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There is nothing like a…

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I mentioned yesterday that I’d only finished one book in 2011, and that I’d be writing about it soon. Well, I’ve now finished two, and I’m going to write about the one I finished last night – because it’s rather easier to write about than Howards End, which I feel I should Think About Properly.

No insult to Dame Judi Dench, but I don’t feel I need to think so vigilantly about her book And Furthermore. (And, before I forget, thank you Becca for giving it to me for my birthday!) Well, we should be clear from the start – this is John Miller’s book, written after (presumably lengthy) conversation with Dench. He wrote her biography, and has turned Dame J’s anecdotes into book-form here. The brief diary she includes from her own pen, about attending the Oscars, reveals that she is no natural writer – but, then, she doesn’t pretend to be. But she couldn’t have picked a better man to write things down for her. One of the most amusing things about watching Miller and Dench in conversation back in 2004 was that he knew her life so much better than she did. Judi would refer vaguely to doing a play somewhere in the mid ‘sixties, for example, and Miller would know the venue, year, date, cast… bizarre!

And Furthermore is, essentially, a collection of anecdotes. For those of us who have read Judi Dench: with a crack in her voice by John Miller, they aren’t all new – but no matter. It covers Dench’s acting career – primarily in the theatre – and only occasional mention is made of her private life, and her childhood is covered in a handful of pages. As a rule, a biography focuses on the career and an autobiography on the childhood – or so I have found – so it’s nice to have an autobiography which looks mostly at the area which interests me most. Because it is Dench’s decades of theatrical experience which captivate me – each play seems to come with its own amusing or intriguing incidents, and I love the atmosphere conveyed of being part of the company. It’s a little secret of mine, but – were my talents different, and my life headed in a different direction – I’d love to be an actor. I can’t act, and I’m not confident or energised enough, so this is no genuine ambition – but I love reading about repertory companies and imagining being in one. TV and film acting doesn’t have the same appeal, in my eyes – it is the theatre that I love reading about.

And Dench doesn’t hesitate to call theatre her first love. It is through other media that I have mostly seen her – I love or admire As Time Goes By, Cranford, Iris, Mrs. Henderson Presents, Notes on a Scandal, and so on and so forth – but I have had the privilege to see Judi once on stage, in All’s Well That Ends Well. I think being alive while she is performing, and not seeing her, would be an absurd abuse of the possibility that future generations will envy. That’s how I feel about Mrs. Patrick Campell, Margaret Rutherford, Peggy Ashcroft – none of whom, of course, I had the opportunity to see. And I am determined to see Maggie Smith on the stage, if she ever returns to it. Sorry, I’m getting distracted… What I intended to do was segue into this quotation:
I am so often asked, ‘Does the audience make any difference?’ Of course! It is the only reason you bother to be in the theatre, in order that tonight it can be better than last night, that you can crack something that you haven’t yet, that this audience will be quieter, that this audience really will at the end think they have had a marvellous experience, and you have told the author’s story. I always get that very depressed feeling at the end, and then miraculously a night’s sleep somehow prepares you for doing it a step up the next day.With any autobiography, it is the author’s personality that comes across. This is mediated here, of course, by Miller – but I still think the reader can get a little closer to Judi Dench than in a biography. She is perhaps a little sharper than might be expected, a little keener to have control over performances – but what struck me most was her deep sensibilities for writing. The great actors are also, in a way, the great literary critics. True, they work only on the level of character – but what a deep understanding of character they must have. When Dench says that Hermione would think this, or Beatrice speak thus, or Portia behave in this way, I am impressed by the full and thorough life she can breathe into words on a page.

So – sometimes the anecdotes don’t quite work; there are often punchline-statements which seem a little flat, but these are miniscule quibbles in a wonderful collection of stories and a unique set of experiences. Well, perhaps Dench’s is not a unique perspective (except in the way that any would be) but hers is a highly unusual and significant vantage over more than six decades of the theatre. Even if I did not love Judi Dench – and of course I do – this would be an incredible record of the theatre by one who knows it about as intimately and broadly as anybody possibly could.

But – I shall let Dame Judi have the last word:
Actors are really remarkable people to be with. I love the company of other people, but I love the company of actors, and to be in a company. My idea of hell would be a one-woman show, I wouldn’t be able to do that, I wouldn’t know who to get ready for. The whole idea of a group of people coming together and working to one end somehow is very appealing to me. It is the thing I have always wanted to do, and I am lucky enough to be doing it. You don’t need to retire as an actor, there are all those parts you can play lying in a bed, or in a wheelchair.

More books…

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As usual, I have a small stack of books waiting to be reviewied, including the only book I’ve actually managed to finish so far this year. It has been a rather lean January, for some reason – something of a reading slump. But not a buying slump, as this post will attest – I’ve been buying with abandon again.

The books fall broadly into old-and-characterful, and newish-and-colourful. Here goes:


Not very revealing, are they? I’ll illuminate you – we have:

– Going Abroad by Rose Macaulay : which I found in a charity shop. I’m building up a nice stock of Macaulay novels to enjoy.

– Uneasy Money by P.G. Wodehouse : a cheap Wodehouse never hurts, does it?

– The Houses In Between by Howard Spring : an e-friend, Carol, is a big Spring fan, so I thought I’d give him a go. Any Spring readers out there?

– To Tell My Story by Irene Vanbrugh : I mentioned the other day that this theatrical autobiography was in the post to me. In my reading slump I find myself hankering after non-fiction rather more than fiction, so this might leap-frog all the novels waiting patiently by my bed.


And the more colourful books.

– Romantic Moderns by Alexandra Harris : was a 2010 title I wanted and waited for – I anticipate dipping in and out quite a bit.

– Tarr by Wyndham Lewis : is the next read for my book group, and kindly provided by the good people at Oxford University Press. Fantastic cover image.

– The Gingerbread Woman by Jennifer Johnston : is probably coming up soon for my other book group, depending on how the online vote goes, but this archive review of Kim’s has made me want to read it.

– Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson : I still haven’t read Gilead, but I thought I’d get this one in readiness, in case it launches me on an immediate Robinson rampage.

– The World I Live In by Helen Keller : a reader had requested this at the Bodleian, and it so intrigued me that I went and got a copy myself.

Stuck-in-a-Book’s Weekend Miscellany

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Happy weekend, one and all. Col and Mum were here today, so we were a vicar and a cat away from being a whole family reunion. But I’ll whip out a quick weekend miscellany, and wish you well for Saturday and Sunday.

1.) The link – is to the South Bank Sky Arts Awards website. Leanne has sent me a nice email and asked me to ponder (and I in turn shall ask you to ponder) who I think should be awarded a South Bank Sky Arts Award for Literature.

Well… as you probably know, most of my favourite authors are dead, so this is tricky. The nominated authors are Edmund De Waal, Barbara Trapido, and Candia McWilliam. From that list, I’d give Trapido the award – not least (perhaps solely) because she’s the only one I’ve read.

Hmm.. do you know, I can’t think of any novel published last year that I actually thought was really great? I know I only read a handful… Well, I’m going to be controversial and award the prize to Debo Devonshire. Over to you…

2.) The blog post – is Lifetime Reader’s great review of Evelyn Waugh’s The Loved One, one of my favourite books read last year. Do pop over and have a gander.

(And if you’re in the mood to read a review of an Elizabeth Taylor novel, you’re rather spoilt for choice this week – see what Harriet has to say about At Mrs. Lippincote’s and Simon S’s thoughts on Blaming.)

3.) The little bit of info. – comes courtesy of David Nolan, a blog-reader who has his eye on the pulse and often spots little gems. He emailed me to let me know that Radio 4 will be playing three of Tove Jansson’s short stories. They’re on at 3.30pm Tues-Thurs (and afterwards, of course, on iPlayer). More info here. Thanks, David!


4.) The book – is a kind gift from Deanna, who got in touch to say she had a Muriel Spark going spare. It’s flown across the Atlantic, and is now sitting in my tbr pile, waiting for my next novella reading weekend. ‘Curiously disturbing’ (as the cover proclaims) doesn’t sound like something I’d leap at, but in the hands of Spark, I know I’d find it enthralling. Thanks so much, Deanna!

So…

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Colin is staying, so I’m not going to be anti-social and blog at LENGTH, but I will ask this – I’m currently loving Judi Dench’s And Furthermore, and wondered if you could recommend any other theatrical memoirs? I’ve ordered Irene Vanbrugh’s To Tell My Story (anyone read this?) and would love any other ideas…

Ladies and Kittens of the Jury…

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YAHOONEWSGLOBALS.thisStoryUrl = ‘/ynews/20110118/r_t_ynews_od/tod-cat-summoned-for-jury-service-045b8e8_1’;

This is a great, not-remotely-literary story I saw here on Yahoo! news…
A tabby cat has been selected for jury duty in the US after his owners registered him on a state census form.

The bizarre letter was sent to the cat, which was listed in the pets section of the census, by a court in Boston, Massachusetts calling on him for duty.Cat owners Anna and Guy Esposito wrote to the court asking the family pet, named Sal, to be excused from service because he doesn’t speak or understand English.Mrs Esposito reportedly included a letter from her vet confirming that the cat was a ‘domestic short-haired neutered feline’ and not human.However, the request for the cat’s exemption was refused by a jury commissioner and Mrs Esposito was told that Sal ‘must attend’ Suffolk Superior Crown Court.She said: “When they ask him guilty or not guilty, what’s he supposed to say – meow?””Sal is a member of the family so I listed him on the last census form under pets but there has clearly been a mix-up.”The Daily Mail reported that Sal could have accidentally ended up on the juror list when paperwork was misread at the last census.According to the Massachusetts judicial branch website, US citizens who ‘do not speak and understand English sufficiently well may be disqualified.’If Sal’s application for disqualification is denied, the cat is expected in court on 23 March.

In the presence of…

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I do like it when bloggers share little snippets from books they’ve read, or are reading, especially when these excerpts are anecdotal in nature. And so I thought I’d share something I read years ago in A.A. Milne’s (brilliant) autobgioraphy, and which has stayed with me:
[J.M.] Barrie told me of an occasion when he was present at a gathering of young authors all very busy talking about style. An older man sitting aloof in a corner, but listening intently, was asked to contribute to the discussion. He confessed uncomfortably that he had never thought about the subject: he would rather listen and learn what he could: he really would have nothing to say of any value: they all knew much more than he did. Fearing to be drawn more deeply into the argument, he added that he had to go now, and slipped out. “Who was that?” Barrie was asked. Barrie, who had brought him there, explained that it was Thomas Hardy.

Strange Glory

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One of the books I bought during Project 24 was Strange Glory (1936) by L.H. Myers. For some reason I had jotted down this name during my doctoral research, and so I bought it when I spotted it in my favourite shop in Oxford, Arcadia. Having read it (quite a while ago, actually) I have no idea why I decided to write it down. It wasn’t remotely helpful for my research… but it was interesting enough.

It starts with Paulina stopping her chauffeur next to a mysterious wood in Louisiana. She is off to meet her fiancee, but is captivated by the wood instead – and the equally mysterious man she spots amongst the trees. Strange Glory returns to Paulina’s life once every year, as she returns to the wood and to that man – whom she thinks a hermit – as gradually she detaches herself from her life of privilege and gravitates towards a new life.

To be honest, Myers lost me a bit sometimes. I read most of the novel on a long train journey, and when I returned to it I had great trouble working out what was going on. (That’s the sort of confession you won’t find in a newspaper review.) The second half of the novel becomes a sort of love triangle, with left-wing politics thrown into the mix, and for me it lost a bit of its mystique. Reminded me a little of David Garnett’s Aspects of Love, which I didn’t particularly love.

But why did I still enjoy Strange Glory? The aura of mystery does pervade it, and Myers’ description of the woods helped deepen a narrative which could have remained quite dull. Here’s an example – if you like this, then you might well enjoy the novel as a whole:
She woke from her musings to find herself passing through country that she had never seen before. The sun, now high overhead, was shining fiercely through a white haze. Fields of short, greyish grass bordered the road, and behind there rose clumps of huge, moss-hooded trees, the outposts of a line of forest. In the chalky, violet sunlight these mountainous forms loomed up hollow and spectral; they looked like lumps of foam left by a withdrawing tide. And the forest behind seemed to be more unsubstantial still – hoary and unsubstantial with an ancientness independent of time. A frontier of mystery, it stretched on for mile after mile; always the same distance away, it tantalised Paulina until suddenly the road made a turn, and the car rushed into it and was engulfed. At once a cool, swampy smell filled the air; pools of water glittered in the half-dark, the car plunged through clouds of noise that came from the throats of countless frogs.Even though Strange Glory proved fairly useless for my research, it was yet an entertaining diversion and a glimpse into unusual territory for my reading. The blurb describes it as ‘transcendental’. Perhaps it is no coincidence that L.H. Myers is the son of F.W.H. Myers, who wrote a rather bizarre (and very long) two volume work on the unconscious mind, called Human Personality and Its Survival of Bodily Death which enjoyed a vogue in the early 20th century. Not the sort of work I’d particularly enjoy in purported ‘non-fiction’ (although it does currently sit on my desk, for research purposes) but when this sort of thing influences fiction, it can lend a haunting quality.

One of my more unusual and eccentric choices for Project 24, perhaps, but I’m glad I’ve read it – and there a few cheap secondhand copies over the internet, should you wish to sample it yourself.

Books to get Stuck into:

The Haunted Woman – David Lindsay: Lindsay was a friend of Myers, and weaves odd metaphysical elements into this unusual novel.

The Man Who Planted Trees – Jean Giono: not the most obvious of connections, but equally captivating in its depiction of woodland as the central force of a narrative.

Stuck-in-a-Book’s Weekend Miscellany

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Happy weekend, one and all. Hope the weather where you are is a little less gloomy than Oxford… roll on spring. But, before that, roll on a book, a blog post, and a link. Today’s Miscellany is a little more verbose than most…

1.) The link – (which is actually a blog post, I suppose.) The other day I reviewed Remember Remember by Hazel McHaffie, a novel with the theme of dementia. I intended (were I to summarise in a single line) to write something along the lines of ‘This is a good novel; the second half is rather better than the first half.’ That would save me an evening! And it is – a very interesting idea, executed skillfully and with feeling. Re-reading the review, from the author’s p-o-v, I realise that my quibbles seemed to dominate, and my praise perhaps get a bit lost. But I didn’t really have to try and work out the author’s p-o-v, because Hazel got in touch – and has written this response to my blog post.

I’ve got to say, I felt flattered that Hazel thought my blog post worth responding to, and read her thoughts with much interest. I was rather mortified to realise that my review had come across worse than I meant it to (Hazel and I have since exchanged friendly emails!), but it also made me want to say something which is perhaps controversial. I do believe that the very worst writer (which, of course, Hazel is not anywhere close to being) is somehow on a higher plane than the best reviewer/blogger. To be creative is so much more valuable than to analyse creation. So my view, really, isn’t that important, in comparison…

That sounds negative about blogging, doesn’t it? It wasn’t meant to – rather I wanted to celebrate writers. Of course, blogging can cross over into ‘creative writing’ territory, but generally I admire those wonderful people who create novels – and must remember to be humble as one who merely writes about them.

Oh, and my failure to get on board with Aaron in Remember Remember does (as I have told Hazel now) put him in the same category as Mr. Rochester, Mr. Knightley, and Heathcliff!

2.) The blog post – is Pamela’s beautiful list of ‘Simple Pleasures’… which just happens to include Miss Hargreaves…

3.) The book – is Vanessa Gebbie’s new short story collection, Storm Warning, which sounds intriguing. I reviewed an earlier collection by Gebbie forever ago, here. And here’s what her publisher (Salt) have to say about Storm Warning: Storm Warning explores the echoes of human conflict in a series of powerful stories and flashes inspired by life with the author’s own father, an ordinary and gentle man who fought and was decorated in WWII, but who suffered the after-effects for the rest of his life.

The conflicts range from conventional warfare through violent tribal clashes to historical religious persecution. Gebbie’s viewpoints are never predictable. War veterans are haunted by events that echo louder and louder. A prisoner sees the violent execution of a friend and mentor, a boy hides from a necklacing, a young student escapes the fighting in Iraq in the hope of continuing his education in the West and a woman tells what she knows of her parents’ torture.

Echoes of conflict are often explored from the child’s perspective. A young girl witnesses an attempted escape over the Berlin Wall. Another is present when her grandfather, a writer, is targeted in the Russian Cultural Revolution, and two small boys are unwilling bystanders to atrocities in African inter-tribal conflict.

The people in these stories are not those who go down in history. They are the ordinary troops. They are the powerless, caught up involuntarily. All are tested, sometimes to breaking point, in this extraordinary collection as Gebbie pulls no punches, exploring the surreality of conflict, the after-effects of atrocity and sometimes, the seeds of atrocity itself.

Old Habits…

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Those who thought I have learnt good habits, or become a better person, under the strictures of Project 24 probably had those beliefs dispelled on January 1st, when I bought twenty-four books. Just in case there are any lingering doubts, I thought I’d better share with you my purchases since the beginning of the year (Jan. 1st purchases not included – posted about them already!) Oh, how I missed going into a bookshop, gleam in my eye, wallet in hand, knowing the only things holding me back were time and the limited number of bags one man can carry at any one time!

One of my favourite bookshops for potential bargains is Notting Hill Book & Comic Exchange. A cramped ground floor, with the choice pickings – and three sprawling, untidy basement rooms, where books are all only £1 each. Last time I went they were 50p each, but I suspect they made nary a jot of profit that way. Last Saturday I met up with Sakura (aka Chasing Bawa) and we went book-hunting. Sakura wisely took books to exchange, thus getting vouchers to spend in the shop. I can never find more than one or two books I am willing to part with, and they’re always in Somerset rather than Oxford, so it was cold cash I parted with.

I bought nine books… and they came to £9. Not all were downstairs, but they actually only charged me 50p for some, so it balanced out. Nine pounds! When you think that the uncomfortable bus journey to and from London cost £13… Anyway, enough prevarication – here’s what I got.


– Foreigners by Leo Walmsley
Jane (Fleur Fisher) wrote this very compelling review of Love in the Sun by Walmsley – I’ve not been able to track that down, but thought it might be worth picking this one up.

– The Gipsy in the Parlour by Margery Sharp
Another author Jane likes, but one I actually first read in 2003 or thereabouts – I read The Foolish Gentlewoman after reading in letters by P.G. Wodehouse that he liked it a lot. And last read in 2003, so far, but I’ve got a fair few waiting on my shelves.

– Loving by Henry Green
All manner of people have told me to read this, and a nice Penguin never goes amiss.

– The Mist in the Mirror by Susan Hill
I’ve not read any of Hill’s ghost stories… I’m not entirely sure I want to, as I’ll most likely be terrified, but… maybe in the summer.

– The Empty Room by Charles Morgan
Like Margery Sharp, Morgan is an author I read once, enjoyed, and never quite returned to. Still, at least this will give me another option.

– Aiding and Abetting by Muriel Spark
You all know that I’ve become besotted by all things Spark – and this is simply another (short! hurrah!) novel of hers to add to the shelves.

– The Girl With Glass Feet by Ali Shaw
I read this a year or so ago, but it was a library copy, and I thought I’d quite like one for myself. You know how it is.

– The Child That Books Built by Francis Spufford
I’ve been considering getting this one for a while, since it sounds exactly the sort of thing a bibliophile would enjoy, and at £1 I felt I could take a gamble.

Most excitingly, I spotted Potterism by Rose Macaulay. To be honest, I still can’t remember whether or not I have a copy (LibraryThing says no) BUT when I flicked it open…


Eeek! And for only £1! Having checked it against examples of her autograph online, I am confident that it is bona fide Macaulay – and am utterly delighted.

After all this excitement, we then popped to a nice little cafe, where Sakura kindly bought me a cup of tea, and we ooohed and aaaahed over each other’s purchases.

But this is not all! I have been hungrily around Oxford’s bookshops; I have bought one or two things online – here are my other finds.


– Diary of a Provincial Lady by E.M. Delafield
Yes, of course I already have this – but my 4-in-1 copy is falling apart, and I’ve been looking to replace it.

– Mr. Norris Changes Trains by Christopher Isherwood
This novel has been on the edge of my book-consciousness for a while, but I can’t remember why. Did one of you mention it? A beautiful Folio edition (sans boxy-thing – it’s the yellow patterned book) swung the deal. But illustrations by Beryl Cook… can’t say I’m excited about those.

– Leonard Woolf by Victoria Glendinning
Oh, the times I walked past this in the £2 bookshop last year! Praise be that it was still there in 2011…

– Letter from New York by Helene Hanff
I didn’t realise the author of 84, Charing Cross Road had done much more, so was pleased to spot this collection of articles.

– The Demon Lover and other stories by Elizabeth Bowen
I bought this in Langport, Somerset in the sweetest, and most bizarre, bookshop I’ve seen in ages. Dozens of pieces of furniture placed at random… not many books, but this collection of stories might help me find my way back to Bowen, after not enjoying The Last September. 2010 was the year of giving authors another go; something I should continue this year – since it was so rewarding.

– The Bondmaid by Pearl S. Buck
Since I loved The Good Earth last year, this leapt into my hands. I daresay Buck will follow the Sharp-Morgan path, of arriving on my bookshelf and never making it to being read, but… maybe one of you can give it a shove in the right direction?

– Daphne by Justine Picardie
Everyone else was reading this a few years ago… now I might join ’em.

– England, Their England by A.G. MacDonell
This was recommended to me by Tim, my colleague, and the first page was very funny. I’m not sure what led Tim to recommend it, since I don’t think we’ve talked much about books we like, but… I’m quietly hopeful.

Not pictured is The Public Image by Muriel Spark, which I bought in Somerset and left there. And lovely Deanna, who reads this blog, says another Spark is winging its way from her… I will thank her suitably profusely when it arrives!

Phew! There you go. For those who didn’t read my blog before 2010, this is more or less standard Stuck-in-a-Book behaviour…

And as always, I’d love to know your thoughts on them: have you read any? Which should fight its way to the top of the tbr pile first? Just how exciting is that Rose Macaulay signature?!

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

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My housemate Mel (who also edits fab flash fiction blog The Pygmy Giant) was telling me about the book she’d just finished, and was so enthusiastic about it that I told her to put her money where her mouth was. Well, I expect I said something more sensible and less slangy. Either way, she speedily wrote this brilliant review… enjoy and, if you’re like me, be severely tempted…

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

Yesterday I finished what I think might possibly be the best book I’ve ever read. It’s probably not, but the fact that I am sitting here trying to get over it makes me think it’s a real contender.

I was introduced to Jonathan Safran Foer perhaps a year ago when my old housemate Liz leant me his first novel, Everything is Illuminated. I’d heard about that book a lot, but always thought it sounded like some pretentious intellectual tome that I’d never want to wade through. It was not. The strange-sounding title comes from the narrator’s technique of trying to write well in English by using a thesaurus far too liberally. It was funny, weird, tragic, original and totally brilliant. I recommend that one too…

So I bought Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close on the back of that good experience. The title is again inspired by the narrator’s distinctive way of describing things. It again features the stories of multiple generations of a family, and again much of the narration is done through letters.

If I had to tell you what it’s about, I’d say it’s about missing people. It’s about loss, and how loss can disrupt your entire life. It’s about the personal consequences of war. It’s about regret, and the things you just can’t talk about. It’s about things being simple, yes and no, and things being complicated.

In summary, Oskar is a smart, nine year-old nerd. He loved his dad above all else. His dad was killed in the twin towers on September 11. A year later, going through his dad’s things, he discovers a mysterious key in an envelope, and makes it his mission (his ‘raison d’etre’ – he’s learning French) to find out what it unlocks. He travels all across New York meeting everybody in the phone book with the surname Black. They can’t help but love him – he’s unintentionally funny, curious, and straightforward. The humour comes from Oskar’s telling of the story, but it’s also crushingly sad.

At the same time, we gradually learn the story of Oskar’s grandfather, who left his grandmother before his dad was born, through a series of letters written to the son he never met. What is completely brilliant about this is that Grandpa can’t talk, so communicates by writing in notebooks. His letters are interspersed with photos of doorknobs (you’ll find out why) and pages that he has written messages on to other people. This is so cleverly done, it means that everything is gradually (as the author would say) illuminated. The fact that he has YES and NO tattooed on his hands becomes symbolically significant too. I love the way all his words, all his days are recorded in books, on the backs of envelopes, on napkins or on his own arms – what these pieces of paper are used for, where his words get stuffed, what washes off, is fabulous. e.g.:

Later that year, when snow started to cover the front steps, when morning became evening as I sat on the sofa, buried under everything I’d lost, I made a fire and used my laughter for kindling: “Ha ha ha!” “Ha ha ha!” “Ha ha ha!” “Ha ha ha!”
In fact, all the parts written by Oskar’s grandfather are a wonderful stream of poetry.

Thirdly, we find Oskar’s beloved grandma writing him a letter/typing out her life story, explaining things that were never said, and perhaps giving us a more reliable version of events than her husband’s. Oskar’s grandparents witnessed the bombing of Dresden, and basically lost their lives there. They meet again in New York, Grandpa tells us, like this:
… the place was half empty but she slid right up to me, “You’ve lost everything,” she said, as if we were sharing a secret, “I can see.”
The three narrators are excellently drawn, each with their own writing style and their own way of expressing their story. And the writing is just beautiful. I cried at a letter from Stephen Hawking; I did not predict that. If you’ve never lost somebody vital, I don’t know how you will react to this story, but I think it will probably still break your heart.

I don’t want to put in too many spoilers, but to tell you what I love about this book, I think I just need to quote some astonishing lines that express so well some of the experiences of grief.

“You never write to me.” “But I’m with you.” “So?” … It’s the tragedy of loving, you can’t love anything more than something you miss.

When I no longer had to be strong in front of you, I became very weak. I brought myself to the ground, which was where I belonged. I hit the floor with my fists. I wanted to break my hands, but when it hurt too much, I stopped. I was too selfish to break my hands for my only child.

“I lost a son.” “You did? How did he die?” “I lost him before he died.” “How?” “I went away.” “Why?” He wrote, “I was afraid.” “Afraid of what?” “Afraid of losing him.” “Were you afraid of him dying?” “I was afraid of him living.” “Why?” He wrote, “Life is scarier than death.”
Warning – this is from near the end:
“I wish I hadn’t found it.” “It wasn’t what you were looking for?” “That’s not it.” “Then what?” “I found it and now I can’t look for it.” I could tell he didn’t understand me. “Looking for it let me stay close to him for a little while longer.” “But won’t you always be close to him?” I knew the truth. “No.”
So this all sounds depressing, but there is so much humour and humanity in here that it’s a million miles from being a dirge. There are also nice little mysteries and clues and unexplained things that all come together later on in the book.

In summary: Oh My Goodness. In my boundless enthusiasm about this book, I feel like I’ve turned into Oskar. It’s extremely original and incredibly sad. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll be astonished.