Colin is staying, so I’m not going to be anti-social and blog at LENGTH, but I will ask this – I’m currently loving Judi Dench’s And Furthermore, and wondered if you could recommend any other theatrical memoirs? I’ve ordered Irene Vanbrugh’s To Tell My Story (anyone read this?) and would love any other ideas…
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The bizarre letter was sent to the cat, which was listed in the pets section of the census, by a court in Boston, Massachusetts calling on him for duty.Cat owners Anna and Guy Esposito wrote to the court asking the family pet, named Sal, to be excused from service because he doesn’t speak or understand English.Mrs Esposito reportedly included a letter from her vet confirming that the cat was a ‘domestic short-haired neutered feline’ and not human.However, the request for the cat’s exemption was refused by a jury commissioner and Mrs Esposito was told that Sal ‘must attend’ Suffolk Superior Crown Court.She said: “When they ask him guilty or not guilty, what’s he supposed to say – meow?””Sal is a member of the family so I listed him on the last census form under pets but there has clearly been a mix-up.”The Daily Mail reported that Sal could have accidentally ended up on the juror list when paperwork was misread at the last census.According to the Massachusetts judicial branch website, US citizens who ‘do not speak and understand English sufficiently well may be disqualified.’If Sal’s application for disqualification is denied, the cat is expected in court on 23 March.
I do like it when bloggers share little snippets from books they’ve read, or are reading, especially when these excerpts are anecdotal in nature. And so I thought I’d share something I read years ago in A.A. Milne’s (brilliant) autobgioraphy, and which has stayed with me:
[J.M.] Barrie told me of an occasion when he was present at a gathering of young authors all very busy talking about style. An older man sitting aloof in a corner, but listening intently, was asked to contribute to the discussion. He confessed uncomfortably that he had never thought about the subject: he would rather listen and learn what he could: he really would have nothing to say of any value: they all knew much more than he did. Fearing to be drawn more deeply into the argument, he added that he had to go now, and slipped out. “Who was that?” Barrie was asked. Barrie, who had brought him there, explained that it was Thomas Hardy.
One of the books I bought during Project 24 was Strange Glory (1936) by L.H. Myers. For some reason I had jotted down this name during my doctoral research, and so I bought it when I spotted it in my favourite shop in Oxford, Arcadia. Having read it (quite a while ago, actually) I have no idea why I decided to write it down. It wasn’t remotely helpful for my research… but it was interesting enough.
It starts with Paulina stopping her chauffeur next to a mysterious wood in Louisiana. She is off to meet her fiancee, but is captivated by the wood instead – and the equally mysterious man she spots amongst the trees. Strange Glory returns to Paulina’s life once every year, as she returns to the wood and to that man – whom she thinks a hermit – as gradually she detaches herself from her life of privilege and gravitates towards a new life.
To be honest, Myers lost me a bit sometimes. I read most of the novel on a long train journey, and when I returned to it I had great trouble working out what was going on. (That’s the sort of confession you won’t find in a newspaper review.) The second half of the novel becomes a sort of love triangle, with left-wing politics thrown into the mix, and for me it lost a bit of its mystique. Reminded me a little of David Garnett’s Aspects of Love, which I didn’t particularly love.
But why did I still enjoy Strange Glory? The aura of mystery does pervade it, and Myers’ description of the woods helped deepen a narrative which could have remained quite dull. Here’s an example – if you like this, then you might well enjoy the novel as a whole:
She woke from her musings to find herself passing through country that she had never seen before. The sun, now high overhead, was shining fiercely through a white haze. Fields of short, greyish grass bordered the road, and behind there rose clumps of huge, moss-hooded trees, the outposts of a line of forest. In the chalky, violet sunlight these mountainous forms loomed up hollow and spectral; they looked like lumps of foam left by a withdrawing tide. And the forest behind seemed to be more unsubstantial still – hoary and unsubstantial with an ancientness independent of time. A frontier of mystery, it stretched on for mile after mile; always the same distance away, it tantalised Paulina until suddenly the road made a turn, and the car rushed into it and was engulfed. At once a cool, swampy smell filled the air; pools of water glittered in the half-dark, the car plunged through clouds of noise that came from the throats of countless frogs.Even though Strange Glory proved fairly useless for my research, it was yet an entertaining diversion and a glimpse into unusual territory for my reading. The blurb describes it as ‘transcendental’. Perhaps it is no coincidence that L.H. Myers is the son of F.W.H. Myers, who wrote a rather bizarre (and very long) two volume work on the unconscious mind, called Human Personality and Its Survival of Bodily Death which enjoyed a vogue in the early 20th century. Not the sort of work I’d particularly enjoy in purported ‘non-fiction’ (although it does currently sit on my desk, for research purposes) but when this sort of thing influences fiction, it can lend a haunting quality.
One of my more unusual and eccentric choices for Project 24, perhaps, but I’m glad I’ve read it – and there a few cheap secondhand copies over the internet, should you wish to sample it yourself.
Books to get Stuck into:
The Haunted Woman – David Lindsay: Lindsay was a friend of Myers, and weaves odd metaphysical elements into this unusual novel.
The Man Who Planted Trees – Jean Giono: not the most obvious of connections, but equally captivating in its depiction of woodland as the central force of a narrative.
Happy weekend, one and all. Hope the weather where you are is a little less gloomy than Oxford… roll on spring. But, before that, roll on a book, a blog post, and a link. Today’s Miscellany is a little more verbose than most…
1.) The link – (which is actually a blog post, I suppose.) The other day I reviewed Remember Remember by Hazel McHaffie, a novel with the theme of dementia. I intended (were I to summarise in a single line) to write something along the lines of ‘This is a good novel; the second half is rather better than the first half.’ That would save me an evening! And it is – a very interesting idea, executed skillfully and with feeling. Re-reading the review, from the author’s p-o-v, I realise that my quibbles seemed to dominate, and my praise perhaps get a bit lost. But I didn’t really have to try and work out the author’s p-o-v, because Hazel got in touch – and has written this response to my blog post.
I’ve got to say, I felt flattered that Hazel thought my blog post worth responding to, and read her thoughts with much interest. I was rather mortified to realise that my review had come across worse than I meant it to (Hazel and I have since exchanged friendly emails!), but it also made me want to say something which is perhaps controversial. I do believe that the very worst writer (which, of course, Hazel is not anywhere close to being) is somehow on a higher plane than the best reviewer/blogger. To be creative is so much more valuable than to analyse creation. So my view, really, isn’t that important, in comparison…
That sounds negative about blogging, doesn’t it? It wasn’t meant to – rather I wanted to celebrate writers. Of course, blogging can cross over into ‘creative writing’ territory, but generally I admire those wonderful people who create novels – and must remember to be humble as one who merely writes about them.
Oh, and my failure to get on board with Aaron in Remember Remember does (as I have told Hazel now) put him in the same category as Mr. Rochester, Mr. Knightley, and Heathcliff!
2.) The blog post – is Pamela’s beautiful list of ‘Simple Pleasures’… which just happens to include Miss Hargreaves…
3.) The book – is Vanessa Gebbie’s new short story collection, Storm Warning, which sounds intriguing. I reviewed an earlier collection by Gebbie forever ago, here. And here’s what her publisher (Salt) have to say about Storm Warning: 
Storm Warning explores the echoes of human conflict in a series of powerful stories and flashes inspired by life with the author’s own father, an ordinary and gentle man who fought and was decorated in WWII, but who suffered the after-effects for the rest of his life.
The conflicts range from conventional warfare through violent tribal clashes to historical religious persecution. Gebbie’s viewpoints are never predictable. War veterans are haunted by events that echo louder and louder. A prisoner sees the violent execution of a friend and mentor, a boy hides from a necklacing, a young student escapes the fighting in Iraq in the hope of continuing his education in the West and a woman tells what she knows of her parents’ torture.
Echoes of conflict are often explored from the child’s perspective. A young girl witnesses an attempted escape over the Berlin Wall. Another is present when her grandfather, a writer, is targeted in the Russian Cultural Revolution, and two small boys are unwilling bystanders to atrocities in African inter-tribal conflict.
The people in these stories are not those who go down in history. They are the ordinary troops. They are the powerless, caught up involuntarily. All are tested, sometimes to breaking point, in this extraordinary collection as Gebbie pulls no punches, exploring the surreality of conflict, the after-effects of atrocity and sometimes, the seeds of atrocity itself.
Those who thought I have learnt good habits, or become a better person, under the strictures of Project 24 probably had those beliefs dispelled on January 1st, when I bought twenty-four books. Just in case there are any lingering doubts, I thought I’d better share with you my purchases since the beginning of the year (Jan. 1st purchases not included – posted about them already!) Oh, how I missed going into a bookshop, gleam in my eye, wallet in hand, knowing the only things holding me back were time and the limited number of bags one man can carry at any one time!
One of my favourite bookshops for potential bargains is Notting Hill Book & Comic Exchange. A cramped ground floor, with the choice pickings – and three sprawling, untidy basement rooms, where books are all only £1 each. Last time I went they were 50p each, but I suspect they made nary a jot of profit that way. Last Saturday I met up with Sakura (aka Chasing Bawa) and we went book-hunting. Sakura wisely took books to exchange, thus getting vouchers to spend in the shop. I can never find more than one or two books I am willing to part with, and they’re always in Somerset rather than Oxford, so it was cold cash I parted with.
I bought nine books… and they came to £9. Not all were downstairs, but they actually only charged me 50p for some, so it balanced out. Nine pounds! When you think that the uncomfortable bus journey to and from London cost £13… Anyway, enough prevarication – here’s what I got.
– Foreigners by Leo Walmsley
Jane (Fleur Fisher) wrote this very compelling review of Love in the Sun by Walmsley – I’ve not been able to track that down, but thought it might be worth picking this one up.
– The Gipsy in the Parlour by Margery Sharp
Another author Jane likes, but one I actually first read in 2003 or thereabouts – I read The Foolish Gentlewoman after reading in letters by P.G. Wodehouse that he liked it a lot. And last read in 2003, so far, but I’ve got a fair few waiting on my shelves.
– Loving by Henry Green
All manner of people have told me to read this, and a nice Penguin never goes amiss.
– The Mist in the Mirror by Susan Hill
I’ve not read any of Hill’s ghost stories… I’m not entirely sure I want to, as I’ll most likely be terrified, but… maybe in the summer.
– The Empty Room by Charles Morgan
Like Margery Sharp, Morgan is an author I read once, enjoyed, and never quite returned to. Still, at least this will give me another option.
– Aiding and Abetting by Muriel Spark
You all know that I’ve become besotted by all things Spark – and this is simply another (short! hurrah!) novel of hers to add to the shelves.
– The Girl With Glass Feet by Ali Shaw
I read this a year or so ago, but it was a library copy, and I thought I’d quite like one for myself. You know how it is.
– The Child That Books Built by Francis Spufford
I’ve been considering getting this one for a while, since it sounds exactly the sort of thing a bibliophile would enjoy, and at £1 I felt I could take a gamble.
Most excitingly, I spotted Potterism by Rose Macaulay. To be honest, I still can’t remember whether or not I have a copy (LibraryThing says no) BUT when I flicked it open…
Eeek! And for only £1! Having checked it against examples of her autograph online, I am confident that it is bona fide Macaulay – and am utterly delighted.
After all this excitement, we then popped to a nice little cafe, where Sakura kindly bought me a cup of tea, and we ooohed and aaaahed over each other’s purchases.
But this is not all! I have been hungrily around Oxford’s bookshops; I have bought one or two things online – here are my other finds.
– Diary of a Provincial Lady by E.M. Delafield
Yes, of course I already have this – but my 4-in-1 copy is falling apart, and I’ve been looking to replace it.
– Mr. Norris Changes Trains by Christopher Isherwood
This novel has been on the edge of my book-consciousness for a while, but I can’t remember why. Did one of you mention it? A beautiful Folio edition (sans boxy-thing – it’s the yellow patterned book) swung the deal. But illustrations by Beryl Cook… can’t say I’m excited about those.
– Leonard Woolf by Victoria Glendinning
Oh, the times I walked past this in the £2 bookshop last year! Praise be that it was still there in 2011…
– Letter from New York by Helene Hanff
I didn’t realise the author of 84, Charing Cross Road had done much more, so was pleased to spot this collection of articles.
– The Demon Lover and other stories by Elizabeth Bowen
I bought this in Langport, Somerset in the sweetest, and most bizarre, bookshop I’ve seen in ages. Dozens of pieces of furniture placed at random… not many books, but this collection of stories might help me find my way back to Bowen, after not enjoying The Last September. 2010 was the year of giving authors another go; something I should continue this year – since it was so rewarding.
– The Bondmaid by Pearl S. Buck
Since I loved The Good Earth last year, this leapt into my hands. I daresay Buck will follow the Sharp-Morgan path, of arriving on my bookshelf and never making it to being read, but… maybe one of you can give it a shove in the right direction?
– Daphne by Justine Picardie
Everyone else was reading this a few years ago… now I might join ’em.
– England, Their England by A.G. MacDonell
This was recommended to me by Tim, my colleague, and the first page was very funny. I’m not sure what led Tim to recommend it, since I don’t think we’ve talked much about books we like, but… I’m quietly hopeful.
Not pictured is The Public Image by Muriel Spark, which I bought in Somerset and left there. And lovely Deanna, who reads this blog, says another Spark is winging its way from her… I will thank her suitably profusely when it arrives!
Phew! There you go. For those who didn’t read my blog before 2010, this is more or less standard Stuck-in-a-Book behaviour…
And as always, I’d love to know your thoughts on them: have you read any? Which should fight its way to the top of the tbr pile first? Just how exciting is that Rose Macaulay signature?!
My housemate Mel (who also edits fab flash fiction blog The Pygmy Giant) was telling me about the book she’d just finished, and was so enthusiastic about it that I told her to put her money where her mouth was. Well, I expect I said something more sensible and less slangy. Either way, she speedily wrote this brilliant review… enjoy and, if you’re like me, be severely tempted…
Yesterday I finished what I think might possibly be the best book I’ve ever read. It’s probably not, but the fact that I am sitting here trying to get over it makes me think it’s a real contender.
I was introduced to Jonathan Safran Foer perhaps a year ago when my old housemate Liz leant me his first novel, 
Everything is Illuminated. I’d heard about that book a lot, but always thought it sounded like some pretentious intellectual tome that I’d never want to wade through. It was not. The strange-sounding title comes from the narrator’s technique of trying to write well in English by using a thesaurus far too liberally. It was funny, weird, tragic, original and totally brilliant. I recommend that one too…
So I bought Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close on the back of that good experience. The title is again inspired by the narrator’s distinctive way of describing things. It again features the stories of multiple generations of a family, and again much of the narration is done through letters.
If I had to tell you what it’s about, I’d say it’s about missing people. It’s about loss, and how loss can disrupt your entire life. It’s about the personal consequences of war. It’s about regret, and the things you just can’t talk about. It’s about things being simple, yes and no, and things being complicated.
In summary, Oskar is a smart, nine year-old nerd. He loved his dad above all else. His dad was killed in the twin towers on September 11. A year later, going through his dad’s things, he discovers a mysterious key in an envelope, and makes it his mission (his ‘raison d’etre’ – he’s learning French) to find out what it unlocks. He travels all across New York meeting everybody in the phone book with the surname Black. They can’t help but love him – he’s unintentionally funny, curious, and straightforward. The humour comes from Oskar’s telling of the story, but it’s also crushingly sad.
At the same time, we gradually learn the story of Oskar’s grandfather, who left his grandmother before his dad was born, through a series of letters written to the son he never met. What is completely brilliant about this is that Grandpa can’t talk, so communicates by writing in notebooks. His letters are interspersed with photos of doorknobs (you’ll find out why) and pages that he has written messages on to other people. This is so cleverly done, it means that everything is gradually (as the author would say) illuminated. The fact that he has YES and NO tattooed on his hands becomes symbolically significant too. I love the way all his words, all his days are recorded in books, on the backs of envelopes, on napkins or on his own arms – what these pieces of paper are used for, where his words get stuffed, what washes off, is fabulous. e.g.:
Later that year, when snow started to cover the front steps, when morning became evening as I sat on the sofa, buried under everything I’d lost, I made a fire and used my laughter for kindling: “Ha ha ha!” “Ha ha ha!” “Ha ha ha!” “Ha ha ha!”
In fact, all the parts written by Oskar’s grandfather are a wonderful stream of poetry.
Thirdly, we find Oskar’s beloved grandma writing him a letter/typing out her life story, explaining things that were never said, and perhaps giving us a more reliable version of events than her husband’s. Oskar’s grandparents witnessed the bombing of Dresden, and basically lost their lives there. They meet again in New York, Grandpa tells us, like this:
… the place was half empty but she slid right up to me, “You’ve lost everything,” she said, as if we were sharing a secret, “I can see.”
The three narrators are excellently drawn, each with their own writing style and their own way of expressing their story. And the writing is just beautiful. I cried at a letter from Stephen Hawking; I did not predict that. If you’ve never lost somebody vital, I don’t know how you will react to this story, but I think it will probably still break your heart.
I don’t want to put in too many spoilers, but to tell you what I love about this book, I think I just need to quote some astonishing lines that express so well some of the experiences of grief.
“You never write to me.” “But I’m with you.” “So?” … It’s the tragedy of loving, you can’t love anything more than something you miss.
When I no longer had to be strong in front of you, I became very weak. I brought myself to the ground, which was where I belonged. I hit the floor with my fists. I wanted to break my hands, but when it hurt too much, I stopped. I was too selfish to break my hands for my only child.
“I lost a son.” “You did? How did he die?” “I lost him before he died.” “How?” “I went away.” “Why?” He wrote, “I was afraid.” “Afraid of what?” “Afraid of losing him.” “Were you afraid of him dying?” “I was afraid of him living.” “Why?” He wrote, “Life is scarier than death.”
Warning – this is from near the end:
“I wish I hadn’t found it.” “It wasn’t what you were looking for?” “That’s not it.” “Then what?” “I found it and now I can’t look for it.” I could tell he didn’t understand me. “Looking for it let me stay close to him for a little while longer.” “But won’t you always be close to him?” I knew the truth. “No.”
So this all sounds depressing, but there is so much humour and humanity in here that it’s a million miles from being a dirge. There are also nice little mysteries and clues and unexplained things that all come together later on in the book.
In summary: Oh My Goodness. In my boundless enthusiasm about this book, I feel like I’ve turned into Oskar. It’s extremely original and incredibly sad. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll be astonished.
I’m currently, and slowly, reading Personal Pleasures by Rose Macaulay, one of the books I bought under Project 24. It’s a collection of paeans to the m
any and various delights Macaulay encounters in life – from believing to disbelieving, from doves in the chimney to improving the dictionary. It’s a hodge-podge, or perhaps a hotch-potch, and certainly good fun. It does feel a little over-written compared to Macaulay’s novels, with elaborate expressions and fanciful imagery. You can imagine Philip Sidney penning it, whilst not musing on Astrophel and Stella. Having said that, Macaulay delights in pulling the rug from under your feet, and each section has a little turning-point where she considers the flip-side.
This isn’t really a review of the book – that would be foolish, since I’m not even halfway yet – but I thought I’d treat you to one of the sections which tickled me. AND this prepares you for some Macaulay news coming later in the week…
An exquisite peace obtains: a drowsy, golden peace, flowing honey-sweet over my dwelling, soaking it, dripping like music from the walls, strowing the floors, like trodden herbs. A peace for gods, a divine emptiness.
The easy chair spreads wide arms of welcome; the sofa stretches, guest-free; the books of gleam, brown and golden, buff and blue and maroon, from their shelves; they may strew the floor, the hairs, the couch, once more, lying ready to the hand. “I am afraid the room is rather littered….” The echo of the foolish words lingers on the air, is brushed away, dies forgotten, the air closes behind it. A heavy volume is heaved from its shelf on to the sofa. Silence drops like falling blossoms over the recovered kingdom from which pretenders have taken their leave.
What to do with all this luscious peace? It is a gift, a miracle, a golden jewel, a fragment of some gracious heavenly order, dropped to earth like some incredible strayed star. One’s life to oneself again. Dear visitors, what largesse have you given, not only in departing, but in coming, that we might learn to prize your absence, wallow the more exquisitely in the leisure of your not-being.
To-night we shall sleep deep. We need no more hope that you “have everything you want”; we know that you have, for you are safely home, and can get it from your kitchen if you haven’t. We send you blessing and God speed, and sink into our idle peace as into floods of down.
But you have unfortunately left behind you, besides peace, a fountain pen, a toothbrush, and a bottle of eye lotion with eye bath.
If you’re familiar with Stuck-in-a-Book and my reading habits, you’ll know that it usually takes a while for books to work their way up the tbr pile. Understanding friends are very kind, and don’t complain, but Hayley (also known as Desperate Reader) will be pleased to finally read my thoughts on the book she very generously bestowed upon me: Love on the Supertax by Marghanita Laski. Truth be told, it might have been a loan originally, but Hayley sweetly said I could keep it. Crime does pay, it turns out.
Marghanita Laski is a name a lot of us know, and a lot more people encountered her through Persephone Books, who publish her novels The Village, Little Boy Lost, To Bed With Grand Music, and The Victorian Chaise-Longue. I’ve read the second and fourth of those, and haven’t quite been able to put my finger on what it is that defines Laski – those novels had little in common, and Love on the Supertax throws another tone into the mix, leaving me very satisfied, but rather confused.
Love on the Supertax (1944) is Laski’s first novel, and is a very amusing romp through the battle of the classes, and the eternal question of whether romance can flourish between people of different classes. This has been a theme in the English novel from Richardson’s Pamela onwards. But I don’t recall it being done in the way Laski does… in that Clarissa is desperate to leave her privileged background and become part of the socialist working-class. Yes, you’re thinking, we’ve been here before with Lady Chatterley, and still aren’t sure we want our wives and servants reading it. Well, fear not; there is no sense of Clarissa getting a thrill from dabbling below her class – instead, Sid feels he is wandering below his. For it is accepted by all that he would be marrying below himself, if uniting himself with posh Clarissa – not the other way around.
A fairly simple start for a satire, perhaps, but it works so well. The scene where Sid introduces Clarissa to his parents is hilarious – her wafer-thin slices of bread don’t go down well. Here’s another taster, to give you the idea:
“No,” said Sid Baker. “I think you’re a good deal too much influenced by superficial differences, and that you attach too much importance to heredity. Personally, I think environment is far too influential. I’d guarantee that if you took an aristocrat’s child at birth and placed it in a working-class home with all the environmental advantages that would entail, that child at twenty-one would be indistinguishable from me.”I loved Love on the Supertax, and it adds another string to Laski’s complex bow, for it is again so unlike the other Laski novels I’ve read. A quick read, it has charm and wit – and although I daresay it was motivated by a serious point, Laski has the writerly wisdom not to over-emphasise any social critique. Instead, this is a tongue-in-cheek and very amusing novella casting an unusual view on 1940s England. Thanks, Hayley!
Things to get Stuck into:
Economy Must Be Our Watchword – Joyce Dennys: I feel a bit guilty suggesting this, since it is more or less impossible to find, but Dennys’ tale of a selfish and unself-aware (or self-unaware??) woman trying to economise is so, so very hilarious.
Thanks to those of you who encouraged me to continue with Sunday Songs, and thanks to Clare for introducing me to this beautiful song. It’s called People Used to Dream by A Girl Called Eddy. Enjoy!
