Prepare yourself for a totally non-literary, rather silly blog post... Ok, prepared? Well, here goes. My housemates Debs and Mel joined me in one of our fun little games that take the place of clubbing or political discussion or whatever other people in their mid-twenties do. We write a story between us, by going round in a circle each saying just one word at a time. Of course, foiling others and causing obstacles is all part of the fun. Here's the story we came up with tonight:
"Stop right now!" shouted Kenneth. He ran towards them quickly, waving a hankerchief aflame. The sailors refused to listen: "It's our duty to scrub these potatoes until they gleam!" Softly, Kenneth pushed the boat away from the mooring.
"Ahoy!" complained Aloysius, carefully putting golf-balls directly into Kenneth's outstretched eyes. "These balls need returning before sundown, otherwise all Hell will break loose! Leastways, it won't be sunny, apparently."
Kenneth stepped away, laughing hysterically. "What in the world do you mean? If the portents portend correctly, there needn't be any golfing disaster today. However, if you don't stop scrubbing those spuds, something monolithic, fiery, and generally painful will wreak havoc aboard that vessel!"
"Arrrgh!" concurred multiple sailors boisterously - but Aloysius remained firm. Suddenly water splashed onto H.M.S. Bloomingdale. A second flaming 'kerchief hoved from starboard.
"Ahoy," Kenneth said. "Finally multiple persons are amassed, ha!" (Alcohol made him incoherent.) The second bearer of flaming haberdashery paused, puzzled.
"I am on fire!" As he alerted the sailors to his predicament, Aloysius dove into the cabin, retrieving a hose, but the victim jumped straight over the nearby railings, extinguishing his flaming 'kerchief, alongside the ship.
"If you'd foreseen this end, you mightn't have continued igniting linen and scrubbing root vegetables, willy-nilly," exclaimed Kenneth.
THE END.
Yesterday I mentioned The Perfect Pest by Adrian Porter, which I picked up in a charity shop and quickly read. It's not the kind of book you normally find in a charity shop - a piece of 1930s whimsy and silliness.
The book is a collection of comic verse of the sort that appeared (as some of these did) in Punch and the Morning Post. The first half covers 'The Perfect...' example of various types - host, husband, child, dog - in a wry way. The second half does a similar thing, but with more varied topics. It's all light and silly and amusing - and delightfully illustrated by Eileen McGrath, in a style similar to Joyce Dennys' wonderful illustrations.
The best way to sell this sweet little book is to give you an example - I'll pick the title poem, and a few images of the sketches. I think this would make a fun gift for anyone with a retro taste in books - or something to pop on the bedside table in your guest room. Fold down the pertinent pages if you want your guest to make an early exit...
The Perfect Pest
She merely sent a wire to say
That she was coming down to stay.
She brought a maid of minxsome look
Who promptly quarrelled with the cook.
She smoked, and dropped with ruthless hand,
Hot ashes on the Steinway grand.
She strode across the parquet floors
In hobnail boots from out of doors.
She said the water wasn't hot, and Jane gave notice on the spot.
She snubbed the wealthy dull relations
From whom my wife had expectations.
She kept her bell in constant peals,
She never was in time for meals,
And when at last with joyful heart
We thrust her in the luggage cart,
In half an hour she came again
And said, "My dear, I've missed the train!"
I did say that the book haul discussed the other day was but half of the recent arrivals - and here are some more. Our Vicar, Our Vicar's Wife, and myself went on a trip to Witney to find Church Green Books. Truth be told, it leaned towards the select and expensive, and there were remarkably few novels to choose from. Lots of topography, though, and I have learnt since that they are the country's best bookshop for works on bells and bellringing, but... I came away with just two books. One (not pictured) was William the Gangster - as part of my plan to gather up Richmal Crompton's William books when I stumble across them. The other was Self by Beverley Nichols.
But all was not lost - we popped into the Oxfam bookshop. I had been there a week earlier, actually, and bought Good Evening, Mrs. Craven - one of the Persephones which I somehow didn't previously own. They must have restocked their shelves, because I came out laden with some gems. Here goes...
Memento Mori - Muriel Spark
Every time I do one of these lists, I seem to come out with a Spark novel, don't I? This one is lined up for my book group later in the year, and is also the first Spark cover I've seen that I actually really like, simple as it is.
The Misses Mallett - E.H. Young
This was a rather lovely find - I've got plenty of Young novels lined up now, and this is one I've heard good things about. A rather lovely edition too.
The Return of the Solider - Rebecca West
Ok, I do already have this, but it's a different Virago Modern Classics edition - one with a really hideous cover. This one has a Vanessa Bell painting, and she's one of my favourite painters. Next time I'm in Somerset, I'll be giving away the other copy... to anyone who can cope with the cover. It really is a brilliant novel, by the by.
The Land of Green Ginger - Winifred Holtby
Don't know anything about this, but I'm not the sort of guy who can leave behind an attractive Virago, now, am I?
The Perfect Pest - Adrian Porter
This is the sort of fun, unusual little book I don't expect to find in a charity shop - from 1936, it's little comic poems accompanied by Joyce Dennys-esque sketches. I've read it already, and will post more about it soon...
And now for the other books - most of which came from the £2 bookshop in Oxford - except the first two.
The Slaves of Solitude - Patrick Hamilton
An e-friend Rhona recommended this book, and this is how she did it: "I often think it is like a dark, gothic version of The Priory, or a Panter Downs short story, a Persphone novel seen through a dark distorting glass. Maybe a bit like Barbara Comyns, Simon?" I don't think she could possibly have described this in any way more certain to make me order a copy. And when I found that a NYRB Classics edition existed, I refused to have any other copy.
Look Back in Hunger - Jo Brand
Now that I've met her (still recovering from how amazing that was) I feel I should read her autobiography - I suspect it'll be a fun read.
Instances of the Number 3 - Salley Vickers
Are there any authors you're sure you'll love, to the extent that you buy up all their work before you've read a single word of their novels? Vickers is one of several authors in that category for me...
So I Have Thought of You - Penelope Fitzgerald
You probably know that I'm a sucker for published letters of authors, and for a couple of pounds I couldn't resist this one. Now I need to read more of her novels too.
People I Wanted To Be - Gina Ochsner
I bought this short story collection entirely because of its cover.
The Easter Parade - Richard Yates
I thought Revolutionary Road was simply stunning, so next time I feel like a bit of American sombreness, I'll turn to Yates. To be honest, that mood doesn't overtake me very often - but it's good to have one on reserve.
Hanging On: Diaries vol.3 - Frances Partridge
Erik commented on my post about Henrietta Garnett that Partridge's diaries had interesting details about the family, so I thought I'd add this to my pile of Bloomsbury books.
Time for another Sunday Song, this time from the duet album Two by the incredible Kathryn Williams with Neill MacColl (son of Kirsty). I assume he's playing the instruments for this one, as it seems mostly Kathryn on vocals. Simply beautiful - here's 6am Corner.All previous
Sunday Songs.
Heya y'all, hope you're enjoying your weekend wherever you are. I spent yesterday having fun with Our Vicar and Our Vicar's Wife - we played Scrabble before heading out for a wander, and Dad was keen that I share this little photo of his Scrabble score (the columns go Dad; me; Mum).
...and on with the show. (Well done, Dad!) Even in the grips of defeat, I'm thinking of you all - and we're going to have a book, a link, and a blog post.
1.) The book - is actually a graphic novel sent to me called Kill Shakespeare by Anthony Del Col and Conor McCreery. The very modern world of graphic literature and the very non-modern world of Shakespeare come head to head for this series of comic books. I think I can call them comic books, although I'm worried that fans of the genre will tell me I'm wrong? What is a comic and what is a graphic novel? I don't know, but this is a series, so I'm going to say graphic works and hope for the best...
A miscellany of Shakespeare's characters are united - it's a who's-who, really, with Hamlet, Juliet, Othello, and Falstaff, for example - tracking down an evil reclusive wizard called... yes, William Shakespeare. (Interestingly enough, this whole combining of characters from different plays is nothing new - I once spent a week or two writing about the fascinating world of Restoration period Shakespeare adaptations, and they threw the characters around like nobody's business. As You Like It waning a bit? Throw in Beatrice and Benedick! Romeo and Juliet a bit glum? Happy ending time!)
Anyway - I must confess I've only flicked through this, but my brother read it cover to cover and was impressed. I'm hoping he'll come along and say something in the comments about it... and if he does, by the magic of editing I'll put it here...
2.) The blog post - is Thomas' about International Anita Brookner Day, the creation of his own fair hands. It's especially for people like me who have wanted to read something by Anita B, and have somehow yet to do so - pop over here to read the details, and make use of Thomas' fancy buttony whatsit.
3.) The link - is for the London Book Fair Masterclass - Felicity (who emailed me) tells me "the perfect opportunity for aspiring authors to gain first-hand information and practical advice from bestselling authors, agents and editors." Peter James, Lesley Pearse, Luigi Bonomi, Jon Wood, and Fiona Lindsay will be there. Could be worth going!
Happy weekend, one and all.
I've had so, so many books coming into my hands of late, that it seems awfully remiss of me not to mention them. There are probably too many for one post, but I'll get a start and see where we end up... and, as usual, you can tell me which ones you've read, or would like to read, etc. etc... Today let's cover the ones I bought in London and Oxford ages ago, the three that I bought today, and ones which have arrived from various lovely bloggers. Unbelievably, that's just the tip of the iceberg.
Let's start off with books from friends:
Spinster by Sylvia Ashton-Warner
Not to be confused with Sylvia Townsend-Warner. This VMC was one I won from Teresa at Shelf Love during Virago Reading Week, and is one I've had an eye on for a while.
A Meaningful Life by L.J. Davis
Lovely Frances from Nonsuch Book offered NYRB Classics to British fans, and this wended its way from the US to my door.
Expiation by Elizabeth von Arnim
I've sadly still only read one E von A novel (though I hope some of you will be able to join me in reading The Caravaners at the end of the month) - Daphne very kindly gave me this one recently, so I have even more choice.
I feel like I've forgotten somebody who has sent me a book... so sorry if I have, but perhaps I'm just thinking about the two which are heading to me shortly... thanks in advance!
Today I was heading to the public library, which turned out not to have the book I wanted (I had to go and check because the online catalogue wasn't working) - on my way to use this wonderful public service, I used a wonderful private service, in the form of Arcadia - and came out clutching two old Penguins, each at £1.
Illyrian Spring by Ann Bridge
This was given a hugely enthusiastic write-up by Rachel (Book Snob) during Virago Reading Week, and ever since I've felt oddly certain that I'd stumble across it at some point. As indeed I have...
The du Mauriers by Daphne du Maurier
Oh, well, why not?
And in the post, incredibly quickly, came Sylvia & David: the Townsend Warner/Garnett Letters. Two authors I love, corresponding - how could I resist? The Henrietta Garnett talk reminded me that I'd had my eye on this book during Project 24 last year, but now I could just go on and buy it.
Now for the London books, mostly from Notting Hill Book & Comic Exchange. I don't even remember when I bought these, but the photo is pretty old... A couple of these came from Oxford, actually, so not sure how they all ended up in the same photograph. Let's roll with it.
Since most of those covers aren't particularly forthcoming with title info, I'm going to have to have a hunt through LibraryThing, and see what I added when...
Home by Marilynne Robinson
It's no secret that I loved Gilead, and I'd handed over my monies at Blackwell's for this before I'd even finished Gilead.
Reality and Dreams by Muriel Spark
I do keep stocking my shelves with Sparks, don't I? This one sounds utterly delectable.
The Hand That First Held Mine by Maggie O'Farrell
I should be ashamed of myself... "You've spent more than £10, Sir," said the lady at the counter, "so you can get this at a discount." And I did... Thomas' review ages ago is what sped me on, so blame him, ladies and gents. And what was it I spent that 'more than £10' on? .....
The Letters of Nancy Mitford and Evelyn Waugh
I spent a birthday book token on this because, thinking about it, it was really rather silly that this wasn't already on my shelves, wasn't it?
Mr. Fortune's Maggot by Sylvia Townsend Warner
I read this a while ago - not as good as Lolly Willowes, but definitely interesting. And a cheap secondhand copy became mine.
The Dragon in Shallow Waters by Vita Sackville-West
Never heard of this... but I've been wanting to read more VSW.
Kindness in a Corner by T.F. Powys
Another one by an author I've liked (Mr. Weston's Good Wine) which I'm hoping to explore more. Book buying can expand exponentially like this, can't it?
The Street by Dorothy Baker
When I'm looking for Frank Baker in book shops, I've fairly often come across Dorothy (no relation). This was in a each-book-£1 basement, and it seemed as good a time as any to give Dorothy a whirl.
Dew on the Grass - Eiluned Lewis
I enjoyed the first few pages of this - seems like a sort of nostalgic view of childhood, with cosy adventuring a-plenty - and I thought I'd discovered a gem. Turns out a few other people in the blogosphere had discovered it first...
We recently chatted about how titles can influence the way in which we read a novel - I loved all of your contributions, and encourage anyone who hasn't to read the comments to this post, all fascinating. Well, the book I want to write about tonight has a title that is somehow both very appealing and entirely unrevealing: A House in the Country (1944 - set in 1942) by Jocelyn Playfair. It was the second Persephone book that I started during Persephone Reading Weekend, but didn't finish until a little while later. It had been on my shelf for years; I loved the gentle, rural title, but knew nothing whatsoever about its contents.
Having read it, I can now say that my expectations were wildly misplaced - and yet I loved the novel, for reasons quite different from those anticipated. A House in the Country is not a cosy paean to countryside ways, but a deep, moving, and surprisingly controversial novel.
Cressida Chance (wonderful name) lives in the house of the title, and has started taking paying guests. The idea of paying guests completely foreign now, but it must have been an ingenious way for people to get a bit of extra money without demeaning themselves - and to provide houses for those who needed them during war. If someone were to make a list of things which would attract me to a novel, having big old houses at their centre would definitely make the list. Here's Cressida's, from the viewpoint of John Greenacre, who is arriving to be one of the said paying guests:
He half turned away from the view of the house. As he did so the sun caught every pane in the high, evenly spaced windows of the lovely front and spread warmth over the old red bricks so that the house glowed like a jewel against the dark trees behind.
I'm rather captivated, don't know about you. But the most captivating thing about the novel is Cressida herself. She is a wonderful heroine, and I'm not quite sure how to put her personality into words. She is sensible but not dull; strong-feeling but not excessively passionate; loving but neither dependent nor demanding; caring but not sentimental. She seems to have just enough of all virtues to be attractive, and not enough to become irritating. Her feet are certainly made of clay. She is a remarkable creation.
Cressida is undoubtedly the beacon of Playfair's novel. Against her fully-realised, exquisitely drawn character, it did feel as though others rather faded into one another. With the exception of Tori, that is - 'a little beetle of a man' from war-torn Europe, who has seen and suffered much. Other than him, the rest of the cast didn't really come alive, and seemed mostly there to provide occasional colour and interest, rather than pathos. But Playfair doesn't really need more than her main players to make an impression.
I tell a lie, Miss Ambleside is a great addition to the mix. Her type is familiar, and the target of much delicious caustic humor in novels of the period. Miss Ambleside is one of those people who constantly feel martyred, incapable of seeing how insignificant their sufferings are:
Miss Ambleside's life in London had never been far from the normal. During the blitz she had done a great deal of visiting in the country. And now Miss Ambleside's gloom drove her to consider the possible advantages of living in London again. One could open one's house in the country, but then there would be the trouble of servants. It was all very difficult and trying. Perhaps dear Cressida would keep one a little longer, until one could see which way things were going. But in that case one would lose one's hair appointment, and getting another was always problematical. There were difficulties, it seemed, whichever course one decided upon.
Those of you who don't fancy sizable chunks of quotation, look away now - because what I find most fascinating about novels from this period is their perspective on the war. Plenty of historical novels try and deduce this from a distance, but there is nothing quite like reading the views which were expressed there and then, whether in fact or fiction. So here are another couple of excerpts, the first from Cressida's viewpoint, and the second from a man in active service, returning to England. They offer competing, but novelistically equally valid, perspectives on the effects of war at home - and demonstrate Playfair's sophistication. She hasn't got simply one view to hammer home.
People talked a lot about the various hells of war; the dust and heat in the desert, the steam and exhaustion of the tropics, the ice terror of the sea, the nerve-shattering clash of actual battle anywhere. But there was another sort of hell; the hell of impatience. Living in England, surrounded by normal people, living near-normal lives, trying to do a job that seemed to have no end and no purpose, a life of exercises and long journeys in lorries from one English village to another, without even an air raid to give reality to what felt like merely an irritating and prolonged succession of manoeuvres. Much better, she thought, to be right away from England, where the spectre of pre-war life was not always hovering in the background, constantly reminding one of normality, making it impossible to cut oneself off and become really a part of the machine humanity had to become in order to fight this latest form of war.
* * *
Charles could not have said in so many words what it was he had expected to find in England. Perhaps he had not quite imagined that the entire countryside would be a blackened ruin, that people would be picking their way nervously between yawning bomb craters and darting into underground holes as soon as daylight began to fade. Perhaps he had not quite expected to see on every face the hard lines of heroism and stark, but controlled, fear. But England had been for three years described in terms of heroism, in outsize headlines. It had been loudly called the war-torn, the noble, the indomitable, the last outpost of civilisation. Surely it was natural to suppose that all this hyperbole must have a visible cause. But it was certainly difficult to detect in the stolid, well-fed faces of the English people any sign of undue heroism, or any indication that they were making a brave struggle to support life on insufficient food and unremitting hard labour under the constant fear of death. Here and there, it was true, there were ruined and burnt-out buildings. But there were always burnt-out buildings to be seen from railway-trains, and these ruins looked as if they had quite gently decayed under the slow wear of time rather than been blasted asunder with savage violence in a few seconds. Even the thousands of broken windows merely suggested small boys with stones rather than death-dealing splinters of steel and iron.
Decades of talking about the war, and people's stoicism, and the bravery of the home front has built up a picture for those of us not alive then. And, of course, it has much truth to it. But a passage like that I've just typed seems, to me, so much more vivid and truthful - a fascinating angle on expectation, reality, and wartime confusion.
What is difficult to remember, when reading novels of this period, is that neither author nor reader knew who would win the war. Published in 1944, it was still possible (or at least not impossible) that England would be occupied by the Nazis. Propaganda of the Brave British Soldier was doubtless still indefatigable. And this makes Playfair all the more brave in her extremely honest, often critical discussions of warfare. Characters suggest that war is futile; that few soldiers know why they are fighting, and that ideals are far below blind obedience, when it comes to motive.
We are always being told the German people don't want war, the English don't want war; no one wants war. And yet we have war. We have war because we have been herded, they've been formed into masses, they've been taught to obey without question, to fight and die without hesitation. But men have not been taught to take the advice Christ gave them when He said "Know thyself."
One can only imagine what a brave stance this was to offer in 1944.
A House in the Country is not without its faults. The major one is that which so many '20s-'40s novels stumble into, and is certainly seen in more than one Persephone and Virago title (much as we love 'em - and we do, of course): it is too earnest. That's probably a sign of the times, more than anything. Nowadays we don't like to take things *too* seriously, at least in our fiction - that's not to say that serious topics aren't addresses, but that they're always laced with humour. Plenty of contemporary novelists did know this - you won't find earnestness in the pages of the Provincial Lady, and yet she does hit home time and again. I'm not saying the novel should have avoided all its pontificating moments - they are often done thoughtfully and thoroughly, but... when you get to another speech about honour or why men choose to fight, etc. etc., you can't help wish a little that Playfair had spread her delightful humour more evenly into every corner.
And this, despite its more serious and even harrowing moments, is a very funny novel. Playfair has something of Delafield's wry analysis of character, and is not above a thread or two of Wodehousian humour now and then. I liked odd touches like this:
As always, the moment Cressida crossed the threshold, the dogs appeared from apparently nowhere, their extreme empressement obviously assumed partly out of excitement, and partly to give an impression of not having been on one of the spare beds.
I haven't even mentioned the other story threading through the novel; that of Charles Valery in the wreckage of a destroyed ship, surviving alone at sea, and eventually making his way back to Cressida's house (which is actually his own). These sections, naturally given his solitude, take mostly the form of his thoughts - they aren't intended to have the humour or sparkle seen elsewhere in the novel, but they are involving and thought-provoking. Of course, these separate strands of the novel come together, but not in the way which you might expect...
All in all, A House in the Country is another Persephone triumph (and one with a very good, informative Preface). It's not one of their books which is much mentioned in the blogosphere, but I think it should be. I have read few novels with so intriguing an angle on wartime living, and - as I have said - Cressida is a wonderful character. This isn't the novel I was expecting, when I pulled the title off the shelf, and it certainly isn't as relaxing a read as I'd anticipated - but I'm happy to say that it is a better one, and significantly more thought-provoking.
