Wait For Me!

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I have been reading Wait For Me! by Deborah Devonshire for (approximately) forever. I started it the day it arrived, back in September, but a combination of it being too heavy for my bag, and not being able to cope with the idea of finishing it – not to mention that somewhere towards the middle of each month I realise that I’ve not read the books for either of my book groups, and have six days to do so – mean I only turned the last page earlier this month.

For those of you who won’t get to the end of this post – and it will involve whatever the written equivalent of squawking is – I shall mention now that I have a copy to give away. Tell me your favourite autobiography, in the comments, for a chance of winning. This is open worldwide, so pop your name in. For many reasons to do so, dear reader, read on…

The Mitfords have been of great interest to many from their childhood onwards. They skirted around the outside of my consciousness, with Nancy taking occasional leaps forward, until I read the collection of their letters, expertly edited by Charlotte Mosley. Now – and I suspect most of you know this – I am rather besotted by some of the sisters. Unity and Jessica remain outside my affection, but I rather love the rest, and am devoted to Debo. So much so, that I am going to be hugely unprofessional and refer to her as ‘Debo’ throughout this review.

So, of course, I was delighted when she published her autobiography. Earlier works include collections of articles and musings (Counting My Chickens and Home to Roost) as well as lots of books about her home, Chatsworth, which I haven’t read. Those collections I have read, whilst entertaining and joyous, did little to suggest that Debo would be able to sustain a full-length autobiography. How wrong I was to worry.

Perhaps there isn’t much that will surprise in Wait For Me! Anybody who has read about the sisters before will find they know many of the anecdotes and stories already. What this book brings to the table is Debo’s perspective, and her wonderfully calm way with words. I hadn’t noted down any quotations to share, but having just flicked the book open at random, I came across a paragraph beginning thus:
Unity was always the odd one out. She arrived in this world in August 1914 to the sound of troops marching to war and departed it thirty-four years later in tragic circumstances. Larger than life in every way, she could have been model for a ship’s figurehead or Boadicea, with her huge navy-blue eyes, perfectly straight nose and fair hair worn in two long plaits. Perhaps because of her teenage diet of mashed potatoes, her teeth were her only bad feature.Debo hasn’t allowed familial closeness to cloud her judgement or provoke over-sentimentality; yet, who but a sister would choose those images and those details? Unity, who later befriended Hitler, and tried to kill herself on the outbreak of WW2, comes alive with these much more prosaic details. It is Debo’s complete unflappability which charms me through the account. Nowhere – except, of course, the title – would Debo dream of using an exclamation mark. It would be poor manners to get over-excited about something.

I was worried that Wait For Me! would pall once Debo had left home, and once the sisters were no longer centre stage – but I was wrong. Some of the most moving pages come when Debo describes her husband’s alcoholism, or their miscarriages and stillborn children. This isn’t done remotely gratuitously, or like those ghastly misery memoirs, but truthfully and unsensationally. And it is evident that Debo is far more interested in the businesslike running of Chatsworth than she in the doings of her sisters in their youths – her enthusiasm is contagious.

Don’t worry for my sanity. I am under no delusion that Debo and I could really be friends. My vegetarianism might put paid to that, for a start, let alone our fairly divergent views on hunting. Debo is occasionally unconsciously hilarious – like when, after a chapter devoted to the joys of hunting parties, she writes that ‘a fox came in daylight and murdered [chickens] for fun, as these serial destroyers do.’ Takes a beetle to know a beetle, Debo, m’dear.

But none of this really seems to matter, and it certainly doesn’t stop me adoring Debo and loving her book. Along with the spectacular collection of letters edited by Charlotte Mosley, Wait For Me! is a unique piece of social history, as well as an honest and entertaining personal memoir. The Mitfords are not everyone’s cup of tea (my own dear brother has a violent prejudice against them, based not on their Fascism or Communism, but rather Nancy’s refusal to use air-mail and their nicknaming of the Queen Mother as ‘Cake’) – but Debo’s book confirms that they are very definitely mine. In a china cup and saucer, naturally, with ginger cake on the side.

Project 24: The Books

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My New Blogging Resolution certainly won’t happen before the New Year, as we’re off out of internet connection for the next few days. I’m setting up posts to appear over the next few days, but I won’t be able to respond to comments just yet.

Well, I shan’t be doing a Project 25 – Project 24 has been fun, and very challenging, but I’m going to be back to splurging in the New Year. I’m not sure how many more of my own books I’ve read because of this exercise, but I do know it’s more than the number I’ve bought for myself, for the first time in at least ten years.

It doesn’t feel quite concluded until I’ve given you a final run-down of the 24 books which found their way into my home this year. Being honest, a fair few came from publishers or as gifts, especially on my birthday, but they weren’t under the Project 24 banner. As Rachel mentioned the other day, perhaps they are a little eccentric. They’re certainly not 24 of the latest books to hit bookshops. In fact, only four of them were new (rather than secondhand) and none of those were originally published this year.

I’ve grouped them vaguely according to the reason I got them – here’s what I got:

The Ones I Already Owned

I didn’t think I’d be buying duplicates in Project 24, but I was wrong – I couldn’t resist these beautiful, unusual or old editions of much-loved books.

The Love Child – Edith Olivier
The Provincial Lady Goes Further – E.M. Delafield
As It Was – Helen Thomas
World Without End – Helen Thomas



The Ones Too Good To Leave

These were either so rare, unusually cheap, or special that I couldn’t ignore them, once I’d stumbled across them – either in real life or through abebooks alerts.

Roofs Off! – Richmal Crompton
No One Now Will Know – E.M. Delafield
Susan and Joanna – Elizabeth Cambridge
Mrs. Christopher – Elizabeth Myers
Letters vol. I and II – Katherine Mansfield





The Ones I’ve Wanted For Ages

These are books I’ve had my eye on for years, but could never justify the expense. With my limited buying, suddenly they became affordable.

The Heirs of Jane Austen – Rachel Mathers
Miss Elizabeth Bennet – A.A. Milne



The Souvenir

I couldn’t go to Shakespeare & Co. Bookshop in Paris and not come back with a good book in my hand, now, could I?

Summer Will Show – Sylvia Townsend Warner

The One I Accidentally Damaged

After I borrowed and accidentally tore a book borrowed from a fool, I bought a replacement – and kept the damaged one myself. Luckily it’s a novel I (mostly) loved and wanted to keep.

The Little Stranger – Sarah Waters

The One I’d Been Waiting to be Published

Only one Project 24 book was published this year, and that was actually a translation of an earlier story collection.

Travelling Light – Tove Jansson

The Ones For My Studies

Although these are all quite fun reads, they did come into Project 24 because of their potential usefulness for my DPhil.

A Brief Experiment With Time – J.W. Dunne
Strange Glory – L.H. Myers
The Music at Long Verney – Sylvia Townsend Warner



The Ones About Authors

I didn’t expect this, but it seems that when the buying is restricted, my eyes wander to the non-fiction shelves. I bought quite a few books about authors. None of them are literary biography, but rather literary non-fiction of the reader’s-companion variety.

More Talk of Jane Austen – Sheila Kaye-Smith and G.B. Stern
Are They The Same At Home? – Beverley Nichols
Jane Austen – Sylvia Townsend Warner
Personal Pleasures – Rose Macaulay
A Compton-Burnett Compendium – Violet Powell
I. Compton-Burnett – Pamela Hansford Johnson







Happy Christmas!

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“But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. Today in the town of David a Saviour has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.”
I hope you and your loved ones all have a wonderful Christmas Day!

With love – Simon

Blogging Resolutions

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I hope you’re having a lovely Christmas Eve – it’s the big Christmas meal tonight here in the Thomas household, since tomorrow is rather a busy day for Our Vicar. So get the Quorn roast in the oven (and some bird or other for the carnivores) and wrap up warm for tonight’s midnight service, should you be going to one. It’s one of my favourite services of the year – looking forward to it.

But I have so many summary-type posts to come between Christmas and New Year (you’ll be dying to know what my Top Ten Books of 2010 are, yes?) that I thought I’d bring up the topic of New Year’s Resolutions today. Sorry if that’s confusing matters…

So, do you make them? Of course, my big resolution this year was Project 24 – and if I manage the last week, then I’ll have done it! And every year I make a half-hearted resolution not to bite my nails… and every year it fails within minutes.

I don’t think I’ll be making any big personal New Year’s Resolutions, but I have decided on a New Year’s Blogger Resolution: to reply to comments! It isn’t that I’ve had a policy against it before – far from it – I simply never seem to remember to do it. I love those bloggers who do, and love checking back to see whether or not they have. Thus, I am determined to become one of those bloggers. Hold me to it, guys, if I don’t…

So, howsabout you? Any resolutions and – more pertinently – any blogging resolutions?

Linkety-links

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I’m embroiled in re-reading the Narnia series (don’t worry, Mr. Dickens, I’ll dig you out again – only Prince Caspian has a bit of a war on his hands right now, and I don’t want to leave him to fight it out alone) – but I’m going to post a sort of scattergun blog post with links and suchlike.

1.) I was rather excited about this lovely post from AOL’s MyDaily, which has sweetly picked Stuck-in-a-Book as its Blog of the Week. I especially liked “At Stuck in a Book it’s less about marks out of ten and more about being part of an extremely welcoming community” – that’s what I hope all of us make together.

2.) This link was forwarded to me by Verity. It is a petition asking Oxfordshire County Council to reconsider closing 20 libraries in the county. I know cuts have to be made, and everyone thinks their cause is the most important, but surely enabling widespread free access to books is something worth fighting for? Even if you don’t live in the area, do consider signing the petition, out of worldwide library-users solidarity!

3.) Guy at Pursewarden has concocted another fiendishly difficult Christmas Quiz. Of the 40 questions, I knew the answers to 3. Perhaps you’ll fare better than I did…

4.) This is a fun list, courtesy of Tripbase, of the Top 10 Fictional Travellers. So fun, I can very nearly forgive ‘Waldo’ where ‘Wally’ should be…

5.) Gael Chatelain got in touch with me regarding an interesting publishing decision for her second novel, Do Unto Others. It is published online, to include music that Chatelain has herself composed – and here’s the interesting part: you can choose how much to pay for it, from zilch upwards. Click here for more.

Oh, and the picture? Entirely irrelevant to the post… except, isn’t she SCHWEET?!

Slightly Foxed

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I got an email yesterday which reminded me I’d yet to talk about Slightly Foxed, who very kindly sent me the Winter 2010 edition of their journal – so I quickly unearthed it from the boxes of books I’d transported from Oxford to Somerset (was it good sense or simply coincidence that made it near the top of the box? Sadly, I suspect, the latter) and have sat down for an enjoyable half an hour. I am very far from exhausting it, and indeed have only read two or three in full, but I wanted to make sure I mentioned it before Christmas – and it’s not the sort of thing you’d want to rush.

For those not in the know, Slightly Foxed (as well as having one of the best selection of second-hand books ever – if not the cheapest – at their bookshop on Gloucester Road in London Town) publish a journal celebrating literature. It’s a very reader-friendly look at a whole range of authors, novels, and genres – not merely those recently published, but mostly those sitting on the margins of literature. As they say in their accompanying material, Slightly Foxed is more like a bookish friend, really, than a literary periodical. Companionable and unstuffy, each quarter it offer 96 pages of personal recommendations for books of lasting interest, old and new – the kind of good reads you knew you were looking for but somehow haven’t been able to find.If you’re anything like me, you’re thinking “that sounds a lot like a blog” – and you’re not wrong. It has the heart of a blog, but in print, and a selection of great names, great editing, and exhaustively researched. When I say the ‘heart of a blog’, I mean the sort of things they use to describe themselves above. These are passionate readers writing about books people might actually want to read.

My main bugbear with Slightly Foxed – and the reason why, until now, I have looked at their periodicals but never bought them. They are incredibly coy about the contents. The contents page tries to lure with titles as vague as ‘Cheers!’; ‘No Swotting…’; ‘Uncomfortable Truths’; ‘Essential Baggage’; ‘Spellbound’ etc. etc. Even now that I’ve at least flicked through every article, I can’t remember to which works these titles further. Presumably this ambiguity is deliberate… but why? I find it infuriating, and if the pieces themselves weren’t so captivating, I’m not sure I’d think it worth the struggle.

Because once you’ve been baffled by the contents, and fought your way through to the pieces, there are so many treats. Slightly Foxed have genuine variety and lesser-known authors, rather than simply nodding towards someone like Graham Greene and pretending they’re obscure. The authors considered range from the fairly familiar (John Betjeman, Daisy Ashford) to those with whom I’m familiar, but recognise aren’t all that widely known (Molly Keane, Beverley Nichols) to – by far the biggest category – those about whom I know nothing (Joann Sfar, Tete-Michel Kpomassiem…) I would be surprised if anybody could pick any SF up and not meet a new friend.

With so much variety, I can only really give a general recommendation. I will, however, quickly mention the first piece, by Daisy Hay, on that adorable book The Young Visiters [sic] by Daisy Ashford. Like all the other articles, this is four-parts appreciation to one-part literary criticism (much more fun than straight lit crit, I’m sure you’ll agree) but I did learn that my beloved Katherine Mansfield wrote one of the first reviews of the book. For those who don’t know The Young Visiters, it was written by a nine year old, later found and published with a foreword by J.M. Barrie. Basically it’s the adult world as understood by a child, but one who spent much of her time eavesdropping on grown-up conversation, mingling register in her writing. Hay points out her favourite line as ‘Oh Hurrah shouted Ethel I shall soon be ready as I had my bath last night so wont wash very much now.’ Hay writes delightfully of the book and, even if it sheds little new light on the work, it is thoroughly enjoyable to read.

I definitely think any fond reader of blogs would enjoy Slightly Foxed, if they can afford a subscription (may I suggest a last minute Christmas present for the bibliophile in your life – or something to drop hints about?) – it’s full of appreciation, celebration, admiration, and jubilation. You’ll nod in agreement when meeting old friends; hunt through your shelves when spying casual acquaintances; and run to the bookshop when greeting attractive strangers.

Christmas reading?

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I don’t know about you, but I’m always a little nonplussed when people talk about the perfect book to read on the beach, or in autumn, or when it’s cold, etc. etc. I tend simply to read the book I want or need to read next, with little consideration for the temperature, season, or day of the week.

But this year, I’m embracing it – I’ve lined up a couple of books which I think are perfect for long winter evenings. Why does winter suit long books in my head? I baulk at the idea of fluffy fiction on beaches – surely uninterrupted time on the beach is perfect for long, complex novels? – but chunky novels for winter seem to work. And I’ve got a couple lined up – Great Expectations by one Mr. C. Dickens, and Sarah Waters’ The Night Watch. You know my feelings about long books, but I’m going to put the winter evenings to good use.

I’m about 50 pages into Great Expectations and loving it. How have I not read any Dickens since 2004? I’ve read Hard Times, David Copperfield, and Our Mutual Friend and either loved or very much liked them all. And I’m loving this one – Dickens’ way with dialogue is unparalleled.

But I’ll write about it properly when I’m finished – this post is just to ask whether or not you have any Christmas/winter reading planned, and whether or not you plan your reading by season etc.? Let me know!

Song for a Sunday

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The Thomas family is reunited down in Somerset, and we have spent the past two evenings performing in the Chiselborough Christmas Cracker – a variety show which makes up in enthusiasm what it lacks in rehearsal time, and is jolly good fun. We did our own spin on the famous Monty Python ‘Spanish Inquisition’ sketch, with Col and I taking the roles of the Cardinals. Somehow it involved me doing a Scottish accent… I am just grateful that nobody in the audience was Scottish, because accents are not my strong suit. When it comes to acting, I have yet to find my strong suit – unless hearty enjoyment is one.

Anyway, this is a preamble to say how Christmassy I’m now feeling, and that’s why this week’s Sunday Song isn’t my usual pick of a lesser-known artist, but rather a rendition of my favourite carol. It’s In the Bleak Midwinter sung – why not? – by lovely Julie Andrews.

“The wild, peering glitter of the bibliomaniac”

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Never let it be said that I am a spontaneous man. Over three years ago, Danielle from A Work in Progress sent me Parnassus on Wheels and The Haunted Bookshop by Christopher Morley, in exchange for Miss Hargreaves. I can’t remember whether Danielle has read Miss H yet, but I do know that I was making slow progress myself. After 16 months I read, loved, and reviewed the first title (the second is a sequel, but can equally well be read as a stand-alone novel) and promised to read the second ‘soon’. In fairness to myself, I did add the following footnote: ‘Soon is a relative term. I mean before books become obsolete.’

Fast forward another 18 or so months, and here we are… (this is why I love it when bibliophiles give me books – they don’t expect me to have read them by that time next week.)

I should start by saying that The Haunted Bookshop (1919) is a misleading title. It is quickly explained that the haunting refers to the authors who linger there through their works; for Roger Mifflin and his wife Helen (the heroine of Parnassus on Wheels) have left their travelling book wagon in a shed, and opened up shop. Mifflin is less sprightly than before; Helen less sharp – but they are older now, and contented marriage has taken the place of peripatetic solitariness, so we can happily forgive them their mellowing. But Christopher Morley is still willing and able to provide a lively character, and he does this in the form of Titania Chapman – the young daughter of one of Mifflin’s friends, who comes to work in his shop, as her father wishes her to better herself. Titania is full of enthusiastic naivety and well-meaning ignorance. Perhaps she can best describe herself, in this revealing excerpt:

“I do hope,” said Titania, “you won’t let Daddy poison your mind about me. He thinks I’m dreadfully frivolous, just because I look frivolous. But I’m so keen to make good in this job. I’ve been practising doing up parcels all afternoon, so as to learn how to tie the string nicely and not cut it until after the knot’s tied. I found that when you cut it beforehand either you get it too short and it won’t go round, or else too long and you waste some. Also I’ve learned how to make wrapping paper cuffs to keep my sleeves clean.”

Isn’t she adorable? And keen to learn – and there is nowhere better to do so than Mifflin’s shop. The first few chapters of this novel take us through some wonderful passages, where Mifflin exalts the joy of reading – nay, the necessity of it. Every bibliophile will love the discussions about the role of a bookseller, and those on the latent hunger for books among the public. It was compelling, absorbing, and utterly right-minded – from the perspective of this bibliophile, of course.

But The Haunted Bookshop has another, rather different, thread running through it – and that is where the other new character comes into play. Aubrey Gilbert (brilliant name) works in advertising and isn’t much of a reader, but wanders into the bookshop to see if the proprietor would consider using his business. Which – somehow – turns into a bizarre sort of thriller. The Haunted Bookshop was written in 1919, and the effects of the War are certainly felt. There is spying; near-kidnap; anonymous ‘phone calls; mysterious disappearing and re-appearing books. Perhaps this kind of thing is your cup of tea. It isn’t mine, and I found all this thread rather tedious. It had little of the ingenuity of Agatha Christie, and quite a lot of the gung-ho, xenophobic bombast of Bulldog Drummond.

So this review reflects the book and my reading experience, in that it seems to have a split personality. I loved, loved, loved the sections about books. Morley and Mifflin are alike bibliomaniacs, and Mifflin’s dialogue is at all times scattered with literary references high and low. The Haunted Bookshop serves almost as a literary compendium, so vast and wide-ranging are the allusions. (Some are listed on the book’s Wikipedia page.) But then… but then I would start skimming pages as the thriller story took the upper-hand. Which was frustrating, because if the novel had continued throughout in the vein it started, this would be easily my favourite book this year. Morley, Morley, Morley – what were you thinking?

In the end, which Morley novel did I prefer? I can’t decide whether the best bits of The Haunted Bookshop push it above Parnassus on Wheels for me, or whether the worst bits push it below. Mifflin and Helen are fantastic creations, but only really vibrant in Parnassus on Wheels. I don’t know – I certainly recommend reading both, and this would be a great novel to give any book lover – just make sure you are willing to skim some pages, if your tastes are the same as mine.

Thanks again Danielle for these lovely gifts!

Dangerous Ages

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I’ve got half a review saved away in my draft posts, but it’s late and I’m heading bedwards, so instead I thought I’d share this delicious quotation from Rose Macaulay’s Dangerous Ages (1921). It’s a conversation between Gerda and Neville (who are, confusingly, mother and daughter. Or perhaps aunt and niece – I got a little confused.) I think it’s a fun little satire on thoughtless 1920s Bohemianism…

“Marriage,” said Gerda, “is so Victorian. It’s like antimacassars.”

“Now, my dear, do you mean anything by either of those statements? Marriage wasn’t invented in Victoria’s reign. Nor did it occur more frequently in that reign than it did before or does now. Why Victorian then? And why antimacassars? Think it out. How can a legal contract be like a doily on the back of a chair? Where is the resemblance? It sounds like a riddle, only there’s no answer. No, you know you’ve got no answer. That kind of remark is sheer sentimentality and muddle headedness. Why are people in their twenties so often sentimental? That’s another riddle.”