Jobs and Books

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I was reading Wolf Mankowitz’s Make Me An Offer today – a book I’ve bought for a friend but, ahem, thought I’d ‘test’ out first. It’s secondhand, as you can see, so I can’t really impair its quality… but that’s a topic for a whole other day. The book – which I’m really enjoying – is from the perspective of an antiques dealer. I can’t find out whether or not Wolf Mankowitz (who shares my birthday, incidentally) was an antiques dealer himself, but it all seems pretty convincing to me.

Whilst reading it, I thought of my friend Sherry, who works in antiques over in America, and wondered whether she’d like to read Make Me An Offer – or perhaps already had. And then I paused. Do people want to read books about their jobs? So many people tell me about books they think my Dad will like “because they’re about a vicar.” I don’t often pass these recommendations on – partly because, of course, Dad is still reading Lord of the Rings, as promised to Col – but it always strikes me as a little odd. Maybe vicars are more susceptible to these sorts of recommendations than most? I am a part-time librarian and a full-time student. I would be quite interested to read a book featuring librarians, but would never actively seek them out – and I actively avoid reading books about students, because they either panic or bore me, for the most part.

What about you? Do you like books featuring people of your profession, or avoid them, or have you never really thought about it? Do people recommend them to you for that reason, or has it never happened? This question is a little trickier for those of you whose job is being parents or spouses (I really hope at least one house-husband reads my blog, as I think it is a sadly underappreciated job!) because so many books, especially those in the line of the Provincial Lady, focus on characters with these roles, but not foregrounded in the way that a novel is when it’s about a dentist or vicar or, indeed, an antiques dealer.

Let me know your thoughts!

From Simon to Simon

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My friend and colleague, also called Simon, was clearing out his parents’ house the other day and – knowing that I have a passing fondness for books – said he would keep an eye out for anything I might like… and very kindly gave me a couple of very lovely books.


This picture isn’t very illuminating, I realise – it’s a very beautiful 1922 edition of Love and Freindship [sic!] by Jane Austen. I already have a copy, of course, but not one this lovely. It had uncut pages, and… ooo, I just want to stroke it.


And the other was The Stolen White Elephant by Mark Twain. Amongst the many and various lackings of my literary knowledge, Twain looms large. He is one of my aunt’s favourite authors (the aunt who set me off on all sorts of literary adventures, and whose taste overlaps with mine precisely because she helped form mine) but I’ve yet to read anything by him. Does anyone know this one? A lovely touch – it was presented to A.W. Bentley (my friend’s Dad) in 1927 for Proficiency in English. So, the book is over 80 years old, and has had one careful owner! Now two…

The Penelopiad

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(sorry that the formatting has played up on this post – I don’t seem able to change it!)

When my book group chose the category books-inspired-by-other-books, I thought it was a fantastic idea. As a group, we’d already read and loved (and watched and loved) The Hours by Michael Cunningham, and I was hoping we’d have something like Mister Pip by Lloyd Jones, or Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys, something along those lines. When The Penelopiad by Margaret Atwood (from Canongate’s The Myths series) was chosen, my heart did sink a little. And not just because my only previous experience with Ms. Atwood – The Handmaid’s Tale, which so many people rave about – left me not only unenthusiastic, but downright irritated. My main problem was that my knowledge of The Odyssey is sketchy at best. I don’t know where The Odyssey, The Iliad (which I presumed had a hand in Atwood’s title) and The Aenied differ, and to be honest all I knew about Penelope was garnered from a Year 7 History video, where myths were retold by a man and his hyperactive dog puppet. And any scraps I could glean in James Joyce’s Ulysses. So, basically, I knew about the weaving-and-unweaving thing. But I was happy to learn, and hoped that I could enjoy The Penelopiad with very little knowledge of the original…

Which I did. There are probably lots of nuances I missed, but I thought Atwood’s re-telling was done well most of the time. Certainly the style was less annoying than in The Handmaid’s Tale (perhaps because she wasn’t trying so hard?) Penelope tells her life story from Hades, wandering through fields of asphodel, as you do. It is a very modern take on the whole story – Penelope’s relationship with her sister Mary was not unlike something from an American sitcom; Penelope all plain and clever, Mary all beautiful and wily.

No man will ever kill himself for love of me. And no man ever did. Not that I would have wanted to inspire those kinds of suicides. I was not a man-eater, I was not a Siren, I was not like cousin Helen who loved to make conquests just to show she could. As soon as the man was grovelling, and it never took long, she’d stroll away without a backwards glance, giving that careless laugh of hers, as if she’d just been watching the palace midget standing ridiculously on his head.

I was a kind girl – kinder than Helen, or so I thought. I knew I would have to have something to offer instead of beauty. I was clever, everyone said so – in fact they said it so much that I found it discouraging – but cleverness is a quality a man likes to have in his wife as long as she is some distance away from him. Up close, he’ll take kindness any day of the week, if there’s nothing more alluring to be had.

We’re on familiar Jane-Eyre territory here, aren’t we? But – and thanks must go to Bob, who alone at my book group table was familiar with the original, even teaching classics – in turns out that in Homer’s original Penelope isn’t plain. She’s not in Helen territory, but the sisterly resentment which drives much of the narrative isn’t actually in the original.

In fact, at first I thought Atwood had picked rather an easy target. Yes, The Odyssey-given-a-feminist-twist. It seemed a little obvious, even heavy-handed (which is not to say that I’m anti-feminist – in fact, I’d call myself a feminist, although of course people have different definitions of the word.) But (thanks again, Bob, who is in fact a woman) the Penelope of The Odyssey was apparently more feminist than Penelope of The Penelopiad. More together, more powerful, more respected, etc. etc. But since I haven’t read it, I’ll have to take Bob’s word for it – just adds another interesting perspective on Atwood’s retelling.
The ‘hook’ of Atwood’s narrative, though – a more original feminist viewpoint – is the death of Penelope’s twelve maids. Odysseus apparently had them hanged upon his return from his voyage. I suspect this is a footnote in Homer’s original, but Atwood plays it to its full potential, and it really is an ingenious angle: why were they killed, when they had aided Penelope? They figure as a ‘chorus’ throughout the novella, sometimes mature and sometimes very vulgar (which feels, in Atwood’s hands, a bit like hearing an elderly aunt make a rude joke) and still huddle together in their afterlife. Yet they are never given individual names, and remain simply ‘the maids.’

Although I haven’t read the original, I did enjoy some places where Atwood was clearly adapting aspects from Homer. Who knows how many I missed through ignorance, but a fair few were sign-posted for those not in-the-know, such as the following:
You’ve probably heard that my father ran after our departing chariot, begging me to stay with him, and that Odysseus asked me if I was going to Ithaca with him of my own free will or did I prefer to remain with my father? It’s said that in answer I pulled down my veil, being too modest to proclaim in words my desire for my husband, and that a statue was later erected of me in tribute to the virtue of Modesty. There’s some truth to this story. But I pulled down my veil to hide the fact that I was laughing. You have to admit there was something humorous about a father who’d once tossed his own child into the sea capering down the road after that very child and calling “Stay with me!”

The Penelopiad was one of those books I liked quite a lot when I read it, and liked less after a book group discussion on it. But I still admire many aspects of the narrative, especially subtle like bits like that quoted above – and would be keen to seek out more from the series The Myths. I didn’t even realise that I already had one on my shelves – Sally Vickers’ Where Three Roads Meet. The (ongoing?) series’ titles can be viewed here – have you read any of them?

Win! Win! Win!

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I put up lots of other people’s thoughts about The Love Child by Edith Olivier the other day, and here are mine – now you have a chance to read it yourself! I’ve got a spare copy kicking about, and it seems right to send it off to someone – and, since it’s small and light, I’ll have this open to anyone in the world. The novel is just too good to keep myself.


To enter, for a bit of fun and in honour of ‘Edith’, comment with your favourite author beginning with ‘E’ and/or your favourite book beginning with ‘E’. Or just pop your name in if that proves too tricky! I’ll keep the entries open for a week, then announce the winner in the next Weekend Miscellany.

Song for a Sunday

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I found out about Amelia Curran from the rather brilliant website notpop.co.uk, and have gone on to get – and love – three of her albums. Hoping to track down the first two, but they’re near impossible to locate.

Today’s track is from her most recent album Hunter, Hunter. It’s called ‘The Mistress’ and I get more from it everytime I listen – really thoughtful lyrics. This is a live version, which I usually don’t like that much, but this one works – and, plus, I can’t find any recorded version of ‘The Mistress’ online.

For all previous Sunday Songs, click here.

Stuck-in-a-Book’s Weekend Miscellany

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I’m writing from deepest, darkest Somerset – having spent the evening playing with adorable Sherpa – and have that old weekend miscellany to give. A bit different from usual, as today all the things I’m pointing out are blogs or blog posts….

1.) I’ve been meaning to read more E.H. Young ever since reading Miss Mole, more here, and although several months have passed and I still haven’t done, my determination has been renewed by this enthusiastic review of Young’s William from Harriet Devine.


2.) For those of you with a fondness for Our Vicar’s Wife (and she did make me a lovely dinner tonight, so I am even more fond of her than usual) – do go along and have a gander at her recently-overhauled blog. She’s now joined the WordPress masses…

3.) I thought I’d mention that family friend and poet Mary Robinson has started up a blog called Wild About Poetry… job done!


4.) Simon S. often has interesting blog-posts-about-blogging, and the most recent is a discussion about whether we prefer blogs with lots of reviews or lots of non-review bookish posts (lists, questions, books we’ve bought, etc.) I suspect the answer – both from the perspective of blogging and that of blog-reading – will be ‘a mixture’, but it’s interesting to discuss why. Have a gander, and throw your tuppennyworth in, here.

Oh, and happy birthday to regular SiaB reader, and real-life friend, Lucy! She opened the present I gave her yesterday – she asked for books I thought she’d like but probably wouldn’t come across otherwise, and I picked Christopher Morley’s Parnassus on Wheels and Saki’s Beasts and Super-Beasts.

Something Lovely in the Post

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I’ve mentioned before that I’m part of a postal book group, which goes on for ages and then you get a notebook back full of comments about your chosen book. The last circle took about 18 months, I think, or maybe even more than that – but it has now come to an end, and The Love Child by Edith Olivier has returned with its accompanying notebook. You might know how much I love the novel (reviewed here) and I thought I’d share parts of what others had to say about it…


Never in a month of Sundays would I have selected this to read if I’d found it while browsing – it may be a Virago, but the title & the description did nothing to lure me in, nor did your “50 book” description on your blog, Simon. And yet, and yet… I am very glad you sent it along. Having set aside my prejudices I thoroughly enjoyed it – her writing moves along at a cracking pace & the deeply unsettling subject matter becomes part of the enjoyment.
— Nichola

Not only a delightful read, but a cleverly constructed one! One assumes from the title that the heroine will either be a “love child”, or will have had one, and when you read the description on the first page of Agatha Bodenham both possibilities seem impossible. Suspension of belief no.1. A few pages later, and Clarissa has been summoned. The reader sees this as totally fanciful, but suddenly can “see” Clarissa with Agatha’s eyes. Suspension of belief no.2. Clarissa is now “real” in Agatha’s eyes and therefore in ours too. […] A magical book which leaves its hooks in one.
— Curzon

Having read a chunk of Angela Carter recently including the translated Charles Perrault fairy tales I found myself approaching this in a state of mind very receptive to the fairy tale element. For me this was a grand amalgamation of Snow White, Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Thumabline & more, with Agatha sitting somewhere between the fairy godmother and the queen who wishes for a daughter.
— Hayley

A beautiful and delightful story. I absolutely loved it just for itself.
— Teresa

I read this in one sitting – hanging out on the balcony with my cat, the strong spring sun warming us both – ideal circumstances to indulge in a summer fantasy. The book reminded me of A Midsummer Night’s Dream – beings being summoned and disappearing, things that aren’t what they seem, the borders between the real and the imagined blurring.
— Susan

There is an unsettling creepiness about it – whenever the reader pauses. It strikes me that this dichotomy – the light, whimsical, airy fairy tale versus the darker creepiness reflects the state of Edith’s mind following the loss of her father and sister. Unlimited freedom after an early life that was a model of repression.
— Sherry

What an interesting book. I collect Viragos (sight unseen even), but this is one I had never come across at least on this side of the Atlantic. It’s such a whimsical story, yet sad as well. It reminded me a little of Rachel Ferguson’s The Brontes Went To Woolworths – the same rich sort of fantasy lfie, but for Agatha it went a step further. I wasn’t quite sure where the author was going with her story – I wasn’t expecting a full-fleshed young woman though she was still limited in her thoughts, actions, responses by Agatha’s mind (?) emotions (?) What was sad is the need to revert to this imaginary friend and then the obsession when others “wanted” Clarissa as well. […] It’s the sort of story where the more I think about it after-the-fact the more I appreciate it.
— Danielle

I loved re-reading this novel. I particularly like the last several pages – the interchange between David and Agatha. The cluelessness of both of them, in some ways, is monumental. They’re communicating on wildly different frequencies!
— Karen

I didn’t think I’d like it. I dislike fey, I dislike whimsy, I particularly dislike being inside the mind of crazy people, and oh yes, I loathe magical realism! But guess what – I loved the book! First of all the crystalline clarity of the wrting world win me over right there. Then, to convey such complex, psychologically sophisticated themes with such simplicity is astounding. It’s got none of them aberrations of the genres I disdained above – it’s very much an odd flower from its own particular period.
— Diana

I also dislike ‘fey’ and the cover of this edition aroused misgivings. I thought I would read the first few pages to see what lay in store… An hour or so later I had read to the end in one sitting. Like everyone else I was entranced by the quality of the writing and the psychological insight of this unusual story.
To me it recalled myths rather than fairy stories – Narcissus, Eros & Psyche, even Persephone!
— Deborah

I first read this book three years ago – also on Simon’s recommendation. I loved it both times, but I can’t really say why. ‘Magic realism’ would not usually be my ‘thing’ but this delightful and short story just hangs together so beautifully. This time I read the foreword by Hermione Lee and now can see where Edith Olivier’s ideas came from – her own life and family. She was inspired to write the book after her sister died.
— Barbara

So…

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Sorry, too much theory-reading this evening to write a blog post – though there is still a pile of books looking anxiously at me, awaiting reviews – so instead I’ll throw a question over to you. Nice and easy one. What are you reading at the moment? And I’ll throw in a great painting by Vanessa Bell that I saw on Claire’s blog, The Captive Reader.

Loitering With Intent – Muriel Spark

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32. Loitering With Intent – Muriel Spark

I do love the blogosphere… all the bloggers and blog-readers, and all the talk of books going on all around the place. I am probably a little hypocritical, in that relatively few of the books I read come from blogger recommendations. So much of my reading time is taken up with book group choices and the occasional review copy (not to mention, of course, all the books I have to read for my studies) that when I can be self-indulgent and simply pick something off the shelf, nine times out of ten it’ll be something I’ve been saving for years, or know that I’ll like. If I read a great review, quite often I’ll buy the book or pop it on a bit of paper somewhere, but it’s not all that often that I’ll have the reading space for it to swoop to the top of the pile. Bloggers – you’re setting me up for my retirement. I just need the career bit in between.

Which makes me realise that I should find some more hours in the day, to fit in all your fab suggestions. If it weren’t for the blogosphere, I probably wouldn’t have bothered with Muriel Spark again. I’d read The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie and The Girls of Slender Means, and not been bowled over by either of them. It was a couple of bloggers who made me pick up The Driver’s Seat, and I loved it. I reviewed that novella here, and it led to a discussion of ‘Third Time Lucky‘ – when the third book you read by an author is the one to grab you.

Well, if third time was lucky, fourth has unearthed a gold mine, if that mixing of metaphors works. When I wrote about The Driver’s Seat I asked which Spark I should read next, and ‘N’ (gosh, isn’t that mysterious?) recommended Loitering With Intent. I have a feeling someone else did, maybe even in Real Life – and so I took myself off to the library and borrowed it. The return date was hastening, and I thought I’d take it with me to Devon.

All of which is a lengthy introduction to saying that Loitering With Intent (1981) is possibly my favourite novel read this year, and certainly proves to me that Spark is very much my cup of tea. (By the by, I don’t think I like any of the covers I’ve seen, so I’ve just gone with the one I read. Spark deserves a nice cover designer! I hope someone’s listening…) Maybe it’s too well known to get onto my 50 Books You Must Read But May Not Have Heard About, but I won’t take the risk of not broadcasting how good it is…

Loitering With Intent somehow manages to be an incredibly clever novel, without being in the least self-congratulatory or off-putting. Even more dangerous, Spark’s novel is narrated by a novelist, and largely concerns the writing of a novel – so many pitfalls to avoid, and so much potential pretension – all of which Spark skirts around without even a hint of self-importance. Fleur Talbot is writing her first novel, Warrender Chase, and it is occupying all the time that she isn’t at work, and quite a lot of her thoughts when she is at work. Her job is as a secretary to Sir Quentin Oliver and his Autobiographical Association – he has gathered luminaries and ‘characters’ to write their memoirs, which he will seal in a vault for seventy years.

Fleur is not dissimilar from her near-namesake Flora in Cold Comfort Farm, inasmuch as she sits back and records the eccentrics and strange creatures around her. But where Gibbons’ Flora documented – she got involved with their lives no end, of course, but never really seemed unduly affected by their idiosyncrasies – Fleur isn’t so invulnerable to the bizarre behaviour by which she is surrounded. It rather seems to rub off on her. She grows varyingly attached to various members of the Autobiographical Association, such as snob and scented Lady ‘Bucks’ Bernice Gilbert, and young(ish) Maisie Young, who has one permanently disabled leg and is fixated upon the Cosmos and ‘how Being is Becoming’. Above all, Flora develops a fondness for Quentin’s mother Edwina – a mad, lively, incontinent, and be-pearled old lady bursting with character, but somehow more ‘real’ than many old-women-with-gusto who crop up in fiction. In amongst these weave a whole cast of wonderful creations – focally, Dottie: the wife of Flora’s lover. Flora is an odd sort of Catholic…

As I have said, Flora is not invulnerable to the group’s eccentricity – and we’re never quite sure how far we can trust her narrative voice, or to what extent we are supposed to identify with it. Which, since Fleur is an authoress, is interesting. Throughout the novel the reader gets glimpses of a treatise or two on novel-writing – how much of it is Spark’s own view? Does Loitering With Intent have, hidden within it, the rudiments for a how-to of creative writing? Impossible to judge… but here are three snippets which I enjoyed pondering:

But since then I’ve come to learn for myself how little one needs, in the art of writing, to convey the lot, and how a lot of words, on the other hand, can convey so little.

** (I changed “beautifully” to “very well” before sending the book to the publisher. I had probably been reading too much Henry James at that time, and “beautifully” was much too much.)
**
I knew I wasn’t helping the readers to know whose side they were supposed to be on. I simply felt compelled to go on with my story without indicating what the reader should think.

But Fleur’s writing doesn’t end with her work-in-progress. As part of her secretarial duties, she has to edit the submissions of the Autobiographical Association. Spark is very funny about Fleur’s low estimation of the group’s writing abilities, and the manner in which Fleur augments the perceived dullness of their memoirs:
The main character was Nanny. I had livened it up by putting Nanny and the butler on the nursery rocking-horse together during the parents’ absence, while little Eric was locked in the pantry to clean the silver.
As a hint of what is to come, it turns out that Fleur’s flight of fancy does, in part, turn out to be truth. Which Stuck-in-a-Book reader could fail to notice similarities to Miss Hargreaves?

This becomes the crux of the novel – where does Fleur’s imagination end, and where does plagiarism begin? Similarities between the Autobiographical Association’s activities and the manuscript of Warrender Chase grow ever greater – how much is coincidence, how much does Fleur absorb, and how much does she write before it happens? The parallel stories – both (of course) fiction, but one accepted as ‘true’ in the novel; fiction and meta-fiction, if you’re feeling in that mood – intertwine and overlap, and Spark does it all so very, very cleverly. I won’t say any more.


As with all my favourite novelists – and Spark could swiftly join that group – style contributes heavily to my appreciation. Spark is sharp, witty, and sees straight through any form of dissemblance. I need to revisit The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie and The Girls of Slender Means sometime, as I must have missed something. I’m late to the party on this one, but the latest converts are the most enthusiastic – I foresee more Sparks being read before 2010 is over. Thank you, blogosphere!

Back from the South West

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Well, I’m back from the depths of Devon, and a very fun time was had by all (‘all’ being me and two of my housemates). I only read two books, and one of those wasn’t even amongst the options I proffered. Thanks for all your suggestions and advice, though – I am now determined to read The Haunted Bookshop asap, and have read Parnassus on Wheels already, fear not. I’ll let you know what I read soon, and I will tease you with this – the one which wasn’t pictured might well be my favourite fiction read of the year so far. Certainly up there. I think it might get onto my 50 Books list…

But for tonight, I’ll just share some photos from my trip (be warned – I also popped in to see Mum and Dad in Somerset, and the new kitten – cuteness overload!):