2006

Cobalt Blue by Sachin Kundalkar

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I wanted to write about Cobalt Blue by Sachin Kundalkar (translated by Jerry Pinto) before the end of Novellas in November – hosted by Rebecca and Cathy. It’s only as I sit down to review it that I discover my edition is 228 pages, and thus rather over the suggested novella page limit – but it has big margins and a massive font, and I did some quick sums that suggest it’s under 50,000 words. So… maybe I can count it? I can easily see Cobalt Blue being printed as a 150pp book in a more usual font size.

Enough justification – let’s chat about Cobalt Blue (2006). I came across it because I watched the 2022 film – directed by the multi-talented author. Curiously, the film was in Hindi but the book was written in Marathi. I love watching Indian cinema, and really appreciated Cobalt Blue, which is shot beautifully and sensuously, with a gentle, philosophical feel to it. I was interested to see how the book would compare.

The gist of the plot is that the Joshi family rent out one of their buildings to a mysterious visitor. He is friendly, artistic, ready to be welcomed – and calmly secretive about every detail of his past. I think I’m right in saying that we don’t even learn his name. But we do learn early on that both the son and daughter of the house fall in love with him.

The first half of the book is from the perspective of the son, Tanay – addressed to ‘you’, the visitor.. He’s in his early 20s, and his sexuality seems to be both unspoken and unquestioned. He is not tormented by it, but nor is he open with his parents – instead, it seems like he has entered into an almost dreamlike romance with the anonymous paying guest. Though we know from the opening line that the guest leaves Tanay, Kundalkar still suffuses this half of the novella with a feeling of fairy tale. It is not the reflections of someone embittered. It’s a reverie on a lost relationship. Tanay has a beautiful innocence, observing the world around him and himself with a curiosity that feels poetic, if a little detached.

It’s recently come to my attention that when I’m listening to someone, I cock my head. On the phone I hold the receiver between my head and my shoulder as Anuja does, playing a rhythm on the table in front of me. When I watch a film, I run my fist over my face, as Shrikrishna used to. When I shave, I bring my face close to the mirror, as Baba does. When the milk boils over, I walk to the gas range calmly, turn it off and wipe the counter down, without a word— as Aai does.

How did I acquire those habits? Perhaps that’s what happens during the forging of a relationship: if nothing else, you adopt some of the other person’s habits. It makes you feel those small adaptations, those adoptions, make him one of you.

Have you picked up some habits from me? Do you draw circles with a finger on your thali when you’ve finished eating? Do you, every once in a while, squeeze shaving cream on to your toothbrush? Do you sleep with a knee drawn up to you, the bedclothes kicked away? Do you fold the newspaper neatly and put it where you found it, when you’re done?

Yesterday, when a cobalt blue smudge of the wall ended up on my hand, I wiped it on my trousers without thinking.

Anuja, his sister, is less passive and less contented. In the second half of the novella, we see things from her side – how she and the guest leave the home together. This is scandalous in her society, of course, and is the act of someone determined and reckless. She writes in the first person, and the guest feels more like a catalyst than an end point. Kundalkar’s writing is still lovely, but if the first half is a dream then the second half is more firmly wedded to reality.

Throughout it all, we only get hazy impressions of the guest. He reveals things in the family, but keeps himself hard to pin down. There is no big reveal where we learn his motivations – why he romanced both siblings, or which one he might prefer. Cobalt Blue isn’t about him: it’s about innocence and experience, family and loyalty, hope and the reverse.

Having seen the film first, I did have it in mind – and the film is much more linear, perhaps unsurprisingly. The novella is more abstract and jumps around a lot. I really enjoyed the experience of reading it – and I’ll give the final word to the very able translator, Jerry Pinto, who writes a short afterword:

As readers we expect narratives to fall into seemly timelines. But neither Tanay nor Anuja respect the sequential. Smitten, broken, rebuilt, they tell their stories as memories spill over, as thoughts surface. They move from the present to the past and back to the present without so much as an asterisk to help you adjust. Tanay says things again and again, as if he wants to reassure himself, as if repetition will fix what has happened in his memory. Once you get used to this, you realise that this is how we grieve, how we remember, in the present tense and in the past, all at once, because the imagined future must now be abandoned.

The Other Side of the Bridge by Mary Lawson

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Mary Lawson’s latest novel is on the longlist for the Booker Prize. Seeing her name there finally prompted me to read the novel she was longlisted for in 2006 – and which I bought in 2009: The Other Side of the Bridge.

I first read Lawson with the novel Crow Lake, which I heard about on Margaret’s blog – and I reviewed it back in the first year my blog existed. Somehow it was a long time between drinks, but it’s testimony to keeping books on your shelves even if you haven’t managed to get to them for more than a decade. The Other Side of the Bridge is a wonderful read.

It’s set in rural north Ontario, in a fictional town called Struan. In winter, a few minutes outside is enough to chill the marrow in your bones. A trip to Toronto is possible, but in the two timelines we see here – the mid 1930s, and a generation later in the 50s – the community is pretty self-sufficient. The most important professions are farmer and doctor – and there aren’t a whole lot of other professions.

In the 1930s timeline, Arthur and Jake are farmer’s sons locked in a battle that at least one of them doesn’t understand. Arthur is the older – adept at farming but poor at school, stuck going because of his mother’s ambitions that it will help him have opportunities. The way he is described is often animalistic – slow, broad, heavy. But he is thoughtful and kind, and quietly sensitive – he knows that his father won’t ever do anything courageous, and he knows that his mother loves Jake more than Arthur.

Jake is quick-witted, intelligent – and seemingly cruel. As a child, he loves to get Arthur in trouble with his lies – cajoling him into hitting a boy Jake alleges is bullying him, which turns out not to be true. He fakes danger, calling again and again for Arthur’s help – until Arthur believes Jake is really in danger, and Jake can laugh at him for his gullibility.

It’s this ‘boy who cried wolf’ that leads to the defining moment of their lives together – tied up with the bridge of the title. ‘The other side’ is not simply getting away from Struan – it is the other side of the day where the bridge played its role in a devastating incident. I shan’t spoil.

In the 1950s – alternate chapters dip between the two – the focus is on Ian, the doctor’s son. He is intelligent and pensive. Everybody assumes he will follow in his father’s footsteps and become a doctor – but as a teenager he gets a weekend job at a farm instead. Arthur is the farmer now, married to Laura and father of three. Two women define Ian’s life: his resentment of the mother who left his family, and his silent adoration of Laura. At night, he goes to watch the house – content just to see Laura walk across the room, and be near the life she is living.

The Other Side of the Bridge is a slow, immersive novel. It reminded me a lot of Barbara Kingsolver, though with perhaps less visual description of the natural world. In Struan, the natural world isn’t considered for its beauty – only its practicalities. But Lawson is just as good as Kingsolver at the depths of human relationships in a small community, and the gradual consequences of actions that might sprawl over decades. Even sudden changes are not cut and dried – Lawson expertly shows how the tendrils of each big moment can creep through the years. Her writing is so subtle and perceptive.

In this community, few people leave and few people come – except in wartime, which comes in the earlier timeline. In the later timeline, Ian is weighing up whether to stay or go. Here’s a long chunk of a section where he’s talking with his girlfriend, Cathy:

“We’re going to miss it, you know,” she said.

“Miss what?”

“All this.” She gestured at the dark wooden booths with their stained red-plastic-cushioned seats, the red Formica tables, the walls festooned with photos of happy fishermen holding up big fish. Paper place mats with more fish swirling about the edges, fishing lines coming out of their mouths. Above the door to the toilets there was a three-foot-long muskie, stuffed and nailed to the wall.

“When we’re older, we’ll look back at this place and realise it was beautiful.”

“Harper’s” Ian said.

“Even Harper’s,” Cathy said earnestly. “We’ll look back and we’ll realise that our childhoods were beautiful, and everything in them was beautiful, right down to…” she looked about her, “right down to the holes in these cushions. We’ll realise that Struan was the most wonderful place in the world to grow up in. We’ll realise that wherever we go, wherever we live for the rest of our lives, it will never be as perfect as here.”

A little worm of irritation rose up in Ian from somewhere about mid-chest. “Maybe we’d better not go,” he said, twisting his mouth in a smile.

[…]

“But we have to go,” Cathy leaned towards him earnestly.

“We don’t have to go. Most of the kids we started school with aren’t going.”

“Yes, but people like us have to go. You know that.”

I love the steady beauty of this novel, and my only criticism is that the pacing gets a little awry towards the end – things more a little too quickly, in both timelines, and it felt a bit like Lawson lost confidence in keeping the narrative going at its gentle pace. It felt like portraits that had been built up of minute brushstrokes being finished off a little impressionistically. Though this wasn’t ideal, it didn’t spoil the reading experience – I still finished wondering at her ability to create such a nuanced world, more truthful than any cosy countryside or any Hardy-esque rural misery. Actually, that is what Lawson does best: truth. The Other Side of the Bridge is such a powerfully constructed world that it feels a little blasphemous to suggest that Struan isn’t really there somewhere, still living the legacy of the actions of men and women half a century or more ago.

Madame Verona Comes Down the Hill by Dimitri Verhulst

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Earlier in the year, I experimented with different book recommendation websites – you can read my exploits here. My favourite was Which Book, and I had great fun playing with the different sliders to determine what sort of book would match my mood. The results aren’t the usual fare, and they include a lot of translated fiction. I definitely recommend having a go.

I don’t remember which sliders I used to get the result of Madame Verona Comes Down the Hill (2006) by Dimitri Verhulst, though I’m pretty sure ‘short’ was among them. This novella is only 145 pages and there’s with a big font. Definitely up my street! I think it might also be the first Dutch novel I’ve ever read – with thanks to the translator, David Comer. [A commenter has told me that it’s actually translated from Flemish – be more precise, publisher!]

Madame Verona lives in an isolated house on top of a hill, on the outskirts of a small village. ‘As far as anyone knew, it had always been inhabited by outsiders, people from elsewhere, who came here with a romantic view of isolation and paid for it later with large chunks of their mind.’ But there is no sense that Madame V has particularly suffered from her isolation, even though her husband has been dead for more than twenty years. She has the gift of dogs loving her, as the first chapter dwells upon. They have been a constant, and a dog is accompanying her as she comes down the hill.

In terms of plot in the ‘present day’ section of the novella, the title pretty much sums it up. Snow is thick on the ground, and Madame Verona has slowly made her way down the steep hill. And she knows that she won’t make it back to the top. She is too old and too tired. She has, in essence, come down the hill to die.

We flit to and from this present day, but the novella is really a mixture of memories and reflections – sometimes clearly Madame Verona’s thoughts, and sometimes a broader and more philosophical narrator’s voice. These aspects go together well. We see the specifics of the village and of Madame Verona’s marriage – and we hear more general considerations of time and community and particularly age. Here’s a rather lovely passage I noted down:

Silence is often more intense after its return. When a tree accepts its defeat, creaks and capsizes, all life flies up and off. There’s crowing and cawing, branches crack, it rains feathers and down, rabbits flee to their underground shelters. All things considered, the titan’s contact with the actual ground is quiet; people generally expect it to be louder. It’s mainly the rest of the forest that kicks up a fuss and makes a racket. And once the creatures have assessed the damage, silence comes back. Eyes and leaves turn to the light that has never shone so brightly here. A place has come free, the struggle can begin, because the space will be occupied, by something or someone. It’s like that for trees, it’s like that for people.

I might have appreciated a little more about Madame Verona in the present day, because it is a bit sparse there, but this is a very enjoyable little book. It has aspects of melancholy, but Verhulst’s thoughtful exploration of little facets of life mean it doesn’t feel bleak – helped by the beautiful descriptions of the landscape. There is a lovely tone to it that comes through the translation. That translation can be a little clunky (‘She wasn’t brave enough to go downstairs herself. And what if she did, and found herself eye to eye with a person of bad will, how would that lead to a better outcome?’) but that is the exception rather than the rule.

Thanks, Which Book, my first read based on your recommendations certainly went well!

An Abundance of Katherines by John Green (25 Books in 25 Days #13)

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You know what #13 means? It means that 25 Books in 25 Days is officially half over already! It feels like it’s been doing super fast – and has, indeed, so far been pretty doable. And almost all of them have also qualified for Project Names – including today’s, An Abundance of Katherines (2006) by John Green.

I started watching John Green’s YouTube channel around 2008, and still watch it now and then – it’s called vlogbrothers, and he alternates videos with his brother Hank. This was my entry to Green, and then I read The Fault in Our Stars a couple of years after everybody else read it. Since then, I’ve bought a few of his books, but had yet to read any others. I decided to pick up An Abundance of Katherines because Rachel and I will be talking about YA fiction on the next episode of ‘Tea or Books?’ and I haven’t read a huge amount.

The main character of An Abundance of Katherines is Colin Singleton (not many Colins in fiction, so that was a plus!) who has dated 19 girls called Katherine. Not Kate, not Katie, but Katherine. And he’s only just leaving high school. As we subsequently learn, some of these ‘datings’ lasted rather less an hour, and started when his age was in single digits – but, to his mathematical mind, there must be some meaning to his having only dated Katherines. And to his heart, there has to be a reason that he is always the one who is dumped. He decides to put together a theorem to explain his relationships – and which will predict who will be dumper and who will be dumpee.

Meanwhile, he and his best friend Hassan head off on a road trip – deciding to stop in a small town which claims to have the burial place of Franz Ferdinand, and where he and Hassan can get jobs at a factory making the strings for tampons. Naturally there is also a gang of people their age that they can get involved with – including Lindsey, who captivates Colin.

There are quite a few boxes ticked along the way, and the novel is quite self-consciously quirky, but in an entirely enjoyable way. I rolled my eyes a bit at Colin’s thought process about how women don’t NEED to wear make up and he PREFERS them that way, but he is otherwise an engaging and sympathetic lead. Once a child prodigy, he is struggling to live up to that – and navigating his unpopularity and uncertainty about his future. Hassan is very funny, much more charismatic, but without a clue where his life is heading. Lindsey is entirely too much a Manic Pixie Dream Girl, but it was 2006 and perhaps YA authors didn’t know better yet.

It definitely helped that I have an existing fondness for John Green, and I found this a page-turner, enjoying every moment, even while recognising that I’m not really the audience. Someone half my age would doubtless find a lot of solace in this sort of book – I didn’t learn any life lessons, but I had a ball reading it.

25 Books in 25 Days: #18 Mr Thundermug

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I read Caroline by Cornelius Medvei a few years ago, lent to me by my friend Mel cos it was about a donkey and she knows how much I love donkeys. Since then, I’ve bought a couple other of Medvei’s novels – but not til now have I read another, which is Mr Thundermug (2006). Incidentally, I love the cover illustration on my copy, by Richard Bravery.

It’s a novella about a baboon who has learnt English (nobody is quite sure how; it seems to have arrived complete) and tries to integrate in everyday life.

Nobody ever established where it was that the baboon came from, or what had brought him to this unnatural habitat. The basic facts are confusing – clearly, baboons are not native to this region; but, on the other hand, Mr Thundermug spoke our language perfectly, with no trace of an accent, and there is no evidence that he knew any foreign languages.

There were in fact numerous theories as to the baboon’s origins, but it was impossible to know which, if any, was true; all they had in common was their lack of supporting evidence. This in itself was not surprising, as our city excels in the manufacture of rumours. Nevertheless, the theories I heard were so often attributed, at various removes, to Mr Thundermug himself, that I began to think the baboon must have taken a perverse delight in providing contradictory accounts of his origins – tailored perhaps to his mood and the company.

He is hampered by having a wife and children who are non-speaking baboons, and by the discrimination he faces by those around him. For instance, the council try to evict him from his home as it is inhabitable because of a cockroach infestation – though, as he points out, he and his wife ate the cockroaches, so that problem is dealt with. As the novella goes on, he gets embroiled in an unlikely legal case.

I enjoyed Medvei’s writing, which plays with the surreal in a matter of fact way, and Mr Thundermug is an excellent character. His combination of optimism, disappointment, occasional grumpiness, and common sense in the face of bureaucracy, would be winning whatever sort of creature he were. I don’t think I entirely understood the point of the story – there might be a meaning to the parable that passed me by – but Medvei is an engaging storyteller with a vivid and unusual point of view.

 

The Literary Conference – César Aira

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I guess my blog is, if anything, a bit of a celebration of well-written middlebrow, mostly English, mostly oldish, and mostly about tea cups and cats. Fair? Well, I also love to try things that are a bit different sometimes (especially – scholar that I am – if they are short, so the experiment needn’t be all-encompassing). So, when I went off to a literary conference in the summer, I thought I’d take The Literary Conference (2006) by the Argentinian author César Aira, translated by Katherine Silver (one of three Aira novels sent to me by Hamish Hamilton a while ago, in a boxset of three with the cover designs below).

Somehow I got distracted, and only finished it recently – which, considering it’s only 90 pages long, isn’t very impressive, but it isn’t because I didn’t like it. I was delightfully baffled and bemused by the whole thing. It’s surrealism mixed with postmodernism, with a dollop of science-fiction for good measure.

Our hero – and seldom has the term been used with less justice – has the same name as the author, and is off to attend a literary conference. We see extremely little of this. Instead we see his arrogance, his venom against rivals, and his determination to succeed. All are seen in the curious opening, where he discovers the secret of the ‘Macuto Line’ – a rope that has pirates’ treasure on the end of it, under the sea, only nobody has worked out how to solve it. Guess who does?

But that is an overture to the main event. The protagonist wants to clone his rival, and has – since he is, he is willing to confess, a genius – devised a cloning machine, and secures a cell from Carlos Fuentes by means of a trained wasp.

Upon my return to the hotel, the excitement of the past few hours reached its anticlimax. The first part of the operation, the most demanding part for me, was over: I had obtained a cell from Carlos Fuentes, I had placed it inside the cloning machine, and I had left the machine to operate under optimum conditions. If you add to this the fact that the previous day I had solved the secular enigma of the Macuto Line, I could feel momentarily satisfied and think about other things. I had a few days to do just that. Cloning a living being is not like blowing glass. It happens on its own, but it takes time. Even though the process is prodigiously accelerated, it requires almost a week, according to the human calendar, for it must reconstruct on a small scale the entire geology of the evolution of life.
The climax of the novella is undoubtedly the way in which this clone goes awry. I want to say what happens so much – it is so strange, and yet extremely fitting (and goes back neatly to the beginning) – but I won’t do Aira the disservice of spoiling the ending, in case you choose to read it.

I have no real idea what I thought about The Literary Conference. It did remind me of the two novels I’ve read by Adolfo Bioy Casares – in that it pretty much confused me, without alienating me. Perhaps it was more of a tourist venture into the tastes of others, but… it was fun, nonetheless.

The Library at Night – Alberto Manguel

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I have already included quite a few excerpts from Alberto Manguel’s The Library at Night (2006) on Stuck-in-a-Book, and I might well include some more in the future (you can read them all here), so this review has been spread thinly over many months!  Suffice to say, I loved it – thank you Colin for giving it to me! – and it’s not a book to read quickly.  I started it about 18 months ago, picking up and reading a bit here and there, soaking in Manguel’s thoughtful brilliance, and have only recently finished.  I’ve had A Reader on Reading on the go for even longer, so… look out for a review of that sometime in 2018!  Basically, this preface is a warning that I’m not going to write a proper review; I’m going to give you some more of his quotations, and a brief glimpse of the myriad world Manguel has created.

Manguel considers libraries from many different angles – having shared, at the beginning, that ‘libraries, whether my own or shared with a greater reading public, have always seemed to me pleasantly mad places’. With this delightful proviso, Manguel devotes chapters to ‘The Library as…’  Myth, Order, Space, Power, Shadow, Shape, Chance, Workshop, Mind, Island, Survival, Oblivion, Imagination, Identity, and Home – each starts in his own library (pictured at the top of this post) and gradually unfolds to the world – encompassing incredible amounts of research and information about libraries around the world and throughout history – as well as branching out into all manner of philosophy, psychology, and memoir.

Paramount is Manguel’s interest in the very concept of a library – of giving order to books.

Ordered by subject, by importance, ordered according to whether the book was penned by God or by one of God’s creatures, order alphabetically or by number or by the language in which the text is written, every library translates the chaos of discovery and creation into a structured system of hierarchies or a rampage of free associations.  Such eclectic classifications rule my own library.  Ordered alphabetically, for instance, it incongruously marries humorous Bulgakob to severe Bunin (in my Russian Literature section), and makes formal Boileau follow informal Beauchemin (in Writing in French), properly allots Borges a place next to his friend Bioy Casares (in Writing in Spanish) but opens an ocean of letters between Goethe and his inseparable friend Schiller (in German Literature).

By which we realise that Manguel is, unsurprisingly, a polyglot.  My entire non-English section rests in one copy of Harry Potter et la prisonnier d’Azkaban, but it’s still a topic I find amusing and interesting, even if it is essentially a case of coincidence.  I even blogged about it, with some photos from my shelves, back here.

Manguel isn’t interested solely in the arrangement of books, of course. He is a phenomenally well-read and bookish man, who would probably feel quite at home in the blogosphere – albeit probably the most highbrow member of it, because his intellect and knowledge is rather dizzying.  And yet… how could someone who writes the following excerpt not be at home with any and every bibliophile?

Some nights I dream of an entirely anonymous library in which books have no title and boast no author, forming a continuous narrative stream in which all genres, all styles, all stories converge, and all protagonists and all locations are unidentified, a stream into which I can dip at any point of its course.  In such a library, the hero of The Castle would embark on the Pequod in search of the Holy Grail, land on a deserted island to rebuild society from fragments shored against his ruins, speak of his first centenary encounter with ice and recall, in excruciating detail, his early going to bed.  In such a library there would be one single book divided into a thousand volumes and, pace Callimachus and Dewey, no catalogue.

As I say, this isn’t a thorough review of The Library at Night – it’s too wide-ranging to permit that – but it’s a general rallying call to any of you who haven’t got a copy yet.  We all love reading, and most of us also love books and libraries too – well, friends, Manguel knew this, and has written a book just for us.

A Spy in the Bookshop

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I’ve been a bit worried about what will happen when I get to my first Reading Presently book which I haven’t hugely liked.  And the time has come.  Since it was given by a very dear friend (my ex-colleague Lucy) I don’t want to seem unappreciative – but I also, of course, don’t want to lie.  So I’m just going to give my honest review, with the caveat that I’m VERY grateful to Luce for giving it to me (and another addendum, that I’ve just read a really fun, great book which Lucy also gave me.)

As it happens, I didn’t especially dislike A Spy in the Bookshop (letters between Heywood Hill and John Saumarez Smith 1966-74), it just disappointed me a bit.  JSS (as I shall know him for the rest of this review) had previously edited the letters of Heywood Hill and Nancy Mitford, which I very much enjoyed – and was actually the first thing I read in the Mitford canon.  Obviously buoyed by success, JSS decided to publish his own correspondence with Heywood Hill…

Hill had just retired from the bookshop at 10, Curzon Street, and running the shop was a man with the extraordinary name Handasyde Buchanan (known as ‘Handy’).  His wife Mollie worked there too, as well as assistant Liz.  The letters JSS sends to Hill are, basically, 165 pages of them bitching about the Buchanans.  Forgive the terminology, but nothing else will quite fit.

You know when you’re on a bus, or in a shop, and overhear angry conversation between two people about an absent third – and you think “I bet it’s six of one and half a dozen of the other”?  Yes?  That is to say, the absent third person would probably have equally as compelling a case against the gossiping couple present?  That’s the feeling that I got from A Spy in the Bookshop (2006).  JSS writes off a letter saying “THIS is something awful Handy did today”; Hill replies “Gosh, that’s awful”; JSS writes “You think THAT’S awful?  What about THIS!”

I don’t blame JSS for writing these letters.  I imagine it was rather cathartic – and sometimes, as with the following example, rather amusing:

Instead, he took the chance when Mollie was away, “to smarten me up”: a process that I need hardly describe, consisting as it always does of a catalogue of his own virtues.
but it does rather pall.  Which makes it particularly galling when JSS does edit out excerpts which seem rather more interesting.  This editorial comment made me gnash my teeth, and pencil two exclamation marks in the margin:

[Some details followed about Rome and some of the people, including Muriel Spark, whom I’d met through my ex-uncle Ronald Bottrall.]
Oh, John!  Tell us about that, please!

There is enough about the everyday running of a bookshop to keep me reading, and anybody who can slip in anecdotes about Nancy Mitford is onto a winning thing with me, but I would have loved more.  Heywood Hill could also be witty when he wanted to be:

P.S. One of those real hopeless customer questions from a neighbour here.  A book about a man in California who kept wolves as Alsatians.  She had it in paperback but lost it, she found it such a help with her jackal.
But here again, I’m afraid I have a problem with their outlook.  I hate the idea of books being worth a lot of money if they’re first editions, and all that talk of ‘unclipped’, ‘neat copy’ etc.  The idea of books as collectible objects based on their appearance or scarcity rather sickens me, as an avid reader.  And commercial value, naturally for booksellers, is paramount in their mind.

Heywood Hill has proven to be a worthy correspondent, in the letters with Nancy Mitford, and I did get the sense that he was lowering himself rather for JSS’s petty missives.  I don’t doubt a genuine affection between them, but I do believe that Hill wasn’t bringing out his best letters for JSS.

It’s a fun enough collection, and the bookshop setting certainly helps, but it does scream afterthought, once the Nancy Mitford letters were successful.  Without either correspondent having her talent for letter-writing, and with such a repetitive, almost bitter, note sounding throughout, A Spy in the Bookshop is only fairly enjoyable – and there are certainly better places to look for this sort of collection.  But, once again, thank you to Lucy for being sweet enough to give me a copy!

Many a true word….

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“Many intelligent people have a sort of bug: they think intelligence is an end in itself. They have one idea in mind: to be intelligent, which is really stupid. And when intelligence takes itself for its own goal, it operates very strangely: the proof that it exists is not to be found in the ingenuity or simplicity of what it produces, but in how obscurely it is expressed.”

–The Elegance of the Hedgehog, Muriel Barbery

Two irritating people pretend to be less intelligent than they are. One is thinking about killing herself. Both waffle on about philosophy a great deal. I just kept imagining how these sort of characters would be lampooned in a P.G. Wodehouse novel.

I was intending to review this months ago, but… Barbery kind of did it for me in the text. See above… (oo, a saucer of milk for table two…!)