a gallimaufry

High Windows, by Philip Larkin

(Photograph of Philip Larkin found here)

To be absolutely honest, I was a bit disappointed when I first read this. Although I knew of Larkin’s reputation and had read a few of his more famous poems, I didn’t really know his work and was expecting great things. I loved some of the poems in this collection (‘The Trees’, ‘Solar’, ‘To the Sea’, for instance), but others struck me as just a bit – banal. It took me a little while to appreciate him.

By way of example, here is one of the less-famous poems, an ekphrastic piece (I love the word ekphrastic!) inspired by one of those Dutch Old Master genre paintings. You can hear Larkin reading it out himself here.

The Card-Players

Jan van Hogspeuw staggers to the door
And pisses at the dark. Outside, the rain
Courses in cart-ruts down the deep mud lane.
Inside, Dirk Dogstoerd pours himself some more,
And holds a cinder to his clay with tongs,
Belching out smoke. Old Prijck snores with the gale,
His skull face firelit; someone behind drinks ale,
And opens mussels, and croaks scraps of songs
Towards the ham-hung rafters about love.
Dirk deals the cards. Wet century-wide trees
Clash in surrounding starlessness above
This lamplit cave, where Jan turns back and farts,
Gobs at the grate, and hits the queen of hearts.

Rain, wind and fire! The secret, bestial peace!

I initially found the crude humour – ooh look, rude names! – childish. There are bodily functions: pissing, belching, snoring, farting and gobbing. There is mud and ale. But there is something more than basic physicality too. The rafters are ‘ham-hung’, evoking meaty buttocks (hams), yet garlanded with croaked-out scraps of songs ‘about love’, aspiring to something more transcendent. The ‘lamplit cave’, in which the four card-players booze away, holds the ‘secret, bestial peace’ of their existence. Outside, however, are gales and ‘starlessness’, fresh rain falling and, most beautifully of all, ‘wet century-wide trees’ clashing above the tavern. Human existence, in the tavern, is brutish, but beyond and all around lies a wild and pitiless world. ‘Rain, wind and fire!’ – there is a glory in it and even in the sottish defiance of the drunken men (Jan van Hogespeuw pisses ‘at’ the dark, as if taunting it).

(Adriaen Brouwer, Kaartspelers en Brassers [Card Players and Drinkers], oil on panel, seventeenth century; Royal Museum of Fine Arts, Antwerp; found here)

I cannot find a painting which actually resembles the one in ‘The Card Players’ in every detail. (Does that mean it’s not truly ekphrastic?) There was of course a genre of Flemish and Dutch painting showing interior scenes, and a subgenre of that showing taverns. Artists like David Teniers the Younger and Adriaen Brouwer tended to show the interior of the tavern and not the countryside without, which Larkin includes in his vision. Perhaps Larkin imagined the picture in his poem, combining works he had seen.

To me, his poem works like those pictures. Teniers and Brouwer turned commonplace, even ugly scenes, into fit subjects for art through their perceptiveness and skilful brushwork. Larkin describes a vulgar scene similar to theirs and similarly turns it into art.

(Aert van der Neer, Moonlit Landscape with Bridge, oil on panel, probably between 1648 and 1650; National Gallery of Art, Washington DC; found here)

The rest of the collection High Windows echoes the juxtaposition of human degradation and natural beauty in ‘The Card Players’. ‘The Trees’ and ‘Solar’ are joyful celebrations of life. On the other hand, lighted rooms, in hotels, hospitals and homes, evoke loneliness and isolation with great power. Buildings are usually dreary and functional. ‘Going, Going’ laments the loss of countryside to urban encroachment and pollution. (Though I think poems like ‘Going, Going’ and ‘Posterity’ remain a bit one-note, the language unallusive.)

‘Friday Night in the Royal Station Hotel’, however, is beautiful because the way he describes the empty hotel – without guests, it has no meaning – brilliantly suggests loneliness and death, a spirit-fled corpse. This is done through the specific details of light and dark, silence, ash, ‘shoeless’ corridors, lack of home, ‘Night comes on’.

Light spreads darkly downwards from the high
Clusters of lights over empty chairs
That face each other, coloured differently.
Through open doors, the dining-room declares
A larger loneliness of knives and glass
And silence laid like carpet. A porter reads
An unsold evening paper. Hours pass,
And all the salesmen have gone back to Leeds,
Leaving full ashtrays in the Conference Room.

In shoeless corridors, the lights burn. How
Isolated, like a fort, it is –
The headed paper, made for writing home
(If home existed) letters of exile: Now
Night comes on. Waves fold behind villages.

In ‘Sad Steps’ the poet himself, like Jan van Hogespeuw, has a nocturnal piss on a stormy night. He draws the curtain to see ‘the wind-picked sky’. For him, unlike Jan, ‘There’s something laughable’ about the night scene and about the way humans have projected romantic notions onto moonlit skies. He feels that:

The hardness and the brightness and the plain
Far-reaching singleness of that wide stare

is a reminder of his lost youth. In the titular poem, he imagines looking through other, ‘high windows’ to the endless nothingness beyond.

So, I am converted to Philip Larkin after all.

 

Sea of Tranquility, by Emily St John Mandel

(Nala recommends that you read this book...)

Olive is a novelist in 2203. Born and raised on a lunar colony, she is on a book tour of Earth just as a pandemic is spreading across the planet. In a lecture near the end of Sea of Tranquility, she utters one of the most consoling thoughts I have read recently:

‘ – and my point is, there’s always something. I think, as a species, we have a desire to believe that we’re living at the climax of the story. It’s a kind of narcissism. We want to believe that we’re uniquely important, that we’re living at the end of history, that now, after all these millennia of false alarms, now is finally the worst it’s ever been, that finally we have reached the end of the world. […]
‘But all of this raises an interesting question,’ Olive said. ‘What if it always is the end of the world? […]
‘Because we might reasonably think of the end of the world […] as a continuous and never-ending process.’

Sea of Tranquility is an elegantly constructed novel which encompasses almost five hundred years of human history with the lightest of touches. In 1912, Edwin St John St Andrew is a ‘remittance man’, a younger son of a wealthy British family sent off to the colonies to keep him out of the way, experiences something strange and inexplicable in a Canadian forest. This experience links him with Vincent in 1994, a young girl who films the anomaly, and her friend Mirella; with Alan, a violinist in an airship terminal in 2200; and with Olive. What can it signify?

The novel moves through time until 2401 when an investigation is launched. Then we move backwards again, with a new understanding of the earlier sections, until we reach the final revelation. The neatness of the structure, the resolution and the way the elements of the novel are related to each other create a lovely feeling of harmony. The book’s disclosures about time and existence are not exactly radical, but beautifully expressed through the stories of particular, fallible, likeable people. The sweep of history may be grand and impersonal, but what matters is us, always on the cusp of loss; the texture of our daily lives, our loves and griefs. I am still thinking about it. I like it a lot.

(... She has not actually read it herself, you understand)

 

September again

Hello! Remember me?

Over this long, hot summer I have occasionally contemplated posting something here. But I have not.

Reader, I have mainly been lying on the sofa grumbling about the weather.

I have not even read very much, because I have joined Twitter and I cannot cope. There is so much information! I have to spend eight hours a day just reading updates from people I don’t know and watching important films of animals doing amusing things! Fortunately, I have no friends except for a bot, so I don’t have to write anything interesting myself.

I am at @hejparry should you wish to say hello because I am far too weedy to introduce myself to anyone.

Although I did read Barchester Towers which I unreservedly recommend to you all despite my being on Team Slope the whole time and thus doomed to disappointment.

(How I spent the summer in my imagination: Claude Monet, La Liseuse (The Reader), 1872; oil on canvas; Walters Art Collection, found here)

I have written some more of my second novel. The first one was objectively bad in every way. This one I hope is going to be an improvement on that low bar. I am now on about draft number five and when I have finished it, it will be akin to most people’s first drafts i.e. still a baggy mess. I keep changing my mind about significant elements and then have to start again. When people describe Important Qualities for a Writer, they don’t usually mention Decisiveness and yet it should be there. I am mostly enjoying the experience and would do more if I could let go of the worry: will this ever be any good? Ultimately, of course, I want it to be read and loved by actual children and so it has to be extremely good.

(I did also bake some cakes with my daughter for her party)

And finally, although I do not watch much television, I did watch Marriage, and I am here to tell you all that all the people who disliked it are Wrong. It is often uncomfortable, but brilliant.

What have you been doing? What can you recommend?

 

Square Haunting: Five Women, Freedom and London Between the Wars, by Francesca Wade

Glossing over my long absence from the Internet, I am back to enthuse about a book that most of you have already heard of and maybe read. (If you have read it, write your Thoughts in the comment section below this post!) I shall have to write about it from memory, because I do not actually have a copy, I borrowed my mother’s while I was in Britain. Perhaps this is no bad thing, it will curb my propensity to ramble on. (Or will it?)

Quite by chance, Francesca Wade discovered that between the two world wars five women writers lived in Mecklenburgh Square in London: HD, Dorothy L. Sayers, Jane Ellen Harrison, Eileen Power and Virginia Woolf. (I hadn’t ever heard of Harrison and Power: Harrison was a brilliant classical scholar who left Cambridge University in her seventies to set up house with Hope Mirrlees and translate and promote Russian literature; Power was a distinguished mediaeval historian who argued the importance of economic and social history, as well as being a Sinophile, prominent socialist and pacifist, and holder of wild parties.) At that time, Mecklenburgh Square was a place where a middle-class woman of modest means could rent a room of her own, alongside artists, radicals and poor families; a little rackety and Bohemian though not too much, certainly quite cheap and in close proximity to the British Library and University College, London.

A group biography of this sort explores the ways in which five women found, and then fought to keep, their rooms of their own. Not all of the women lived in Mecklenburgh Square very long – Woolf hardly at all – so Wade explores her five lives by moving back and forth in time around their sojourns there. She also uses the geographical centre of Mecklenburgh Square to pull together numerous threads of cultural life between the wars. Certain preoccupations absorbed all five. How did talented, curious and clever women navigate a world which denied them equality? Harrison and Power had to work for an institution, Cambridge University, which refused to award degrees to women; Woolf wasn’t even permitted a proper education and had to teach herself. Was it possible to marry – or have a fulfilling relationship – without sacrificing one’s work, if one was a woman? For HD and Sayers, pregnant outside wedlock, this involved particularly painful choices.

Shaping one’s own story was also important. HD wrote and rewrote versions of her autobiography many times over her life, as if trying on different dresses; Woolf skived off labouring away on her biography of Roger Fry to dash out ‘A Sketch of the Past’, scatterings of childhood memories. During the Blitz she watched London’s physical past being bombed to smithereens; eventually her own home and many of her possessions were also obliterated, tangible links with her youth and family gone for ever. Harrison and Power both destroyed their papers (Harrison burnt hers almost gleefully when she left Newnham), with terrible consequences for their posthumous reputations, their radical contributions to history forgotten or reattributed to men.

(Photograph of Mecklenburgh Square, ca 1930; Camden Local Studies and Archives, found here)

Other interests were more particular. Power was a socialist and her story encompasses developments in socialist thought as well as the rise of the League of Nations Union, pacifism and internationalism, all of which shaped post-WWI society. Both Power and Woolf became increasingly uncomfortable with the knowledge of their privileges and their reliance on the labour of working-class women. Through Harrison, we learn about the Russian diaspora and its influence on western European culture. Through HD, we learn about the Imagists and the difficulty of living a truly Bohemian life. (Also: that HD was a total slob who never emptied her ashtrays or washed up her wine glasses.)

Square Haunting is a book which has deservedly won a lot of praise. It is a marvellous group biography, full of detail and perceptiveness. It not only brings to life five women and their era; it also reminds us of the importance of taking the time and having the space to think, as imperative now as it was one hundred years ago.

 

Convenience Store Woman, by Sayaka Murata, translated by Ginny Tapley Takemori

Let’s skate over the fact I haven’t posted here for aaages and move on to this odd little novel, which I have just finished reading. I picked it up entirely because of the cover, which struck me as sweet but faintly unsettling too, and that cover sums up the novel itself extremely well. The protagonist, Keiko Furukura, has a narrative voice that is sweet and naïve, affectless almost, but this voice seems to suppress a sharper one, really quite dark, which surfaces now and again.

After eighteen years, Keiko is the longest-working member of staff at the Smile Mart convenience store at Hiiromachi Station in Tokyo. She has always felt herself to be an outsider, and she tells us of two incidents when she was a child which proved to her that she didn’t understand other people at all, and that she needed to be ‘cured’, somehow:

My parents were at a loss what to do about me, but they were as affectionate to me as ever. I’d never meant to make them sad or have to keep apologizing for things I did, so I decided to keep my mouth shut as best I could outside home. I would no longer do anything of my own accord, and would either just mimic what everyone else was doing, or simply follow instructions.

This is how she lives and for her, working in the convenience store is liberating. When it first opens, she says:

At that moment, for the first time ever, I felt I’d become a part in the machine of society. I’ve been reborn, I thought. That day, I actually became a normal cog in society.

Being a normal cog in society means memorising the store manual, mimicking the other members of staff and taking everything about the workplace culture absolutely seriously. Every day she is the most enthusiastic participant in the morning practice session, when the staff line up and shout out the phrases they use with customers (‘We pledge to provide our customers with the best service and aim to make our store the beloved choice of store in the area!’; ‘Certainly! Right away sir!’; ‘Thank you for your custom!’). She checks the weather forecast to see how that will influence the lunch choices of the store’s clients. An untidy display upsets her deeply, and she will always do her best to reach the sales goals of the latest promotion.

It is ironic that Keiko finds herself and her freedom in the mindless platitudes and corporate rules of the convenience store. A new employee, Shiraha, sneers at the morning practice session and tells Keiko it’s like a religion. ‘Of course it is,’ she replies. Her days are an endless round of performing services, care even, for the store: replenishing the stock, tidying the shelves, serving the customers and fretting for its well-being. It is a sort of organism.

Keiko’s relationship with the store goes further. When she says she is reborn there, she means it almost literally. The food and water she consumes come from the convenience store. Her speech, behaviour and clothing are all copied from the other members of staff there:

My present self is formed almost completely of the people around me. I am currently made up of 30 percent Mrs. Izumi, 30 percent Sugawara, 20 percent the manager, and the rest absorbed from past colleagues […]
My speech is especially infected by everyone around me and is currently a mix of that of Mrs. Izumi and Sugawara. I think the same goes for most people. […] Infecting each other like this is how we maintain ourselves as human is what I think.

This idea of infection between the members of the store staff is not really repeated in Keiko’s discussion of wider society. But it reinforces the idea that they are simply cells or smaller organisms serving a larger host. One day a disruptive customer is ejected from the store by the manager:

A wave of relief passed through the store, and the morning atmosphere returned to normal.
A convenience store is a forcibly normalized environment where foreign matter is immediately eliminated. The threatening atmosphere that had briefly permeated the store was sept away, and the customers again concentrated on buying their coffee and pastries as if nothing had happened.

When Keiko cannot sleep, she thinks of the convenience store ‘the transparent glass box that is still stirring with life even in the darkness of night’. She keeps fit and healthy so that she can work efficiently and well at the store. She hears its voice in her head.

It is conformism. But we are shown Keiko’s society outside the store – her family and friends – and they are increasingly putting pressure on her to conform to their ideals. Working in a convenience store when you’re thirty-six and a graduate is demeaning, in their eyes. She should either get a ‘proper’ job, or marry. Towards the end of the book, Keiko realises something about her sister Mami:

She’s far happier thinking her sister [Keiko] is normal, even if she has a lot of problems, than she is having an abnormal sister for whom everything is fine.

‘I’m a convenience store worker, a cog in society. This is the only way I can be a normal person,’ Keiko says. Normal people have social codes she doesn’t understand; the store’s rules are clear for her to follow. For eighteen years she is able to successfully repress herself, pass herself off as a ‘normal’ person and find a sort of freedom. Some religious regimens are like that: you rise through the repeated practices to a spiritual liberation. Yet now the rules have changed and her ‘normal’ act is itself perceived by her family as not acceptable any longer. They want a different normal for her, but one that she cannot give them. Thus, weirdly enough, Keiko’s choice to continue working in a convenience store becomes in the end not quite an uncomplicated act of defiance, but at least a conscious choice of the kind of conformism to which she wishes to adhere.

 

From Spare Oom to War Drobe: Travels in Narnia with my Nine-Year-Old Self, by Katherine Langrish

When I was nine years old I wrote a book called Tales of Narnia, and I still have it. In spiky blue ink, written in my best handwriting with only occasional crossings-out and spelling mistakes, it runs for eighty-six numbered pages and fills an old hard-covered notebook from front to back. [...] I covered the notebook with a paper wrapper which I painted dark blue, and stuck a poster-paint picture I’d made of Aslan on the front. He looks very stiff, very yellow and rather cross.

So begins this lovely ramble through C.S. Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia. It is really for people who, like Langrish, adored the books when they read them as a child but perhaps have not revisited them since. So a chapter is devoted to each book, including a detailed retelling each story and extensive quotes. As we explore, Langrish considers how Lewis’s personal beliefs, the historical situation (shortly after the Second World War and during the Cold War) and literary and folkloric works contributed to each book. Her knowledge is impressive but lightly worn, so that it’s like reading along with a good friend whose ideas you mostly but not completely agree with.

Langrish is even-handed, although she admits she likes some books more than others (and does anyone truly love The Last Battle?), she is alert to beautiful writing wherever she finds it. She considers the darker side of the books: racism? Yes, definitely. Misogyny? More mixed. There are strong girls in every book, and some great villainesses; but on the other side there is the Susan problem and, though I don’t think Langrish mentions it, no strong and likeable adult females. Do these problems mean that we shouldn’t read the books any more? Of course not!

And I had not realised it, until Langrish pointed it out, how thoroughly Lewis loathed schools. There are plenty of references to them in the books and they are always awful places.

I was impressed by Langrish’s tracing of motifs and plots to their source material. This includes Victorian and Edwardian children’s books and fantasy literature, Mediaeval and Renaissance poetry, fairy tales, Greek, Roman and Norse myths, the Arabian Nights, Christian theology and of course the Bible. Lewis’s uses of these gives different flavours to the books: for instance, there is a strong debt to E. Nesbit in much of The Magician’s Nephew, but more of a Mediaeval romance feeling to The Silver Chair. Langrish also argues persuasively for the influence of more recent history on some of the books. So Maugrim’s secret police surely draws on the Cheka and the Stasi, Nickabrick on the struggles of Irish revolutionaries, and the silver chair on the horrors of trench warfare.It is all very illuminating and gave me a new respect for Lewis’s skills as a children’s writer and as someone who understood children. (The only real remaining mystery: why did Edmund love Turkish Delight so much?) Langrish’s emphasis on her own responses to the books keeps it from ever threatening to become dry. Passages such as Aslan’s death and rebirth, or the creation of Narnia, still move and delight her; Caspian’s lengthy back story bores her.  A particular joy is how she contrasts her adult reactions with her child ones. At the end of The Silver Chair, grown-up liberal Langrish disapproves of the way Jill and Eustace deal with the bullies but nine-year-old Katherine loved it.

This is the kind of book to read on a rainy Sunday afternoon with the kind of tea and toasted muffins you would eat in a faun’s cave in Narnia. Although you will then spend your Sunday evening grubbing about in the attic looking for your battered Puffin paperbacks...

(All the illustrations on this page are by Pauline Baynes; this last one is the cover illustration for The Last Battle - rather different from the one on my Puffin edition!)

Into Egypt, by Rosalind Brackenbury

Into Egypt is the third of Rosalind Brackenbury’s novels to be re-published by Walmer Books, and if you haven’t yet discovered her writing you are in for a treat. Her first novel, A Day to Remember to Forget, depicts a family coming together for a Sunday birthday lunch, evoked from different viewpoints. Her second, A Virtual Image, follows an Englishwoman driving through France in pursuit of her friend. Into Egypt, first published in 1973, centres around a young English girl who travels out to Israel in 1962 to ‘find herself’. It is written in the prose that I love, Brackenbury’s long, flowing sentences which are flexible enough to contain great subtlety and nuance, to chart shifts in characters’ thoughts and feelings with delicacy. The world that we perceive through those characters is described with careful, almost overwhelming detail; it is sensuous and heightened, as if we are experiencing everything in High Definition, and infused with the characters’ emotions. Here the main character, Jo, has been struggling with her unhappy boyfriend, Francis; the way that her view out of their London flat is described reveals the misery and the fleeting beauties of their relationship:

The chill settles upon me, the cold breath of a late May morning with no sun beyond the panes of glass. From our kitchen window we can see one tree in the small back garden of a house below our flat, one lilac tree with its white trumpet blooms dingy and its leaves matt with dust; and the smell of the lilac still rises to our window when we open it on fine nights, when we lean out and see the glow over the river, the sun setting on the pink chimneys of the power station, the clouds trawling the windy sky.

Into Egypt has two epigraphs. The first is from T.S. Eliot’s ‘Burnt Norton’:

Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.

Time is treated in a structurally complex way in the novel, which chops between Jo travelling in Israel in 1962, incidents in Jo’s childhood, Gilbert’s earlier life, Jo in London five years later, and Jo on a second trip to Israel in 1972. In terms of the novel, it means that sometimes we are experiencing events as they happen and sometimes we are looking back or already know something in advance. We learn early on, for example, that the young kibbutznik Gilbert, whom Jo meets on the boat out to Haifa and becomes close to, will be killed a few  years later, giving his plans for the future, the descriptions of his vigorous, strong body, a ghostlike quality.

(Students working in a kibbutz garden; found here)

Israel’s history marks the present wherever you look. Jo looks at the Mount of Olives, the Wailing Wall, Mount Zion, the past is everywhere visible and loaded with symbolism. The dreams of the kibbutzniks are based on the ancient idea of the Promised Land, the place where their ancestors lived. They have plans for the future but are rooted in what has come before. More recent history is just as prominent: the bullet holes in walls, the no-man’s land in Jerusalem. As the sun sets in Safad, Jo sees:

below there are the abandoned Arab houses set upon the slopes, that change from honey white and lose the light from their windows and turn blind black eyes down the valley, further still.

For Zvi Mosseri, the historian Jo meets in Jerusalem, the past is a trap, the old dreams need to be tempered and Israelis and Arabs must work together, overcome the fears and hatreds of the entrapping past. Clever, tormented Francis in London would agree: complaining about Freud, he says:

‘All this stuff about one’s childhood, when what one’s supposed to do nowadays is to face the existential reality of the present moment. [...] The present makes the past irrelevant. For the purposes of therapy, anyway. Don’t you see that using the past as the only explanation of the present denies any play of free will?’

And so, perhaps, the gaps in the narrative and the shifts back and forth in time force us to focus on the moment being told to us.

(Jaffa Road in Jerusalem, 1962; from here)

The second epigraph is from Exodus:

Fear not to go into Egypt.

You can see into Egypt from the kibbutz at Gan Hagar, on the border ‘the huts and the United Nations men playing cards, and the guns laid in readiness against the wooden walls, and the flags marking the boundary line’. Gilbert tells Jo:

‘It’s the same earth, you know. Same land, same farmers. Only we can never go into Egypt, and they can never come over to us.’

Where you work the land, you belong, in Gilbert’s mind. Visiting London, he is lost in its ‘insubstantial charade’. The only English person he considers ‘real’ is a cowherd he meets out in the countryside: ‘It was true: work was the universal reality.’ This clear vision, this kibbutz life of hard work which totally absorbs you, appeals to Jo too. There is a part of her that craves certainty and hopes that Israel will provide exactly that:

And I stand apart, I listen, I judge, I am looking for right and wrong, black and white, the absolutes which I must have come here to find.

It is the same part that, years later, drives her to visit her boyfriend’s therapist for an ‘explanation’ of what has happened to him. Yet she also suspects these certainties. One of her childhood memories is of arranging her crayons in order of the colours of the spectrum:

but when the arrangement is finished there are two pencils left, the white and the black [...] To put one at each end seems to mock the gradations of subtle colour within, for they are too extreme, too absolute; they are not a part of the rainbow but something exterior and hard to place; perhaps they are not even colours. To avoid the decision she puts them separately in her satchel.

For this reason, she is also attracted to the ambiguities and complexities Zvi offers her. Moderation makes sense to her, though it is more difficult than black-and-white.

Exodus is about a journey; Into Egypt is full of journeys, interior and exterior. In the end, there are no answers and no final destinations, the point is to fear not to go into Egypt, to take the risk and keep moving.

Mexican Gothic, by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

When it comes to creepy fiction, my needs are quite specific. I am incredibly weedy, I once had nightmares after watching an episode of Midsomer Murders which is about as feeble as you can get without actually turning into a flower, so my tolerance of ick and gore is non-existent. Edgar Allan Poe really is my limit. Yet I do enjoy a good ghost story, a sinister old house on a hill, shadows lengthening by the fireside. Scary but not too scary because, as well as hating ick, I am quickly repelled by anything too cruel or too evil, even E. Nesbit can go too far for my tastes, I need a happy ending.

Recently, I have bravely read Flyaway by Kathleen Jennings which I enjoyed but in a tense sort of way. Robert Aickmann’s Dark Secrets was also very good and although the first story was truly horrifying, the rest of the collection was unsettling in a delightfully spooky but not upsetting way. Emboldened, when I saw a new copy of Mexican Gothic in the English-language section of my local library, I borrowed it. The reviews on its front pages compared it to Jane Eyre, Rebecca, Dracula and The Mysteries of Udolpho, which appealed. (Though I may say here I thought the reference to Jane Eyre rather a stretch.) I initially also thought of House of Mist by María-Luísa Bombal, but although there is a lonely house wreathed in mist, a young wife, strangeness and atmosphere, they are not really alike at all.

Noemí Taboada is a light-hearted, slightly spoilt debutante, enjoying the social whirl of Mexico City in 1950. Her beloved cousin Catalina has married, somewhat against the family’s wishes, an impoverished Englishman who lives in an isolated old house deep in the mountains, and now sends a wild and desperate letter to Noemí’s father. Should she be receiving proper psychiatric care rather than being nursed by the Doyle family in the middle of nowhere? Noemí’s father sends her to find out. But of course, it is all much worse than she could have imagined!

Silvia Moreno-Garcia has taken lots of Gothic tropes and had a great deal of fun with them. There is a rotting mansion, wreathed in mists and beside an old graveyard. There is a nasty aristocratic family, haunted by the murders of their relatives some thirty years ago and obsessed with ideas of racial superiority (naturally theirs is the superior race, non-whites the inferior ones). There are strange dreams that may be true, a mysterious sickness, disused silver mines and a lot of fungus. There is creeping about the house at night. To these she adds a twist of feminism as Noemí proves herself, despite her high heels and taffeta skirts, to have the right blend of courage, rebelliousness, intelligence and love to expose the house’s horrible secrets.

In the end it is horrifying and I hope that I can sleep well tonight… What I like about it though is that the horror is used to tell us something about racism, class systems and yes, the patriarchy. And the novel is beautifully structured and paced, the characters well drawn, the atmosphere properly creepy. But I shan’t tell you any more because I don’t want to spoil it...

(The only remaining mystery to me is why the paperback edition that I read has a very bland outer cover that reflects very little of the novel and then a brilliant inner cover, which is the one at the beginning of this post.)

What are your feelings about creepy fiction? And what is the most frightening novel you have read?

 

‘Out in the dark’, by Edward Thomas

Out in the dark over the snow
The fallow fawns invisible go
With the fallow doe;
And the winds blow
Fast as the stars are slow.

Stealthily the dark haunts round
And, when a lamp goes, without sound
At a swifter bound
Than the swiftest hound,
Arrives, and all else is drowned;

And I and star and wind and deer
Are in the dark together,—near,
Yet far,—and fear
Drums on my ear
In that sage company drear.

How weak and little is the light,
All the universe of sight,
Love and delight,
Before the might,
If you love it not, of night.

(Edward Thomas, from Collected Poems, Oxford University Press)

Today is a terrible day. Thinking of everyone in Ukraine.

 

Storm Jameson Reading Week cancelled

I am really sorry, but I am not going to run Storm Jameson Reading Week this year. Although I should be absolutely delighted if someone else would like to take it on?

Why am I ditching it? Well, ’tis a mixture of Covid and Brexit, the gift that just keeps on giving. The reason I chose Storm Jameson for a reading week was that she is so neglected and her work is out of print. This has also turned out to be my undoing, because I only actually own one book by her. And since last summer, obtaining anything from the UK if you live in Europe, has become more difficult.

Because I am an idiot I didn’t realise this until I ordered a second-hand copy of Barchester Towers as I am on a bit of a Trollope jag. The book and postage cost me about £6, I think. The import duties? €19. So that is the end of international second-hand book-shopping for me.

Plan B was to stock up on books during visits at Christmas and Easter. Alas! I had to cancel my Christmas visit when the risks from Covid (too boring to go into) rendered it unwise. Now I only have one trip before Storm Jameson Reading Week, and I have to carry back a load of Christmas presents as well… All in all, it has tipped over from Something Fun into Something that is Giving Me Disproportionate Levels of Worry.

Obviously this is very disappointing. I still would like to host a reading week for someone, but it seems most sensible to limit myself to someone whose books I already possess. I’ve been pondering this for a while and the other day my eye lighted upon … Isak Dinesen (or Karen Blixen).

Now, I appreciate she is considerably better known than Storm Jameson, and her work is in print and easily  available. But she has a substantial and varied body of work, encompassing short stories, memoir and one novel, and I think she is worthy of greater attention. I did hesitate because I remember her being a frightful snob and almost certainly racist, a contentious figure and rather a particular taste. Still, I am queen of this here blog and ultimately my word goes. Let it be done!

I shall put together a post about her in the next few days, and I hope very much that you will join me!