Book for Round 5
The last of the "first five books to come out of the boxes after I moved" game is The Seeing Stone by Kevin Crossley-Holland which is, in his words "a reworking of Arthurian legends in a fictional framework." The blurb describes it thusly: Set in the Welsh Marches in the year 1199, The Seeing Stone is a uniquely contemporary take on the Arthurian legends. It is an enthralling story of secrets and mysteries in the life of young Arthue de Caldicot, who discovers his namessake, the boy King Arthur, in his seeing stone. In a hundred short chapters that seem like snapshots from the past, The Seeing Stone evokes the earthy, uncomfortable reality of daily life in the Middle Ages, and of a whole community--from Gatty the reeve's daughter to Tanwen the chamber-servant, from Oliver the priest to Lady Alice, keeper of a terrible secret--facing the conflicts and uncertainties of a new century.
Crossley-Holland is a poet and his prose shows that, even in his dialogue, which is nonetheless pithy and believable. It catches rhythms, his writing, rhythms and details. An excerpt:
"Trouble!" said my father. "Who said you could speak?"
Sian put her head on one side, and grinned her gap-toothed grin. She can get away with almost anything.
Nain turned to my father. "The boy is right," she said. "Of course names mean, and you know that very well. You, Helen, you mean the bright one. The dragon chose your name. And John means the favoured one. Serle means armour."
"I chose that," said my mother.
"And Tanwen means white fire," added Nain. "Remember?"
"What about me?" demanded Sian.
At this moment, Tempest and Storm started to bark, and then there was a loud knocking at the door. My father and Serle and I all stood up.
"Who is it?" shouted my father.
"Thomas," called a muffled voice. "From Lady Alice."
So my father unbolted the door, and Thomas fell in. He looks quite like a hen, with his beaky nose and jerky movements, and this morning he looked like a very wet one.
"Devil's teeth!" he exclaimed, and shook himself and sprayed us all with raindrops. "I've never known rain like it. Cold and biting."
"Warm yourself by the fire, man," my father said. "You'll soon dry out."
********
So whaddya reckon?
Poll Last first lineDeadline is MONDAY, 6PM BST. Lines for Bach will be up later this evening, and they'll be due Tuesday.
And just out of curiosity, and because I'm stuck at home with little better to do than to try to organise this tiny flat and wonder, I ask: There are 'most always some cracking, lyrical lines in each and every round. How many of us write for a living, or for pleasure, because writing supports few people these days? I once had a Central American writer sigh happily and tell me, "Jennifer, Jennifer, you are a true poet. You will never be rich." Which I am fairly sure was a compliment.
Crossley-Holland is a poet and his prose shows that, even in his dialogue, which is nonetheless pithy and believable. It catches rhythms, his writing, rhythms and details. An excerpt:
"Trouble!" said my father. "Who said you could speak?"
Sian put her head on one side, and grinned her gap-toothed grin. She can get away with almost anything.
Nain turned to my father. "The boy is right," she said. "Of course names mean, and you know that very well. You, Helen, you mean the bright one. The dragon chose your name. And John means the favoured one. Serle means armour."
"I chose that," said my mother.
"And Tanwen means white fire," added Nain. "Remember?"
"What about me?" demanded Sian.
At this moment, Tempest and Storm started to bark, and then there was a loud knocking at the door. My father and Serle and I all stood up.
"Who is it?" shouted my father.
"Thomas," called a muffled voice. "From Lady Alice."
So my father unbolted the door, and Thomas fell in. He looks quite like a hen, with his beaky nose and jerky movements, and this morning he looked like a very wet one.
"Devil's teeth!" he exclaimed, and shook himself and sprayed us all with raindrops. "I've never known rain like it. Cold and biting."
"Warm yourself by the fire, man," my father said. "You'll soon dry out."
********
So whaddya reckon?
Poll Last first lineDeadline is MONDAY, 6PM BST. Lines for Bach will be up later this evening, and they'll be due Tuesday.
And just out of curiosity, and because I'm stuck at home with little better to do than to try to organise this tiny flat and wonder, I ask: There are 'most always some cracking, lyrical lines in each and every round. How many of us write for a living, or for pleasure, because writing supports few people these days? I once had a Central American writer sigh happily and tell me, "Jennifer, Jennifer, you are a true poet. You will never be rich." Which I am fairly sure was a compliment.