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25 Books in 25 Days: #24 The Misunderstanding

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(So close to the end!) I think I got a review copy of The Misunderstanding (1926) by Irene Nemirovsky in about 2012, when it was published in English for perhaps the first time, by Sandra Smith. I’ve certainly bought or been given quite a few Nemirovsky novels, but have only read Suite Française and one other. While looking around my shelves, I thought… why not?

The Misunderstanding was Nemirovsky’s first novel, and it is a love story of sorts. As Sandra Smith points out in her translator’s note, the original title Le Malentendu can be translated as ‘the person who is misunderstood’ and ‘incompatibility’ as well as the title the novel was given in English, and it is the last of these that perhaps gets the biggest focus – as we watch disaffected Yves start a relationship with the bored wife of an old friend. They are passionate but uncertain, and we follow something of a strange trajectory, as each miscommunicates what they feel about each other – dashing through 1920s French seaside and Paris. One of the biggest obstacles to their agreed happiness is – he is poor, and she is rich, and all the awkwardness and pride that comes with that.

It was already very hot; it was the beginning of a beautiful summer’s day; women’s faces peered over the balconies; street sellers passed by with their little carts full of flowers, shouting: “Roses! Who wants some beautiful roses!”; tiny fountains of water from hosepipes sprayed from one side of the pavement to the other, glistening like liquid rainbows; young children went past on their bicycles, chasing each other and singing loudly; they had wicker baskets on their backs and their smocks fluttered in the win. Yves tried hard to notice every last detail in the street, just as a sick man desperately tries to concentrate on the countless little things in his bedroom.

I’m not always particularly interested in stories about love affairs, but I did find the way Nemirovsky wrote about Paris – and about people, about their flaws and lack of self-knowledge – rather poignant and lyrical. If it leans a little on the histrionic, we can blame that on the author’s youth – I’ve certainly read books with less emotional restraint by writers who should know better.

25 Books in 25 Days: #23 Virginia Woolf

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I’ve read a fair few biographies of (and books about) Virginia Woolf, but somehow I always keep going back for more. I’ve also met Alexandra Harris once or twice over the years, so it was sort of inevitable that one day I’d read Virginia Woolf (2011) by Alexandra Harris, published in a rather lovely hardback, and which I found in Brighton a year or two ago.

Considering how many long books have been written about Woolf, I wasn’t sure how Harris would get her complex and significant life into 170 pages. But what a staggering achievement Virginia Woolf is – this isn’t just the essentials (though it includes that); somehow, miraculously, Harris has still accompanied those with insights into the literature and a wonderful freshness to the whole thing. It steers between the Hermione Lee school of biography (every footstep requires three footnotes) and the ‘She must have felt…’ school of biography – into something approachable, concise, and extremely thoughtful.

Having read it today, I’m still not sure how Harris managed to get so much into so few pages. There are certainly books that get more treatment than others – Orlando gets a lot; A Room of One’s Own is rushed past – but nothing felt completely overlooked. There’s even a chapter on the afterlifes of Woolf, and how the publishing of her letters and diaries, and various biographies about her, have helped shape her reputation. Virginia Woolf is a brilliant starting point for anybody interested in her life and work – but, what is more, it’s also a vital and beautiful book for even the dyed-in-the-Woolf reader, however much they’ve already read about her.

25 Books in 25 Days: #22 Several Perceptions

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I started At Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept this morning, and was only a page in when I knew it wouldn’t work for today’s book. So I took a quick look through my paperback shelves, trying to find the sort of thing I fancied (at the right length, of course) – and landed upon Several Perceptions (1968) by Angela Carter.

I hadn’t heard of this until I came upon it in an Oxfam a year or two ago – I bought it despite this dreadful cover. I think it’s only the second Carter novel I’ve read, after Wise Children. It concerns Joseph – a moody, miserable gent who has recently broken up with his girlfriend (not his choice) and whose only friends seem to be an overly-sexed man called Viv, his prostitute mother, a slightly mad homeless man, and (perhaps) the mousy new resident in his building, Annie Blossom. Looking for purpose, Joseph releases a badger from a local zoo (did zoos ever cage badgers?!) and starts having flirty, desperate, or philosophical conversations – sometimes all three – with the aforementioned group of people.

This is a slightly baffling novel, not least because Joseph seems to sometimes wander into the unbalanced – and I never worked out what the title was about – but Carter is such a fine writer. Her choice of words is so clever – often unexpected, and yet finding the deeper truth in the cracks between cliches. Every page has an example, but one I particularly liked was his view of Annie:

Miss Blossom, the husk of a woman, what was she doing? Making herself a small lunch of beans on toast or performing some other flat, thin activity, ironing rayon underwear or filling in a form?

That ‘flat, thin activity’ is so unusual, and yet creates a vivid impression on the reader. Unusual and vivid is a pretty great description of Carter, actually. I’m not sure why Several Perceptions isn’t better known – or perhaps it is, and I just haven’t noticed it being mentioned – but it was quite the experience.

Btw, for a much more thorough review, check out Helen’s from a few years ago.

25 Books in 25 Days: #21 The Pooh Perplex

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The Pooh Perplex (1964) by Frederick C. Crews is one of the books I’ve had longest on my shelves unread – about fifteen years – but I knew its day would come one day. And I’m rather pleased that it waited this long, because I certainly wouldn’t have understood or appreciated it as much fifteen years ago. As it is, it was a complete gem.

The book takes the form of a casebook for the children’s books of A.A. Milne – particularly, of course, Winnie-the-Pooh and The House at Pooh Corner. Crews has crafted satires of different types of literary essay that are exquisitely done. We have the critic who diminishes all the others who’ve gone before him (from which the excerpt below). We have the Freudian, who reads dark things into honey jars. We have the essayist who only really writes to say how much better D.H. Lawrence is. There’s a Marxist, a context critic (who despises New Criticism), and the essayist who overwrites everything so confusingly that each sentence is a labyrinth. My favourite section was the one which identified Eeyore as the Christ figure of the stories.

We have, then, seen how Milne meant Winnie-the-Pooh to be read, and we can now appreciate the subtlety of technique that has beguiled three generations of fools into imagining that the book is nothing more than a group of children’s stories. Indeed, the more we ponder Pooh‘s complexity, the more we must wonder how any child could possibly enjoy these tales. Only a thorough versing in the Hierarchy of Heroism, combined with advanced training in the ironic reading of literary personae and a familiarity with multivalent symbolism, can prepare us adequately to approach the book. 

To be honest, I have no idea how much Crews’ book would appeal to someone who hasn’t read the sort of essays collected in this book – but I can vouch that, as someone who spent many years at university becoming rather familiar with all the types of essay represented in The Pooh Perplex, that it is done brilliantly, with exactly the right amount of exaggeration to show how devastating the satire is.

25 Books in 25 Days: #20 Dear Farenheit 451

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I mentioned Dear Farenheit 451 (2017) by Annie Spence in one of my Weekend Miscellanies a while ago, and a bit later a review copy came through the post – whether or not the two things are related, I’m unsure, but thank you to the publishers! Books about books are always, always welcome, and this made a nice book to read on a little solo day out to Stow on the Wold and Charleston House (a National Trust property). Sadly, two secondhand bookshops have closed in Stow since I was last there – but another has opened.

Dear Farenheit 451 takes the form of Spence writing little letters to many books. Some of them are books she’s loved at different times of her life – from Judy Blume to The Time Traveler’s Wife – while others are books that she’s shelved or discarded in her job as a librarian. The last section of the book is all about book recommendations – either ‘if you like this then try this’, or books that pair well together, or other things of that ilk.

I really enjoyed reading it. Her bookish enthusiasm is evident, and I loved that she wrote about an unusual and personal selection of books. True, I had heard of relatively few of them and read a tiny amount, but I’d much rather this than another list of Best Books Ever with all the expected candidates.

It seems churlish to wish it were a slightly different book than it is – but I have to admit that I would have preferred it if it were less sweary and (I can think of no other word for it) vulgar. ‘As sh*t’ – without the asterisk – is used as an amplifier all the time, for instance, and I suppose the whole tone shook me out of my 1920s mindset.

But that’s a small price to pay for this level of bookish fun. It’s not a set of thorough literary analyses, or even unthorough ones, but it is a fun, lively look at the different books that surround Spence for one reason or another.

25 Books in 25 Days: #19 The Land of Green Ginger

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When my dear friend Stilo asked if I’d read The Land of Green Ginger, I said no but thought she was talking about the Winifred Holtby novel of that name. I also haven’t read The Land of Green Ginger (1937) by Noel Langley, but it had the added distinction that I hadn’t heard of it. I’d only heard of Langley’s novel Cage Me a Peacock, and had read nothing by him – and was only about 70% sure he was a man.

Well, Stilo said she and her mum loved it, and lent me her copy – illustrated by the wonderful Edward Ardizzone. It’s a sort of sequel to Aladdin, about his son Abu Ali (who can talk from birth).

“I understand you called the Queen Mother a Button-Nosed Tortoise?” he inquired.

“That’s not quite true,” replied his SOn and Heir politely. “I only said she had a Face like One.”

“He only said you had a Face like One, Mamma,” Aladdin explained weakly.

“And what right had he to say even that?” demanded the Widow Twankey indignantly. “Even if there were such a thing as a Button-Nosed Tortoise; he hasn’t seen one!”

“True,” agreed the Son and Heir, “but I’d know him as soon as I saw him!”

“How?” the Widow Twankey challenged him.

“It’d look like you,” said the Son and Heir simply.

Fast forward a bit and as a young man, he has to go on a quest to win the love of a fair maiden. Yes, it’s a children’s book – but it’s extremely funny. I love any author who can get humour from mixing tones successfully. Playing with the expectations of register, and distorting them, is the sort of whimsical wit that I rush towards – and The Land of Green Ginger was great fun. I’m keen to see what other sorts of things Langley wrote…

25 Books in 25 Days: #18 Mr Thundermug

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I read Caroline by Cornelius Medvei a few years ago, lent to me by my friend Mel cos it was about a donkey and she knows how much I love donkeys. Since then, I’ve bought a couple other of Medvei’s novels – but not til now have I read another, which is Mr Thundermug (2006). Incidentally, I love the cover illustration on my copy, by Richard Bravery.

It’s a novella about a baboon who has learnt English (nobody is quite sure how; it seems to have arrived complete) and tries to integrate in everyday life.

Nobody ever established where it was that the baboon came from, or what had brought him to this unnatural habitat. The basic facts are confusing – clearly, baboons are not native to this region; but, on the other hand, Mr Thundermug spoke our language perfectly, with no trace of an accent, and there is no evidence that he knew any foreign languages.

There were in fact numerous theories as to the baboon’s origins, but it was impossible to know which, if any, was true; all they had in common was their lack of supporting evidence. This in itself was not surprising, as our city excels in the manufacture of rumours. Nevertheless, the theories I heard were so often attributed, at various removes, to Mr Thundermug himself, that I began to think the baboon must have taken a perverse delight in providing contradictory accounts of his origins – tailored perhaps to his mood and the company.

He is hampered by having a wife and children who are non-speaking baboons, and by the discrimination he faces by those around him. For instance, the council try to evict him from his home as it is inhabitable because of a cockroach infestation – though, as he points out, he and his wife ate the cockroaches, so that problem is dealt with. As the novella goes on, he gets embroiled in an unlikely legal case.

I enjoyed Medvei’s writing, which plays with the surreal in a matter of fact way, and Mr Thundermug is an excellent character. His combination of optimism, disappointment, occasional grumpiness, and common sense in the face of bureaucracy, would be winning whatever sort of creature he were. I don’t think I entirely understood the point of the story – there might be a meaning to the parable that passed me by – but Medvei is an engaging storyteller with a vivid and unusual point of view.

 

25 Books in 25 Days: #17 Soap Behind the Ears

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I discovered my love for Cornelia Otis Skinner a while ago, and when I was in America in 2015, I ordered most of her work to my friend’s apartment. It was much cheaper to do that and carry then back then to pay for them to be shipped to England, and her books are very hard to find here. Since then, I’ve been rationing out her very funny collections of essays – this time, picking up Soap Behind the Ears (1941).

She writes very amusingly about the trials of everyday life – as a mother, as an actress, and as an observer of the ridiculous. Think Diary of a Provincial Lady meets Victoria Wood, but American. It’s all very diverting, and I can’t get enough of it. Which is a brief review, but I hope an encouragement to anybody who doesn’t know her to give her a try – her most famous book is the glorious Our Hearts Were Young and Gay, written with Emily Kimbrough, about travelling around Europe.

My favourite piece was about trying to get new clothes for her young son – just the right amount of exaggeration in it. And here’s an excerpt from ‘The Body Beautiful’, about trying to get fit at a sort of trainer/clinic hellscape:

The time dragged almost as heavily as my limbs. Finally Miss Jones said I was a good girl and had done enough for the day (the dear Lord knows the day had done enough for me!) and I might go have my massage. I staggered out and into the capable arms of a Miss Svenson who looked like Flagstad dressed up as a nurse. She took me into a small room, flung me onto a hard table and for forty-five minutes went to work on me as if I were material for a taffy-pulling contest. She kneaded me, she rolled me with a hot rolling pin, she did to me what she called “cupping” which is just a beauty-parlor term for good old orthodox spanking. After she’d gotten me in shape for the oven she took me into a shower-room and finished me up with that same hose treatment by which they subdue the recalcitrant inmates of penitentiaries.

25 Books in 25 Days: #16 The Murderess

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My friend Malie bought me The Murderess (1903) by Alexandros Papadiamantis a couple of years ago – by which I mean, she told me to buy some books I wanted for my birthday, and this was one of the books I chose. I found it surprisingly hard to find out when it was originally published, as my copy doesn’t say and Wikipedia is keeping coy about it, but some other review I read says 1903. My edition is translated from the (you guessed it) Greek by Peter Levi.

The murderess in question is a grandmother who decides to smother/strangle her infant grandchild – and then goes on a bit of a spree of drowning and otherwise killing young girls. If that sounds like the sort of modern crime novel I have zero interest in, then it’s not really. It’s more of a philosophy-meets-chase, where Hadoula decides that the world is such a cruel place for women that it would be a kindness to kill these young girls before they find out (and we see, in flashback, how her son has spoiled her own life).

It’s an intriguing concept, and Papadiamantis is subtle enough about her motive (or motives) to make it more intriguing still – is Hadoula really just thrilled by power, for instance. Then she goes on the run, and it all gets a bit bizarre.

It was interesting to read in Levi’s introduction that he found the translation very difficult, particularly to match the leisurely pace and regional language of Papadiamantis. I don’t speak any Greek, but the translation did feel a little obstructive or false at times – I don’t quite know how to explain that feeling, but perhaps you’re familiar with it. Not my favourite book I’ve read this 25 Books, but I’m glad I read it.

25 Books in 25 Days: #15 Offshore

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I’m going to be doing a full review of Offshore (1979) by Penelope Fitzgerald later, for a feature at Shiny New Books, but it’s nice and short so seemed a no-brainer for 25 Books in 25 Days. I’ve read quite a few Fitzgerald novels over time, but this is the one that snared her the Booker – what would I make of it?

It’s set in London, among a community of people who live on houseboats. It has Fitzgerald’s archetypal disjointed conversations and disjointed relationships – nobody ever quite answering the question that is asked them, or doing anything in quite the way you might expect them to. This is shown at its best in a wonderfully brittle, peculiar conversation between two strangers. Here’s a little bit of it…

“Well you might turn out to be a nuisance to Edward.”

She mustn’t irritate him.

“In what way?”

“Well, I didn’t care for the way you were standing there ringing the bell. Anyway, he’s out.”

“How can you tell? You’re only just coming in yourself. Do you live here?”

“Well, in a way.”

He examined her more closely. “Your hair is quite pretty.”

It had begun to rain slightly. There seemed no reason why they should not stand here for ever.

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I do remember you. My name is Hodge. Gordon Hodge.”

Nenna shook her head. “I can’t help that.”

“I have met you several times with Edward.”

“And was I a nuisance then?”

The writing is bizarre and wonderful much of the time, but I did find that I was a little too disorientated by what was going on at any time. Finding the right amount of disorientation in Fitzgerald is a fine balance – and perhaps one influenced by the mood one is in when reading. So, it’s not my favourite, and it felt a little overly-confused, but it’s still Fitzgerald and thus it’s still characterful and very good nonetheless.