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Naomi by Jun’ichirō Tanizaki (25 Books in 25 Days: #25)

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Finished! Hurrah! I managed a book a day for 25 days, even though one of those wasn’t read in the single day, and two were under 50 pages. And 23 of them have had people’s names in the title, for #ProjectNames! I’ve gone out on a rather more respectable 233 pages, because I’ve been on public transport for quite a lot of the day – specifically, Naomi by the Japanese writer Jun’ichirō Tanizaki.

It was serialised in the 1920s, finishing in 1925 (after a brief time in the wilderness when one magazine stopped publishing it), and translated by Anthony Chambers in the 1980s. Sakura (who blogs at Chasing Bawa) very kindly gave me a copy when we met up in 2016, and she was right to think that I would really like it.

The narrator Joji is 28 when he meets the 15-year-old Naomi. He is an ordinary office worker, but is beguiled by the concept of the ‘modern girl’ – which, in the Japan of the 1920s, was apparently somebody who had Western facial features, wore Western clothes, admired Western furniture, and ate Western food. (Goodness knows what counted as Western food in 1920s Japan, because I can’t think of a lot that American, English, French, German, Italian, and Spanish food has in common.) I should say I am lifting the word ‘Western’ from the novel – it is repeated often, in a way that is quite uncomfortable to read. The narrator takes for granted that everything Western is better than everything Japanese, and I couldn’t work out whether Tanizaki was satirising this viewpoint or passing it on without question.

Taken by her sophisticated name, he believes that Naomi can be moulded into the sort of person he would want to marry – and moves her into his house as a sort of maid, until such time as they know each other well enough to be wed. As she begins to develop and learn, and have access to more money and opportunities, the power dynamics of their arrangement subtly and very gradually start to shift…

That’s a very brief look at a psychologically fascinating novel. The modern reader is a lot more in sympathy with Naomi and her independent spirit than with Joji – who is somehow both affectionate and controlling, naive and modern, conservative and cultural. He is not a straightforward villain by any means, and I’m sure he was still less meant to be in 1924/5. This is a really nuanced and intriguing look at what happens when people live together whose outlooks and purposes are not quite compatible – and all about how power and effect work within a marriage. And how illusions can fade, but still be too appealing to abandon.

On the train, I deliberately sat opposite her so I could take another good look at this woman named Naomi. What was it about her that made me love her so much? Her nose? Her eyes? It’s strange, but when I inspected each of her features in turn that night, the face that had always been so appealing to me seemed utterly common and worthless. Then, from the depths of memory, the image of Naomi as I’d first met her in the Diamond Cafe came back to me dimly. She’d been much more appealing in those days than she was now. Ingenuous and nave, shy and melancholy, she bore no resemblance to this rough, insolent woman. I’d fallen in love with her then, and the momentum had carried me to this day; but now I saw what an obnoxious person she’d become in the meantime. Sitting there primly, she seemed to be saying, “I am the clever one.” Her haughty expression said, “No woman could be as chic, as Western-looking as I. Who is the fairest of them all? I am.” No one else knew that she couldn’t speak a syllable of English, that she couldn’t even tell the difference between the active and the passive voice; but I knew.

I think the novel was a bit shocking when it was first serialised. It’s not now, but the tautness and captivation of the writing has remained, and I thought this was wonderful. Thanks Sakura!

Mrs Fox by Sarah Hall (25 Books in 25 Days: #24)

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Can you tell that the books are getting shorter as I get to the end of my 25 days? Mrs Fox (2014) by Sarah Hall is certainly short – it is, indeed, the winner of the National Short Story Award 2013. Faber turned it into a book all of its own, with wide margins, huge font, and only 37 pages.

Sarah Hall acknowledges that it was inspired by David Garnett’s Lady Into Fox – a 1922 novella that I’ve read a lot, because it was a major part of my DPhil. She also claimed not to have read it.

I’m not going to call her a liar, but Mrs Fox follows the same beats of Lady Into Fox to an astonishing degree. I found a useful blog post that details all of those common factors – but, in brief, a lady turns into a fox. Hall’s version is more visceral than Garnett’s, and certainly more grounded in the now (while Garnett deliberately used an eighteenth-century style for his). Her writing and pacing are excellent, but I found it so hard to judge it – because it is so, so similar to Lady Into Fox in plot. To the point that it’s a bit embarrassing that the competition judges let it win, if I’m honest – and probably the reason that the inspiration is acknowledged. It’s even acknowledged in the book, where the main characters’ surname is Garnett.

So, yes, it’s used in an interesting way to examine the dynamics of a marriage. And thank you Annabel for sending me this copy! But what an interesting case of not-actually-plagiarism.

The Romance of Dr Dinah by Mary Essex (25 Books in 25 Days: #23)

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I stumbled across Mary Essex’s books in a charity shop a long time ago, and started with the delightful and funny Tea Is So Intoxicating. I’ve read a few since then, and the final one waiting on my shelves was 1967’s The Romance of Dr Dinah. With the cover you see, the title, and being published by the Romance Book Club, I was a bit wary that it might not be quite as up my street…

Mary Essex was one of the pen-names used by Ursula Bloom, who wrote a staggeringly high number of books. Over 500, I believe, which is some sort of record. And this one turned out to be rather enjoyable – though definitely her with a different persona than some of her other novels.

Apparently one of the genres she wrote in was medical romance. One of her many pen-names specialised in this, while this authoritative site tells me that the later Essex novels also fell into this sphere. Taking a look at some of the titles she wrote as Essex, we can see a theme: The Love Story of Dr Duke, Doctor on Call, Date With a Doctor, Nurse from Killarney, The Hard-Hearted Doctor, A Strange Patient for Sister Smith, Doctor and Lover etc. etc.

Before you get visions of fluffy Mills and Boon, The Romance of Dr Dinah isn’t quite like that. Indeed, the book is much more about her career than her love life. Dinah is the daughter of a doctor who doesn’t think much of her prospects. Keen to prove him wrong, she becomes a medical student – which is where she meets and falls in love with another medical student, Mark. But when he lets her take the blame for a potentially fatal mistake (and also gets grumpy even when she does), she starts to see him in a new light. At which point she heads off to cover for a rural doctor who is having an operation.

There is a romantic element to the novel – or, more accurately, a relationship one. But it is never gushing, and she is pretty clear-eyed about the flawed Mark. I found it much more interesting as a novel looking at the way female doctors were perceived in the 1950s (when this is set), and there are also an interesting section on plastic surgery – it’s not all stuck in a Lark Rise to Candleford world, by any means.

But the main difference between The Romance of Dr Dinah and the Mary Essex novels I’ve enjoyed most is that this one isn’t funny. It’s not trying to be funny, but the dry wit of the other books was sadly missing. At the same time, the writing is good, and would fit perfectly well alongside other middlebrow novels of the period.

Right, four Ursula Bloom names to go – only 496 to go!

Albert and the Dragonettes by Rosemary Weir (25 Books in 25 Days: #22)

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Last time I did 25 Books in 25 Days, I finished off with Albert’s World Tour, so it was only fitting that I picked up Albert and the Dragonettes (1977) for a busy day this time around. I squeezed it into a few spare moments – and it’s the final of the Albert the Dragon books on my shelves (since I don’t yet have Albert the Dragon and the Centaur).

For those who don’t know, the series is about Albert – a vegetarian dragon who lives on seaweed, and wins over the mistrustful villagers thanks to a young boy called Tony. Albert is gentle and thoughtful, and only breathes fire when he gets angry. The original books have illustrations from Quentin Blake, while the later ones in the series have various imitators (successful and less so). Albert and the Dragonettes is illustrated by Gerald Rose, and I don’t love them – particularly compared to Blake’s delightful originals.

The dragonettes are the two baby dragons that Albert adopted at the end of the previous book – Alberto (Berto) and Albertina (Tina). While they’re in the title, the book is mostly about trying to persuade a sea monster to leave the cave that Albert and the dragonettes have their eye on for their new home. It’s much less episodic than the previous books, which gives it a nice overarching theme.

Look, yes, this is a children’s book – but Albert and his world is a feast of nostalgia for me, remembering how much I loved them as a child. This was a fun pick.

They Both Die at the End by Adam Silvera (25 Books in 25 Days: #21)

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Apparently I’ve reached the age where I no longer remember what I’ve read. Today’s book was supposed to be The Listerdale Mystery by Agatha Christie – a collection of short stories. I kept thinking the stories were familiar. I realised I’d seen one as a play. And then I thought maybe some of them had been included in other collections. I was 60 pages in when I decided to look it up in my reading journal… and, yes, I read it in 2014. I even wrote a little bit about it. Sigh.

So, I put that one aside (as each story was becoming rather disappointing, once I remembered the outcome) – and chose They Both Die at the End (2017) by Adam Silvera as today’s book. Which was sort of cheating, because I only had about 80 pages left to read – but needs must.

I bought They Both Die at the End after reading a review on Gilt and Dust that made it sound really intriguing, and I recommend heading there for a fuller review than I’m going to be able to give in my #25Booksin25Days haste. The brilliant title caught my attention, and the premise won me over. It’s set in a world that is identical to ours – except people receive a phone call on the day they will die, telling them that they have less than 24 hours to live. It might be a minute, it might be 23 hours and 59 minutes. They don’t know. (Has Silvera been reading Muriel Spark’s Memento Mori, I wonder? I am trying to persuade Rachel to let us compare these two books on ‘Tea or Books?’ – watch this space.)

As the novel opens, the two teenage boy protagonists are just receiving the phone call. One is shy, geeky Mateo, who is already sad because his father is in a coma. The other is Rufus, who grew up in a foster home and is now in a gang (albeit a generally amiable one – except when he’s pulverising his ex-girlfriend’s new boyfriend, which he is doing when he gets the Death-Cast call). Silvera does a good job of making us like Rufus after this unpromising beginning.

The chapters alternate between Mateo and Rufus, with chapters thrown in from other viewpoints when necessary. They meet through the Last Friend app, and the novel tells of their growing friendship, all while waiting to find out when and how they will die. Like, as Silvera writes in his acknowledgements, a dark game of Jenga.

This is teenage fiction, and I partly read it in preparation for our latest ‘Tea or Books?’ episode on exactly that. So it’s very easy reading, and I expect it would appeal to the heartstrings of early teens far more than to this cynical 33 year old. But I still really enjoyed racing through it – mostly because of the extremely clever concept, which is sustained and explored with great ingenuity. If Silvera has other concepts up his sleeve this impressive, then I’ll probably find myself reading more of ’em.

The Death of Noble Godavary by Vita Sackville-West (25 Books in 25 Days: #20)

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Vita Sackville-West is certainly a name that’s known in the blogosphere. Sometimes that’s for her relationship to Virginia Woolf; sometimes for Sissinghurst and her garden design; sometimes for The Edwardians, All Passion Spent, and The Heir. I love all three of those books, but it is amazing how many of her novels and novellas are almost unmentioned online. One such is The Death of Noble Godavary (1932). The only review I can find is at Smithereens.

I started this ages ago, and set it aside for some reason. I went back to the beginning this time, and had much more success – it’s 100 pages of atmospheric writing, and shows that nobody is better than Sackville-West at showing the power of houses. The Heir is a wonderful example of somebody falling in love with a house and home – The Death of Noble Godavary is sort of the opposite.

Gervase Godavary is reluctantly taking a long journey back to the house he used to live in. He is going for his uncle’s funeral, and you get the feeling that nothing else would persuade him to return. He certainly hasn’t stayed in touch with the people there – his brother, cousin, uncle, and various other family members whose relationships to each other did rather confuse me. Among them (his cousin’s half-sister?) is the mysterious Paola, who feels like she’s plucked from a novel by Daphne du Maurier. Gervase is fascinated by her – not enamoured, but struck by her power over the household.

The house and the area are wet, dark, gloomy. Gervase is not excited about being back in his childhood bedroom, but he does feel the power and influence of these familiar surroundings. And when his uncle’s will is read out, things get particularly interesting…

I thought this was a good novella, but it becomes truly great in the final 20 pages. I shan’t say what happens, but it is an extended powerful, destructive image – combining the power of nature with the influence of houses. And hopefully that intrigues you enough for you to seek it out. It’s worth reading for the ending alone. One I won’t forget for a long time, not least because it leaves you with far more questions than answers.

Dickens by Osbert Sitwell (25 Books in 25 Days: #19)

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I’ve gone for a still shorter book today – 47 pages – and it’s in the series of Dolphin Books that I’ve written about before. This set of slim hardbacks from the 1930s are very varied – poetry, essays, plays, all sorts – and I love them. I love how they look; I love that such an eccentric imprint existed at all. Though it didn’t last very long, so I guess it wasn’t successful – but it’s fun to see what they chose.

Osbert Sitwell was, of course, one of the famous Sitwell family – and in this volume he takes it upon himself to defend Dickens. I don’t know quite what status Dickens had in the 1930s, but apparently some sort of defence was needed. This is essentially a 47-page essay on why Dickens is great, with illustrative examples. It’s also often quite funny:

It was said he was unable to portray ‘ladies and gentlemen,’ has to be content – for such a deliberate choice was unthinkable – to concern himself with low life, the unpleasant low life of the industrial cities, and never, it was evident, could have dealt, on the one hand, in the subtle psychological reactions of baronets, after the manner of George Meredith, then in his heyday, nor, on the other, have portrayed, with the pen of a Thomas Hardy, the ever-recurring woes of simple-minded by suicidal peasants.

Sitwell manages to keep it quite broad (a lot of it does feel like YAY DICKENS) while dipping into specific examples. So we see how he beautifully he describes a scene, how he shows us a character’s essential traits in a few lines of dialogue, how he presents literary morality. We get an overall sense that he’s a very English, very era-defining writer. And Sitwell is obviously influenced by the long, winding sentences of Dickens.

It’s slightly dizzying to read such a short book with such a vast thesis, and there are plenty of novels that aren’t mentioned at all – but it was fun and intriguing, and certainly left me wanting to read more Dickens soon.

Sergeant Cluff Stands Firm by Gil North (25 Books in 25 Days: #18)

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I tend to buy British Library Crime Classics whenever I come across them, and have been lucky enough to have quite a few as review copies – but it seems like I don’t get around to actually reading them as much as I’d like. So I went for the shortest one I own with a name in the title, for a meeting of projects – step forward Sergeant Cluff Stands Firm (1960) by Gil North. It was the first in a long series of crime novels with Sergeant Cluff at the helm.

I will say ‘crime’ rather than ‘detective fiction’, because North seems to be more interested in the psychology of the investigating sergeant, the victim, and the probable murder than with a twisty, turny novel. I prefer the twists, but I was willing to get on board – and I liked that Sergeant Cluff is a mainstay of his little village. When he begins to explore the death of Amy Snowden, we’re quickly aware that Cluff knew her, her recent (much younger) husband, her neighbour. He knows everyone, and they all know him – and his father before him – because this is rural England in the 1960s. It’s something that other members of the force can’t quite appreciate properly.

I did like Cluff and his humanness – his pity for the ill-treated, and his quiet thirst for justice. What I liked rather less is how misogynistic this novel is. At first I thought maybe it was just some characters who were misogynistic (why, for instance, is everyone transfixed with the idea of a woman marrying a younger man?) – but it saturated the novel. I am not exaggerating when I say that no woman is ever introduced without her breasts being described. This includes the dead woman. Seriously, there was one character whose breasts were mentioned every time she was mentioned. It felt like satire.

So, this wasn’t a massive success for me. If it had had a brilliant detective plot, I might have been able to latch onto that and set aside other elements of the novel – but since North was going for the higher ground, as it were, that option isn’t left to me. So… I guess I enjoyed some elements of it, but it left a nasty taste in my mouth? I’d definitely read another Sergeant Cluff novel, because I liked him – but I hope that the author has grown up a bit in the interim.

Mrs Tim Carries On by D.E. Stevenson (25 Books in 25 Days: #17)

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Like a lot of people who read Mrs Tim of the Regiment by D.E. Stevenson when Bloomsbury republished it about ten years ago, I was keen to read the rest of the series. And, like a lot of those people, I came up against the extortionate secondhand prices one had to pay. So hurrah and hurray for Furrowed Middlebrow / Dean Street Press for bringing them back into print! And an extra hurrah for sending me review copies – I wolfed down Mrs Tim Carries On (1941) today.

I should probably be avoiding 243pp books during 25 Books in 25 Days, but I couldn’t resist. And Mrs Tim is just as lovable as I remembered her – dependable, wise, but not with rose-tinted glasses. Her diaries give her exasperated opinions of locals, but also affectionate ones. They show her anxieties and pride as a parent, while also finding humour in everyday life. Only this time, of course, it is wartime.

It’s interesting to see how Stevenson adapts the character to the difficulties of war. Like the Provincial Lady books (which remain a very evident influence on Stevenson), she has taken a humorous character from the 30s and brought her into the war-torn 1940s. While the Provincial Lady looks at the most farcical elements of war, and the hypocrisies of those caught up in the civilian effort, Mrs Tim is a bit more restrained.

I proceed to explain my own particular method of “carrying on”. None of us could bear the war if we allowed ourselves to brood upon the wickedness of it and the misery it has entailed, so the only thing to do is not to allow oneself to think about it seriously, but just to skitter about on the surface of life like a water beetle. In this way one can carry on and do one’s bit and remain moderately cheerful.

This isn’t quite true, though. Mr Tim is an active soldier, and there is more anxiety tied in than this statement suggests. Not only for his fate, but around the possibility of invasion, and the threat of bombs. It is less all-out funny than the Provincial Lady (and, if we’re being honest, not quite as good) – but a more poignant portrait. And, to be honest, almost nothing is as good as the Provincial Lady. If this isn’t quite, then it’s still rather wonderful – and all the more wonderful for being readily available again.

Frank by Jon Ronson (25 Books in 25 Days: #16)

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I haven’t had that much reading time today, and so today’s book is the shortest so far – under 70 pages. Which is unusual for Jon Ronson, who tends to write quite chunky things – filled with the surreal and extraordinary things he has witnessed or investigated. I’ve enjoyed several of his other books, and was particularly impressed by one that wasn’t particularly about the surreal so much as the unpleasantly common, in So, You’ve Been Publicly Shamed.

I’m not sure of the genesis of Frank (2014), though I suspect it might have been put out quickly to support the film. It tells of Ronson’s time as an almost accidental member of Frank Sidebottom’s band – Frank Sidebottom being the pseudonym of a musician called Craig who performed wearing an enormous cartoon head. In this slight volume, Ronson talks about the band’s meandering creation and lack of success – as well as all the people they bumped into who went onto bigger and better things. There is enough insight into Craig’s psychology to make me wish Ronson had written a rather longer book. And I still haven’t quite worked out how Frank ever became famous or notable – his legacy seems to come from nowhere.

But Ronson is always a fascinating and empathetic writer, managing to make the reader marvel alongside him, and become interested in whatever he is interested in. This was a fun one to pick up on a day I needed a short book.