She, too, was going that very night to kindle and illuminate; to give her party.

 Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf, first published as a novel in 1925

Spoiler Alert: Plot Summary

Mrs. Dalloway is the story of one day. This day is in the 1920s, in London, and we see it as viewed by Clarissa Dalloway, a fifty-something housewife who is preparing to throw a party that evening. She runs errands for the party and takes in the world around her, which we see with a kind of omniscience, diving into the back stories and lives and complications of the people she passes by. Clarissa is married to Richard Dalloway, but she had previous paramours, including one, Peter Walsh, that she thinks of often, and he ends up stopping by to pay a visit and then coming to the party. Clarissa and Peter both spend the day marinating on what might have been, and whether they're happy with the choice they've made not to be together. 

Clarissa and Richard have one daughter, Elizabeth, who is a young woman (maybe late teens? I can't recall if we know her age) who is enamored of her governess, Miss Kilman, a rather severe and godly woman. Clarissa despises Miss Kilman (and the feeling is mutual) and there's a kind of battle going on over Elizabeth. Clarissa also spends part of the day reflecting on a time when she fell in love with her best friend, Sally Seton, and then, in another surprise, Sally ends up attending Clarissa's party also. Everyone reconnects and reflects on the ways that their friends and previous loves have changed, and the novel ends with Peter and Clarissa coming together at the party, possibly still in love.

Spoiler Over: Continue Here

Well, blobbists. This was a much shorter read than The Magic Mountain, roughly a tenth of the length, so I am back here writing to you much sooner than before. 

I don't know if I can say I enjoyed reading this book, but there were many exquisite moments in it. I think if I were to describe the book in one word, it would be 'precarious'. Clarissa seems to be in a tenuous mental headspace, floating in and out of herself, as do several other characters in the novel, and while that was fascinating to explore, it also made me feel very on edge, as if I was watching an disaster unfold in slow motion. I still very much love To The Lighthouse, of Ms. Woolf's works, and it remains my favorite of hers, though I'm glad I read Mrs. Dalloway and had the chance to experience it. Here are some thoughts!

Big Ben as a character

I've said in other blob entries that I love the way certain writers write about specific things - the way Pasternak writes weather, the way Murasaki Shikibu writes the seasons. I would like to add to the list that I love the way that Virginia Woolf writes about time. Here are two (imo) incredible passages about Big Ben tolling:

• First a warning, musical; then the hour, irrevocable. The leaden circles dissolved in the air.

• The sounds of Big Ben striking the half-hour stuck out between them with extraordinary vigour, as if a young man, strong, indifferent, inconsiderate, were swinging dumb-bells this way and that. Isn't incredible that she paints such an image with something so simple as the chiming of a clock?

Daybreak

Another thing I love about Virginia Woolf's writing is the way she paints pictures with her words. I told my mother in describing this book to her that it felt like a painting of a scene where we dove into and out of different images and characters. 

One might fancy that day, the London day, was just beginning. Like a woman who had slipped off her print dress and white apron to array herself in blue and pearls, the day changed, put off stuff, took gauze, changed to evening, and with the same sigh of exhilaration that a woman breathes, tumbling petticoats on the floor, it too shed dust, heat, colour; the traffic thinned; motor cars, tinkling, darting, succeeded the lumber of vans; and here and there among the thick foliage of the squares an intense light hung.

The flower shop

We follow Clarissa around town as she goes about her errands, and I loved this exchange at the flower shop: 

And as she began to go with Miss Pym from jar to jar, choosing, nonsense, nonsense, she said to herself, more and more gently, as if this beauty, this scent, this colour, and Miss Pym liking her, trusting her, were a wave which she let flow over her and surmount that hatred, that monster, surmount it all; and it lifted her up and up when - oh! a pistol shot in the street outside! 

  'Dear, those motor cars', said Miss Pym, going to the window to look, and coming back and smiling apologetically with her hands full of sweet peas, as if those motor cars, those tyres of motor cars, were all her fault.

On might maybe mayhap having seen the Queen

Just after the flower shop, everyone in the area is abuzz because they think someone famous has stopped by, possibly the Queen. There was a poetic patriotism to how Woolf described each person's internal dialogue at this prospect: 

Little Mr. Bowley, who had rooms in the Albany and was sealed with wax over the deeper sources of life but could be unsealed suddenly, inappropriately, sentimentally, by this sort of thing - poor women waiting to see the Queen go past - poor women, nice little children, orphans, widows, the War - tut-tut- actually had tears in his eyes. It made me think of how there were lines miles long to see the Queen when she passed away recently, and how I don't know if there's anyone in American society who gets so much reverence on a national scale. 

Seasons

Murasaki Shikibu can be our main seasons writer, but she can collab with Virginia Woolf. ;)

June had drawn out every leaf on the trees. The mothers of Pimlico gave suck to their young. Messages were passing from the Fleet to the Admiralty. Arlington Street and Piccadilly seemed to chafe the very air in the Park and lift its leaves hotly, brilliantly, on waves of that divine vitality which Clarissa loved. To dance, to ride, she had adored all that. 

Houses

Oh, also, I LOVE the way Virginia Woolf writes about buildings and their relationship to their inhabitants. In my blob on To the Lighthouse, I share several scenes describing the house getting ready for the family and being brought back to life. 

Strange, she thought, pausing on the landing, how a mistress knows the very moment, the very temper of her house! Faint sounds rose in spirals up the well of the stairs; the swish of a mop; tapping; knocking; a loudness when the front door opened; a voice repeating a message in the basement; the chink of silver on a tray; clean silver for the party. All was for the party.

Clarissa

If you read the flower scene quote carefully, you probably picked up on some of the precariousness I mentioned in Clarissa's mental state. Here are some lines that I think paint a vivid picture of Mrs. Dalloway - a bit lost, quite vain, uncertain of how or if she fits in the world.

• She felt very young; at the same time unspeakably aged. She sliced like a knife through everything; at the same time was outside, looking on. She had a perpetual sense, as she watched the taxi cabs, of being out, out, far out to sea and alone; she always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one more day. As someone who experiences depression and anxiety, I think Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath's writing style resonates very deeply for me, because their articulations of the experience are so resonant. That can make it very difficult for me to read their work, or to want to read their work, as it can throw me into a bit of a mental funk. But I think their voices are such valuable contributions to our understanding of ourselves.

• How much she wanted it - that people should look pleased as she came in. 

• She had the oddest sense of being herself invisible, unseen; unknown. 

• Clarissa's husband reflecting on her nature: Possibly she said to herself, As we are a doomed race, chained to a sinking ship (her favourite reading as a girl was Huxley and Tyndall, and they were fond of these nautical metaphors), as the whole thing is a bad joke, let us, at any rate, do our part; mitigate the sufferings of our fellow-prisoners (Huxley again); decorate the dungeon with flowers and air-cushions; be as decent as we possibly can. I thought this was an apt imagination of her thinking - Clarissa seems to be actively drowning, but she's also making sure that the flower arrangements and the china and the silverware are all JUST right on the sinking ship.

• She had perhaps lost her sense of proportion. God, I love this line. It feels so spot on for how I feel when I spiral into a depressive or OCD headspace, like I can't properly give things the proportion that they should have, and my emotional responses are being reflected through a funhouse mirror that I can't trust.

• But why should she invite all the dull women in London to her parties? LOL. 

• Doris Kilman, on Clarissa - Her life was a tissue of vanity and deceit. OUCH. Miss Kilman and Clarissa DESPISE each other. They approach life as women in polar opposite ways, and there's a kind of fascination and jealousy, I think, that undergirds their mutual obsessive distaste for each other.

• It was extraordinary how Peter put her into these states just by coming and standing in a corner. He made her see herself; exaggerate. It was idiotic. I loved seeing this side of Clarissa, because it softens her, I think, to the reader, to know that she feels so silly about still being in love with her old boyfriend.

• Every time she gave a party she had this feeling of being something not herself, and that every one was unreal in one way; much more real in another

• What business had the Bradshaws to talk of death at her party? Interestingly, some of the guests bring up the death (by suicide) of someone they've interacted with earlier in the day, and Clarissa is horrified that they have the audacity to discuss death at HER party. But it's amusingly hypocritical because she of course has spent the whole day thinking about death herself. Which is evidenced in how she reflects on this moment at the party:

• That young man had killed himself. Somehow it was her disaster - her disgrace.

• She felt somehow very like him - the young man who had killed himself. She felt glad that he had done it; thrown it away. Honestly, I was surprised that the book didn't end with Clarissa killing herself, as it seemed like we were dancing on the edge of a cliff with her for most of the day. 

Miss Kilman

Miss Kilman was an interesting side character, who gave us a sense of the 'professional' woman of the time. And yet, like Clarissa, she was, in fact, barely holding it together. 

When people are happy, they have a reserve, she had told Elizabeth, upon which to draw, whereas she was like a wheel without a tyre (she was fond of such metaphors), jolted by every pebble. This is how I have felt in bouncing back from responding to COVID and its impact on our society. Like I never got the chance to really fill my reserve back up, so I'm just a wheel without a tire being jolted by the smallest thing. 

She was about to split asunder, she felt. The agony was so terrific.

Lines I Liked

• I prefer men to cauliflowers. :)

• The world wavered and quivered and threatened to burst into flames. Like I said, precarious.

• She had a right to his arm, though it was without feeling.

• They spoke of marriage always as a catastrophe. This line is just so beautifully poetic.

• On Clarissa's feelings for her friend, Sally Seton - But nothing is so strange when one is in love (and what was this except being in love?) as the complete indifference of other people.

• Like the pulse of a perfect heart, life struck straight through the streets.

• He was alone with the sideboard and the bananas. This was one of my favorite lines.

• Last time they met, Peter remembered, had been among the cauliflowers in the moonlight.

Well friends, this blob entry has been a pensive one, and Mrs. D certainly gave me a lot to ruminate and marinate on. That said, I'll leave you with a line I particularly liked, one of the few rather happy moments in the novel: 

On coming home

The hall of the house was cool as a vault. Mrs. Dalloway raised her hand to her eyes, and, as the maid shut the door to, and she heard the swish of Lucy's skirts, she felt like a nun who has left the world and feels fold round her the familiar veils and the response to the old devotions. The cook whistled in the kitchen. She heard the click of the typewriter. It was her life, and bending her head over the hall table, she bowed beneath the influence, felt blessed and purified, saying to herself, as she took the pad with the telephone message on it, how moments like this are buds on the tree of life, flowers of darkness they are, she thought (as if some lovely rose had blossomed for her eyes only); not for a moment did she believe in God; but all the more, she thought, taking up the pad, must one repay in daily life to servants, yes, to dogs and canaries, above all to Richard her husband, who was the foundation of it - of the gay sounds, of the green lights, of the cook even whistling, for Mrs. Walker was Irish and whistled all day long - one must pay back from this secret deposit of exquisite moments, she thought, lifting the pad, while Lucy stood by her, trying to explain how.

I like to think of us all having a secret deposit of exquisite moments. I often store them in my memory as they happen, and think, wouldn't it be nice if I could live here, in this particular moment, stretched out into forever?

I'm off to read many novels, some for the blob, some for fun, some for book bingo. Must dig into some good reads! Wishing you all a very happy holidays for whatever you celebrate at this time of year, if anything, and a reminder to keep safe and keep faith. Good night!

We don't feel the cold.

 The Magic Mountain (Der Zauberberg) by Thomas Mann, first published in German in November 1924

Spoiler Alert: Plot Summary

The Magic Mountain (Der Zauberberg) is a tale that follows Hans Castorp during his stay at a rest cure at the top of a mountain in Germany. It takes place in the years prior to WWI (roughly 1907-1914, I'd guess?) and features almost entirely characters who are either workers at, or patients at, said rest cure. Initially, Hans comes to the International Sanatorium Berghof by train to visit his cousin Joachim Ziemssen, who is suffering from tuberculosis (and as we know, tuberculosis is not contagious (JK)). At first, Hans is ill-adapted to the rest cure life style, which involves a great deal of eating and a great deal of lying down outside on the balcony, but he quickly adapts, and becomes quite at home. Some might say, TOO at home. 

Hans finds a reason to stay by developing a very low grade fever, and happily settles in, deciding that this life is much preferable to his 'flatland' life, where he had just finished apprenticing to be a shipbuilder. He has debate partners to discuss existential philosophy with in a patient named Settembrini, and later his acquaintance, Naphta, and the lead doctor at the Berghof, Hofrat Behrens, happily supports the general desire to never get better. Hans and Joachim both have lady crushes (on Madame Claudia Chauchat (yes, did you catch the Madame there?) and Marusja) who are also patients at the rest cure, and spend most of their days very coyly attempting to interact with them in hilariously small ways. The rest cure is a sort of mildly sick Hogwarts, where holidays are celebrated in grand style, and some form of house elves seem to provide constant delicious food and libation, and so of course, Hans eventually decides he never wants to leave. 

Hans is dismayed when his crush, Madame Chauchat, leaves, but it is very common for people to get sick again and return, so he holds out hope. Joachim eventually tires of waiting to get better and decides he simply must enlist in the army, his life's dream. He does so (against Hofrat Behren's advice) and returns a few months later, having had a brief stint in the army, and once again (or perhaps still) sick. Madame Chauchat eventually returns, but with a lover in tow (to Hans's consternation), Mynheer Peeperkorn. Hans wants to resent Peeperkorn, but he ends up respecting him too much as a peer and becomes his very good friend. Joachim succumbs to his illness, and Peeperkorn eventually dies. Claudia leaves the mountain, and Hans basically barnacles to the Berghof. According to the narration, he stays another six years or so, and only leaves when WWI basically erupts on the mountain, forcing him out. He enters the war, and seems moderately happy, and the book ends panning away from him on the battlefield, telling us it doesn't really matter if he lives or dies (which I thought was a bit odd).

Spoiler Over: Continue Here

WELL WELL WELL, blobbists. It has been QUITE some time since I blobbed, and this time, my excuse is (a) this book is very long (892 pages, at least in my copy) and (b) I was enjoying it, so I took my time. As Grandma said, no blobbing in a rush! I look forward to sharing my thoughts on this book with you momentarily, but as a word of warning, I have many thoughts to share, both because the book was long and because the book was, imho, excellent. The narrator says it's ok, though, see?

We do not fear being called meticulous, inclining as we do to the view that only the exhaustive can be truly interesting.

YES, YES, we must endeavor to be EXHAUSTIVE to be interesting. So here's an exhaustive look!

General Opinions

I loved this book. I think it's one of my new favorites, despite the fact that very little happens in it, and if you follow my blob, you know that I like at least a Wee bit of plot. That being said, this book just demanded my affection in the most beautiful, gentle way, reminding me of Proust in the warmth and dryness of the prose, and the way that even the most prosaic moments felt essential and eloquent. I think I originally put it on the list because I remembered my Latin teacher in high school mentioning it, Mr. Lausch, and then later, I think it came up as a pivotal example of the bildungsroman: 

From Wikipedia - a Bildungsroman is a literary genre that focuses on the psychological and moral growth of the protagonist from childhood to adulthood (coming of age), in which character change is important. The term comes from the German words Bildung ("education", alternatively "forming") and Roman ("novel").

I think the bildungsroman might be one of my all-time favorite genres, actually! Here are some other examples that I read for this blob (and liked):

• David Copperfield, Charles Dickens
• Great Expectations, Charles Dickens
• Little Women, Louisa May Alcott
• Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë 
• The Catcher in the Rye, J.D. Salinger
• A Separate Peace, John Knowles
• To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee
• Dune, Frank Herbert
• Harry Potter series, J.K. Rowling
• The Once & Future King, T.H. White
• The Kite Runner, Khaled Hosseini
• The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath
• The Invisible Man, Ralph Ellison

and the one I really disliked: 

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, James Joyce

Seems like a pretty white, European-dominated genre in the beginning, or, more probably, there are examples across a wide variety of authors, but they aren't making these lists. Anyhoo, enough on that thread!

On Hans, aka our young noodle

I loved Hans. He was just delightfully a bit goofy, and erudite, and kind of aimless, and smart, and loving, but also kind of a loner, and his vibe just sat really perfectly with me. I enjoyed picking him up and hanging out with him. Also, the narrator referred to him as our young noodle, which I found hilarious. Here are some lines to give you a snapshot of our lovely protagonist.

• He always ate a good deal, out of pure self-respect, even when he was not hungry. LOL. I love this line so so much. It makes me want to eat a good deal out of pure self-respect. ;)

• He was neither genius nor dunderhead. also LOL. I think he's quite smart, but then again, I feel kind of dumb in comparison to the average wealthy, well-read person of the early 1900s, so there's that. Maybe we're getting dumber? I do hope not.

• He had the greatest respect for work - though personally he found that he tired easily. LOLOLOLOL. This is just the most spectacular line.

• I have the feeling that once I am home again I shall need to sleep three weeks on end to get rested from the rest I've had! That shows you how tired I sometimes feel. HAGHAGHAGh. He is so tired! He must REST from his REST! Do you see why I love Hans? He INVENTED goblin mode!

• Is it possible he could leave me alone up here - me, who only came on a visit to him? If I am left up here, it is for ever; alone I should never find my way back. Never back down to the world again. I love this reflection of Hans's, when he realizes Joachim is thinking of leaving. His predicament is, in a way, ridiculous, and of his own making, but also sort of poetically sad.

Isn't tuberculosis contagious?

I ask you this, blobbists. I mean, OBVIOUSLY it is. But I suppose at some point in time it was thought to be a GOOD idea to invite healthy people to visit sick people in an open environment, without any precautions...

On colds

Hilariously, it is quite frowned upon to be sick with something OTHER than tuberculosis or a fever. Here's what Joachim has to say about Hans when he thinks he is coming down with a cold:

'Very vexatious', Joachim said, 'and most unfortunate. Colds, you know, are not the thing at all, up here; they are not reçus. The authorities don't admit their existence; the official attitude is that the dryness of the air entirely prevents them. If you were a patient, you would certainly fall foul of Behrens, if you went to him and said you had a cold. But it is a little different with a guest, - you have a right to have a cold if you want to.' LOLOLOL. Since you're a guest, you may have a cold. Just. this. once.

and later, an offhand comment hilariously made to a guest: 'It is not advisable to fall ill up here; you aren't taken any notice of.' I love that the rest cure is ALL about sickness, but if you have a 'non-sanctioned' illness, you are completely ignored. 

On terms of address

There are a few other languages that make their way into this book (which is to say, that in my copy, which was obviously a translation from the original German, as I don't (yet) read German, some parts were left untranslated in French and Italian) and the group is quite international. I loved the playfulness of discussing the formal and informal terms of address: 

Hans, to Settembrini: "You will kindly address me with the accepted form employed in the educated countries of the West, the third person pluralis, if I may make bold to suggest it.' lololol.

Being at the Berghof

Everything up here is out of the ordinary. The spirit of the place, if I may put it so, is not conventional. this reminded me of several other books, places where we feel sort of stranded out of time.

Herr Hofrat, a.k.a, the main doctor

He was quite a hilarious character, so here are some little snippets:

I, for one, have never come across a perfectly healthy human being. hagh!

'What are you doing here?' demanded the Hofrat, and goggled his eyes. 'Shall I get an extra-special copy of the house rules printed for you? Seems to me this is the rest period. Your curve and your x-ray don't justify you in playing the independent gentleman, so far as I know. I ought to set up a scarecrow to gobble up people who have the cheek to come down and walk about in the garden at this hour." I loved this so much. At first, Hans is sort of just rule-breaking by going on adventures, and then later, he's definitely NOT REALLY SICK so it doesn't matter, but the Hofrat still tries to boss him around about the rules.

LOLing at lolling

I loved this moment between Joachim and Hans: 'That is exactly what she called it, isn't that priceless?' They lolled in their chairs, they flung themselves back and laughed so hard that they shook; and they began to hiccup at nearly the same time. it amused me to think that they were LOLing and lolling at the same time.

The Half-Lung Club

There's quite a bit of early medicine taking place in this book, and not all of it would be considered sound today, I'm sure. Here's one of my favorite whimsical (and rather horrifying, though seemingly very real) examples - some of the patients have had a procedure done that leaves a hole in their pneumothorax from a very large needle. 

They have formed a group, for of course a thing like the pneumothorax brings people together. They call themselves the Half-Lung Club; everybody knows them by that name. And Hermine Kleefeld is the pride of the club, because she can whistle with hers. It is a special gift, by no means everybody can do it. I can't tell you how it is done, and she herself can't exactly describe it. But when she has been walking rather fast, she can make it whistle, and of course she does it to frighten people, especially when they are new to the place. 

"horizontallers"

This is how they refer to themselves at the Berghof. I would like to enter goblin mode and be known as a horizontaller. #kthanxbye

Porter does a body good

One of the many things I love about Hans happens when we first meet him:

At every place stood a large glass, probably a half litre of milk; the room shimmered white with it. 

'No', Hans Castorp said, when he was once more in his seat between the seamstress and the Englishwoman, and had docilely unfolded his serviette, though still heavy with the earlier meal; 'no, God help me, milk I could never abide, and least of all now! Is there perhaps some porter?' I can just see the new slogan coming now: Porter - it does a body good.

Time

One of the most beautiful things about this book, to me, was the playfulness and the exploration of time. 

• He had the feeling that he had been out of touch with yesterday since waking, and had only now picked up the threads again where he laid them down. This line reminded me of a line of Proust - "Its memory, the composite memory of its ribs, its knees, its shoulder-blades, offered it a series of rooms in which it had at one time or another slept, while the unseen walls, shifting and adapting themselves to the shape of each successive room that it remembered, whirled round it in the dark."

• Our smallest unit is the month. We reckon in the grand style - that is a privilege we shadows have. There was something wonderfully stealthy and kind of anarchic about the community, and I felt that in this passage.

• He had brought no calendar with him on his holiday, and did not always find himself sure of the date. Now and then he asked his cousin; who, in turn, was not always quite sure either. 

• What is time? A mystery, a figment, and all-powerful. I love this line.

• Is time a function of Space? Or space of time? Or are they identical?

Frau Claudia Chauchat

Allow me now to introduce to you, Hans's crush, Claudia Chauchat. Perhaps you have picked up on it with the Frau or the Madame, but she is, yes, ALSO married. She is Russian (sits at the 'good' Russian table, according to Hans) and apparently it's not an issue for Hans (or later, Mynheer Peeperkorn) that she is already spoken for.

Hans, on his first interaction with her: 'She ought to learn how to shut a door,' Hans Castorp said. 'She always lets it slam. It is a piece of ill breeding.'

When Hans begins to fall for her: She wore a white sweater and blue skirt, and had a book from the lending-library in her lap.

she and Joachim chatting about appointment times: Thus they conversed, and Hans Castorp listened as in a dream. For his cousin to speak to Frau Chauchat was almost the same as doing it himself - and yet how altogether different!... they two might meet on a conventional footing and carry on an ordinary conversation in articulate words; because nothing wild and deep, mysterious and terrifying, held sway between them. I love this. They both translate at various points for each other when communicating with one of their crushes, because they're too verklempt to speak themselves, which I found heartwarming and sweet.

When Claudia leaves, Hans gets, not a portrait of her, but a magical, mystical, x-ray: It was Claudia's x-ray portrait, showing not her face, but the delicate bony structure of the upper half of her body, and the organs of the thoracic cavity, surrounded by the pale, ghostlike envelope of flesh. They are all adorably fascinated by the x-ray as it is in its nascent years, and there's something so strangely romantic to me about Hans treasuring her x-ray.

When she leaves: No longer might he expect that rattle and crash at the beginning of each of the five mighty Berghof meals. Somewhere else, in some far-off clime, Claudia was letting doors slam behind her, somewhere else she was expressing herself by that act, as intimately bound up with her very being and its state of disease as time is bound up with the motion of bodies in space. I love this so much.

Lending a pencil, then eleven pages in French - what happens in Carnaval

Imagine my surprise when, after several HUNDRED pages of light flirting and deep romantic interest on Hans's part, he is lent a pencil by Claudia Chauchat when the Berghof is celebrating Carnaval, and they finally have a meaningful conversation, and it is PRETTY MUCH ALL IN FRENCH. I mean, at times like these, I'm very glad I learned what used to be the diplomatic language, as otherwise I would have been VERY DISAPPOINTED by the lack of translation. I think it's interesting, and I wonder whose choice it was, to translate all the German, but leave in the French and Italian. Was it just for my copy? Was it because the 'average' reader was expected to know French and Italian, but not German?

Tutoyering - 'Eh bien, est-ce que tu as l'intention de me tutoyer pour toujours?' 

If you know French, you know what 'tutoyer' means; if you don't, it means to use the informal "tu" form with someone. It generally means you're on less formal, or more intimate terms with someone. I really loved the exchanges between Claudia Chauchat and Hans about whether or not they would address each other formally. It felt kind of hilarious and high school-y, and also very endearing.

'Mais oui. Je t'ai tutoyé de tout temps and je te tutoierai éternellement. They playfully choose when to use the "tu" and when not to.

This magical connection between Hans and Claudia lasts only one night, and only happens because inhibitions are down a bit for Carnaval, and Claudia is leaving the next day. Hans is still completely thrilled to find that she likes him as well, so he doesn't really care that it's so ephemeral. I love this description of her leaving the room: Over her shoulder she said softly: "N'oubliez pas de me rendre mon crayon." 

I think this felt adorably poetic but also amusing from a language-learning perspective, because I feel like you're always taught weird sentences like, "Où est le crayon de mon oncle?" (Where is my uncle's pencil?) as if you'd ever want to ask that question. But there's just something so adorably sassy and sexy about her whispering "Don't forget to give me back my pencil" in French.

Also, because I speak and understand French, I was amused to see that while Claudia briefly 'tutoyers' Hans, she goes back to 'vousvoyer-ing' him (the formal equivalent), much to his chagrin. 

International atmosphere

I love this exchange:

Why do you suddenly begin talking French?

Oh, I don't know. The atmosphere up here is so international. :)

Referents and Reverberations

Here are some bits that reminded me of other bits from books I've read, a section I like to call referents and reverberations.

Pale Fire, Vladimir Nabokov

This line, spoken by Hans: I only feel really fit when I am doing nothing at all. 

Reminded me of this line, from John Francis Shade, in Pale Fire: 

Asthmatic, lame and fat,

I never bounced a ball or swung a bat.

The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath

This line, from Hans: One thing there was which pleased him: when he lay listening to the beating of his heart - his corporeal organ - so plainly audible in the ordered silence of the rest period, throbbing loud and peremptorily, as it had done almost ever since he came, the sound no longer annoyed him.

Reminded me of this line from the Bell Jar:

I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart: I am, I am, I am.

The Harry Potter series, J.K. Rowling

Why I got Hogwarts feels - "the tree in the dining-room burned, crackled, and dispensed its fragrances, waking the minds and hearts of the guests to a realization of the day...The menu was choice. It finished with cheese straws and bon-bons, to which the guests added coffee and liqueurs. Now and then a twig would flare up on the Christmas-tree; there would be work to put it out, and shrill, immoderate panic among the ladies." don't you want to spend Christmas there?

The Tale of Genji, Murasaki Shikibu

This description of the seasons changing: Then what lovely apparitions of the springtime revealed themselves! It was unheard of, fairylike. There lay the broad meadows, with the coneshaped summit of the Schwarzhorn towering in the background, still in snow, and close in on the right the snow-buried Skaletta glacier. 

Reminded me of the way that each season is so completely and delicately conveyed in Genji.

Real Life Reverberations

Blobbists, are you still here? Are you not DIVERTED by my exhaustive blobbing on this book? ;) Here's a new section, one I will call 'Real Life Reverberations'. Often when I'm reading a book, there are a multitude of ways where I see connections or parallels between the characters and my own life, sometimes expected, more often unexpected. This book was swimming in these moments, so I'll tell you about a few.

Locales - I began this book on a cruise with my mother, my aunts, and my dear friend, Mar, on the Adriatic Sea. I was amused to see these locales referenced: Adriatica (the Sea), Fiume (the town where my grandmother was born), and Piraeus (the port where our boat ended the cruise).

Hans and I getting sick together - On a less fun note, I got COVID when I returned from my cruise (I tried to be safe, I promise! And I was boosted, too!) and while this was, at the time, almost unbearably depressing, and very un-fun, it felt like at least I had a companion in Hans. "Hans Castorp was in an agony of snuffles and cleared his rasping throat continually." 

And then, I started to feel like the ONLY way to read this book was sick. Because even though Hans was only very lightly ill, if at all, he went through all the trappings of sickness. So it felt right to be ill as a reader.

• When we are ill - all the days are nothing but the same day repeating itself. Who hasn't felt this when sick?

• It seemed to him that from the beginning of time he had been lying and looking thus. I, too, became a horizontaller.

• The night was the harder half of the day, for Hans Castorp woke often, and lay not seldom hours awake; either because his slightly abnormal temperature kept him stimulated, or because his horizontal manner of life, detracted from the power, or the desire, to sleep. This was a problem for I, too.

October - I know it is only randomness that allows for me to sometimes be reading books in the same time frame that they are taking place, but I liked that we entered October together as well. 

"October began as months do: their entrance is, in itself, an unostentatious and soundless affair, without outward signs and tokens; they, as it were, steal in softly and, unless you are keeping close watch, escape your notice altogether. Time has no divisions to mark its passage, there is never a thunderstorm or blare of trumpets to announce the beginning of a new month or year. Even when a new century begins it is only we mortals who ring bells and fire off pistols.

Marking our books - The young man answered that it was quite a different thing to read when the book was one's own; for his part, he loved to mark them and underline passages in pencil. As you know if you've read my blob a long time, this is a habit I picked up in trying to emulate the effortlessly cool HS Anna Light, my next door neighbor and bosom bud, and have never stopped. 

On raising our hands outside of school - Hans Castorp, like a schoolboy, put up his hand. I do this all the time, as the child of two teachers. It's how we got attention at the kitchen table!

On falling in love with winter - And yet Hans Castorp loved this snowy world. This is how I felt about winters in New Hampshire. I love (and miss) the snow.

Taking the funicular - Hans does it often on his illicit ski trips, and we did it in Croatia on our cruise!

Lines I Loved

• May I bask in the sunshine of your well-being? I'm going to start using this as an introductory line with new people.

• The sun and the waning moon both hung high up in a lucent heaven. 

• Besides, you are confusing two catastrophes. This feels like it wants to be its own short story.

• I am, and I continue to be, life's delicate child!

• Evenings he gazed at the stars.

• The snow-fall was monstrous and immeasurable, it made one realize the extravagant, outlandish nature of the place.

• In a twinkling he was as solitary, he was as lost as a heart could wish, his loneliness was profound enough to awake the fear which is the first stage of valour.

Words That Were New to Me

cinchona - an evergreen South American tree or shrub of the bedstraw family, with fragrant flowers and cultivated for its bark

gammon - ham that has been cured or smoked like bacon

A double-kerneled almond

lanceolate - shaped like the head of a lance; of a narrow oval shape tapering to a point at each end

philippina - a German custom in which nuts containing two kernels are saved and one of these double kernels (called a philippina) is given to a person of the opposite sex

phthisical - of, relating to, or affected with or as if with pulmonary tuberculosis

pleonasm - the use of more words than are necessary to convey meaning (e.g. see with one's eyes ), either as a fault of style or for emphasis. This is delightful! I did not know there was a word for this!

sybaritic - fond of sensuous luxury or pleasure; self-indulgent. AKA, goblin mode.

voluptuary - a person devoted to luxury and sensual pleasure

Well, dear readers, if you have made it all this way, we're nearing the end of this exhaustive and TRULY interesting blob. ;) 

I'll leave you, as usual, with a few of my favorite passages. First this one, which feels wonderfully wintry:

There was no stir of air, not so much as might even lightly sway the treeboughs; there was not a rustle, nor the voice of a bird. It was primeval silence to which Hans Castorp hearkened, when he leaned thus on his staff, his head on one side, his mouth open. And always it snowed, snowed without pause, endless, gently, soundlessly falling. I do hope we get some good snow this year!

And then this one, which hilariously recalls Hans's seating arrangement: 

Seven years Hans Castorp remained amongst those up here... Our hero had sat at all seven of the tables in the dining-room, at each about a year, the last being the 'bad' Russian table, and his company there two Armenians, two Finns, a Bokharian, and a Kurd. I love the national table-naming.

And finally, I'll leave you with this sign-off, a hilarious comment that Hans makes one night to his companions: 

'Good-night', he said; 'I'm falling over.'

Here's hoping that you fall over into your beds with happy smiles tonight, dear blobbists, perhaps with a book as excellent as this lovely sojourn with Hans. Hoping for snow, and hoping for some happy winter surprises this upcoming (for me) holiday season. 

Keep safe! Keep faith! Nighty-night! I'm off to meet Clarissa Dalloway.