On death and working

On death: We've been out gallivanting for the past four nights and I haven't seen any news. So I was really surprised and saddened to read in today's paper that Kurt Vonnegut had died.

Poor old Kurt. At your best, you were magnificent.

I remember when I was 18, a friend handed me Salughterhouse Five saying "YOU MUST READ THIS BOOK!!" And I was absolutely astounded that anyone could write a comedy about firebombing Dresden. At that stage I hated science fiction - even kinda sorta but not really science fiction - so I wouldn't have found his books on my own. And I still think about one of the (Cat's Cradle?) where some chemical (Ice-9??)can make all the water in the world freeze or something. And in one of his other books, there's an amazing room with a grand piano at the top of the Chrysler Building in New York. I really hope that was true.

On working: Lesson in life #502 - if you're at all unsure about whether or not to a dress shows too much cleavage for someone giving a serious and dull presentation to a roomful of people, and if you rely on your boyfriend's opinion that it's perfectly fine, don't be surprised if that roomful of people aren't looking at your face when you're talking. And next time, wear a camisole.

Hello and Good-bye

I woke up to the news that Elizabeth Jolley had died and, because the radio was on Triple J, I wondered for half a second if there was another Elizabeth Jolley who was 25 and sang alt-country with Ryan Adams and I hadn't heard of her because I'm so out of the loop. Then they said "writer" and "age of 83" and I realised the radio and I were thinking about the same person.

Well that's quite sad. I liked her books even though they made me feel extremely uncomfortable in a squidgy "oh my God I can't beleive you're allowed to DO that" way. I haven't read any of them for years. The Sugar Mother was particularly, um, awkward-making.

In other news, I read Julia Darling's delightfully mad Crocodile Soup last week. She's a poet and a a playwright and this was her first novel written in the late 1990s. You can't read this story literally (a bit like Elizabeth Jolley really) because the plot's overblown and you're never entirely sure what's happening and what's imagined but it's quite delightful. She enters the mind of a little girl incredibly well - like Donna Tartt did in The Little Friend. But that juvenile sense of unreality continues when the main character grows up (physically at least) and doesn't really cope with the world.

Someone told me she'd written other books but when I went looking I found out there was only one other one because she died in 2005. The other book is about a woman dealing with cancer.

This is like Bruce Chatwin all over again! I mean, in the sense that I find a modern writer I like but they're not going to keep writing for another 20 years like I want them to.

This picture shows the cover of the edition I read. Other editions have a boring picture of a cherubic little girl but this is far better. EVERYTHING that's pictured is relevant to the book, from the red shoes to the Society for Cutting Up Men badge. Looking at it after turning the last page was truly delightful! Good work, publishers, even if it is a bit literal.