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I (don’t) see read people

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I never got around to reviewing Oliver Sacks’ The Mind’s Eye (2010), which was one of the books I read while finishing my thesis – chosen because it was so far from the books I was writing about.  I still loved them, but I needed to balance things out with something different.  I wrote about Sacks in this article, but not this book in particular – and I especially wanted to write about the final chapter, because it struck a chord with me.

That is a painting I did for my parents’ Christmas present – of our house – partly because I thought you might like this glimpse into the Christmas festivities of the Thomas family, partly to include a picture in this post, and partly as evidence that I am rather a visual person.  I am a thousand times happier in an art gallery than at a concert; I can think of nothing nicer than looking at the beauties of nature, and I am overcome with appreciation when looking at views in the Lake District or a beautiful old house etc. etc.

And yet, I have never in my life visualised characters in a book.

You know how some readers watch a film and complain that the people cast didn’t match their mental images?  Not me.  I mentally carry characters through a book as bundles of emotions,  thoughts, responses, likes, dislikes, characteristics – but I will have no idea what sort of nose they have, or if their hair is straight or wavy, or anything like that.  Even if the author has told us what they look like, I’ll probably have ignored it.  And I have to skim past any passage which describes what a place looks like, because it means nothing to me.  Similarly anything with spatial descriptions – if a passage talks about someone entering from the right, walking behind a sofa with a bookcase to the left, etc. etc., I have to concentrate incredibly hard for it to compute.  And it’s not worth it!

I would understand this, if I wasn’t bothered by aesthetics. But they mean so much to me. It’s curious.

And then I read Oliver Sacks, and he is the same!  It was so nice to read someone so knowledgeable and eloquent who had his brain wired the same way.  (You see, he was so informative that I’ve learnt the terminology… ahem.)  You see, I don’t say ‘problem’, because I don’t think this impairs my reading at all – I certainly don’t miss it when I’m reading, and it’s not as though I hate books – but it does mean I can’t read most travel literature, as that is almost invariably scenery-description-based.

As usual, I’d love you to weigh in – anyone else there like me, who loves scenery and art and aesthetics, but can’t meaningfully interpret a description of something visual?  Or do you always ‘see’ characters when you read about them?  I don’t think any of these things are better or worse – heck, we all love reading, don’t we? – but it’s interesting to see (ahem) the different types of readers we all are.

The Misinterpretation of Tara Jupp by Eva Rice

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I was lucky enough to be sent a copy of Eva Rice’s The Misinterpretation of Tara Jupp (2013), alongside which was included a lovely note from the author herself, hoping I’d enjoy it.  Well, I did – it is everything that is splendid and lovely and jolly and fun, even while taking you on a trek through the emotions.

My full thoughts are over on Vulpes Libris today, but quickly – if you’ve ever hoped that Nancy Mitford were alive and well and writing 21st-century novels, then this is as close as you’re going to get.

The Suburban Young Man – E.M. Delafield

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Can we talk about how  pleasingly this bookmark goes?

I started reading The Suburban Young Man (1928) when Tanya was giving a paper on it at a conference we both attended – that link will take you to her great review of it, which includes interesting research into Delafield’s writing of the novel.  Well, I didn’t manage to finish it then, and it went back on the shelf for 18 months or so… and recently I picked it up and swiftly read through to the end.

It’s definitely not one of EMD’s best books, but it’s EMD – so it’s still definitely worth a read.

The main characters are aristocratic Antoinette and the eponymous young man – Peter – who is married to the saintly housewife Hope.  They begin an extramarital affair which is entirely a meeting of minds – Delafield, as with her better-known The Way Things Are, never takes things as far as the bedroom door, let alone further.

Much of the novel is taken up Antoinette and Peter telling each other how well they are suited, even though their backgrounds are so different.  One of the assumptions the novelist makes (and all the characters make) is that the suburbs – here represented by ‘Richford’ – are entirely beyond the pale, and culturally mired in the commonplace.  That view is essential to many interwar novels, but it falls rather flat for the modern reader.  Still flatter, for this modern reader, is all the earnest discussion of romance.  Delafield is at her weakest when she tries to be earnest – she is so, so much better at lifting the veil on self-delusion, or the comedy of everyday life, and not with paragraphs like this:

He was unable now to view himself as disloyal to his wife with any sense of conviction, and this not because technically he had remained faithful to her.  Merely he could not feel that he had taken from Hope anything that she had ever possessed, or would ever have wished to possess.  They had married one another neither by reason of passion nor from any strong sense of affinity, and the liking and admiration that he felt for many aspects of her personality had increased, rather than diminished, of late; nor did he think that she liked him less.
Hope is an absurdly tolerant character, who invites Antoinette to tea and has rational discussions about the possibility of her husband running off.  Their marriage is pretty emotionless, but she is almost violently rational, and it’s not terribly convincing.  More interesting (to me) are the scenes of Antoinette as a worker in an office, and discussions of what it was like for the newly-poor(ish) upper-classes to need employment.

Tanya wasn’t a fan of Norah (Peter’s sister-in-law) but I have to say that, along with Antoinette’s vague but surprisingly wise mother, Norah was my favourite character.  Mostly because it gave a chance for Delafield to show her claws, which I delight in.  Here’s a couple of examples.

Norah burst out laughing, as she invariably did at any opprobrious epithet, however applied.

Norah made a grimace that might have suggested a spoilt child in a prettier woman.
So, although I wasn’t hugely impressed when I put it back on the shelf in 2012, I rushed through the second half in 2014. Delafield’s writing is dependably engaging, and I certainly enjoyed reading The Suburban Young Man. But I’ve now read 23 books by Delafield, and this one is probably towards the lower end of the list, and I wouldn’t avidly encourage you to seek out the (extremely scarce) copies of this one.

Since Delafield came out of copyright recently, I’m hoping that more of her books will be reprinted – and not just endless copies of the (admittedly exceptionally good) Provincial Lady series.  But I shan’t shed too many tears if The Suburban Young Man is left to languish a bit longer.

Literary T-shirts

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I got an email the other day asking if I’d like to help make literature fashionable – and, being the fashionable chap I doubtless am, I said yes.

It turns out that The Affair make great book-themed T-shirts, and offered to send me a sample.  How lovely, thought I, and the other day my T-shirt arrived.  I have to admit that it probably isn’t ‘inspired by my favourite books’ (as their tagline goes) because I’ve never heard of Adrift: 76 Days Lost at Sea, but I do love the T-shirt.  The fabric quality is amazing, such a nice light cotton, and the design is great.  Oh, and they’re sweatshop-free, which is a brilliant bonus.

This is very much not what I look like.

For a full list of the T-shirts they make (which I think are only for men, but I could be wrong) see here.  There are some great books represented – Picture of Dorian Gray, Macbeth, Animal Farm etc. – and they’d make great gifts for the man in your life (and, if you’re a man, that man could be you.)

Thanks, The Affair, I love my tee!

So… I gave up on Lolita

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I usually wade in strongly on the ‘literary quality is the most important thing’ side of debates.  I think of myself as putting the writer’s ability first, and that age-old argument of not liking books if they have dislikeable characters has never made any sense to me.  “I’m above such things,” thought I, smugly, dusting my doctorate and twirling my imaginary moustache.

But, dear reader, it turns out I’m nothing like as objective and scholarly as I liked to believe.  Because I gave up on p.16 of Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov because it was – and stop me if I’m blinding you with my critical vocabulary – too icky.

Apparently I just can’t stomach a man fantasising about nine year old girls.  I know that Nabokov isn’t advocating paedophilia (well, I assume he wasn’t), and I know that Lolita is well-recognised as a classic.  The writing was good (although I have to say I wasn’t quite as bowled over by it as some people said I’d be) but I couldn’t get past that.

I don’t know why I’m feeling quite so conflicted about my stumbling block. The argument I’ve put to myself is that I’m fine with reading murder mysteries, so why can’t I read Lolita – but then I remembered that I’m incapable of reading anything gory or violent, so… statutory rape and a character fantasising about it is also in that category, it seems.

This is not a ‘burn the books’ situation – I don’t think Lolita should be banned, or anything like that.  I actually think it probably makes me less of a reader to have this inability.  But I would be intrigued to know your opinions on the matter… and, more than that, if there are other Nabokov novels I should read instead!  I’ve only read Mary so far, so plenty to try….

Song for a Sunday

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Well, last Sunday I posted a new track from an artist who hasn’t even released an album yet (although she has found fame on the X Factor) and nobody commented, so I thought I’d try something different this week ;)

It’s rare that I like old male bands (new female singer-songwriters being my bag) but I do like the Eagles, and I love Desperado… and I suspect you do too.  Indulge.