Maeve Binchy’s “Silver Wedding”

Maeve Binchy est une auteure très populaire peut-être parce que’lle peut raconter une bonne histoire. Ella a érit cet roman en 1988, et cet un roman plus tôt pour elle, quand elle a érit seulement cinq romans. Je ne sais pas combien de romans qu’elle a ecrit depuis 1989. Je pense peut-être un roman par an. Wow! Maeve Binchy est une auteure très proflifique, très fécond!

“Silver Wedding” est un roman sur le sujet d’une famille qui expérience d’alienation. Ce ne’est pas une famille heureuse! La famille Doyle est composé de Deirdre et Desmond, la mére et le pére, et leurs enfants, Anna, Helen et Brandan. Tous les famille ont des sécrets. Anna est triste parce que son ami est infidèle à-t-elle. Il est un acteur très beau, main il n’est pas sérieux sur elle. Brendan est insolite et étrange. Il n’aime pas la vie en ville, et il cherche une autre vie plus simple dans la compagne. Il veut traivailler fort avec son oncle silencieux, et il veut échapper la famille Doyle. Le dernière enfant, Helen est la plus étrange de la famille Doyle. Elle veut devenir une bonne soeur et, come Brendan, échapper la famille.

L’événement principal dans le roman est le “Silver Wedding.” Les parents, Deirdre et Desmond veulent célébrer leurs vingt-cinq anniversaire. Anna, la plus bonne enfant, dois organiser cet grand événement pour toute la famille. C’est beaucoup de travaille pour elle et elle trouve que c’est aussi un travaille difficile. Personne veut aller a cet anniversaire, mais, finalement toute la famille est allés.

Moi, j’aime Maeve Binchy. On peut toujours compter sur elle pour founir une bon roman!

Colin Dexter: The Way Through the Woods

Ce matin, on va à un vacance pour visiter ma famille. On n’attend pas de mauvais temps. Peut-être il va neiger mais on n’attend pas beaucoup de neige.

Ce matin, je vais aussi discuter le roman qui s’appelle “The Way Through The Woods.” J’ai fini cet roman de Colin Dexter en Novembre, mais je n’ai pas ecrit quelque chose sur cet livre. C’est domage, particulièrement parce que c’est une habitude chez moi d’écrire des revues de livres! “The Way Through the Woods” est un très bon livre d’un très bon auteur, Colin Dexter. Dexter est un homme plus intelligent, et je lui respect beaucoup beaucoup. Cet roman a l’action compliqué, avec des personages intrigant et surprenant. Morse, l’agent de la police dans ce roman policier, est, comme Dexter, très intelligent. Il peut pénétrer des mystères. Bravo pour l’inspecteur.

J’ai regardé le film qui aussi s’appelle “The Way Through The Woods” et il était différent de le roman. Par instance, dans le roman, il y a une “Swedish Maiden.” Dans le film, cette personage est différente. Elle n’est pas suédois. Elle n’a pas les cheveux blondes. Vraiment, elle n’est pas la même personage! Mais, le film était très agréable. Maintenant, je suis un peu fatigué et j’ai autres choses à faire. À bientôt!

Le livre qui s'appelle "God on a Harley"

Paul Darcy et moi, nous avons fini le "Reader's Den" pour maintenant. On a trouvé cet blog trop de travaille et on veut faire autre choses. Maintenant, je veux ecrire en francais. Malheuresement, je ne peux pas trouver un papier avec les accents pour mon ordinateur. Donc, je dois omettre les accents tres important (pour aujourd'hui seulement, j'espere).

Peut-etre mes amis ne savent pas que j'ai réussi a mon examen en francais et je vais preparer pour enseigner le francais. Maintenant j'ai beaucoup, beaucoup d'apprendre. Heureuesement, j'aime beaucoup d'apprendre le francais. Pour moi, d'ecire et d'écouter le francais sont les taches plus difficile.

Aujourd'hui, je veux d'éricre sur le sujet d'un livre qui s'appelle "God on a Harley." J'ai lit cet livre en Novembre, quand j'avais prendre un bain chaud. "God on a Harley" est un livre tres court. Des mots sont écrire tres grands et il est tres aisé de lire. L'auteur est "Joan Brady" et son héroine s'appelle Christine Moore. Elle n'était pas heureuse parce qu'elle ne pouvait pas trouver un mari. Aussi, elle était tres triste parce qu'elle n'avait pas de foi d'elle-meme. Mais, dans le livre elle a trouvé cet foi quand le Dieu est arrivée dans sa vie. Il est arrivé sur un Harley.

A bientot.

The piano, and a not too successful mother

Le Piano.

Ce matin je suis allée a mon professeur de piano. Elle est trés gentile, et je trouve que je peux apprendre beaucoup avec elle. Maintenant, j’ai presque fini mon premiere pièce de musique, qui s’appelle Swabisch. Cette une pièce dans le niveau trois dans les livres de Conservatoire. Chaque jour je joue le piano et practique cette pièce. La dernière section a encore besoin plus de travaille. Je veux memoriser toute cette pièce!

Now, as part of my saying farewell to old pieces, here's the opening to a story about a mother who's tried to be a big success, and, well, isn't.

The successful mom........

“You weren’t at work today; you weren’t at work yesterday, and I doubt that you made it at all to work this week. What’s going on?”


Lynn was a mother, distraught as all mothers become distraught. When do you stop worrying about your child? From the beginning, Cynthia had been difficult, mood swings in grade four, long before p.m.s. came into play.

Cynthia pulled her long hair back into a severe pony tail. “And when did this become your business, Mom? I think that you forget: I moved out of your house several months ago to avoid this kind of questioning. And now you’re spying on me, checking up on when I’m working and not working.”


“I’m not checking up on you. I happened to phone your office today and yesterday and I couldn’t reach you. So I was worried and I came over here to see what was going on.”


“And you find me at home, in my track pants, healthy instead of sick as a dog, and you decide to rant.”


“I assumed that you were sick, yes, and I worry, yes, because you’re my daughter. And so tell me. What’s going on? Why are you home?”

“I’m home, mother, because I want to be. I’ve got some things to work out and I can’t work them out when I’m sitting at the office with a bunch of complaining twits who should have found a life a long time ago.”

“Then what are you working out? What could you possibly be working out except looking at the bills for all your crazy clothes and wondering how you are ever going to pay for them?”

Cynthia stood up and began to gather up some of the clothes that had fallen onto the floor the last few days. A black blazer, several pairs of capri pants, one of them covered with silver sequins for clubbing. Lynn stared at each item as Cynthia hung them up in her closet.

Her girl was extravagant. She was sure that a large portion of her paycheck went towards clothes and more clothes. She had friends who were clothes horses and this didn’t help. But Lynn knew that you can’t save up much when you’re spending so much on clothes. And what could you do with all these unnecessary items.

Where in heck could Cynthia even wear some of these crazy things? That polka dot halter top, for instance, with puffed sleeves. It was silly. Men might like it, of course, especially since it cloaked Cynthia’s sleek young body, but that didn’t make the item any more ridiculous. It wasn’t a cheap, hooker outfit, but it bordered on strange and Lynn was uncomfortable with anything strange.

“Where did you wear that thing?” she asked, pointing to the halter top.

“Oh, I was out clubbing on Wednesday, I think. It’s cute, isn’t it?”

“Cold more like. Funny that I always taught you to wear sensible, non-revealing clothing.”

“Yeah, and look where it got me, Mum. I’m worse that your worst nightmare, aren’t I?”

“I never said that. Don’t put words in my mouth. Girls have to go through all these stages.”

“Oh Mom, don’t give me all that psychology crap. Stage one development, part five. Teenage development. That chapter doesn’t fit me anymore. I’m too old. And I don’t think it ever fit me.”

“But I based my book on you!”

“Don’t I know it; and you revealed all my childhood and teen experiences at those talk shows. You made your career on me. First you watch me, analyze my behaviour, and then you write about me and your incredible strategies for dealing with a difficult daughter.

“You were never difficult. Just....”

“learning a separate identity, moving beyond parental patterns, reproachful but also simultaneously grateful for the strong, guiding influence’ See mom, I have your wonderful book by heart, don’t I?

Lynn sat down on the bed amidst the myriad of clubbing clothes. She looked at her neat little high heel shoes. She was always proud of her size five feet. “Cynthia, you’re awfully hard on your poor old Mom. Why aren’t you proud of me. Look at the success I’ve had. Admittedly you have been my case study. How else could I have found experience.”

“Why not test your theory out on rabbits instead? Or baby chipmunks for all I care. But no, you showed me again, as if I needed to have the message reinforced that you didn’t respect me.”

“That’s absurd and unkind. What greater respect can I give you, lets even use the word honour, than to use you as my starring subject in books that have helped a nation of girls.”

Lynn was gesticulating small, almost frantic movements with her small hands, those same hands belying what she said, for some small part of her realized that what she had done was not right. That respect and honour were not the right words to use. But this knowledge was shoved into a tiny part of her brain that she refused to access.

“Okay, Mom” Cynthia ventured. “Imagine I were at a bar tonight.”

“You’re not going out again tonight. You can’t. You’ve got to make it into work tomorrow. How can you keep your job...”

“Stop it Mom, this is just an example. Again. Imagine I were at a bar.”

“The last place you should be,” her mother piped in. I never condoned drinking. I know that in adolescence some people feel the need to....”

“Stop it, stop it, stop it. Just imagine me, drinking, dancing, wearing one of these outfits.” Randomly she picked up the polka-dot puffed sleeves.”

“You’re causing me pain,” Lynn said. “But carry on."

Cynthia smiled. "But there I am at the bar. I decide to pick up a guy. You’re watching me, but there’s nothing you can do. You know that the guy is a jerk. Let’s say he’s the sons of one of your publisher’s: a spoiled, selfish brat, but for some reason I must find him attractive.

..... to be continued?

On sleep

C’est Mecredi. Ma fille a un rhume aujourd’hui, et elle reste chez nous à la maison pour toute la journeé. La pauvre fille! Aussi, elle a l’asthme, et elle tousse beaucoup. Elle a la difficulter de respirer. C’est un jour tranquille, et j’ai decidé de nettoyer toutes les salles de bain. J’ai déja fini
le salle de bain à l’étage inférieur, et je dois nettoyer les deux salle de bain en haut.

Trouvez sous, ma description d’un mon experience avec le sommeil. Maintenant she dors très bein. Mais il y a quelques années j’etais beaucoup de problèmes de sommeil.


It is 2 a.m. I am still awake. My thoughts wander, as I lie in bed, waiting for sleep, longing for that merciful moment of sleep. Sleep is a very strange phenomenon, and one that a lot of people, especially young people, take for granted. But people who fall into patterns of insomnia, as I have done lately, know how precious, how wonderful sleep is, and just how hard it is to accomplish. For sleep cannot be simply accomplished. You cannot will yourself to sleep. Willpower has nothing to do with that gradual sense of falling that we experience. Sleep just happens or it doesn’t. Sleep happens when you are utterly relaxed. Your body and mind both have to be relaxed. It is not enough to have one or the other relaxed. They both must together allow that gentle movement into sleep happen.

Falling to sleep is almost an unconscious action. As you fall into unconsciousness, you are not really aware that it is happening. You are not aware. That is the beauty of it. When you are aware, you are not asleep yet. You lie in your bed, aware of your body’s level of relaxation, aware, aware, aware, not blissfully unaware. You think, my head is heavy, very heavy, my limbs are heavy, but my mind, and here is the problem, my mind is alert, active, monitoring the state of my body. Your eyes are not open, and yet you are entirely awake. How can your body be relaxed and your mind still be going on and on in circles

. At these moments, you play mind games with yourself. For instance, you might try, “I will lie in this position at all costs. This is my final position. I will not move again until I fall asleep.” And this seems to work for a few minutes. You manage to keep your body relatively still for a time, but then a certain restlessness hits you, and you turn. So much for that one.

Another game I have tried is the game of imagining myself falling. The movement into unconsciousness is often seen as a moment downwards, a falling. So perhaps these images are enough to bring on sleep. I imagine a roller coaster, whee, whee, whee, over and over, down and down, never up, always down. Then my mind turns to a childrens’ slide. Yes, I’m at the top now, and I come down again and again. Then I’m joined up to an IMAX film, or a Disney ride where I believe that I’m in a boat or starship and I’m moving very fast and downwards. Children scream. Down I come.
Not being able to sleep drives you a bit insane. You get more and more tired, each day, hoping against hope that sleep will come blissfully this time. Hour after hour pass by, and, nothing, nothing at all happens. What time is it anyway? 2.30. Read a non-exciting book. I’ve heard that helps. I read a book that I actually like, and it turns out to be more exciting than I had anticipated. I read, kept in suspense, and my mind stays as alert as ever. I think to myself. Boy, my eyes should be closing now, really they should be drooping down, like an older person whose head falls down and down.

In the book I am reading there is an older woman who never sleeps. Older people often don’t sleep well. Something happens with age that make sleep more difficult. Parenting doesn’t help, and if you are a woman, and a worry-wart, and a parent, your chances of sleeping well are not particularly good. Stress causes sleep disorders too. Some people have anxiety attacks in the middle of the night. Their heart races and they become very frightened. They panic, and sweat.

But back to sleep and now, a celebration of falling to sleep. I can only describe sleep’s arrival as the arrival of grace, a grace that cannot be controlled, but is given, suddenly bestowed. And you can’t thank anyone for the gift, for you are gone.

And where do we go when we sleep? We all have memories of dreams, subconscious pictures, reflections, images, distorted ones of real life. But are these pictures so wrong? Why do we assume that our waking lives are the reality? Maybe our sleeping life is tuned into the real world.

That’s why I liked one fantasy book very much, that was half dream, half real. That dreamy land of the surreal is a neat place, and reflective of our psychology. Lots of people have written about dreams. The ballet is so often dreamy, a place of dreams. I think, for instance, of Swan Lake, where the young male dancer dreams of his snow queen, and the dark queen dances into his dreams and he dances with her in a beautiful dreamy sequence of movements. The whole of ballet is like a dream, much more so than opera. Opera is full of heart flesh, guts. It is visceral and in your face. But ballet is distant, dreamy, ethereal.

I once played a fairy in a Gilbert and Sulllivan play called Iolanthe. The play opens with we fairies lying on the stage with that dreamy, fairy mist floating above us. How many sets use that stage gas to create a misty atmosphere? I wonder what its made of, anyway. The chief fairy, I recall. Her real name was Gretchen, waved her little wand at each of us and woke us up. The effect was very dreamy.

Another dreamy scene, I recall from the novel, Kate Chopin’s “The Awakening,”. In it, the young heroine is caught between the world of dreams and a beautiful yet tragic awakening. Then scene occurs in a drawing room where an older woman is playing Chopin. There is not much dreamier than Chopin. If one closes one’s eyes, one leaves the planet for a few minutes to join the fairies and dance about heaven for a while. Maybe that’s what happens when we fall asleep.