Song for a Sunday

I bought Stand Still by Emma's Imagination (who won some music TV programme in the UK) because she covered an obscure song by Bic Runga on it - I thought anybody who liked Bic Runga definitely had good taste, and might write well too. Whilst I enjoy the album, this cover of Runga's 'Drive' is still the highlight.



Click here for all the Sunday Songs.

The Slaves of Solitude

36. The Slaves of Solitude - Patrick Hamilton

Lizzy Siddal and I agreed to do a readalong of Patrick Hamilton's The Slaves of Solitude (1947) when I realised that we both had recently got copies - I bought it off the back of a recommendation from my friend Rhona, and I am hugely indebted to her, because Hamilton is an incredibly good writer, and The Slaves of Solitude is a great novel. It is often hilarious, but somehow also increasingly bleak. As you can see, it's straight onto my 50 Books You Must Read But May Not Have Heard About. It's not often that you can tell from the first paragraph that a novel will be brilliant, but almost from the first word of The Slaves of Solitude, I knew I was onto something special.


It's 1943 in Thames Lockdon, a rather dreary suburban town in which 39 year-old Miss Roach (we don't learn til about halfway through that her unwelcome Christian name is Enid) has found herself, since she's been bombed out of her flat in Kensington. She is forced to live in a boarding house, inaptly named the Rosamund Tea Rooms - but it might as well be the third circle of hell. I know I quoted this section in an earlier post, but I'm going to do so again - this is the paragraph which made me certain that Hamilton was a writer of no small talent, and that I was in for a treat with The Slaves of Solitude.

As she let herself in by the front door she could in the same way see the Rosamund Tea Rooms - the somewhat narrow, three-storied, red-brick house, wedged in between a half-hearted toy-shop on one side, and an antique-shop on the other. She saw its bow-window on the ground floor, jutting out obtrusively on to the pavement; and above this, beneath the first-floor windows, the oblong black wooden board with faded gilt letters running its length - "The Rosamund Tea Rooms". But now, since the war, it was the Rosamund Tea Rooms no more - merely, if anything, "Mrs. Payne's". Mrs. Payne would have taken the sign down had not the golden letters been far too blistered and faded for anyone in his right mind to imagine that if he entered he would be likely to get tea. All the same, a few stray people in summer, probably driven slightly mad by the heat, did still enter with that idea in mind, and quietly had their error made clear to them.

It was the word 'half-hearted' that did it. So few writers would have picked that word, there, and it creates such a perfect image.

There can be few places described as dispiritingly as these Tea Rooms. The guests creep miserably around the house, obeying the notes which proliferate:

Mrs. Payne left or pinned up notes everywhere, anywhere, austerely, endlessly - making one feel, sometimes, that a sort of paper-chase had been taking place in the Rosamund Tea Rooms - but a nasty, admonitory paper-chase. All innovations were heralded by notes, and all withdrawals and adjustments thus proclaimed. Experienced guests were aware that to take the smallest step in an original or unusual direction would be to provoke a sharp note within twenty-four hours at the outside, and they had therefore, for the most part, abandoned originality.

I just meant to write that there were notes, but when I flicked to the page in question, that quotation was irresistible. I have a feeling this review will go in that direction - Hamilton's writing is just too delicious and perceptive and perfect for me to paraphrase. He is a prose writer par excellence and, even though I'm going to try and make some comparisons, in reality utterly defies comparison. He has the breadth and rich extravagance of Dickens, but the subtlety, nuance and irony of Austen. Reading it is like being in a whirlwind, but also in the calm at its centre. Hamilton never puts a step wrong.

Although we see this horrible place through Miss Roach's jaded eyes, it is one of her boarding house companions who is most memorable - indeed, as Harriet writes in her review, he is surely one of the most memorable characters of all English literature. His name is Mr. Thwaites and he is the dominant figure in the small kingdom of the Rosamund Tea Rooms. He is in his sixties, but has lost neither energy nor the habit of bullying. Mr. Thwaites is a grotesque, but one who is entirely believable. His hideously affected tricks of speech are recorded perfectly by Hamilton, each a separate anguish to Miss Roach. I hope Harriet doesn't mind me copying across a section from her review, as the examples she has chosen are perfect; these are Harriet's words, with Hamilton's/Thwaites' in the brackets:

He is fond of substituting the third person verb for the first ("I Keeps my Counsel -- like the Wise Old Bird"), is partial to hideous cod dialect ("I Hay ma Doots, as the Scotchman said"), and falls into dreadful and protracted archaisms ("She goeth, perchance, unto the coffee house...there to partake of the noxious brown fluid with her continental friends?")

Like all great comic nemeses, Mr. Thwaites is both a joy to read and a horror to imagine. He is secretly pro-Hitler, and loathes the Russians - one of the points of attack against Miss Roach, since he willfully misconstrues her silence on the topic of Russians as an all-abiding love for Socialism:

This, clearly, was another stab at the Russians. The Russians, in Mr. Thwaites' embittered vision, were undoubtedly perceived as being "all equal", and so if the Germans went on retreating westward (and if Miss Roach went on approving of it and doing nothing about it) before long we should, all of us, be "all equal". "My Lady's Maid," continued Mr. Thwaites, "will soon be giving orders to My Lady. And Milord will be Polishing the Pot-boy's boots." Failing to see that he had already over-reached himself in anticipating very far from equal conditions, Mr. Thwaites went on. "The Cabby," he said, resignedly, "will take it unto himself to give the orders, I suppose - and the pantry-boy tell us how to proceed on our ways." Still no one had anything to say, and Mr. Thwaites, now carried away both by his own vision and his own style, went on to portray a state of society such as might have recommended itself to the art of the surrealist, or appeared in the dreams of an opium-smoker.

But this hellish existence is not static for Miss Roach. She meets an American Lieutenant and begins an uncertain, meandering relationship with him - which mostly involves sitting next to him at the local pub while they both drink too much, and being nonplussed by his roars of affection or amusement. Miss Roach is plagued by doubts as to whether she should take his intentions seriously or not - alternatively laughing at herself, and wondering what she might miss out on. It is all observed so perfectly, so subtly.

And then there is Vicki Kugelmann. Vicki is a young German woman and a friend of Miss Roach - believed to be shy and unassuming, albeit with ghastly old-fashioned and odd linguistic quirks ("Hard lines, old fellow" ; "Do be sporty!") - until she is persuaded to move into the Rosamund Tea Rooms. Their quiet friendship develops somehow, as Vicki becomes more domineering and cavalier herself, into a passionate and unspoken hatred. Vicki manages Mr. Thwaites as Miss Roach could not dream of doing; she patronises and frustrates Miss Roach; she flirts with the Lieutenant.

"No," said Vicki. "That is not me, my dear. I do not Snatch. I do not Snatch the Men...."

Miss Roach was about to say something, but Vicki, still patting her, went on.

"No, my dear. I put him off. Have no fear. I do not Snatch. I am not the Snatcher."

Then, with a final "No, I am not the Snatcher. Do not be alarmed. I do not Snatch," the German woman, in a dignified way, left the English one alone in the dining-room of the Rosamund Tea Rooms.

Through the second half of the novel, this battle weaves and wends itself, on many fronts. On the small stage of a boarding house, Hamilton enacts the most impassioned and fierce of antagonisms - but always in miniature, and always in undertones. Anger seethes through the dialogue, but it is quashed by the modes and manners which Miss Roach will not - cannot - relinquish.


I had vaguely heard of Patrick Hamilton, because of his novel Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky, but hadn't heard of The Slaves of Solitude. (Actually, a search of my inbox shows me that 'Anonymous' mentioned it on this post back in 2009 - thanks, whoever you were!) Why? But why? Hamilton is a great writer, and this is a great novel. It is so rich; so filled with perfect observations and finely sculpted dialogue. (Hamilton was, after all, a successful playwright - amongst his works is Gaslight, later a famous film.) Nothing is over the top; everything is subdued and repressed by the force of good manners and Miss Roach's enforced calmness. But that makes each line more potent, and each emotion more powerful.

What else can I say? The Slaves of Solitude is unusually, astonishingly good. I could read it over and over again. Instead, I shall move onto the rest of Hamilton's output - thank goodness there is more, and bless Rhona for introducing me to his genius.

Latest Wikio rankings

Wikio have emailed me the blog rankings for last month (or for this month, depending upon how you look at it) - and yes, it's all just a bit and fun, but - yes, it's still nice to see myself there, amongst such good company!

1	Charlie's Diary
2	tales from the village
3	Stuck In A Book
4	Making it up
5	Playing by the book
6	Asylum
7	Reading Matters
8	Book Chick City
9	Cornflower
10	Savidge Reads
11	My Favourite Books
12	The Book Smugglers
13	An Awfully Big Blog Adventure
14	Vulpes Libris
15	Wondrous Reads
16	booktwo.org
17	chasing bawa
18	Gaskella
19	Erotica For All
20	BubbleCow

Ranking made by Wikio

Perfect leaving present!

Today I have no good excuses for why I haven't written you a proper post - I shall be posting my review of The Slaves of Solitude tomorrow evening, let me know if you're joining in the readalong and have something ready to post.

For today, I just thought I'd share the leaving present I got from my lovely colleagues last week - my 9 month contract with Rare Books in the Bodleian came to an end, as did the job I was hired to do, so I have left them, and shall miss both the lovely, funny people I worked with and the interesting materials I saw. But before I went they gave me the perfect leaving present - they definitely know me well...

Leave it to Smith

I was at work for 13 hours today (!!) so far too tired to write anything particularly lucid, instead I shall write a couple of lines to let you know that I am re-reading I Capture the Castle at the moment (in fact, I have nearly finished it) and it is BRILLIANT all over again. If you haven't read it, hie thee to a bookshop. And then a DVD shop and watch the brilliant film.


The novel has lots of covers - this isn't the one I'm reading, but it's my favourite.

I haven't read anything else by Dodie Smith, but some e-friends have told me her other novels are wonderful too - A Town in Bloom is heading towards my local library, so I'll report back before too long.

Happy June, everyone!

A Beautiful Book

I bought this a little while ago, from the small book section of Antiques on High in Oxford, but it is one of the most beautiful little books I own, and I thought I'd share it.


I doubt it would win any awards in fine printing catalogues, but I am very fond of it. The book in question is a 1929 edition of selections from The Female Spectator by Eliza Haywood (usually spelt Haywood, but spelt Heywood in this edition) edited by Mary Priestley. The Female Spectator was the first woman's periodical written by a woman, written between 1744 and 1771 in imitation of Addison and Steele's more famous Spectator. The selections in this book all, apparently, come from a single edition in 1748 - which is as useful as any, as far as a representation goes.

Elizabeth Haywood was incredibly prolific, and taking a gander at her Wikipedia entry I am trying to remember what I read. The City Jilt, I think, and perhaps The Mercenary Lover. I remember her being amusing and a little bit shocking at times. I have done no more than flick through this selection of The Female Spectator (indeed, I shall have to procure a page-cutter before I go much further, as some of it is still in need of cutting) but I can see I shall derive some amusement from sections entitled 'Tennis, a Manly Exercise', or 'Honour of Itself Not to be Relied On', not to mention 'Caterpillars, their Structure very Amazing'. How seriously Haywood is to be taken will doubtless always be slightly unclear.


And I'm not just boasting about a lovely book I had the good fortune to stumble across - it is actually available fairly affordably from Amazon, and would delight any bookshelf. In fact, it's cheaper than an ordinary new hardback - and how much more special!

Well, I guess I don't have much choice.

I bought Nicolas Bentley's book How Can You Bear to be Human? for its excellent title, and because I had seen some of his artwork elsewhere, and quite liked it. I've got to say, the title is probably the best thing about this book - but it passed an entertaining hour.


I don't know the provenance of the book, but it must be collected from somewhere. It consists of brief, humorous pieces and cartoons - but often the cartoon doesn't seem to bear any relation to the writing. Which is quite confusing, to say the least.

Bentley's strength is definitely in his drawing, rather than his writing, but that is to be expected. His sketches aren't ornately detailed, but with exaggeration which is not too exaggerated, he manages to convey exactly what he wishes - and is rather more subtle in his artwork than his prose. The prose is rather a mixed bag - it starts well, but the editor (perhaps Bentley himself?) probably decided to put the best things at the beginning.


My favourite piece was 'Strange Interlude', which is Provincial Ladyesque in its dealings with an awkward social occasion, including this exchange between the narrator and an offensive approaching couple:

"Well, my deahr?"

To which, in tones somewhat lower than his, she flashed the riposte: "Well?"

Again silence fell between them and they stood smiling mutely at each other.

"You have tried the punch?" she said at last.

Unable to block my ears in time, I caught his shrill response.

"I have indeed and I pronounce it capital."

He grinned at me shyly with teeth that were rather too far apart. I noticed his hand had been surreptitiously exploring his pocket, and I guessed what for. He lent towards me and said sotto voce, with a look that appealed for my support and failed utterly:

"Do you suppose our hostess would permit a pipe?"

"I don't smoke, so I wouldn't know," I said, lapsing through sheer nerves into the affectation of the conditional. He peered about him with a look of wildly exaggerated consternation and then, in order, I suppose, to keep up the conspiratorial pretence, tiptoed away.

Most of the pieces in How Can You Bear to be Human? are structured as humorous essays, rather than scenes like this - the essays being on topics from Hockey to Ballet to Hats Suitable For Dictators. Quite.

It's all good fun, and the sort of Penguin book you could easily give someone as a present, or keep in the smallest room of the house. I had rather hoped for a flash of genius, which there was not, but it's a nice glance into the humour of the 1950s.


Oh, and I have to finish by sharing this quick excerpt, for my brother (and Wolves fan) Colin:

[...] simple though I may be compared to, say, Professor Bronowski, compared to the man who delights more in Wolverhampton Wanderers than in Wordsworth, I am a creature of infinite complexity.