Thursday Painting


After all that cerebral activity, I thought I’d just put up a painting today – I love a lot of Stanley Spencer’s work, including this: Swan Upping at Cookham (1915-9) which is in the Tate (more info here).

Hope you’re having a good week! I’m finding reading a bit slow, but today read (as well as some interesting books about childlessness from the 1920s – did you know that a lack of commonsense could be to blame?[!]) two-thirds of a bizarre, funny, grotesque American novel published in 1980, but written in the 1960s by an author who killed himself in 1969. Any guesses?

Naipaul Quiz: answers

Thank you for all your entries to the Male/Female quiz – I hope you all enjoyed it! Here are the answers, quickly – I’ve copied them down to the bottom with the quotations, in case you want to compare. Intriguingly, Dwarf’s Blood by Edith Olivier seemed to attract the most interest from you all – and now I feel a bit guilty, since it’s pretty scarce. From my own perspective, numbers 1 and 3 appealed to me most.

1.) Told By An Idiot – Rose Macaulay
2.) The Present and the Past – Ivy Compton-Burnett
3.) Time Will Darken It – William Maxwell
4.) Nothing is Safe – E.M. Delafield
5.) Hangover Square – Patrick Hamilton
6.) Before I Go Hence – Frank Baker
7.) The Harvest – Christopher Hart
8.) The To-Let House – Daisy Hasan
9.) Growth of the Soil – Knut Hamsun
10.) Dwarf’s Blood – Edith Olivier

So… nobody got everything right. The lowest score was 4 (Sakura, Sue, and Laura!) and the highest score was 8 – a title shared between June, Colin, Karen K, Gill, Cynica, Deb, Claire, and Ruth. Well done, guys!

Here’s an interesting fact – every author’s was correctly identified more than incorrectly, except for Frank Baker – 16 out of 24 of you thought he was a woman.

Here’s a little table of the answers – I don’t know whether you can make it big enough to read by clicking on it, but it’s worth a shot…

Here are those quotations again, with the titles.

Told By An Idiot – Rose Macaulay
1.) One evening, shortly before Christmas, in the days when our forefathers, being young, possessed the earth, – in brief, in the year 1879, – Mrs. Garden came briskly into the drawing-room from Mr. Garden’s study and said in her crisp, even voice to her six children, “Well, my dears, I have to tell you something. Poor papa has lost his faith again.”

The Present and the Past – Ivy Compton-Burnett
2.) “Oh, dear, oh, dear!” said Henry Clare.

His sister glanced in his direction.

“They are pecking the sick one. They are angry because it is ill.”

“Perhaps it is because they are anxious,” said Megan, looking at the hens in the hope of discerning this feeling.

Time Will Darken It – William Maxwell
3.) In order to pay off an old debt that someone else had contracted, Austin King had said yes when he knew that he ought to have said no, and now at five o’clock of a July afternoon he saw the grinning face of trouble everywhere he turned. The house was full of strangers from Mississippi; within an hour the friends and neighbors he had invited to an evening party would begin ringing the doorbell; and his wife (whom he loved) was not speaking to him.

Nothing Is Safe – E.M. Delafield
4.) Even in what Julia now thought of as “the old days” – a year ago, and more – Terry had always minded things.

Whenever anything went even a little bit wrong he was almost certain to be fearfully upset. Sometimes he cried, even at twelve years old.

Daddy said Terry was a neurotic little ass.

Mummie said he was highly-strung, and that she’d been the same herself as a child.

5.) Hangover Square – Patrick Hamilton
Click!… Here it was again! He was walking along the cliff at Hunstanton and it had come again… Click!…

Or would the word ‘snap’ or ‘crack’ describe it better?

Before I Go Hence – Frank Baker
6.) “You’d like you tea up here, father?”

There was a moment before the old man replied. Then he turned in his chair by the open window and stared bewilderedly at his daughter. She stood in the low doorway to the small study which overlooked the orchard, a thin, black-haired woman whose ringed hands were red and coarse from years of housework. Fenner’s thoughts had wandered very far and he could not immediately relate the woman to his own life. It seemed to him that she was not his daughter, only one other individual in a haphazard dream world of unrelated human beings.

The Harvest – Christopher Hart
7.) The sun shone down on a beautiful morning, edging the beech trunks copper and the beech leaves gold. The paddock lay like virgin land, the thin frost lay on it unbroken by human footfall, the grass only darkened here and there by delicate hoofprints where the deer had passed by when the mist still lay sorrelhigh, their sandy bellies brushing drops of dew from thistles, and had passed on and left the paddock still and silent as before in deep dreaming sleep.

The To-Let House – Daisy Hasan
8.) Kulay, a fair, skinny, whip-wielding boy with grey, stony eyes, guards the border between a Shillong mansion, once home to a British tea planter, and its drab tenants’ quarters. A forget-me-not hedge separates the drab houses from the magnificent mansion.

He is twelve and is wearing a red polo-neck sweater. He dances in circles like a ribbon of stony sunlight.

Growth of the Soil – Knut Hamsun
9.) The long, long road over the moors and up into the forest – who trod it into being first of all? Man, a human being, the first that came here. There was no path before he came. Afterward, some beast or other, following the faint tracks over marsh and moorland, wearing them deeper; after these again some Lapp gained scent of the path, and took that way from field to field, looking to his reindeer. Thus was made the track through the great Almenning – the common tracts without an owner; no-man’s land.

Dwarf’s Blood – Edith Olivier
10.) Sir Henry Roxerby was dead. As far as Brokeyates was concerned, he might well have died years earlier, for the place had begun to go to rack and ruin long before he took to his bed. During those last five years, the main drive had never been used. Sir Henry had no visitors, and the butcher and the baker preferred to reach the house by the stable entrance, near the churchyard. It was thus possible almost to avoid the Park altogether, and none of the village people cared about going further into that than was absolutely necessary. It had a haunted look.

Oh, Blogger…

Apparently people are having trouble leaving comments on any Blogger blog at the moment… fun. So, if you want to enter the (possibly be-prized) Male/Female author competition, but can’t leave a comment, just email your answers to simondavidthomas[at]yahoo.co.uk

So far nobody has got everything right, and at least two people have got 8/10 (I haven’t checked thoroughly, but I think that’s right.) V.S. Naipaul has yet to pop by.

Keep guessing!

I’m going to give you another day to keep guessing on the male/female authors – I wonder if a guess for both genders has been made for every quotation? I might get making a spreadsheet…

Also, just thought I’d mention that there is now a link to the My Life in Books series I ran on here in March/April – click on the icon in the right-hand column to see 14 bloggers and blog-readers talk about their favourite books through their lives. It made me remember how great all the participants were, and ponder on a second series…

Naipaul’s agender…

V.S. Naipaul hit headlines recently for claiming that all female writers were inferior to him, and “I read a piece of writing and within a paragraph or two I know whether it is by a woman or not.” Well, Naipaul, put your money where your mouth is – and, on the offchance that you don’t read my blog, some of you others can have a go.

Here are the openings of ten novels – five of them are by men, five of them are by women. I’m hoping you won’t know what they are… they’ve been picked more or less at random off my shelves.

Pop your guesses in the comments box! There might be a prize… but I’m rather hoping that we can prove Naipaul wrong, and that nobody gets them all right. But bonus points if you can guess the authors… and also let me know which makes you most keen to read the book!


1.) One evening, shortly before Christmas, in the days when our forefathers, being young, possessed the earth, – in brief, in the year 1879, – Mrs. Garden came briskly into the drawing-room from Mr. Garden’s study and said in her crisp, even voice to her six children, “Well, my dears, I have to tell you something. Poor papa has lost his faith again.”

2.) “Oh, dear, oh, dear!” said Henry Clare.

His sister glanced in his direction.

“They are pecking the sick one. They are angry because it is ill.”

“Perhaps it is because they are anxious,” said Megan, looking at the hens in the hope of discerning this feeling.

3.) In order to pay off an old debt that someone else had contracted, Austin King had said yes when he knew that he ought to have said no, and now at five o’clock of a July afternoon he saw the grinning face of trouble everywhere he turned. The house was full of strangers from Mississippi; within an hour the friends and neighbors he had invited to an evening party would begin ringing the doorbell; and his wife (whom he loved) was not speaking to him.

4.) Even in what Julia now thought of as “the old days” – a year ago, and more – Terry had always minded things.

Whenever anything went even a little bit wrong he was almost certain to be fearfully upset. Sometimes he cried, even at twelve years old.

Daddy said Terry was a neurotic little ass.

Mummie said he was highly-strung, and that she’d been the same herself as a child.

5.) Click!… Here it was again! He was walking along the cliff at Hunstanton and it had come again… Click!…

Or would the word ‘snap’ or ‘crack’ describe it better?

6.) “You’d like you tea up here, father?”

There was a moment before the old man replied. Then he turned in his chair by the open window and stared bewilderedly at his daughter. She stood in the low doorway to the small study which overlooked the orchard, a thin, black-haired woman whose ringed hands were red and coarse from years of housework. Fenner’s thoughts had wandered very far and he could not immediately relate the woman to his own life. It seemed to him that she was not his daughter, only one other individual in a haphazard dream world of unrelated human beings.

7.) The sun shone down on a beautiful morning, edging the beech trunks copper and the beech leaves gold. The paddock lay like virgin land, the thin frost lay on it unbroken by human footfall, the grass only darkened here and there by delicate hoofprints where the deer had passed by when the mist still lay sorrelhigh, their sandy bellies brushing drops of dew from thistles, and had passed on and left the paddock still and silent as before in deep dreaming sleep.

8.) Kulay, a fair, skinny, whip-wielding boy with grey, stony eyes, guards the border between a Shillong mansion, once home to a British tea planter, and its drab tenants’ quarters. A forget-me-not hedge separates the drab houses from the magnificent mansion.

He is twelve and is wearing a red polo-neck sweater. He dances in circles like a ribbon of stony sunlight.

9.) The long, long road over the moors and up into the forest – who trod it into being first of all? Man, a human being, the first that came here. There was no path before he came. Afterward, some beast or other, following the faint tracks over marsh and moorland, wearing them deeper; after these again some Lapp gained scent of the path, and took that way from field to field, looking to his reindeer. Thus was made the track through the great Almenning – the common tracts without an owner; no-man’s land.

10.) Sir Henry Roxerby was dead. As far as Brokeyates was concerned, he might well have died years earlier, for the place had begun to go to rack and ruin long before he took to his bed. During those last five years, the main drive had never been used. Sir Henry had no visitors, and the butcher and the baker preferred to reach the house by the stable entrance, near the churchyard. It was thus possible almost to avoid the Park altogether, and none of the village people cared about going further into that than was absolutely necessary. It had a haunted look.

Song for a Sunday

This week, an inspiring song by my favourite Christian singer-songwriter Jennifer Knapp – my favourite song of hers because it uses my favourite Bible verse as its inspiration. The song is called ‘His Grace is Sufficient’; the Bible verse is 2 Corinthians 12:9 – But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”

Click here for all previous Sunday Songs.

Thank goodness it’s the Weekend!

This isn’t quite a Weekend Miscellany, since it’s more a cheer of joy that this week is over! For this week, on consecutive days, I gave my first lecture and my first conference paper. Both went well, and the Oxford University English Graduate Conference was actually surprisingly fun – very relaxed and friendly; not scary and full of career-driven people as I’d feared it might be. And it came with a keynote speech from Penelope Lively about reading and writing and memory etc. It was deliciously wonderful – a bit like Howards End is on the Landing turned into a talk, albeit from a different author – and I’m keen to rectify my lack of Lively reading.

Oh, in case you were wondering – my lecture was on genre and reception theory, for first-year undergraduates; my conference paper was entitled ‘”If it were less, it would be gossip – if it were more, it would be genius”: Placing the Middlebrow and the Middlebrow Place 1918-1939’ – people seemed appreciative, and there were lots of fascinating talks given during the day.

So, since a week’s worth of nervous energy has left me exhausted (some people take these things in their stride, I’m sure, but I am not one of them) I am retiring to bed – and will just give you three links to reviews which have come up on other blogs this week, since they’re all wonderful thoughts about some of my favourite books.

– Thomas (My Porch) reads his first Tove Jansson short story collection, Travelling Light

– Daniel (Hiberian Homme) finally reads the wonderful Diary of a Provincial Lady

– Claire (Captive Reader) experiences the bookish joy that is Howards End is on the Landing

Hope you’re having a good weekend – I’ll be spending a lot of mine asleep!

Abandoned Books

Mrs. B at The Literary Stew has come up with a great idea for a little meme about abandoned books, and I’m delighted to be joining in. Pop over to her blog post (on the link above) to see the Nancy Pearl quotation which set her off thinking – and here are my answers to her questions:

1.) What would cause you to stop reading a book?
I used never to give up on books, but in recent years I have done so more often – there are two, very different reasons. Some I am hating, and know I shan’t get any pleasure or edification from, and so give up. I don’t admit defeat easily, but it happens sometimes (hello, Tarr by Wyndham Lewis, the most recent culprit). Others simply get sidelined, and although I don’t deliberately choose to stop reading them, I realise months later that they’ve been neglected. It’s because I read so many books at once, I think.

2.) Name a book you’ve abandoned in the past that you ended up loving later on.
I can only think of one – Jude the Obscure by Thomas Hardy. That was one I stopped because I was reading it for a first-year class and simply ran out of time – when I returned to it last year, I loved it. Aside from that, you could count Pride and Prejudice, which I tried when I was ten, but couldn’t cope with – now, of course, I love it.

3.) Name a book you’ve abandoned in the past that you hope to finish one day.
The Chateau by William Maxwell. I can’t really believe I’ve only read one novel by him – I loved They Came Like Swallows so much that I bought lots of others, but somehow put The Chateau aside after a hundred pages. Just wasn’t in the mood, perhaps – but I’m pretty confident I’ll love it when I return to it. Now I just have to decide whether to carry on from p.101, or start again at p.1.

Oh, and the first Eye of the World book, which my brother lent me, er, quite a long time ago… I read 550pp over one weekend, in March 2010, and have only read fifty pages or so since… but I definitely will finish that one. I didn’t put in all that effort for nothing…

Thanks Mrs. B for the meme! Do have a go on your own blogs, and link back to Mrs. B’s original post when you do, so she knows who’s picked up the baton.

Recapturing

Wow, thanks for all your comments yesterday – that was quite impressive, and every single author was recommended to me… well, thanks for that! Someone (anonymous) did say that they suspected I’d only read Brideshead Revisited by Waugh – but, in fact, I have not read that, and I have read The Loved One, Decline and Fall, and Put Out More Flags – so there you go! I must confess, composing this list did make me realise how many authors I have sampled. But that would be a rather more self-congratulatory list to make. Instead I shall challenge you COWARDS who weren’t going to make your own lists – hie to it! (Heehee…!)

I’m having a mini-reader’s-block at the moment, and seem to be mostly re-reading books for the past few weeks. Not sure quite what the cause is, but I daresay the remedy is Jane Austen – but for now I’m content going over some familiar ground.

I’ve been meaning to re-read Dodie Smith’s I Capture the Castle (1949) for ages and, as I mentioned the other day, my book group has been reading it this month. It catapaulted it up my must-reread list, and I’m delighted that I did – since I was a bit worried that it might not work now that I am much older than Cassandra. I was 17 or 18 when I originally read it – so perhaps not the age at which most people become life-long-lovers of this delightful novel – but it was Cassandra’s age.

For those who don’t know the story, Cassandra lives in a castle with her older sister Rose, younger brother Thomas, father known as Mortmain (their surname), stepmother Topaz, and sort-of-servant Stephen. She famously opens the novel “I write this sitting in the kitchen sink” – for this is where she starts recording her life in a diary, trying to capture the people around her. There is an atmosphere of a fairy-tale permeating the book – not surprisingly, given the family live in a castle. Cassandra thinks back to the first time the family saw it:
All of a sudden we saw a high, round tower in the distance, on a little hill. Father instantly decided that we must explore it, though Mother wasn’t enthusiastic. It was difficult to find because the little roads twisted and woods and villages kept hiding it from us, but every few minutes we caught a glimpse of it and Father and Rose and I got very excited. Mother kept saying that Thomas would be up too late; he was asleep, wobbling about between Rose and me.

At last we came to a neglected signpost with TO BELMOTTE AND THE CASTLE ONLY on it, pointing down a narrow, overgrown lane. Father turned in it at once and we crawled along with the brambles clawing at the car as if trying to hold it back – I remember thinking of the Prince fighting his way through the wood to the Sleeping Beauty. The hedges were so high and the lane turned so often that we could only see a few yards ahead of us; Mother kept saying we ought to go back out before we got stuck and that the castle was probably miles away. Then suddenly we drove out into the open and there it was – but not the lonely tower on a hill we had been searching for; what we saw was quite a large castle, built on level ground. Father gave a shout and the next minute we were out of the car and staring in amazement.
But it’s now a rather tumble-down castle, falling apart, and from which most of the furniture has been sold. Mortmain wrote a critically acclaimed novel called Jacob Wrestling (think Ulysses, in terms of being experimental and avant-garde) but the proceeds have dwindled after fourteen years (including a little spate in jail, for having threatened his – now dead – wife with a cake knife). The family thus live in poverty – but although they bemoan and bewail this, it never feels quite real – it is never meant to. They have to share towels, and can barely afford to eat – but that fairy-tale feeling prevents anything feeling too serious.

Cassandra does her job of ‘capturing the castle’ so well that I’m going to find it tricky to detail the characters quickly… but I’ll do my best. Mortmain is absent-minded and idle; Topaz idolises him and communes with nature a lot; Topaz hankers after finer things in life, and will do much to achieve them; Stephen is subservient and besotted with Cassandra; Thomas more or less loiters in the background.

Of course they are all rather more complex than that, but you have to meet them first-hand to appreciate them, so we’ll move on to Cassandra, the narrator. And what a wonderful narrator she is. Through her eyes, we see all the events of family life – especially the arrival of American brothers Simon and Neil to the large nearby house, the estate of which includes the castle. Their arrival is the catalyst for change at the castle, as Rose determines to marry Simon, whether or not she loves him (and she hopes she does) to help her family escape their destitution. Only after Simon and Rose have got engaged does Cassandra realise she has fallen in love with Simon herself…

In Cassandra, Dodie Smith has created someone quite extraordinary. The basic plot of I Capture the Castle is not the stuff of the finest literary mind – crossed wires; crossed lovers, and so forth. But because they are focalised through Cassandra, they are fascinating. Somehow Smith manages to present a teenage girl in love whose viewpoint is not remotely irritating – instead it is credible, and raises sympathy rather than annoyance in the reader. I was lucky enough not to fall in love until after I was a teenager, so I didn’t experience all the woes of angsty, unrequited teenage love which Cassandra endures – so I cannot really empathise, nor say how realistic Cassandra’s emotions are, but I do know that she is a wholly engaging heroine.

I love her for her slightly skewed view upon life, and the slightly odd, inexperienced things she says. Some examples: ‘I know all about the facts of life. And I don’t think much of them.’ She labels champagne ‘lovely, rather like very good ginger ale without the ginger.’ And perhaps her wisest piece of advice – ‘No bathroom on earth will make up for marrying a bearded man you hate.’

Dodie Smith is very clever, and she incorporates in the novel the criticism which might be directed at Cassandra – she overhears Simon telling Neil that he thinks her ‘consciously naive’. It is the perfect description for part of her personality (she is mostly, however, unconsciously naive) – but by including it like this, Dodie Smith makes the reader leap to Cassandra’s defence, and love her all the more. Spending the whole book in her company, it is important that we do love her – and I do.

I Capture the Castle is, incidentally, the only diary-style novel I’ve read which actually felt like a diary. Cassandra often breaks off entries because something has happened, or starts writing by saying she has something exciting to relate, but will try and contain herself. Much as I love books like Diary of a Provincial Lady and Diary of a Nobody, they both strike me as a little unrealistic – when on earth do they actually write their journals?

But that’s just the icing on the cake. I Capture the Castle is almost perfect in every way – Dodie Smith is not a great prose stylist, perhaps, and it’s interesting to see her write undisparagingly about Mortmain, who is essentially a Modernist author – which Smith obviously isn’t. But I Capture the Castle is cosy, amusing, warm – and yet not dull or predictable or everyone-is-happy-all-the-time. It’s like a fairy-tale brought into the 20th century, and not allowed to be either saccharine or gloomy. Instead, it is just right. Perhaps I should recommend it to Goldilocks…

P.S. the film is brilliant too. Perhaps I’ll write about that properly someday.

There’s a hole in my reading, dear Liza, dear Liza…


I’m going to halt you right there if you’re going to say ‘there’s no such thing as books you must read’. There probably isn’t, if one wants to stretch a point. But there are authors and novels I would feel, on my deathbed, lacking from my reading life, if I were not to try them. Ok? Ok. Lovely.

So, I’m getting into the literary confessional, and letting you know some of the authors I am a little or a lot ashamed not to have read anything at all by. (Feel free to rephrase that sentence in your head, so that it doesn’t end with a preposition.) Some of these would be considered canonical – some are simply authors that people with my tastes love, and thus I feel I should have read. This is just, I think, British, Irish and American authors. If we started looking further afield than that, it would just get too embarrassing. Sorry if these authors are from elsewhere; blame my ignorance. And I’m sure I’ll think of dozens more later – these are just the ones who come to mind first.

If you spot a name and think “Wow, he hasn’t read anything by that author, he MUST read THIS RIGHT NOW” then do tell me with which title I should start.

Anthony Trollope
Christopher Marlowe
Daniel Defoe
W.M. Thackeray
William Faulkner
Ernest Hemingway
Jonathan Swift
Wilkie Collins
L.M. Montgomery
Aldous Huxley
Mark Twain
V.S. Naipaul
Christopher Isherwood
Beryl Bainbridge
Kingsley Amis
Martin Amis
Paul Auster
William Golding
Toni Morrison
Robert Louis Stevenson [EDIT: oops, forgot about Dr. J & Mr. H, I have read that!]
Rosamund Lehmann
Beverley Nichols
Henry Green
Winifred Holtby
Vera Brittain
Margaret Forster
Margaret Drabble
Dorothy Parker
Salley Vickers
Anita Brookner
Anita Shreve
Salman Rushdie
E. Arnot Robertson
Radclyffe Hall
Penelope Mortimer
W. Somerset Maugham