1960s

Omar by Wilfrid Blunt (25 Books in 25 Days #12)

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Ok, I really like this one. I can’t remember quite why I picked it off a shelf in 2013, but I’m pretty sure I’ll have bought it because of that wonderful cover – and because it’s about a theme that I’m interested in: fantastically anthropomorphised animals. Indeed, I wrote a section of my DPhil thesis on this, and bought this novel about a month after I submitted my final thesis. Thank goodness, being published in 1966, that Omar by Wilfrid Blunt was too late to be relevant for my remit anyway.

That cover illustration is by John Verney, and does a good job of selling the novel – but also leaps about halfway through it! The subtitle ‘a fantasy for animal lovers’ is also apt, and the narrator is certainly that. She is Rose Bavistock – an unmarried woman approaching fifty years old. She has recently lost her father (after complications when an otter bit him), but isn’t unduly upset. Animals mean a lot more to her than people do. She has had many and various pets, and enjoys the more exotic ones. So she is quite excited when she is given a bandersnatch, which she names Omar.

Blunt has borrowed the name ‘bandersnatch’ from Lewis Carroll (now perhaps more famous as a Black Mirror episode), but the novel claims that it is the same as the hyrax. Look up the hyrax; they’re cute! Anyway, after initially biting her, Omar becomes an affectionate pet and companion. But Rose starts to wonder if he is more intelligent than he lets on…

When she discovers that he knows some English, and can even read it, she is astonished. But that is just the beginning of the marvel…

I expected to like this, given my love for fantastic literature (I disagree with his use of ‘fantasy’ in the subtitle, but that’s one for people interested in fantasy theory). And I did more than like it – the novel is so charming. It was published in 1966, but reads more like a book from thirty years earlier. There is a certain nostalgic element to the novel, and Rose’s life is almost as atavistic as Omar’s. The twists that follow the revelation of the fantastic are handled well, and sustain the original conceit.

The only thing I’d mention, in comparing it to other novels in this genre like His Monkey Wife by John Collier and Appius and Virginia by G.E. Trevelyan, is that this is not a parable or fable. It doesn’t comment on its current society or contemporary anxieties, at least so far as I can tell. There’s no reason why it should, I suppose, but fantastic novels that do do that tend to have a little more depth. Omar is self-contained with very little to say about the world. It’s no the less charming for that, but it is a curio, seemingly divorced from context. And I’m very glad that I got it down from the shelf.

The Carlyles at Home by Thea Holme (25 Books in 25 Days: #8)

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Today, I read The Carlyles at Home (1965) by Thea Holme in order to participate with Jessie’s Persephone Readathon. I don’t remember when I picked this one, but I suspect it’s been on my shelves for quite a few years.

I know very little about Thomas Carlyle – or, rather, I knew very little about him. I knew he was a historian, and that was about it. I certainly haven’t read anything by him. Somewhere or other, I had picked up the idea that he didn’t treat his wife Jane very well – but that was something that had become exaggerated in my mind, for whatever reason. According to The Carlyles at Home, Jane had a life that wasn’t noticeably more difficult than that of other Victorian wives in high society (and without much income) – which is not to say those lives weren’t hard, of course. But she was not the ill-treated woman I’d imagined.

Holme’s book is divided thematically, and then organised seemingly at random. There are sections on the Carlyles’ servants, on dress, on an extention they built on top of the house, on the garden. It is all thoroughly researched and told in an engaging, almost conversational manner. I suppose, ultimately, the amount to which you find the book interesting is strongly proportional to the amount to which you find the Carlyles interesting (and, to a lesser degree, the period).

I have to admit that I don’t find them especially interesting, and I don’t have the same fascination for the late 19th century that I do for the early 20th century. So I could certainly appreciate the way in which this was told, particularly when Holme pulls humour out of anecdotes relayed in the Carlyles’ letters (I loved the saga of the young women next door and their annoying piano playing) – but I don’t think I was the ideal audience by any means. If it had been about Virginia and Leonard Woolf, told with the same style and skill with an anecdote, then I’d have found it glorious. So – take that as you will!

One thing I did love was the illustrations which were at the top of each chapter, by Lynton Lamb – including the one at the top of this post.

Stoner by John Williams #1965Club

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Everybody was reading Stoner by John Williams about seven years ago, largely because Vintage Books sent a review copy to pretty much everyone in the known universe. According to Kim’s review for the 1965 club, it was also the toast of the book blogging world around 2005, but that was before I joined it. Well, better late than never, I’ve finally read it – and isn’t it brilliant?

I had put it off for ages because all I knew about it was (a) it was set in a university, and (b) it was called Stoner. So perhaps naturally, I’d assumed it was about drug-taking. Mais non – Stoner is, rather, the lead character in this novel that looks at his life from studenthood and though the following decades.

Stoner has left a farming family for the bright lights of university – leaving the agriculture course for the English literature course, once he discovers his deep love for that subject. At the same time, he thinks he may have fallen in love with the beautiful, distant Edith. She gives him little encouragement, but he is beguiled, and they marry.

It is not a successful marriage – but it does produce a daughter, Grace, to whom Stoner is patiently devoted, and whom he almost single-handedly looks after in her infancy.

The trials of an impetuous marriage are one strand of the novel; the other is Stoner’s career as an English lecturer. He is, at first, competent but little more. I loved reading about his transformation into an inspiring teacher:

When he lectured, he now and then found himself so lost in his subject that he became forgetful of his inadequacy, of himself, and even of the students before him. Now and then he became so caught by his enthusiasm that he stuttered, gesticulated, and ignored the lecture notes that usually guided his talks. At first he was disturbed by his outbursts, as if he presumed too familiarly upon his subject, and he apologised to his students; but when they began coming up to him after class, and when in their papers they began to show hints of imagination and the revelation of a tentative love, he was encouraged to do what he had never been taught to do. The love of literature, language, of the mystery of the mind and heart showing themselves in the minute, strange, and unexpected combinations of letters and words, in the blackest and coldest print – the love which he had hidden as if it were illicit and dangerous, he began to display, tentatively at first, and then boldly, and then proudly.

I suspect Williams shared Stoner’s love of literature and of studying it – or, if not, is very good at conveying it. It reminded me of the most glorious moments of revelation I felt while studying. Any writer who can manage to put across the wonder of literature is doing something great in my book.

But things are not so simple here, either. He has friends in the department, but he also makes an enemy – one with long-lasting effects on his personal and professional lives.

Those lives are distinct throughout much of Stoner, not least because his wife has very limited interest in his career. I wondered if this was a fault of the novel, but I suppose it rings true. Many of his find that the traits we have in the workplace do not quite translate outside of it, and perhaps it is accurate that Stoner’s determined enthusiasm in the classroom finds its opposite in his passivity within marriage. He is certainly a rounded and convincing character – so sympathetic, and yet often frustrating.

Above all, Stoner is stunningly written. The prose is somehow beautiful and poetic without ever seeming to stray from everyday language. It is an amazing combination, and I don’t know how he achieves – nor how he makes this gradually unwinding portrait of a man and his environment so compelling to read.

The only significant criticism I have it is that Edith, his wife, is less well drawn. Her character is always a little undeveloped, and her nature changes so often and so violently that she often seems only a foil for the next stage of Stoner’s life. The psychology behind her actions is often explained, but never quite as convincing as the totally believable motivations (good or bad) behind everything Stoner says and does.

But, yes, I can see why this was such a success when reprinted – and I’m thrilled that the 1965 Club meant I finally read it.

I. Compton-Burnett by Charles Burkhart – #1965Club

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Ivy Compton-Burnett didn’t publish a book in 1965 – indeed, she didn’t publish one after 1963, except posthumously – but that’s no reason why I can’t find a way to sneak her into the 1965 Club. Because thankfully Charles Burkhart published a book all about her in that year. He seems to have written several books about ICB, and who can blame him, but this one is stridently called I. Compton-Burnett. (Incidentally, he is not the musicologist, so far as I can tell.)

This book is low on pages (about 130), but each is jam-packed with text, so it’s not quite as short as it initially seems. In it, Burkhart attempts an overview of all of ICB’s writing, identifying the main characteristics of it and, fairly often, defending her against prevailing opinion. His expertise in her work is quite dizzying, and it makes for a very satisfying inquiry – even if I did have to skim past quite a bit, having still got nine of her books to read,

The opening is of especial interest for the 1965 Club, as it attempts to set the literary scene. While asking why she is so well-reviewed and so little read, Burkhart also makes a few comments about the state of 1965:

Advertising is one of the typical arts of our age; and since it is a noisy age, there is a sustained shout of superlatives for every new product, whether of the literary imagination or the soap manufacturer. On the dust jackets of their books, all writers are praised; because the ‘soft sell’ has not yet reached the publishing world, the same tired troop (“remarkable”, “powerful”, “stirring”, and so on) are deployed for every first novel about sensitive adolescence, every raw and wriggling specimen of neo-romantic neo-brutalism. The babble of adjectives is sustained at such intensity, especially in America, that it tends to move right out of the range of human hearing. It is charity to suppose that this was the intention.

Every age considers itself frighteningly modern, of course, and these censures have only increased. But what is interesting is his identification of her novels as portraying the ‘eccentric family’, and doing so eccentrically – and seeing how eccentricity is considered by the critics and the masses. It is a very intelligent and well-judged exploration that makes no assumptions.

He goes on to consider the archetypal plots of ICB novels – tyrants, secrets, secrets being revealed, neighbours prying etc. – but is quick to say that they are not all the same, and nor are all the characters or their dialogue amorphous. I have been guilty of saying that her novels are all alike, but Burkhart is correct. Compton-Burnett’s signature is always clear, but the characters are almost always fully-formed, and the dialogue filled with individual traits. They perhaps all have the same unworldly register, but retain their own idiolects nonetheless. As he points out, in disputing the idea that her characters are characterless, the reader is never in any doubt about what any one character thinks about any other. Considering her households are always filled with many people (often around 20), this is extremely impressive. He also quotes Frank Kermode, who describe how conversations progress in ICB’s novels perfectly: “by exploiting in each remark unobvious logical and syntactical implications in the previous one”.

After looking at various themes (religion, ethos, money etc.), the final chapter looks at each novel in turn – assessing their quality, highlighting their successes, and reminding me of which I have or haven’t read.

I. Compton-Burnett is certainly not an introduction to that author – it only really works if you’ve read a substantial number of her novels already, and perhaps is only truly for the person who has read everything ICB wrote. But I loved it. Such an indulgence to read somebody who appreciates ICB as much as I do, and knows her work far more intimately. How I agree with him when he says “in comparison with her writing[,] most other modern writing seems unfinished, its aim diffuse and its style impure”. I’m not sure he answers the question that you might be able to make out in the photo above – Burkhart makes no grand conclusions about ICB’s greatness or the likelihood of her longevity. Judging by the fact that she is completely out of print in the UK (I think), it’s not looking good for her posterity in 2065 – but she has her devoted audience still, and this book would be a welcome addition to any of their libraries.

The Mandelbaum Gate by Muriel Spark #1965Club

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I hadn’t realised I was quite so close to the end of Muriel Spark’s prolific output – having read The Mandelbaum Gate for the 1965 Club, I’ve now read 19 of her 22 novels. Yep, I like Spark a lot. And one of the things I tend to like about her is how much she packs into a short work. Many of her books are around 200 pages or fewer – whereas The Mandelbaum Gate is just a few pages shy of 400. How would I feel about one of her longest books?

Sometimes, instead of a letter to thank his hostess, Freddy Hamilton would compose a set of formal verses – rondeaux, redoubles, villanelles, rondels, or Sicilian octaves – to express his thanks neatly. It was part of his modest nature to do this. He always felt he had perhaps been boring during his stay, and it was one’s duty in life to be agreeable. Not so much at the time as afterwards, he felt it keenly on his conscience that he had said no word between the soup and the fish when the bright talk began; he felt at fault in retrospect of the cocktail hours when he had contributed nothing but the smile for which he had been renowned in his pram and, in the following fifty years, elsewhere.

That’s the opening paragraph, and we are immediately in Spark territory. Who else would have written that final bit? And who else would start off a novel with a quirky, irrelevant meandering about different forms of poetry. Freddy has something like diplomatic immunity, and crosses back and forth between Israel and Jordan – through the Mandelbaum gate – through which many others cannot pass. (By the way, the gate was named after a man who owned a nearby house, and so it sneaks into #ProjectNames by stealth.)

One of the people who probably should be more cautious about passing through the gate is Barbara Vaughan, a ‘half-Jewish Catholic’ who has followed her archaeologist fiancé out to the Holy Land. As a character points out, you can’t be half-Jewish – as her mother was Jewish, so was she – but Barbara is a keen Catholic who is awaiting confirmation about whether or not her fiancé’s first marriage can be annulled by the church.

And, indeed, something happens to her. In true Spark style, the moment is thrown into conversation casually, sometime after it has happened – before we dart back and forth in time and location. To add to the confusion, Freddy suffers temporary memory loss (perhaps because of sunstroke; perhaps because of something more sinister), and so when he is the ‘future’ section, he can’t remember what we have yet to learn in the ‘past’ section.

If you’ve read much Spark, you’ll be familiar with how she plays fast and loose with narrative conventions, and particularly the idea that things should be relayed in chronological order. In most of her novels, the narrator will throw in prolepsis that reveals, in a darting moment, something that might have been the denouement in the hands of another writer. Well, if she does that in a 200 page novel, she does it doubly so in a 400 page novel. I’m not going to lie – I was often quite confused, but I went with it.

Because what made The Mandelbaum Gate enjoyable is what makes most of her novels enjoyable – the peculiar characters, never quite behaving how you expect. The wry narrative voice that doesn’t trouble to make things too easy for the reader. And delightful turns of phrase. Always expect the unexpected.

It did feel to read something set in Israel and Jordan, and it is very concretely set in a particular time – 1961, to be precise, during the trial of Adolf Eichmann, which makes occasional appearances in the background. The cast of characters goes far beyond Freddy and Barbara, and I was particularly fond of Alexandros, a shopkeeper who has befriended Freddy.

As I said, I didn’t always know what was going on, and the disorientation is at least partly deliberate. And I don’t think The Mandelbaum Gate is quite the same success that her shorter novels can be – but I enjoyed it a lot more than I thought I might. I thought Spark’s powers and peculiarities might be spread far too thinly over a longer book – but she sustained them in an admirable, if not quite as perfect, a way.

 

-time

The Hand of Mary Constable by Paul Gallico

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As mentioned previously, when I’ve written about Paul Gallico, he is an extremely versatile novelist. And, indeed, a prolific one. This is great – but does mean you never quite know what you’re going to get if, like me, you try not to read blurbs before you start a book. So, when I picked up The Hand of Mary Constable (1964), I didn’t have much to go on. The cover is just wording, and so my preconceptions of the book were based largely on connotations of the title – and I had assumed it was a ghost story. (I also didn’t realise that it was a sequel to Too Many Ghosts, which I own and have not read, but it turns out that the stories are pretty separate.) And I guess it sort of is, but mostly isn’t.

Here’s the opening paragraph:

The sheet of paper clutched in the hand of a backward twisting arm was being jiggled in front of the face of Alexander Hero, investigator for the Society of Psychical Research of Great Britain, and roused him from the doze into which he had fallen. The air in the B.O.A.C. jet airliner had that stale smell of narrow confines, too long occupied by human beings engaged in eating, drinking and sleeping.

I wonder quite why Gallico thought that a good name for his hero was Hero – it feels a bit like a stopgap name – but here he is. He is handsome, intelligent, and (importantly) simultaneously open to ideas of psychical research and keen to crack down on frauds. I liked that touch. Having a hardened cynic would have been less interesting than somebody who is chiefly motivated by the wish to rule out false options, to discover if psychical contact is possible.

Hero has been called over to America, from England, to investigate something – though he doesn’t know what. When he arrives, and talks to various people in the FBI, he learns that Professor Constable has been inducted into a circle of spiritualists who claim that they have contact with his deceased ten-year-old daughter. Mary Constable – for ’tis she, of the title – has apparently been speaking through the Bessmers, and has left (as proof) a wax cast of her hand. This cast even has her fingerprints on it. Is it genuine contact, or is it connected with a slightly confusing plot line about how Constable has influence over a nuclear deal with the Russians?

The Hand of Mary Constable could probably be considered a literary thriller, and there are certainly bits that pretty thrillery. There are even bits that have a James Bond seduction element to them. Those aren’t genres that I usually rush towards, but the mix of that with Gallico’s intriguingly quirky look at spiritualism made me really enjoy reading this book. He brings the sense of the darkly fantastic that made me love his novel Love of Seven Dolls, and is certainly good at creating scenarios that combine the strange and the pacy.

I shan’t spoil the ending, but it did get a little too drawn out with all explanations – the novel would have been unsatisfying without proper explanations, but I wish he’d found a subtler or more concise way to include it all – but I still think #ProjectNames is off to a good start, and I continue to find Gallico an intriguing and unusual writer.

Cassandra at the Wedding by Dorothy Baker

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The always-reliable Daunt Books have recently reprinted Cassandra at the Wedding (1962) by Dorothy Baker – and it inspired me to get my copy down off the shelf. Mine is a Virago Modern Classic that I bought in London in 2011 – not my first Baker novel, that was Young Man With a Horn, but I’d heard great things about this one. And it is, indeed, great.

I told them I could be free by the twenty-first, and that I’d come home the twenty-second. (June.) But everything went better than I expected – I had all the examinations corrected and graded and returned to the office by ten the morning of the twenty-first, and I went back to the apartment feeling so foot-loose, so restless, that I started having some second thoughts. It’s only a five-hour drive from the University to the ranch, if you move along – if you don’t stop for orange juice every fifty miles the way we used to, Judith and I, our first two years in college, or at bars, the way we did later, after e’d studied how to pass for over twenty-one at under twenty. As I say, if you move, if you push a little, you can get from Berkeley to our ranch in five hours, and the reason why we never cared to in the old days was that we had to work up to home life by degrees, steel ourselves somewhat for the three-part welcome we were in for from our grandmother and our mother and our father, who loved us fiercely in three different ways. We loved them too, six different ways, but we mostly took our time about getting home.

This is the long, winding opening paragraph – it’s Cassandra speaking. She is driving home for her twin sister’s wedding – and she hasn’t seen her twin, Judith, for nine months, after previously being constantly together. In case that “only a five-hour drive” didn’t clue you in, they’re in America. Cassandra hasn’t met her sister’s fiancee, and she hides her uncertainty and wariness behind a show of ironic bravado.

The plot of the novel is pretty slight – though there are also a few dramatic moments in among the everyday. It is all about the characters, and the way they try to understand and relate to each other. Cassandra is spiky and a little unkind, pretending not to remember Judith’s fiancee’s name and dropping in hints that she could still give up on the wedding; Judith is patient but also keen to assert her independence. Their grandmother hovers in a manner that is both conciliatory and domineering. There is always the spectre (not literally) of their dead mother – whom they always refer to only by her first name.

It’s a truly extraordinary novel. Baker is so subtle, so brilliant in both the narrative and the dialogue. Inch by inch, she unveils the characters and their similar but slightly colliding worlds. And, my goodness, she is good at twins. I was surprised to discover she was an only child, as she she perfectly understands the complex relationship of twins. How they (we) tread the path of being separate people but with identities that cannot be entirely separated – and the joy and, occasionally, the pain of establishing those dynamics in adult life. Cassandra’s fears of losing her sister, and self-destructive methods of trying to maintain their relationship, are drawn so perfectly.

Impressively, Baker is equally good at the moments of high drama. I won’t spoil what those are, but one in particular is dealt with so expertly – showing us the range of emotional responses in finely-observed style. Fine observation while maintaining pace and drama is a very admirable feat.

It’s a short book, but must be read slowly to be truly appreciated. The writing is so rich, so beautiful, and so intelligent that it feels like a reminder of what literature can achieve in exploring and depicting humanity. If that feels like a wild overstatement, I apologise – but reading it felt like a revelatory experience. Don’t be surprised if you see this one on my end of year Best Books list…

The Millstone by Margaret Drabble

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I bought The Millstone (1965) by Margaret Drabble in 2009, in Chester, but I think that must just have been based on name recognition – and on this extraordinary cover. Penguin really did have some interesting cover designs in the 1960s. But what made me pick it up recently is how often people have told me that it is very similar to my much-loved The L-Shaped Room by Lynne Reid Banks. I recently re-read it, and it seemed like a good time to tackle The Millstone. And, man, it’s similar.

I’m glad I’m so familiar with The L-Shaped Room, otherwise reading them so close to each other would have confused me a lot. Both are about young pregnant women; both are living alone; both are pregnant after their first and only sexual encounter (and didn’t particularly enjoy that); both consider doing a makeshift abortion by getting drunk on gin. It’s hard not to think that Drabble might have got inspiration from Banks. But there are certainly differences too.

My career has always been marked by a strange mixture of confidence and cowardice: almost, one might say, made by it. Take, for instance, the first time I tried spending a night a man in a hotel. I was nineteen at the time, an age appropriate for such adventures, and needless to say I was not married. I am still not married, a fact of some significance,but more of that later. The name of the boy, if I remember rightly, was Hamish. I do remember rightly. I really must try not to be deprecating. Confidence, not cowardice, is the part of myself which I admire, after all.

This is the opening paragraph, and the first person narrator is Rosamund. She is dealing with this pregnancy alone – but only because her parents have taken a convenient extended trip abroad. She is not in an l-shaped room; she is in her parents’ large home in a posh area. Her sister is not helpful, and she doesn’t want Hamish in the picture, but her friends are good and she can continue writing her thesis about Elizabethan poets. (The least realistic section of The Millstone is how easily Rosamund eventually gets her thesis published and then immediately gets a job in academia – perhaps this sort of thing was possible in the 1960s, but it certainly isn’t now. But I’m getting ahead of myself.)

Again, like The L-Shaped Room, there is not much plot. It is, instead, more of an emotional portrait – seeing how Rosamund copes with every stage of this new life. Unlike Banks’ novel, the birth of the child is not the end but the middle – we also see how she copes with being a new mother, with its own crises. There are certainly funny moments, or perhaps rather a wry tone, but what makes The Millstone impressive is the nuanced and interesting way Drabble takes us on Rosamund’s journey. There is very little dramatic, but there is a lot of life – not idealised, certainly, and Rosamund is too real to be wholly sympathetic, but I really enjoyed it. A great deal more than the only other Drabble novel I’ve read, The Garrick Year, which was rather tedious. Drabble is much better on motherhood than casual adultery, it turns out.

Is it as good as The L-Shaped Room? To my heart, no. It couldn’t be. And I think perhaps to my mind, too – but it’s still rather good and has made me want to explore more of her novels. Any recommendations?

On re-reading The L-Shaped Room

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One of my ongoing, unsuccessful (and, to be fair, fairly inactive) battles is to convince Rachel that we should read The L-Shaped Room (1960) on the Tea or Books? podcast. It’s one of my favourite books, and I’ve read it a fair few times – and it’s not often I’ll re-read a book at all, let alone more than once. In the end, I decided just to re-read it (again) myself. And, rather than write another review of it, I’ll take you through the experience I had…

Taking the book off the shelf

As someone pointed out in an Instagram comment, my copy is definitely falling apart. The spine went a long time ago, there are tears in some pages, and the whole thing might just crumble into dust at this point. It was in pretty bad condition when I paid 10p for it in a charity shop in Pershore, Worcestershire, buying it on the strength of having loved The Farthest-Away Mountain and The Indian in the Cupboard as a child.

But I can’t get rid of this copy. Maybe one day I’ll have to buy another, if this one gets too fragile to hold, but I love it too much to throw or give it away. Not because of the design or feel, but because it has been with me for so long, and was one of the first adult novels I loved.

Starting the book

There wasn’t much to be said for the place, really, but it had a roof over it and a door which locked from the inside, which was all I cared about just then. I didn’t even bother to take in the details – they were pretty sordid, but I didn’t notice them so they didn’t depress me; perhaps because I was already at rock-bottom. I just threw my one suitcase on to the bed, took my few belongings out of it and shut them all into one drawer of the three-legged chest of drawers. Then there didn’t seem to be anything else I ought to do so I sat in the arm-chair and stared out of the window.

This is the first paragraph and I’m instantly so happy. This description of a room isn’t exactly paradisiacal – it’s meant to be the opposite – but I feel like I’m coming home. No, my home isn’t remotely like this – but the world of the novel is one I love so much that it feels like coming to home to be back in that block of flats, and back in the L-shaped room.

The l-shaped room

Speaking of – once we’ve seen a bit of Jane’s background (in the theatre, then in a café, then being forced to leave home because she’s got pregnant – rattling through the premise, sorry) we’re in the room. And I realise that I have never paid any lasting attention to the description of the layout that Lynne Reid Banks gives. I’ve blogged before about how I can’t visualise descriptions in books – and it’s definitely true of layout. Try as I might, I can’t put those pieces together in my mind. So, for me, her room is laid out exactly as it is on the book cover.

The discriminatory language… 

When I first read the novel, in 2002 or thereabouts, I wasn’t happy about the racism and discriminatory language used about gay people. I’m still not happy about it, of course – even if it’s largely put in the mouths of characters we’re not supposed to agree with. Jane herself is rather racist as the novel starts, though perhaps because I know she’ll change her mind later in the book, I can get through these pages. But there are some sentences that are really tough to read.

Toby and Jane

It is very, very rare that I care about a will-they-won’t-they couple in a book. Reading about romance tends to bore me rather, and I’m much more interested in reading about a couple who’ve been married for thirty years than by young suitors. But Toby and Jane might be that couple. Even though I can’t actually remember whether or not they end up together – either at the end of the book or at the end of the trilogy. Despite all those re-readings, and my love of them, that detail has disappeared. But Toby is great. He comes along, rattling away about his writing and his life, and Jane wants nothing to do with anyone. But you know from the first moment that he’ll wear her down, and they’ll become friends and comrades if nothing else. As her friend Dottie says, “First of all I thought he was just some
little fledgling that had fallen out of its nest, but I very soon realised there was more to him than that.”

What did I remember?

My terrible memory is bad for many things, but good for re-reading. While the atmosphere of a book stays with me, the details usually flit from my mind pretty quickly – and, even after four reads, I’d forgotten pretty much everything that takes place at Jane’s workplace. It’s not as prominent as the block of flats, but there is quite a fun dynamic with her brash but friendly boss. She does the PR for a hotel, and there is an extended scene of her trying to manage a staged meeting between a comedian and a diva, and it’s very amusing. As I read it, it all came back to me – but if you’d asked me before I started this re-read what Jane did for a living, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you.

Was it as good as I remembered?

Of course. This many times in, I know it’s a reliable joy. Seeing Jane grow to love the people she is surrounded with, and deal with the enormous life changes facing her, was as wonderful as always. Perhaps this novel wouldn’t have captivated me in the same way if I’d read it a few years later, but I know it’s now down as one of my all-time favourites and will never be dislodged from there.

Will I read the sequels next?

As always, I ended the novel bereft that I was leaving their company – leaving the l-shaped room and the house and the experience of reading the book. And it’s very tempting to go onto The Backward Shadow and Two Is Lonely, that continue Jane’s story. This time, I probably won’t. They’re both good, but they leave the flat behind – and I miss the flat terribly when I’m reading those books. So I’d certainly recommend them, and I’ve read them three times each, but I only give in to the urge to read them (and feel slightly disappointed) every other time I read The L-Shaped Room.

Stonecliff by Robert Nathan

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Robert Nathan is one of those names now known only, it seems, to people who’ve enjoyed the films based on his work. Portrait of Jennie and The Bishop’s Wife are both, apparently, regarded as classics in the movie world – but less known is their author, who was extremely prolific. I love his novels, which take only a couple of hours to read but transport the reader away for a while. When I read about Stonecliff (1967), I knew I had to get hold of a copy.

Stonecliff is the house of Edward Granville, noted writer. He is a recluse, and Stonecliff is isolated on a cliff in California, but he accepts a visit from Michael Robb – the narrator. He has been commissioned to write the great man’s biography, and is allowed to stay.

I have been sitting here at my desk with the last page of my book in front of me – my book, still untitled, the biography of the novelist Edward Granville. It is all done, complete, with names and dates and places, facts gathered from many sources, including Stonecliff itself. And yet in a real sense it is not done at all, for I know that the life of the book itself has escaped me; the mystery that baffled me then eludes me still.

That’s the opening of the novel, and consider me hooked. The greatest mystery is Granville’s wife – absent from the house – and the young woman who is there and whom Robb finally meets; she is beautiful, captivating, and elusive. He gradually begins to suspect that she is the creation of Granville – has he called her to life with his pen? And what exactly is their relationship? How should the biographer interpret what he sees, and can he get to the bottom of the mystery?

I rushed through the book gleefully. Nathan is not a great prose stylist, but there is also nothing obstructive in his writing – and he is an expert at conveying atmosphere. So I wouldn’t want to quote many of the lines out loud, but he builds wonder and romance (in the traditional sense of the word) so adeptly that I loved my short stay in Stonecliff. It’s the fourth novel I’ve read by him, and I’ll certainly seek out more. They so perfectly suit certain moods. And if you happen to be in America, you can snap them up very easily.