Today, I finished reading Elizabeth Bowen's novel called The House in Paris, known to be one of her best works, tackling an intricate web of complicated relationships. Yet I was glad that far from deciding on a sardonic wit and the easier pessimistic approach, Bowen industriously weaved the subtle interplay of optimism into almost every chapter with a dignified cheer and especially towards the close of the slightly-tragic tale.

In about six hours, I had read all 239 pages including the commentary beforehand, featuring more then a few eccentric and disturbing personalities. This complete with a series of their appropriate forbidden histories that were tied to a ridiculously strict and eerie French boarding house.

Although a pre-war novel with a fascinating Continental feel comprising steamers, trunks and trains, the rich plot with several everyday confusions, still slips easily into this day and age, as various human temperaments with all their follies, stay timeless and that the very notion of time 'passing swiftly' still offers befuddlement to the senses.

I found the story passionate in unexpected ways, gripping, but also ruthless with the very idea that a romantic love should be considered at all; and properly atmospheric too in that smouldering honeyed way. This when you think that each descriptive line was carefully penned out to seduce the imagination with grace and charm.

Characters featuring interesting regal mannerisms, appeared detached and needy with equal intensity. Vividly sketched narrations of household objects and seasonal flourishings clouded thoughts with a spellbinding sense of romanticism.

High drama could be spun from the most ordinary situations and melancholic moods could just as well draw all to a halt.

Famous for her elegant and austure approach, Bowen's attention to detail with her sharply-drawn observations on character and settings, was so meticulous in this Modern novel, that I could only absorb the book in total silence, if I wanted to recieve something priceless at all. Mine was the reader's attempt at a reverential Convent approach in which to receive the august Anglo-Irish author's memory and her plea through a distinctive measure of words for a necessary cautioned silence.

With reluctance, I turned off the low drone of the cello although I would pleasantly will any form of classical music playing in the background, when I read indoors. But it was worth it. Each of Bowen's words led the reader to think it could contain a heartbeat.

I'm now about to start on Belinda Webb's A Clockwork Apple.

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An e-book publisher wrote to me about a week ago, to ask if I would like to upload my stories and get paid for them with every customer purchase. Although I relished the initial thought with excitement, I completely forgot about the proposition until now and can only hope they'll be forgiving. :-)

E-publishing seems to be going places with their many innovative ideas (no exaggeration) and I shall place some publishing news here soon.