2000s

The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets

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The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets by Eva Rice was given to me as a Christmas present by my friend Lorna, who’d read and loved it. I passed it on to Our Vicar’s Wife, who also loved it, and has passed it on to a lady in our village in Somerset… isn’t it great when a recommendation goes along a chain like this? It’s only fair that I pass it on to all of you, too.

Please don’t let that fact that it was a Richard & Judy Book Club choice put you off. They choose some fine books. And, more importantly, don’t be discouraged by the cover, which falls firmly into ‘chick lit’ territory. Today’s sketch shows the importance of distrusting cover images…


Right. Now we can consider the book itself. The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets is set in the 1950s. Penelope lives in one of those crumbling old mansions only found in literature, and is (of course) the daughter of a beautiful widow, and has a mildly eccentric brother, obsessed with music. She meets Charlotte at a bus stop, and is invited, out of the blue, to visit Charlotte’s aunt (not, we must note, the same as Charley’s Aunt) who lives in a book-crammed room, and is dictating her own book to Charlotte. Charlotte is the driving force of this novel, though we follow Penelope’s viewpoint – in Charlotte, Rice has enfused such an energy, such a good-natured whirl of sophisticated absurdity and capriciousness. She reminded me of Miss Hargreaves, not in sharing character traits, but in her unique energy; in the unwearying delight it is to read about her.

Penelope and Charlotte dash from socialite parties to the aunt’s flat to the disintegrating mansion – sharing crushes, aspirations, occasionally squabbling – all with a pace and joy that is contagious. Rice includes a couple of significant plot twists, which is all to the good of the novel’s structure, but when she produces characters so brilliant, it scarcely matters what the plot is.

The debts to Nancy Mitford and Dodie Smith are there, and cheerfully confessed to in the blurb, but this novel restored my faith in the modern novel. I’ve read a fair few good modern novels, but all of them were sombre much of the time. The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets is the first unapologetically amusing and incandescently happy novel I’ve come across in ages.

Who is Florence Wolfson?

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What do you really expect to find when looking through a skip?

Probably not the inspiration for a book, unless that book happens to be “Travels With My Refuse” or “Binbags I Have Known”. Lily Koppel, a young journalist at the New York Times, did rather better – on 6th October 2003, all sorts of old trunks were thrown away from where they’d been languishing in unclaimed storage. Spotting an opportunity… no, wait. “I felt a pang of longing. I was seized by the impulse that at this moment, nothing mattered but seeing what lay inside the trunks.” Well, what lay inside one of them was an old red leather diary. A Milestone Five Year diary, 1929-1934. The property of one Florence Wolfson, given to her on her fourteenth birthday.

Every single day had an entry. These ranged from the trivial – ‘Played piano for Mother this evening & enjoyed myself enormously’ – to the deeply emotive: ‘It’s really pitiful that I love George so much – I’m absolutely nothing in his hands’ and more or less everything in between. Most significantly, it was true. Even if Florence’s was the most mundane of lives (and it was not), its detailed preservation for so many decades makes it a significant social document.

What is it which moves Florence’s diary to a higher level? Perhaps it is mostly that Florence is still alive. A nonagenarian, married for 67 years to a boy she met in her diary days, she was tracked down by Lily Koppel, and writes in the Foreword that “a forgotten chunk of my life, full of adolescent angst and passion, is handed to me… my striving, feeling, immature self [seen] through my now elderly eyes”. (I’ve changed the second person to the first person – the original is perhaps symptomatic of this disconnection Florence Wolfson, now Howitt, must feel after so many years distance).

The Red Leather Diary: Reclaiming a Life Through the Pages of a Journal is certainly not simply the publication of Florence’s childhood journal. Lily uses the diary as a basis, and, having also spoken at length to Florence and surviving family & friends, constructs a third person narrative of the years 1929-34. Florence did, after all, only write a sentence or two per day. Koppel favours quite an arty prose – people say things with ‘wide gray eyes void of emotion’; things don’t happen immediately, rather ‘she didn’t have time to take a sip before they pulled up at the canopy of the forty-one-story white granite Hotel Pierre looking down on the Plaza’. Difficult to demonstrate Koppel’s writing style without artificially isolating it, but hopefully you get the picture. Alongside this, Florence’s diary entries (which are cited between paragraphs, an ongoing thread of the primary material) are starkly factual and unadornedly expressive: ‘Planning a play on Wordsworth – possibilities are infinite’. These two styles intertwine, and play out against each other to mutual benefit, I think. It is Florence’s voice I cherish in The Red Leather Diary, yet her distinctive day-to-day accounts are too sparse to exist without Koppel’s elaboration.

For me, the idea behind the book was enough to make me want to read it. A rediscovered journal; an encounter between young journalist and nonagenarian (which, to my mind, is the most interesting section of an interesting book). These are events to be treasured, and worth a book, whatever the youthful Florence was like. What makes her journal, her biography, her narrative so compelling is her character. Not always likeable, she is nonetheless a creative spirit – writing, painting, loving. She presents mature philosophical reflections even while she declares every crush to be a great love affair and bewails the strictures imposed by her parents. The Red Leather Diary is an honest portrayal of teenagerdom in an evolving world, but by showing Florence approaching the end of her life too, it is a true narrative of reflection and change. You couldn’t make it up.

Shorter Than Fiction

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It’s always difficult to review collections of short stories, or even consider them in one’s mind effectively. Should they be treated as ten or twenty separate works, or as one work? Sometimes there is an obvious linking style – as with Katherine Mansfield, say – which makes every narrative unmistakably by the same author, even if you can’t put your finger on the reason why. Other writers, like Clare Wigfall (whose The Loudest Sound and Nothing I talked about last August) have a huge variety and range in their style. I don’t think either approach is intrinsically superior, but the former is lot easier to make generalisations about!

Two short story writers have sent me their debut collections recently, both of whom are rather prolific and much-published in various publications. Balancing on the Edge of the World by Elizabeth Baines, and Words from a Glass Bubble by Vanessa Gebbie. I think the best way to chat about these books is to pick the story from each which I most enjoyed, and which is fairly representative, and use that as a starting point.

The blurb to Baines’ Balancing on the Edge of the Worlds says the stories are all about power – the keeping, losing, grasping or relinquishing of it. That’s probably as unifying a theme as any, but it’s probably easier to suggest a unifying style. Baines’ writing has a soothing softness to it, but somehow each story feels haunted and uneasy, until a turn (nothing so histrionic as a ‘twist’, if you can see the difference) justifies this foreboding. But even with uneasiness, and occasional tragedy, that softness remains.

The story I wanted to pick out is ‘Compass and Torch’ – in the third person, an uncertain boy on a trip with his Dad, whom he doesn’t often see. ‘The boy is intent. Watching Dad. Watching what Dad is. Drinking it in: the essence of Dad.’ The awkwardness of their relationship – with its latent closeness, and surface of discomfort – is portrayed so exactly. We see it first in relation to the torch, of which the boy is so anxiously proud:

The boy is chattering: ‘Have you brought one too, have you brought a torch?’ ‘Oh, yes!’ Is this a problem? the boy suddenly wonders. Does this make one of the torches redundant? For a brief moment he is uncertain, potentially dismayed, a mood which the man, for all his distraction, catches. ‘We can use both of them, can’t we, Dad?’ ‘Oh yes! Yes, of couse!’ Then a swoop of delight: ‘We can light up more with both, can’t we?’ ‘Oh yes, certainly!’ The man too is gratefully caught on a wave of triumph. ‘Oh, yes, two are definitely better! Back-up, for a start.’
I shouldn’t dream of telling you the end of this story, except that it is done calmly in a couple of sentences, and won’t leave your mind for some time. Baines’ stories are executed with a subtle smoothness, and a precise portrayal of human relationships – both the surface of them, and what goes on underneath. A great debut.

Words from a Glass Bubble by Vanessa Gebbie has an equally varied group of scenarios, narrators and themes – but her voice is rather harsher, more concerned with the gritty and the earthy. Occasionally a quieter voice creeps through, which leaves one staring at the page at the sheer pathos Gebbie can create. ‘The Kettle on the Boat’, for instance, where parents quietly take their Inuit daughter away on a boat; she narrates the journey, and leave her for adoption: “If I am not there to help, how will Mama know when the fish are ready?”

The one I wanted to point to, though, is ‘Cactus Man’. ‘The Kettle on the Boat’ was my favourite, but ‘Cactus Man’ is perhaps more representative. ‘Spike’, an enthusiast and collector of cacti , wants to discover his real name because he is getting married. He visits a social worker who can look through his files and tell him.

‘I was saying how unusual your case is.’ ‘Can’t be doing with too much usual.’ ‘Sorry?’ ‘We feed off being unusual, us lot.’ ‘Oh, I see’.

The story is one of muted disappointment, understated grief and an eventual path of hope for Spike. Gebbie is at her most subtle here, and manages to evoke the lives of her central characters completely, visualised through the stilted attempts of Spike to gain a firmer grasp on his identity. There is nothing so saccharine as a ‘love conquers all’ message here (however true that may be) but a sense that hope can be found amongst fragility and discouragement.

Both collections are published by Salt Publishing.

The Bestowing Sun

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Sometimes something rather special comes along. Granted, it didn’t start very well – but from the second word onwards, The Bestowing Sun is something worth talking about.

Let me be clearer. I asked Flame Books (see the sketch…) to send me a review copy of Neil Grimmett’s novel The Bestowing Sun for two reasons – firstly, the cover; secondly, it is set in rural Somerset. As someone who calls rural Somerset home, I was intrigued to see how it would appear in fiction. And the first word of this novel is “Mommy.” Nobody in Somerset has ever, does ever or will ever use that word. Tsk.

But the other few thousand words are great. The novel focuses upon two brothers, William and Richard, who grow up together in a farming family, with parents Herbie and Madeline. From the outset, from the earliest age, William is obsessed with his art, with the creation of art and the presentation of humans as their nature truly is, in paintings. Richard is his stocky, sensible brother who can’t understand this perspective, how it absorbs and controls William. Towards the beginning, William unveils a painting his parents commissioned him to create, of the family posed around the kitchen table:

‘Richard had grunted and struggled to his feet the moment the cloth uncovered the canvas, Madeline gave a small cry and clasped her hand over her face. Herbie took the painting without a word or a look at William and carried it off. William has not been able to find it since though, as now, he was haunted by it.’

Without describing the painting, or telling us what the family saw in their portraits, Grimmett shows the striking effects of William’s works, and the discords they spark in his relatives.

What follows is akin to a retelling of The Prodigal Son (would I be wrong in thinking the title a pun?) – one of the most beautiful parables in the Bible for demonstrating God’s love and grace, and one Our Vicar always calls The Forgiving Father rather than The Prodigal Son. In The Bestowing Sun it is a lengthy absence on William’s part – to a crumbling marriage, alcoholism and self-destruction (all of which we see very early in the novel). I wasn’t fond of the harshness and coarseness of the language in this section, until I realised what Grimmett was doing. As William makes his way back to the farm of his childhood, initially as an address for bail, we feel not only his longing for home. The reader (at least, this reader) longs alongside him for the softer, more beautiful language – the gentle characterisation that so exactly depicts fraternal rivalry and buried attachment; parental pride and hurt; the tarnished bewitching qualities of Selina – a girl both brothers loved and neither can forget.

In some ways, the path of the plot is not unpredictable, but that is scarcely the point. The final chapter of this novel is so beautiful, a touching harmony of art, family and prodigality – though with none of the soppiness of that sentence, I must add. Grimmett’s great achievement is writing a beautiful novel which is never pretentious and certainly never lachrymose. Quite the reverse. These are plain-talking rural folk, after all. I think the combination of artistry and rurality is best demonstrated in this realisation from Richard: ‘But how. he suddenly thought, does one fool an artist’s eye? It would be a bit like someone showing him a sick or weakly calf and expecting him to carry it back from the market.’

Odd One Out

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Normally a narrative about a quiet girl, alternatively ignored and put upon by all whom she loves, killing herself alone in a pub and having her suicide note tampered with – these would the ingredients of fiction. Not in Janet Todd’s Death and the Maidens, a book I was sent for review a shamefully long time ago. This biography of the Shelley/Wollstonecraft circle focalises the dysfunctional bunch around the figure of the least well-known: Fanny Wollstonecraft. Daughter of one famous Mary, sister to another, sister-in-law to Percy Shelley and observer of a whole crowd of renowned figures, Fanny’s life and death remain much less documented. Todd redresses this, but uses Fanny’s life as a viewpoint rather than the be and end all of this deeply researched but eminently approachable book.

Todd opens the book with this suicide (so I’m not giving anything away), and there is a constant understated thread throughout, as the reader tries to understand what could lead a girl in her early 20s to commit this act.

She was born to Gilbert Imlay and Mary Wollstonecraft, famous authoress of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman (which I have started reading in a tatty Dover Thrift Edition) amongst other things, and soon step-daughter to William Godwin, whose Political Justice was busy inspiring a generation of young idealists, including one Percy Bysshe Shelley. Though Shelley never swayed from his ‘ideal’, the rest of the world did –

‘In Political Justice [Godwin] had declared the love of fame a delusion; yet he was finding it difficult to adapt to his changed public position, no longer London’s pre-eminent intellectual but simply a cultural anachronism, his great work, which had seared the minds of so many in the radical 1790s, now largely unread and his frank Memoirs a byword for indelicacy.’

It was in these Memoirs that anyone who wasn’t already aware could discover news of Fanny’s illegitimacy. No secrecy there. She grew up with an unfriendly stepmother, Mary having died in childbirth to another Mary, and the pity, scorn or envy of a public which couldn’t imagine itself in her position. Fanny certainly shared some of her parents’ views, often with fervour, but was never allowed to be in the position to exercise them. Much of her life is summarised when Todd writes: ‘Fanny’s quotidian life might be dismal but the imaginative life fed by poetic visions could be rich indeed’

These poetic visions came partly in the form of Shelley, who initially wished to meet Godwin, and Wollstonecraft’s progeny, but ended up in an abscondment with Fanny’s two sisters, Mary and Claire. Not, one notes, Fanny – who was often a go-between, ferrying messages or bearing disapproval, but never a true confidante. Todd speculates as to whether or not Fanny loved Shelley – something perhaps even she didn’t know, but characteristic of a book which doesn’t sweep away human emotions simply because they are inexact.

Shelley wrote to Fanny at one point that, ‘despite being “one of those formidable & long clawed animals called a Man”, he was inoffensive and lived on vegetables.‘ You and me both, Percy – but the self-portraits he painted were often delusional. He claimed in Defence of Poetry, as Todd cites, that the Poet “is more delicately organized than other men, and sensible to pain and pleasure, both his own and that of others, in a degree unknown to them.” What price self-knowledge! Shelley, at least the Shelley we see in Death and the Maidens, was not sensible in any sense of the word – forever acting in his own interests (thinly disguised as being his ideals) he left one wife while pregnant, had numerous affairs, continually tried to lure his sisters and other young girls from those who loved them, and bewailed his own situation whenever it stepped lower than blissful. The most discordant aspect of his character is that he continued to pay Godwin money – for no other apparent reason than appreciation of his talent – long after Godwin refused to give audience to Shelley.

According to Hogg (and also quoted by Todd), Shelley was ‘altogether incapable of rendering an account of any transaction whatsoever, according to the strict and precise truth, and the bare naked realities of actual life’. It is to Todd’s great credit that the reverse is true for her – what could have become sensationalised or hand-wringing is, in fact, told with a caring honesty. Death and the Maidens does not fall into the other trap, which much literary biography does, of dryness and dullness – though the research is doubtless impeccable, Todd does not write this work in an overly-scholarly manner. By that I mean it is perfectly permissable to start sentences “Fanny must have felt…” or “Perhaps she would have…” – in a determinedly highbrow work, these might have been axed. As it is, Death and the Maidens is informal enough that, while intelligent research is never compromised, it is a much more approachable work than many on the period.

Wherever Fanny went and whatever she did, the dual curses of being notorious in public and ignored in private plagued her – she was continually thrust into the background of the limelight, as it were, an unhappy compromise. Had she been raised in a normal, average family, she had the temperament to live a long and fairly insignificant life. She was intelligent without being a genius; emotional without being unstably passionate. Janet Todd produces a fascinating work which shows both the tragedy and beauty of Fanny’s short life, and offers a strikingly unique angle on some of the period’s most prominent figures.

Postjudiced

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It seems Mrs. Darcy has been a busy woman, paying calls on more or less every blog in the neighbourhood, and Stuck-in-a-Book is no different. In fact, despite Diana Birchall (whom I know from an online literary discussion list) contacting me a while ago, her book Mrs. Darcy’s Dilemma has been hither and thither, all around Oxfordshire and most of the departments of the Bodleian. Hallowed company indeed. Finally she landed at my doorstop (or, more precisely, the janitors’ desk) and I read this lovely novel in little under a day.

I have a healthy scepticism of prequels and sequels and so forth, if not written by the original author, and no author comes more sacred than our Jane. Advocacy has bordered on obsession ever since the earliest days of general access to her writings, and though national Jane-addiction comes in peaks and troughs, it has never truly been absent. I came to Pride and Prejudice in 1995 along with so many others, through the BBC TV version, when I was nine or ten. Though I’ve only read the novel once, I have listened to an unabridged cassette and watched a fairly faithful television version probably some hundred or so times. There is not a book in the world I would less like to see sullied.

Lucky Diana Birchall feels the same, isn’t it?
What shines from every page of Mrs. Darcy’s Dilemma is a love of Jane Austen, a respect for her great craft, and a deep affection for every single one of her characters, whether likeable or not. We have moved on twenty-five years, the wedding which concluded Pride and Prejudice has become a lengthy marriage and produced three children – Fitzwilliam, Henry and Jane. When Lydia’s progeny, Bettina and Cloe, come to visit their Aunt, Uncle and Cousins, romance, scandal and a sororal reunion cannot be far behind.
Within the first few pages, I had to make a decision – as will any reader, and it is the only way to read a sequel, I think. That decision was to read Mrs. Darcy’s Dilemma as a exercise in hypothetical speculation; a diverting game of “what if?”, not “and then…” For there were a hundred times when I thought “No! She wouldn’t have ended up like that”, or “Surely they would have…” and so forth. I am certain that Diana would welcome such a response – she is not laying down Mrs. Darcy’s Dilemma as a definitive continuation of Pride and Prejudice, but rather a skilful and witty piece of fantasy. If I were writing (or, rather, plotting) a sequel, then I’d have been kinder to Lydia and Kitty, certainly given Jane a pleasing and humble daughter, and maybe even… no, you see, each reader has her/his projections, affinities and affections.

To return to the novel. It has been many months since I read something so addictively, so keen to dedicate all my spare time to reading it. Yes, it even entered read-whilst-walking-to-work territory, which only happens once or twice a year. This was helped by the fact that Diana cleverly divides the narrative focus between revisiting old characters, and exploring the antics of their children. Most of P&P’s characters appear, or are at least mentioned. We see Lizzy and Lydia making the same mistakes as their father and mother respectively, and watch the good ‘uns and bad ‘uns (as usual in Jane country, the bad ‘uns are foolish more than wicked) from the next generation make a mess of things, and, of course, sort themselves out.

Naturally, Diana Birchall isn’t as good a writer as Jane Austen – it would be an odd coincidence if she were, since nobody else has achieved that in the last two centuries – but I can think of no finer hands into which to place this playful task. Playful in theory, of course, but I daresay terribly difficult in practice. Diana gets the tone so right: witty and ironic and moving and very, very Austen. I think the greatest compliment I can pay Mrs Darcy’s Dilemma is that I was left not mourning the handling of beloved characters who appeared, but wondering what she’d have done with the ones who did not.

Home From Home

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I remember two revelations dawning on me in my early school years – the first was that girls don’t all like each other. Goodness knows why I’d think they would, but up until the age of 8 or 9 I’d naively and contentedly been under the impression that all girls were friends. Perhaps females thought the same of boys, at that age? When I discovered that Amy and Emma and Felicity and Faith were not all amicable, my life changed a little bit… but the next revelation did not come until I was 11 or so. Guess what – teachers don’t all like each other either! Who’d have thought?

After these learning curves, it came as no surprise that tutors might no like each other in Rosy Thornton’s Hearts and Minds. Though it’s set in The Other Place (Cambridge) Rosy T is a Fellow there, and we can’t hold it against her. Something of my naivety has remained unsullied throughout the battlefield of life, and I tend not to notice the animosities that whirl around me – I remember being asked by my tutor if the “situation” in my English group had settled down, and had to confess ignorance as to its existence. Seems I was blessed by not giving or receiving any of it. And thus it may be that Magdalen was a hotbed of back-stabbing and internal politics, but it all just passed me by.

Similarly, I’ve not met this sort of thing in fiction. When Rosy offered me a review copy of Hearts and Minds, I had to confess to not having read any campus novels. Ever. Apparently they are a male-dominated beast – so setting one in an all-female college is doubtless an intriguing twist to the genre, but I’m afraid it’s the only part of the genre that I’ve read.

I say all-female. Hearts and Minds opens with the controversial arriving of James Rycarte as Head of House at St. Radegund’s College. He’s the first non-female (or ‘male’, if you will) Head of House they’ve ever had, and is even known as Mistress for a while. From Oxford I am familiar with the vague nomenclature for this position – Magdalen has a President, but other colleges opted for Master, Rector, Provost, Principal, Dean, Warden or Regent. Rycarte, as well as being a man, comes from the world of media – perhaps the flipside of the coin from academia.

Joining James on centre stage is loveable Dr. Martha Pearce, the Senior Tutor whose administrative tasks have meant her academic pursuits have slipped, and who struggles to motivate a high-school dropout daughter and inactive husand who writes occasional poetry in Italian. There are a host of others, most notably Rycarte’s nemesis, the cunning uber-feminist Ros Clarke, who bitterly opposes the appointment of a Master rather than a Mistress. What drives the novel forward is the announcement that an old media friend of Rycarte’s, Luigi Alvau, wants to make a donation of £1,000,000 to St. Radegund’s. Oh, and his daughter is applying as well, just thought he’d mention it.

Is it ethical to accept a donation, even if the daughter will be interviewed on her own merits? Must one be seen to do right, as well as actually doing it? At one point the Admissions Tutor is asked what the kids from comprehensives (oo, like me) would say –
“I think they would laugh at us, to be honest – laugh at this whole discussion. It would never cross their minds for a moment that anyone would turn down the offer of a million pounds.”
It is to Thornton’s credit that the reader doesn’t dismiss the dilemma as silly – nobody works harder than Oxbridge to encourage admissions from all sectors and conduct admission honourably, yet nobody is more speedily censured. (Just Google ‘Laura Spence’ for the most ridiculous example).

I was keen throughout to find how Rycarte et al would solve the predicament – but the personal levels were as gripping as the professional. Martha’s attempts to organise and understand her family, without nagging, is depicted honestly and movingly. To be honest, the cover and title of Thornton’s novel don’t do her any favours – it looks and sounds like ‘chick lit’ (for want of a better term) whereas Hearts and Minds is a witty, well-thought-out and excellently structured novel. A perfect glimpse not only into Oxbridge university life, but into the minds of humans doing the best they can in tricky situations.

Short Review

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The Carbon Copy is here for the weekend, so no time to write long posts at the moment. He also pointed out that ‘Reading Between The Covers’ post sounds like I’ve never actually read a book, and just look at the covers and “how many birds I saw on the day I bought the book”… oops, if I came across as a bit of a dullard! Succinctly, what I meant was that if I want to enjoy a book, I’m more likely to do so.

Being a brief post, I’m going to tell you about the book I’m reading in as few words as possible. It’s Yes Man by Danny Wallace.

Review in 10 words: Man starts saying yes to everything. Non-fiction. Very funny indeed!

Hmm. Verbose. Let’s try 5 words: Man always says yes; funny!

3 words: Comedian says yes!

1 word: YES!

Quoth the Raven…

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I’m building up quite a library of books from Two Ravens Press, having read a little pile of them before, and now another two. I intended to talk about both of them today, but will have to postpone Dexter Petley’s One True Void as I’ve written too much on the first one…


First of all, it was very brave of Lisa Glass to send me a book I couldn’t possibly enjoy. She very kindly popped Prince Rupert’s Teardrop in the post to me, and mentioned that Chapter 4 was one I might want to steel myself for, and having read this post probably knew that tales of genocide, rape, torture and – let’s face it – even descriptive skin irritants were unlikely to find a place close to my heart.

That said, and before I go any further I must state, I greatly admire Lisa’s novel. It is very, very good – well-written, cleverly characterised, excellent plot and a style which leaves one a little nonplussed but entirely doffing one’s cap to the authoress.

Mary’s 94-year old Armenian mother, Meghranoush, goes missing. She’s just not there. What’s happened? There are rumours of a serial killer and sexual abuser in the area, specialising in nonagenarians. We even read a few chapters from his perspective (or do we: discuss) and Mary wanders the novel with a skewed self-determination, intending to trace her mother’s whereabouts.

Mary is an unattractive heroine. She is middle-aged (gasp!), obstreperous (gasp!), slightly mad (gasp!). Not mad in the endearing way characters are in Angela Thirkell or Richmal Crompton – rather an uncertain mental illness, which winds a thick thread of ‘unreliable narrator’ through everything. Nearly all the chapters are presented from her viewpoint, and some seem straight-forward enough – others are evidently slightly distorted. By the end I was questioning everything, but also questioning the questioning, and questioning the questioning the questioning… Lisa Glass has offered a unique heroine, and wielded a potentially tangled-up viewpoint with skill and finesse.

So I couldn’t enjoy reading this novel. Too much graphically disgusting – but without this, it would have been a very different novel, and entirely not the one Lisa Glass wanted to write, and has written so well. Above all else, her power of language is incredible – and her vocabulary is formidable. A “dazzling linguistic exuberance,” the quotation on the front proclaims – and, what is most impressive, it never seems forced or pretentious, not even close. She uses the words which are most appropriate – if I’ve not heard of them, it’s an opportunity for me to learn, not to sneer.

All in all – very good novel; didn’t like reading it. Which is odd. But not something new for me – how about you, are there any books you can strongly admire, but couldn’t admit to liking? For me, the ultimate is Wuthering Heights. Emily B’s novel is far and away the most powerful I’ve ever read, but I hated reading it – because Heathcliff is so detestable and loathsome that it sapped my power just reading and hating him. I don’t hate human beings, but I don’t think there have been any humans with the unredeemable hate-inspiring characteristics of Heathcliff – how any woman ever falls for him, I can’t imagine. There is no love story in this novel: it is all about hate. But, for all this, Wuthering Heights is a stunningly superlative novel.

 

The Crowded Bed

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As promised, a review of Mary Cavanagh’s The Crowded Bed today. For those keeping tabs, Blogger appears to have once more changed the format for posting, so we’ll see how this goes…

“Good evening, dear friend. I’m extremely pleased to see you, but I’m sure you’ll understand why I can’t give you my full attention. Joe Fortune is just about to kill his father-in-law, and I’ve no intention of missing this long awaited event.”

So opens The Crowded Bed…

Gosh. From the first sentence I sensed this wouldn’t be an uneventful novel – and, genre-wise, it’s a canny decision by Cavanagh. If it hadn’t been arranged thus, we’d have had a Hamlet-esque tussel over whether or not Joe wanted to kill his father-in-law – and let’s face it, who hasn’t watched Hamlet and thought “to be or not to be, don’t care, just get on with it!”

I digress. The Crowded Bed follows Joe, a Jewish boy and later doctor, from childhood through various relationships and to just after the pivotal moment described. Like many recent novels I’ve read, the narrative jumps about a bit, so ‘the present’ is shown parallel to various sections of the past – though, like those novels too, it’s not confusing. I found Joe a fairly repugnant character, but I think that’s ok – he has manifold sins under his belt, and more or less his only redeeming trait is a deep love for his son. And an abiding love for Anna.

She’s the other lass. Liked her. Despite her name, she’s not Jewish – she’s more like Botticelli’s Venus, as shown on the cover. My favourite sections of this novel were the opening chapters, when the childhoods of Joe and Anna were depicted alongside each other, and thus contrasted. Where Joe has indulgent and proud parents, Anna had a vicious father and a passive mother. And a twin brother, a theme popping up in quite a few recent reads. Reading their childhoods in this comparative way is so revealing about the characters and the way they interrelate.

The path isn’t smooth for Joe and Anna. That crowded bed gets pretty crowded as the novel progresses, and I’ll keep schtum over whether or not they manage to kick everyone else out but, suffice to say, the shocks keep coming to the very end. Cavanagh has written a novel which is both gentle and vicious, warm and unsettling. It’s hard to like many of the characters, but that doesn’t stop being compelled to find out more – and the rollercoaster they go through is dramatic but believable. Certainly not comfort reading (though someone recently described The Kite Runner as that, so it takes all sorts) but is a very engaging and perpetually surprising novel. Oh, and it features Oxford, which is always exciting!