1984

Golden States by Michael Cunningham

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You won’t find much mention of Golden States (1984) by Michael Cunningham online – or even in the next novels that were published, which silently erased his debut novel. In an interesting and deep interview Cunningham gave around 2001, he said this about Golden States:

I never felt good about that book, because I wrote it too fast. Because I knew it wasn’t the best book I could write. I’ve always felt that literature and reading have so many enemies—and writers are the very least of the enemies of writing and reading. But I do sometimes find myself looking through the books in a bookstore and galleys people have sent me, thinking, you could have done better than this. You did not put your ass on the line. Here’s just another book taking up space in the universe, and this is part of what is making it hard to keep books alive in the world. They just stack up like cordwood. I’m so much more interested in some kind of grand ambitious failure than I am in someone’s modest little success that achieves its modest little aims. I felt that I had written a book like that, and I wasn’t happy about it. My publisher very generously allowed me to turn down a paperback offer and it has really gone away.

It’s an interesting take on a novel that I think is much better than Cunningham thinks it is. He doesn’t need to be ashamed of it at all.

Golden States is about David, a young boy living with his mother and sister Lizzie in California, and his experiences on the cusp of young adulthood. Parts of him are very childish – he constantly squabbles with his sister, and plays games (and then fall out) with his nearby best friend. Parts of him are beginning to develop more, so he is asking questions about his future, his older half-sister’s (Janet’s) long-term relationship, his place in the world. Recurring antagonisms continue alongside something new. Here is one conversation, but almost any in the first half of the book could be used as an example of the way Cunningham combines the frivolous and the undercurrent.

Janet and Lizzie glanced at one another. “What’s nine times seven?” Lizzie asked.

David put his fingers in his ears. “Don’t do that,” he said, and his voice sounded to him as if he was speaking from a cave. Janet said something, and he unstopped his ears. “What?” he asked her.

“My feet are cold,” Lizzie said.

“Then go inside. What did you say, Janet?”

“Let’s all go in,” Janet said.

“That’s not what you said.”

“Men,” Janet said to Lizzie in a lofty, lecturer’s tone, “always want the facts.”

“That’s not true,” David said.

Janet patted his knee. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get the lizard inside before she freezes to death.”

“Don’t call me that,” Lizzie said. She had begun hopping on one foot, and shivering.

“Go on,” David said. “I’m going to sit here a little longer.”

He hoped Janet would send Lizzie in alone, but she got up and slipped her arm around Lizzie’s skinny shoulders. “Okay,” she said. “See you inside.”

“See you,” David said.

Lizzie tucked her hand under Janet’s belt, glanced over her shoulder, smiled knowingly, and said, “Sixty-three.”

As with most Cunningham novels, the book is about interiority – but the sort of interiority that surfaces in conversations with anyone and everyone. People, particularly David, never quite express what it is that they are trying to convey, but keep determinedly trying. Cunningham’s talent is combining this philosophical search with everyday dialogue and the details of the mundane. A thwarted shoplifting or a sibling dispute speak to much larger matters – things that David cannot comprehend, so he feels frustrated and confused. Many of Cunningham’s characters feel frustrated and confused, but the older ones at least expect it. David has yet to learn the limits of understanding.

In the second half of the novel, the dynamic changes. Janet is back in San Francisco – and David decides he has to travel there, for reasons I won’t spoil. And off he goes, with little money and a lot of nervousness about the journey. From here, Golden States becomes something of a travel or quest narrative – the curious people he’ll meet along the way, including one character who I think would be written rather differently now. The blurb says he ‘guides [David] across the threshold of sexuality’, but David is a child and the scene is deeply uncomfortable, even if not at all graphic.

I found the second half of the novel very tense, but preferred the more relaxed dynamics of the first half. I think they play better into Cunningham’s strengths as a writer – which include writing little gems of insightful sentences, like ‘The day would not settle into itself; would not descend from its feeling of suspension, as if the real day was yet to begin.’ There is a poeticism to his writing that is threaded through everything, even when contrasted with quite austere dialogue, and that won’t be to everyone’s tastes. For me, Golden States shows all the promise of the psychologically fascinating novelist Cunningham would become – and, indeed, bears comparison with many of his later novels. If it isn’t his masterpiece, or even the runner up, Golden States is still a very able and intriguing book of which Cunningham should be proud.

The Warning Bell by Lynne Reid Banks

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The L-Shaped Room is one of my favourite novels, and I’ve read it and its sequels quite often over the years – but have read oddly little of Lynne Reid Banks’ other novels since a brief spate about twenty years ago. And I’ve owned The Warning Bell (1984) since probably about 2003, so it seems about time I read it.

Maggie is a teenager when the novel begins – with two brothers, the censorious Ian and the more laissez-faire Stip, and parents who seem ordinary and conservative to her. She longs to escape the community in Scotland that she sees as backward and repressive, and dreams of finding success as an actress. Her best friend Tanya longs for the same thing and, as the novel opens, they have both been caught in a series of lies to go and see a production of Oklahoma.

The same deceit comes into play a little later when Maggie goes to drama school – throughout which she is deceiving her father into paying, as he thinks she is doing a different course at a different university. She is aided and abetted by her secondary school drama teacher – indeed, it is this teacher’s idea – and Banks is great at the feelings of guilt and freedom that intertwine, even if she is a little more haphazard on the actual details of how this deception would take place. When it comes out, the proverbial inevitably hits the fan.

Maggie seems a little similar to The L-Shaped Room’s Jane in the opening chapters of the novel. Like Jane, she is at odds with her father and has to start a life estranged from her family – albeit for different reasons. But where Jane enters a new community in her block of flats, gradually getting to know and love the people around her, Maggie’s immediate future is rather darker. She is sexually assaulted by a man she is dating, discovers she is pregnant, and decides to marry him.

The title of the novel is explained in the early pages of the novel, and this is one of many moments where the bell is clanging loudly…

Maggie’s mother once said, ‘You know, Maggie, the vainest and most futile mental exercise in the world is tracing back some accident or blunder to its origins, and letting one’s heart gnaw itself in regret that one didn’t know what was going to result. You know: ”If I hadn’t gone there, met so-and-so, done this or not done that…” One’s whole life can turn on some tiny thing. It’s not fair. There ought to be a bell, a warning bell, sounding at dangerous corners. But there never, never is.’

But Maggie, on reflection, decided that there very often is a warning bell. It may not go clang-clang with great noisy obviousness. But it rings in other ways. She could remember many turning-points in her own life which were marked by bells of a sort. Her innumerable blunders had not resulted from an absence of bells, but her wilfulness in ignoring them.

In justice to Banks, the rape is recognised as being horrific, and Maggie’s decision to marry Bruce is not presented as something wise or justified. I’m racing through the plot a little here, because the novel is packed with incident, but Banks is very good at conveying the feel of living another person’s life, and I certainly felt plunged into Maggie’s – including all the mistakes, horrors, rejections, pressures and so on. Considering dark things happen, The Warning Bell is not a bleak novel at all. Banks recognises the confusing way that life can be a tapestry of bad and good simultaneously, without one blocking out the other.

I was really loving the novel, in fact. Banks writes brilliantly, and I was getting the same sense of full immersion that I always get when I re-read The L-Shaped Room. But then… Maggie and Bruce move to Nigeria. And… yikes.

There are definitely racist elements in The L-Shaped Room, but I always felt that they were on the part of the character – and that she grows to realise she is terribly wrong. In The Warning Bell, the way Nigerians are portrayed is just as racist in the narrative voice as in the different characters’. They are all depicted as unintelligent, primitive, and desperate to be servile to the white characters – who consider themselves set apart and far better in every way, and the narrative seems to agree with them. It was really unpleasant to read, and the sort of casually racist set up that I was surprised to see so openly in a novel published so recently.

Things improve when Maggie returns to the UK, and she deals with the conflicting impulses of motherhood, career, romance and friendship. These are all more or less eternal themes of women’s lives, and Banks brings them together convincingly and compellingly. Well, convincing insofar as becoming a national TV newsreader is considered a fall-back option for a wannabe actress.

My only criticism in this second half of the book is that the pacing is sometimes a bit awry. It does seem to enter rather a gallop in the final section of the novel, jumping ahead both in terms of time and the emotional curve of the narrative. So, overall, your stomach for this novel will depend on how much you can cope with the horrendous racism that’s prevalent for about fifty pages. I loved diving back into the incredible storytelling that Banks is so good at – but with a nasty taste in my mouth at the same time.

Noah’s Ark by Barbara Trapido

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Ten years ago, Bloomsbury sent me a set of Barbara Trapido books for review. Ten years ago! And, yes, I read and reviewed (and really liked) Brother of the More Famous Jack back then, but it has taken me a decade to read my second Trapido – Noah’s Ark (1984). And I’m still rather unsure what I thought about it.

My first thought, as I read the opening, was how good the writing was. Here is most of the first paragraph, which I’m going to quote at length because I think she does such a good job of throwing you into an intriguing and unconventional world:

Ali Glazer was stitching up her husband’s trouser hems, but had paused to glance up at the kitchen pin board in some fascination. The photograph of a man, bearing a disconcerting resemblance to Thomas Adderley, had been torn from a Sunday magazine advertisement and pinned there by Ali’s older daughter Camilla. The girl herself had had no awareness of that resemblance which now so forcibly struck her mother and had fixed the picture there merely because she liked the man’s collarless Edwardian shirt. The man – in keeping with the clichés of capitalist realism – was manoeuvring a white stallion through a dappled glade of redwood trees and was advertising cigarettes. Ali noticed that Camilla had fixed him rather high on the pin board where he beamed out, as from a higher plane, above the two postcards pinned side by side below him. This hierarchical arrangement struck her as altogether suitable given that she had always elevated and revered Thomas, while the postcards had come from people to whom she felt predominantly antipathetic. 

I say ‘unconventional’, but I suppose Ali’s world is rigorously conventional. It is only her outlook, or the perspective that Trapido gives us, that makes it feel quirky and unusual. I was completely beguiled by that writing, and keen to immerse myself in whatever came after the first few pages – would Ali reconnect with Thomas? What would this mean for her marriage to the benevolently controlling Noah, who obviously doesn’t think that Ali is capable of very much, and mistakes her imaginative eccentricity for something inferior to his rational good sense?

Then Trapido did the thing that so many novelists do, and which always puts me off. We go back into the past. That was one scene in the present, to set a stage that we will work our way too. I never know why this is such a common trope, as I always find it deadens a novel. Oh well, I suppose I’ll put up with it.

We skate back to Ali’s past – between marriages. She has split up with her obnoxious ex-husband Mervyn, and is trying to work out how best to live life as a single mother – when Noah walks into her life, besotted and determined to sort out the disordered way in which Ali has allowed herself to become a doormat. Having seen how Noah treats her in the present day, we do get some benefit of hindsight, as it were, but it also removes some of the tension of wondering what will happen.

And the novel continues to be eccentric. We jump forward in time, or across continents, with very little warning. Trapido’s own eccentric authorial gaze refuses to let us get settled. Her writing style is never unduly odd, and certainly never breaks with the conventions of grammar etc., but the things she chooses to highlight often keep the reader on his/her toes. We spend more time being shown how different characters react to the prospect of head lice than we do to major life events. Everything is slightly off kilter. And I think that’s good?

I have to admit that I was a bit thrown by the novel. That started when one adult character starts lusting after an 11 year old Camilla, openly and in front of others, and nobody says anything. The hints of paedophilia are infrequent and never followed up in any way, but elsewhere, Trapido writes about sex in a jarring way, with sudden and momentary explicitness. And then I found the disconcerting way she puts together sentences and scenes was building together into something I couldn’t quite grasp. Much of the time I really admired it, but it made it difficult to identify the centre of the novel – to have anything concrete to hold onto.

Perhaps it’s a case of needing to be in the right mood for Trapido. I was definitely in that mood when I started the novel, and was loving it. The writing was really wonderful. By the time I finished it, the mood was faltering. Had I read it at a different time, I suspect I’d be writing an unadulteratedly glowing review of Noah’s Ark. I still think she is a richly inventive and unusual writer, but I’m going to be selective about when I start reading her again.

In the Freud Archives by Janet Malcolm

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After reading Two Lives by Janet Malcolm, you may recall that I went on a Malcolm buying binge. Four of her books arrived more or less at once, none of them matching remaining A Century of Books years, but I allowed myself to cheat on ACOB with In the Freud Archives from 1984. Sadly my edition is not the lovely NYRB Classics edition pictured, but it’s much nicer than mine.

I researched quite a lot about Freud for my DPhil – or, more specifically, how his ideas permeated to the middlebrow public of the 1920s and ’30s, and how they often ridiculed his ideas. Malcolm is looking at rather a different world connected to Freud – fast forwarding a few decades, and exploring the in-fighting between the various custodians of his ideas and legacy.

I think Malcolm might be a Freudian herself, and takes his legacy seriously – but it would difficult to take it as seriously as the people in this work of reportage. (But it is more than reportage.) Kurt Eissler is a respected psychoanalyst and head of the Freud archives. He brings in a young scholar, Jeffrey Moussaieff Masson, who has a background in Sanskrit but the sort of personality that can make people believe he should be in control – and he is lined up as the next Curator of the Freud Museum (waiting only for Anna Freud’s death). And then there is Peter Swales, the self-styled ‘punk historian of psychoanalysis’, whose modus operandi is writing people enormously long letters detailing their failings (and then circulating these letters widely).

As a cast, they feel like they belong in a Muriel Spark novel or something by Beryl Bainbridge. They are forthright, obsessed, and deeply distrustful of one another. And much of their rivalry and animosity stems from whether or not they believe that Freud went back on the concept of the ‘seduction theory’. Of such matters are careers and lives made, it seems. Dramatic papers are published; people are fired and sued and verbally attacked. While 99% of us don’t care either way, this is the lynch pin of the fraught relationships between Swales, Masson, and Eissler. The former pair are particularly astonishing creations – because, while real people, one feels they must have been put through Malcolm’s eye for the absurd.

And yet this is an earlier work than Two Lives, and Malcolm feels a little less adventurous in her writing. She is still very much a presence, but (perhaps because her subjects are alive) she is more of an observer than a shaper of her topic. Long sections are devoted to the words of her subjects, and I felt that I missed her unique view of the world in those moments – I wanted her to intervene and twist things slightly, bringing the shock of the new in her muted way. That talent of hers is definitely there, but a little too muted; too restrained.

If her style and interventions are more cautious, she has still done an exemplary job of showing us who these people are – letting them be hoist by their own petard, perhaps. It’s all a bit dizzying, and her genius shows itself best in that she discovered the issue and focalised it in the way she did. Whether or not you have the remotest interest in the legacy of Freud, I recommend you discover how it has obsessed these lives – and it confirms my belief that I will read absolutely anything Malcolm turns her eye to.

Charlotte Mew and Her Friends by Penelope Fitzgerald

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46. Charlotte Mew and Her Friends by Penelope Fitzgerald

The first of my reviews I’m going to point towards, over at Shiny New Books, was the most unexpected treat. Indeed, it’s going on my 50 Books list – which is coming towards a close now, and that makes me nervous. (What if I read something superlatively brilliant just after putting the 50th book on the list?)

I had thought Penelope Fitzgerald was already represented, as I’ve loved The Bookshop and At Freddie’s – but apparently neither quite made the list. Charlotte Mew and Her Friends is a little more outside the box – being a biography of a turn-of-the-century poet – but has just as wide an appeal, honest. It’s one of the few biographies I’ve read where the subject mattered less than the writer – not ostentatiously in the writing, but in my response to it.

Do head over to my Shiny New Books review for the complete picture…

International Anita Brookner Day

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Happy 83rd birthday, Anita Brookner, and Happy International Anita Brookner Day to the rest of you – surely the most publicised literary event of the past decade, courtesy of Thomas (and Simon is co-hosting). Having intended to read Brookner for a number of years, this seemed like the perfect time to give the old girl a whirl. And so I duly took down her 1984 Booker Prize winning Hotel du Lac off my shelf, and have just finished reading it.

And oh dear, it is not in the spirit of the thing, but… this might be something of a lukewarm post. Thomas did warn us several times that Hotel du Lac, although Brookner’s most famous novel, is not her best – and I did listen to him – but it felt expedient to read the novel I had on my shelves already. So I shall judge merely Hotel du Lac; I will not try and extrapolate beyond that to Brookner as a writer.

Hotel du Lac is set in a hotel by Lake Geneva, and we see it all through the eyes of romance novelist Edith Hope. She describes herself thus:

this mild-looking, slightly bony woman in a long cardigan, distant, inoffensive, quite nice eyes, rather large hands and feet, meek neck, not wanting to go anywhere, but having given my word that I would stay away for a month until everyone decides that I am myself again.

And the hotel itself
seems to be permanently reserved for women. And for a certain kind of woman. Cast-off or abandoned, paid to stay away, or to do harmless womanly things, like spending money on clothes.

Amongst these women, and the most interesting characters in the novel, are mother and daughter Mrs. Pusey and Jennifer. Edith spends most of the first half of the novel revising the ages she considers them to be, from 40s and 20s to, eventually, 70s and 40s. They are rather desperate, and lonely, and put on false cheer. But, to be completely honest, they have already flown from my mind a little. Their portraits were painted a little too thinly, on too unstable a canvas.

Amongst these women there is only one man of note – Mr. Neville. I couldn’t describe the relationship between Edith and Mr. Neville as romantic, still less a love story, but he does offer opportunities for some interesting views from Edith, which are refreshingly neither old-fashioned nor modern, but an honest path between the two.
“My idea of absolute happiness is to sit in a hot garden all day, reading, or writing, utterly safe in the knowledge that the person I love will come home to me in the evening. Every evening.” “You are a romantic, Edith,” repeated Mr. Neville, with a smile. “It is you who are wrong,” she replied. “I have been listening to that particular accusation for most of my life. I am not a romantic. I am a domestic animal. I do not sigh and yearn for extravagant displays of passion, for the grand affair, the world well lost for love. I know all that, and know that it leaves you lonely. No, what I crave is the simplicity of routine. An evening walk, arm in arm, in fine weather. A game of cards. Time for idle talk. Preparing a meal together.”
And so the novel continues. Now for the negative.

What makes me a bit cross is that Hotel du Lac made me respond in a way I hate – using responses from which I would normally run a mile. I can’t stand it when critics sneer at ‘nothing happening’ in a book, or about boring heroines. The sort of ridiculous statement Saul Bellow made of Elizabeth Taylor’s Mrs. Palfrey at the Claremont, that ‘I seem to hear the tinkle of teacups’ – which ought really to be a compliment. I wish I could have heard the tinkle of teacups in Hotel du Lac! But nothing felt vital or vivid to me. Edith is quite a boring person, but that wouldn’t matter if she had not also been a boring character. Austen’s Mr. Collins is boring; Mrs. Palfrey is pretty boring, if it comes to that, but neither of these are boring characters, because of the vitality with which their dry lives are evoked – one for humour, and the other for empathy. Edith Hope simply fades, fades, fades into a pretty backdrop.

You know me, I love books without much plot. I love novels which look gently, calmly, slowly at the ways in which people interact. I thought I would love Anita Brookner, but I certainly did not love Hotel du Lac. Which is not to say I hated it – more than anything, I was disappointed. There seem to be so many novelists who ‘do’ this sort of book rather better – E.H. Young, E.M. Delafield, even Richmal Crompton to a lesser extent. Brookner’s writing in Hotel du Lac is never glaringly bad, and is occasionally perceptive. She has a knack for using unusual adjectives or adverbs which unsettle (‘”I hate you,” she shouted, hopefully’) but… overall, I was not blown away by her style, or compelled by her prose. Often my eyes slipped to the end of the page, without taking in what had I had read. It all felt tolerable, I suppose, but…

Yet I will not let my lukewarm response to Hotel du Lac put me off. I shall remember that I was warned it wouldn’t be Brookner’s best. I will read the other reviews which will doubtless pop up around the blogosphere today. And I will wait a few years, and given Anita another go.