by Henry James, originally published as a serial, and covers the conflict between daughter and father.  I must say I prefer The Ambassadors to Washington Square.

56.  Ulysses by James Joyce, a day in the life of an ordinary man, Leopold Bloom, why could it not be the 7th June rather than the 16th, for obvious reasons

57.  The Go-Between by L. P. Hartley is a view of society at the end of the Victorian period through the eyes of a young boy.  I read this while still at school and had no clue why, but later, when I read it again, I understood the meaning

58.  Atonement by Ian McEwan, I saw the film and then read the book.  Never a good idea.  Basically, a young girl makes a bad mistake and tries to atone for it.

59.  Gone With The Wind by Margaret Mitchell, the War and Peace of Americal novels, and as long by comparison.  The only book written by Mitchell, and the second most read book by Americans.  The film was interesting but awfully long.

60.  The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje, with a man with severe burns and the effect he had on three others.  Colin Firth is villain one day and hero the next, this time in the cinematic version, an out and out cad.

More to come…

 

Just one of many reading lists – part 1

**Please don’t assume that you have to, nor would I ever expect you to,  read any or all of these books.  You don’t.**

Everyone, it seems, will publish what they call the top 100 books that you should read.  Some are voted on, some belong to the opinion of the editor of the book review section of a newspaper, and, as you know, there are a lot of newspapers, a lot of editors, and a lot of opinions.

I’m not a newspaper, I’m not an editor, but I have a list, based on personal experience, and many, many years of reading.

It’s in no particular order.

  1.  The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman by Laurence Sterne.  Don’t ask me why but I found this an interesting slice of life in England in the 1700s
  2. Vanity Fair by William Thackeray.  I met a direct descendant of him in England on a research visit which fuelled an interest in the book.  Another large tome recently brought to life by the mini-series on television.
  3. The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins.  Arguably the first detective novel, it was fuel for the imagination of any budding detective novel author.  He also wrote The Woman in White.
  4. Middlemarch by George Eliot, a remarkable novel, and famous for the fact it was written by a woman who thought it was best to use a male name in order to get recognition.
  5. Any of the Sherlock Holmes stories by Arthur Conan Doyle
  6. New Grub Street by George Gissing, very, very gritty
  7. The Thirty-Nine Steps by John Buchan, another of those incredibly well-written spy stories
  8. A Passage to India by E.M. Forster, a novel that brings up the subject of the British Empire
  9. The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitgerald, a story from the jazz age and the mysterious Jay Gatsby whom no one could figure out
  10. The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett, one of the few books that opened up the world of the Private Detective, and fostered a brilliant movie with Humprey Bogart as Sam Spade.
  11. The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler, the author who introduced us to Philip Marlowe, with two definitive characterizations by Humprey Bogart and Robert Mitchum
  12. The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck, the classic about a family in the Great Depression, and my first introduction to Henry Fonda in the movie version of the book
  13. To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee.  I had to read this when I was at school and probably a time when I didn’t understand it’s importance.  Seeing the film with Gregory Peck much later helped.
  14. Catch 22 by Joseph Heller.  A friend recommended this and after I read it, I wondered what the hell it was about.  Only now do I understand it’s anti-war undertones
  15. Far from the Madding Crowd by Thomas Hardy was the novel that introduced me to Hardy
  16. Rural Rides by William Cobbett is a slice of life in the southern English countryside in the 1800s
  17. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, the first book of hers I read and found it fascinating.  Of course, when Mr. Darcy was brought to life in the television series, it found a whole new generation of readers
  18. Great Expectations by Charles Dickens, the remarkable story of Pip, Miss Havisham, and the mysterious benefactor
  19. Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury, apparently the temperature that paper burns, but this is more about Guy Montag and the saving of books rather than burning them
  20. Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert, probably the most depressing novel I’ve ever read, about a woman married to a mediocre doctor and seeks to escape to a fantasy world that leads to disappointment and devastating consequences

The list continues …

I started out with the best of intentions…

Don’t we all?

And, then something goes awry, like the telephone rings, someone forgot to tell you something last night, the boss calls and tells you you have thirty minutes after getting in to give a ‘smash it out of the park’ presentation, or a friend or workmate is ringing to give you a heads-up that something awful just happened.

Or worse!

Or, if you can get as far as the bus stop without forgetting something vital that you needed later on, and have to go back home, making you at least an hour late, just the morning you wanted to get in and clear away the cobwebs.

Yes, you can feel it coming, just because everything is going so well…

I had those good intentions.

i was going to work on the last revision of a novel that I’d been putting off for a while and had done all the pre the night before, just to let the ideas run around in my head while I was asleep.

And, yes, those ideas were there while I was in the shower, you know how it is, it’s one of the times when all those great ideas come, and there’s nowhere to write them down, and using a whiteboard marker of the white tiles, well, it just gets washed away.

How would a voice-activated tape recorder do?

Somehow I don’t think I want to listen to myself talking jibberish in the shower, much less the next-door neighbours.  It’s unfortunate that builders seem to like the idea of putting bathrooms on the side closest to next door.  Thank God they don’t sing in the shower!

Still on track, keeping the mental notes alive, I arrive at my desk.

Oh…

Just a little online banking to do, answer a few e-mails that I’ve been putting off, got a phone call to remind me the sheets needed extra soap in the washing machine, a post-it note on the keyboard reminding me to use the oldest eggs first, and that I might want to put some fuel in the car if I was intending to go anywhere.

Mental notes slowly dissipating.

Loading Word.

It seems I have a technical problem with my Microsoft account and I need to fix it.  Word, otherwise loads, but I cannot edit any documents until it is fixed.

Then there’s a warning that hard disk space is running out, and I need to do a cleanup, or the machine wants to do a cleanup.

Can anything else go wrong?

Even rhetorically, I knew I shouldn’t have asked.

 

 

Past conversations with my cat – 12

20161008_135142

This is Chester.  He has broken the agreement we had when we first bought the settee.

No cats allowed to sit on it.

Pleading will not cut it.  He is in serious trouble.

20161008_135120

No.  You cannot plead your case with Rosemary.

20161008_135131

Yes.  Hang your head in shame.

And get off the settee now!

Being Inspired – the book

Over the past year or so I have been selecting photographs I’ve taken on many travels, and put a story to them.

When I reached a milestone of 50, I decided to make them into a book, and, in doing so, I have gone through each and revised them, making some longer, and almost a short story.

50 photographs, 50 stories.  I’ve called it, “Inspiration, Maybe”

It will be available soon.

InspirationMaybe1v1

I’ve always wanted to go on a Treasure Hunt – Part 24

Here’s the thing…

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

 

I was in the middle of a large building, sitting on a chair, a single light on above me creating a weird shadow in a circle of light.  Beyond that circle was darkness.

But I was grateful there was no blindfold or gag.

It had to be one of the buildings on Benderby’s factory site.  There were a number of older warehouses on the perimeter of the site, boarded up and in disrepair.  I had heard rumours they were going to be refurbished or demolished, no one seemed to be able to decide what to do with them.

It was deathly quiet, but if I strained hard, I thought I could hear the sound of a generator not far away.  Benderby’s had their own mini power station in case the main power grid went down, and I remembered that it was round the time for the six-monthly testing of the generators.  I was definitely inside the Benderby complex.

So, did that make my captor one of Benderby’s men?  Or was it Alex himself, trying to make a bold statement.  I didn’t think he had that sort of aggressive behaviour in him, but he was a Benderby, and they all had violent streaks somewhere in their makeup.

“Good.  You’re awake.”  The distorted voice could be either male or female.  I’d know more when I saw my assailant, bit it came from beside me and I tried to look in that direction.  It was difficult because whoever tied me up did a good job.

There was also an echo, brought on by the emptiness of the building.

“What do you want?  I’m not much good to you if you’re trying to break into the main building.  I don’t have night access.”

“I’m not interested in the main building.”

“What are you interested in?”

“You.”

I had expected to hear the word treasure, not me.

“Sadly, I’m not that interesting.”

“So you say.  But maybe it might have something to do with that friend of yours, Boggs.”

“Then it’s the treasure you’re after.”

“Me, personally, no.  The people I work for, I guess.  The word is that Boggs has a treasure map that his father left him.”

This person had to be acquainted with Rico, because only he could possibly know about that particular map, that is, if Boggs had told him, or told his mother, and Rico had overheard him.

Or Boggs had told this person, under duress, that I had the map, holding it for safekeeping.  My mind started conjuring up all sorts of terrifying scenarios, all of which ended badly.

“If Rico told you that, then he was only trying to save his own skin.  He’s been trying to barter a copy of something to the Benderby’s, a map he didn’t have and hadn’t been able to get off Boggs.  If there is such a map, then Boggs has it.”

“I’m sure he told you about it, didn’t he?”

“What are best friends for, but whether I believed him is a different matter.  He told me about a map his said his father had in his possession, and I know he’s been hunting high and low for it, but if he’s found it, then he hasn’t told me about it yet.”

I was trying to sound sincere, but fear has a way of making you sound, well, afraid.

My captor took a step forward into the fringe of the light.  Dressed in black, with a mask, the body shape looked more like a woman than a man, a figure that could be disguised by the bulky outer clothing.

“Who are you?”

“That’s irrelevant.  What I will do to you if you do not tell me the truth, is.  Boggs told me you had the map.  I believe he was telling the truth.”

So, this person had interrogated Boggs.  It would not have taken much.  Boggs was not the bravest soul I knew.  At school, Boggs had always been the first to capitulate in any confrontation.

I wondered if they had searched him.  Of course they had, and he didn’t have the map on him, which made it easier to deflect the onus to me.

But I didn’t have the map on me either.  I took the precaution of hiding it away in a place no one would find except me.  Now it was a matter of withstanding whatever this person decided was needed to extract ‘the truth’.

The problem was, I didn’t handle confrontation any better than Boggs had.

“And I’m telling you the truth when I tell you I haven’t got the map.  But I do have one of those being peddled at Osborne’s bar.  You can have that one if you like.”

I saw my captor shake their head.  Disdain, or disappointment?

Two steps further into the circle of light, and the two slaps, either side of my face, very hard.  The paid was instant and stinging, bringing tears to my eyes.  It should have brought acquiescence, but deep down defiance was building.  It surprised me.

My captor took a step back and looked down on me.  “Don’t make me have to hurt you.  All I want is the map.”

“I can’t give you what I don’t have.”

Closed fist this time, and aside from the teeth jarring, possible jaw-breaking, nose bleeding effect, I was starting to consider how long I could withstand this sort of beating.

“The map?”  Patience was running thin, anger was building.

“I can’t…”

Several punches to the ribs and stomach, taking my breath away and making it very difficult to breathe.  Pains where I’d never had pain before.  I’d had beatings at school but never like this.

Once more a step back, I could now only see the black figure through blurry eyes.

Time to plead to deaf ears, “You can beat me to within an inch of my life, but I can’t give you what I don’t have.  It’s as simple as that.”

And then I waited for the next round of punches.

A minute.  Two.

Then a new voice, out in the void, said, “He doesn’t have it.  This is a nothing but an elaborate hoax.”

Not a recognisable voice though.

A final blow rendered me unconscious.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

A case for Harry Walthenson PI, the final episode

How thrilled Harry Walthenson, Private Detective, had been to see his name painted on the translucent glass window in the door to his office.

Located in Gramercy Park, in an old building full of atmosphere, he had a space renovated to resemble that of Spade and Archer in a scene right out of the Maltese Falcon.

His desk had an antique phone like those used in the 1930s, and a lamp that cast eerie shadows at night.  Along one wall was a couch, his bed for more nights than he wanted to remember, and on the other a filing cabinet, waiting for the big case files.

Up till now it had been missing cats and dogs.

Then, everything changed…

Starts at episode 1 – The Wrong Place, The Wrong Time

http://bit.ly/2J4aEBP

Episode 109 – The end of one case and the start of another

http://bit.ly/2PQBeWv

Enjoy

Conversations with my cat – 47

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This is Chester.  He’s unimpressed with the fact it’s father’s day.

Why?

Because, it seems, we have never given him the opportunity to become a father.

It’s an interesting point, but one that requires an explanation.  In fact, the serious expression, bordering on smoke coming out of his ears, demands one.

Firstly, if I let you out the chances are you will become roadkill.  We’ve had this argument before, a number of times, and that it is not safe outside the confines of this house.

And if I promise not to stray…

I laugh.  A cat cannot promise anything, because, well, you’re a cat.  That’s what cats do, stray, wander, play chicken with cars, fight with other male cats for practically no reason at all, and worse, chase after any female cat that’s on heat.

I’m not like those other cats, he says.  Also, he seems amused by that expression, on heat.

It’s hard to explain, but you’ll hear it before you see it, I say.

And then there’s that look of recognition.  We’ve had a few female cats wandering the streets lately that have caused him to become very restless, and make strange guttural sounds.

So, he says, I’m not likely to become a father?

Maybe, I say, if he behaves himself, eats what is put in front of him, and use the litter properly instead of a general target, and stop using plastic bags as an alternate litter.

Yes, finally, a guilty look crosses his face.

I think I just found some leverage.

 

 

I am in need of a time machine; do you know someone who has one?

I’ve often thought that I should have been born in the early 1900s and lived through what might be called the halcyon days of the ’20s and ’30s.

Of course, it is only a matter of opinion if those days were good or bad, depending on who you were.

If I’d been the heir apparent to become Lord of the manor, or from any part of upper classes with a University education, I have no doubt that I would not have been spared the horrors of war along with rest of the young men who went to serve and never returned.

The only saving grace might be as an officer it might have been easier than being in the ranks, but at that age, I doubt if I’d be as cautious as I should be, as of all youth I’d throw caution to the wind.

But in all likelihood, I would not have been part of the aristocracy but more than likely a clerk or farm worker who might by wit and guile have survived the war, if not a little traumatized by what I had seen and done in the name of defending the Empireas it was in those days.

It had prompted Hemingway to use the phrase ‘the lost generation’ at the end of one of his books, but perhaps it was first used by Gertrude Stein who had said in not many words that these people who survived the war were more content to drink themselves to death.

I guess if the first world war hadn’t taken you, and you survived the great flu epidemic that followed it, then you would probably believe you were in some way invincible, and that cigarettes, alcohol and hard living was the least of your problems.

So, in those post first world war days where writers and others congregated in Paris in the mid-1920s, an age some regarded as the halcyon years before the great depression and later on the next world war.  I suspect a lot of the American writers left their homeland because of prohibition and wanted the more liberal lifestyle in Paris during these years.

Certainly there was a group of writers and artists who lived that bohemian lifestyle, and perhaps a result of the horrors of war, using alcohol and promiscuity to drown the bad memories.  I doubt if anyone could return from a war like that and not be damaged in some way.  Perhaps the only way to escape the nightmares that would have followed these people into civilian life was to immerse themselves in a different world, and if I had been living in those days, I know I would be putting pencil to paper making endless notes for later use.

And I prefer to believe if I had survived, it was because my desire to become a writer would eventually be fulfilled.  Perhaps, in the end, it might be more likely because I had had a lifetime love affair with words, and to me, it would be more than enough to make a reasonable living from it.

Certainly I would have sought out others like me as mentors and compatriots.

It was a time when the likes of F Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Edith Wharton, and James Joyce, all of whom I have no doubt would be happy to be the role models one needed.  And if you could afford to take a trip to Paris, well, enough said.

I suspect, however, it would require a lot of luck to be included in their group and no doubt hanging out at the Shakespeare and Company bookshop, owned by Silvia Beach and Adrienne Monnier might have been a step in the right direction.

But, having not been there at the time, who knows what might have happened.

Perhaps one day when someone invents a time machine, I might be able to go back and find out.