Emily Paull

I've long been a fan of Phillipa Gregory.  I started, as most readers would, with her novel The Other Boleyn Girl in 2007- before it was made into a film starring Natalie Portman and Scarlett Johansson.  I believe that this was the beginning of my love affair with Tudor history. In 2008, after reading nearly all of Gregory's Tudor Court novels, I wrote an Original Solo Peformance for my TEE drama exam in which I portrayed all six wives of Henry the Eighth.  In 2010, I watched all four seasons of Showtime's The Tudors.  I read Booker Prize winning "Wolf Hall" by Hilary Mantel. But what is it about these long dead royals that have us so captivated?  And why, in our modern representations of them, do we feel the need to make their lives so... sexy? I believe there are several factors, first among them being that sex sells.  Of course, movies like the Other Boleyn Girl and shows like The Tudors show us a clean, exorbitant world in which sex is pleasurable...

Happy Birthday, Arthur Golden, I just finished your book. That is, if your wikipedia page is correct and it is in fact your birthday. I have a lot of respect for this book.  First of all, it seems authentic to me.  I did ten years of Japanese language study through school, none of which has survived three years of non-practice except perhaps a few very basic phrases.  And last year, I did a Modern Japanese History unit at Murdoch which was actually wonderful context for reading this novel.  The author says in his acknowledgements that any errors are his own.  I like that.  I like that he's covering his bases, just sticking it out there and saying "hey guys, I did ten years of research for this book, talked to everyone I could, but just in case I got it wrong, oops.  And Sorry."  Particularly considering my own research looks something like this. > Goes to Library.  Searches 'Perth social history.' ...

You may remember that I did a series of not-quite-book-reviews at the end of 2010.  If not, let me refresh your memory by linking you to one of my more popular reviews (meaning more than just myself and my grandparents read it...) here . Because this year I pledged myself to read 100 books on Goodreads, and then when that was too hard and obviously not going to happen, lowered that number to 60, I thought maybe I would review a few of the books that I read this summer.  Any of you looking for something to read, or looking for a debate are welcome to weigh in. Last night I finished Stella Gibbons' Cold Comfort Farm, which was given to me by my grandparents a few Christmases back.  Having just finished The Help, which was amazing, I was feeling that floundering falling without a net sensation of weaning myself away from a very good book.  I had no idea what to read next.  I didn't want a heavy classic.  I didn't want fluffy romance.  I had no idea wh...

I said, the news that you are married is the tsunami after the earthquake. A fire, standing inside a kick drum at a rock concert. Eating chalk. He said, that’s very poetic. And topical. And tasteless. The operator said, to continue your conversation, please insert one euro. She said it in Catalan. Then in Spanish. Then in English. I yelled. He lectured. But but but, I said. What you did to me, I said. The lack of passion, we said, the eyes glossy like fishmarket cod. Your lecherousness. Your manipulation. Your superiority. At least wait until you come home. I can’t trust you anymore. You’re making a scene, lower your voice. Don’t tell me what to do. Don’t you remember the beach house? Don’t you remember how quiet it is there? Books about birdwatching. Mismatched plates. Video tapes and a sand-filled VCR. Let’s go back there. The wife never mattered there, you didn’t know she existed. She matters now. She doesn’t have to matter. She matters.

Sometimes I don't like my name. I think to myself... it's not very literary. It's the name of a song by Bowling for Soup about cheating on your girlfriend. It's the name of an accident prone little girl in a book I used to love as a child, (Oh Emily, that book was called). I can't think of any really inspiring characters in books I have loved who share my name either. There's a prostitute in Dangerous Liaisons who gets used as a writing desk? (Emilie) And then I remember that one my favourite authors shares my first name. That would, of course, be Emily Bronte who wrote Wuthering Heights. I've actually just read Jane Eyre, followed by Wuthering Heights, and I feel as though maybe I should now attempt to read some Anne Bronte, just to be fair. None of her works are on the uni reading list but Agnes Gray is short and I am about two weeks ahead. Dilemma... The thing about reading Wuthering Heights again is that it seems like an incredibly fast paced bo...

It was pointed out to me today that I frequently refer to several books as being my favourite. This has got me thinking. What book would actually be my favourite? And by what criteria do I define it as thus? I think it would be reasonable to say that a favourite book should be one that you've read more than once. Of those that I say are my favourite, that leaves me with Cloudstreet , Jasper Jones and Wuthering Heights . That being said, there are many books which I would gladly read again had I the time, and had I not eleventy-million unread books and unwritten stories on my mind. (Which reminds me of the scene in Gilmore Girls where Rory steps into one of the giant libraries at either Harvard or Yale- possibly Harvard during season...err.. three- and immediately berates herself for being such a slow reader, because she will never read all the books housed in that library, never mind those housed in the many others at Harvard. This is, of course, absurd, as the girl reads e...

Or rather, sometimes I dream I am in Perth, and I wake up in Barcelona... surreal! The architecture here is amazing, from Gaudi to Gothic. I'm always up early so I get to see the sun rise... and set! And in between there is a lot of opportunity for taking amateur photographs! But not a lot of time to write :(

Where on Earth is Elimy? Well, she's in Barcelona of course. It's seven in the morning, but where I'm from it's about two pm. So naturally I have been awake for hours. Mr Jetlag wants to be my best friend. You should read my journal; if I publish that ever, it shall be titled Ramblings of an Exhausted Four Year old With a Crayon. I shall reread last night's entry later and cringe, for sure. It's been a turbulent trip so far, and I am not just referring to the killer headwinds that we encountered on the thirteen hour flight from Singapore to Milan. Can you imagine being 19 and travelling in VERY close quarters with your entire family for nearly an entire day, trapped in a flying tin can that smells of pickled meat? Not pleasant, I can assure you. At least I managed to sleep a little on the plane. The place that we are staying is a serviced apartment, and let me tell you that it is NOT what I expected. It is small, slightly stingy, the walls are thin and ...