It’s my birthday and I’ll cough if I want to…
Will write later to tell you which books I was given!
Author: StuckinaBook
A Dab of AAM
I haven’t been feeling very well today, so have postponed more thoughtful posts in lieu of continuing the short story theme for the week. Whenever I write about short stories, the number of comments go down – they’re not as popular as novels with you folks, are they? – but I thought you might enjoy this, from A.A. Milne’s collection of stories and essays called Happy Days.
THE LUCKY MONTH “Know thyself,” said the old Greek motto. (In Greek—but this is an English book.) So I bought a little red volume called, tersely enough, Were you born in January? I was; and, reassured on this point, the author told me all about myself. For the most part he told me nothing new. “You are,” he said in effect, “good-tempered, courageous, ambitious, loyal, quick to resent wrong, an excellent raconteur, and a leader of men.” True. “Generous to a fault”—(Yes, I was overdoing that rather)—”you have a ready sympathy with the distressed. People born in this month will always keep their promises.” And so on. There was no doubt that the author had the idea all right. Even when he went on to warn me of my weaknesses he maintained the correct note. “People born in January,” he said, “must be on their guard against working too strenuously. Their extraordinarily active brains——” Well, you see what he means. It is a fault perhaps, and I shall be more careful in future. Mind, I do not take offence with him for calling my attention to it. In fact, my only objection to the book is its surface application to all the people who were born in January. There should have been more distinction made between me and the rabble. I have said that he told me little that was new. In one matter, however, he did open my eyes. He introduced me to an aspect of myself entirely unsuspected. “They,” he said—meaning me, “have unusual business capacity, and are destined to be leaders in great commercial enterprises.” One gets at times these flashes of self-revelation. In an instant I realised how wasted my life had been; in an instant I resolved that here and now I would put my great gifts to their proper uses. I would be a leader in an immense commercial enterprise. One cannot start commercial enterprises without capital. The first thing was to determine the exact nature of my balance at the bank. This was a matter for the bank to arrange, and I drove there rapidly. “Good morning,” I said to the cashier, “I am in rather a hurry. May I have my pass-book?” He assented and retired. After an interminable wait, during which many psychological moments for commercial enterprise must have lapsed, he returned. “I think you have it,” he said shortly. “Thank you,” I replied, and drove rapidly home again. A lengthy search followed; but after an hour of it one of those white-hot flashes of thought, such as only occur to the natural business genius, seared my mind and sent me post-haste to the bank again. “After all,” I said to the cashier, “I only want to know my balance. What is it?” He withdrew and gave himself up to calculation. I paced the floor impatiently. Opportunities were slipping by. At last he pushed a slip of paper across at me. My balance! It was in four figures. Unfortunately two of them were shillings and pence. Still, there was a matter of fifty pounds odd as well, and fortunes have been built up on less. Out in the street I had a moment’s pause. Hitherto I had regarded my commercial enterprise in the bulk, as a finished monument of industry; the little niggling preliminary details had not come up for consideration. Just for a second I wondered how to begin. Only for a second. An unsuspected talent which has long lain dormant needs, when waked, a second or so to turn round in. At the end of that time I had made up my mind. I knew exactly what I would do. I would ring up my solicitor. “Hallo, is that you? Yes, this is me. What? Yes, awfully, thanks. How are you? Good. Look here, come and lunch with me. What? No, at once. Good-bye.” Business, particularly that sort of commercial enterprise to which I had now decided to lend my genius, can only be discussed properly over a cigar. During the meal itself my solicitor and I indulged in the ordinary small-talk of the pleasure-loving world. “You’re looking very fit,” said my solicitor. “No, not fat, fit.” “You don’t think I’m looking thin?” I asked anxiously. “People are warning me that I may be overdoing it rather. They tell me that I must be seriously on my guard against brain strain.” “I suppose they think you oughtn’t to strain it too suddenly,” said my solicitor. Though he is now a solicitor he was once just an ordinary boy like the rest of us, and it was in those days that he acquired the habit of being rude to me, a habit he has never quite forgotten. “What is an onyx?” I said, changing the conversation. “Why?” asked my solicitor, with his usual business acumen. “Well, I was practically certain that I had seen one in the Zoo, in the reptile house, but I have just learnt that it is my lucky month stone. Naturally I want to get one.” The coffee came and we settled down to commerce. “I was just going to ask you,” said my solicitor—”have you any money lying idle at the bank? Because if so——” “Whatever else it is doing, it isn’t lying idle,” I protested. “I was at the bank to-day, and there were men chivying it about with shovels all the time.” “Well, how much have you got?” “About fifty pounds.” “It ought to be more than that.” “That’s what I say, but you know what those banks are. Actual merit counts for nothing with them.” “Well, what did you want to do with it?” “Exactly. That was why I rang you up. I—er——” This was really my moment, but somehow I was not quite ready to seize it. My vast commercial enterprise still lacked a few trifling details. “Er—I—well, it’s like that.” “I might get you a few ground rents.” “Don’t. I shouldn’t know where to put them.” “But if you really have fifty pounds simply lying idle I wish you’d lend it to me for a bit. I’m confoundedly hard up.” (“Generous to a fault, you have a ready sympathy with the distressed.” Dash it, what could I do?) “Is it quite etiquette for clients to lend solicitors money?” I asked. “I thought it was always solicitors who had to lend it to clients. If I must, I’d rather lend it to you—I mean I’d dislike it less—as to the old friend of my childhood.” “Yes, that’s how I wanted to pay it back.” “Bother. Then I’ll send you a cheque to-night,” I sighed. And that’s where we are at the moment. “People born in this month always keep their promises.” The money has got to go to-night. If I hadn’t been born in January, I shouldn’t be sending it; I certainly shouldn’t have promised it; I shouldn’t even have known that I had it. Sometimes I almost wish that I had been born in one of the decent months. March, say.
Baker, Baker…
Since we’ve had three posts about short stories this week, let’s have another! I didn’t plan to do any sort of themed week, and I rather suspect the theme will screech to a halt after this review, but for today… step forward Frank Baker and Stories of the Strange and Sinister.
I’ve mentioned a few times before that, although Frank Baker wrote one of my very favourite novels (Miss Hargreaves) I have only read one other of his books. It was Before I Go Hence, which I quite enjoyed – but it was nowhere near the standard of Miss H., and I worried that I’d like his work steadily less and less… so stopped. But it’s been three years since I read that, and short stories is moving the goalposts a little, so I tried again, with more reasonable expectations.
Stories of the Strange and Sinister was published over forty years after Miss Hargreaves, in 1983, the year Baker died. It was also his first work of fiction for twenty-two years, although including stories written between 1947 and 1983. The stories – as the title suggests – all touch upon the strange and sinister, but I don’t think any of them were intensely frightening. Which is good for me; I’d rather read strange stories than horror stories – which is why M.R. James has remained on the shelf for now.
Intense repugnance. That is one definition of horror to be found in the dictionary. Or, power of exciting such feeling. I think it is more. It is also what is totally unexpected: the long sunlit lane that has only a brick wall at the end, the worm in the rose, the sudden ravaged image of one’s own tormented face in a window pane. That which has sudden power to corrupt and defile. A stench where sweetness should be; darkness where light should be; a grin where a smile should be; a scream searing into a night where silence should be. An old withered hand where a young hand should be… And no escape from whatever it may be that has suddenly come upon the visitant. No escape.
This is the beginning to perhaps the creepiest story in the collection, ‘The Chocolate Box’, about a man who finds a severed hand in – you guessed it – a chocolate box. But, thankfully, it is a definition Baker doesn’t keep to. Even in his darkest moments, he can’t help introducing a touch of that whimsy which makes Miss Hargreaves so irresistible. For instance, in the middle of my favourite story in the book – ‘The Green Steps’ – the narrator refers to the disturbingly insane character as ‘about as talkative as a Trappist monk in Holy Week.’
In ‘The Chocolate Box’ the narrator writes:
But this is not a story about music. I must keep it out, otherwise it will flood the pages and consume me.
Baker suffers from the same predicament. He is obviously too great a music lover to allow it far from his mind. There is a story about warring partners in a music shop; one about a singer who morphs into a bird; a haunted piano…
But there are moments of terror too – the sack which follows its victim around the house; the presentiment of a steam-room murder… In Baker’s hand, we never wander too far into Gothic territory – but the sinister undertones to Miss Hargreaves have become much more alarming, and much less balanced out by humour. The whimsy still – as I said – hides in the corners, but there remains much to chill, even if not give nightmares.
As always with short story collections, I find it impossible to outline many of the stories, or give a proper feel for the collection as a whole – but I think Stories of the Strange and Sinister has convinced me not to abandon Baker just yet. It’s pretty expensive to track down, and probably isn’t really worth the £20 or £30 that various online sellers are requesting, but there are some interesting and original ideas and thoughtful writing – especially in that first story, ‘The Green Steps’. I’ll leave you with an excerpt from early in that story, which is both evocative of Baker’s atmospheric tone, and so many coastal villages in Cornwall (a county Baker loved) with their mysterious, historic and ambling paths:
I had observed him often and I had good reason to know where he lived, for it was very close to our cottage, up the cliff path, that bends sharply uphill over the harbour and the boatmasts that swing and sway in the gales; a path too narrow for any traffic, with rows of cottages, different sizes, shapes and colours, on one side. From the windows of our living-room which overlooks an area – a waste bit of land where kids keep rabbits in hutches and women dry clothes and men saw wood in winter – I would often, and still often see, the Scavenger. Above the area there are steps, the Green Steps they are called, worn away dangerously, all uneven, ground by the feet of many generations, the stone crumbling, little weeds growing from the cracks. I’d always had a curious familiar feeling about the Green Steps; they brought back a hint of the past to me, a paragraph of my boyhood, as though I’d been there years ago; and I knew I hadn’t.
The Continuity of Parks
I was reading Eric S. Rabkin’s The Fantastic in Literature this evening, and he quotes a short story in full, which I thought I’d share with you as it impressed and chilled me. Perfect for an Autumn night. It’s ‘The Continuity of Parks’ (1971) by Julio Cortázar.
He had begun to read the novel a few days before. He had put it down because of some urgent business conferences, opened it again on his way back to the estate by train; he permitted himself a slowly growing interest in the plot, in the characterisations. That afternoon, after writing a letter giving his power of attorney and discussing a matter of joint ownership with the manager of his estate, he returned to the book in the tranquillity of his study which looked out upon the park with its oaks. Sprawled in his favourite armchair, its back toward the door – even the possibility of an intrusion would have irritated him, had he thought of it – he let his left hand caress repeatedly the green velvet upholstery and set to reading the final chapters. He remembered effortlessly the names and his mental image of the characters; the novel spread its glamour over him almost at once. He tasted the almost perverse pleasure of disengaging himself line by line from the things around him, and at the same time feeling his head rest comfortably on the green velvet of the chair with its high back, sensing that the cigarettes rested within reach of his hand, that beyond the great windows the air of afternoon danced under the oak trees in the park. Word by word, licked up by the sordid dilemma of the hero and heroine, letting himself be absorbed to the point where the images settled down and took on colour and movement, he was witness to the final encounter in the mountain cabin. The woman arrived first, apprehensive; now the lover came in, his face cut by the backlash of a branch. Admirably, she stanched the blood with her kisses, but he rebuffed her caresses, he had not come to perform again the ceremonies of a secret passion, protected by a world of dry leaves and furtive paths through the forest. The dagger warmed itself against his chest and underneath liberty pounded, hidden close. A lustful, panting dialogue raced down the pages like a rivulet of snakes, and one felt it had all been decided from eternity. Even to those caresses which writhed about the lover’s body, as though wishing to keep him there, to dissuade him from it; they sketched abominably the frame of that other body it was necessary to destroy. Nothing had been forgotten: alibis, unforeseen hazards, possible mistakes. From this hour on, each instant had its use minutely assigned. The cold-blooded, twice-gone-over re-examination of the details was barely broken off so that a hand could caress a cheek. It was beginning to get dark.
Not looking at one another now, rigidly fixed upon the task which awaited them, they separated at the cabin door. She was to follow the trail that led north. On the path leading in the opposite direction, he turned for a moment to watch her running, her hair loosened and flying. He ran in turn, crouching among the trees and hedges until, in the yellowish fog of dusk, he could distinguish the avenue of trees which led up to the house. The dogs were not supposed to bark, they did not bark. The estate manager would not be there at this hour, and he was not there. He went up the three porch steps and entered. The woman’s words reached him over the thudding of blood in his ears: first a blue chamber, then a hall, then a carpeted stairway. At the top, two doors. No one in the first room, no one in the second. The door of the salon, and then, the knife in hand, the light from the great windows, the high back of an armchair covered in green velvet, the head of the man in the chair reading a novel.
Short But Not So Sweet
Just in case you can’t get enough of me writing about books here, I thought I’d keep tonight’s post short but sweet, and point to Short But Not So Sweet – which is the title given to my review of Alice Munro’s short story collection Too Much Happiness. It’s just come out in the online Oxonian Review, and you should be able to read it here. Hopefully it’s the same sort of ‘voice’ I use for this blog, but with the benefit of editing and wakefulness…
Oh, and Spots of Time, I haven’t heard from you yet in order to get your copy of The Love-Child to you. Hope to hear from you soon – otherwise this weekend I’ll draw another name. Make sure you (ahem) spot this in time!
Andrina
Ages ago I won Andrina and other stories by George Mackay Brown on Hayley’s blog Desperate Reader. So enthused was she, and so keen that I read it, that I got it to the top of my pile in surprisingly quick time for me (putting this in perspective, I’m currently reading a book someone gave me over three years ago) – but then didn’t blog about it, and now am looking back in my memory to see what I thought. As such, I’m probably more likely to give impressions about the book as a whole, rather than individual stories.
Every time I write about short stories, I say how difficult it is. The themes will be so sprawling, the characters so diverse, that trying to find a unifying voice is tricky. Hayley suggests, in her review, that GMB is drawn to ‘time, tide, season, poetry, and faith’ – which is pretty wide, but probably fairly accurate. From the beautiful island photograph on the cover of my copy, I was expecting something from the same stable as Tove Jansson – with chilly descriptions, unsentimental characters, lots about the minutiae of human interaction, etc. etc. So I was a little surprised when the first story was all about a whaler, with some quite wordy letters being sent to a woman with the improbable name Williamina. I can’t say I was smitten.
But I persevered – and what I will say is that the collection is mixed, but mostly on the good side of that! George Mackay Brown is very interested in fables and legends, and the whole book feels a little as though it had been translated from Old Norse or Icelandic or a language with a similar oral tradition. What do I mean by that? I suppose it’s his odd choice of language – the sort of things we encounter in Anglo-Saxon literature, with turns of phrase relating to the most primitive forms of existence. This can be incredibly effective – I especially loved this line:
Days, months, years passed. A whole generation gathered and broke like a wave on the shore.
On the other hand, for those of us who never read historical fiction – which I recognise is a failing in myself, not the genre – it sometimes grates a little. Or, if not ‘grate’, does wear a little thin occasionally… but only occasionally.
The title story ‘Andrina’ is one of the best, and one of the few which felt more in the traditional mould of beginning-middle-twist-end. If I had to pick a favourite story from the collection, it would be ‘Poets’, which is actually a group of four stories, set in different times and places, carefully displaying four poets (some creating written poetry; some more metaphorical). In ‘The Lord of Silence’ within this group, Duncan is a poet who never utters a word:
He grew up. He was a young man. He learned to hunt, to herd, to plough. He learned to drink from the silver cup, pledging his companions in silence. His father went once on a cattle raid into the next glen, and did not return. They managed to get his body from the scree before the eagle and the wolf made their narrowing circles. The women of the glen, who mourned in a ritualistic way, had never seen such stark grief on a human face: the mouth of Duncan opened in a black silent wail.
Maybe it is when GMB’s own interest in poetry overrides, that I lose my way sometimes. As someone who has an admiration for poetry, but rarely an enjoyment, I think I was occasionally left on the sidelines with some of the stories. I could see that they were beautiful, and with many of them I could relish that beauty and engage with the characters, writing, themes – but with others I could only sense beauty, not feel it. There is no doubt that GMD is a talented and evocative writer, when he finds the right reader – and whilst I certainly wasn’t completely the wrong reader for Andrina and other stories, which I’m very glad I’ve read, and mostly enjoyed – I think there could be ideal readers out there for whom this would be an incredibly special book.
Song for a Sunday
Here with another Sunday Song – this is one of my favourite songs at the moment. It takes a listen or two to realise how beautiful it is, but I now can’t stop listening to it… here’s Breathe Me by Sia.
For all previous Sunday Songs, click here.
Stuck-in-a-Book’s Weekend Miscellany
Hello there, hope all’s well with you and yours. This weekend we’ll be having murder-afoot at our house, as it’s my birthday murder party. My actual birthday isn’t til the 7th November, but the Saturday nearest to that is always Bonfire Night at South Parks in Oxford. Lots of fun stuff in the weekend miscellany…
1.) Starting with the winner of The Love Child by Edith Olivier. Thanks for all your fantastic suggestions of ‘E’ titles and authors – I especially loved how often Enid Blyton, Emma, and E.M. Delafield came up – all ones I’d have chosen. But, without further ado, the copy of this brilliant novella is going to… (one random number generator later) SPOTS OF TIME. I don’t remember seeing your name before (have I?), so welcome, welcome, and well done! Send me your address to simondavidthomas[at]yahoo.co.uk, and I’ll get the book off to you…
2.) Speaking of books (aren’t we always?) the wonderful Persephone Secret Santa is happening again this year. Head over to Paperback Reader/Claire’s post for more details… it’s good fun, very festive, and guilt-free book buying. She’s said we can use her fab image, so thanks Claire!
3.) Here in Britain we have some wonderful publishers – Persephone being just one of the companies which make me pleased to live in this scepter’d isle. The one time I get jealous is when the New York Review of Books Classics are mentioned. I own a few, but they’re difficult and pricey to get here – they are such beautiful books, in terms of design, touch, the way they open… and, of course, they have printed some brilliant titles, including Tove Jansson’s novels, one by Barbara Comyns, Sylvia Townsend Warner, etc. etc.
Anyway, Mrs. B and Coffeespoons are organising a NYRB Reading Week – see here. Also see Thomas’ post on this – he gave me permission to reproduce his stunning and jealousy-inducing photo of his NYRB Classics collection (below). I think it’s my favourite photograph I’ve ever seen on a blog – I could stare at it for hours, hoping somehow to master self-teleportation. I thought I’d read all my NYRB books, but I’ve just remembered I have Summer Will Show by Sylvia Townsend Warner waiting in the wings, so perhaps I will join in…
Jobs and Books
I was reading Wolf Mankowitz’s Make Me An Offer today – a book I’ve bought for a friend but, ahem, thought I’d ‘test’ out first. It’s secondhand, as you can see, so I can’t really impair its quality… but that’s a topic for a whole other day. The book – which I’m really enjoying – is from the perspective of an antiques dealer. I can’t find out whether or not Wolf Mankowitz (who shares my birthday, incidentally) was an antiques dealer himself, but it all seems pretty convincing to me.
Whilst reading it, I thought of my friend Sherry, who works in antiques over in America, and wondered whether she’d like to read Make Me An Offer – or perhaps already had. And then I paused. Do people want to read books about their jobs? So many people tell me about books they think my Dad will like “because they’re about a vicar.” I don’t often pass these recommendations on – partly because, of course, Dad is still reading Lord of the Rings, as promised to Col – but it always strikes me as a little odd. Maybe vicars are more susceptible to these sorts of recommendations than most? I am a part-time librarian and a full-time student. I would be quite interested to read a book featuring librarians, but would never actively seek them out – and I actively avoid reading books about students, because they either panic or bore me, for the most part.
What about you? Do you like books featuring people of your profession, or avoid them, or have you never really thought about it? Do people recommend them to you for that reason, or has it never happened? This question is a little trickier for those of you whose job is being parents or spouses (I really hope at least one house-husband reads my blog, as I think it is a sadly underappreciated job!) because so many books, especially those in the line of the Provincial Lady, focus on characters with these roles, but not foregrounded in the way that a novel is when it’s about a dentist or vicar or, indeed, an antiques dealer.
Let me know your thoughts!
From Simon to Simon
My friend and colleague, also called Simon, was clearing out his parents’ house the other day and – knowing that I have a passing fondness for books – said he would keep an eye out for anything I might like… and very kindly gave me a couple of very lovely books.
This picture isn’t very illuminating, I realise – it’s a very beautiful 1922 edition of Love and Freindship [sic!] by Jane Austen. I already have a copy, of course, but not one this lovely. It had uncut pages, and… ooo, I just want to stroke it.
And the other was The Stolen White Elephant by Mark Twain. Amongst the many and various lackings of my literary knowledge, Twain looms large. He is one of my aunt’s favourite authors (the aunt who set me off on all sorts of literary adventures, and whose taste overlaps with mine precisely because she helped form mine) but I’ve yet to read anything by him. Does anyone know this one? A lovely touch – it was presented to A.W. Bentley (my friend’s Dad) in 1927 for Proficiency in English. So, the book is over 80 years old, and has had one careful owner! Now two…