25 Books in 25 Days: #14 Touching the Rock

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I’m out four nights of the next five, so I’m slightly nervous about how I’m going to fit the week’s reading in… but today I didn’t have much on after church, so I could take my time over Touching the Rock (1990) by John M. Hull. I was aware of the book, because Oliver Sacks writes about it in The Mind’s Eye and elsewhere, but it was a recommendation from my friend Sanjay that made me actually go and get a copy.

The subtitle of this memoir is ‘An experience of blindness’, and that’s exactly what it was. Hull had various issues with his eyesight for his whole life, but it was in his early forties – with two children and a third shortly to be born – that he lost his sight completely. By the time he was writing the book, he could no longer even tell light from dark.

A day on which it was merely warm would, I suppose, be quite a nice day but thunder makes it more exciting, because it suddenly gives a sense of space and distance. Thunder puts a roof over my head, a very high, vaulted ceiling of rumbling sound. I realise that I am in a big place, whereas before there was nothing there at all. The sighted person always has a roof overhead, in the form of the blue sky or the clouds, or the stars at night. The same is true for the blind person of the sound of the wind in the trees. It creates trees; one is surrounded by trees wheres before there was nothing.

Each section is dated, and it’s sort of a diary – but it’s really a collection of descriptions, reactions, and philosophy about being blind. And it’s done in such a fascinating way. He writes about how other people react, and how they get it right or wrong – from treating him like a child to guiding him incorrectly. He writes about his young children gradually growing to understand why daddy can’t see. And he describes his understanding of the world so patiently and ably – about how concepts of space and time completely change; how small talk and friendships become different entities. He also talks about his faith and God, though less than I had expected.

The title is about ‘touching the rock on the other side of despair’. If there is despair, and I’m sure there was, he somehow manages to keep the book almost absent of it. He has the accuracy of the scientist with the slow, unfolding narrative of the storyteller, and the stark honesty of the memoirist. It’s an extraordinary book.

25 Books in 25 Days: #13 Turtle Diary

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I first heard of Turtle Diary (1975) by Russell Hoban when looking for films made in the year I was born (the adaptation was made in 1985). I didn’t watch it in the end, but it did make me pick up the book a couple of years ago – and, of course, I couldn’t resist a lovely NYRB Classics edition.

The novel is told in alternate chapters by Neaera H and William G, two middle-aged people who are feeling rather lost. Neaera writes and illustrates children’s books and has a pet water beetle; William is feeling lonely as he tries to get used to being divorced and living in a boarding house. Both are drawn to London Zoo – particularly to the turtle enclosure. And both want to set the turtles free into the ocean.

This is exactly what happens – they get a sympathetic zookeeper on side, hire a van, and take the turtles to the ocean in Cornwall. What’s so brilliant about Hoban’s novel is that this isn’t a joyful passage of discovery, or a road trip where they learn to love each other. They both remain awkward and with their unhappinesses. The moment is not as life-changing as they think – it is not the culmination of the novel; we see the anti-climax afterwards. It is a very human story of real people, who cannot shed their disillusions, however extraordinary a moment in their lives may be.

Hoban is a fantastic writer. I enjoyed how often literary and movie references were brought in, remembered or half-remembered by the respective narrators. And he has such an observational turn of phrase and clever use of simile. Not just for the human characters but, aptly enough, for the animals – so I’ll leave you with this depiction of a sandpiper:

At the Waders Aviary a little sandpiper who would never have allowed me to come that close in real life perched on a sign a foot away from me and stared. He knew that he was safe because the wire mesh of the cage was between us. He has lost his innocence. He appeared to have lost a leg as well, and for a long time stood steadfastly on the one very slender remaining member whilst looking at me through half-closed eyes. Having kept me there for nearly half an hour he revealed a second leg that matched that other perfectly, then flew down to the sand and entertained a lady sandpiper with an elegant little dance that seemed done less for the lady than for the thing itself. He made his legs even longer and thinner than they were, drew himself up quite tall in his small way, spread his wings, wound himself up and produced a noise like a tiny paddle-wheel boat whilst flapping his wings stiffly and with formal regularity. At the same time he executed some very subtle steps almost absent-mindedly, with the air of one who could be blindingly nimble if he let himself go. The lady watched attentively. At a certain point, as if by mutual agreement that the proprieties had been observed, he stopped dancing, she stopped watching. They went their separate ways like two people at a cocktail party.

25 Books in 25 Days: #12 Another Time, Another Place

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I knew that my friend Phoebe had given me Another Time, Another Place (1983) by Jessie Kesson as a birthday present, but I hadn’t remembered that it was as far back as 2015. In my head it was last year. Well, this project and its 120 pages are good bedfellows, and I’ve now read it.

Times like these, the young women felt imprisoned within the circumference of a field. Trapped by the monotony of work that wearied the body and dulled the mind. Rome had been taken. The Allies had landed in Normandy, she’d heard that on the wireless. ‘News’ that had caused great excitement in the bothy, crowded with friends, gesticulating in wild debate. Loud voices in dispute. Names falling casually from their tongues, out of books from her school-room days. The Alban Hills. The Tibrus…. ‘O Tibrus. Father Tibrus. To whom the Romans pray…’ Even in her schooldays, those names had sounded unreal. Outdistanced by centuries, from another time. Another place. The workers in the fields made no mention of such happenings. All their urgency was concentrated on reaching the end riggs at the top of the field. The long line of army jeeps roaring down along the main road provided nothing more than a moment for straightening their backs, never impinging on the consciousness of the turnip field.

The story is set in 1944, as three Italian prisoners of war start working as farmhands in a remote part of Scotland – and the effect this has on the various inhabitants of the village.

I’m just going to leave this one with the quote, I think. Because the writing was often rather lovely – but I found it quite hard to work out exactly what was going on. One character seemed to die, and then appeared again… Anyway, I enjoyed it for the atmosphere and the beautiful turns of phrase, and perhaps someone can explain what happens to me.

25 Books in 25 Days: #11 The Other Mitford

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I’m so glad people are enjoying these posts – I was a bit worried the flurry would get a little much. And I think today’s is among the longest I’ve read this week – I hadn’t realised quite how many words were on each of the 180 pages. The book in question is The Other Mitford: Pamela’s Story (2012) by Diana Alexander, given to me for my birthday last year by my friend Malie.

My Mitford mania started back in 2008, when I read the collection of letters between the sisters – still one of my favourite books. Since then, I’ve read bits and pieces by many of them, though never actually any of those long books devoted to all the family. Still, the details are ingrained in my mind – Nancy the novelist, Diana the Fascist, Jessica the Communist, Unity the Nazi, and Debo the Duchess. In the background, quieter the rest, is ‘the other Mitford’ – Pamela, who was a countrywoman at heart.

The Other Mitford is very engagingly written, and it certainly helps that the author knew Pamela personally (initially as her cleaner, and then as her friend). I really enjoyed it – but the structure is odd. Huge amounts are about the other sisters, often having a chapter about them followed by a chapter looking at Pamela during the same period. It’s useful for those who haven’t read anything about the Mitford sisters before, but a little redundant for those who have. And then there are a handful of chapters at the end which look at different aspects of Pamela’s personality – which means there are some aspects of her life that end up being repeated three times.

Throughout it all, or almost all, Pamela remains elusive. I still don’t feel like I know very much about her, and crisis moments like the break up of her marriage to Derek Jackson pass by in a line or two. Only when she is an old woman, and Diana Alexander knew her personally, does she really become truly vivid – as a thrify, kindly, stubborn grande dame of the village. The book is worth reading for those sections alone – but, as I say, enjoyable throughout. I just wish it had been a bit more about Pamela who, even here in her own book, remains rather overshadowed by her more dramatic sisters.

25 Books in 25 Days: #10 As Far As Jane’s Grandmother’s

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I hope these 25 Books in 25 Days posts aren’t getting tedious for people? Nearly halfway! And today I wasn’t sure if I was going to find time to read As Far As Jane’s Grandmother’s (1928) by Edith Olivier, particularly since I’d had an aborted attempt to read it a couple of years ago. As it turns out, I liked it much more this time around.

It was the limit of their nursery walks, and all through their lives it remained for them the most explicit measure of distance.

The title refers to the distance that Jane usually travels as a child – no further than her grandmother’s. If memory serves from Anna Thomasson’s excellent A Curious Friendship, the phrase was one Edith used in her own life. In the novel, though, it takes on a second meaning – the metaphorical parameters of life determined by Jane’s grandmother, outside which she cannot pass. Having had a childhood and young womanhood circumscribed by what her grandmother believes moral and correct, the book shows us people entering Jane’s life who might transform it – whether friends or lovers, or even a nunnery. And will she ever be able to escape the role set out for her?

I’ve now read all of Olivier’s novels (there aren’t that many), and none come close to The Love Child, her first. This one followed a year later, and I think is my second favourite – what made the first so special was a sort of fairytale naivety that she could never quite recapture, but this is a very engaging novel nonetheless. I think it would fit alongside many of the green-spined Virago Modern Classics.

25 Books in 25 Days: #9 Tell It To A Stranger

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When I go to an independent bookshop, I try to always buy a book – to support them. And in 2009 in Woodstock, I bought Tell It To A Stranger (1947/1949) by Elizabeth Berridge. Both those dates are there, as the book selects stories from two collections – but I think it’s chiefly 1947. Now, I read the first half of this earlier in the year, but finished it today (which technically fits my ‘finish 25 books in 25 days’ motto). Look, I was at dinner and the theatre after work today, so I didn’t have much time.

The stories here are often about the effects of war – whether that is loneliness or readjusting to the old life or grief. Berridge draws so sharply, encasing dramatic moments in the everyday lives of ordinary people so subtly that you almost don’t realise until they’re upon you. It’s as though you’re scanning across a pleasant domestic scene and suddenly notice that somebody has a knife in their back.

In a quick review, I can’t summarise each story – and I think that might almost be pointless. Rather, I shall just say that Berridge is a very adept crafter of stories and I heartily recommend the collection, perhaps spacing them out a little. I’ve got a few of her novels on my shelves too, so it’ll be interesting to see if Angus Wilson (who wrote the preface) is right, and she is equally adept at both.

25 Books in 25 Days: #8 Death in the Clouds

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I thought it might be nearer the end of the 25 days when I started depending on the addictive joy of Agatha – but I could resist no longer, and picked up Death in the Clouds (1935) by Agatha Christie. It’s a relatively early Poirot novel, and thus I could feel relatively assured of it being a good’un.

The murder takes place, as the title suggests, on a plane – called the Prometheus – and Madame Giselle is discovered dead. The only sign is a puncture mark on her neck – and so all the passengers are under suspicion. Well, all except one – because Hercule Poirot happens to be on the flight.

We follow the usual twists and turns of a Poirot novel, and my foolish belief that I’d worked out the ending turned out (but of course) not to be true. Sadly no Hastings or Ariadne Oliver, both of whom I love and always want to pop up in a Poirot, but it’s a neat murder mystery with all the clues laid out well – if only the reader is able to spot them… And there’s the good fun of a detective novelist, Clancy, on board – with Agatha Christie obviously enjoying teasing the profession. Here’s Inspector Japp on the topic:

“These detective-story writers… always making the police out to be fools… and getting their procedure all wrong. Why, if I were to say the things to my super that their inspectors say to superintendents I should be thrown out of the Force tomorrow on my ear. Set of ignorant scribblers! This is just the sort of damn-fool murder that a scribbler of rubbish would think he could get away with.”

25 Books in 25 Days: #7 Two By Two

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Lovers of irony, listen up. For my 25 Books project, I’ve been choosing the next day’s book before I go to bed. And I chose Two By Two (1963) by David Garnett, a retelling of Noah and the flood. Imagine my DELIGHT when I was going to bed… and discovered my immersion heater was leaking water. My very own flood! Cue my dependable and nice plumber, and lord knows how many books worth of money. Eek! Still, later today I sat down with Two By Two, which I bought in 2014.

I’ve read Lady Into Fox many times, and wrote a lot about it in my thesis, but I’ve not read much else by Garnett. This novella comes relatively late in his very long career – and he reimagines Noah and the Ark from the perspective of Niss and Fan. They’re two teenage girls who get by through hunting – but determine to stowaway on the ark when they think there might just be something in this crazy plan of Noah’s.

Much of the rest of the novella is about Niss and Fan trying to avoid detection on the ark (Noah and his family aren’t shown as benevolent as in other accounts), and interacting with the other animals. It treads the line between whimsy and darkness slightly uneasily, but I think that might just be because of the length. The perfect novella – like A Lost Lady by Willa Cather from earlier this week, for example – couldn’t be any longer without losing the power. With Two By Two, I’m not sure there is quite the power in its brevity – I think it should have been longer. And it’s not often you’ll hear me say that about a book!

And here are the opening lines:

In the days before the Flood, when even the smallest babies were antediluvian, there was a pair of twins who were nobody’s business. Their father was old even for those days and claimed that when he was a boy he had stolen apples from a tree grown from a pip that Eve had saved when she was turned out of Eden. Their mother had been a girl friend of Methuselah’s before her marriage. 

25 Books in 25 Days: #6 Patricia Brent, Spinster

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I’ve been re-reading today – Patricia Brent, Spinster (1918) by Herbert Jenkins, for the next episode of ‘Tea or Books?’ I shan’t spoil too much before that episode, but I will say that I loved it just as much the second time around – and a Saturday spent mostly lazing around and reading with a cat on my lap has been just dandy.

Since it’s a weekend, I’ll also share a few links alongside this post…

1.) I love The Truman Show, and I found this Vanity Fair article behind the scenes extremely interesting. Can you believe it’s been 20 years since it came out?!

2.) I also love Brandi Carlile, and she has a new album out. Check out the amazing song ‘The Joke’, which also has a great video.

3.) Apparently (according to The Cooler podcast), the song that was #1 on your 14th birthday essentially characterises your life. I got ‘Lift Me Up’ by Geri Halliwell – make of that what you will.

4.) Please enjoy the Google Reviews on the Atlantic Ocean – sort to ‘worst rated’ and have a great afternoon. The same can be done for all sorts of historical sites and geographical landmarks.

5.) Champions has debuted on Netflix, after a network series. I think it’s a really fun sitcom, and will have to take the place of Great News, which was too good for this world and got axed. (Check that out too, if you can – it was the funniest sitcom, in terms of writing, on air.)

25 Books in 25 Days: #5 Blow Up the Castle

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When I was in Canada last year, Darlene kindly gave me a couple of books – one of which was Blow Up the Castle (2011) by Margaret Moffatt. You can read Darlene’s thoughts about it on her blog; in brief, it’s about three vicars with very similar names (Peabody, Peacock, and Peasly) and tells of their lives. It’s more or less a collection of short anecdotes or witty events, rather than a novel as such, set in 1930s England.

In amongst all the little jokes and curious events, I have to put a word in for somebody mistakenly entering ‘The Lost Slipper’ into an art competition to depict The Last Supper…