Look, yes, I’ve been buying books

It’s time for another haul post. But this teetering pile isn’t all from one trip – it’s from various different bookshops I’ve been to over the past month or two. That makes it ok, right??

Let’s go from the top, including a tour of the bookshops I’ve been to.

1. Regents Bookshop in Wantage, Oxfordshire

This is my nearest secondhand bookshop, about half an hour from my house, and I love it deeply. It is rammed full of stock, very affordably priced and with pretty good turnover. I’ve never come away empty-handed. Lockdown gave them a chance to neaten it out a bit, and I have my fingers crossed that it bucks the trend and manages to stay open for many years to come. And in it I bought…

The Rising Tide by Margaret Deland
I didn’t know anything about this book, but apparently it’s about New Women at the turn of the century, first published in 1916.

Women’s Weird ed. Melissa Edmundson
A collection of ‘weird’ stories by women, whatever weird means – I guess I’ll find out! I think there’s an E. Nesbit story in there, which intrigued me.

Up and Down by E.F. Benson
This was shelved in the letters section, but it is a novel in letter-form – and who doesn’t love that? Particularly from a favourite like EFB. I hadn’t heard of this one before, but always glad to add a Benson to the shelf.

The Girl from the Candle-Lit Bath by Dodie Smith
We all remember the scene of Cassandra hiding in her bath in I Capture the Castle – this is Smith’s last novel, and I wonder if it is tonally at all the same? Finding it did remind me that I have a few of her novels yet to read, and really must get onto them.

2. The Last Bookshop in Oxford

This bookshop began as The £2 Bookshop, then The £3 Bookshop, and is now The Last Bookshop – where most of the books are £3.99, but you can get 3 for a tenner. And there’s a secondhand department downstairs. As remainder bookshops go, it has really good quality stock.

The Heavenly Ladder by Compton Mackenzie
I got this from their secondhand stock. I’ve said a few times that I won’t buy more Mackenzie novels until I’ve cleared the decks a bit, but I’m a liar.

An Impossible Marriage by Pamela Hansford Johnson
Apparently this was reprinted four or five years ago – which surprised me, as I’m usually pretty up to speed with mid-century women writers getting reprinted. I’ve read three PHJ novels to varying success, but presumably whoever chose this one for reprinting was picking from her best?

The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner
The reason I went to the bookshop – because my book group is reading this next year. I guess it’s a glaring omission to have read no Faulkner. But I’m not terribly excited about rectifying it.

Hidden Symptoms by Deirdre Madden
Time Present and Time Past by Deirdre Madden

I was very pleased they had these in stock. Madden has been one of my favourite discoveries in the past couple of years, and certainly keen to read more.

3. The R&R Bookshop in Stroud

I had a day trip to Stroud to meet up with some friends, and obviously did some research first to see if there were any secondhand bookshops. There were TWO. This one is very cheaply priced with some interesting stuff, and I came away with so many books that I had to pop straight back to the car and leave them there.

The Bookshop that Floated Away by Sarah Henshaw
Everyone was talking about this non-fic about a bookshop on a barge when it came out, but I (wait for it) missed the boat then.

Jenny Villiers by J.B. Priestley
One day I’ll read some of the Priestley novels I’ve been stockpiling. There’s just something so pleasing about these editions.

Stars of the Screen 1932
I really love popular culture books from this period – this is basically a series of photos of actors and short bios of them. It’s all info I could find on Wikipedia, I’m sure, but I love having a snapshot of how these people were considered in 1932.

The Cat Jumps by Elizabeth Bowen
My previous attempt at Bowen’s short stories was a bit mixed, but I’m keen to try more AND this one has ‘cat’ in the title.

A Pound of Paper by John Baxter
A book about books? Yes please.

A Smell of Burning by Margaret Lane
I think Lane is best remembered for her biography of Beatrix Potter, but she’s one of those once-popular novelists I’ve been meaning to try for a while.

4. Fireside Bookshop in Stroud

Stroud has TWO bookshops! This one is rather more expensive and had less stock that appealed to me, but looked like it would have a lot for specialists and antiquarian hunters. I came away with one book.

Beyond The Lighthouse by Margaret Crosland
The subtitle is ‘English women novelists of the 20th century’. I spent some time flicking through the book, trying to work out how academic it is. I really don’t need to read any more Eng Lit academia anymore, and this book would be much more fun as a reader’s journey – I’m not sure it’s quite that, but hopefully won’t be too dry.

5. Dean Street Press

These aren’t actually from a bookshop, but they’re in the pile and I wanted to mention that they’ve sent me review copies of Green Money and Five Windows by D.E. Stevenson.

6. Oxfam, Witney

It’s always tempting to pop into the Oxfam bookshop in Witney, the town where I work. And it’s pretty seldom I come out without at least one book in my hand.

Family Lexicon by Natalia Ginzburg
Hmm. I don’t remember why I bought this one, except that NYRB Classics are beautiful.

The Baron in the Trees by Italo Calvino
I heard about this one somewhere recently – a blog? a podcast? a book? – and wanted to try it. It’s about a baron who decides to move into a tree. The surreal nature of that story really appeals to me.

7. The Madhatter Bookshop, Wantage

This is cheating a little, as I didn’t buy these in this little independent bookshop in Wantage (a ‘new books’ bookshop), but did order it via them over email. These are some books that were on my birthday list – and so, when I got different books, I was entitled to buy a few for myself, yes? Yes?

Iphigenia in Forest Hills by Janet Malcolm
Nobody’s Looking at You by Janet Malcolm

My unread Malcolm pile was getting dangerously – yes, dangerously – low, so I had to top it up a bit.

Keeper’s of the Flame by Ian Hamilton
And I think this one was mentioned in a Janet Malcolm book. She certainly has a devastating eye for the idiosyncrasies of literary estates, and I’m hoping this non-fic book about them will be as gossipy and scandalous as some of the things Malcolm writes about in her books.

 

Ok, that’s it! As usual, would love to know your thoughts about any of these…

 

 

 

Tea or Books? #100: Q&A Special


For our special hundredth episode, Rachel and I are doing a question and answer. Thanks so much to everybody who sent in questions – we didn’t get to all of them, but hopefully we answered at least one of yours.

Do get in touch at teaorbooks@gmail.com if you’d like to ask anything for future episodes. Reviews and ratings very gratefully received, especially if they’re nice!

You can find us on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, podcast apps, and Patreon if you’d like to support the pod and get various bonuses and benefits.

The books and authors we mention in this are:

Transcendent Kingdom by Yaa Gyasi
The Willow Cabin by Pamela Frankau
A Wreath for the Enemy by Pamela Frankau
Marriage of Harlequin by Pamela Frankau
The Semi-Detached House by Emily Eden
The Semi-Attached Couple by Emily Eden
Miss Hargreaves by Frank Baker
Lolly Willowes by Sylvia Townsend Warner
The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett
The Enchanted Wood by Enid Blyton
Provincial Lady series by E.M. Delafield
Tension by E.M. Delafield
Thank Heaven Fasting by E.M. Delafield
Consequences by E.M. Delafield
Another Country by James Baldwin
Go Tell It On The Mountain by James Baldwin
The Color Purple by Alice Walker
Homecoming by Yaa Gyasi
Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
Purple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
Boy, Snow, Bird by Helen Oyeyemi
Mr Fox by Helen Oyeyemi
Pieces by Helen Oyeyemi
Ilustrado by Miguel Syjuco
The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy
Strong Poison by Dorothy L Sayers
Whose Body by Dorothy L Sayers
Gaudy Night by Dorothy L Sayers
Jazz by Toni Morrison
To The Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf
A.A. Milne
Modern Humour
The Feminine Middlebrow
Novel by Nicola Humble
A Very Great Profession by Nicola Humble
Mindy Kaling
Issa Rae
Anna Kendrick
Moby Dick by Herman Melville
The Man Without Qualities by Robert Musil
In Search of Lost Time by Marcel Proust
Donna Tartt
Milan Kundera
Leo Tolstoy
Margery Sharp
Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? by Edward Albee
Louisa M. Alcott
The Shuttle by Frances Hodgson Burnett
Winnie the Pooh by A.A. Milne
Mr Pim Passes By by A.A. Milne
Richmal Crompton
Miss Ranskill Comes Home by Barbara Euphan Todd
Wurzel Gummidge by Barbara Euphan Todd
The Warden by Anthony Trollope
Emma by Jane Austen
Persuasion by Jane Austen
Thrush Green series by Miss Read
I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith
National Provincial by Lettice Cooper
Guard Your Daughters by Diana Tutton
Hostages to Fortune by Elizabeth Cambridge
London War Notes by Mollie Panter-Downes
Greengates by R.C. Sherriff
The Fortnight in September by R.C. Sherriff
Someone at a Distance by Dorothy Whipple
Into the Whirlwind by Eugenia Ginzburg
One Fine Day by Mollie Panter-Downes
Muriel Spark
Speaking of Love by Angela Young
Christmas Pudding by Nancy Mitford
Told in Winter by Jon Godden
Rumer Godden
Dan Brown
The Sandcastle by Iris Murdoch
The Sea, The Sea by Iris Murdoch
Possession by A.S. Byatt
Zadie Smith
Mary Webb
O, The Brave Music by Dorothy Evelyn Smith
The Tree of Heaven by May Sinclair
Dangerous Ages by Rose Macaulay
Mamma by Diana Tutton
Tea Is So Intoxicating by Mary Essex
Father by Elizabeth von Arnim
A Pin To See The Peepshow by F. Tennyson Jesse
Messalina of the Suburbs by E.M. Delafield
Mapp and Lucia series by E.F. Benson
A Visit to Don Otavio by Sybille Bedford
Pleasures and Landscapes by Sybille Bedford
A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf
Between the Acts by Virginia Woolf
The Years by Virginia Woolf
Jacob’s Room by Virginia Woolf
The Waves by Virginia Woolf
Nemo’s Almanac
Transit of Venus by Shirley Hazzard
The Great Fire by Shirley Hazzard
Miss Plum and Miss Penny by Dorothy Evelyn Smith
Marilynne Robinson

Finishing off #NovellasInNovember #NovNov

I went a bit quiet on here, but I *did* continue reading a novella a day, and I have now completed my Novellas in November challenge! Here are the final five days and what I read – except where I am being annoyingly cagey… Because I’m covering a few days, I’m going to be even briefer than usual on these, but do ask if you’d like any more info on them.

Friday: The Swallowed Man by Edward Carey

I love Carey’s writing, and was delighted to see he garnered a bit wider attention when Little came out a year or two ago. The Swallowed Man is a much shorter work, answering the question: what would happen if you combined Jonah and Pinocchio?

There’s not a dry spot in all this house. The walls are damp, the ceiling drips, the floor is moisture-laden. How careful I must be to protect this book from the encroaching wet. How often I have slipped – this is dangerous: I am not a young man – on this floor. The air here is thin and foul. It is rancid. Sometimes a new wave of stench comes in and affronts me. Sometimes the stink is but a whisper; at others it is a roar. But it is always a shade of stink.

It’s all written from the point of view of a carpenter who has created Pinocchio – and the Pinocchio here is very much the one you’re familiar with. He is created from wood then comes alive, and his nose grows when he lies. But he also disappears and, when trying to find him, the narrator finds (instead) himself being swallowed by a particularly large whale. It’s not the first time the whale has swallowed something inappropriate: inside, he finds a full ship. And, on that ship, he discovers a captain’s log – which is what we are reading, as he reminisces about life before the swallowing and wonders when he will run out of the candles keeping his strange sphere lit and warm.

Carey is also unusual and interesting, and remains so here. I think it was wise to keep this story to novella length – it’s so strange a premise that it shouldn’t outstay its welcome. As it is, I found it marvellous in every sense of the word. He brings plenty of pathos to this world, and nobody but Carey could have written The Swallowed Man. Not least because it incorporates many of his characterful, distinctive illustrations.

Saturday: mystery book! 

And here is where I’m cagey again – because it’s another British Library Women Writers re-read. Which I shan’t mention here, but if you can find a copy of the latest catalogue then all is revealed!

Sunday: Naturally Supernatural by Wendy Mann

I’m doing a six-month course at church, learning about and from the Holy Spirit – and this book was given to us to accompany the course. It’s full of testimonies of God’s work in everyday life, and I found it encouraging, inspiring, and challenging.

Monday: The Hothouse by the East River by Muriel Spark

This isn’t one of Spark’s novellas that I hear a lot about – maybe because, even by her standards, it’s one of her weirdest. It’s set in New York of the 1970s, with Elsa and Paul the main characters – but it reaches much further back and into other places. Paul (originally from Montenegro) and Elsa (from the UK) met during the Second World War when they were working for British Intelligence. Which involved working alongside German prisoners of war – including a Helmut Kiel. He was believed to have died shortly after the war, and was unearthed as a double agent during it. But then Elsa sees him in a shoe shop in New York…

Even more bizarrely, Elsa has a distinctive characteristic: her shadow falls the wrong way.

He cannot remember exactly what day it was that, on returning to the flat at seven in the evening — or six… if he could remember the season of the year…

In the evening — he cannot exactly remember the day, the time of day, perhaps it was spring, or winter, perhaps it was five, six o’clock…

He is standing in the middle of the room. She is sitting by the window, staring out over the East River. The late sunlight from the opposite window touches her shoulders and hair, it casts the shadow of palm leaves across the carpet, over her arm. The chair she sits in casts a shadow before her.

There is another shadow, hers. It falls behind her. Behind her, and cast by what light? She is casting a shadow in the wrong direction. There’s no light shining upon her from the east window, it comes from the west window. What is she looking at?

Elsa spends much of her time looking out the window at the East River. But what is she really looking at? Why has her psychoanalyst, Garvin, moved in as their butler? And is Elsa living in reality or hallucination? The answer to these questions is weirder than you might imagine, and the best part of the novella is putting it all together at the end. Though, this being Spark, there is certainly no neat bow on it. The novella remains as ungraspable and odd as it starts, and I think maybe falls a little into the section of Spark’s writing that baffles me a little too much. It’s good, but it’s not her best by any means.

Tuesday: Trouble With Lichen by John Wyndham

I haven’t read any Wyndham before, but my reliable friends Paul and Kirsty gave it to me a couple of years ago with the promise that I’d enjoy it – despite it being science fiction. And they’re certainly right that Wyndham writes in a way that isn’t off-putting if sci-fi isn’t your comfort zone.

Diana is a brilliant girl who becomes a brilliant young woman – determined to pursue science, and particularly biochemistry. She is a mid-century woman who isn’t deterred by the pressure of mid-century values.

‘I’m not at all sure that I do want to raise a family,’ Diana told her. ‘There are so many families already.’

Mrs Brackley looked shocked.

‘But every woman wants a family, at heart,’ she said. ‘It’s only natural.’

‘Habitual,’ corrected Diana. ‘God knows what would happen to civilization if we did things just because they were natural.’

While working in a lab, she accidentally discovers that a certain variety of lichen is able to prolong life – and you can dose according to the level you want. Twice, three, or four times as long a life – or as slow a life, really, as it extends everything from the time it takes hair to grow, to how long cuts take to heal. Wyndham even makes a few cryptic references to the length of time between periods.

The story follows what happens when this secret gets out – and the life-prolonging lichen is really just a premise for a riff on capitalism, journalism, competition, and even a touch of a thriller. It was fun and interesting, if a little fragmented.

Finished!

So, there we go! I took a day off for my birthday, but otherwise read a novella a day. Well, four of them were over 200 pages so perhaps they don’t count, but none of them were more than 230 – so narrow the margins a bit and they’d have counted.

As when I’ve done my 25 Books in 25 Days, I’ve really enjoyed it – and found, again, that it’s relatively easy if I get up a bit earlier and spend less time scrolling social media. Usually an hour’s reading before work, an hour at lunch, and an hour after work were enough to finish a book.

And it has brought some of the best books I’ve read this year – I wouldn’t be surprised to find some of them on my end of the year list. I’ll just have to let them settle a bit, and hope this energetic reading schedule hasn’t blurred them in my mind.

Tea or Books?: Any questions?

Rachel and I are recording episode 100 of Tea or Books? soon and, like episode 50, it’s going to be a special Q&A. So we’d love to hear your questions – and many thanks to those who’ve already sent them in.

Basically, ask anything you like – about books, about tea, about podcasting, about our lives. Just pop them in the comments below, or email teaorbooks@gmail.com

And Rachel’s new mic seemed to go down well on ep99, so hopefully those issues are sorted, at least to an extent… thank you for your patience with us.

P.S. I will be continuing #NovellasInNovember over the weekend, but I’m going to wait until Monday to do a round-up of what I read.

Love by Angela Carter – #NovNov Day 25

It is very brave to call your novella something so broad and essential as Love – as Angela Carter did in this book from 1971 – because it necessarily seems to give a grand universality to something specific. In the case of this story, the bizarre relationships between Annabel, Lee, and Lee’s brother Buzz. (This cover isn’t the one I read – it’s one on Wikipedia that I rather love, though I’m not sure how representative it is of the novella.)

Like Magnus Mills’ Three To See The King I read yesterday, Carter writes a surreal and unnerving world – but where his is told sparely, Carter’s prose is luscious and almost ornate, even when she is describing unpleasant things. This excerpt isn’t unpleasant, but it is near the beginning of the book and seems to offer a symbolic sense of being drawn to two opposites – when she sees sun and moon simultaneously.

On her right, she saw the sun shining down on the district of terraces and crescents where she lived while, on her left, above the spires and skyscrapers of the city itself, the rising moon hung motionless in a rift of absolute night. Though one was setting while the other rose, both sun and moon gave forth an equal brilliance so the heavens contained two contrary states at once. Annabel gazed upwards, appalled to see such a dreadful rebellion of the familiar. There was nothing in her mythology to help her resolve this conflict and, all at once, she felt herself the helpless pivot of the entire universe as if sun, moon, stars and all the hosts of the sky span round upon herself, their volitionless axle.

The ‘love triangle’ isn’t quite that – Buzz is just obsessed with his brother and Annabel, who have their own overwrought and dangerous relationship. The depiction of Buzz is quite odd. He is introduced in a voluminous dark cape, and seems to live in it; the other characters call him a freak, though without being exactly clear what they mean by that.

Throughout the novel, these three tussle with love and power and violence – drawing others into their web, while also playing at some distorted version of the domestic. It’s all rather strange, like a portrait that – once you look closer – has features that can’t possibly be true, or that unnerve on examination.

This is the third or fourth Carter novel[la] I’ve read, and I certainly admire her writing. In something like Wise Children it is also a bit fey and even joyful. Love has funny moments (”It is like screwing the woman’s page of the Guardian”) and moments of neat insight (‘the false cheerfulness of five in the morning’), but overall it is not a joyful book by any means. Carter is perhaps one of those writers I recognise as great, but don’t especially relish spending time in the company of. It’s undeniably good, but leaves me with a feeling of having a bit sullied.

Three To See The King by Magnus Mills – #NovNov Day 24

I live in a house built entirely from tin, with four tin walls, a roof of tin, a chimney and door. Entirely from tin.

My house has no windows because there’s nothing to see. Oh, there are shutters that can be used to let the light in when required, but they remain closed against the weather for most of the time. It stands in a wild place, my house, high up on the plain. At night it creaks and groans as the wind batters it for hour after hour, in search of a gap to get inside. Even the door has to be bolted top and bottom to stop it from being blown open. I used to worry in case one day I might lose the roof, but so far that hasn’t happened and now I’m certain the structure is quite sound. The man who built it made sure of that. I found the house empty a few years ago, and adopted it for my own use. At first sight I knew it had everything I could need: somewhere to eat and drink and sleep without disturbance, protected from the elements by a layer of corrugated metal and nothing more. A very modest dwelling I must say, but it looked clean and tidy so I moved in. For a long while I was quite content here, and remained convinced I would find no better place to be. Then one day a woman arrived at my door and said, ‘So this is where you’ve been hiding.’

This is the opening to Magnus Mills’s strange, brilliant Three To See The King from 2001. It’s the sixth of his books I’ve read, though the third to be published, and there are certainly hallmarks that I recognise. A short narrative, told in a sparse way from a first-person narrator who doesn’t entirely know what’s happening to him. And the reader certainly doesn’t know either.

The anonymous ‘I’ lives in this tin house in a seemingly endless desert. He has a neighbour, Simon Painter, about three miles away – and knows another couple of men living in two other tin houses a bit further off. This is his entire community, though it can hardly be called that because he lives in contented isolation. We never learn how we gets his supplies, or how he ended up there, or why there are a handful of tin hits in a sandy wasteland. As other reviewers have noted, it is a bit Beckettian – though the tone feels less bleak and more like amiable confusion.

The woman who turns up and says ‘So this is where you’ve been hiding’ is Mary Petrie, a ‘friend of a friend’, who rather imposes upon the narrator. He can’t turn her away – and she ends up moving in. But she is quickly dissatisfied with the way he does things. She is an enigma, and becomes one that he doesn’t wish to leave.

Things start to change when the three other men in his makeshift community become interested in a man they meet who lives a little further off – Michael Hawkins. The narrator hasn’t met him, but Michael Hawkins clearly has charisma and personality. This newcomer – or is he? – begins to shift the dynamics of this peculiar environment. And then other people to start to appear.

Mills is a brilliantly careful writer, and his greatest talent is the way he can pervade a novel[la] with atmosphere – without ever revealing how it’s done. Three To See The King is unsettling almost from the beginning. What makes it all the more unsettling is that it isn’t at all clear WHY it’s unsettling. It seems to be a simple story of harmless people doing numbingly ordinary things. And yet the reader feels constantly anxious, as though there is something around the corner; some horror that has perhaps been in full sight the whole time.

Many of Mills’ novels have the cadence of a parable or fable, even if it isn’t clear what the hidden depth is. While this novella certainly has things to say about communities, power, and even cults, there is no ‘a-ha!’ moment where the puzzle falls into place and a central meaning is unveiled. The title puts you in mind of the Magi visiting Jesus, of course, as does the cover design of my edition – but that might just be another red herring. I feel rather unnerved, after finishing Three To See The King. But in a good way. I have spent time in the presence of a master.

I’d Rather Be Reading by Anne Bogel – #NovNov Day #23

I went to my reliable books-about-reading shelf for today’s book – well, it’s not so much a shelf as the worktop in my kitchen, because readers in small flats have to use every spare inch of space for books. I love Anne Bogel’s podcast ‘What Should I Read Next?’ and have twice (unsuccessfully) applied to appear on it. But I hadn’t yet read this little book about reading, which my dad got for my Christmas present a few years ago.

In it, Bogel does what she does on the podcast – shares an infectious love of reading. It’s not the most personal-memoir-esque book in this genre, though there are moments which reveal how books have been there for her in crises and in joyful circumstances, and a little about what reading means to all the members of her family.

Bogel casts her net a bit wider – writing in a way that is deeply true to her own life as a reader, but likely to be very similar for many readers (perhaps only some titles changed, and some ages shifted up or down a few years, and a slightly different progression of career, family, education). She writes about how books have meant different things to her at different times, how she deals with buying vs borrowing books, the first time she sobbed at a book – and the books she sobs at now, and how rewarding a reading twin can be – notably not the same as a twin who reads, but rather someone with very similar tastes to you. As I can attest, this is unlikely to be your actual twin.

I loved a couple chapters of humorous lists – one on how to organise your bookshelves, which is certainly not as straightforward as that sounds, and another on bookworm problems. Here are a couple of quotes from that chapter:

You’re at a killer used book sale and can’t remember if you already own a certain title You decide you do and come home. You were wrong and regret your lost chance. You decide you don’t and come home and shelve your newly purchased third copy. You accidentally buy two of the same book at the book sale.

And

You accept that it’s time to cull your personal library. You lovingly handle each book, determining if it brings you joy. It does. They all do. You are full of bookish joy, but still woefully short on shelf space.

I’d Rather Be Reading is a lovely little book – full of bookish joy. It isn’t as idiosyncratic or personal as some books about reading, and perhaps for that reason won’t be quite as memorable in its details – but it’s the perfect book to reassure any devoted reader that they are not an anomaly in the world, and that plenty of other people feel exactly the same.

The Invisible Host by Gwen Bristow and Bruce Manning – #NovNov Day 22

I was sent The Invisible Host (1930) by husband-and-wife authors Gwen Bristow and Bruce Manning the other day, a review copy from Dean Street Press. It isn’t actually released until 6 December, but I couldn’t resist tearing into it straight away – and read all 186 pages at a breakneck speed today, stopping only, reluctantly, for work.

And what made me so furiously keen to read it? Well, that enigmatic line on the cover: ‘Was it the inspiration for Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None?’

It’s kept as a question because there’s no way of knowing if Christie knew the novel, or the play and film that were adapted from it before And Then There Were None was penned. But there are certainly extremely striking similarities.

In the opening chapter, eight people receive the same mysterious telegram:

CONGRATULATIONS STOP PLANS AFOOT FOR SMALL SURPRISE PARTY IN YOUR HONOR BIENVILLE PENTHOUSE NEXT SATURDAY EIGHT O’CLOCK STOP ALL SUB ROSA BIG SURPRISE STOP MAINTAIN SECRECY STOP PROMISE YOU MOST ORIGINAL PARTY EVER STAGED IN NEW ORLEANS – YOUR HOST

Each has their own suspicions about who might have arranged the party – and each of these other people also happens to be a guest. There is a famed actress, a noted doctor, a dodgy lawyer, a society hostess, a clubman, a writer – so on and so on. Each has a reason to despise one of the others there. Each doesn’t question that a party would be held in their honour.

But – much like And Then There Were None – they are in for a nasty surprise. Once they arrive in the penthouse, the exit is sealed and a radio soon starts playing. Their invisible host has a message for them:

”Ladies and gentlemen, you must be tired of gatherings at which you hear only the soft bubbling of elegant effervescence. The ideal entertainment would be at once a diversion and a creative challenge. It is absurd that one should have to assume the mental attitude of a grocery clerk before he can be entertained. One has a right to look with critical curiosity at the entertainment offered him. So to-night, my friends, I invite you to play a game with me, to pit your combined abilities against mine for suitable stakes. I warn you, however, it has long been my conviction that I should be able to outplay the most powerful intellects in our city, and to-night I shall work hard to prove myself – and you. For to-night, ladies and gentlemen, you are commanded to play an absorbing game  a game with death.”

As this is a New Orleans penthouse, rather than Christie’s inaccessible island, there is a bit more explanation needed about how the door is electrified and the walls are unscalable etc etc. Manning and Bristow successfully seal off all possible exits, leaving us to the enjoyment of watching eight people deal with the prospect of their entrapment and death. For, the host tells them, one of them will die each hour until there is nobody left. But if they manage to outwit him in any of the specially chosen fates, then he will let them live and will die in their place.

And – yes, reader, the characters start dying.

I shan’t spoil anymore, except to say this novel is a delicious, fast-paced, very satisfying read. I loved every moment. Some of the mechanisms involved are a little more elaborate than Christie would have allowed herself, but nothing is too outlandish. And the revelation of the murderer is guessable, if you spot the details along the way – which, of course, I didn’t. I never do.

I’ve read a fair bit of vintage crime, including Joanna Cannan’s excellent Murder Included earlier in Novellas in November – but this one might well be the most fun and best non-Christie murder mystery that I’ve ever read. A total delight from beginning to end. I’d heartily recommend that you preorder it today. And did Christie read or watch it and decide that imitation was the sincerest form of flattery? Perhaps that is the best unsolvable mystery about the whole thing…

Ignorance by Milan Kundera – #NovNov Day 21

For those keeping track, I didn’t blog yesterday but I DID finish a book. I didn’t write about it because it’s a future British Library Women Writers title and I’m not sure I’m meant to mention it here yet.

ANYWAY onto Day 21, and what I think is my seventh Kundera novel(la) – Ignorance, published in French in 2002 and translated by Linda Asher. I love Kundera’s writing and unique approach to the novel, especially when I’m in the right frame of mind to embrace his zig-zaggy, philosophical, quirky style.

The book opens with Irena speaking to her friend Sylvie. Irena’s long-term relationship with Gustaf (albeit as his mistress) has just ended, and she is being quizzed on why she is staying France. Sylvie moved from Prague years earlier, and now considers Paris her home – wiping out her Czech past, in many ways. This is the jumping off point for Kundera to think about the concept of nostalgia – how it is phrased in different languages, how we both remember and forget our pasts, what the idea of returning does to a person. Sylvie has a recurring dream that she is living again in Prague – but the dream is haunting, claustrophobic, and unwelcome.

These dream-nightmares seemed to her all the more mysterious in that she was afflicted simultaneously with an uncontrollable nostalgia and another, completely opposite, experience: landscapes from her country kept appearing to her by day. No, this was not daydreaming, lengthy and conscious, willed; it was something else entirely: visions of landscapes would blink on in her head unexpectedly, abruptly, swiftly, and go out instantly. She would be talking to her boss and all at once, like a flash of lightning, she’d see a path through a field. She would be jostled on the Metro and suddenly, a narrow lane in some leafy Prague neighborhood would rise
up before her for a split second. All day long these fleeting images would visit her to assuage the longing for her lost Bohemia.

The same moviemaker of the subconscious who, by day, was sending her bits of the home landscape as images of happiness, by night would set up terrifying returns to that same land. The day was lit with the beauty of the land forsaken, the night by the horror of returning to it. The day would show her the paradise she had lost; the night, the hell she had fled.

Ultimately, Sylvie does make a visit back to Prague. Along the way, the narrative passes like a baton among different people in the book – to Gustaf (which takes us to the past of their relationship), and particularly to Josef. Josef is a man from Sylvie’s past, whom she bumps into in Prague airport. Like her, he has been living abroad – in Denmark. He hasn’t been back for more than a decade, and both of them are being reintroduced to families, friends and places that seem both unchanged and, simultaneously, to have weathered an enormous amount of change. More or less everything I know about the Czech Republic’s history (under its various names) comes from other Kundera novels I’ve read – and it is woven in here too, with all the turmoil the country faced over the 20th century. And particularly the impact of Communism on its émigrés Sylvie and Josef.

Like most of Kundera’s novels, the plot is a simple thread through the centre of the book – but what makes the book so wonderful are the tangents, the reflections, the aleatory connections between fictional characters and moments in time. The two main elements that Kundera returns to are The Odyssey and the German composer Arnold Schoenberg. Sure, why not! My first Kundera novel was Immortality, which includes Goethe, Hemingway, Marx, Napoleon, Beethoven etc, so I was well prepared. Not as characters, you understand, but as sidenotes by the narrator – telling a story that only meets tangentially with the main plot, but those meetings illuminate the story and make it so much more.

Here, for instance, is a moment about The Odyssey that – without Kundera drawing the comparison overtly – tells us much more about Sylvie:

During the twenty years of Odysseus’ absence, the people of Ithaca retained many recollections of him but never felt nostalgia for him. Whereas Odysseus did suffer nostalgia, and remembered almost nothing.

We can comprehend this curious contradiction if we realize that for memory to function well, it needs constant practice: if recollections are not evoked again and again, in conversations with friends, they go. Emigres gathered together in compatriot colonies keep retelling to the point of nausea the same stories, which thereby become unforgettable. But people who do not spend time with their compatriots, like Irena or Odysseus, are inevitably stricken with amnesia. The stronger their nostalgia, the emptier of recollections it becomes. The more Odysseus languished, the more he forgot. For nostalgia does not heighten memory’s activity, it does not awaken recollections; it suffices unto itself, unto its own feelings, so fully absorbed is it by its suffering and nothing else.

My Novellas in November project is going so well. I keep writing very positive reviews, and they are genuinely effusive – so far, it has brought many brilliant books off my shelves. This is right up there with the best Kundera books I’ve read, and that makes it one of the best books I’ve read this year.

Father Malachy’s Miracle by Bruce Marshall – #NovNov Day 19

What a delightful novel. I bought Father Malachy’s Miracle (1931) early last year because the premise sounded so interesting, and because I had previously read Marshall’s novel High Brows as part of my DPhil research. And the book was really fun, as well as funny, and has made me keen to seek out more of Marshall’s work.

Father Malachy is a monk who is visiting a Catholic church in Glasgow, there to instruct the priests on chanting liturgy. Father Malachy reminded me of Trollope’s Septimus Harding – in that he is simple, kind, faith-filled, and a little shocked and saddened by the wantonness of the world.

In conversation with a local priest of a different denomination, the topic of miracles comes up. Father Malachy believes that God is still capable of doing miracles, and will still perform them if there is good reason. The Protestant minister doesn’t believe this (incidentally, this is not a universally held Protestant viewpoint, by any means. I suppose I am Protestant, inasmuch as I am not Catholic, and I certainly believe God still performs miracles). And so Father Malachy asks God to work a miracle, to bring faith back to an increasingly faithless Scotland.

And which miracle? Well, in the spirit of moving mountains into the sea, Father Malachy asks for the Garden of Eden to be moved to a Scottish island. What is the Garden of Eden? In this instance, it is a dance hall that is near the Catholic church, and believed by some of the priests there to be a hotbed of sin – though Father Malachy himself is rather more charitable towards them. Anyway, the Protestant minister is incredulous:

”Do you honestly mean to stand there and tell me that, in this twentieth century and in this metropolis of learning, God could perform the miracle of transporting this home of light and healthy amusement through the ether? Mr dear Father, please reflect upon what you are saying.”

This is exactly what he means. The day and time is set. And… the dance hall lifts up into the air, and lands on the distant island.

One of the things I loved about Father Malachy’s Miracle is that Marshall restrains himself from putting all the drama into this miraculous event. We don’t see anything from the perspective of the people being supernaturally transitioned. We don’t even visit the Garden of Eden after it has landed. Rather, the novel is about Father Malachy – about the drama he has unleashed and its consequences; about his reflections on the wisdom of the act, and reactions from other priests, journalists, laymen, and a canny film producer. Throughout, Marshall never sneers at faith. I only found out afterwards that he was Catholic himself, but it makes sense. So few novelists write well about faith, and Marshall is among them.

Which is not to say the novel is po-faced. Oh gosh, far from it. His tone reminded me of Compton Mackenzie when he’s being witty, or even E.F. Benson. I enjoy that he can take religious faith seriously while still indulging in a slightly bitchy tone. On the second page, he describes a woman ‘whose hat was one of those amorphous black affairs which would have been, at any moment, out of fashion in any country’ – and I knew I was sold. Actually, the page before that I had already noted how much I enjoyed this eyebrow-raised scene setting:

Outside, on the grey ribbon of platform which ran dismally along the side of the train, newsboys were pushing on wheels pyramids of the contemporary literature, gay magazines within whose covers female novelists split their infinitives and modern deans argued as to whether twin beds in matrimony were of the esse or merely of the bene esse of the sacrament. Outside, boys were selling sticky sweets and cigarettes, and porters were pushing luggage, and flabby, colourless people were jostling one another with impatience as though their departure for Falkirk or Edinburgh were important and as though the dreadful immorality of their souls shone out, for all to see, through the pigginess of their earthly faces. Outside, Queen Street Station, Glasgow, looked just as depressing as the Gare du Nord, Paris, and suggested, just as adequately, milk-cans, lavatories and eternal damnation.

It’s such a ’30s novel, which is certainly a good thing in my book. I loved the characters, the story, and the way that Marshall handled everything. The only thing I didn’t like was the blurb on the edition I read – which gives away so much plot that it includes something that happens on p189 of 191 pages. Tut tut!

Father Malachy’s Miracle is so up my street that I wonder if anybody else would enjoy it as much as I did. It might be hard to find out, as copies online do look a bit scarce and expensive. But if you speak German then you might have better luck tracking down Das Wunder des Malachias – or even watching the award-winning film from the 50s. If this review has sparked your interest, I’d recommend tracking the novel down one way or another.