2000s

Insights

StuckinaBook All , 7 Comments


I did enjoy all your thoughts about Ishiguro, thank you for sharing them – nice to see a wide sprectrum of opinion, too. It would be very dull (and there would have been no point in the book group meeting) if we all agreed!

A much briefer post today, about a book I’ve only flicked through, but which looks rather wonderful. I bought it at the National Portrait Gallery a while ago, it’s called, as you can see above, Insights: The Bloomsbury Group by Frances Spalding.


Basically, it’s the Bloomsbury Group in paintings, with biographical details, especially those relating to artistry. Not to be confused with The Bloomsbury Group reprints by Bloomsbury, this is Virginia Woolf et al. In fact, this resource is so wonderful that I’m going to list the ‘et al.’ – Desmond MacCarthy; Leonard Woolf; Vanessa and Clive Bell; Duncan Grant; Roger Fry; Lytton Strachy; Dora Carrington; Lady Ottoline Morrell; John Maynard Keynes; E.M. Forster; Frances Partridge; Gerald Brenan; David Garnett; Philippa and Marjorie Strachey; Margery Fry; Bertrand Russell.

For each there are two or three pages – one being a painting, then the others a mixture of paintings/photographs and biographical detail. As a biography of the Bloomsbury Group it is not exhaustive, but it is certainly unique as a resource. And something really interesting, beautiful, and quick to browse through – giving a real feel for the group and their interaction with art.


A great ‘coffee table book’, or gift – which is said a lot, especially around Christmas, but I do think this is a brilliant little book for anyone interested in these people or the period. Fear not, you don’t have to go to the National Portrait Gallery to pick up a copy – it’s available here on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com, not to mention The Book Depository, which is cheapest of the lot.

Never Let Me Go… Or Do, If You Feel Like It

StuckinaBook All , 23 Comments

Quite a few book reviews coming this week, so long as I can motivate myself to do it… I try and be that little bit more lucid when talking about a book. Which doesn’t always go that well… Speaking of not going well, I’ve had a few recent reads which haven’t quite been up to scratch. Not, ahem, below scratch, but nothing getting me too excited at the moment. Thought I’d share my thoughts on one or two of them nonetheless, mixed in this week with some books I’ve really liked, but somehow not managed to get around to writing about yet. Look out for reviews of two non-fiction titles (gasp!)

First off is a book group choice: Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro. I hadn’t read anything by Ishiguro before, though of course was aware of him, and always had him down as someone I’d investigate at some point. When I mentioned that I was reading Never Let Me Go to people, the response was always extreme. But not always to the same side. People assured me that I’d either love the book to the extent that I’d have the cover tattooed across my chest; others told me I’d loathe it so much that I’d send Ishiguro lengthy hate letters, and firebomb his kitchen.

So I was rather surprised when the main effect was… apathy. I was just completely underwhelmed.

For those who don’t know the premise of the book, we open with Kathy H telling us about her life as a carer. She looks after other people in the process of making ‘donations’ – they make up to four of these, then they ‘complete’. It’s never specified what the donations are, but it’s obvious pretty early on that it’s parts of their bodies. After setting the scene there, Kathy reminisces about her school life at Hailsham; the various friends and exploits she had; the school’s emphasis on art creation; the Sales where they bought much-prized tat. And so forth.

In terms of plotting, Ishiguro can be quite subtle. (I don’t want to give away everything in Never Let Me Go, so I’ll try to write about it without revealing central things…) But, once he unveils the ‘secret’ of the book (about two-thirds of the way through) I was left thinking ‘so what?’ So much mystery had been built up, so much supposed suspense, that the answer deflated the book. Like the school children, who discover the secret when we do in the narrative, we have been ‘told and not told’. The information is always there, but in such a way as it doesn’t sink home.

The inclusion of subtle little details can be quite clever – I liked the early emphatic anti-smoking teaching to the kids, and how that later makes sense – but there must be a better way to build up tension than to end paragraphs with ‘But that was nothing compared to what happened at the lake’, or ‘And that was the day that Ruth did what she did’, before going onto something different. I was reminded, I’m sorry to say, of the Goosebumps books. Did anybody read them? A cliffhanger at the end of every chapter, which likely as not would turn out to be nothing.

My biggest disappointment, however, was the writing style. Though I’ve never read Ishiguro before, I always had the idea that he was a great prose stylist. The writing in Never Let Me Go is just so bland. Yes, it’s in the form of a first person narrative from a youngish, not-overly-bright woman, so perhaps it’s appropriate, but it was just so… bland. I know I should support that with quotation, but that’s the problem: it’s all This Happened then That Happened, I Was Happy, I Was Sad. Nothing significant to quote. I don’t know how he’s got this reputation as a great prose writer… I wondered if his other books were better in that respect, but someone told me that they were all quite similarly written.

One other small quibble… I thought the title was rubbish. It refers to a song which Kathy likes to listen to, yes, but it doesn’t evoke the book at all. Gives completely the wrong impression.

Much of the discussion at book group was over the fact that none of the children resist their fate, nor try to escape it. And any criticism of the book was considered to be a nod towards this argument… well, that part didn’t bother me at all. I thought making them passive was a good idea. My problems were with style – and the fact that I finished the book without it really seeming to have begun.

This has been a pretty negative review, but that’s mostly through disappointment. I was hoping to love Ishiguro, and I couldn’t. The idea was interesting, it could have been developed into a great book. Never Let Me Go isn’t dreadful, but it was just so pointless and average. An evening of book group couldn’t persuade me otherwise, but if anyone *does* want to be counsel for the defence?

One final point… doesn’t the cover remind you of one of the covers for Helen Garner’s The Spare Room?

Carey Sharey

StuckinaBook All , 4 Comments


I mentioned a little while ago that I’d bought Edward Carey’s Observatory Mansions and was excited about reading it, after loving his second novel Alva & Irva last year (more here). I’ve included various different cover images throughout this post, interestingly different. Carey has only had two novels published, in 2001 and 2003, so I’m a bit worried that the novelistic pen has dried up. Here’s hoping not, as Carey might just be my favourite living author… which sounds very impressive until you realise how few living authors I like. But still.

Observatory Mansions is every bit as quirky as Alva & Irva. I probably overuse the word ‘quirky’, but no other description will do for Carey’s work. At the centre of this novel is Francis Orme, whose earns his keep working as a living statue. One of those people entirely painted white, who stand on plinths in the park. He wears the white gloves all the time, though, and recoils at the thought of seeing his hands. When the gloves become dusty or dirty, they are removed and carefully kept in a box, his glove diary. And that’s just the start of the surrealism.

Central to Observatory Mansions is ‘The Exhibition’. Francis steals and catalogues objects ‘soley for the reason that they are loved; that their former owner prized them above his or her other possessions.’ This is everything from someone’s false leg to a treasured photograph to love letters. It’s all kept in the cellar, secretly, and Carey includes a list of all 996 objects at the back of the novel.

And of course Observatory Mansions is itself important. An old mansion divided into flats, once isolated and now on a traffic island in a busy highway, very few tenants remain. And they’re all grotesque, from the ex-teacher who cries and sweats 24 hours a day, to the lady so obsessed with television that the soap opera characters are her reality. The novel opens with the unwelcome arrival of a new tenant, Anna Tap – myopic, chain-smoking, woollen-dress-wearing Anna. Francis exerts much of his energy to get her to leave… but she has a life-altering effect on everyone in Observatory Mansions.

Which sounds like a heart-warming fairy tale. Observatory Mansions definitely isn’t that. As a hero, Francis is incredibly selfish, violent, unkind, and antisocial. I did find The Exhibition difficult… unkindness in novels affects me rather. But Carey’s talent lies in presenting the quirky in such a way as the inconceivable sheds some light on reality, and on human foibles. This novel isn’t the achievement that Alva & Irva is – sections in the middle need some editing, there isn’t the undercurrent of empathy which pervades Alva & Irva – but Observatory Mansions remains evidence of a staggering mind, an author of unusual talent whose name ought to be included amongst the significant writers of today. And since his second novel is better than his first, I’m hoping the trend is ongoing, and waiting for that third novel…

Lessons in Gender

StuckinaBook All , 3 Comments

I’m proud of you all – everyone seems to be out buying their copies. I popped into Waterstones and Blackwells today – found one copy of each new Bloomsbury book in Waterstones, and about a dozen of each in Blackwells. Tick, gold star.

Now onto other recent reads – and another Bloomsbury book, actually. One of my favourite books read last year was Yellow by Janni Visman – to read my thoughts on that brilliant book about agoraphobia, jealousy, and cats, click here. It was only a matter of time before I went back and read Visman’s first novel, Sex Education. Now, usually I like to post a picture of the book cover, but with Sex Education I’m not going to… it’s a close-up of bikini-clad gals (and by close-up, I mean we just see neck-down, thigh-up). Not really the sort of picture I want to put on here, especially after somebody called me ‘knowingly old-fashioned’ (which I take as a compliment!) So you’ll have to make do with a sketch I’ve done for the occasion.

Sex Education is a tale of competition, jealousy, friendship and passion between friends Maddy and Selina. We see the girls from young childhood, through puberty, to adulthood – all the way through the characters have an uneasy balance of closeness and rivalry. Selina usually gets the better of Maddy, and is the more powerful of the two, destroying while Maddy creates. Throughout the novel various other characters are introduced as appendages to these – another friend, a boyfriend, a parent – but bubbling through is the intense relationship between the girls, and the effects it has on each.

To start with the good – I read it in one sitting, which is unusual for me and my short attention span. A very involving novel, which is very nearly very clever. But, having had Yellow, I can see how Janni Visman was on a stepping stone. The intensity is not quite as intense as Yellow; the insights not so insightful, the tautness not so taut. Occasionally Sex Education feels a little like a grown-up Jacqueline Wilson book. Which is far from the worst thing a book can be, since Jacqueline Wilson writes intelligent, involving children’s books – but where Yellow was starkly memorable, Sex Education is occasionally a little predictable. Yes, it’s a presentation of the rivalry between friends, and the damaging effects of jealousy – but a quirkier edge would have catapaulted the novel into a higher league. I’ve no idea how the quirkiness could have been added – but obviously Visman did, because she delivered it in Yellow.

The Downfall of Debo

StuckinaBook All , 5 Comments

Thank you for all your message on the post from Sunday, they’re appreciated.

Now my Masters has finished (gulp) I should have more time for blogging, and maybe even sketching too. If you were wondering about my future, by the way, then so am I. I have a place to study for a doctorate, at Magdalen again, but I haven’t got funding yet. So we’ll see…

Right. Back to books. I wrote about Deborah Devonshire’s Counting My Chickens over a year ago. Better know to most of us as Debo Mitford, I read her collection of thoughts off the back of loving the Mitford letters, and Debo could do no wrong in my eyes. Home to Roost and other peckings is more or less in the same line – some new articles and vignettes, but mostly the bits and pieces which weren’t included in her earlier book. She’s even wearing the same coat on the cover. But, on the whole, I found the book a little disappointing…

Alan Bennett writes the introduction, and says ‘Deborah Devonshire is not someone to whom one can say “Joking apart…” Joking never is apart: with her it’s of the essence even of the most serious and indeed saddest moments.’ Well, sadly he is completely wrong – Home to Roost seems utterly devoid of the humour I’d come to love in Debo. Even the cover shows her snarling, in contrast to the smile on the front of Counting My Chickens. Too often the articles are simply catalogues of complaints, snarking at anti-hunting people, townfolk, American vocabulary, the government – anything any grumpy old lady might moan about. I’m sorry to sound a bit cruel, but there is no fury like a booklover scorned. Some of the essays had the sparks of humour I’d hoped for – when she is writing about tiaras, for example, and book signing. And none of the collection is unreadable – it’s just the tone is consistently grumpy and demonstrating an inability to see the world from anyone else’s perspective. Exactly the traits she *didn’t* have, when compared to her uber-political sisters Jessica, Diana and Unity.

I’m sad that I can’t write a more positive review of Home to Roost, and perhaps it was simply the wrong time for me to read it, but I suggest sticking to Counting My Chickens – or, even better, the letters Debo and her sisters wrote so entertainingly.

Mixed Media

StuckinaBook All , 2 Comments

I wrote about independent and feminist publishers a bit last term, and Pluto Press very kindly agreed to send me a copy of Simone Murray’s Mixed Media: Feminist Presses and Publishing Politics. I enquired about it not simply because the Bodleian inexplicably didn’t have it (since it’s published in the UK, they should have…) but because I thought readers of Stuck-in-a-Book might also be interested.

As the title suggests, this book is about feminist publishing, and though an academic text, it is extremely accessible and very, very interesting. Though sadly with no mention of Persephone (and the book was first published in 2004, so Persephone could have been mentioned) this is more or less the only omission I’ve noticed in the chapters I’ve read. With these sorts of texts, I always find it easiest to give chapter titles – the topics are so wide and the chapter headings so comprehensively descriptive, that my paraphrasing will be pretty pointless. So here they are:

1. ‘Books with Bite’: Virago Press and the Politics of Feminist Conversion

2. ‘Books of Integrity’: Dilemmas of Race and Authenticity in Feminist Publishing

3. Opening Pandora’s Box: The Rise of Academic Feminist Publishing

4. Collective Unconsioucs: The Demise of Radical Feminist Publishing

5. ‘This Book Could Change Your Life’: Feminist Bestsellers and the Power of Mainstream Publishing

Though I imagine Murray must be a feminist (though whether first-, second- or third- wave, I wouldn’t be able to say) Mixed Media isn’t didactic or polemical. Not that those things are inherently bad – there’s no point in writing if one can’t be a little didactic now and then – but this book is a fairly objective reading of certain publishing situations. I find the whole background to publishing houses extremely captivating, especially, it must be said, Virago. The first chapter of Mixed Media discusses the origins of Virago, and also the indications of an independent feminist press being bought by a conglomerate (Little, Brown & Co.) – but, importantly, there is an underlying affection for the books themselves, which makes Mixed Media both scholarly research and accessible reading.

Mixed Media isn’t, I should add, for the completely casual reader. It’s not every page-turner which includes Darnton’s Communication Circuit, after all. But for anybody seeking a little extra information behind the phenomenon of feminist publishing, Murray’s book is fascinating. The publisher’s online catalogue isn’t currently working, but their books can be bought from Amazon – and while the hardback is quite dear, the paperback could certainly be within some people’s budget – or encourage your library to get a copy, perhaps.

Jane

StuckinaBook All , 15 Comments

Yes, I know I have lots of other books to read, but I couldn’t avoid buying and devouring Jane’s Fame: How Jane Austen Conquered the World by Claire Harman (who also wrote the Sylvia Townsend Warner book I just bought – the woman has taste.) Anybody remotely interested in Jane Austen will already have heard the premise of this book – about Austen’s evolving reputation and fame through the years, with especial focus on the peaks of the First World War and the post-Colin-Firth-in-a-lake interest. Harman starts off with a biography, focusing on the response given by Austen’s family and acquaintances to her writing, and the road to being published, involving the infamous publishers who paid her for the book which would become Northanger Abbey, advertised it for publication, and never actually released it. Tut tut. The book then documents her literary reputation after her death, and how this was created by her family – basically a portrait of a woman who cared not for fame, never let writing get in the way of domesticity, and who hadn’t a mean word to say about anyone. Which, of course, isn’t the witty, slightly sarky and very talented Jane we all know and love.

On the book goes, through the Janeites of the trenches to the 21st Century fascination with her, and even a mention of Stuck-in-a-Book favourite Lost in Austen (though she says it is an adaptation of a book Lost in Austen, which I don’t think is true… the book is a sort of choose-your-own-adventure, published in England with the title Being Elizabeth Bennett). Harman’s style isn’t particularly academic, which is nice when she throws a personal twist to certain aspects of Austen’s posthumous career – of the 1940 Pride and Prejudice film and it’s elaborate and anachronistic costumes: ‘when Darcy and Elizabeth sit together on a bench, it is not pride nor prejudice which seems to keep them apart, so much as their clothes.’

The idea of the book is great. There’s a wealth of fascinating material – where different possessions of Jane’s went, who bought them, who was responsible for Chawton being bought back or her books being reissued etc. etc. I was especially interested in her evolving reputation in the nineteenth century, and the amazingly prescient 1818 anonymous review in Blackwoods Magazine which predicted that Austen’s ‘familiar cabinet pictures’ would outstrip in interest even ‘the greatest historical pieces of our more eminent modern masters’. How right he or she was. The section on the search for a portrait of Jane Austen is also very interesting.

Yes, the idea was great… but somehow the book overall lacked *something* for me. I think it was the lengthy and pervasive strand of biography – which is all well and good if you haven’t already read a biography of Jane Austen, but I (like many of us) have read Claire Tomalin’s excellent and comprehensive biography, and I felt like Harman’s biographical details were clogging up the book. Perhaps she’d leave Austen newbies stranded without these bits, but I’d rather she’d gone whole hog on the reputation angle, and taken some bits of Austen’s life as read. And, despite a wealth of really great material, there was – how shall I put it – something a little lacklustre about the book as a whole. Can’t put my finger on it, but the style was occasionally dry and footnote-y, without being really scholarly. Again, kind of falls between two stools.

That sounds very negative, and I did very much enjoy reading Jane’s Fame. It’s just that, with such a fascinating potential, investigating why Jane Austen is idolised and ‘befriended’ in a way that no other author, not even Shakespeare, is… I’d still recommend this book to any Austen fan, or even anyone slightly interested in Austen, but I know that a better book could have been written. And now it won’t be able to be for at least a decade.

One other thing – Harman suggests that Jane Austen is the *only* author who can be identified just be their first name. I’m sure that’s not true… and was hoping you’d help me think of some others. In fact, just put their first names in the comments, that would be a good test… I offer Virginia as an example. And, in the right circles, Vita. Hmm. I’ll keep thinking…

A Shot in the Dark

StuckinaBook All , , 3 Comments

The other day I mentioned, amongst my goods from Liverpool, A Shot in the Dark by Saki. This is a beautiful Hesperus edition, which initially I bought just because my collected Saki is unwieldly, and I wanted to have some in a pocket edition. (I should add that it’s actually Mum and Dad’s collected Saki, which I’ve ‘borrowed’… call it short-circuiting my inheritance) But then I discovered, upon reading the introduction, that A Shot in the Dark is a collection of works discovered after the Complete Ed. was published – i.e. they’re not in there.

A few are familiar. ‘The Miracle Merchant’ is essentially Clovis story ‘The Hen’ dramatised; an earlier published version of ‘Tobermory’ is included; ‘A Sacrifice to Necessity’ is very, very similar to ‘The Stake’. But A Shot in the Dark isn’t just for Saki completists – some stories have lain undiscovered. ‘Dogged’, which was published in St. Paul’s magazine in February 1899, is thought to be the very first story Saki had published – and has never been anthologised or collected before. And, what’s more, it’s probably the best one in this collection. To be quite so witty and brilliant from the off is a little astonishing, not to say irritating to us lesser mortals.

‘Dogged’ is about a mild-mannered man being cajouled into buying a dog at a church bazaar: ‘A rakish-looking fox terrier, stamped with the hallmark of naked and unashamed depravity, and wearing the yawningly alert air of one who has found the world is vain and likes it all the better for it’. The dog manages to take over his life, and the story is representative of Saki’s merciless style and exaggerated incident.

I’ve already eulogised about how wonderful Saki is – see this post – but I never got around to writing about Beasts and Superbeasts, which I read last year. I can’t imagine why it didn’t make my Top 15 of 2008 – I must have been feeling serious when I composed that list, as it is the funniest book I’ve read in a long time. His tales dabble in the absurd, the commonplace, the mystical, the down-to-earth – but always with a great understanding of humanity (especially children) and a fondness for hyperbole which I love. If PG Wodehouse had written short stories, and had a very slightly crueller sense of humour, these would be the result.

If you’ve never tried Saki, do so immediately. Even if you don’t like short stories usually, I can’t imagine anyone disliking these – if you’re the sort of person who keeps a book in the loo (and I am) then Saki could work a treat. If you think you’ve got a Complete Saki, then you’re missing this selection – which comes with an interesting Introduction by Adam Newell and Foreword by Jeremy Dyson. Rectify the omission as soon as possible.

Love Leonard

StuckinaBook All , 5 Comments


I always have a collection of the letters on the go, usually several, and the other day I finished Love Letters: Leonard Woolf and Trekkie Ritchie Parsons 1941-1968, edited by Judith Adamson. (Which, incidentally, was on my list of books I intended to read soon, back in April 2007. After two years I’ve read… 12 out of 17, having started and given up on another one. Not bad.) It was catapaulted to the top of my reading pile when my friend Phoebe gave me a second copy of it.

My interest in all things Bloomsbury, especially all things Virginia Woolf, presents something of a quandry – yes, I want to find out more about their lives, but reading Leonard professing love for someone who isn’t Ginny – ‘To know you and to love you has been the best thing in my life’ – is a little disconcerting. True, this started a while after Virginia’s death – but not that long.

Leonard’s met Ian Parsons through publishing, they were colleagues somewhere or other, and through Ian met his wife Trekkie, a painter. And they fell in love. Being the wacky world of Bloomsbury, none of the three seemed to think it particularly odd to carry on as they were – eventually Leonard moved in next door to the Parsons, and Trekkie would spend some holidays with Ian, some with Leonard – basically living two separate, but close, lives.

These letters, then, made slightly odd reading. By the second half they were the sweet, attached letters of two people who loved each other going about everyday life (with Ian usually quietly not mentioned) but the first half was quite awkward – Leonard professing his love in flowery, lengthy descriptions and Trekkie replying about her vegetable patch or latest clothing purchase. Really quite embarrassing how ardent he was and how cool she is in comparison – but obviously he wore her down.

They do make a slightly odd pair, and one with some connection with Two People – Leonard being both older and more intelligent than Trekkie – though she was an independently creative person, which Sylvia was not. She doesn’t come across as being remotely like Virginia, which is probably why Leonard’s relationship with Trekkie worked and Virginia is so seldom mentioned in these letters – but, for me, her absence spoke volumes over the entire, ahem, volume. Though interesting, this collection of letters really demonstrated to me how central Virginia Woolf is to my interest in Bloomsbury, and how bizarre I found the idea that it all carried on without her.

The History Book On The Shelf…

StuckinaBook All , , 6 Comments

Sorry to start this post by setting the cultural barrier quite low… if you don’t recognise the lyric in the post title, then consider yourself much more highbrow than me.

As promised, The History Boys by Alan Bennett. I did the unthinkable and came to this play through the film first – in fact, I still haven’t seen it on stage, but I have read it. What first attracted me to the film was the shots of Magdalen in the trailer – I thought it would be fun to see my place of residence on the big screen. As it turned out, the shots from the trailer were about all you saw of Magdalen in the film. Which makes sense, as they only go to Oxford towards the end…

A bit of plot synopsis, for those who don’t know. It’s a 1980s boys’ school, and eight students are going for a place studying History at Oxford. They have a wise, quirky, lonely teacher Hector – and in is brought a savvy, slightly awkward teacher Irwin. In between is the quite wonderful feminist teacher Mrs. Lintott. The play is really about different styles of knowledge and uses of it, and the purposes of education. Hector has taught them enormous amounts of interesting facts, but focuses equally on re-enactments of famous film scenes, and practising French through rather bizarre scenarios. Irwin is all about getting them into Oxford, teaching them the way to answer interview questions which is a little edgy, a little conspicuously different. Hector thinks examinations ‘the enemy of education’, and thinks with the boys that he has ‘lined their minds with some sort of literary insulation, proof against the primacy of fact’ – Irwin sees this trivia as ‘gobbets’ to be sprinkled into any exam or interview answer.

I didn’t think much of the film. All the acting was great, but the fact that almost everyone was lusting after each other (which I missed out of the synopsis because it’s complicated and quite dull) rather ruined it. Reading the play, there are so many fascinating ideas in it – alongside genuine wit – and it isn’t all clear-cut. It seems that Hector is right to start with – but so much of the entertainment of the play comes from these ‘gobbets’, out of context, out of passionate discovery. Tricky. The depiction of Oxford is hideously out of date, even for the 1980s, but Bennett’s introduction detailing his own application experiences is worth the cover price alone.
Bennett’s major achievement is having so many distinct schoolchildren. So many in fiction are good or disruptive or clever-but-misunderstood, and so forth – these are all intelligent creations and memorably characterised. Dakin – cheeky, bright, canny – is the most impressive, perhaps, but I grew fond of vulnerable Posner and authentic Scripps. Having seen the original cast members in the film, they are inextricably linked in my mind – especially Frances de la Tour’s beautifully sardonic portrayal of Mrs. Lintott – and this helped a reading of the play.

Do seek out a copy to read, or hopefully a local theatre will put it on (is someone still touring with it? I don’t know. Obviously the original cast aren’t). And you could watch the film, but it doesn’t do The History Boys justice at all.