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.
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!
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!):
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?
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!
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.
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.
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…
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.
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.
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…