I’m off to Torquay for a few days, so won’t be blogging again til next week – but I haven’t decided which books to take with me yet… I’ll have to take some to study from, but there should be time for fun reading too, and would like your help winnowing down the selection from those pictured. Any thoughts?
Miss Brill
Tonight I saw the very good film Made in Dagenham – more on that at some point, I daresay – and played an incredibly slow game of Scrabble. These together mean I haven’t cobbled together anything for my blog tonight. So, instead, I’ll post a story that I love (as is my wont occasionally). It’s by the very wonderful Katherine Mansfield. Enjoy!
Miss Brill (1922)
Although it was so brilliantly fine – the blue sky powdered with gold and great spots of light like white wine splashed over the Jardins Publiques – Miss Brill was glad that she had decided on her fur. The air was motionless, but when you opened your mouth there was just a faint chill, like a chill from a glass of iced water before you sip, and now and again a leaf came drifting – from nowhere, from the sky. Miss Brill put up her hand and touched her fur. Dear little thing! It was nice to feel it again. She had taken it out of its box that afternoon, shaken out the moth-powder, given it a good brush, and rubbed the life back into the dim little eyes. “What has been happening to me?” said the sad little eyes. Oh, how sweet it was to see them snap at her again from the red eiderdown! … But the nose, which was of some black composition, wasn’t at all firm. It must have had a knock, somehow. Never mind – a little dab of black sealing-wax when the time came – when it was absolutely necessary … Little rogue! Yes, she really felt like that about it. Little rogue biting its tail just by her left ear. She could have taken it off and laid it on her lap and stroked it. She felt a tingling in her hands and arms, but that came from walking, she supposed. And when she breathed, something light and sad – no, not sad, exactly – something gentle seemed to move in her bosom. There were a number of people out this afternoon, far more than last Sunday. And the band sounded louder and gayer. That was because the Season had begun. For although the band played all the year round on Sundays, out of season it was never the same. It was like some one playing with only the family to listen; it didn’t care how it played if there weren’t any strangers present. Wasn’t the conductor wearing a new coat, too? She was sure it was new. He scraped with his foot and flapped his arms like a rooster about to crow, and the bandsmen sitting in the green rotunda blew out their cheeks and glared at the music. Now there came a little “flutey” bit – very pretty! – a little chain of bright drops. She was sure it would be repeated. It was; she lifted her head and smiled.
Only two people shared her “special” seat: a fine old man in a velvet coat, his hands clasped over a huge carved walking-stick, and a big old woman, sitting upright, with a roll of knitting on her embroidered apron. They did not speak. This was disappointing, for Miss Brill always looked forward to the conversation. She had become really quite expert, she thought, at listening as though she didn’t listen, at sitting in other people’s lives just for a minute while they talked round her. She glanced, sideways, at the old couple. Perhaps they would go soon. Last Sunday, too, hadn’t been as interesting as usual. An Englishman and his wife, he wearing a dreadful Panama hat and she button boots. And she’d gone on the whole time about how she ought to wear spectacles; she knew she needed them; but that it was no good getting any; they’d be sure to break and they’d never keep on. And he’d been so patient. He’d suggested everything – gold rims, the kind that curved round your ears, little pads inside the bridge. No, nothing would please her. “They’ll always be sliding down my nose!” Miss Brill had wanted to shake her. The old people sat on the bench, still as statues. Never mind, there was always the crowd to watch. To and fro, in front of the flower-beds and the band rotunda, the couples and groups paraded, stopped to talk, to greet, to buy a handful of flowers from the old beggar who had his tray fixed to the railings. Little children ran among them, swooping and laughing; little boys with big white silk bows under their chins, little girls, little French dolls, dressed up in velvet and lace. And sometimes a tiny staggerer came suddenly rocking into the open from under the trees, stopped, stared, as suddenly sat down “flop,” until its small high-stepping mother, like a young hen, rushed scolding to its rescue. Other people sat on the benches and green chairs, but they were nearly always the same, Sunday after Sunday, and – Miss Brill had often noticed – there was something funny about nearly all of them. They were odd, silent, nearly all old, and from the way they stared they looked as though they’d just come from dark little rooms or even – even cupboards!
Behind the rotunda the slender trees with yellow leaves down drooping, and through them just a line of sea, and beyond the blue sky with gold-veined clouds. Tum-tum-tum tiddle-um! tiddle-um! tum tiddley-um tum ta! blew the band. Two young girls in red came by and two young soldiers in blue met them, and they laughed and paired and went off arm-in-arm. Two peasant women with funny straw hats passed, gravely, leading beautiful smoke-coloured donkeys. A cold, pale nun hurried by. A beautiful woman came along and dropped her bunch of violets, and a little boy ran after to hand them to her, and she took them and threw them away as if they’d been poisoned. Dear me! Miss Brill didn’t know whether to admire that or not! And now an ermine toque and a gentleman in grey met just in front of her. He was tall, stiff, dignified, and she was wearing the ermine toque she’d bought when her hair was yellow. Now everything, her hair, her face, even her eyes, was the same colour as the shabby ermine, and her hand, in its cleaned glove, lifted to dab her lips, was a tiny yellowish paw. Oh, she was so pleased to see him – delighted! She rather thought they were going to meet that afternoon. She described where she’d been – everywhere, here, there, along by the sea. The day was so charming – didn’t he agree? And wouldn’t he, perhaps? … But he shook his head, lighted a cigarette, slowly breathed a great deep puff into her face, and even while she was still talking and laughing, flicked the match away and walked on. The ermine toque was alone; she smiled more brightly than ever. But even the band seemed to know what she was feeling and played more softly, played tenderly, and the drum beat, “The Brute! The Brute!” over and over. What would she do? What was going to happen now? But as Miss Brill wondered, the ermine toque turned, raised her hand as though she’d seen some one else, much nicer, just over there, and pattered away. And the band changed again and played more quickly, more gayly than ever, and the old couple on Miss Brill’s seat got up and marched away, and such a funny old man with long whiskers hobbled along in time to the music and was nearly knocked over by four girls walking abreast.
Oh, how fascinating it was! How she enjoyed it! How she loved sitting here, watching it all! It was like a play. It was exactly like a play. Who could believe the sky at the back wasn’t painted? But it wasn’t till a little brown dog trotted on solemn and then slowly trotted off, like a little “theatre” dog, a little dog that had been drugged, that Miss Brill discovered what it was that made it so exciting. They were all on the stage. They weren’t only the audience, not only looking on; they were acting. Even she had a part and came every Sunday. No doubt somebody would have noticed if she hadn’t been there; she was part of the performance after all. How strange she’d never thought of it like that before! And yet it explained why she made such a point of starting from home at just the same time each week – so as not to be late for the performance – and it also explained why she had quite a queer, shy feeling at telling her English pupils how she spent her Sunday afternoons. No wonder! Miss Brill nearly laughed out loud. She was on the stage. She thought of the old invalid gentleman to whom she read the newspaper four afternoons a week while he slept in the garden. She had got quite used to the frail head on the cotton pillow, the hollowed eyes, the open mouth and the high pinched nose. If he’d been dead she mightn’t have noticed for weeks; she wouldn’t have minded. But suddenly he knew he was having the paper read to him by an actress! “An actress!” The old head lifted; two points of light quivered in the old eyes. “An actress – are ye?” And Miss Brill smoothed the newspaper as though it were the manuscript of her part and said gently; “Yes, I have been an actress for a long time.” The band had been having a rest. Now they started again. And what they played was warm, sunny, yet there was just a faint chill – a something, what was it? – not sadness – no, not sadness – a something that made you want to sing. The tune lifted, lifted, the light shone; and it seemed to Miss Brill that in another moment all of them, all the whole company, would begin singing. The young ones, the laughing ones who were moving together, they would begin, and the men’s voices, very resolute and brave, would join them. And then she too, she too, and the others on the benches – they would come in with a kind of accompaniment – something low, that scarcely rose or fell, something so beautiful – moving … And Miss Brill’s eyes filled with tears and she looked smiling at all the other members of the company. Yes, we understand, we understand, she thought – though what they understood she didn’t know.
Just at that moment a boy and girl came and sat down where the old couple had been. They were beautifully dressed; they were in love. The hero and heroine, of course, just arrived from his father’s yacht. And still soundlessly singing, still with that trembling smile, Miss Brill prepared to listen. “No, not now,” said the girl. “Not here, I can’t.” “But why? Because of that stupid old thing at the end there?” asked the boy. “Why does she come here at all – who wants her? Why doesn’t she keep her silly old mug at home?” “It’s her fu-ur which is so funny,” giggled the girl. “It’s exactly like a fried whiting.” “Ah, be off with you!” said the boy in an angry whisper. Then: “Tell me, ma petite chere–” “No, not here,” said the girl. “Not yet.”
On her way home she usually bought a slice of honey-cake at the baker’s. It was her Sunday treat. Sometimes there was an almond in her slice, sometimes not. It made a great difference. If there was an almond it was like carrying home a tiny present – a surprise – something that might very well not have been there. She hurried on the almond Sundays and struck the match for the kettle in quite a dashing way. But to-day she passed the baker’s by, climbed the stairs, went into the little dark room – her room like a cupboard – and sat down on the red eiderdown. She sat there for a long time. The box that the fur came out of was on the bed. She unclasped the necklet quickly; quickly, without looking, laid it inside. But when she put the lid on she thought she heard something crying.
Song for a Sunday
I first heard Kathryn Williams’ music when house-sitting in 2004, and playing the CDs which were lying by the CD player – her album Old Low Light fast became one of my favourites, and along with her other album Little Black Numbers has stayed there. ‘Jasmine Hoop’ is from the latter album and, although I perhaps like some of her other songs a bit more, this one is beautiful, and has a proper, fancy video:
For the other Songs for a Sunday, click here.
Stuck-in-a-Book’s Weekend Miscellany
Happy Weekend, one and all – I am rising after almost twelve hours asleep, which will hopefully throw off the remainder of the cold I’ve had for a bit now. It does mean that I haven’t been reading much of late – even 
though I’m in the middle of one or two really good books – but there should be enough going on in the back of my head to cobble together a book, a blog post, and a link!
1.) The blog post – is the new(ish) site called Austen Authors, and more particularly the post by/about SiaB-favourite Diana Birchall. The site collects together lots of people who have written about Austen, or in the style of Austen. It would be too catty for my taste to call Diana’s sequel Mrs. Darcy’s Dilemma a rose among thorns, but… let’s just say her novel is inspired by Austen’s prose, and not Colin Firth’s wet shirt…
2.) The link – is to the South Asian Literature Festival, which is taking place between 15th-31st October, in London to start off, and then the rest of the UK. I know less about South Asian literature than most of you, I suspect, but I might well try and ma
ke it along to a session or two, time permitting.
3.) The book – is the forthcoming (on October 14th) autobiography by the very-much-loved Judi Dench, And Furthermore. I’m sometimes a little exasperated by celebrities who think that being famous = having writing ability, and who knows whether or not Dame J can hold her own as a prose stylist, but I think I would love this book whatever she wrote. With some people, I am besotted to the point of blindness…
Just Kidding
It’s no secret that I love the Bloomsbury Group reprints – many of which are crowded eagerly on my tbrvvs (to be read very, very soon) shelf – but today I’m going to talk about the only one I hadn’t previously read from the first batch of six. All my reviews of Bloomsbury Group reprints can be read here, and the latest to add to the fold is Wolf Mankowitz’s A Kid For Two Farthings. (Fact fans: Mankowitz was born on the same day I was, albeit sixty-one years earlier.)
It’s the shortest one so far, I think, coming in at 128pp. of fairly big type, and it’s not set in the 1930s domestic world which perhaps defines the series in my mind. Instead, this is 1950s and the East End of London. We see this world through the eyes of Joe, age six. Rather than Lady B., china tea cups, and bring-and-buy sales, we see a boxer desperate to afford an engagement ring for his girl; a poor mother longing to join her husband in Africa; and this sort of scene, picked more or less at random to give a glimpse of Joe’s surroundings:
Near Alf’s stall there was a jellied-eel stand with a big enamel bowl of grey jellied eels, small bowls for portions, a large pile of lumps of bread, and three bottles of vinegar. There was also orange-and-black winkles in little tubs, and large pink whelks. People stood around shaking vinegar on to their eels and scooping them up with bread. A ltitle thin man in a white muffler served them and sometimes dropped a large piece of eel on the ground. Behind the stand a very fat man with a striped apron and an Anthony Eden hat waved a ladle in his hand and shouted, “Best eels, fresh jellied; buy ’em and try ’em.” Over the stand a red, white and blue banner flapped. “The Eel King,” it said. The King himself never served.
What is so wonderful about the setting Mankowitz creates is that it doesn’t fall into one of two familiar traps. It’s not salt-of-the-earth, honest-‘umble-poor (thank you Mr. Dickens and Mrs. Gaskell) nor is it aiming to shock with its gritty realism and the gratuitously unpleasant (thank you Irving Welsh et al). I have never lived in the East End of London in the 1950s, but Mankowitz has – and was born in Spitalfields in 1924. (Incidentally, for a great and incredibly varied blog on Spitalfields, see Spitalfields Life). As such, his portrait in A Kid For Two Farthings is certainly fond, but not saccharine.
And ‘saccharine’ might be a word on the tip of your tongue when you read the first sentence: ‘It was thanks to Mr. Kandinsky that Joe knew a unicorn when he saw one.’ For Joe spots one at the market, and persuades Mr. Kandinsky to help him buy it. What nobody tells Joe, of course, is that his unicorn is simply a slightly deformed kid (i.e. young goat). He’s a six year old, and they don’t disillusion him – which makes him all the more certain that the unicorn’s horn will magically grant his wishes, and those of the people around him. His wishes – naturally – tie in with the everyday romantic troubles, professional anxieties, and recreational competitions that his mother and his neighbours undergo. Gradually everything falls into place…
So there are definitely fairy-tale elements to A Kid For Two Farthings, but it is Mankowitz’s observational humour – always kind, mind, never mocking – and his refusal to deny his characters their flaws, that stop the novella being too sweet. The lives of the characters are too ordinary and empathetic for that. Instead, it is affectionate and affecting – something of a treasure, and one to re-read. It may not have the instant appeal that Joyce Dennys’ Henrietta books had for me, but I can still recognise a gem that I am delighted Bloomsbury chose to reprint.
Books to get Stuck into:
The Harp in the South – Ruth Park : my favourite Australian novel, and one I read before the days of blogging, we’re in 1948 and in a slum on the other side of the world, but again amongst a flawed, realistic, and affecting family and their neighbours. Sometimes humourous, sometimes sad, always captivating.
Pulling No Punches
Ok, now that my internet is behaving most of the time, 
I’ll explain why I asked about Punch – and thanks for all your interesting responses. I recently re-read A.A. Milne’s book Once a Week (1914). It’s in a series of books by Milne that Methuen published, mostly collections of sketches and essays which had previously appeared in Punch. Although Punch ran from 1841-1992, and again from 1996-2002, in my mind it is completely associated with the 1910s, ’20s, and ’30s – when A.A. Milne was assistant editor, for instance. All my knowledge of Punch comes from Ann Thwaite’s brilliant biography A.A. Milne: His Life and Milne’s own autobiography It’s Too Late Now.
Which is why I wanted to ask you all what came to mind when you thought of Punch – and was interested to hear the differing answers. Cartoons obviously came up – and yes, you were all right that the cartoon I posted gave rise to the expression ‘curate’s egg’. It was drawn by George du Maurier, grandfather of Daphne, and is an expression/joke I’ve always found inexplicably popular. To me, it’s just not that funny. BUT, having said that, I absolutely don’t agree that certain humour is dated or of its time. Certain humour appeals to certain people, and that’s that, really. Perhaps more of those people were around in the 1910s, or whichever decade you choose, but – well, put it this way: I’d hate for anyone to think in 2060 that everyone in 2010 found Frankie Boyle funny. Just as I find him farcically unamusing now, so I find the whimsical humour of 1910s’ Punch delightful.
But Punch had quite an odd status. It was incredibly popular in its heyday, and in some ways represented the tone of the time, but even then was looked down on by many. Here’s an excerpt from Civilisation (1929) by Clive Bell (husband of Vanessa Bell – i.e. Virginia Woolf’s brother-in-law):
And obviously an Englishman who cares for beauty, truth, or knowledge, may find himself more in sympathy with a Frenchman, German, or Chinaman who shares his tastes than with a compatriot who shares those of Punch and John Bull.Q.D. Leavis – the country’s most famous snob after Margot Leadbetter – put it like this in Fiction and the Reading Public (1932):
For the crude power of the bestseller the literary novelists substitute a more civilised tone; the temperature of their writing is slightly below instead of a good deal above normal; they deal in the right kind of humour (the Punch kind), and are the best fellows in the world.And yet it was Punch magazine which came up with this rather scathing definition of the middlebrow: ‘It consists of people who are hoping that some day they will get used to the stuff they ought to like.’ (1925)
Which is all a rather convoluted way of saying that Punch doesn’t – and didn’t – really conform to any one type, or position in the national consciousness! I hope you don’t mind a meander through various books like this – it’s the bit of my research which I thought might be least dull to share.
And all this is an introduction to Once A Week by A.A. Milne! About which I am not going to say all that much about it, because the tone of Punch is more or less the same as the tone of this collection. If you love the sort of whimsy that skirts around Diary of a Nobody, or that is a very toned down Wodehouse, or… well, a grown-up Winnie-the-Pooh perhaps – then you’ll love this. It’s a collection of stories and sketches about people having fun together – arguing over cricket, or who has to order the coal. Lots of silliness, nothing too serious ever encroaching. Rereading it this time – and I read all Milne’s Punch books back in 2001 – I can see how it might wear thin for some people. The lighthearted way which the characters treat even the infancy of their child is perhaps a step too saccharine – but, on the whole, this is the sort of humour I will happily dive into.
Is it escapism? Perhaps – but I don’t really believe there is such a thing. I don’t think gritty realism is actually any more real than people being daft in a holiday cottage. It reminds me of an A.A. Milne quotation I somewhat overuse:
People are always telling me I should write about Real Life – preferably in a public house or brothel, where Life is notoriously more Real than elsewhere.If you fancy a taste of life that is real, but rather more fun and whimsical than most portrayals of it, then I think A.A. Milne’s superbly-crafted stories and sketches can scarcely be beaten. You can even read it online here. Just one word of warning – Once A Week could be considered a curate’s egg.
Punch
Oh dear, my sleep patterns are all over the place. It’s 2.20am, and I went to bed at 8.30pm, now unable to get back to sleep after waking up very thirsty. The reading I’ve been doing on Freudianism (most recently, the say-what-you’re-thinking What is Psychoanalysis? by SomebodyOrOther Corriat) tells me that one of the most basic wish-fulfilment dreams is dreaming of water/drinking when you are thirsty. To the best of my recollection, I was dreaming of the cast of Emmerdale – analyse that, Sigmund.
So, I’m writing because I’m awake (and, incidentally, quite hungry – what is the social acceptability of eating a sandwich at 2.20am?) but I did want to ask you lot a question, in preparation for a forthcoming review. That sounds very organised, doesn’t it? It isn’t really; it’s rather more a delaying tactic – but it would be lovely if you could answer it none the less.
What do you associate with Punch magazine? What are your thoughts when you hear of it? Which adjectives would you use to describe it?
For a bonus mark, and not related to the review I hope to write soon, what well-known phrase derived from the caption accompanying this image in Punch?
Writing the question reminds me that I once bought some fairly large old copies of Punch, but I haven’t the smallest idea where they are – I have a feeling they didn’t survive the house-move in 2005.
Great – so do let me know, and all will become clear. If you’re lucky, I might even tell you a Punch related joke, shamelessly stolen from my brother. And now I’m going to eat a sandwich, because I imagine that somewhere in the world it is lunchtime…
All My Sons
This is one of those posts I feel a little guilty about writing, because I’m gong to eulogise about a play which is no longer available to see… this probably won’t bother those of you who are anyhow unavailable to get to London, but I’m sorry to tease those of you who could do… because my friends Becca and Cath and I went to see the last performance of All My Sons.
I’ll start by saying that was the best thing I’ve ever seen in the theatre. I don’t have the encyclopaedic experience of theatre which some can boast – prohibitive ticket prices mean that I’m most likely to be found at RSC performances, since they have cheap tickets for young-uns. Still, I do go when I can, and was determined to see All My Sons… when I discovered Jemima Rooper was in it. She has followed me throughout my life, appearing in many of my favourite programmes – The Famous Five when I was a child; As If when I was a teenager; Lost in Austen while I’m in my twenties. What will come next, one wonders… it is certainly fitting that she has appeared in my favourite theatre experience.
All My Sons is a 1947 play by American playwright Arthur Miller, and somehow my first encounter with him. Almost everyone else seems to have read or seen The Crucible and Death of a Salesman, but Oxford’s non-American syllabus and happenstance have led to me not really knowing anything about Miller. Well, he isn’t a bucketful of laughs – it’s one of those criticism-of-the-American-Dream pieces which seemed to abound after WW2. But Miller covers a very sensitive area for the post-war world. It gradually emerges that the central man (Joe, played phenomenally by David Suchet) and his neighbour had been arrested for shipping broken aeroplane parts out to the air force – leading to the death of 21 men. Joe was acquitted; Steve was not, and is currently in jail.
Steve’s daughter Ann (the lovely Jemima Rooper) has come to stay with Joe’s family. Miller uses the technique seen in plays like The Second Mrs. Tanqueray by Arthur Pindero and The Great Broxopp by A.A. Milne, where a character is described and awaited by all and sundry before they actually appear on the scene, so Ann’s entrance is built up no end. She had been the sweetheart of Larry, Joe and Kate’s (Zoe Wanamaker) son who was lost in the war. She is now romantically involved with their other son, Chris (Stephen Campbell Moore), but they’re afraid to reveal this – because in Kate’s mind, Larry is still coming home.
This is the central emotional thread of the play, and must have been even more poignant in 1947 – coming (or refusing to come) to terms with the almost certain death of a son, when a body has never been found. The guilt of those who survived, or those who profitted by the war – and everyone trying to piece life back together. Then there is the question of what is and what is not honourable in wartime – and the relative importance of family and country. It’s all in there.
Miller’s structure could probably be quite easily dissected. He is a fan of the set piece, or the dramatic twist, and these push All My Sons through its various scenarios. But there is so much more than plot on offer – the emotional journeys of each character are beautifully drawn, and were brilliantly realised by an astonishingly good cast. The play was advertised as having David Suchet and Zoe Wanamaker in its lead roles – and, indeed, if David Suchet doesn’t win all manner of awards then it would be a travesty; having only seen him as Poirot, I was not aware of his range – but this is definitely an ensemble piece. The four central actors have fairly equal amounts of material, and worked so well together that I don’t think I ever want to see the play again – it could never live up to this precedent.
Of course, I am biased in Jemima Rooper’s direction, and it was thrilling to see on stage an actress I love so much. But everyone was strikingly good – both halves of the play were pacy and gripping, and that is said by someone with quite a short attention sp— sorry, what were we talking about? (A-ha-ha.) It certainly wasn’t cheap, but I wouldn’t have missed it for anything – although the nature of plays, unlike books or films, is transitory, I will cling on to the memories I have of All My Sons – it has become the benchmark against which I will measure future visits to the theatre.
Oh, and it wasn’t just me – Cath and Becca loved it, and the audience gave it a standing ovation. (See also Michael Billington’s appreciative Guardian review.) I’m sorry that the chance has passed to see this performance, but perhaps one of the filmed versions is worth seeing…?
Song for a Sunday
This song (I Don’t Know by Lisa Hannigan) makes me happy – I’m a sucker for songs with strings on them. And the video is sweet and fun.
If the voice sounds familiar, that might be because she used to sing the backing stuff on Damien Rice’s albums.
Stuck-in-a-Book’s Weekend Miscellany
You’ll be pleased to know that my internet is behaving itself this weekend – even if my body is not, as I seem to have caught the cold which is going around my house. So yesterday I did very little indeed, conserving my energy for going to London l
ater today to see Arthur Miller’s All My Sons, which should be fun. Also fun (notice that seamless transition?) are links, books, and blog posts…
1.) The blog post – is from author Tom Lappin. Some of you might remember when I wrote about his novel Parties ages and ages ago – and a very good novel it was too. Anyway, Tom emailed this week to say that he’s writing a blog which is kind of the novel which (in Parties) Beatrice writes about Richard. All very meta, and probably enjoyable too – click here for more.
2.) The link – Legend Press and The Reading Agency have joined forces to give away up to a thousand copies of five novels to reading groups – click here for more. Reading groups are up there with whiskers on kittens 
(KITTENS!) and brown paper packages tied up with string – i.e., they’re one of my favourite things, and anything done to support them by publishers is fantastic in my eyes. (Hmm… maybe a blog post is brewing there – watch this space.)
3.) The book – is Justine Picardie’s biography of Coco Chanel, called Coco Chanel: The Legend and the Life. I haven’t seen the recent films about her, and don’t know much about the woman – nor do I often read biographies of anyone except authors, but I think I might well make an exception and immerse myself in this one later…