All Quiet on the Orient Express

Fellow bloggers, I’m sure you know this feeling – you read a book, enjoyed it, put it on one side to write about… and by the time you get to writing about it, almost all the details have left your head. Right? That’s not a very inspiring opening to a blog review, but it will set your expectations at the right level as I start to talk about All Quiet on the Orient Express (1999) by Magnus Mills, which I read, ahem, last November.

About a year ago I wrote a review of Magnus Mills’ The Maintenance of Headway, and my general opinion was that, although that novel didn’t work for me, I felt that there was something about Mills. And that I definitely would like something else by him. In stepped Annabel, who lent me All Quiet on the Orient Express… which I had so long that she said I could pass it on to a charity shop… oops, sorry Annabel…

The unnamed narrator is coming to the end of a camping holiday at Mr. Parker’s camp site in the Lake District, preparing to head off on the Orient Express (which I think might have been thrown in just for that wonderful title) when the novel opens. That seems a good place to start.

“I thought I’d better catch you before you go,” he said. “Expect you’ll be leaving today, will you?”

“Hadn’t planned to,” I replied.

“A lot of people choose to leave on Monday mornings.”

“Well, I thought I’d give it another week, actually. The weather seems quite nice.”

“So you’re staying on then?”

“If that’s alright with you.”

“Of course it is,” he said. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”
It seems a good deal, to our narrator, when Mr. Parker offers to knock a bit off the rent in return for Narrator (as I shall call him, for want of an alternative. Unless he is named and I somehow missed it) doing the odd handyman job here and there.

The ‘here and there’ becomes more frequent, and the tasks more laborious. Most of them seem to involve Mr. Parker’s endless supply of green paint – everything from fences to boats apparently require coating in the stuff. Everything is on account, as it were, and Narrator’s involvement with the family and the community grows deeper and deeper… whether he’d like it to or not. He joins a forceful darts team, he becomes a regular at the pub (which doesn’t always have his favourite drink; nor does the grocer have the biscuits he wants) and, all the time, the Parker family get him to perform more and more handyman jobs… All Quiet on the Orient Express is a bizarre cautionary tale for those (like myself) who find it impossible to say ‘no’…

What makes Magnus Mills’ writing so enjoyable is its eccentricity. The actual characters and events are surprisingly grounded, when you consider them in the abstract. There are no Dickensian grotesques (even the man who constantly wears a cracker paper-crown turns out to have a fairly reasonable excuse) nor are the motivations of characters unduly wacky – but the dialogue certainly is. It is spare, yet like the excerpt above, it is often repetitive and confusing, trailing round and round in circles without getting anywhere. Lots of unnecessary questions and characters repeating what the others say. It all adds to the claustrophobia of the place, and is done cleverly – so that it gives this effect without annoying the reader.

If I just-about liked The Maintenance of Headway, then I definitely much liked All Quiet on the Orient Express. I still feel that there is potential for me to love Mills, and I have The Restraint of Beasts on my shelf that will hopefully reach that standard. But even without being completely in love with this novel, I think it is incredibly good – and Mills’ writing is so different from almost all other contemporary writers. The only modern comparison I can think of is Edward Carey (see below). It’s the sort of quirky, strange-but-not-macabre-or-silly writing that I yearn to find, and so rarely do.

Thanks Annabel for lending it to me; sorry I’ve had it so long! If anyone who likes or loves Mills can recommend similar authors to me (less silly than Pratchett, and not macabre at all, please) then I’d be delighted.

Books to get Stuck into:

Observatory Mansions – Edward Carey: I’ve recommended Alva & Irva so often that I thought I should make a change. Francis works as a ‘living statue’ and is also horribly selfish, stealing/collecting objects that people love. Totally surreal, but brilliant.

The Skin Chairs – Barbara Comyns: not quite the same style, but enough odd, quirky elements – from those skin chairs on – to make worth suggesting in the same breath as Mills.

Blog Birthday & Cult Books

First things first – today marks my fourth blog anniversary! Can’t believe it’s been going for four years – then again, sometimes I can’t believe there was a time when I wasn’t blogging. All these milestones seem like opportunities to say how much I appreciate you all, so… I’ll do it again! Thanks for reading – I love getting your comments, emails, and book recommendations so much. Balloons!


Now onto the topic of the day… My book group (or, rather, one of my book groups) is incredibly democratic. We have a theme, and suggest titles for it – these go into hat, and six or seven are pulled out. These then go onto the website to get votes. All very slick, and does manage to come up with interesting and varied titles. I was a bit worried that it would result in endless ‘issue’-driven book group books, which I find quite dull. You know the sort – The Kite Runner, We Have To Talk About Kevin, The Lovely Bones. The type of books that every book group reads. But our polls have resulted in much more interesting choices (and also two of the above titles – thankfully not Kevin). Examples include Travels With My Aunt, Wuthering Heights, Jude the Obscure, and, ahem, Miss Hargreaves.

ANYWAY (how often I do use that word…) this month’s theme was ‘cult books’. Which is a great theme, I think, but when I started thinking about it… what on earth *is* a cult book? We had a link to what the Telegraph think are the 50 Best Cult Books, to help us out, and a lot of them were titles I’d have expected to see there – The Catcher in the Rye, The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, On The Road… but then there were books like To Kill A Mockingbird and Testament of Youth that didn’t seem to me to fit at all. (I’m only posting titles here, because I assume you’ll know most of the authors… and because I’m lazy.)

So, what criteria made me think the former would be cult books, and the latter wouldn’t? I suppose, in my head, a cult book is one that a lot of people don’t like, and a small group of people love. There are a lot of books that a small group of people love (Miss Hargreaves, anyone?) but I think the wider-group-of-people-dislike-it is also an important factor. Cult books seem, in my mind, associated with geeks… Now, of course, I’m a geek too. But there are different types of geeks. I’m the type that also wears bright colours and laughs too much in company; not the type that stares at his feet and knows what all the computer acronyms stand for.

So – first things first – I’d like to know what definition you’d give to the term ‘cult book’. And secondly, what do you think of the shortlist that was eventually drawn up?

If on a Winter’s Night a Traveller – Italo CalvinoGeneration X – Douglas CouplandHitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy – Douglas AdamsCatcher in the Rye – J.D. SalingerThe Bell Jar – Sylvia PlathCatch 22 – Joseph HellerI Capture the Castle – Dodie Smith
I did want to read If on a Winter’s Night a Traveller, as I was intrigued by reviews from Sakura, Simon, Polly, Stu, Kim, and doubtless others. But I thought it might be a book I’d want to read slowly, when I was definitely in the right mood for it – and I tend to end up speed reading book group choices on the night before the meeting. So I voted for a novel I love and want to re-read: I Capture the Castle. Although I can’t see how it could possibly be considered a cult book…

Song for a Sunday

The only good thing to come from watching the awful film Wedding Daze was hearing a track in the background that I loved… I hunted it down, and thus began my love of folk-indie-rocky band Hem and the beautiful voice of Sally Ellyson. Here is that song, ‘The Fire Thief’ from the album Eveningland – one of my favourite albums. Enjoy!

For all previous Sunday Songs, click here.

Stuck-in-a-Book’s Weekend Miscellany

We’ve not had a Weekend Miscellany for a while, have we? The sun is shining here, and today I’m heading off to an Oxfam book fair – doubtless I’ll report back with some purchases before too long. And I’ve been buying a few other books of late, too… my local gifty shop for wrapping paper etc. also sells lots of old Penguin books fairly cheaply, and they seem to sneak into my hands every time I go there…

1.) The book – I’ve long been waiting for the fourth novel from Linda Gillard, whose previous books have included the brilliant A Lifetime Burning – but sadly I don’t think I’ll be able to read House of Silence because it’s getting electronic release only. It still comes with the beautiful cover below, and those of you with Kindles and the like, do please go over here (or, I daresay, elsewhere – I’m not up on these things), get yourself a copy, and tell me all about it! It’s only £1.90, for goodness’ sake, and Gillard is a really engaging writer. Linda has offered to send me a print-out to read, and I’m debating whether or not I’d be able to read and enjoy it in that format… thinking on’t. (Linda has posted a comment with a link to an article she’s done about House of Silence – here.)


Linda describes House of Silence as Cold Comfort Farm meets Atonement (intriguing, no?) and here is the blurb:”My friends describe me as frighteningly sensible, not at all the sort of woman who would fall for an actor. And his home. And his family.”

Orphaned by drink, drugs and rock n’ roll, Gwen Rowland is invited to spend Christmas at her boyfriend Alfie’s family home, Creake Hall – a ramshackle Tudor manor in Norfolk. She’s excited about the prospect of a proper holiday with a proper family, but soon after she arrives, Gwen senses something isn’t quite right. Alfie acts strangely toward his family and is reluctant to talk about the past. His mother, a celebrated children’s author, keeps to her room, living in a twilight world, unable to distinguish between past and present, fact and fiction. And then there’s the enigma of an old family photograph…

When Gwen discovers fragments of forgotten family letters sewn into an old patchwork quilt, she starts to piece together the jigsaw of the past and realises there’s more to the family history than she’s been told. It seems there are things people don’t want her to know.

And one of those people is Alfie…
2.) The link – is one I’ve seen on a few blogs, but Polly‘s first of all. Jane Mount paints people’s ‘ideal bookshelf’ – that is, you tell her which books to include, and she paints ’em.


I am so in love with this idea that it’s become something of a disorder – but I still don’t think I can afford to splash out on one. If you possibly can, visit her here – or, much cheaper, you can buy one of her prints, if they suit your literary tastes. Or if you want to send me an impromptu early (by seven months) birthday present…?

3.) The blog post – for E.H. Young fans, pop over to Harriet’s blog for a review of one of Emily Hilda’s earlier novels Moor Fires – I’m definitely intrigued. And since it was my copy Harriet borrowed, my curiosity can be satisfied!

Oh, and if you’re thinking of going to Cornwall this year… Ruth has a secret to share…

You can bring your dog

Not often that I give posts Tori Amos song titles, but it was the first thing that popped into my head when I put Mr. Chartwell by Rebecca Hunt in front of me. I was lucky enough to meet Rebecca Hunt a couple of weeks ago at a Penguin bloggers/authors event. For a lovely write-up of the day, check out Sakura’s post or Annabel’s or David’s or Hayley’s. All of which makes me think perhaps I should have written something about it myself. Oops. I will say that, for someone who wrote a book about depression, Rebecca was hilarious. I hope the wine I’d drunk on an empty stomach didn’t make me think *I* was too hilarious. Onto Mr. Chartwell…


The man in question is not, in fact, a man – but a dog. Winston Churchill famously referred to his depression as his ‘black dog’ – Hunt imagines what it would be like if Churchill had not been speaking metaphorically; what if there really was a black dog, visible only to those he afflicts? Mr. Chartwell (also known as Black Pat, although neither is his actual name – which is never revealed) is that dog. He also read a guide about the dog behavior training to know more about how dog behaves and how it will helps to cope from depression.

It’s 1964 and Churchill is 89 years old, and about to retire. Not far away, in Battersea, House of Commons librarian Esther Hammerhans has advertised for a lodger to live with her, and is awaiting his arrival. It won’t surprise you to learn that the lodger in question turns out to be… Mr. Chartwell. He is incredibly tall (and stands upright), he speaks English perfectly, and more or less his only canine vice is a propensity to eat anything and everything, usually in a peculiarly disgusting, slobbery manner. Reluctantly, Esther lets him stay.

This might all sound a bit fey. The anthropomorphism of animals is usually rather whimsical, or at least diverting, but in Mr. Chartwell it’s really something that we should come to terms with as quickly as possible, and then carry on. And there is certainly nothing fey about Mr. Chartwell. He is, if anything, menacing – but not aggressive or threatening, rather he is persistent. Whenever Churchill tells him to leave, it is acknowledged between them that Mr. Chartwell leaving is never really a possibility. He is an unwelcome companion, but a companion nevertheless.

Esther thought about Michael in here with this dog, trapped with him, already trapped when they first met. “And you’re going to trap me too.” She recalled the day he moved in, her gullibility. “This is an ambush.”

“No, it’s an affinity. I didn’t initiate it.” From behind the desk Black Pat said, “The magnet that keeps me here is the magnet which brought me here. We are twinned by the same orbit and I’m all yours, Esther, I’m all yours.” He said hopefully, “Don’t you like me even slightly?”Michael, by the way, is Esther’s late husband. His story slowly unwinds through the novel, as pieces are filled in, so I shan’t spoil it for you here.

Such are the bare bones of the narrative, and it is a simple story really – with an innovative central idea which permits simplicity. Indeed, to overcomplicate the novel would have been a big mistake. As it was, I could have done with less of Esther’s colleague Beth and Beth’s husband Big Oliver. They were something of a distraction.

What Hunt has done brilliantly, and originally, is capture the claustrophobia of depression. The idea of a hot, heavy, relentless dog lying across one’s body might not be medically accurate, but it certainly conjures up an idea of what living with depression might be like. And yet, Mr. Chartwell is not a distressing novel. There is a lot of humour flowing through it, especially from Mr. Chartwell himself – who is not a wholly repugnant character by any means. Relentless, yes, but also somehow seductive. Not in a romantic way, of course, but through his dogged (no pun intended) charisma.

I don’t know anything about Churchill, really, beyond what everyone grows up knowing. I don’t know whether or not his character and his dialogue are written convincingly – other people will be able to say, perhaps. I’m not sure it really matters. Churchill is useful as the originator of the ‘black dog’ expression, but his character could have been anyone who experienced both success and depression. Even without the ‘hook’ of Churchill, Hunt has written a strikingly original debut novel, and I’m looking forward to seeing what could possibly come next. And Rebecca, if you’re reading, I still want the chandelier we were arguing over.

Never let it be said, gentle readers, that I do not think of you. There was a free-for-all at Penguin’s table of free books, but (a) I had already asked lovely Lija for a copy of Mr. Chartwell, and (b) there seemed to be lots of spare copies – so I grabbed one to offer up as a giveaway copy. So, as a reward for reading this far, simply pop your name in the comments for a chance to win a copy (open worldwide) – actually, let’s make it a little bit more exciting. I want to know the name (and species) of your first pet – if you’ve never had one, then what would you call one. Get commenting…

People on a Bridge

Regular SiaB-readers will know that I rarely read poetry. Indeed, few of the bloggers I peruse seem to mention poetry much – or perhaps, if they do, I skim over those posts owing to lack of interest. I’m aware that the failing is with me, rather than the form – but I very rarely manage to engage with poetry. Perhaps because I naturally read quite fast, and poetry has to be read slowly (or preferably, I find, aloud) to be appreciated? I don’t know. But at the bloggers’ meet-up book-swap we held months and months ago, Peter (aka Dark Puss aka Morgana’s Cat) gave me People on a Bridge by Polish poet Wislawa Szymborska, translated by Adam Czerniawski. I entertained myself for ages saying ‘Szymborska’ over and over to myself – it is a very satisfying word – and then put it to one side, intending to read it later. Later eventually came, and I was rather surprised to find that I loved the collection.


Before I say why, I thought I’d type out the title poem of the collection. It think it is about the cover image, ‘Squall at Ohashi’ by Hiroshige, but I can’t find any definite confirmation of this – he is mentioned in the poem:

People on a Bridge

A strange planet with its strange people.
The yield to time but don’t recognise it.
They have ways of expressing their protest.
They make pictures, like this one for instance:

At first glance, nothing special.
You see water.
You see a shore.
You see a boat sailing laboriously upstream.
You see a bridge over the water and people on the bridge.
The people are visibly quickening their step,
because a downpour has just started
lashing sharply from a dark cloud.

The point is that nothing happens next.
The cloud doesn’t change its colour or shape.
The rain neither intensifies nor stops.
The boat sails on motionless.
The people on the bridge
run just where they were a moment ago.
It’s difficult to avoid remarking here:
this isn’t by any means an innocent picture.
Here time has been stopped.
Its laws have been ignored.
It’s been denied influence on developing events.
It’s been insulted and spurned.

Thanks to a rebel,
a certain Hiroshige Utagawa
(a being which as it happens
has long since and quite properly passed away)
time stumbled and fell.

Maybe this was just a whim of no significance,
a freak covering just a pair of galaxies,
but we should perhaps add the following:

Here it’s considered proper
to regard this little picture highly,
admire it and thrill to it from age to age.

For some this isn’t enough.
They even hear the pouring rain,
they feel the cool drops on necks and shoulders,
they look at the bridge and the people
as if they saw themselves there
in the self-same never-finished run
along an endless road eternally to be travelled
and believe in their impudence
that things are really thus.
I am so used to writing about novels that I don’t quite know how to discuss poetry. But what I loved about this collection is what I love about my favourite novels. Szymborska doesn’t use overly-fancy or ‘poetic’ words (or, at least, her translator does not). There is a sense of the familiar and domestic running through the collection, with quiet, subtle emotions held up for close (but not voyeuristic) examination. Although the poem I’ve typed out is about a painting, it is still about people. Many of the poems are about little incidents – someone dialing the wrong number; waiting at a train station. One of my favourites, ‘The terroist, he watches’ tells the more extraordinary tale of a terroist watching a bar in which he has planted a bomb. Some poems touch upon philosophy and even ontology, but always with a personal touch that makes the writing absolutely accessible and engaging.

Of course, I am reading in English. Quite a different translation of ‘People on a Bridge’ can be found here, if you scroll down – reminding me how much of a translated work is in the hands of the translator. Well, I thank Adam Czerniawski (and Peter, of course) for enabling Szymborska’s work to get into my hands – and reminding me to widen occasionally my reading horizons.

W. Somerset Maugham

I have yet to read anything by W. Somerset Maugham, but my friend Barbara-from-Ludlow is a fan, and I feel certain I would like his work. Which is why I went and bought this little lot…


Attractive, no? If you’d like to do the same, The Book People are selling ten novels for £9.99 here. I sound like an unsubtle marketing plot, don’t I? Well, I’m not – I just thought I’d let other book-fiends know where they could snap up a deal! I wouldn’t use The Book People for small publishers or lesser-known authors, because I know they don’t pass on much profit – but I think the estate of W. Somerset Maugham and Vintage Books are doing just fine.

Any WSM-aficianados out there? Where should I start? I also have Theatre, which I’m quite keen to read, but at least now I know I won’t run out in a hurry…

“The open road, the dusty highway, the heath, the common, the hedgerows, the rolling downs!”

Rachel (Book Snob), Claire (Paperback Reader), and I were discussing – in the wake of Virago Reading Week, which gave so many ideas to so many of us – the fact that we hadn’t read nearly enough Elizabeth von Arnim. I think the most any of us had read was one – although all of us were pretty good at buying her novels. And so we hatched a plan to read The Caravaners (1909) together. I forget exactly how we chose that title in particular, but I’m glad we did. Rachel has already posted an exceptionally good review; Claire has stalled, I believe. I’m going for the better-late-than-never approach (since I’d foolishly agreed to post in the middle of My Life in Books week) and here are my thoughts about The Caravaners. Which, to get ahead of myself, I loved.


I’d only read The Enchanted April before (my thoughts here) which is light, bright, and sparkling and shouldn’t have worked, but did. It is all about the power of a holiday in a beautiful place to change people for the better. The Caravaners is not… or, at least, that happens quietly in the background, to a secondary character. Our narrator, chronicling his trip, is Baron Otto von Ottringe. He’s not, shall we say, a charmer. He has forthright views on the subordinate position of women, the need for the German army to quash England (I misread ‘1909’ as ‘1919’ at first, on the title page, and was rather shocked – this novel would not have been published a decade later), and basically every opinion that differs from his own being nigh-on heretical. And, naturally, it is a duty and a joy to instruct others about their errors – Otto anticipates that such instruction will be gratefully received each time.

All in all, Otto isn’t the ideal holiday companion – but the lure of the company of a pretty woman convinces him to leave Germany and go on a month’s caravaning holiday in England. It is to help celebrate his 25th wedding anniversary – his current wife Edelgard, true, has only been his betrothed for a handful of years, but when you add that to the duration of his previous marriage to Marie-Luise…
I fail to see why I should be deprived of every benefit of such a celebration, for have I not, with an interruption of twelve months forced upon me, been actually married twenty-five years? […] Edelgard seemed at first unable to understand, but she was very teachable, and gradually found my logic irresistible. Indeed, once she grasped the point she was even more strongly of the opinion than I was that something ought to be done to mark the occasion, and quite saw that if Marie-Luise failed me it was not my fault, and that I at least had done my part and gone on steadily being married ever since.You begin to see the sort of man with whom we are dealing. A lot of novelists in the early-20th century (and still today) incorporate a ridiculous character into their work. Someone whose opinions and manner are absurd but possible, and who is there to have his views held up for ridicule, or fond laughter, depending on the situation. It takes a brave author to make this kind of self-delusional character the narrator. The novel inevitably becomes two-layered: the character’s voice on top, and the reality that the author wants you to see, behind that. Perhaps the most famous example is Diary of a Nobody; my favourite is Joyce Dennys’ Economy Must Be Our Watchword. At first I thought Otto was a Pooter-esque character, but it soon become clear that he wasn’t. Pooter is absurd, but we can’t help loving him. Otto is reprehensible and obnoxious – even the most charitable reader is unlikely to develop a fondness for him. And that’s what makes The Caravaners so delicious to read – he is constantly lampooned by his own words. I know at least one reader who tossed the book aside because of Otto’s character – but I think the more you disagree with his misogynistic, anti-Semitic, xenophobic, arrogant, selfish, militaristic standpoint, the more you will love watching Otto being mocked by von Arnim and naively unaware of his unpopularity. He is SO unself-aware, and yet it is somehow believable that he would be! I loved this sort of thing:
It is the knowledge that I am really so good-humoured that principally upsets me when Edelgard or other circumstances force me into a condition of vexation unnatural to me. I do not wish to be vexed. I do not wish ever to be disagreeable. And it is, I thin, downright wrong of people to force a human being who does not wish it to be so.
I haven’t even introduced you to the other members of the caravaning holiday. Frau von Eckthum is the beautiful woman whose company persuaded Otto to consider the holiday:
I know she is different from the type of woman prevailing in our town, the plan, flat-haired, tightly buttoned up, God-fearing wife and mother, who looks up to her husband and after her children, and is extremely intelligent in the kitchen and not at all intelligent out of it. I know that this is the type that has made our great nation what it is, hoisting it up on ample shoulders to the first place in the world, and I know that we would have to request heaven to help us if we ever changed it. But – she is an attractive lady.It is conversations between Otto and Frau von E which most enjoyably reveal his self-delusion. He acknowledges that his lengthy expositions on all matters political and social meet only with the iterated reply “Oh?” – but into that syllable Otto reads approval, admiration, docility, and agreement. The reader, needless to say, does not.

Other members of the party include Lord Sidge, who is entering the church (Otto is the most unashamed snob, and treats Sidge rather differently when he learns about the Lord part) and Jellaby, a Socialist. It was in his interactions with Jellaby that I had my moments of sympathy with Otto. Not on a political standpoint, I must add, but because whenever Jellaby encounters Otto in inactivity, he says “Enjoying yourself, Baron?” How infuriating that must be! I think we are supposed to love Jellaby. I could not.

I’m rabbiting on, so I’ll ignore the other characters – none of whom are as important as Edelgard, whom I’ve barely touched on. Otto’s wife starts the novel being everything that he envisages a wife should be. As the holiday continues – this is where there are shades of The Enchanted April – she becomes aware that she should be treated better. It starts with hints like this:
She had put my clothes out, but had brought me no hot water because she said the two sisters had told her it was too precious what there was being wanted for washing up. I inquired with some displeasure whether I, then, were less important than forks, and to my surprised Edelgard replied that it depended on whether they were silver; which was, of course, perilously near repartee.Ooo, perilous. During The Caravaners you constantly hope that Edelgard will escape Otto’s clutches, or at least change him for the better… I shan’t spoil for you whether or not she accomplishes that.

For those who might feel a little uncomfortable at the ridiculing of a German on English soil, perhaps I should add that von Arnim (as her name suggests) was married to a German herself – and not happily. She later referred to her husband as the ‘Man of Wrath’, and he was even sent to prison for fraud. I suspect Otto is in part a portrait of Count Henning August von Arnim-Schlagenthin, rather than an attack against the German people more generally.

The Caravaners is so, so different from The Enchanted April that I don’t now know quite how to think of Elizabeth von Arnim. An author whose writing I considered gentle and beautiful has now added satirical, witty, and biting to her arsenal. What I do know is that she is quite brilliant, and I unreservedly recommend either of those novels – and am keen to discover what’s next. Elizabeth von Arnim admirers – which should follow?

Thanks Rachel and Claire for getting me finally to read my second E von A – I had great fun! Oh, and – the title to this blog post is not from The Caravaners. Can anyone tell me where I found it?

My Life in Books: Finished!

Well, I had a wonderful week, and I hope you all did too. You seem to have done – I got 1000 more page views than average last week. Thanks so much to everyone who participated, and I’m sure we all came away with lots of ideas for books to read – as well as interesting insights into bloggers’ and blog-readers’ lives. Especial thanks to those who put up with my nagging emails!


I’m going to leave this little post up today, simply to give you a chance to read some of last week’s entries that you might have missed – I know a lot of people can’t read blogs at the weekend, and I didn’t want you to miss some of the most recent Lives. Also, I always feel a bit protective when I’m posting things from other people – do go back and comment on the posts, and make them feel even more loved! I’m sure they’d love to hear your thoughts about their choices.

Normal service will return tomorrow, but what a fun week it has been!

My Life in Books: Day Seven

Well, folks, we’ve reached the end of the Week of Lives – just two more readers to share their choices. I’d like to take this opportunity to thank all the readers who participated this week (and the two people who turned down the opportunity very politely!) I didn’t expect – although perhaps I should have done – such a brilliant range of titles, and lovely personal anecdotes too. Thank you so, so much! But it’s not over yet – let’s hear from our final two readers… and don’t forget to let me know if you’ve done My Life in Books on your own blogs.

Harriet lives in Oxford, and blogs at the efficiently-named Harriet Devine’s Blog. She is the author of several books, including a wonderful memoir Being George Devine’s Daughter.

Nancy lives in Amherst, Massachusetts, and is a lovely reader of blogs. She also often sends me pictures and videos of cats, which are always welcome!

Qu. 1) Did you grow up in a book-loving household, and did your parents read to you? Pick a favourite book from your childhood, and tell me about it.
Harriet: Yes, I did grow up in a book loving household, and, though she taught me to read before I was five, my mother loved to read to me and I loved to be read to. Many of the books we read were ones she had as a child – The Secret Garden, all of E. Nesbit – but when I was very tiny my favorites were the beautiful little books of Beatrix Potter. I could have picked almost any one of these but I was particularly fond of The Tale of Tom Kitten. It’s such a perfect story – Mrs Tabitha Twitchett dressing up her three children in “elegant, uncomfortable clothes” and giving them strict instructions to stay clean and out of trouble, which of course they absolutely do not. The illustrations are so perfect, too – Tom with his buttons bursting off, the ducks waddling off wearing the kittens’ clothes. I must have read this hundreds of times, to myself and to generations of children, but it still makes me smile with total delight.
Nancy: Hmmmm, that’s hard to answer. We lived out in a small community, 20 miles from a town of any size (where I went to high school and college) and I don’t remember going to any bookstores there. Though the reading textbooks were not supposed to leave the classroom – they sat on a shelf except when in use – I always managed to sneak them into my satchel and take them home. We were not supposed to be reading ahead, and take up each story as a class – but I could never wait. Once I got to high school there was a great library. I read before and after school (waiting on my ride), at lunch, in study hall, even in class, and into the night. Many times, I read a book a day.
Back to my childhood in the 1940s: I remember my parents reading a lot of magazines, the sort with stories – my mother kept a subscription to Redbook for many years, especially for the story. I cannot call up a mental image of being read to but I must have been, since I would have been since I would have been unable to read them myself. The only books I remember owning are the Little Golden Books – The Shy Little Kitten, The Poky Puppy, Tootle, and The Saggy Baggy Elephant – which are for sale again, so I have bought new copies of them. There were also the Little Big Books (I think they were called, or perhaps Big Little Books), chunky, blocky shaped – I had Little Orphan Annie and my brother had Dick Tracy in that format. There were a couple of other books that I can’t call up right now. Here’s the sad part, I did not know about books by Beatrix Potter or A.A. Milne or Kenneth Grahame until I was an adult!

Qu. 2) What was one of the first ‘grown-up’ books that you really enjoyed?
Harriet: Believe it or not, this was William Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew, and I read it when I was about ten years old. Both my parents were in the theatre – my mother a designer, my father an actor and director – so I was used to seeing a lot of plays, sometimes several times if I got dumped at the back of the stalls during rehearsals. Around this time they both started working at Stratford on Avon, where my father directed a production of this play. For some reason I became fascinated by it, and got hold of the big red hardback Arden edition he’d been using to work on it. I was immediately hooked, not just by reading Shakespeare’s words but also by the fact that there were notes at the bottom of each page, explaining difficult words, offering alternative readings, providing background references. My first introduction to literary scholarship and obviously, in the end, hugely influential.
Nancy: When I was in about grades 7 or 8 through 9, I made my uncle who lived with us join a book club so I could pick out the books and of those, I remember two – Not as A Stranger by Morton Thompson (was made into a movie) and another one about an alcoholic newspaper editor (also made into a movie). I was quite taken with the one about the editor, and thought I might like to be an editor one day. This uncle wasn’t much older than my brother and I, he had a medical discharge from the Navy (rheumatoid arthritis) and was in a wheelchair, not able to go out on his own. With not much he could do, he read a lot of magazines, would regularly order all the current “men’s magazines” from the local cafe. I read those too – you know (or most probably don’t) the “I was held captive by a tribe of Amazon women” sort – or war stories. Yup. That made up a good bit of my reading material until I was in high school.

Qu. 3) Pick a favourite book that you read in your 20s or early 30s – especially if it’s one which helped set you off in a certain direction in life.

Harriet: I didn’t go to university until I was in my thirties, which in some ways was probably quite a good thing, as I think I was a lot more dedicated and hard-working than I’d have been at the “right” age. When I was a postgraduate student, I was asked to give some lectures as part of a new course on women’s writing, and one of them was to be on Jane Austen. I’d probably read all Austen’s novels by then but I re-read them with a new angle in mind – could Austen be called a feminist writer? In my lecture I discussed all the novels, but the one I focussed my main argument on was Mansfield Park.
Many people will say this is their least favourite, and many people will say they dislike Fanny Price for her weakness, her fainting fits, her strict morality. But my argument – and I still stand by it – is that this is precisely the point. Fanny is marginalised in every possible way. A poor relation, she is treated almost with contempt by most of the family who have taken her in, but my goodness does she have the strength to stand by her beliefs and principles, even when she’s being abused for doing so. You see this most clearly when she astonishes and upsets them all by refusing to marry Henry Crawford, but it’s evident throughout, and by the end she proves to be the only member of the household to have got it all right, and everyone finally recognises it. So that was my argument for Austen’s feminism – women may be outwardly powerless and severely put-upon, but they have incredible inner strength and that’s what really matters when the chips are down. I expect I put it rather better than that at the time. But in any case all this did set me off in a certain direction, as what I suppose you could call that of a feminist literary historian.
Nancy: One book that stands out in my mind when I was 21 (summer of 1962, just out of college) was Hawaii by James Michener. I got it from the bookmobile – and with nothing else to do, read it during all the waking hours of two or three days. Now, that’s a big book. Then, in 1974 (age 33), I read another book by Michener, The Source – and liked it so much I thought I’d be reading other books by him but I never did. I loved how that book was laid out, alternating chapters following story lines from different ages in time for the same locale. I don’t know that either of those books set me off in any particular direction in life but they are the two that I remember the most, that made the most impact.

Qu. 4) What’s one of your favourite books that you’ve found in the last five years, and how has blogging or the reading of blogs changed your reading habits?
Harriet: This is a really hard question because, to answer the second part of the question first, blogging has caused me to read so many more books and I’ve really loved a number of them. But one particular strand of that reading that’s really blossomed is my developing interest in books by women writers of the early to mid twentieth century. And here I must speak up for Emily Hilda (or EH) Young, a writer who has been astonishingly overlooked in recent years and is well overdue a revival. The first one of hers that I read, for my reading group, was Miss Mole (1930), and I can’t recommend it highly enough.

Hannah Mole is very much subject to the times in which she lived. Intelligent, witty, perceptive, she is also poor and disadvantaged. Her only means of support is the jobs she has to take as a companion to generally unpleasant old women, from which she frequently gets sacked for insubordination. Her sharp, often cynical, sense of humour has always got her through, but at nearly forty she is keenly aware of the grim future that potentially awaits her when she is too old to get another place. But when she takes a job in a family, she transforms not only their lives but her own into the bargain. Young writes with wit, intelligence, and astonishing perceptiveness about people, their peculiarities and their interactions. Wonderful stuff.
Nancy: The Espionage! Books by Alan Furst – his last ten, published between 1983-2010. As for book blogs, I love reading about the books that everyone else is reading – and have read a number of ones featured (your blog, Cornflower, and dovegreyreader), but not a lot. I seldom, if ever, read new books (other than Furst’s), especially not the “best sellers” – prefer books from the same time period as you. My reading habits – other than espionage (about the only fiction I read) – fall mostly into books by authors about themselves, such as letters, diaries, autobiographies – have always been interested in the lives of authors and how they work (especially E.F. Benson and Virginia Woolf). And then, of course, I love the Mapp and Lucia books and the Provincial Lady books.

Qu. 5) For your final choice – a guilty pleasure, or a favourite that might surprise people!
Harriet: I don’t think anyone who knows me, or reads my blog, will be in the least surprised to hear that my guilty pleasures always take the form of crime novels. Whether I’m on the plane, or on the beach, or down in the dumps, or not very well, or just in need of some light relief, out come the detectives. Sometimes it’s the classics – Allingham, Marsh, even Christie – but here I’m speaking up for Steig Larsson and his astonishing Millennium trilogy. I got hold of an audio book of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo last summer and was absolutely rivetted. Yes, there’s violence, and yes, many upsetting things happen, and I know people who have hated these books because of it. But, for me, the combination of complex, interwoven plots, fascinating political and social skullduggery, and complicated, intelligent characters was an absolute winner. Above all I was entirely enthralled by the Girl herself, Lisbeth Salander – brilliant, difficult, damaged, with her own strict, though highly unconventional, morality. I loved every minute of all three of these and, if by chance anyone hasn’t read them, I’d say – don’t listen to the skeptics and the cynics – give them a go!
Nancy: I don’t know if this qualifies as a guilty pleasure since it isn’t actual reading, but what (in the last couple of years now) has kept me from reading as much as I used to: I am firmly Addicted to Sudoku. When I am not up and out and about – or at the computer – I have a book of Sudoku puzzles in my hands. I end the day (wee hours) with it and begin my day with it (lie abed way too much). And, when I say “addiction,” it is just that – cannot be without it, take it with me if I will have to wait anywhere or if I am away overnight – just as I used to take a book along. This is what retirement was done to me! Other than Sudoku, my interest is solidly in books, bookstores, libraries, and online – and my two grandsons (19 years and 9 months), of course.

And… I’ve told you the other person’s choices, anonymously. What do you think these choices say about their reader?

Nancy, about Harriet’s choices: I love that the co-participant lists Tom Kitten and I wish I could have met Beatrix Potter’s characters in my childhood. I was never introduced to Shakespeare anywhere along the line, so have no idea here. Mansfield Park and Miss Mole lead me to believe the co-participant is much, much younger than I. The Larson book: not put off by the violence there, but unsure whether others would approve(??) I loved all three movies, by the way. This was very difficult!

Harriet, about Nancy’s choices: This is obviously someone with a great interest in history, which is a feature of both the travel book and the spy series. In fact even though Woolf and Benson are mentioned, it’s for their letters and biographies rather than their novels. Since Not as a Stranger is a medical drama, I wondered if this person might have become a doctor? In any case it’s a person with a strong factual bias and a liking for problem solving (spies/sudoko). I’m going to really stick my neck out here and say I suspect this list belongs to a man! [Simon: oops, maybe you shouldn’t have stuck your neck out!]