Kindle

A quantum leap in reading.

In December 2009, on a no-special-gift-giving day, Don presented me with Kindle 2.

Imagine a hard cover 1cm thin and weighing 289 grams (10.2 oz) and readably squeezed into it 1,500 books. That’s my Kindle, a mean machine and thing of beauty. Slim, sturdy, comfortable and delicious to handle.

Within 45 seconds I purchased my first eBook, right on the device, wireless and no computer connection. Kindle works on the phone principle – 3G. I have another 349,000 titles to choose from.

Rotation of 15cm (diagonal) screen gives landscape or portrait viewing. Six different font sizes make for effortless reading. And the 16 level grey scale and 600×800 pixel resolution in the electronics paper is glare proof and easy on the eye.

Page turns back and forth, previous page or next page on the press of a button, and Kindle remembers and bookmarks the last page read. When it is reopened next it brings up the location. Built-in dictionary and access to Wikipedia allows looking up words on the reading page. Like pencilling in, highlights, notes and comments are made on the page. Books purchased and all notations are backed up by Amazon. Speech function will read book aloud and turn pages. Don’t expect a passionate, emotional human voice, just a friendly robot.

I am a great fan of Audio Books and Kindle downloads these too.

Recharging is fast and Kindle remains charged for about four days of avid reading, with wireless turned on, or two weeks turned off.

Besides books Kindle also gives access to daily newspapers, magazine subscriptions and blogs and has a built-in PDF reader. Browse the internet, send emails, do word processing on the machine and acts as a MP3 player. Kindle apps are free for iPhone and iPod.

A huge bonus for us writers – Kindle e-books CANNOT be passed on or re-sold after they are read. There is still hope I can move out of sleeping beneath the underpass.

Will I still buy physical paper books. Yes. My reading, like the octopus, has many tentacles and will grab on to every kind of reading material available. Nothing really replaces anything. ‘Everything just splinters.’

More at: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0015T963C

A magical event at the Foreign Correspondents’ Club with Lord Jeffrey Archer – a story teller, a politician, an orator and a phoenix that keeps resurrecting. I first met Mr. Jeffrey Archer at a book-signing event, next to the Prince of Wales Pub, at Sung Hung Kai Centre, Hong Kong in September 1994; and he has hardly changed physically since then. He is just as sprightly and open and vocal.

This time he’d arrived at end of March in Hong Kong soon after his exhaustive travelling, book signing and talks in Canada and the United States.

The latest of his 14 books, A Prisoner of Birth, another prison caper, rose to No.1 and became a bester-seller in 3 days, became also No. 1 in SCMP. The inspiration for his title and the book is based on the convicts he met in prison. A Prisoner of Birth is a story about a man who is wrongly accused for the murder of his best friend and is sent to a high-security prison-Belmarsh in south-east London, the same prison where Lord Archer convicted of perjury in 2001 spent the first three weeks of his two years behind bars.

He guessed many of us assembled there were writers and as such were possibly interested in how and when he writes. When writing he goes to his holiday home in Spain (and this is only for millionaire writers amongst us). The place affords him quiet space for writing, his needs are well met, and not having to cook and clean and look after children affords him the peace he seeks. He wakes at five am, and starts writing at five thirty. He uses a felt tipped pen and writes in batches of two hours with two hour breaks in between. It is not unusual for writer to go through his draft 17 to 20 or more times, he said. He always believed he could not write without absolute silence and mostly manages 100,000 words a year.

But while in prison he wrote a million words. He was constantly bombarded with ear-splitting noise from both sides of his prison room, loud reggae music from boom boxes; and endless swearing. He came up with three volumes named after Dante’s Divine Comedy, Belmarsh: Hell, Wayland: Purgatory, and North Sea Camp: Heaven. All three published to critical acclaim. He said he never swore in prison, and within three months, 95% of the prisoners, maybe more, never swore when they were with him.

He spoke fluidly. Q&A mainly focused on politics of Britain and USA. He answered questions candidly with a huge sense of humour. Questions were good too; nobody made long speeches before asking convoluted questions.

Lord Archer is a great admirer of Blair and Obama. Blair, he said, was one of Britain’s great prime ministers with flair and charisma. He referred to Obama’s speech on race relations and compared it with Lincoln’s on slavery and Kennedy’s on segregation.

One questioner wanted to know if Britain had forgotten Hong Kong. He said Britain had not. Britain was not interfering but giving Hong Kong plenty of leeway and watching it very carefully. He also said he was surprised by the amount of love and respect Hong Kong had for Britain, and especially for our last governor, Chris Patten.

He ended his talk by saying there are many very good writers but for every thousand good writers there is only one story teller. With this he asked to be excused to read a piece of writing. No, he did not read from his book but read an anonymous piece. First author, I have known, who read but not from his book! No self promotion here, none needed.

A Somerset Maugham’s retelling of an old story, anonymous, which appeared as an epigraph to John O’Hara’s book…

Appointment in Samarra

A merchant in Baghdad sends his servant to the marketplace for provisions. Shortly, the servant comes home white and trembling and tells him that in the marketplace he was jostled by a woman, whom he recognized as Death, and she made a threatening gesture. Borrowing the merchant’s horse, he flees at top speed to Samarra, a distance of about 75 miles (125 km), where he believes Death will not find him. The merchant then goes to the marketplace and finds Death, and asks why she made the threatening gesture. She replies, “That was not a threatening gesture, it was only a start of surprise. I was astonished to see him in Baghdad, for I had an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.”

Sunday. Ferry arrives and a mass of people emerges, fans out from Yung Shue Wan pier. Human tentacles spread, move into main street, slide up side streets and paths and into hives of homes, exploring. The more vigorous, armed with sticks and water bottles and hatted, veer off. They strip outer layers of clothing, too hot for December sun on their backs. They hike across the island, over the hump and head to Sok Kwu Wan, focused on seafood lunch. Fish, prawns, crabs, lobsters and sea creatures frantically wait, swimming in no-escape aquariums.

Overnighters study holiday chalet window vacancy notices.

City people seeking crucial country experience photograph dogs with their mobile phones. Many stop to admire and pat them. Free and business-like dusty dogs are everywhere: in the streets, in the alleys, in the restaurants, running back and forth quenching their thirst from plastic bowls set out by dog-loving shop owners. Other dogs, lap dogs, sophisticated and on expensive leashes, heads held high, lead owners through the crowd. The dogs, those island dogs, they have seen it all before.

Bicyclists, Lamma belongers, impatiently ringing bells, pedal past, avoid hitting the throng. Narrow trucks, on roads narrow, carry stone cement and steel rods to pile more homes upon homes. Mini-ambulances and mini-fire trucks pass by, keep watch. Policemen on bicycles greet Kailash Vernon, Gung the Zine, and Nick the Bookman, long beard lifted by breeze.

Trendy artists, photographers, writers and Da-da duos frequent bars, restaurants, craft shops and pavement cafes. Spicy Island, Deli Lamma, Island Bar, Banyan Bay, Bookworm and Just Green.

Shopkeepers wait, try on ideas, catch browsers with attitude, talk them into buying nothing needed – clothes on racks, casual and neglected chic, organic foods, potpourri, handicraft, candles and oils essential.

Town dwellers seek an alternate style, connect to their soul.

End of day. Visitors, having found themselves, leave. They thread their tired way like a sad song towards the pier and home. The last ferry moves away, diminished enthusiasm.

Lammaites, islanders who stayed solid, pulsing, dreading, waiting, through the day, now affectionately settle back, their lives returned.

Sun sets.

High tide rhythmic, no stars, was there a moon?

Old friendships renewed, new island friends made, Floating Petals signed.

Thank you, Sharon and Dan.

I am a huge audio books fan, make them unabridged, please. It is the tradition of listening to a wandering minstrel, listening to the story teller syndrome.

“Deep reading really demands the inner ear as well as the outer ear,” said Harold Bloom, the literary critic. “You need the whole cognitive process, that part of you which is open to wisdom. You need the text in front of you.”

Very true, I do smell, touch, wipe off the dust and read the book. Then I listen to the audio version except for John Grisham. I do not read him. I listen to him when I jog, having run the same route 10 times I stop listening to the birds and the bees and to switch John G.

When it comes to readers I prefer experienced trained voices. One has to be careful about writers reading their own work. With the exception of a few writers most tend to drone on a bit. Why spoil a good book just because the author thinks he or she can read.

Listen to Patrick Suskind’s Perfume read by Sean Barrett. Jeremy Irons is brilliant with his rendition of “Lolita”. You don’t have to worry about trying to pronounce those wonderful Russian names in “Crime and Punishment”. Let someone else read to you.

Writers who can write well and read to you with an inner passion are rare. Amongst those who can do this is Toni Morrison. She reads her work with passion and colour, so beautifully African-American. Listen to John le Carre read his “The Tailor of Panama”; so Latin- American, so English, and so Scottish. You can’t but be transported to his places and intrigues.
I fell in love again with Wales and the Welsh with Dylan Thomas’ reading of his “A Child’s Christmas in Wales”.

Don’t listen to Dean Koontz’s “Intensity” when you are alone at night. You just might end up with cardiac arrest when a mosquito buzzes by, the merest disturbance will make you jump out of your skin.

It is indeed relaxing to listen to audio books when going to bed. I listen to Sogyal Rinpoche’s “The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying” in bed. Not only am I relaxed, but I am also ready in case I wake up the next morning and find I am dead.

Now I am off to buy that Ipod. I hear there are some free downloads of audio books. Right now it is a little cumbersome changing the batteries of that CD walkman strapped to my hips. Those dish washing rubber gloves get in the way.

PS: I am a frequent visitor to the HK Central Library and it gives me much pleasure to see young children walking out loaded with audio books. Years ago I used to read and tape stories for my daughter when I could not be with her at bed times.

From Jane Cooper:

My four children regularly listen to books while they are playing with Lego or dolls, or painting. I think that hearing complex words rather than just seeing them on the page is wonderful, and have noticed enrichment in their vocabularies as they incorporate these new words and concepts into their everyday lives. They read massively as well, besides the additional opportunity for them to gain exposure to story telling.

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