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Life Among the Savages and Raising Demons – Shirley Jackson

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Life Among the SavagesA reminder that it’s Shirley Jackson Reading Week! I’ve just started The Road Through The Wall, which I’m hoping to finish by the end of the week, but I will also point you towards my review of Life Among the Savages and Raising Demons (in the latest edition of Shiny New Books). Those who think Shirley Jackson might be too dark for their tastes will love these domestic memoirs. They’re either fictionalised autobiography or biographical fiction; take your pick.

A round-up of posts so far is over at Jenny’s, and more keeping coming in. Hurrah!

It’s Shirley Jackson Reading Week!

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Shirley Jackson Reading Week

That came around faster than I was expecting! It is, indeed, Shirley Jackson Reading Week – hosted by me, Jenny, and Ana – and we’d love you to join in! Pick up anything at all by Shirley Jackson, read it, review it, and send one of us the links. If you don’t have a blog, you’re welcome to add mini reviews in the comments.

If you want suggestions, just yell!

Shiny New Books: Issue 6!

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Shiny New Books Issue 6 is now live!

SNB-logo

More soon, but do go and have an explore. And I’d like to pick out Quick Curtain for your immediate attention – it’s a real winner of a detective novel, and you’ll love it, promise. Sign up to the newsletter if you haven’t already, and you’ll get emailed a list of highlights.

Many thanks to all the contributors, publishers, and regular readers! I’m off to explore it all myself…

 

Duveen by S.N. Behrman

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DuveenThis is a mini post, because I don’t think I ever pointed you in the direction of my review of Duveen (1952) by S.N. Behrman, which was actually in Issue 4 of Shiny New Books. But it’s really good and I should have mentioned before. Not the sort of book I’d usually read – the biography of an art dealer who provided for (and, essentially, manipulated) the super-rich – but I rightly trusted Daunt Books to reprint only good things.

I also had the fun experience of thinking it was a novel for the first chapter. It reads quite differently when you realise it’s not!

Well, better late than never. The link above will take you to Issue 4 of Shiny New Books, rather than the latest menus, but it’s also a fun reminder that all the old issues are still there, waiting to be read.

Popcorn by Cornelia Otis Skinner

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I read this one before the Cornelia Otis Skinner that ended up on my 50 Books You Must Read list, but somehow didn’t get around to reading it – but Popcorn (1943) is the book which started off my devotion. And it’s such a lovely copy, too. Even if I hadn’t already known the name Cornelia Otis Skinner, I think I’d have nabbed this book – the condition, the feel of the boards, and the lovely detail on the front basically sum up everything I love most in literature. As you can see in this photo which, lamentably, I’ve taken at dead of night instead of in the glorious sunshine.

Popcorn

Like Nuts in May, this is a series of comic episodes in the life of a hapless wife, mother, and actress. It’s a heightened version of C.O.S.’s own life, complete with the admirably silly illustrations of Alajalov and Soglow, whoever they might be. And it comes with a preface by F. Tennyson Jesse, no less.

The best way to show her is by quotation, of course, and here is a fun example of her visiting a parent of one of her son’s friends, and feeling completely out of her depth:

Once, harbouring the quaint notion that it might be a maternal duty to catch an inside glimpse of the houses to which my son has entrée, I committed the grim error of calling for him at a residence whose marble exterior and wrought-iron garage-door should have forewarned me of the exclusive nature of the juvenile goings-on within. A butler answered the bell. Butlers not only frighten, they have an over-refining effect on me, and I hear myself using the broad “a” on words like “hat”. I murmured my son’s name and the fact that I had come to fetch him. He took me for a governess and started in the direction of a waiting group of nursemaids when I managed to gasp out that I was the child’s mother. This overt confession shocked him considerably and for a moment I wondered if I should send home for my marriage licence. Reluctantly he led me up a staircase that can only be described as palatial and, opening a period door, thrust me into a room of complete darkness.

I love it so much! This collection has quite a lot on the perils and pitfalls of motherhood, but also looks at topics as varied as yoga, the telephone, being ‘the paintable type’ (it isn’t a compliment), sailing, and astrology. This last is not an activity she relishes (as in Nuts in May, many of the short accounts detail her incapabilities and inaptness for various undertakings), and the opening of it is an example of her particular: the amusing employment of simile.

Of the many varieties of bore, one of the worst I know is the person who wants to point out the stars and constellations. This is a form of midsummer pest which, like the sand-fly, tends to ruin beach parties.

And another from the same section…

Then too there is something about lying prone on the shore beside the type of creature who is generally a star-gazer that I find peculiarly distressing. It’s a little like dancing a tango with someone who is studying for the ministry.

It’s been a while since I read it, and any elaboration I would give would simply be repetitions of the same enthusiasm, but… if my previous excitement about Cornelia Otis Skinner didn’t make you dash out and get something by her then, this time, DO! Well, do if any of the quotations above amuse you, or if you find the Provincial Lady books amusing. Go on go on go on go on go on.

F. Tennyson Jesse’s preface starts off with an acknowledgement that ‘it may seem a strange time in which to publish such light-weight articles as go to make up this collection […] are we not all, including that vast country of which Miss Skinner is a citizen and which she has toured so often, engaged in a struggle for survival?’ The answer (of course) is yes – World War Two was waging, and America had entered it, but, like so many writers of the period, refuge was found in humour and an acknowledgement of the absurdity of everyday life at a time when it must have felt remote. ‘They stand, in their light-hearted way, for the very principle for which we are all fighting. There could not be a German Cornelia Otis Skinner – outside of a concentration camp.’ If this is not quite true, there certainly couldn’t have been a Nazi Cornelia Otis Skinner, and Popcorn certainly must have been not only a welcome diversion at the time, but a symbol of those who loved peace and longed for freedom. Today, whether for the same or different reasons, it is equally welcome.

Book bingo (and so can you!)

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Like many of us, I’m better at making reading plans than actually carrying them out, and that is my big caveat for the fact that I probably won’t see this through, but I saw the Books on the Nightstand Book Bingo 2015 on Simon S’s blog, and thought it sounded fun. See more info in his blog post, but essentially you’re given a bingo chart with types of book (‘types’ is very loose here), and you’re supposed to read them and cross them off. Capiche? Then go and generate yours!

Here, ladies and gents, is mine (‘A play’ is only highlighted because that’s where my mouse was hovering when I screenshotted it):

book bingo

I love coming up with ideas to match these. And, since I have woefully neglected My Shelf, perhaps I can combine these two.

My friend Kirsty also did this, and also got the one which has given me most pause for thought – ‘a presidential biography’. And so I have bought a copy of this:

Who Was Abraham Lincoln

Part of me wants to become a world expert in Wellard Fillmore, but we settled on this. Because apparently nobody knows how to write a short biography of a president.

So, how do you get smoke out of books?

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I just got a copy The Receptionist: an Education at the New Yorker by Janet Groth; I bought it online after Lyn mentioned that it might appeal to me, knowing my love of William Maxwell, Sylvia Townsend Warner, and behind-the-scenes of literary life. And, indeed, it could well be great – but when it arrived, it stank of cigarette smoke.

Sorry to any of you who smoke, but I do hate the smell (and am so thrilled about the smoking ban!) – so, does anybody have any tips for getting the smell of cigarette smoke out of books??

(And, on a side note, I feel like people should note this sort of thing when they sell books online…)

The Sweet Dove Died by Barbara Pym

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The Sweet Dove DiedIt always comes as something of a surprise to me (and to those who know my reading tastes) that I’ve read so few Pym novels. I read Excellent Women in 2004, and liked it but not quite as much as I’d hoped (largely because it’s set in London); a couple of years ago I read Some Tame Gazelle and loved it rather more. The Sweet Dove Died (1978)… fell rather in the middle.

Firstly, I’m not a big fan of the title – which, like Some Tame Gazelle, is from a poem; the poem, by Keats, is referenced within the text, but until that point, an ignoramus like myself is left wondering when the blessed dove is going to turn up. Instead, we start the novel with Leonora – who bumps into Humphrey and his nephew James at an antiques auction. Since the novel is set in London (sigh) and the only way to meet people outside one’s set is by unlikely coincidences, this is catalyst for a lasting friendship between the three. The men vie silently and politely for Leonora’s attention; perhaps neither exactly want a relationship with her, but they certainly want the attention – and she is more than willing to bestow it on James, so much her younger. To the world, she is charming and gracious – but the reader sees her selfish, unkind side.

Pym’s narrative floats in and out of all the characters’ minds as the novel progresses, and so we are seldom at a loss to understand a character’s motivations; it is all done very cleverly and thoroughly. To the three already mentioned is added two more people James has relationships with, and Leonora’s rather pathetic friend Meg. (Incidentally, the reader gradually realises how similar Leonora and Meg actually are, when not seen exclusively from Leonora’s perspective.) In fact, it was a description of Meg that I noted down to quote:

Leonora was her usual few minutes late, though not as late as she would have been if meeting a man. Meg was one of those women who are always too early and can be seen waiting outside Swan and Edgar’s, with anxious peering faces ready to break into smiles when the person awaited turns up.

Moments like this are extremely common in Pym’s writing – by which I mean, delicious moments of observation about small details of human behaviour. The plot of The Sweet Dove Died is slight, and even the theme – how being too overbearing can damage a relationship – isn’t ground-breaking, but line by line, Pym builds up fascinatingly real characters, and sheds constant light upon the minutiae of people’s lives. Her subtlety is brilliant, and the balance and perception of her sentences show why she is so often compared to Jane Austen.

I don’t really know how The Sweet Dove Died is held among Pym aficionados. I preferred the comedy of Some Tame Gazelle, probably, but this felt a more mature and sophisticated novel. It demonstrates what an excellent writer Pym was, and how sharp her knowledge of human nature could be. But I do wish it had been set in the countryside.

A London evening

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On Wednesday evening, I made an impromptu trip to London. Not entirely spontaneous, but only planned on Tuesday – when a very persuasive promotional email arrived in my inbox, telling me that tickets for Hay Fever were cut by more than 50%. Having never sat in one of the best seats in the house before, and having intended to go at some point to see the play, I was only a few clicks away from booking my ticket – and only 24 hours away from hopping on the train and heading over to the Duke of York’s.

Photo: Nobby Clark

I got there a bit early and (shock!) bought some books on Charing Cross Road – but, before I get to that, I really loved Hay Fever. It is, perhaps, not one of Noel Coward’s most sophisticated comedies – it is entirely inconsequential, and the plot is haywire (pun intended) – but it was a complete delight. The plot: Judith Bliss (Felicity Kendal) (!) is a recently retired actress and head of a family, which comprises husband David and grown-up children Simon and Sorrell. All of them have independently invited people to stay with them in their country pile, and nobody has informed anybody else… cue all manner of romantic fiascos and familial squabbles. The Bliss family all live extremely heightened lives, responding to everything with self-indulgent drama. They understand and accept each other perfectly, under the fireworks, but the visitors grow alarmed and weary of the whole thing.

The first gasp from the audience was for the beautiful and brilliant set, designed by Peter McKintosh. It’s just the sort of 1920s house I wish I lived in, and one can excuse the unlikelihood at this family living in what is essentially a hallway. After that, we just laughed our way through the play – particularly the performances by the wonderful Felicity Kendal and the equally wonderful Sara Stewart, who played ageing femme fatale Myra Arundel with delectable wit and glorious facial expressions. It also convinced me that paying enough to be able to see the facial expressions might be an investment I should make again…

Anyway, you should go and see it. Tickets are discounted, and it’s extremely funny.

And those books I bought? Here they are…

June 2015

I always pop into Any Amount of Books and Henry Pordes Books, the only secondhand bookshops on/around Charing Cross Road which are affordable (although one of these books did come from the £2 table outside an otherwise extremely expensive bookshop on a side street). I’m always amazed by how very rude the man serving in Henry Porde Books is. I’ve been in dozens of times, and every time he treats his customers like inconveniences, snapping and grumping at them. Thankfully his colleague, standing next to him, was all laughs and joviality, which made up for it – though when I laughed along, the grumpy man openly glared at me. Which of these two is Henry Pordes, I wonder? Onto the books, before I’m banned from the shop:

The Night Club by Herbert Jenkins – and I was pondering buying it online only earlier that day! I’m currently listening to The Return of Alfred courtesy of Librivox (more on that soon), so I’m on quite a Jenkins kick.

Celia’s Secret by Michael Frayn and David Burke – an intriguing looking book about research that happened while Frayn was writing Copenhagen, as the result of a mysterious letter being sent to him…

Then There Was Fire by Minou Drouet – I’d never heard of Drouet, but apparently she was a child prodigy poet a few decades ago?

Twentieth Century Literature 1901-1940 by A.C. Ward – Ward wrote a very interesting book on 1920s literature (published just after the fact, in 1930), which helped tremendously with my DPhil – so I’m intrigued to read his wider lens on the first 40 years of the 20th century.

Apostate by Forrest Reid – I know nothing about him, but love these little editions. A bit of digging reveals this to be his autobiography, so I shall doubtless find out more about him when I read it!