Teaser Tuesdays

Quote a couple of spoiler-free sentences from the book you’re reading to tempt others.

Cheating slightly by using the opening lines:

"What I warn you to remember is that I am a detective. Our relationship with truth is fundamental but cracked, refracting confusingly like fragmented glass."

In the Woods by Tana French

The Little Stranger Redux

I made my disappointed and frustrated feelings on Sarah Waters' latest -and much anticipated- novel, The Little Stranger here. However, hindsight and post-analysis can be a wonderful thing. I remain slightly disappointed and it is my least favourite of her novels; although the historical setting and social commentary were exceptionally well researched, they were too dry for me and the narrator Dr Faraday altogether too dull.

Reading insightful reviews by Savidge Reads and Dovegreyreader, and then Dovegreyreader's interview with Sarah Waters posted today, has persuaded me to re-examine the novel and my reaction towards it; it is rare that a negative impression of a book prompts such consternation in me but this one has. Simon suggested re-reading the closing line to make sense of the subtle and vague ending and I managed to do so recently (I, ahem, sold my copy of the novel, which is something I never do with hardbacks, especially those I was counting down the days until published). I urge you to re-read that closing line as it confirmed a hunch I had whilst reading the novel, but by the close of it I had almost stopped caring if it was correct or not. Re-reading that line and reading complimentary and illuminating reviews by others made it clear to me that I definitely missed something in the first reading. Upon further reflection and drawing comparisons with my favourite novel, Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier, I now have more of an appreciation of the novel, of its nuances. I am now more disturbed by my potential limitations as a reader by giving it too linear a reading and being oblivious to some of its subtleties.... Perhaps it was my own expectations of the novel that let me down; The Little Stranger didn't live up to the high bar I had set for a beloved writer and in setting it so high I think I sold Sarah Waters short and consequently myself.

This is a peculiar blog post to write but I have been struggling with the thoughts over the last couple of weeks and thought that I should share them. The slow building of resonance with this novel has completely taken me by surprise and it has a lingering, haunting quality that is rather apt.

Olivia by "Olivia"

I have mentioned previously my love for Virago Modern Classics and my burgeoning collection. Olivia by "Olivia", the pseudonym of Dorothy Strachey (sister of Lytton Strachey), was one of the Viragoes that I relentlessly hunted down in a rare green spine, and not merely for the beautiful cover featuring the Gustav Klimt painting, Mäda Primavesi. The synopsis for the novella intrigued me and I knew it would be one that I would enjoy reading. From the back cover:

In this famous novel, first published in 1949, a woman recollects an extraordinary year "when life was, if not at its fullest, at any rate at its most poignant . . . the year when I first became conscious of myself". Olivia is sixteen years old when she goes to Les Avons, a finishing school near Paris, run by two Mademoiselles. It is a place of few rules, of laughter and lively conversation -- a welcome surprise for a reserved young English girl. But the gaiety and freedom of Les Avons is only surface deep and emotional liaisons and jealousies form the hidden curriculum. Very quickly Olivia too is caught up in its spell, overwhelmed by her increasing infatuation with Mademoiselle Julie. Here she describes the powerful allegiances and repressed desires which smoulder at this secluded school, and the intensity and desperation of adolescent love.

Olivia, the protagonist, develops a crush on Mademoiselle Julie, who treats her as teacher's pet. Mademoiselle Clara is jealous and petty until her death, suicide or murder unclear. Olivia is a melodramatic potboiler of adolescent obsession but it is engaging and kept me occupied of a weekend afternoon. The language is quite lush at times, despite the hyperbole, and evokes the intoxicating passion of first "love", the fervent and all-consuming infatuation of a young girl for her teacher. Her rapture and ardor are intense and the pervasive alliances and jealousies of the Mademoiselles is insidious. The unsettling nature of the teachers reminded me of Jean Brodie.

I was also greatly reminded of Colette's Claudine à l'école, which was published more than thirty years prior to Olivia, but it was the latter that was considered ground-breaking and made its way onto the Publishing Triangle's 100 Best Gay & Lesbian Novels. Further reminders, albeit subtler, of convent rather than school set literature in Diderot's The Nun and VMC #1 Frost in May by Antonia White. Moreover, I realised that I still haven't read Lillian Hellman's 1934 play, The Children's Hour, nor watched the big-screen adaptation with Audrey Hepburn and Shirley McClaine, about the two boarding school headmistresses whose careers and lives are destroyed by a vindictive pupil who accuses them of Lesbianism.

Olivia was published anonymously by the Leonard and Virginia Woolf founded Hogarth Press in 1949. Rosamond Lehmann, another Virago Press author, was an enthusiastic supporter and perhaps found similarities with her own famous campus novel of lesbian attraction and affection, Dusty Answer.

I enjoyed Olivia and its capture of the intensity of teenage infatuation and crushes, although as Olivia says:

"My case was so different, so unheard of. Really no one had ever heard of a thing, except as a joke. Yes, people used to make joking allusions to "school-girl crushes". But I knew well enough that my "crush" was not a joke."

This holds particular resonance for me, as I am sure it would for anyone who was once a school-girl with a crush. Olivia's affection for Mademoiselle Julie, however, is ambiguously not necessarily a case of unrequited love.

I will leave you with a longer passage:

I have often wondered what share Racine had in lighting the flame that began to burn in my heart that night, or what share proximity. If she hadn't read just that play or if she hadn't called me up by chance to sit so near her, in such immediate contact, would be inflammable stuff which I carried so unsuspectingly within me have remained perhaps outside the radius of the kindling spark and never caught fire at all? But probably not; sooner or later, it was bound to happen.

Book-centric Memories II

Following planning this year's summer reading, I remembered what I read last summer. This time last year I was en route to Florida for three weeks in the sun, in Disney World and on the Gulf Coast. When I wasn't meeting Mickey Mouse, tossing an American football in the Gulf of Mexico, or having barbeques with my boyfriend's family, I was lying in the sun reading or cooling off indoors with a book in hand. Nostalgic today, I am envious of my own self a year ago; the closest I will get to reading on the beach this year is potentially a day trip to Brighton.

Last summer's book choices were perfect. I enjoyed them all immensely and the enjoyment of the holiday itself definitely influenced my enjoyment of the books and the pleasure I experienced in reading contributed to my overall happiness throughout the holiday.

From the photograph above you can see that I read A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini, which I had received as a Christmas gift seven months previously and stored up as an ideal summer read. Before that I read one of my Waterstone's Summer 3 for 2 books (I love indulging in this offer for holiday reading), The Private Lives of Pippa Lee by Rebecca Miller (daughter of Arthur Miller and wife of Daniel Day Lewis; the motion picture due to be released this July), which was darker than I expected but had a witty and wise writing style that I really liked. I followed this up with the incredibly engrossing The Return by Victoria Hislop, which was published just in time a few weeks earlier, and like her debut novel The Island, is a wonderfully compelling summer novel. After the engaging but often bleak A Thousand Splendid Suns (but evocative of heat and sand, especially when lying in them), I discovered Jonathan Coe for the first time by reading the haunting and resonant The Rain Before it Falls (another of my Waterstone's bargains) during some tropical thunderstorms that aleviated the humidity somewhat. Lastly I read my free book from Waterstone's -the one I actually intended to buy- The Bastard of Istanbul by Eli Shafak, which was a consuming and often disturbing family saga set in Turkey. All of my summer reading choices were relatively light yet absorbing. I also discovered the best independent bookshop whilst on the Gulf Coast but I intend to devote a future blog post to that experience.

Lost in The Wilderness

I was happy to be lost in The Wilderness by Samantha Harvey for a few days; I took my time there, exploring, even if it was confusing to be lost at times.

I loved this book. I found it subtly heartbreaking. I adored the writing; Samantha Harvey has a wonderful way with words and I lost myself in her beautiful sentences on memory and its loss. The novel is poignant and tragic and incredibly moving. The writing elevates the understated subject matter. Jake, the narrator, is an older man whose mind is rapidly deteriorating from Alzheimer's Disease. Jake barely recognises people; he continually forgets things; he doesn't understand why his childhood friend, "poor Eleanor", is caring for him and why they are sleeping together; he cannot remember why his son, Henry, is in prison; he doesn't know what happened to his daughter, Alice...

The Wilderness does not feature high drama or even have a discernible plot, but it examines Jake's disease through his mind and evokes his confusion, his powerlessness, his helplessness. I think I have already used the word "subtle" but it is true: The Wilderness is on the surface very simple but is such an intelligent novel.

Whilst savouring the language and the meditation upon memory, I was reminded of a few other novels, all of which I have enjoyed in different ways. One of my favourites, Everything is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer echoed in The Wilderness, perhaps due to the Eastern-European past of Sara, Jake's mother; I was later reminded of We Need to Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver and its similarly unreliable narrator and what is being intentionally -in Jake's case unintentionally due to his unreliable memory- revealed and concealed to the reader; lastly I remembered my devastation after reading A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry and the fates of its characters ... although The Wilderness is by no means as shocking and shattering, it does leave you with an overwhelming feeling of sadness.

That sums it up, really: The Wilderness is a exceptionally sad novel; not unbearably sad but definitely depressing in the bleakness of the disease and its unrelenting brutality.

The chapters alternate between Jake in the present, ill, and in the Sixties, newly married and a father who has moved from London to his childhood Moors, and focuses on particular memories and formative events in his past. The flashbacks are not linear, can even be confusing for the reader too, as Jake tries to make a timeline and remembers, re-remembers, confuses, forgets, and even reinvents his memories. The events in the present play out almost like a detective novel in the way that Harvey cleverly provides tid-bits of information, and clues, to the way things actually played out; for me, it was an interesting and effective method of writing, albeit difficult to convey in a review.

I found this an exceptional debut novel and a worthy shortlisted contender for the Orange Prize and -all prevailing- a worthy nominee for this year's Booker. It is one of the best novels I have personally read this year and one that will resonate, I am sure, beyond it. I need to extend my thanks to Jackie at FarmlaneBooks for her review; although I was drawn to reading this title, her review convinced me to read it sooner rather than later.

I took note of this passage to share:

There is such pressure to remain true to the facts, and it seems so important somehow, so vital to preserve events and people as they really were. But he knows how memory can make a shattered dream come true. Sometimes he loses the strength and vigilance to stand up to its forces, and thinks he would do just as well to let it transform the past as it wishes.

Lady Chatterley's Lover

In the past I haven't fared well with D.H. Lawrence. He writes contemptible characters so well that when I was at school I threw Sons and Lovers down in disgust, even though I was close to the end, because I loathed Mrs Morel, Paul's mother, intensely and I simply couldn't have her in my life any longer. At University, Women in Love bored me and I only managed to read 2/3 of the novel; Lawrence certainly has me persevering with a book more than any other author, or perhaps it was merely the academic requirement. Women in Love also convinced me that Lawrence was a misogynist.

When Lady Chatterley's Lover was suggested for last month's book group, I was far from delighted. I ended up not hating the novel, nor loving it, but I am glad that I read it. If I were to define my reaction towards the novel further, I would say that I am ambivalent. As I said, I am glad that I read it; it's another Classic down and the illicit furore surrounding this book means that it is one to read. I would even say that at some point in the future, perhaps in my twilight years, I would even re-read it. Lawrence provokes a response in his readers, whether its love or hate or confusion, it is more than some writers achieve. I still think he may be a misogynist though, or maybe a misanthrope ... it's another think I am undecided about.

I have issues with the novel being about Connie Chatterley (Connie is my sister's name and I found it so odd reading about Connie, the sexual being) and yet the title referring to her lover, Oliver Mellors, instead. I didn't find any of the characters sympathetic, likeable, and in the case of Clifford Chatterley, he is another irritating, detestable character in Lawrence's oeuvre. I didn't enjoy the novel per se but I did find it engaging and compelling. Moreover, I didn't find Lady Chatterley's Lover to be wonderfully written; the sex and discussion of their "crisis" was painful at times to read and it is hopelessly dated. There are far more accomplished writers of the period, namely Virginia Woolf.

It was certainly though-provoking in ways that I didn't foresee, certainly in regards to my own preconceived notions. This novel is one I will be thinking about for a while, continually attempting to make up my mind about it.

Midyear Summary and all that is Summery

Where is this year going? I can't believe we are half-way through already.

In June I read fourteen books (including one play), six short stories, as well as reaching the midway point in another book and reading sixty five pages of Ulysses. That brings me to a total of sixty six books for the midyear, an average of eleven a month. As we are half-way through the year, I thought I would document my favourite books of the year so far, contenders for my favourite book of the year. I have narrowed it down to six books, since we have completed six months of the year.

Lady Rose and Mrs Memmary by Ruby Ferguson
Love Falls by Esther Freud (reviewed here)
Mort by Terry Pratchett (reviewed here)
The Uncommon Reader by Alan Bennett (reviewed here)
If I Stay by Gayle Forman (reviewed here)
The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets by Eva Rice (reviewed here)

I have read a number of books that I adored and The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery, The Enchanted April, and Nation by Terry Pratchett narrowly missed my favourites shortlist. If the ending of Burnt Shadows by Kamila Shamsie hadn't been so contrived and disappointing then that would have featured and it is very likely that the book that I am savouring slowly at the moment, The Wilderness by Samantha Harvey (photographed above), will result in being one of my favourite books of the year.

Now that we have reached the first day of July and summer is suddenly upon us, I think it is about time that I lay out my summer reading plans.

Obviously the mountain of library books that I have (the link is only some of them) will feature as well as recent acquisitions and a few others on my immediate TBR pile. Below is the longlist (called a longlist because realistically I don't think I will manage to read every one of the twenty five titles on it over the coming months) and I will be reading these in a hot and humid London and two weeks home in Glasgow during August, during which I will be reading the Kelman book for definite (set in Glasgow).

In the Woods by Tana French
The Group by Mary McCarthy
People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks
Disgrace by J.M. Coetzee
Bog Child by Siobhan Dowd
The Bookshop by Penelope Fitzgerald
Brooklyn by Colm Tóibín
The Unicorn by Iris Murdoch
The Parasites by Daphne Du Maurier
The Bone People by Keri Hulme
Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Stroud
Kieron Smith, Boy by James Kelman
Journal by Katherine Mansfield
Saplings by Noel Streatfeild
Crow Lake by Mary Lawson
Summer at Gaglow by Esther Freud
The Day of the Triffids by John Wyndham
Therese Raquin by Emile Zola
Of Human Bondage by William Somerset Maugham
Hideous Kinky by Esther Freud
Persuasion by Jane Austen
Olivia by Olivia (Dorothy Strachey)
Lady Oracle by Margaret Atwood
The Skin Chairs by Barbara Comyns
Beachcombing by Maggie Dana

Overly-ambitious, yes, but very exciting! Happy Summer, everyone! I'm off to hibernate with my books and will see you in winter...