1988

The Birds of the Innocent Wood by Deirdre Madden – #NovNov Day 8

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Thank you for all the birthday good wishes for yesterday – Colin and I had a lovely time, successfully escaping an escape room with some friends, then seeing fireworks. There are always handy fireworks displays near our birthday, courtesy of Guy Fawkes Night.

Today I was back on my novellas in November challenge, with Deirdre Madden’s second novel, The Birds of the Innocent Wood from 1988, when she was only 28. It starts at quite a pace – rattling through the tragedy of Jane’s childhood, with both parents dying in a house fire and being sent to a convent. We see that she thrives on making others react emotionally to her tale of woe – and it’s something she tries on James, the man she starts dating and whom she will marry.

She had a deep contempt for all those who had known from birth what it was to be loved. She did not believe that they could ever know how strange and wonderful it was to watch another person gradually fall in love with them. She certainly watched James, and watched him with a steady fascination, as a naturalist might watch a butterfly uncrumple itself from a chrysalis, or wiltingly die in a killing jar. She would always make a point of arriving early for their meetings, so that she could conceal herself at a distance and covertly watch him arrive and then pace the street disconsolately, looking at his watch, as he waited for her. Then she would leave her hiding place and approach him, her eye steadily fixed on his, so that she would not miss the moment when he caught sight of her. Because to see that moment was the whole point of the exercise: to see his face change, to see the relief and the tenderness and the love with which the mere sight of her filled him was the highlight of the entire evening. It made her feel dizzy with power.

It did all feel a bit dizzying at the beginning, to whip through so much plot so quickly. I feel like Madden might space it out more, as a more mature writer. But things settle a bit once it’s established that she is in an unsure and discontented marriage to James – living in remote countryside, with the only neighbour being a woman oddly like Jane, with whom she has an instant and lasting antipathy.

And then chapters begin to alternate – half is Jane’s young married life, and the other half are adult twin sisters Sarah and Catherine. They are Jane’s daughters – we learn early that Jane has died, though don’t know how. Madden does well at delineating the twin sisters – what they have in common and what they don’t. And something they do have in common is a hidden secret.

This is the first of my Novellas in November project that I think would have been better if I hadn’t read it one day. Perhaps because it covers so much time, perhaps because her writing is gentle and subtle, The Birds of the Innocent Wood is really a novella to linger over. I wish I’d spent a bit more time in the eerily described landscape, inhabiting these awkward, haunted lives.

I really love Madden’s Molly Fox’s Birthday. This earlier novella is evidently not as mature – the writing is very good, but doesn’t have the same piercing precision. She does manage to weave images of birds well through the novella, deliberately but not disruptively. On its own, The Birds of the Innocent Wood is very good – it’s only because I have read her later work that I see the ingredients are there for the extraordinary novelist she will become.

Two-Part Invention by Madeleine L’Engle

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Ever since I read Claire’s review of Two-Part Invention by Madeleine L’Engle (1988), I’ve been keen to read it. That was back in 2012, and I bought a copy while I was in Washington D.C. in 2015 – and have finally read it. Claire was right, of course, and I encourage you to go and read her wonderful review.

My only other experience with L’Engle is A Wrinkle in Time, and that put me off a little bit, because I didn’t like it at all – but my distaste for young adult science-fiction is weaker than my trust in Claire’s opinions. And Two-Part Invention could scarcely be any more different. For one, it is a memoir – in fact, the fourth in a series of memoirs, though I only learned that after I’d finished. In it, L’Engle largely focuses on her relationship with her husband, actor Hugh Franklin, flashing easily between their first meetings and their current experiences. Those experiences are dominated by a serious illness that Franklin is facing – this is no charming reminiscence. Often it is brutal, though undercut with the gentleness that is the keynote of L’Engle’s personality and style.

I love any book where a house is important, and Crosswicks is central to this memoir. It’s the New England farmhouse where L’Engle and Franklin lived for many years – sometimes splitting their time between it and New York, and sometimes becoming so immersed in the life of the small community that they ran the local shop. It’s where L’Engle is sitting while she writes Two-Part Invention, which has an almost diary-like feel at times. She is in the midst of her husband’s terrible illness, not knowing what the end of it will be – or even the next step. Parts are penned while they wait for individual diagnoses, as stepping stones either to or away from something disastrous.

On the other hand, she looks back to their meeting with somewhere between clear-sightedness and rose-tinted glasses. I suppose it’s the sepia of nostalgia that, even if it is scrupulously honest, cannot help being fond of those long-ago versions of oneself. I liked everything about this book, but I particularly enjoyed these sections. I find anything set in the theatrical world fascinating, fiction or non-fiction, and so I loved L’Engle’s memories of encountering the dashing leading man – and being surprised when he was interested in her, a bit-part player. One of the delightful things about Two-Part Invention is what I learned about American theatre of the mid-century:

Those of us on the lower rungs of the theatrical ladder were encouraged to work on scenes from other plays in order to develop our acting techniques. We were allowed to rehearse on-stage, although, because of the rigid rules of the stagehands’ union, we were not allowed to move any of the furniture. Occasionally we made bold to shove a table or chair out of the way, but we had to be sure we were not caught doing it (otherwise, the stagehands would have had to be paid), and we had to put whatever it was back in exactly the place from which we had taken it.

Two of my most interesting jobs in The Cherry Orchard were musical. At the end oft he first act I played a small lullaby on a recorder. It was necessary that I be in full costume and visible from at least one seat in the audience; otherwise, I would had to join the prohibitively expensive musicians’ union.

L’Engle doesn’t go into enormous detail about her writing career, though some of her books appear as milestones in other events, particularly her debut. It is a bit startling to see others appear in passing, when presumably they took a lot of time and energy to create, but I suppose L’Engle chose the thematic remit of the book – which is chiefly her relationship with her husband, and how that came to be and developed.

It might sound like the two strands of this memoir would be at odds – that the present-day waiting for test results and diagnoses might clash with the theatrical and romantic nostalgia. The brilliance of Two-Part Invention is that they flow in and out of each other so well. And I suppose that’s because they are connected by L’Engle’s love for her husband – both the memories and the current anxieties are founded on that depth and honesty of love that only comes from decades spent together, through thick and thin.

One of the things I found interesting in Claire’s review was that she was a little jolted by L’Engle’s writing about faith, though came to appreciate the way L’Engle wrote about it and the depth of intimacy that this brought. I was also a bit jolted by it – because it’s so rare to see people discuss their faith this freely and honestly. As a Christian, I of course loved seeing it – without the need to apologise or dampen it down. Very refreshing, and made the memoir feel all the more real and relatable to me. Perhaps I can’t relate to much in L’Engle’s life, but I can certainly relate to that.

Perhaps this wasn’t the perfect time to read this memoir, given that a pandemic isn’t an ideal world in which to read anything with a health crisis at the centre of it – and yet, despite the darkness that runs through the centre of this book, my main feeling coming from it is that it was beautiful to spend this time with L’Engle. It is like spending time with a good, honest, vulnerable friend – and I’ll certainly keep an eye out for the others in the series now.

The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho

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It always feels slightly different to read a book that is a worldwide bestseller. I’d obviously heard of The Alchemist (1988) by Paulo Coelho, but I couldn’t tell you a lot about it. Except that I’ve always got it mixed up with Perfume by Patrick Suskind, which I also hadn’t read.

Well, my book group chose this book and I borrowed a copy from my brother Colin, who hadn’t been enthusiastic in his mini review of it. This edition is translated from the Portuguese by Alan Clarke – I don’t know if there are mutliple translations out there. I was certainly intrigued by the atmosphere of the opening paragraph:

The boy’s name was Santiago. Dusk was falling as the boy arrived with his herd at an abandoned church. … an enormous sycamore had grown on the spot where the sacristy had once stood.

In case there are others who didn’t know the plot – it’s about this boy called Santiago who lives in Andalusia, where he is a shepherd. But he dreams of more from life, and can’t stop thinking about a fortune he received from a fortune teller – that he should travel to Egypt to discover treasure.

Off he goes to Africa but not, he quickly learns, materially nearer Egypt than he was when he started. I can’t remember if it’s spelled out, but I’m pretty sure he’s in Morocco – where his money gets stolen by a conman, and he must work for a crystal merchant. He is still determined to raise the money to find this supposed treasure.

Rather late in the day, he does get to Egypt and meet the alchemist – who seems more minor a character than I’d have anticipated from the title. And then it all becomes a mixture of magic realism and an Aesopian fable.

So, what did I think? Well, I really enjoyed the first third of the novel. Santiago is a wonderful character – an interesting mix of determination, hope, uncertainty, and naivety. All of the stuff in Morocco was a delight, and I would happily have read a novel of his experience in the crystal shop – becoming something of a surrogate child to the crystal seller. I’ve never been to Morocco, but I felt rather like I had when I was reading this.

But as the novel moves forward, and Coelho loses any sense of being tethered to the ground, then I lost my affection for The Alchemist. And it’s not even my documented reluctance for magical realism. It’s because the novel tries to become extremely profound, and succeeds in sounding rather silly. There’s an awful lot about following your heart and the truth being in all of us etc. etc., and it began to feel a bit like a thought-a-day desk calendar. It’s everything I kind of suspect the most run-of-the-mill self help books might be. I felt like Coelho’s sensitive eye for character was rather wasted in a series of philosophical truisms.

He’s continued writing ever since, but I haven’t heard of any of the other books. I’d love to try something else by him if he’s written anything that is less queasy. And I can do no better than quoting a line from Col’s thoughts: “A life-changing book, the blurb claims, but I suspect mostly for people who believe horoscopes.”

 

 

What Hetty Did by J.L. Carr (25 Books in 25 Days: #15)

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What Hetty Did (1988) is the fourth novel I’ve read by J.L. Carr, and each time I feel like I understand him as a writer a little less. He’s so varied! The one he is probably best known for is the elegiac, lovely A Month in the Country. Well, What Hetty Did is not much like that – though it does include one of the same characters. Indeed, characters from at least four of his other novels pop up in this one.

Hetty (actually Ethel) is a bright A Level student who is not much liked by her mother and openly disliked by her father. She decides to up and leave – at least until such time as she might get a place at Cambridge. A chance encounter on a train gets her recommended for a guest house. While staying there she decides to try and find the biological mother who gave her up for adoption. Various other eccentric characters mill around the outskirts.

Eccentric is definitely the key term for this novel. Carr seems to have got odder and odder, as a writer, as he got older – and was in his mid-70s when What Hetty Did was published by an imprint that Carr had set up. Hetty is a whirlwind of a character, and not a very likeable one – more determined than pleasant. And the strange way in which things are described is due to some sort of disconcerting energy in the narrative. It’s like Angela Carter but the events are mundane, even if the prose is not.

Did I like it? I honestly don’t know. It’s an impressive feat, and quite distinctive – but such an odd way of telling a relatively simple plot that I never quite felt I could find myself on stable ground. But if nothing else, it’s nice to read a novel set in my homeland of Worcestershire – that doesn’t happen too often. And Bredon Hill even gets a mention, which was the hill abutting my village!

The Fifth Child – Doris Lessing

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Whenever I’ve mentioned to people that my book group is reading The Fifth Child (1988) by Doris Lessing, they have shuddered and told me that I’d better make sure I don’t read it late at night or when I’m on my own, etc. etc.  Apparently it’s notoriously scary.  Well, I found it chilling in places, but ultimately not the horror book it is marketed as.  But it is altogether more interesting than that…

Harriet and David Lovatt are unconventional in their conventionality.  While all their 1960s companions are taking drugs, going to wild parties, and refusing to settle down, all they want is marriage, a big home, and a big family.  This is precisely what they achieve – luckily David’s father is very rich (lucky both for them and for Doris Lessing, who is able to use this a lot to get out of narrative holes), and he offers to pay the mortgage on an enormous house.  Harriet and David promptly get onto filling it, and have four children in the space of very few years, and not that many pages.

I think Lessing rather shot herself in the foot with her title, so far as sustaining interest for the first section of the novel is concerned, because we know what’s coming.  It’s the fifth child which is going to be the important one.

From the first months of her pregnancy, Harriet feels dislike and fear of her unborn child. When he is born, Ben is instantly violent – grinding his gums together cruelly (it seems to Harriet) when he is breastfeeding.  As he grows older, it seems that he has killed a cat; he is bigger and stronger than he ought to be for his age; he cannot communicate in the way their other children did.  Harriet’s dislike grows to a sort of hatred, albeit one tempered with a maternal instinct she cannot quash.

The Fifth Child is an interesting mixture of the gothic horror and domestic realism.  Aspects reminded me of horror film tropes (not that I’ve seen many at all), but still more aspects reminded me of the melancholy-portrait-of-marriage novels Nina Bawden and Margaret Drabble have written.

It made for an interesting combination – but perhaps not an entirely successful one.  Part of the reader’s mind wants to find a logical explanation of some kind (does Ben have severe Autism?  Is Harriet experiencing post-natal depression?) and another part looks towards a fictive horror explanation (is Ben a demon?  A troll, or goblin?)  The influences of two genres can come together in a sophisticated and nuanced manner, but the central crux of the novel can’t really straddle both.  So Lessing picks one – I won’t say which – and this tips the balance of the narrative.  Leaving everything from the other side of the scale a bit out in the cold…

And what of Lessing’s writing style?  I really liked it.  Some people at book group thought it was too basic – the word ‘patronising’ was used – but I’m rather a fan of simple prose.  This might even have been deceptively simple – if it was, I was deceived(!)

This is my second Lessing novel, after Memoirs of a Survivor years and years ago, and I can’t say that I feel I have a strong handle on what she does.  Nor am I hugely keen to read any more, actually, despite thinking The Fifth Child was good.  But, having said that, I would welcome any burning suggestions if you think there is something by our Doris which I should really read…

Others who got Stuck in this Book:


“Although the story is disturbing, Lessing is an amazing writer and it is no wonder she won the Nobel Prize for Literature.” – Thomas, My Porch


“I found the narrative immediately gripping although the fast pace left me breathless at times.” – Kim, Reading Matters


“The book raises many important issues, including whether ‘bad’ children are born that way.” – Jackie, Farm Lane Books