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Reading Between The Covers

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How much of a review is written before I read the book?
I wonder if that has you leaping for your lorgnettes, keen to inspect my words for heresy against the sacred code of yakking about books? Perhaps you are already deleting Stuck-in-a-Book from your links or your favourites, and rehearsing such lines as “Well, I always knew he was a bad ‘un; I only went to his website to watch the evidence accrue.”

Fear not, SiaB regulars. This isn’t a Middle English tutorial; I have read the books being discussed. I want to talk about a different type of paratextual mind-up-making (no ending on a preposition for me, one notes).

This started because I wanted to write about J. L. Carr’s A Month in the Country. I daresay I still will, if you’ll bear with me for a while. Carr’s novel was my not-so-Secret Santa present from work colleague, friend and hurdy-gurdy enthusiast Clare (along with Vita Sackville-West’s All Passion Spent and the DVD of The Go-Between) and was duly read back in December. And, yes, I loved it. But I realised that I’d more or less loved it before the first sentence had been read… and for these reasons:

a) it was a present from a friend
b) the cover was beautiful – just look at it. One of my favourites
c) the title was also beautiful. Rurality was promised
Now, none of these would have helped the novel survive if it had been awful. But they all helped me along the analysis process – and I think this happens whenever we pick up a book. Even if said book is chosen arbitrarily from a secondhand shelf, we must be influenced by the design, the shop, the title, the author’s name (even if unknown) – all subtle but certain steps towards making what might be called an Uninformed Decision… personally, if I buy a book arbitrarily, without any prior knowledge of any constituent, then I am quietly determined to enjoy it. Serendipity must be heralded. “Oh, this,” must say I, “Just found by accident – and it’s wonderful!” Sometimes I’ll buy a book simply because I’ve liked the bookshop, and I want a souvenir of the visit. And I find it makes a huge difference, whether or not I start a book with the steely glint in my eye that refuses to be left unentertained.

So what qualified a book for privileged pre-treatment in my world?

a) a gift or a recommendation from a friend

b) found in a good bookshop, or chosen on a hopeful whim

c) design/cover

d) from 1900-1949

e) I should really be reading something else….

I’m not proud of these prejudices, and I don’t suggest that they should be in place, I merely suggest that they are. When I need to, I can turn them off – and that’s what I try to do for book reviews on here, and definitely do for the times I’ve written for (student) newspapers. But I’m sure I’m not the only one open to these foibles. They certainly don’t mean my mind can’t be changed, but they push it in a certain direction.

A Month in the Country proved to be heading in the right direction from the off. I experienced a certain Uninformed Decision setback when I discovered the book was from 1980, and thus not my period of ease, but this proved immaterial to my enjoyment of the short, largely-autobiographical novel. Tom Birkin arrives by train to a rural community in the north of England, hired by a reluctant Rev. Mr. Keach to uncover and restore a medieval mural on a church wall. Nearby, Charles Moon (like Tom, a war veteran) is digging for the grave of an ancestor of the church’s patroness. The process is slow, and the narrative winds along with Tom, exploring his relationships with the other villagers, and Moon, and a gentle passage of discovery. The most interesting scene is that when Tom visits the vicar and his amiable wife, Alice, only to discover their monstrous and secluded vicarage seems to alter both their personalities. Like the rest of the novel, this is shown subtly and calmly, but is a fascinating glimpse into one facet of the village, which could be explored much further. Even without all my preconceptions, this is one to look out for.

Driving the point home

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I did it! I drove on a road! Not a car park, not a simulator, but a bona fide road, with kerbs and cars and all. I didn’t even hit either the kerbs or the cars. Spent my time starting, stopping, changing gears, turning and memorising various acronyms. POM and MSPSL and so forth. My driver isn’t an effusive chap, but I think I was great!

Which got me thinking. Every now and then I like to pick a theme relevant to my everyday life, and see what books we can think of, together. It won’t surprise you that today’s theme is driving. Hmm… where, in the vast and varied world of literature, has an author decided to pick driving as the central issue? Where are cars or vans or caravans or cars-with-trailers-on-single-carriageways (I need to know the speed limit for such, probably in wind, rain, earthquake and on days with an ‘e’ in them)?

I must confess, my head must be spinning a bit from motorised toing and froing. All I’ve come up with are Wind in The Willows and the old poop pooping of Toad; I presume The Caravanners by Elizabeth von Arnim has some of said vehicle in, though I wouldn’t stake my life on’t. Thomas De Quincey wrote an odd little bit of prose called The English Mail Coach, which came in handy for my essay on travel and the Romantic Imagination. Not really motorised. Come on, I clearly need your help – so get thinking, and let me know!

Perfect Blend

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Today’s post was going to be about On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan, as I’ve just come from Book Group where we discussed it. I was going to introduce the novel, say that I liked it, muse about the characters and the successful avoidance of a villain/victim scenario; maybe express surprise that I’ve read four count-’em-four of McEwan’s novels; tell you about the group’s response… but then I discovered a post about On Chesil Beach here… by me. Oh. So I have already written about it.

Instead, we’re going to cast our eyes over to something rather less literary. Well, not literary at all. What’s the opposite of literary? This. It is Neighbours. And today was a big day for followers of this Australia soap opera – it moved channels. Before you slope away to look at the view or flick through the newspaper, stay with me. Actually, you can probably skip the next bit. I’m just going to comment on the soap for a bit… So, Neighbours has been with the BBC for longer than I’ve been alive, and after 23 years a bidding way means that it’s moved to the least successful of the terrestrial channels, Five (which was once Channel Five, but has jettisoned the ‘Channel’ bit). More importantly, Five is a channel my digital television refuses to pick up… and so I have to go to a friend’s house everyday. So worth it.

In its heyday, Neighbours got in excess of 18 million viewers in the UK – this is down at about 5 or 6 million now, but 120 million worldwide. There is sun, family, not a lot happens but it happens in a friendly way – everything exciting or tragic is offset by a fun run or a BBQ competition. Not for Neighbours the gloom of Coronation Street (I mean, listen to their respective theme tunes – it tells you everything) or the drama of Eastenders – they’re happy meandering along with the occasional ‘plane crash, and a lot of borrowed casserole dishes. You’d think they could just buy their own. The characters are all nice (Paul was evil, but then had an operation to remove a brain tumour, which turned him nice. As our American cousins would say, go figure); most are attractive; many are funny – that’s something Neighbours does better than any other soap – humour.

Where is all this going, then? I’m talking about the lowbrow; the distractions for when I’m not flicking through Ulysees or reciting Latin to myself (ahem… or not). T. S Eliot idolised a music hall performer, Marie Lloyd. Shakespeare thrust dancing troupes into his plays. I daresay Chaucer read Heat magazine. What’s your vice? Where do you leave the literature behind and enjoy something shamefully lowbrow, but, paradoxically, without feeling any shame? I started watching Neighbours when I was about 12 or 13, and am thoroughly addicted. If it stopped being shown on UK screens, I’d move to Australia. And I don’t see that as being at odds with loving Virginia Woolf and Jane Austen… should I?

I’m aware I may just be locking myself in the stocks and awaiting the rotten apples… but I’d like to think that someone, somewhere out there empathises? No? Just me?

Bring on the apples.

Speaking of Love / 10 Signs a Book Has Been Written By Me

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Just wanted to let you know that TOMORROW (i.e. Monday) is a special day for Angela Young for two reasons:

a) H—y B—-d-y!

b) The paperback release date for Speaking of Love has been brought forward, and can be bought tomorrow – this, you may recall, is the book which has a quotation from yours truly on the back cover. Very exciting, and I do encourage you to buy a copy, or twelve. Amazon still think that it’s not released until March, when I checked, but I’m sure you local independent bookshop would be happy to sell it to you, or order it for you.

The second thing today is a meme for which Margaret at Booksplease tagged me. Ten signs that would indicate a book had been written by me… well, I do harbour desires to be a novelist, and have ever since I gave up dreams of being a tea-lady. But how would you know it was my novel, just from an anonymous read?

1) not a drop of blood
2) no swear words
3) definitely no blasphemy
4) some quiet irony
5) female protagonist, with a middle-class English name. Think Laura or Rachel or Clarissa or… well, moving onto no.6, quite clearly:
6) influenced by Virginia Woolf in some (probably unfortunate) way
7) hidden quotations or references to favourite books/authors
8) about people and humanity, not Issues
9) none of the sentences will end with prepositions, and nobody will ever misuse the word “less”
10) probably quite short…

Thank you Sarah!

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It’s always a happy experience to discover a parcel waiting at home – not least because it means someone happened to be in when the postman called, and I don’t have to go through the rigmarole of arranging to collect it at a local Post Office, and then haring home from work to get there before it closes.

This parcel was even more exciting – a present from Australia! Thank you thank you thank you Sarah/Pink Lady Bug, I am delighted to receive The Angel in the Corner by Monica Dickens – and then an array of other things! A lovely postcard, several bookmarks, and (optimistically) a Christian-fish-symbol to put in my future car. All so thoughtful, and got here amazingly quickly, seeing as there are some parcels sent earlier from England for which I’m still waiting. So thank you Sarah!


I’ve not read any of Monica Dickens’ more serious novels – only the light and excellent One Pair of Hands, One Pair of Feet and My Turn To Make The Tea (MD’s experiences as cook, nurse and journalists respectively being the fodder for very funny novels). All the back tells me about The Angel in the Corner is “A tale of courage and willpower as a young girl faces degradation and humiliation in her marriage” – sounds daunting, but in the skilful hands of Monica Dickens, will doubtless also be a fascinating read.

Quoth the Raven…

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I’m building up quite a library of books from Two Ravens Press, having read a little pile of them before, and now another two. I intended to talk about both of them today, but will have to postpone Dexter Petley’s One True Void as I’ve written too much on the first one…


First of all, it was very brave of Lisa Glass to send me a book I couldn’t possibly enjoy. She very kindly popped Prince Rupert’s Teardrop in the post to me, and mentioned that Chapter 4 was one I might want to steel myself for, and having read this post probably knew that tales of genocide, rape, torture and – let’s face it – even descriptive skin irritants were unlikely to find a place close to my heart.

That said, and before I go any further I must state, I greatly admire Lisa’s novel. It is very, very good – well-written, cleverly characterised, excellent plot and a style which leaves one a little nonplussed but entirely doffing one’s cap to the authoress.

Mary’s 94-year old Armenian mother, Meghranoush, goes missing. She’s just not there. What’s happened? There are rumours of a serial killer and sexual abuser in the area, specialising in nonagenarians. We even read a few chapters from his perspective (or do we: discuss) and Mary wanders the novel with a skewed self-determination, intending to trace her mother’s whereabouts.

Mary is an unattractive heroine. She is middle-aged (gasp!), obstreperous (gasp!), slightly mad (gasp!). Not mad in the endearing way characters are in Angela Thirkell or Richmal Crompton – rather an uncertain mental illness, which winds a thick thread of ‘unreliable narrator’ through everything. Nearly all the chapters are presented from her viewpoint, and some seem straight-forward enough – others are evidently slightly distorted. By the end I was questioning everything, but also questioning the questioning, and questioning the questioning the questioning… Lisa Glass has offered a unique heroine, and wielded a potentially tangled-up viewpoint with skill and finesse.

So I couldn’t enjoy reading this novel. Too much graphically disgusting – but without this, it would have been a very different novel, and entirely not the one Lisa Glass wanted to write, and has written so well. Above all else, her power of language is incredible – and her vocabulary is formidable. A “dazzling linguistic exuberance,” the quotation on the front proclaims – and, what is most impressive, it never seems forced or pretentious, not even close. She uses the words which are most appropriate – if I’ve not heard of them, it’s an opportunity for me to learn, not to sneer.

All in all – very good novel; didn’t like reading it. Which is odd. But not something new for me – how about you, are there any books you can strongly admire, but couldn’t admit to liking? For me, the ultimate is Wuthering Heights. Emily B’s novel is far and away the most powerful I’ve ever read, but I hated reading it – because Heathcliff is so detestable and loathsome that it sapped my power just reading and hating him. I don’t hate human beings, but I don’t think there have been any humans with the unredeemable hate-inspiring characteristics of Heathcliff – how any woman ever falls for him, I can’t imagine. There is no love story in this novel: it is all about hate. But, for all this, Wuthering Heights is a stunningly superlative novel.

 

Quote Unquote

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I have exercised will power and enjoyed the delights of delayed gratification (something each generation always appears to believe the next wholly ignore) – ever since Lynne mentioned The Paris Review Interviews on her dovegreyreader blog, I’ve hankered after them. Not just because they are absolutely gorgeous (though that they indisputably are – those colours) but because they are a wonderful resource. I was finally able to use my Christmas book tokens, from kindly relative (somehow, not sure quite which) Mrs. Lucy Sherbourne. She has sent book tokens for birthday and Christmas all through my life, and is much to be treasured for it.

In these two volumes (apparently four are planned) are interviews with the great and good of the writing world, collected from decades of The Paris Review. A shame it didn’t start earlier, and get even more authors, but there are still a good group – including Dorothy Parke, T.S. Eliot, Truman Capote, Ernest Hemingway, Rebecca West, Eudora Welty, Graham Greene, William Faulkner, Toni Morrison, Philip Larkin, Stephen King, Harold Bloon, Alice Munro, Peter Carey… an eclectic crowd, but a doubtless insightful glimpse into the writing processes of these varied authors. The interviews are produced in their rough forms – i.e. question/answer, no noticeable editing. All to the good – it will feel like sitting alongside them. I haven’t read any interviews in their entirety yet, but may start tonight…

What really does make these books is their design – something so cheerful, but also bohemian – a little hint of fin de siecle against Art Deco and, oh, more or less everything arty all rolled into something simple and happy. I managed to find the designer’s blog here.

This is a bit like those questions Smash Hits were famous for asking their interviewees, but – if you could interview any author, who would it be? And what would you ask? One question – think about it.

Mine would be for Jane Austen: “Please rank your heroines in the order you like them”. Not very intellectual, true, but I always wonder…

Oh, and for those keeping track, driving lesson went well! Just in a car park, but felt very strange to actually be moving the car… and only stalled once.

The Votes Are In

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Thank you for your kind wishes earlier – I am feeling much better for a day of bed-rest, and was thankfully able to read (isn’t that usually the worst thing about being ill? The once that you have time to read, you are unable to…). Back to work tomorrow, then my first proper driving lesson, about which I’m pretty terrified!

Going to report on the response to two polls I’ve mentioned here before…

1) Spread The Word – run by World Book Day, this had a longlist of 100 books to spread the word about. Here at Stuck-in-a-Book we were championing Angela Young’s Speaking of Love, which I am delighted to say has made the shortlist of ten! See the others here; see my review of Angela’s novel here; go and vote for her novel here! Dizzying, wasn’t that? Yes, the voting starts all over again, so go along and get voting. You would do best, of course, to read Speaking of Love first – as far as I’m aware, the paperback (with my name on the back!) isn’t out yet, but the hardback can still be bought – nay, should be bought!

2) Normblog Favourite English-Language Novelists
Does what it says on the tin, as I believe I mentioned before. The results are in, there is a top 40, and a few almost-made-its. Have a look at them here – and keep your eyes open for more Normblog/Stuck-in-a-Book news later in the week… that’s all I’m saying. I’m pleased to see our dear Jane top his list – and unsurprised to see only one other of my favourites make the top 40.

Ill-iteratively

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Sorry for lack of post yesterday, I was going to sing the praises of World Book Day’s shortlist for Spread the Word books – you’ll have to wait til later. I’m off work ill – not dreadful, but that weakness and lethargy and incapability that make going into work rather futile. And, yes, dear family, before you say anything, sometimes I am not weak, lethargic and incapable…