2000s

Oxford Stories

StuckinaBook All , 6 Comments

I’ve been attending my very first book launch! Not for my book, you understand, but for The Lost College & other Oxford stories, a collection by OxPens, a group of writers in Oxford. Last year they very successfully published The Sixpenny Debt & other Oxford stories, which I’ve read *almost* all of, and most of the authors make a repeat performance the second time around – and, what’s more, have secured the approval of Colin Dexter. He, who indirectly provides most of the University’s funding through Morse filming, was at the launch, and gave a kind, unassuming and funny talk. Also suggested that a potential future short story title could be ‘The Identity of the Second Dog Handler’…


Keen followers of Stuck-in-a-Book will recognise a few names from OxPens – Mary Cavanagh (The Crowded Bed), Margaret Pelling (Work For Four Hands… still haven’t reviewed this, but it’s very readable!) and Jane Gordon-Cumming (A Proper Family Christmas – now back in print! ) It was very nice to meet Jane and Margaret, and to see Mary again – this blog really has given me all sorts of lovely opportunities.

I can’t review The Lost College etc. because I only bought it a few hours ago, but there were some very promising readings from the authors included. I especially like the sound of Sheila Costello’s ‘Rabbit Fenley and The Body in the Garden’. Having read The Sixpenny Debt etc., though, I’ll chat about that, in the hope that I’ll have read The Lost College etc. by the time the next anthology comes out… I always find it so difficult to find anything unifying to say about short story collections, so it is a blessing that OxPens have done this for me – all the stories in both collections are connected with Oxford. That can be quite far-ranging, I’ll admit – from Tchiakovsky’s posthumous visit to the Sheldonian through to the accidental stealing of a library book in the distant past, from the confusion arising when a child understands everything adults say entirely literally, to the dangers of cycling in Port Meadow. My two favourite stories, though, are both connected with the middle classes committing murder… what does that say about me? Jane Gordon-Cumming’s Education in Action opens: ‘Dulcie was the scourge of the evening class. Which one? No, I don’t mean any class in particular. Dulcie was the Scourge of the Evening Class, generic. And I use the term loosely, to include day-time classes, weekend courses, summer schools – Dulcie was the scourge of the lot.’ You know the sort… The Rising Price of Property by Laura King contains an ingenious motive for murder, and is wonderfully cynical.

For a taste of Oxford from its real residents, though with real life being something usually foreign to these collections, do seek out The Sixpenny Debt & other Oxford stories or, I’m sure, The Lost College & other Oxford stories. Me, I’m just excited about having been to a book launch.

Everything’s Beachy

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I think I’ll give you another day on the writer-as-character quiz from yesterday, though well done to all the correct responses so far, I’m impressed!

Instead, I’m going to write about The Great Western Beach by Emma Smith, which Steph at Bloomsbury sent me a while ago. Its subtitle is A Memoir of a Cornish Childhood Between the Wars, which is exactly what it is. Before I go any further, I must praise David Mann and Victoria Sawdon – for Jacket Design and Illustration respectively. What a stunning book. In the publishing world, people seem to endlessly copy one another with their covers – hundreds of Joanne Harris/Jon McGregor/Kate Morton lookalikes. Bloomsbury have really done something different, and it is beautiful – Mann and Sawdon must be at the top of their game, or they should be.

Right. Onto the content of the book. Emma Smith was known to me as the writer of a Persephone book, The Far Cry, which I’ve yet to read. She’s also a Shakespeare lecturer at Oxford, but that’s a different Emma Smith. I wasn’t aware that this Emma Smith was still alive, which sounds rude, but not everyone reaches their 85th birthday. She’s (sensibly) waited until late in life (one assumes) to write this memoir of her childhood – and rather brilliant it is, too.

The Hallsmiths, as was their name, aren’t an astoundingly unusual family, but have striking points – misanthropic father who resents being in a lowly position at his bank and craves fame; mother who has lost three previous fiancees; twin boy and girl – the boy fairly sickly, the girl stubborn and adventurous; Elspeth, the author. Elspeth’s early childhood is spent on and around the Great Western Beach, and the beach, alongside the family’s various homes, forms the locations for this autobiography.

I think the most useful way I can write about this book is to describe the style. First person, but neither from the author’s current perspective, nor from the child’s. It is all written as though she were looking back at the events from a distance of only a couple years – some hindsight and analysis is permitted, but alongside childhood ignorance of certain things, and a child’s language. Actually, the vocabulary is an adult’s, but many paragraphs end with sentiments such as ‘It’s not fair! Not fair!’ How does Emma Smith make this mixture of voices and tones and persons work? I don’t know, but it does. The Great Western Beach isn’t irritating or affected; somehow the view of a child is presented convincingly, without losing the slants of wisdom which are the memoir-writer’s prerogative.

Despite the comforting title, this is no cosy childhood. Her father is unloving and mean. She watches her brother struggle through a miserable childhood. Twice she is almost victim to sexual abuse from strangers. But The Great Western Beach is as far from miserylit as it is possible to get – where others, with less material, would have written a Tragic Childhood Memoir (WH Smith actually has a stand called this…), Emma Smith writes an honest but calm book – the good alongside the bad. Her powers of recall are frankly astonishingly – presumably the conversations are not verbatim, but I wouldn’t be able to write a chapter on my childhood, let alone a book, at a quarter of Smith’s age.

Perhaps the most moving section is Smith’s Afterword, which unsettles all the assumptions I’d made:

O my parents, my poor tragic parents – my good and beautiful, brave, dramatic, unperceptive mother; my disappointed, embittered, angry, lonely, talented father: locked, both of them, inside a prison they had not deserved, for reasons they didn’t understand, by conventions they took as immutable laws. I see them now as they were in my childhood: blindly struggling, trapped by social circumstances beyond their control, governed by inherited prejudices not worthy of them. How I wish I could have saved you, set you free, given you the happiness you once expected, all the success you had hoped and longed for, and never managed to make your own. Forgive me, my father, my mother. I have written this memoir, however much it may seem to be otherwise, out of great pity, and with great love.

Even Stephens

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Sorry to be absent for a while – down in Somerset now, and getting a cold (isn’t it always the way, when you get time off work?) but enjoying myself nonetheless.

Vanessa and Virginia by Susan Sellers is the book I’m going to chat about today. Whether or not you’ll like this book can be largely decided by what your reaction is to that title – if you think “Oo, nice names, sounds fun” then look elsewhere. If your immediate thoughts are “Bell! Woolf! The Stephen sisters!” then you, like me, will probably love Sellers’ novel.

Vanessa and Virginia is fictional, but based on real people and events – the childhood of Vanessa and Virginia Stephen, later to be artist Vanessa Bell and novelist Virginia Woolf, and their subsequent lives up to the death of Virginia. It is from the perspective of Vanessa, and addressed to Virginia (though without expecting response). Sellers’ style is not an imitation of Woolf’s, but it has deep similarities – the same beautiful lyricism, use of abstract images, delving into human emotions with an intelligence and compassion which never stumbles into the saccharine. Had Sellers been a shade closer to Woolf, it would have merely been a false copying – as it is, she stays just on the right side. Like Woolf’s writing, though, you have to read a couple of pages every time you pick it up, before you fall into her rhythm. And, also like Woolf’s writing, I think Vanessa and Virginia will divide people. I was wrapped in the beauty of the language and never wanted to leave – but I can see how the short sentences and symbolism might rankle.

I came from the position that I knew a lot about the Stephen sisters – from Hermione Lee’s biography of Virginia Woolf, but more significantly (for this novel) from Angelica Garnett’s impressive memoir Deceived with Kindness. As such, I had no problem when a host of characters were introduced, one after another, in the Stephens’ extended family and the Bloomsbury Group. I don’t say all that to blow my own Eng-lit-studying trumpet, of course, but rather because I don’t know how confusing Vanessa and Virginia would be for the uninitiated – I would humbly suggest that people seek out Deceived with Kindness first, as then everything will make sense. Plus Deceived with Kindness is great. I was going to point you in the right direction to read my review of it, but I don’t appear to have written one – so it might appear later.

To return to Vanessa and Virginia. The novel is a portrait of sibling rivalry and closeness; competition and understanding; unspoken bonds and unwritten rules guiding a relationship fraught with both love and jealousy. Obviously, I don’t know how true this is. Sellers uses at least one or two events (won’t spoil it for you by naming them) which probably didn’t happen, but are poetically justifiable. From the biographies I’ve read the sisters seem very close, but perhaps the jealousy side was there with some strength too. It certainly leads to some interesting discussion on the relative merits of writing and painting : “I think of Father’s jeer that painting is a bastard sister to literature” [Vanessa] later, “There is no doubt painting is leading the way. Fiction has forgotten its purpose. The novelists circle round their subject, describing everything that is extraneous to it, and then are surprised when it slips from view” [Virginia]. (Incidentally, to my mind, it is just this ‘circling around’ which makes Woolf such a brilliant writer – she homes in on a person, object, emotion through these descriptions of contiguity, rather than going simply and insufficiently for the heart). In some ways, the literal truth of the events and relationships doesn’t matter – Sellers was never going to be able to write Vanessa Bell’s autobiography. What she has done is write a beautiful novel which does justice to Bell’s perspective as a very talented painter, overshadowed by a very talented novelist sister, in an unusual group and unusual time. I don’t know where Sellers can go after this, but I look forward to finding out.

A Personal Low Point

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How the mighty are fallen. What would Virginia Woolf say if she knew what I’d just read. Granted, the whole book took me less than an hour, but that’s still an hour I could have spent in the company of Laura Ramsay, Clarissa Dalloway, Miss La Trobe.

I’ve just read High School Musical : The Book of the Film.

My very dear friend Mel bought it for me, since we have shared (ironically, you understand) the rollercoaster of emotions that is Troy (basketball player) and Gabriella (Maths genius) discovering affinity through song. She asked me to write about it on here, and being the slavish man I am…

If you’ve seen High School Musical, then you’ve read all the dialogue in this book. N.B. Grace, who appears to have penned all manner of such books (though also looks like a note reminding about the Gospel) has turned his/her hand to writing a book in the easiest way possible. Grab a script, and throw “He said, thoughtfully”; “She said, inwardly groaning” and so forth, throughout. Repeat as needed. Surprisingly, however, it is done unobtrusively, and makes for an enjoyable enough read.

But why do I write about it here? Well, some of you may be the parents/grandparents/friends/siblings of someone who is reluctant to read much. If that person is a pre-teenager, possibly with a crush on Zac Efron/Vanessa Anne Hudgens, then maybe this book would lure them into the reading fold… Worth a shot, anyway.

Happy, Mel? ;-)

Soft amongst the macabre

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A couple of review books I’ve been meaning to write about, with very little in common except that I want to write about them together. These sorts of posts always remind about my favourite tutor, Emma, who had my friend Chris and me in joint tutorials. We’d often written on completely different texts with completely different topics and themes – and Emma would valiantly spend the tutorial trying to draw out unifying points from the two. Should be fun.

The first is Alternative Medicine by Laura Solomon, a collection of short stories published by Flame Books. They also published The Bestowing Sun by Neil Grimmett (which I wrote about here) and Tru by Eric (which I wrote about here). I was so impressed by these two novels that I had to read more from the publishing house. Perhaps I’d set myself up for a fall – while I enjoyed and admired Alternative Medicine, it has a very different feel to it. Those novels were at the forefront of emotional, real modern literature, exploring relationships between families and the elasticity of feelings – Laura Solomon is doing something quite different.

It’s always difficult to summarise a collection of short stories, and it’s illuminating to see what the writer of the blurb has chosen to represent Alternative Medicine: ‘A couple is torn apart by a renegade duvet, an upstaged Santa takes revenge on his rival, a girl’s father is abducted by aliens, a man is relentlessly bullied by his sister on their annual holiday, a manufactured genius turns out to be not so perfect after all’. The next paragraph talks abut the ‘entertaining and insightful journey into the shortcomings of being human, and the wonder of our graces’; ‘masterful central metaphors, sharp wit, and a beautiful simplcity’. For me, the title to today’s post says it all for a theme – ‘soft amongst the macabre’. I read each story with foreboding, expecting something strange or grotesque at every corner – to inject the writing with this menace is quite a talent – but alongside this was a soft, sensitive understanding of the characters and their motivations.

The Battle for Gullywith by Susan Hill appeared on more or less every blog known to man a few months ago, but I’ve only just finished it. It’s my first book by Susan Hill, in fact, though I’ve read thousands of her words in the form of her blog. It is inevitable that any children’s book now will be compared to Harry Potter, so I’m just going to use the words and get on with what I was talking about. The plot is probably familiar to you all, if not, pop over to Amazon (this must be the laziest reviewing ever!) I read The Battle for Gullywith in three bouts, and was thus rather confused at times, but that’s my fault rather than the book’s. I think it’s probably a book one has to come to as a child to truly love – I found it an enjoyable romp, with amusing, slightly predictable characters, some inventive plot aspects, and the most ingenious use of tortoises I’ve ever encountered. A few too many topical references to feel timeless, but enough good old-fashioned adventure to beguile a child who has exhausted JK Rowling and Enid Blyton. Say what you like about those authors, but I don’t think a child can do much better than them.

Half of Two

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Lots of time to enter BAFAB – it always surprises me that over a hundred people popped by today, and not all of them want a free book! Do head over to Jenny’s BAFAB draw, too. Oh, free books. Gotta love ’em! If you can’t use the comments thing on Blogger, email me at simondavidthomas@yahoo.co.uk, and I’ll put your name in that way.

As promised, going to chat about Identical Strangers today. I bought it in Kensington on Saturday, and it leapt right to the top of my tbr pile. I love it when a book comes along which is impossible to resist…

Identical Strangers is non-fiction, by and about Elyse Schein and Paula Bernstein. They were both adopted from Louise Wise Services, but it wasn’t until Elyse was 35 and contacted the adoption service for nonidentifying information about her birth mother that she discovered… she is an identical twin. Paula was equally astonished when she got a ‘phone call : “I’ve got some news for you. I hate to dump this on you, but you’ve got a twin.” Paula tries to ‘phone back the director of post-adoption services… and accidentally calls the number for her twin sister. They speak for the first time at 35.

I, as you may know, am absolutely fascinated by twins – in fact and fiction. And I am a twin myself, which accelerates my interest. Even without this predilection for twin literature, I think anyone would be intrigued, moved and compelled by Identical Strangers. Paula and Elyse tell their narratives in distinct paragraphs, alternately headed by their names, and it helps that both have been or are professional film reviewers, and are talented writers. They talk us through the experience of discovering that they are twins, and the first times they speak, and meet. This would be really interesting in fiction, but in non-fiction it is enthralling and honest. Paula is married with a child, and unsure that she wants to add to her family – Elyse, who is single and started the search, can’t understand why Paula isn’t as excited as she is herself. All sorts of issues about identity and self are reared – they both find it difficult to see their own mannerisms in the other (and think them exaggerated), and begin to feel possessive about their characteristics.

Alongside their journey, they’ve done some impressive research, and present it well. There are other examples of separated twins; theories on nature/nurture; how twins differ from ‘normal’ siblings. I lap all this stuff up – though, as usual, as a dizygotic /non-identical/fraternal twin, I’m rather sidelined. We’re always seen as something rather insignificant in comparison to identical twins… Colin aka The Carbon Copy isn’t a carbon copy really, you see, though we look similar enough that people still mix us up. Being a twin, I can understand their anger at being separated – and I can’t imagine how any child psychologists believed it was the accurate choice to make. Apparently some people believed being a twin was a “burden to the child and parents”… seething doesn’t begin to cover it. What would my life be like without having grown up with Col? I don’t want to think.

We follow Paula and Elyse through a couple of years – the joy, the excitement, the bickering, the discovering of their extraordinary relationship. A driving force of this book is their quest to find answers to questions – why were they separated? Why weren’t their respective adoptive parents told that they were twins? Who idea was it, and what were the theories behind separation? And then they begin trying to locate their birth mother.

A fascinating topic, well told by engaging, honest people experiencing a rollercoaster of events. Do go and check it out.

With a Twist

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Hello, hello. A nice (but busy) weekend in London – met up with blogging friend Angela, and with university friends Lorna and Phil, saw the Tate Modern and the locked outside of the British Library, bought some more Persephone books (Alas, Poor Lady by Rachel Ferguson; A Woman’s Place 1910-75 by Ruth Adam; A Very Great Profession by Nicola Beauman), and a non-fiction book called Identical Strangers which is by and about a pair of twins, separated at birth and reunited at age 35. As you might know, I’m fascinated by all things twin, and have already read most of this fascinating book – will be writing about it soon.

It feels a little mean to review a play which is only on in London at the moment, because getting to London isn’t feasible for many of my lovely readers, but you might derive vicarious interest – and some of you, like Stuck-in-a-Book’s favourite feline, Dark Puss, are City dwellers.

On The Rocks – at Hampstead Theatre until 26 July – is by Amy Rosenthal – if you recognise the name, it’s probably because her Dad is the late Jack Rosenthal, and mother is Maureen Lipman. She probably hates being introduced like that, but… well, I’m sure she’s proud of it too. Her play is a comedy about… actually, I’ll copy the blurb from the advertisement I picked up:

Spring 1916, DH Lawrence and his wife Frieda have found a new life for themselves in the remote Cornish village of Zennor. Rejuvenated by the wild beauty around them, they persuade close friends Katherine Mansfield and John Middleton Murry to join them in their Cornish idyll. But no sooner have Katherine and Jack arrived than long-simmering tensions bubble to the surface, and Lawrence’s dream of communal living starts unravelling before his eyes… Based on true events, this is the story of women, and men, in love. An uplifting and passionate comedy about four friends trying to live together, two marriages struggling for survival and a group of writers striving for creativity in the midst of war.

That doesn’t make me sound uber-highbrow, does it? On The Rocks has its philosophical moments, and is a thoughtful examination of disparate ways of life, but above and beyond that it is a comedy, and a very successful one. I urge anyone with the chance, do go and see it. Then read The Garden Party and Pencillings and Lady Chatterley’s Lover and… whatever Frieda Lawrence would have written.

Oxford Revisited

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‘Oxford’, the word, is a powerful thing. It means so much to people; it means different things to different people. There are oceans of myth and speculation, assumption and history – almost anywhere in the world you’ll find someone enthralled by the idea of Oxford. Oxford University, I should say, but the two are so closely linked (especially in reputation) that extricating them is difficult and almost pointless.

I spent all my first year here pinching myself (metaphorically…) thinking “I’m at Oxford! Me!” – mostly, perhaps, because the myths are not reality. I had to keep reminding myself that this was Oxford, perhaps also because I’d never before lived somewhere significant in the eyes of the world. Is there anywhere else in England, excepting London, which holds such a place in people’s imagination? Sadly, this goes both ways. The long-dead ideas of privilege and idle rich boys are persistent, as are all sorts of unfairly derogatory things. One of things which saddens me most is that some of my closest friends detest my student life in Oxford – and thus, unwittingly, detest the way I choose to live. The city and the university are swirls of academic ativism, tradition and learning, fun and fantasies.

So I couldn’t resist when I was offered a review copy of Justin Cartwright’s This Secret Garden: Oxford Revisited. It’s a non-fiction account of novelist Cartwright returning to his alma mater decades after studenthood, wandering through the streets and colleges, reminiscing and presenting a history of this fabled city. But, oh, that someone else had written it. There is certainly enough of Oxford in this little book to engage me – interesting history, and occasionally a rather winning sympathy with natural and academic Oxford… but there is so much else. Cartwright can’t stay on topic for more than a few moments, and wanders off into his own, fairly irrelevant, thoughts and opinions. Like many of those who most fervently proclaim open-mindedness, Cartwright is as close-minded as they come – his rhetoric frequently strides between psychobabble and bland – but strident – atheism. (One of the things I love about Oxford University is that it was built to the glory of God – just look at the college names! Jesus, Trinity, Corpus Christi…) Cartwright labels a rather witty joke about evolution as indicative that someone may be a ‘religious bigot and sneering oaf’, and… oh, if I have to read Isaiah Berlin’s name again! Cartwright states, unnecessarily, at one point: ‘I have often thought of Berlin and Oxford as one’ – unnecessarily, because Berlin is mentioned on almost every page. I’m sure he’s an admirable chap, but he’s not the reason I was reading this book.

These irksome traits aside, This Secret Garden has its high points. The tutorial Cartwright takes with an English tutor (despite never, as far as I could tell, studying English as a student) is diverting, and the meandering through Oxford’s spots of beauty is touchingly told. I had a couple of serendipitous moments whilst reading the book – I’d got to a bit about the statue of Cecil Rhodes on the exterior wall of Oriel College, only to realise I was standing immediately beneath it (yes, I was reading whilst walking, again). And there are interviews with Clive Hurst, one of my colleagues in the New Bodleian, in the room where Justin Cartwright looked at a copy of Shakespeare’s First Folio.

In the end, like the temporary footprints each generation of undergraduates makes on the sturdy permanence of Oxford, the city and the university are able to outweigh their narrator. Cartwright’s opinions are overshadowed by the mystique of Oxford – and you could do worse than find it in these pages. If nothing else, it has offered the finest epithet for Oxford that I’ve found: ‘In Oxford you can read a book anywhere you like, without attracting attention.’

Star Gazing

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I get sent quite a few ‘first novels’, so it’s a pleasant change to receive a novel which is the third from an author’s pen. Of course, I love seeing the first-offs too – but when Star Gazing by Linda Gillard arrived, I had the experiences of Emotional Geology and A Lifetime Burning to which to compare it. Plus, Linda has been an e-friend for a few years now, and it’s always lovely to hear from her.

I was in a position of knowledge when it came to Linda’s second novel, A Lifetime Burning. I wrote about it last year, and though there were obvious aspects of the book which I hadn’t experienced (shan’t spoil it for you, but let’s just say I might have a criminal record if I had experienced them) I am a twin and in a vicar’s family, and so could understand those. I’ve never been so impressed by any literary portrayal of being a twin – Linda understood it so well. I can only assume she has found a similar level of empathy and recognition with blindness. Marianne, the central character of Star Gazing, is blind.

Blind, but not a victim. Bolshy, is our Marianne – “crabbit”, to quote Keir. Keir is the man in the novel – an oil rigger who spends his time away from work living on Skye, he’s a heady mixture of shy and sensitive and rugged and… does he exist? Linda has said that she was intrigued by the idea of writing a hero who might not exist – since Marianne has to rely on her other senses, she can’t be sure that Keir isn’t a projection of her imagination, and the reader spends quite a few chapters equally unsure.

But I haven’t said much about Marianne, yet. She’s middle-aged, and has been blind since birth. A widower, she lives with her vampire-romantic-novel writing sister Louisa (sisters Marianne and Louisa… the influence of Jane Austen hovering somewhere, perhaps?) and is a very determined woman. I always have a little trouble with people who are desperate to be independent – the sort of person who complains that people are being ‘patronising’ to them – but perhaps that’s because I function best in a unit (back to the twin thing, mayhap). With Marianne, she has enough endearing features that I rarely wanted to throttle her. I can’t be cross with a woman who says “Pure Enid Blyton – a much maligned author, in my opinion.” My only criticism is that she so often mentions that she is blind. Her prerogative, I suppose, but I’m sure most visually impaired people can let the expression “You see what I mean” pass, without pointing out that they can’t…

Star Gazing uses three narrative focalisations – Marianne, Louisa, and a third person narrative. Linda uses this skilfully, as she has done before, and the transition from Marianne’s internal view to an external perspective highlights the smallness of Marianne’s world – as she says, her experience of it stretches only as far as she can hear, smell or touch. The success of Star Gazing must ultimately hinge on the story, and the portrayal of blindness. As I said, I can’t judge from my own experience – I’d love to hear from someone who can – but I was fairly convinced. It must be such a difficult task: how to describe the absence of sight from the perspective of one who doesn’t know what she hasn’t got? There is a strong theme of music throughout – I hardly knew any of the references, but visual things, especially scenery and natural phenomena, are often described to Marianne by their musical equivalent. The beautiful intricacy of a cobweb, for instance – which Marianne has only experienced as sticky and unpleasant – is compared to The Well-Tempered Clavier.

Star Gazing is not as ambitious or controversial as A Lifetime Burning – and consequently, where A Lifetime Burning was a great novel, Star Gazing is a good one. A very good one. It would be surprising if an author had two novels of A Lifetime Burning’s power in them, let alone consecutively. Star Gazing, though, demonstrates Linda Gillard’s continuing power as a storyteller, a creator of vivid and unusual characters, and a novelist who will hopefully soon get the recognition she deserves. I’m delighted that a fourth novel has already been written – can’t wait.

En Suite

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Sorry not to write anything yesterday – I was tearing through the book for tonight’s book group (metaphorically, you understand), having similarly dashed through one for Tuesday night’s book group. They’re not often on consecutive nights, so it was rather a challenge this time. Luckily both books were great – a re-read of Angela Young’s Speaking of Love (see 50 Books You Must Read….) and the book I’m going to chat about today – Irene Nemirovsky’s Suite Francaise. Both her name and the title are calculated to defeat Blogger’s attempts to locate accents and cidillas (sp?) etc, so I’m afraid I’m going to leave the lot out. Sorry…

Suite Francaise has had a lot of publicity, in Europe anyway, so I shan’t say that much about the plot of the book – a lot of others have done so better than I could, anyway. I should, actually, say books – these are the first two of a planned trilogy (potentially even more) which Nemirovsky was tragically unable to complete, because she was killed in Auschwitz in 1942. The two books are Storm in June, which documents the invasion of Paris and the fleeing of many from it; and Dolce, about a village under Nazi occupation. Some characters overlap, especially in peripheral mentions.

I’ll launch right into my praise – Nemirovsky is an incredibly gifted novelist. Had these been further edited; had the trilogy been complete, this could have been one of twentieth century’s most important works, I think. The people at Book Group agreed that her greatest talent was the delineation of character, and making people unique and fully formed. A comparison of Dolce with the film Went The Day Well? is illuminating and quite amusing. Though I love that film, it could hardly be considered to offer sympathy to the German troops – it is a bitter irony that Nemirovsky could see these soldiers are people, with all their virtues and vices, and yet would die under the Nazi regime. Had these novels been written now, the French might be innocent victims and the German soldiers all baddies – Nemirovsky, especially in Dolce, is able to see them as humans, first and foremost. Perhaps Storm in June has one too many unpleasant rich men, but perhaps Paris had too many of them at the time. A pervasive theme is that money could help one escape most things. She laments the way those with no control over the situation are those to bear the brunt of the anguish:

‘But why are we always the ones who have to suffer?’ she cried out in indignation. ‘Us and people like us? Ordinary people, the lower middle classes. If war is delcared or the franc devalues, if there’s unemployment or a revolution, or any sort of crisis, the others manage to get through all right. We’re always the ones who get trampled! Why? What did we do? We’re paying for everyone else’s mistakes.’

Neither novel has a straight-forward, linear plot, and often novels which avoid these are difficult to keep reading. They don’t grab you. But in Suite Francaise, despite the episodic and patchwork-like writing, I always wanted to read on. There are sharp points of drama amongst less shocking narratives; it is an experience rather than a plot. I did prefer Dolce, as I didn’t lose track of characters as I did in Storm in June, and the central story between Frenchwoman Lucile and German soldier Bruno is touching and sophisticatedly complex – but both novels are evidence that Nemirovsky was a writer who should have had a very glowing future. Authentic, beautiful, understanding.