Sorry for radio silence – will be back in the flow of things soon (still haven’t unpacked from the weekend!) but thought I’d share the self-timed photo we took of the family, because I don’t think I’ve ever posted Colin, Our Vicar’s Wife, Our Vicar, and me, altogether. Here we are, in that order!
I’ll be back to books tomorrow – with a display of those which were given to me for my birthday! Have a good Wednesday, everyone.
That’s right, it’s our birthday :)
Will update you with any bookish presents I receive, of course… a few book-shaped packages have arrived, so I’m hopeful…
Quick post to say that I’m at home with Colin and my parents and Sherpa at the moment – so posts might slow down for a few days.
But wanted to put you out of your misery, for the little test. I realised after I made it that it was basically impossible – I should have included more quotations, or synopses, or similar – but never mind! Hope you still had a bit of fun. Here are the answers:
a.) Mary sometimes heard people say: “I can’t bear to be alone.” She could never understand this.
1940: Mariana by Monica Dickens
b.) It was morning, and the new sun sparkled gold across the ripples of a gentle sea.
1970: Jonathan Livingstone Seagull by Richard Bach
c.) “Get away from here, you dirty swine,” she said.
“There’s a dirty swine in every man,” he said.
1960: The Ballad of Peckham Rye by Muriel Spark
d.) One may as well begin with Helen’s letters to her sister.
1910: Howards End by E.M. Forster
e.) On a March evening, at eight o’clock, Backhouse, the medium – a fast-rising star in the psychic world – was ushered into the study at ‘Proland,’ the Hampstead residence of Montague Faull.
1920: The Voyage to Arcturus by David Lindsay
f.) Jem was a joyful mystery to Alice. She was something to give thanks for.
1990: Temples of Delight by Barbara Trapido
g.) I have noticed that when someone asks for you on the telephone and, finding you out, leaves a message begging you to call him up the moment you come in, as it’s important, the matter is more often important to him than to you.
1930: Cakes and Ale by W. Somerset Maugham
h.) A green hunting cap squeezed the top of the fleshy balloon of a head.
1980: A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole
i.) It is highly probable that the tea shop would never have started at all if Commander David Tompkins hadn’t fancied himself at being something of a dab-hand at cooking.
1950: Tea Is So Intoxicating by Mary Essex
j.) The opening chapter does not concern itself with Love—indeed that antagonist does not certainly appear until the third –
1900: Love and Mr. Lewisham by H.G. Wells
I do enjoy quoting opening lines, to see whether or not they capture people’s interest. Perhaps next time I’ll just give you some, and let you decide whether or not they sound worth pursuing…
Happy Weekend, one and all!
You know that I like to make you work for your fun, right?
A while ago I responded to V.S. Naipaul’s obnoxious comments about female authors by asking if you could tell which opening lines were by men and which by women – nobody got full marks. Have a go yourself, if you missed it back then (answers here).
This time, in further preparation for A Century of Books (for those not in the know, next year I plan to read a book from every year of the 20th century) I thought I’d test you on decades.
These are opening lines from ten novels, published in 1900, 1910, 1920… all the way to 1990. I’ve scrambled them up – and I want you to have a go and see if you can work out which quotation belongs to which century. Bonus marks if you can guess the author.
Obviously with a sample size this small, and all by different authors, this won’t prove anything conclusively. Or even vaguely. But it might be a bit of fun. Give it a go!
And, of course, I want to know which you’re immediately keen to read…
a.) Mary sometimes heard people say: “I can’t bear to be alone.” She could never understand this.
b.) It was morning, and the new sun sparkled gold across the ripples of a gentle sea.
c.) “Get away from here, you dirty swine,” she said.
“There’s a dirty swine in every man,” he said.
d.) One may as well begin with Helen’s letters to her sister.
e.) On a March evening, at eight o’clock, Backhouse, the medium – a fast-rising star in the psychic world – was ushered into the study at ‘Proland,’ the Hampstead residence of Montague Faull.
f.) Jem was a joyful mystery to Alice. She was something to give thanks for.
g.) I have noticed that when someone asks for you on the telephone and, finding you out, leaves a message begging you to call him up the moment you come in, as it’s important, the matter is more often important to him than to you.
h.) A green hunting cap squeezed the top of the fleshy balloon of a head.
i.) It is highly probable that the tea shop would never have started at all if Commander David Tompkins hadn’t fancied himself at being something of a dab-hand at cooking.
j.) The opening chapter does not concern itself with Love—indeed that antagonist does not certainly appear until the third –
Like many people my age, my first encounter with John Steinbeck was when studying Of Mice and Men during my GCSEs. Unlike a lot of people, flogging out every detail of a novel (and then watching the video because we’d never quite finished reading the book) didn’t put me off reading for life – but neither was I desperate to read any more Steinbeck.
So, when my book group chose The Pearl (1947) for this month’s read, I was happy to give Steinbeck another go. I hadn’t disliked Of Mice and Men, but I’m yet to click with any of the Great American Novels (on the list which left me cold at best: The Great Gatsby, The Catcher in the Rye, Moby Dick – although I did love To Kill A Mockingbird). Well, there could scarcely be more different novels than Of Mice and Men and The Pearl – it’s difficult to believe they’re by the same author. And whatever my feelings about the former work – The Pearl is captivatingly brilliant.
At only ninety pages long, The Pearl is barely a novella – the blurb of my copy labels it a short story, but I think it is most fitting to call it a fable. That is certainly reflective of its tone and atmosphere. It tells of Kino, his wife Juana, and their baby Coyotito. They are Mexican pearlers, living in La Paz in extreme poverty – but a close, kind community. That is, those of their race (which I think is Mexican-Indian) care for one another – the rich townsfolk are selfish colonisers who refer to Kino and his people as ‘animals’.
What I loved most about the book was its style and tone, which felt authentically as though it were an inherited folk-tale, told through the generations. I daresay there’s all sorts that could be said about an outsider imposing a fable on this community, ya-dah-ya-dah, but that’s not really the point – Steinbeck has crafted something which never feels forced or voyeuristic, but as though it were part of the lifeblood of people like Kino. Folk-tales tend to present the world in an unexpected way – in The Pearl, the Mexican-Indians experience events through melodies. Not simply singing about them, but sensing them – Kino can hear the Song of Evil approaching; he can hear the Song of Family. He can hear many interweaving melodies, and trusts them.
Now, Kino’s people had sung of everything that happened or existed. They had made songs to the fishes, to the sea in anger and to the sea in calm, to the light and the dark and the sun and the moon, and the songs were all in Kino and in his people – every song that had ever been made, even the ones forgotten. And as he filled his basket the song was in Kino, and the beat of the song was his pounding heart as it ate the oxygen from his held breath, and the melody of the song was the grey-green water and the little scuttling animals and the clouds of fish that flitted by and were gone. But in the song there was a secret little inner song, hardly perceptible, but always there, sweet and secret and clinging, almost hiding in the counter-melody, and this was the Song of the Peal That Might Be, for every shell thrown in the basket might contain a pearl.
It will come as no surprise that Kino finds a pearl – and it is enormous. It is, he believes, The Pearl of the World. What follows is akin to a parable – unsurprisingly the arrival of wealth does not bring happiness; rather, it brings complications and anguish.
I shan’t give you all the details. Although they are somewhat predictable, as with all stories (and especially folk-tales) the importance lies in the way in which they are told. I was very impressed by Steinbeck’s technique in mounting tension (a trait he also uses, of course, in Of Mice and Men) – he manages to make a very simple tale extremely gripping. If I knew how he did, I’d be a great writer myself.
The Pearl isn’t simply a morality tale. That wealth doesn’t equate happiness is both true and a truism. Steinbeck’s use of a straightforward tale is much more sophisticated – an incredibly engaging, beautiful narrative. It isn’t the sort of book I could love in a fond, intimate manner – in feeling like a folk-tale passed down through generations, it keeps the reader at a distance – but this story of Kino and his family is still captivating, and a masterpiece of simplicity and authorial economy.
Things to get Stuck into:
The Blue Fox by Sjon – this sparse Icelandic tale kept coming to my mind whilst I was reading – perhaps because Sjon, like Steinbeck, envelops the reader entirely in the atmosphere of his tale.
The Man Who Planted Trees by Jean Giono – for another well-told fable, with beautiful woodcut illustrations, you could do no better.
Happy All Saints’ Day! Also known as All Hallows’ Day, you might have celebrated HallowE[v]en[ing], but that’s a bit like celebrating Christmas Eve without celebrating Christmas, in my opinion.
Gotta say, there are a lot of reasons I don’t like Hallowe’en – from its rather unpleasant origins to the decorations in *every* shop window which are not good for those of us who suffer from arachnophobia – so I’m pleased it’s out of the way and I can get behind a nicer day to celebrate!
Lots of people read spooky books for Hallowe’en (I don’t have a problem with the bookish part of the day!) but I’d like to read something which fits the theme of All Hallows’ Day – any suggestions? Anything with a saint or a church or similar – but no ghost stories or Gothic graveyards!
Barbara Pym, perhaps? Hmm… my mind is rather a blank…
A couple recommendations which I’ve already read, if you want to celebrate a saintly day – you could do a lot worse than Oliver Goldsmith’s The Vicar of Wakefield or Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead.
Over to you!
Despite the tidal waves of books that come into my possession, and the fact that I rarely leave the house without buying at least one book (I’ve bought five since I did the meme on Friday) only relatively rarely do I buy a book on a complete whim. Usually I’ve read other things by the author, or heard good things, or am following up a blog review etc. These links can be tenuous, and tend to create an ever-widening field of gosh-yes-I-think-I’d-like-that books. But occasionally I buy one, knowing nothing whatsoever about it or its author.
And that, dear reader, is how I came to buy The Invention of Morel (1940) by Adolfo Bioy Casares, translated from Spanish by Ruth L. C. Simms.
I was lured in by the fact that it was an NYRB Classic, and they’re always beautifully produced, whatever else may come inside. And I was further tempted when I saw that it was a ‘fantastic exploration of virtual realities’ (thus potentially useful for my thesis) and had apparently inspired the film Last Year in Marienbad, which has been in Amazon basket for years. Apparently it was mentioned in ‘Lost’, too, but I didn’t see any of that.
This novella (only a hundred pages) should probably be classed as science fiction, and there is definite allusion to H.G. Wells’ The Island of Doctor Moreau in Bioy Casares’ title – but this isn’t a tale of robots and computers, but of one lovestruck, bewildered man. He isn’t named, and seems to be known as The Fugitive, since he is hiding on the (fictional) island Villings to escape the death penalty in his home country of Venezuela. The Invention of Morel takes the form of his diaries. The opening paragraph flings the reader into the catalyst of the novella:
Today, on this island, a miracle happened: summer came ahead of time. I moved my bed out by the swimming pool, but then, because it was impossible to sleep, I stayed in the water for a long time. The heat was so intense that after I had been out of the pool for only two or three minutes I was already bathed in perspiration again. As day was breaking, I awoke to the sound of a phonograph record.
Despite having appeared to be a deserted island, complete with abandoned chapel and museum, suddenly the shore is filled with people – eccentric people, dressed in clothes of the past, dancing and socialising in the unseasonal heat.
The Fugitive is most interested in one of the women, whom he names Faustine. She (although the narrative does not explicitly say so) resembles Louise Brooks and was inspired by Bioy Casares’ fascination with that film star. The Fugitive follows her, watching her sunbathing and spying on her activities and – as people do in novels – falls besottedly in love with her, without ever engaging her in conversation. His rival for her affections, who does have conversation with her and everything, is the Morel of the title.
And then all the tourists disappear.
It’s always difficult to tell how much a novel’s style is due to its author, when it comes in translation. Either Bioy Casares deliberately wrote most of The Invention of Morel in a disconcerting, imprecise style, or Simms didn’t do a great job translating. The novella is quite difficult to read. It certainly doesn’t flow. It is disjointed, not entirely chronological, meandering through speculation and confusion in between scribbled declarations of love. All of which certainly echoes The Fugitive’s confusion, thrusting the reader into the same bewilderment he must be feeling. What makes me suspect that this is deliberate is this paragraph, about Morel explaining his ‘invention’ (fear not, I shall tell you when to look away, if you want to avoid spoilers!)
Although this refers to Morel’s speech, it also reflects upon the style and structure of The Invention of Morel itself. After this point, it becomes much more lucid and readable. Which means Bioy Casares is being rather clever, but doesn’t make the first two-thirds of the novella any easier to read…
Ok, now I’m going to tell you what Morel’s ‘invention’ is – so run away, if you don’t want to know.
*Doo-be-doo-be-dooooo*
Ok, still with me? Here it is: Morel has recorded all of their actions for the week – but not simply audio and visual, but all five senses. What The Fugitive has been witnessing is one of the endless replayings of the week, which keeps that group of visitors to the island in some curious form of immortality – and which explains all manner of other strange phenomena.
The Invention of Morel has been filled with all manner of clues from the outset, which make sense looking back, but merely seem confusing upon first reading them. I especially liked this one:
What originally seems to hint towards The Fugitive’s delusional or deranged state (and can that interpretation ever be ruled out, in fantastic works?) slots into the reader’s new understanding of the novel.
Giving away this device shouldn’t prevent you having a rewarding reading of The Invention of Morel. The book doesn’t rest upon the power of a twist, as many less intellectual books and films do – rather, Bioy Casares explores themes of isolation; what constitutes immortality; what rights ought scientists to have over humans; even the power of love.
The final third of the novella, being so much less stylistically confused and confusing, allows these themes to come to the fore and it was definitely this section which I most valued and enjoyed. Perhaps a slow, thoughtful reading of the first two-thirds would prove equally rewarding. As it was, I did feel rather like I was battling through quicksand, never able to settle into a comfortable reading rhythm – but, after all, probably that was what Bioy Casares intended…?
Others who got Stuck into it…
“It’s the kind of read that’s slightly unsettling and not with a lot of closure.” – Amy, My Friend Amy
“I was delighted to find The Invention of Morel to be such a quick and engaging read, and yet one that has depth if I chose to read it on a deeper level in the future.” – Rebecca, Rebecca Reads
“As a mystery it’s engaging, and all the threads come together in an intricate weave with no frayed lines to tug on.” – Stewart, BookLit
I bought Juliet Turner’s album Burn the Black Suit on a whim in 2004, whilst on holiday in Devon, getting ready to face the big, scary world of university… Well, seven years later I’m still a student, and I’m still listening to Juliet. This song, Belfast Central, is rather lovely – I especially like Juliet’s authentically thick Irish accent while singing.
There isn’t an official video – this was homemade by someone on YouTube.
For other Sunday Songs, click here.
A while ago I made up a quick little meme which enabled bloggers to run through recent books of interest – and it rather caught on, with dozens of bloggers (including, rewardingly, many I’d never heard of) following suit. It was such fun seeing snapshots of different people’s reading and buying – and a nice easy post for bloggers to write!
So, guess what? I fancy doing it again. Do have a go yourself, if you like – whether or not you did it last time. And if you do, pop a note in the comments so I can go over and have a gander!
1.) The book I’m currently reading:
The Rector’s Daughter by F.M. Mayor – everyone and her husband seem to have read and loved this, so I thought I’d give it a whirl. Will you all hate me if I say I’m not bowled over yet?
2.) The last book I finished:
Two is Lonely by Lynne Reid Banks – I re-read all three of the L-Shaped Room trilogy recently, in fact. The first one is still brilliant – the other two not quite as good as I remembered.
3.) The next book I want to read:
Cold Light by Jenn Ashworth – to be honest, it’s been my ‘next book’ for months, but somehow other things always slip in front of it. That doesn’t diminish how excited I am about reading Jenn’s novel!
4.) The last book I bought:
Gentleman into Goose by Christopher Ward – yes, believe it or not Lady into Fox by David Garnett led to a spoof version! Not many copies around, so had to get this shipped over from the US of A.
5.) The last book I was given:
The Magnificent Spinster by May Sarton – came courtesy of lovely Rachel/Book Snob, accompanied by threats if I didn’t read it quick-smart. And I didn’t. But I will…
This is another fairly long review, but a few of you were kind enough the other day to tell me not to apologise for long reviews – so I shan’t! I certainly enjoyed writing it, and formulating my thoughts.
Eighteen months ago John Self very kindly offered me a copy of Two Serious Ladies (1943) by Jane Bowles, in its beautiful reprint by Sort Of Books (responsible for the recent Tove Jansson editions too, most of which are newly-commissioned translations.) He thought it might be my sort of thing – and he was definitely right. It just took a while for me to get around to reading it… (By the by, Sort Of Books – I love you, I love your production standards and your choice of titles – but… only one lady on the cover of a book called Two Serious Ladies – really?)
I know John Self read the novel, but can’t find a review of it on his blog, so perhaps it never got that far. In fact, despite being a celebrated novel, there isn’t a great deal of coverage of it in the blogging world – perhaps because it is essentially a very strange book. You know I love me some strange, now and then, so I was more than happy with that – but it isn’t one that I would recommend to everyone. Bowles writes quite like Muriel Spark, but without the ironic authorial comment. The unsettling dialogue never settles into the expected, the sparse narrative offers very little guidance, and the whole novel is deliciously disconcerting and unusual. And yet it’s still often very funny. If you like beginning-middle-end and naturalised conversations between characters, then look away. If you like Muriel Spark, Barbara Comyns, or even Ivy Compton-Burnett – then you could well be in for a treat.
The females of the title only meet twice, briefly, in Two Serious Ladies – towards the end of the first and third sections, of three. The ladies in question are Christina Goering and Frieda Copperfield – always called, by the narrative, Miss Goering and Mrs. Copperfield; one of the novel’s most subtle strangenesses. Lorna Sage’s excellent introduction reveals that there was once to have been a third serious lady, Senorita Cordoba, which might have made the unusual structure less striking – but would have thus robbed Bowles.
We first see Miss Goering as a child, attempting to inveigle a straightforward friend into an elaborate and invented religious ritual. The reader might, not unnaturally, expect to follow Miss Goering throughout her life – but we quickly fast-forward to Miss Goering as a “grown woman” (age unspecified) and stay there. She is unsociable, uncompromising, selfish and violently honest – yet not truly malicious. Her character is so open and amorally direct that she reminded me of Katri from Tove Jansson’s The True Deceiver. Oddly, suddenly (so much in this novel is odd and sudden) Miss Goering invites Miss Gamelon, the cousin of her governess, to live with her. They are never amiable companions, and although they depend upon one another to an extent, their relationship is never reliable and neither even attempts to understand the other. It is a mystery why either would want to live with the other – but a mystery neither of them care to address. Here is the sort of conversation they have:
I know I shouldn’t be attempting a piece of close reading, as that’s not what you’ve come to read, but I think that excerpt would be fascinating to analyse. One example – that word ‘certainly’ in the final sentence. How many authors would have included that? And what a transformative effect it has on the sentiment, and on the character speaking it – she becomes that much more combative, and idiomatic, and faux-dramatic. She is speaking for effect, for drama, rather than with simply honesty. Even if I’d only read these sentences, Miss Gamelon would stand fully-formed before me.
Nearly all the characters and their conversations are piercingly honest, unswervingly self-absorbed, and insistently irrelevant. Rarely do they seem to have paid the remotest attention to what their interlocutor has replied. If they have, it is solely as a means of flatly refuting it. Forster’s Howards End is renowned for the mantra ‘only connect’ – Two Serious Ladies proffers the opposite doctrine, especially where Miss Goering is concerned. She does go out with a weak man called Arnold, whom she openly despises – although, again, without intending malice. Jane Bowles excels at portraying awkward conversations and unhappy exchanges – if they lean too much towards the morosely disjointed to claim verisimilitude, then at least it makes a change to the neat patter of many novels.
Miss Goering bumps into her acquaintance Mrs. Copperfield at a party, and the narrative passes the baton on. Mrs. Copperfield is about to embark on a trip to Panama with her husband.
This section of the novel is equally interesting, although I jotted down fewer notes while reading it… where Miss Goering is indifferent and jaded, Mrs. Copperfield has an ingenuous lust for experience. She is not an intelligent woman, but is easily captivated, and dashes around Panama – befriending the inhabitants of a brothel along the way. Here she has just met a flighty girl named Peggy, whose appearance in the novel is fleeting:
How are these ladies serious? Lorna Sage suggests that Bowles uses the word to mean ‘risking the possibility that you were meaninglessly weird’. I think perhaps it is these ladies’ choice not to laugh at life, but determinedly to live it, and see what happens. But, truth be told, Jane Bowles doesn’t seem to have a grand theme to Two Serious Ladies. Miss Goering and Mrs. Copperfield are not part of a philosophical quest; there is no sense of purpose or conclusion. Questions are not answered; they are scarcely posed. In many ways the novel doesn’t follow any progression at all – the ladies merely experience a great deal, whether grasping at it enthusiastically or raising an ambivalent eyebrow at life. Bowles’ astonishing talent is creating a dynamic that, if not unique, is highly unusual – strange, surreal, and yet grounded to the mundane. Her ear for dialogue is astonishing – dialogue which is almost never realistic, but always striking.
And Two Serious Ladies is a brilliant novel. As I said, it would not suit many readers – but anybody who chose writing style over plot in my recent post on the topic would be quite likely to appreciate this book. It is a huge shame that Bowles only wrote one novel. The one she has created ought to be enough to assure her a sort of immortality – Bowles is one novelist we should be taking seriously.
Others who got Stuck into it:
“There’s something interestingly off in the way the characters in this book make choices; they are all inscrutable.” – With Hidden Noise
“At its heart, it is a book about people who feel quite often unrooted and alone, even in their own parlor, surrounded by friends.” – Margaret, The Art of Reading
“It’s essentially an absurd tale and not one I really got into.” – Verity, Verity’s Virago Venture