Wikio have emailed me the blog rankings for last month (or for this month, depending upon how you look at it) – and yes, it’s all just a bit and fun, but – yes, it’s still nice to see myself there, amongst such good company!
Perfect leaving present!
Today I have no good excuses for why I haven’t written you a proper post – I shall be posting my review of The Slaves of Solitude tomorrow evening, let me know if you’re joining in the readalong and have something ready to post.
For today, I just thought I’d share the leaving present I got from my lovely colleagues last week – my 9 month contract with Rare Books in the Bodleian came to an end, as did the job I was hired to do, so I have left them, and shall miss both the lovely, funny people I worked with and the interesting materials I saw. But before I went they gave me the perfect leaving present – they definitely know me well…
Leave it to Smith
I was at work for 13 hours today (!!) so far too tired to write anything particularly lucid, instead I shall write a couple of lines to let you know that I am re-reading I Capture the Castle at the moment (in fact, I have nearly finished it) and it is BRILLIANT all over again. If you haven’t read it, hie thee to a bookshop. And then a DVD shop and watch the brilliant film.
The novel has lots of covers – this isn’t the one I’m reading, but it’s my favourite.
I haven’t read anything else by Dodie Smith, but some e-friends have told me her other novels are wonderful too – A Town in Bloom is heading towards my local library, so I’ll report back before too long.
Happy June, everyone!
A Beautiful Book
I bought this a little while ago, from the small book section of Antiques on High in Oxford, but it is one of the most beautiful little books I own, and I thought I’d share it.
I doubt it would win any awards in fine printing catalogues, but I am very fond of it. The book in question is a 1929 edition of selections from The Female Spectator by Eliza Haywood (usually spelt Haywood, but spelt Heywood in this edition) edited by Mary Priestley. The Female Spectator was the first woman’s periodical written by a woman, written between 1744 and 1771 in imitation of Addison and Steele’s more famous Spectator. The selections in this book all, apparently, come from a single edition in 1748 – which is as useful as any, as far as a representation goes.
Elizabeth Haywood was incredibly prolific, and taking a gander at her Wikipedia entry I am trying to remember what I read. The City Jilt, I think, and perhaps The Mercenary Lover. I remember her being amusing and a little bit shocking at times. I have done no more than flick through this selection of The Female Spectator (indeed, I shall have to procure a page-cutter before I go much further, as some of it is still in need of cutting) but I can see I shall derive some amusement from sections entitled ‘Tennis, a Manly Exercise’, or ‘Honour of Itself Not to be Relied On’, not to mention ‘Caterpillars, their Structure very Amazing’. How seriously Haywood is to be taken will doubtless always be slightly unclear.
And I’m not just boasting about a lovely book I had the good fortune to stumble across – it is actually available fairly affordably from Amazon, and would delight any bookshelf. In fact, it’s cheaper than an ordinary new hardback – and how much more special!
Well, I guess I don’t have much choice.
I bought Nicolas Bentley’s book How Can You Bear to be Human? for its excellent title, and because I had seen some of his artwork elsewhere, and quite liked it. I’ve got to say, the title is probably the best thing about this book – but it passed an entertaining hour.
I don’t know the provenance of the book, but it must be collected from somewhere. It consists of brief, humorous pieces and cartoons – but often the cartoon doesn’t seem to bear any relation to the writing. Which is quite confusing, to say the least.
Bentley’s strength is definitely in his drawing, rather than his writing, but that is to be expected. His sketches aren’t ornately detailed, but with exaggeration which is not too exaggerated, he manages to convey exactly what he wishes – and is rather more subtle in his artwork than his prose. The prose is rather a mixed bag – it starts well, but the editor (perhaps Bentley himself?) probably decided to put the best things at the beginning.
My favourite piece was ‘Strange Interlude’, which is Provincial Ladyesque in its dealings with an awkward social occasion, including this exchange between the narrator and an offensive approaching couple:
“Well, my deahr?”
To which, in tones somewhat lower than his, she flashed the riposte: “Well?”
Again silence fell between them and they stood smiling mutely at each other.
“You have tried the punch?” she said at last.
Unable to block my ears in time, I caught his shrill response.
“I have indeed and I pronounce it capital.”
He grinned at me shyly with teeth that were rather too far apart. I noticed his hand had been surreptitiously exploring his pocket, and I guessed what for. He lent towards me and said sotto voce, with a look that appealed for my support and failed utterly:
“Do you suppose our hostess would permit a pipe?”
“I don’t smoke, so I wouldn’t know,” I said, lapsing through sheer nerves into the affectation of the conditional. He peered about him with a look of wildly exaggerated consternation and then, in order, I suppose, to keep up the conspiratorial pretence, tiptoed away.
Most of the pieces in How Can You Bear to be Human? are structured as humorous essays, rather than scenes like this – the essays being on topics from Hockey to Ballet to Hats Suitable For Dictators. Quite.
It’s all good fun, and the sort of Penguin book you could easily give someone as a present, or keep in the smallest room of the house. I had rather hoped for a flash of genius, which there was not, but it’s a nice glance into the humour of the 1950s.
Oh, and I have to finish by sharing this quick excerpt, for my brother (and Wolves fan) Colin:
[…] simple though I may be compared to, say, Professor Bronowski, compared to the man who delights more in Wolverhampton Wanderers than in Wordsworth, I am a creature of infinite complexity.
Song for a Sunday
A while ago I thought to myself, “I bet I would like a singer who would name their album Happenstance.” And so I searched to see if any artist had, and came across Rachael Yamagata – my reasoning was not wrong; I did like Rachael. I especially like this song, ‘Worn Me Down’. Enjoy your Bank Holiday weekend!
For more Sunday Songs, click here.
Illyrian Spring: prize draw
The winner of my (rather battered) Penguin edition of Illyrian Spring by Ann Bridge is…
Sherry!
Congrats, Sherry, I’ll get it off to you as soon as I can. Hope you enjoy it as much as I did!
Possibly Persephone? (redux)
Coming to you a bit late, my report on the Possibly Persephone? event – and when I say ‘report’, you will soon see that it descends (or perhaps ascends) into a long list of books.
Claire (Paperback Reader) and I met outside her work at 5.30pm and headed along to the Persephone Books shop on Lamb’s Conduit Street. I had wondered quite how we’d fit everyone into a fairly smallish shop – the answer being that we’d simply crowd in and be friendly! Nicola Beauman greeted us at the door, and we set about drinking madeira (“have some madeira, m’dear” was mentioned) which was delicious, and settling down for a fun evening. By the time everyone arrived there were probably about 15 of us, lovely folk one and all, and exactly the sort of bookish people with whom it is a delight to spend an evening.
Nicola kicked off proceedings by telling us briefly how often people recommend books, and how Persephone set about finding, reading, and thinking about these suggestions. She even unveiled a very tantalising folder filled with print outs and letters, containing suggestions – so many authors unknown to me, and so many potential gems.
And then we went round in the circle, giving our suggested titles and defending them. I was madly scribbling down everything I heard, although I can’t remember plots etc. for that many of them. You already know about Mr. Pim Passes By – Nicola pointed out that Vintage and Capuchin have both brought out Milne titles recently, which would make AAM difficult to market as one of Persephone’s authors, but we will wait and see… After the suggestions was some general chat, with many of us saying novels we love which are out of print, until Nicola must have felt under an avalanche. The first of these below were the suggestions; after Ann Valery’s book it’s a list of (some of) those which were mentioned at all.
If you want to know more about any of these books, and can’t find anything by Googling etc., then I’ll do my best to remember something! Or if you know something about them, do yell.
–Miss Penny & Miss Plum – Dorothy Evelyn Smith
–Summer in the Greenhouse – Elizabeth Maver
–The Blue Castle – L.M. Montgomery
–Earth and Water – Sheelagh Kinelli
–The Woman’s Book – ed. Philippa Preston
–Memories of a Militant – Annie Kenney
–Peter Abelard – Helen Waddell
–The Wedding – Denis Mackail
–At the Top of the Muletrack – Carola Matthews
–Kirsteen – Margaret Oliphant
–Westwood – Stella Gibbons
–Miss Linsey and Pa – Stella Gibbons
–Baron von Kodak, Shirley Temple, and Me – Ann Valery
–The Wheel Spins – Ethel Lina White
–Diminishing Circles – Barbara Rees
–Harriet Dark: Branwell Brontes lost novel – Barbara Rees
–A Step Out of Time – Betty Askwith
–Guard Your Daughters – Diana Tutton
–Camera! – Joan Morgan
–Faster! Faster! – E.M. Delafield
–Cometh up like a Flower – Rhoda Broughton
–Laughing Mountains – Kay Lynn
–Harriet – Elizabeth Jenkins
–Miss Tiverton Goes Out – A.M. Champneys
Mr. Pim (Passes By)
I have come back from a really wonderfully enjoyable Possibly Persephone? event, which I will write more about soon – hopefully tomorrow. But tonight I shall leave you in no further doubt as to the choice I took along with me – it’s Mr. Pim Passes By by A.A. Milne, and I left my copy with lovely Nicola Beauman, so I will wait and see what she thinks. Onto my review…
Every now and then I write about A.A. Milne’s works, and mention that he was my first great grown-up-books love – ironically, given that he is best known as a children’s writer. Two People and The Red House Mystery have both recently come back into print, and yet there is a huge amount of AAM’s work which is mostly overlooked. Some of his whimsical sketches are currently appearing on Radio 4 – thanks for the heads-up, Barbara! – and you can listen to previous episodes and read more info here.
But today I’m going to write about the most amusing of A.A. Milne’s novels, and the first that he wrote – Mr. Pim (1921). It has a slightly confusing publication history. It is an adaptation of his (once) very popular play Mr. Pim Passes By – and in later editions of the novel it reverts to this title. Confusing, no? Incidentally, it is dedicated to Irene Vanbrugh and Dion Boucicault (the picture is them in the play version, nabbed from Wikipedia) – the former’s autobiography is one of the more interesting and unusual books I’ve read this year. I read it in 2002, and recently re-read it – finding it just as much a joy this time around.
Mr. Pim concerns the family living at Marden House. George Marden is a very proper gentleman, with very proper views. His niece and ward Dinah is rather flighty; her very-nearly-fiance Brian is modern and sweet; George’s wife Olivia is… well, here description rather falters. Milne’s strongest suit is his female characters, and Olivia is perhaps the best role he ever wrote for the stage – and then novel. Olivia, like many of Milne’s heroines, though doubtless infuriating should one encounter her in real life, is an absolute delight on the page. She is strong-willed without ever being remotely antagonistic; she is sweet without being saccharine; she can be flippant or passionate with equal conviction, and yet never quite lets her guard down. Being married to George must be rather difficult, yet one feels that Olivia is the only person who could possibly ameliorate him in any way – and it’s rather lucky that she happens to love him.
Here’s a conversation between Dinah and Brian which rather sets the tone of the family:
Brian, lying back on the sofa, looked at her lazily with half-closed eyes.
“Yes, I know what you want, Dinah.”
“What do I want?” said Dinah, coming to him eagerly.
“You want a secret engagement –“
She gave an ecstatic little shudder.
“– and notes left under doormats –“
“Oh!” she breathed happily.
“– and meetings by the withered thorn when all the household is asleep. I know you.”
“Oh, but it is such fun! I love meeting people by withered thorns.”
Her mind hurried on to the first meeting. There was a withered thorn by the pond. Well, it wasn’t a thorn exactly, it was an oak, but it certainly had a withered look because the caterpillars had got at it, as at all the other oaks this year, much to George’s annoyance, who felt that this was probably the beginning of Socialism.
As the novel opens, Olivia wishes to hang some orange curtains which George considers far too modern for his house. Of such things are narratives spawned – Milne wrote in his autobiography that this idea was the catalyst for the whole story. Elsewhere, Dinah and Brian are almost engaged, and Dinah is trying to find a way to tell her uncle. George himself is busy pontificating: “Tell me what a man has for breakfast, and I will tell you what he is like.” George, I’m sure you will.
Milne was keen to point out that Mr. Pim isn’t simply the play with ‘he said’ and ‘she said’ thrown in, and indeed it is not. The plot is the same, and the characters are the same, but the authorial comment and wry narrative (at which Milne was such an expert) come fully into play. At this juncture, Milne himself breaks off into an amusing account of various breakfasts at Marden House. It’s too long to type out, but he does this sort of thing so well.
And we haven’t even got to Mr. Pim yet. His passing-by is the spark which sends the whole household into frenzy – and quite inadvertently. Mr. Pim is delightfully absent-minded – he takes absent-mindedness into a whole new category. And, lucky Mardens, Mr. Pim has a note of introduction to George. Here he is on his way, being sent off by mutual friend Brymer:
“You’ve got the letter for George?” [said Brymer]
Mr. Pim looked vague.
“George Marden. I gave it to you.”
“Yes, yes, to be sure. You gave it to me. I remember your giving it to me.”
“What’s that in your hand?”
Mr Pim looked reproachfully at the letter which he held in his hand, as if it had been trying to escape him. Then he put it close to his eyes.
“George Marden, Esq., Marden House,” he read, and looked up at Brymer. “This is the letter,” he explained courteously. “I have it in my hand.”
“That’s right. It’s the first gate on the right, about a couple of hundred yards up the hill. He’ll put you on to this man, Fanshawe, that you want. His brother Roger used to know him well – the one that died.”
“Dear, dear,” said Mr. Pim gently, emerging from his own thoughts to the distressing fact that somebody had died.
Mr. Pim ends up coming to Marden House several times that day, for various reasons – George being busy, or realising that he has said the wrong thing. But mostly he doesn’t know quite what a stir he creates – for, on one of his little visits, he happens to mention having seen an ex-convict from Australia, named Telworthy. What Mr. Pim doesn’t know is that Olivia’s first husband, missing presumed dead, was a convict from Australia named Telworthy…
Cue all manner of confusion and upset, panic and madness. Bigamy appears to have arisen at the most proper, law-abiding house in all the county. More importantly, this crisis in George and Olivia’s ‘marriage’ allows Olivia to see exactly how much George esteems reputation, and how much he loves her…
Milne inherits just enough of the wit of the 1890s to let his characters chop endless logic, and has enough of the 1920s to let them do it for a reason. Although all the insouciant characters give off the impression of taking nothing even remotely seriously, in fact there is an overtone where decisions do matter, and changes can happen. It is all incredibly funny, and fairly fanciful – one can only imagine what would have resulted had George Bernard Shaw turned his hand to it – but it is not flimsy.
I’m so pleased that I loved Mr. Pim as much the second time around as the first. I worried that I’d outgrown whimsy, which is a dirty word for some, but I think it would be impossible to outgrow the joy of reading Milne. I encourage you to hunt this one down – it’s quite different from Two People, and very different from The Red House Mystery, and different again from Winnie the Pooh – and it is an absolute delight. Go on – let Mr. Pim pop in for a bit. You never know what might happen.
Star-struck
Yesterday I went to a talk by Marilynne Robinson… I was very star-struck. Or possibly star struck. Or even starstruck. Maybe all of the above. Just being in the same room as her was pretty crazy – this must be how teenage girls feel when they see the cast of Twilight, or how my brother would feel if Wolverhampton Wanderers football team popped around for tea. When Colin phoned me to talk about Wolves (they didn’t get relegated, btw – I am only interested because this means he is happy, rather than glum; it will not surprise you to learn that I loathe football) I told him about seeing Marilynne Robinson, and he didn’t know who she was. So I suppose it is rather a niche thing, but it still felt bizarre to be in the same room as one of the finest living writers. 
I even took a poor quality photograph on my mobile ‘phone…
Truth be told, I didn’t understand a word of her talk. It was called ‘Where Are We? What Are We Doing Here? Night Thoughts of a Baffled Humanist’ and seemed to be a state-of-the-nation talk, with huge doses of philosophy and politics. I know almost nothing about philosophy, and I care almost nothing about politics – so I was lost from the outset. But I was pretty prepared for that. I wish I’d been to hear her last time she was in Oxford, talking about her own writing, but at that point I’d not read anything by her. Even now I’ve only read Gilead, though Susan in TX and I have a plan to read Home together soon, don’t we, Susan?
So, I’d readied myself to zone out when Robinson got onto topics I know zilch about, and instead I spent the hour being a bit overwhelmed by being in the same room as her. For the record, she is funny and personable – especially during the off-script moments – and I’m sure I’d love to hear her speak about writing or reading or Christianity; anything I can get on board with. But that didn’t diminish an exacting afternoon for me.
Which leads me to the over-to-you bit – have you heard any authors speak, and which living writers would you love to see? I’ve seen a few others – all those at the Vintage day this month (Sebastian Faulks, Mark Haddon, Lionel Shriver, Rose Tremain etc.) but the only other notable one I can remember right now is Penelope Lively. And I still haven’t read any of her books…
[EDIT: I forget Susan Hill! And doubtless many others. I was very excited to chat with Mary Cadogan once – the biographer of Richmal Crompton. But most fun has been meeting lesser-known, but brilliant and lovely, authors like Angela Young, Jenn Ashworth, Natasha Solomon, Ned Beauman….]