What a fevered imagination you must have...

Any idea who uttered that line?

If you, like the rest of the gang from my LYS, are enjoying the Jane Austen mega-marathon that Masterpiece! (nee Masterpiece Theater) is putting on every Sunday, and you were listening closely tonight, you probably know the answer.

That was kind of an Austen-like sentence there. But nowhere near as delicate.

Each time I re-read or re-watch one of her works, I'm awed by her prowess. She elegantly, but pointedly, shows how precarious a single woman's position was in the early 19th century -- how easily a slip of the tongue, or a misjudgment, or familial bad behavior could jeopardize an entire future. And she's ruthless on families, defining dysfunction centuries before it comes into common usage. Who can't sympathize with Mr. Bennett, with all those daughters to marry off and that wife? Wouldn't you withdraw to your library and hope for the best? And those horrid Elliot sisters, and father, who take for granted all of Anne's contributions and sacrifices. And Mrs. Dashwood, forcing Elinor and Marianne to find a way to keep a roof over their heads, thanks to the actions of that selfish brother.

I'm also amused at the list of "rules" that a femme fatale has to remember (and juggle) to stay in the game in her novels:

• Try not to fall in love with a second son. It's always doomed.
• Be a skilled horsewoman.
• Look attractive when you're caught in a sudden downpour, and don't contract any serious illnesses after your bout with showers. (A sprained ankle, yes. Tuberculosis, bronchitis, penumonia, no.)
  
• There are more cads out there than you think. And they're all remarkably charming. And who you'd least suspect.
• Your sister is your greatest fan, and your dearest friend. Unless she's an ungrateful wretch with poor taste in men. Prepare accordingly.

Funny, wasn't it, to hear Catherine Morland called Cathy within her family. And then there's Cathy in Wuthering Heights. Do you think that nickname was popular for 50 years in the 19th century and then came into favor again a hundred years later in America?

The "fevered imagination" line was delivered to Miss Morland by the lovely Mr. Tilney earlier this evening. It was during the crucial quarrel that's a mainstay in Austen's work, in which the heroine realizes her personal folly and admits her love for the hero. In Austen, differences are overcome and the resolution is a happy union between partners. Another concept that didn't come to pass in great numbers until the late 20th century. How prescient was she? And how amazing that she envisioned this model, given how different it was from her own experience as a spinster, scribbling away in her family drawing room. And from the marriages most women endured in her time, where money was the most important factor and a union was rarely based on equality. But that's her genius, isn't it? To transcend the actual, and create an ideal that feels natural, real and achievable.

Mr. Tilney followed up the imagination line to Catherine by stating, "Perhaps it is possible after all to read too many novels." I say, not if they're written by Jane Austen!!

The magical Internet

I've waxed ecstatic to my knitting friends about ravelry.com, a phenomenal new Internet site. Its ingenious design will meet any and all organizational needs for knitting projects, stash and supplies, and more! You also get access to scads of patterns and insights from other knitters!! There's inspiration, solace and a supportive community -- whether you've hit a snag, or want to browse through patterns. And lots of fellow knitters who have posted their projects online, allowing you to see their choices of colors and yarns, check out their WIPs (works in progress) and completed work. The site has been a godsend for me -- I've been trying out different ways of organizing my knitting kingdom for years, without landing on a satisfactory working system. On Ravelry, it's like a skilled, smart, practical cadre of knitters caucused, mapped out all possible challenges and wish lists, and then came up with an easy to use, comprehensive system that adjusts to be as low-key or detailed as you want.

As someone who loves books even more than yarn, I've been yearning for a similar site to catalogue my library. The last version I used for my 1,000+ volumes was on a 1990's version of Filemaker and, while all the necessary fields were there, it just felt like a big ole list. Well, wouldn't you know, Ravelry handed me the solution to this dilemma as well. It's called LibraryThing and it is a work of art. And genius. It is the book database with pixie dust, anticipating your every need and displaying your book covers in beautiful, living color. Of course you can display them by spine -- but really, that's so 20th century. It's been fantastic and revelatory to be entering (gulp!) 30 years of books, and to find out what a touchstone they are. I've always been able to create a compelling reason to buy any book, anytime, anywhere -- and buy I did, all through my 20's and 30's. My frequent visits to Manhattan always included a tour of bookstores -- Upper East Side, the Village, midtown, Upper West Side, used bookstores near Columbia, the Strand outlet on the edge of Central Park -- and I have many, many volumes that accompanied me on the return trip to San Francisco. The two years I lived in Northampton, I scoured the town bookstores every weekend, and those purchases too, take up many shelves. After living in the Bay Area for decades, I've amassed loads of books -- bought in Marin, the City, Berkeley, Menlo Park and Palo Alto. All these have been in vertical stacks or on horizontal shelves, so I've known in a disconnected way that I owned them. But entering them -- and seeing their familiar, memory-laden covers -- now they've come to life. The novels and literary criticism I purchased in midtown NYC the summer before my senior year, to prepare for my honors thesis. The Iris Murdoch novel I bought one Thanksgiving in Nantucket, while hanging with Victoria and Jeff. Buying Night and Day, the one Virginia Woolf novel I didn't have, while lazing the day away in Berkeley, with the boyfriend Susie Q. dubbed "the cowboy."

Paging through these books, these dear, but forgotten friends, also reminds me of all the departed bookstores where I've shopped -- the iconic and beautiful Scribner's on Fifth Avenue; the Classic Bookshop on 48th and Avenue of the Americas, around the corner from my dad's office; Coliseum Books on Columbus Circle, one subway stop away from my dad's office on the local; the women's bookstores in San Francisco's Mission District and Manhattan's Upper West Side; the original Browser Books on upper Fillmore, where Becky and I lingered for hours in the upstairs used book section. I think I bought all my Barbara Pym novels there, and my Amanda Cross mysteries. The Rizzoli on Sutter Street, West Coast cousin to the still intact 57th St. store in Manhattan, which was where I bought Natalia Ginzburg for Betta. The musty bookshelves, chock full of finds, at the two used book stores in the Upper Haight. And A Clean Well-Lighted Place for Books in Opera Plaza, where I always bought my guidebooks before a vacation. Equally beloved are the London bookshops that yielded the prized Virago and Penguin editions I brought home in the 80's, when a Penguin paperback could be had for the ridiculous price of 95p. And the dollar was strong!!

Memories, all vivid, now. All these books I've surrounded myself with, over all these years, are a record of where I've been, what I've thought and valued. I'm not one who's big on taking photographs to record experiences. But Library Thing, with all its tricks and treats, has brought me back to my books in a way that is both vibrant and tangible.

The beginning of the year

Did the Australian Open start a week earlier this year? It's here already, coming to the end of the first week, and I could have sworn it ran for the last two weeks in January. Everybody's playing, with Serena dominating per usual. Hopefully, Federer is over his stomach ailment. Another Federer-Nadal final is only fitting to start the year off. Check out the tournament's amazingly comprehensive website.

In spite of? because of? my little rant over the contingent of established, American, male writers, I checked out Philip Roth's, Exit Ghost at the library today. The first paragraph drew me in, so I thought I'd give it a go. I'm in a reading funk again, unable to get into anything and not leaving enough time before sleep to get my usual half-hour in. We'll see if this novel will help revitalize my reading mojo.

But books have been on my mind. I've been thinking about rereading some of the novels from my English major days. My Norton edition of Jane Eyre has fallen apart, so I'll have to settle for a library copy. That opening page, where Jane is hiding behind the velvet curtains with a book of Audubon drawings, is still one of the most.arresting. introductions.ever. After going to Ilana Simons' reading from her work on Virginia Woolf, A Life of One's Own, I've been trying to select something of Woolf's to reread. Simons' favorite novel is To The Lighthouse, and I'm torn between Mrs. Dalloway and The Voyage Out. But I think I'm going with one of her later works -- maybe The Years or The Waves. And all you Anglophiles or Austenophiles no doubt are spending your Sunday evenings enjoying the brilliant BBC programming, a compilation of new and old television versions of all of Austen's work. You can never show Colin Firth striding out of his pond in Pride and Prejudice too many times! I think I'll go with Sense and Sensibility for my Austen fix. We can also look forward to new productions of Elizabeth Gaskell's works, starring Judi Dench. I want to tackle Cranford before it's broadcast, inspired by a query from Ms. Bananie who's considering it for vacation reading on her spring journey across the pond.

I finally settled on my calendar for this year! After mulling over English Gardens and Impressionist Paintings of the Sea, I chose The Reading Woman. Apt, don't you think?

Do the math

That phrase became a nice bit of shorthand between me and my friend Susan, whom I met in a magazine writing class. We used it as a signal, more discreet than rolling our eyes, when the topic of gender came up. As in: there are no barriers to women being published these days, or women are the new men in terms of representative voices, blah blah blah.

Oh puh-leeze. Do the math. Check out the masthead and contributors list at the New Yorker. Oooh! Predominantly male! Try the Atlantic. Look! Straight white males! Newsweek, Time, the New Republic, Slate. All the same. Check out any publication of note. Or bestseller list. Or collection of A-list critics. It's raining men. Even though "women have all the opportunities these days."

Now, I can hear the responses -- angry b****, ungrateful b****, sniping b****.

How about truthful b****? Or just, methodically doing the math b****?

This is up for me, at the moment, because of the glut of end of the year "best book" lists. Do I begrudge any of the great men their press, their adulation, their contracts? No -- Philip Roth and John Updike and Richard Ford and Michael Chabon and all the rest of them have done the grueling work of writing and editing and rewriting novels. Noteworthy novels. Critically acclaimed novels. In 2007, they wrapped up the sagas that have encompassed decades. They completed the arc of their iconic protagonists -- examining the dark corners of their souls, in midlife, getting older, losing their erections, facing their mortality. And this year, those novels all received great acclaim. They were lauded as works representative of the universal experience, meditations on the modern human condition. They were not classified as limited stories, self-absorbed books, or internal, interior novels. No, those terms are used generally for the contemporary novels written by women.

What a grossly overblown statement, you grumble. Then check out last fall's City Arts and Lecture program featuring Richard Ford, interviewed by Daniel Handler, aka Lemony Snicket. (Hey, two white guys sitting around talking!) Handler asks Ford whether he considers any of the Frank Bascombe chronicles to be interior works, focused as they are on the protagonist's life, choices, regrets... Oh, no. No, no, responds Ford. Subtly inferring that his works are bigger than that. More expansive, more universal. Which reminded me of going to hear Martin Amis read here at Black Oak Books, during his London Fields book tour. An audience member asked the question all authors hear at these events. And who are you reading these days? After rattling off a list of American and British male authors, he was asked (I swear not by me) are you reading any women authors? Oh, no was his unabashed reply. I mean they don't write material I'm interested in. I loved London Fields, loved Nicola Six, but I was completely blown away by his response. I mean, I'm able to read Julian Barnes and Penelope Lively and admire both their works. And I've slogged through packs of novels by men that haven't been about characters or interests that I've particularly enjoyed, all in pursuit of being well read. Is it too much to expect men to do the same?

Here's what I mind about the status quo. It's the guys that get all the oxygen in the room. Aah, you say, but Doris Lessing won the Nobel this year. Yes, and check out my earlier blog entry to read Harold Bloom's response. Or better still, do the math. What's the tally of men Nobel Fiction winners to women? Really?? That overwhelming?

I know, I know, I can hear the rumblings. Again my response -- do the math. Tally up the numbers of published novels by men, the number of books by men on the fiction and non-fiction recommended lists, the number of lead critics who are men. (And Michiko Kakutani, though she reviews daily, and is as powerful as they come, is only one gal. How many Jonathan Yardleys are there overseeing the book review sections across the country?) Listen to Michael Krasny's December Forum program with Oscar Villalon, the Chronicle's book editor. The list of the year's best books -- overwhelmingly male. Or check out All Things Considered book reviewer Alan Cheuse's year-end list. Lotta guys. Even Fresh Air's Maureen Corrigan has a list that doesn't reach a 50/50 split for male and female authors (though her list is my favorite).

Wait, wait -- I'm not advocating quotas! I'm not saying there have to be spots reserved for women authors to get a representative sample. I'm saying that there were plenty of wonderful novels published last year, and the year before that, and the year before that, written by women. I'm just wondering what can be done to encourage the men, the overwhelming number of men who set the opinions, to read and value them.

Just saying.

The Wild Kingdom of Berkeley

It's an urban jungle out here, what with the raccoons, the feral cats, and now that the rains have visited, the ants. The f**king ants. I think every house in Berkeley sits atop an ant hill, after the South American exodus a few years back. But my house covers an ant metropolis, and they're carrying out their annual explosion. They come through the floor heating vents and the spout in the bathtub. They surge up the side of the kitchen cabinet and over the stovetop. Where do they come from? Cracks in the grout? The sliver where the baseboards don't adhere to the wall? Is there a safe way to seal up my house and keep them out?

Each year, I shy away from using the really bad chemicals in the Ortho aerosol cans sold at all the hardware stores. Currently, I've put my faith in Orange Guard, a water-based spray with a super-duper dose of orange peel extract. But it's not curbing the masses, only extinguishing them once they've invaded. I'm at the end of my patience though, and plan on mixing up the lethal boric acid/peanut butter spread that the varmints actually take back to their kingdom. Since more rainstorms are due this week, drastic measures are warranted.

###

In more important news, I'm riveted by the political battle that's unfolding. Quite a different landscape than that outlined in the way.too.long lead-up, in which the press sang their one-note tune endlessly and unimaginatively. Which wasn't really news, if you think about it, just an extended round of inside baseball. Doh!!! Nothing really happens until the actual race begins!

And what a different and unexpected race it's already turning out to be. Which is the beauty of letting the people speak, isn't it?

I've had one recurring thought about Hillary Clinton and her campaign since the lackluster showing in Iowa. Okay, maybe two. The first, and to me the most striking, is how clear it is that she may be a capable candidate, maybe even a great one, but she is the wrong girl, running at the wrong time, with the wrong message and way too much baggage. It is one of those bad hands that fate sometimes gives the undeserving, one impossible to shake or defeat. And, of course, it's inextricably tied to the albatross of her husband. Because of all the controversies that have swirled around their political partnership, she can never be evaluated without him. And because she is so identified through her choice of him, her choice to stay with him, her choice time and again to support his political career, it's a demon she can't outrace.

I say this as a longtime, fierce Hillary admirer. It's painfully ironic that someone so smart, so skilled, who embodies the strengths and strides that now define the American woman, who was at the forefront of all the battles it took to expand what the possibilities were for modern women, is unable to benefit from that hard work and those hard earned achievements.

My second thought is, how plagued she is by bad choices. The quickness to compromise and go for the safe middle ground, the political calculations to offend the fewest at the cost of weakening your integrity, the inability to relax and be yourself. You can't blame her for keeping her guard up. Anyone who's been scrutinized so closely and judged so harshly in her public life would be wary. Now, all the bad judgments and missteps have united to form an insurmountable barrier to her chances for President.

What if team Clinton decided to put her forth as the political rising star rather than Bill, after Yale Law School? Would she have been elected governor of Arkansas? (Or Illinois, her home state and a far better ideological fit.) As a sitting governor, could she have been a viable candidate for President in '92? Somehow, I don't think so and not because of her "difficult" likableness. I don't think this country, then, was ready to put a woman, even a credible, capable one into the White House. And now that we may be ready to, it can't be her.

Anyway, that's my two cents worth, two days before New Hampshire.

How tough is it being Chelsea Clinton?

On the upside, you're brilliant, focused, high-achieving and well-travelled. On the downside, you've been the subject of media scrutiny your whole life (much of it unkind and invasive) and you've had to witness the whole country analyze and judge the ups and downs, the ins and outs of your parents' cipher-like marriage. And then every so often, you have to take a leave of absence from your life to go out on the campaign trail as they run for national office.

What does this woman have to do to catch a break?

She is her parents' daughter, and therefore unflappable in public, a political animal. But as she's smiling and greeting crowds and freezing her tush off in Iowa and New Hampshire, don't you bet she's daydreaming about an isolated beach on the North Shore of Kauai?

However this endless campaign turns out, whatever reams of news/gossip must be endured, no matter which dirty little secrets are unveiled, I hope she gets that beach time once it's over. She's earned it.