To J.D., with nothing but love.

“Among other things, you’ll find that you’re not the first person who was ever confused and frightened and even sickened by human behavior. You’re by no means alone on that score, you’ll be excited and stimulated to know. Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You’ll learn from them - if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It’s a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn’t education. It’s history. It’s poetry.” - The Catcher in the Rye

This morning, I woke up early, stumbling zombie-like out of my bedroom and towards the kitchen with my eyes still half closed. My father reached out, touched my shoulder, and stopped me with a sentence, "William Forrester's dead."

This sentence had little impact on me at first, as I haven't yet seen Finding Forrester. When I finally worked out it was a reference to this film, I thought that maybe my dad was trying to tell me that Sean Connery had died. I don't really know whether I actually didn't know what my parents were trying to tell me, or if on some level I was trying to avoid the news that I somehow intuitively knew was coming. In any case, when it finally came out that JD Salinger, author of The Catcher in the Rye and inspiration to angsty, disaffected teens everywhere had passed away at 91, I know that I retreated to the bathroom and didn't come out for a long time.


I don't know, maybe I'm wrong, but it seems like the teenager at large has lost an advocate today. I don't know whether every - or any - other teenager felt the way I did when I read Catcher in the Rye. Maybe I'm wrong, maybe he didn't connect with people as much as I give him credit for. I don't know, though - Catcher was first published in book form in 1951, and, according to this article, there are still more than 200,000 copies sold every year. Books claiming to be 'the Catcher in the Rye of our generation' seem to litter the shop bookshelves. So maybe I'm right. Maybe he truly was the one and only author who could really capture the loneliness and anger which, today more than ever, is a part of adolescence.

In the beginning of 2009, I started to feel strange. Low. I remember spending weeks at a time shut away in my bedroom, just staring at the ceiling. I couldn't write, despite the horrible swirl of emotions inside of me, just waiting to find some form of release. I couldn't even read - my bookshelves are still full of books that I haven't read, or haven't finished, which I bought during that summer. I was about to start year 12, and I couldn't face the thought. Not of graduating and leaving good ol' school behind - oh no, what I couldn't quite believe was the fact that I wasn't quite done with it yet. I felt disconnected from everybody my own age - even my closest friends. The thought of the giggling, bitchy, self-obsessed, ridiculous girls that are present at every high-school made me feel physically sick with derision. I remember trying desperately to explain it to my shrink - I wanted to find somebody who I could talk with on my own level. I was tired of having to dumb down my conversation for most people my age. I wanted to find somebody who was interested in the same things I was, and wasn't over the age of 20 (I should mention - I had friends who were interested in the same things I was. But for some reason, I couldn't even feel connected with them. I can't remember why. But I thought I'd better mention it anyway - they deserve to be properly represented in this trip down memory lane.)

My shrink told me that a lot of teenagers go through a period where they feel disillusioned - where they realise that the things that teenage society is based on are superficial and, for the most part, not worth bothering with. She said that for a lot of people, this can result in depression and anxiety. She gave this phase a name - for the life of me I can't remember what she called it, and I can't ask her, because we parted ways in a rather unfriendly manner soon after this. But my point is, I remember understanding what she was saying, but not exactly being comforted - I still felt entirely alone in the teenage world. That is, until I reread The Catcher in the Rye.



I didn't 'get' Catcher at all when I first read it, at around the age of 14. I think I knew then that I'd missed something, because the book that I'd heard everybody raving about seemed to me to be nothing more than a shallow tale about a guy trying to get laid. This time around, however, the magic I'd been hearing about happened. Holden Caulfield was a apathetic, anxious, and severely depressed guy from a private school, disenchanted with the 'phony' students and teachers around him. I felt like I was reading my own life. And somehow reading it like that made me realise that I really wasn't alone - that millions of teenagers throughout the decades had felt exactly the same feelings I was going through. It was comforting beyond belief.

Like I said, maybe I'm overreacting. But all I know is that I was more affected by today's events than I was by any of the celebrity deaths that occurred in 2009. I mean, sure, he wasn't exactly in the public eye - it's been decades since he was last interviewed, and even longer since he last published a story - but somehow I'd gotten used to the idea of him being out there somewhere, typing away in a concrete bunker, hidden away from the world. And the world feels different now that he's not in it.

I wanted to share with you something that one of my friends said in response to the news of his death. I don't know whether she knew how poignant it sounded, but it struck a chord with me. So here:

"I still wonder where the ducks go."

See you around, Salinger. Nobody did angst-ridden, disaffected youths quite like you.

"These are books, I know," she said.
The little children broke into a rueful murmur, and Ermengarde looked aghast.
"Does your papa send you books for a birthday present?" she exclaimed. "Why, he's as bad as mine. Don't open them, Sara."
"I like them," Sara laughed...

"Books are for people who wish they were somewhere else."

"I have always imagined that paradise will be a kind of library."

I am rather aware that this blog has sat silent a few days. I am also aware that I don't actually have any ideas about what to do to make it speak. I don't want it to dissolve into a few book reviews and nothing else. So, to try and keep things rolling, here is a little thing, indispersed with photographs of some of my Christmas presents.

Quote 1 from A Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett, quote 2 from Mark Twain, quote 3 from Jorge Luis Borges.

Book Review: The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls

The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls by Emilie Autumn

I hadn't really anticipated this book being the sort of thing I'd review on here. You know, it didn't really register in my mind as a book book, as opposed to another piece of merchandise for me to lust after and spend ridiculous amounts of money on. So, really, it stands testiment to the quality of TAWVG that its on here, although that sounds stuck up.

A little about the author - Emilie Autumn is a classically trained musician who has turned her hand to creating neo-Victorian, sugar-Goth mayhem with a violin, a harpsichord and a collection of exotically dressed dancers. You can learn more about her at her website here. Her music and aesthetic take their cues from the Victorian Era, Shakespeare, folklore and fairytales, the pre-Raphealite paintings of Ophelia, and the historical connection between femininity and madness. Emilie's most recent album, Opheliac, drew upon both Emilie's research into Victorian methods concerning 'mad girls', and Emilie's own experience in a mental institution. The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls extends the world of Opheliac, providing both an explanation for the album and a brilliant insight into life in a mental institution.

I am usually quite cautious of books written by people who are not primarily authors by trade. Thus, I did approach TAWVG with some caution. It could be interesting, I thought, but I didn't hope for something that was really well written. In that aspect, I was pleasantly surprised - the book did, in fact, read much better than a lot of books by actual authors (cough, Mr Darcy, Vampyre) and was filled with wonderful, expressive prose which lived up to Emilie's reputation as both a) a wonderful poet and lyricist, and b) much more intelligent than most people give her credit for.

The 'autobiographical novel' begins with Emilie being admitted to a modern mental institution after a failed suicide attempt. Bewildered and unsettled by her surroundings, Emilie finds solace in the notes that begin mysteriously appearing between the pages of her notebook, all written by 'Emily with a y', an 1851 inmate of The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls. In this way, Emilie Autumn successfully draws parellels between modern treatment for females with mental illness and the treatments of the Victorian Era, claiming that, when it comes down to basics, nothing much has changed.

The language of the book helped create a world - one could see the interiors of both institutions, see the seperate personalities of Emilie and 'Emily with a y', and understand the emotions felt by both girls. Emilie managed to adopt a Victorian-feel writing voice with ease, while still maintaining a modern feel for the modern passages. The structure of the book - confused and scattered, made up of diary entries, streams of conciousness, random facts, drawings and photographs - while sometimes confusing for the reader, helped to heighten the strangeness of the book.

Historical accuracy is also often a concern with books such as these, but there wasn't anything to complain about on that front. I don't know how much of the book was actually researched, and how much of it was made up of Emilie's considerable store of historical knowledge, but either way, it worked.

The plot held up well, despite the confused structure of the book. Revealing, stark, and in some parts gory, the book perhaps told readers even more than they wanted to know. But, first and foremost, the book was created by Emilie Autumn to tell the truth, however ugly, and overall, the book has not suffered for it.

The book wasn't quite perfect - there was the occasional spelling mistake/typo/odd jump between pages, as though a few sentences had been missed out. Somehow these mistakes - if they were mistakes at all - effectively heightened the warped feel of the book, increasing the 'mad' feel. Additionally, one felt that as the book progressed, occasionally 'Emily with a y''s voice would slip, and a phrase that was distinctly modern sounding would get through. Having now finished the book, I can say with the benefit of hindsight that maybe this too was on purpose, as a continuation of the plot.

One thing that did irk me a little bit was the sheer size of the book - seriously, its a fucking coffee-table tome. Have you ever tried to read one of those in bed? Its uncomfortable! However, the beautiful layout of the book would have had to have been forfeited, had the book been any smaller. So I guess I can cope with only reading while sitting upright.

The fans of Emilie Autumn - commonly referred to as muffins, don't ask me why - have been waiting for this book for years. When word came that it was finally on its way to us, a lot of the muffins dreamed big - there was talk of best seller lists, of feature films, of spreading the plague, one book purchase at a time. I, for one, didn't get involved with such things, assuming that the only people who would be interested in reading Emilie Autumn's book would be fans of Emilie Autumn. Having finished the book now, I have changed my mind. This book is more than just a 'behind the scenes' for Opheliac. It is a recount of life inside a mental institution deserving of a place on a bookshelf next to The Bell Jar, Girl Interrupted and One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. It could be read by anyone. In fact, it should. It should be read by anyone fascinated by the Victorian Era, anyone who has ever had a brush with the mental health industry, and anyone who has ever been talked down to because of their gender.

I'm ill.

That'd be right, wouldn't it? So instead of going out and doing things, I'm sitting at home eating hot buttered toast and drinking tea, and exploring the internets with a flashlight and an old explorer's pith helmet.


That is a photograph of me and a friend from a few months ago, from a friend's photography project themed around 'Malice in Wonderland'. I've only just seen a digital copy of this particular photograph, and I think its my favourite out of all the shots of me she's taken. So I thought I'd share it with you. You can see the rest of her photographs here.

Also, I recently found out about the feud between various YA fantasy and sci fi writers over whether zombies are better than unicorns. (You can read about it here) My immediate response is, of course, that unicorns are much better than zombies - mainly because I am terrified of zombies and unicorns are pretty. However, I will concede that as a metaphor, zombies can be awesome. I wrote a short story like that, once. Zombies as a metaphor for addiction. But moreover, traditional zombies can act as a metaphor for death, as discussed here by Simon Pegg, creator of Shaun of the Dead. Similarly to Simon Pegg, however, I draw the line at fast zombies. It would appear I am a traditionalist when it comes to zombies, as well as vampires.

Unicorns are pretty great as symbols too, as I'm sure you're aware. Purity. The pro-zombie people all say that, in todays society, unicorns are all but extinct, an outmoded metaphor, while zombies are, for lack of a better phrase, more alive than ever. But I disagree. I think that, in this world where purity and innocence is becoming so rare, the imagery of a unicorn takes on a new poignancy. I think that its important that they're kept alive.

My number one resolution this year:

Keep track of what I read. Not for any particular reason, but I'm curious as to how many books I read in a year, and what books exactly. I think it could be fun.

I also thought I might start reviewing books here and there - not only because that sort of skill will be useful in certain areas of journalism, but also because I like to gab on about the books I read to anyone who will listen, and often people who won't. Unfortunately enough, I'm starting off this tradition with a negative review. Quite a negative one. I'm actually a little embarrassed by how negative and stuck up this review sounds. I hardly knew whether to refer to it as a book review or a book rant, in the end. I think its necessary, though. I don't know, I just think this one has to be put in writing.


Mr Darcy, Vampyre by Amanda Grange

I should start off by mentioning that I am a traditionalist when it comes to vampire fiction. I've never been a fan of the Twilight series, although I did plough my way through all of them - I hate being an ill-informed critic. So, as a result, I am always cautious when delving into vampire fiction. I probably wouldn't have ever picked this up if it wasn't for my interest in the current flood of paranormal spinoffs of 19th century novels seemingly sparked by Pride and Prejudice and Zombies by Seth Grahame-Smith.

The premise, of course, seems to work quite well - it is easy enough to take the stern, foreboding Darcy and make it appear as though his behaviour in Pride and Prejudice was a front for a deep, dark secret. Additionally, Grange has for the most part kept to traditional vampire stereotypes, making use of familiar gothic imagery throughout. The use of historical and geographic references to vampire lore is also in the book's favour. However, the novel's bad aspects outweigh its positives, resulting in a book that was, for me, a complete disappointment.

The title seems fine enough - it even has a certain ring to it. I'd be a fan, if the majority of the plot wasn't devoted to Darcy concealing his vampire nature, and Elizabeth wondering why he is acting so strangely. In fact, the actual vampire 'action' doesn't begin until the last half of the book. Really, they should have put spoiler alerts all over the front cover. As a result, I spent the majority of the book a) impatient for the vampires to show up, already and b) mentally screaming at Elizabeth to use her common sense and stop whining about him not wanting to have sex with you, for Christ's sake.

That was another thing. I completely understand that, at this point in time, the main source of apprehension for a new bride was the wedding night, and the duty to provide her husband with an heir. What I didn't like was the fact that Elizabeth, who in Pride and Prejudice had been such a witty, intelligent, independent* young woman, was reduced to a simpering idiot whose entire self-worth seemed to be attached to the fact that her husband didn't want to engage in any 'night-time visits'. This preoccupation continued throughout the book, with Elizabeth's original characterization only coming to light in the numerous badly-paraphrased quote from the original book which were littered throughout the chapters. I don't know, maybe I was reading Pride and Prejudice all wrong, but it seemed to me that Elizabeth and Darcy promised to be more than the traditional husband-and-wife dynamic of the time - their exchanges during Austen's work seemed to suggest that their marriage would be a meeting of equals, at least in mind, if not in social standing.

Darcy's character, too, was reduced to a selection of paraphrased references to Pride and Prejudice, the odd veiled reference to dark secrets and the occasional glance of restrained longing, but on the whole, his character suffered a lot less than Elizabeth's - although the author's handling of all characterization in the book makes a mockery of Austen's subtlety and wit.

Aside from this, the book was badly written - though of course, nowadays it is ridiculously difficult to find an author who has true power over the English language. I am ever more cautious about reading modern works, simply because the average modern author becomes successful not on the power of his prose, but on his ability to write to his target audience. Additionally, it must be said that the paranormal-Victoriana books are not known for their quality as pieces of literature - they must be taken with a grain of salt, and seen as nothing more than a little harmless fun, a quick laugh for the literature geek. However, the writing quality displayed in Mr Darcy, Vampyre from the very first page made me cringe, and, moreover, made it impossible for me to disappear into the story in the way that I am accustomed. The romantic scenes stank of cliche, while the references to the original novel by Jane Austen were particularly difficult for me to cope with: 'they remembered...' followed by a detailed paraphrasing of a segment of P and P only makes me think of badly written fanfics. Which, after all, is essentially what this is.

Overall, this isn't the paranormal-Victoriana book I'd recommend. Pride and Prejudice and Zombies was much more engaging and better written, Queen Victoria: Demon Hunter had a certain whimsical charm, while I Am Scrooge is a good source of both hilarity and gore. For vampires, I'd recommend Anne Rice's Vampire Chronicles, and, of course, the classic Dracula. However, if you like florid romances, badly-written prose, awkward paraphrasing of classic texts, and two-dimensional characters which deviate entirely from the established characterisation, then all the power to you. Read away.

*I do, of course, mean mentally independent - at this time it was essentially impossible for a woman to be completely independent.

That sort of party is overrated, anyway.

I was meant to go to a party for New Years Eve, but I couldn't face it. Sometimes I wonder whether its wrong to not enjoy parties where loud music with heavy beats and drinking with boys who wish they had x-ray vision is the mode. Then again, I do enjoy some parties. I think its really all down to the people I'm with. I'm sure I could enjoy a party with Oscar Wilde and Marilyn Monroe and F.Scott Fitzgerald and Marie Antoinette and all my closest friends and people who could understand. I wrote something about that, once. You can see it on my tumblr here.

Instead, I went to Lozzie's house, and we ran around with sparklers in the dark. In hindsight, I think that should have been my plan all along. It was so much fun that I forgot to take pictures, so here is a photograph found via weheartit, source linked.