Enchanted by April in August

I read The Enchanted April by Elizabeth von Arnim aptly in April and was thoroughly enchanted by it. I have waited until now to review it because I didn't want to until I had watched the film adaptation. I have now watched it and again have been enchanted by April in August.

The novel concerns one enchanting and life-changing April that four women, strangers, spend together in a castle in Italy. Two of the women, Lotty Wilkins and Rose Arbuthnot, both dissatisfied, childless housewives, meet and connect at their ladies' club over an adverisement in The Times:

To Those who Appreciate Wistaria and Sunshine. Small mediaeval Italian Castle on the shores of the Mediterranean to be Let Furnished for the month of April. Necessary servants remain. Z, Box 1000, The Times.

On a wet and dismal day in London Lotty and Rose bond over their mutual desire to escape on a wonderful holiday. To offset their indulgence and protect Lotty's nest-egg they decide to advertise for two more women to join them to share the cost and are joined by Mrs Fisher, a waspish, older lady whose friends are dead writers, and Lady Caroline Dester, a socialite attempting to escape the grabbing hands of men. All of the women seek a respite and sancturary in the sun but instead are enchanted by the magic of San Salvatore; the month spent on the Italian Riviera is revelatory and life-changing for the visitors.

San Salvatore, Lotty would say, San Salvatore working its spell of happiness. She could quite believe in its spell. Even she was happier there than she had been for ages and ages.

Evocative of Italy and of Spring The Enchanted April is a delightful read; it is gentle and quiet and beautiful. It is not all pretty flowers and charming women, however, but contains several moments of witty observation:

'But there are no men here,' said Mrs. Wilkins, 'so how can it be improper?' Have you noticed,' she inquired of Mrs. Fisher, who endeavoured to pretend she did not hear, 'how difficult it is to be improper without men?'

Several of the exchanges between the women, especially between Lotty and Mrs Fisher, are highly amusing and when Mr Wilkins and Mr Arbuthnot arrive (after their wives invite them) there is high comedy, especially when Mellersh takes a bath.

If you are looking for a light but thoroughly engaging and enjoyable book then I recommend this one; it really is lovely and enchanting. I was so enraptured by it in April that I immediately tracked down a few more copies of Elizabeth von Arnim books, all Virago Modern Classics, to read and I still look forward to doing so.

I also recommend the adpatation which is directed by Mike Newell and has a stellar cast of Joan Plowright (nominated for a supporting actress Oscar for her role as Mrs Fisher); Miranda Richardson; Josie Lawrence; Polly Walker; Alfred Molina; Jim Broadbent; and Michael Kitchen. It is curious how characters onscreen can often fit or change your perception of them in the book; I wasn't sure of Josie Lawrence in the role of Lotty when I recognised her on my cover (I am not a fan of film tie-in covers for the most part but this one doesn't offend me too much) but her humour carries off the eccentric but very sweet Lotty. Moreover I was more sympathetic of Mellersh, Lotty's husband (played by Alfred Molina), in the film as he came across as less domineering in the end and quite tender towards his wife; Jim Broadbent played the part of Frederick Arbuthnot to perfection and I found him far more obnoxious in the flesh than in prose, perhaps because his round, red face was visible and not imagined.

The representation onscreen is imbued with beauty in the colour and flowers and peace and implied fragrance described wonderfully in the novel, in stark contrast to the dark, dismal London of earlier scenes. The castle where the adaptation was filmed is Portofino, a castle Elizabeth von Arnim rented one April in the twenties to write "a happy book" and where she decided to set it as the scenery was begging to be described.

She jumped up ... and threw open the shutters.
'Oh!' cried Mrs Wilkins.
All the radiance of April in Italy lay gathered together at her feet. The sun poured in on her. The sea lay asleep in it, hardly stirring. Across the bay the lovely mountains, exquisitely different in colour, were asleep to it the light; and underneath her window, at the bottom of the flower-starred grass slope from which the wall of the castle rose up, was a great cypress, cutting through the delicate blues and violets and rose colours of the mountains and the sea like a great black sword.
She stared. Such beauty; and she was there to see it. Such beauty; and she was alive to feel it. Her face was bathed in light. Lovely scents came up to the window and caressed her. A tiny breeze gently lifted her hair.

Teaser Tuesdays

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

"The tarpaulin around the bog child was pinned down. The place had an expectant feel to it. The archaeologists were on their way and the girl inside was waiting."

Bog Child by Siobhan Dowd

Me Cheeta

This is my first review of a book from the Booker longlist since its announcement (links to the ones I read before their nomination can be found here) and when I embarked on reading it in full. Let me preface this post by saying that I will review each and every longlisted title that I manage to read. Reading the longlist is already opening me up to some books that I may not have read otherwise and overall I am hoping that it will be a rewarding and enriching experience. By writing down my thoughts on all the nominees I think it will make easier for me to objectively choose the title that I would like to win as well as potentially encouraging others, who aren't reading the longlist themselves, to pick up a title that they normally wouldn't read.

Me Cheeta : The Autobiography by James Lever is the inclusion on the list that surprised most people; some saw it as a novelty, others a travesty, and I saw it as an opportunity (although the cynic in me wonders if it was merely a token gesture). The fictional autobiography of Cheeta the chimpanzee, companion of Tarzan on the silver-screen, Me Cheeta (an allusion to Tarzan's catch-phrase) is a satire of the golden-age of Hollywood. I laughed out-loud from the spoof-memoir's "Note to the Reader" and for the majority of the first section when Cheeta is liberated from the African jungle and "rehabilitated" in the jungle that is Hollywood.

If you're a star, Hollywood is a playground, and if you're not, they're right, it is a jungle. It's a town of heartless bottom-lines and harsh decisions and betrayals so ugly that from time the very earth beneath it shudders in contempt, like its teeth have been set on edge.

However, the novelty wore off some and although I still found it amusing in parts and overall I enjoyed it, I did feel it was dry in places.

The concept is incredibly clever; Me Cheeta reads like a real memoir and Cheeta is a fabulous (and most importantly, a believable) narrator but I wasn't fully engaged in Thirties and Forties Hollywood, despite a few cameos from more alluring stars and a definite sense of the period. In my opinion the first half is stronger than the second but perhaps that is because it concerns a more amusing and happier time, when Cheeta was at the height of his career, but the sadness of the memories of a has-been star in the latter half is less humorous. Its strength certainly seems to be in its complete credibility as a memoir, down to its photographs, filmography and index. I greatly admire its achievement and its wit; Cheeta's perception of the human world is that of a primate as a guest in it and misunderstandings and confusion ensue:

I overheard William Powell tell Jane Russell that 'The two inevitable things in life, as Mark Twain had it, are death and taxis'. Taxis, sure: wherever there are humans there'll be cars, there's no doubting that. And those cars will doubtless always include taxis. But death?

The language is quite colourful at times and the content a little lewd, probably the sections that I found hilarious are the ones that make them cringe.

Cheeta interacts with the implied reader frequently providing it with more of an authentic feel (yes, there were even times that I could easily suspend my disbelief and believe I was being addressed by a chimpanzee). He informs, shows, tells and instructs:

In fact, unless I specifically inform you otherwise, every single action performed by an adult human male in this memoir can be thought of as an attempt to attract the attention of some sexually receptive females.

It is all very tongue-in-cheek and refreshing. Did it change my life? No. Do I think it will win the Booker? No, but chimpanzees might fly.

Next I expect a sequel to this attempt with the autobiography of Bubbles, the chimpanzee who lived with Michael Jackson in Neverland.

The Other Hand

The Other Hand by Chris Cleave (published as Little Bee in North America) is a book that embodies the Marmite effect: you either love it or hate it. Claire, Simon, and Jackie all loved it; Kim hated it and called it "emotionally manipulative" and last week linked to a reviewer, Anne, who felt the same. I had read the positive reviews before reading it (Simon's review prompting me to ultimately move the book from my wish-list to my shopping basket) but didn't come across the negative ones until afterwards. I was, however, aware of Kim's feelings and I was questioning the novel and its potential emotional manipulation throughout.

Its publication is gimmicky and Sceptre in the UK have not done the book any favours by manipulating and patronising the book consumer. The novel is prefaced by a cringe-worthy letter from the publisher that tells us how special The Other Hand is as if we are incapable of determining that for ourselves, as if our opinion does not count. The publishers should have left the novel to stand on its own merits. Moreover, to liken the book to Schindler's Ark is lazy and grandiose; if you want to draw comparisons to a powerful prize-winner then explain that it is a book that makes you question the lengths you would go to save the life of somebody else, a stranger.

However, this infuriating marketing ploy is not the fault of the novelist nor the novel and I fail to see how it is offensive beyond that - isn't it the purpose of the writer to evoke emotion where appropriate and to provoke a response in the reader? If that response is visceral then it's a job well done, is it not? I didn't find its ability to shock cheap or unrealistic nor did I think its hard-hitting subject matter was entirely undermined by its humour, which served to lighten the mood at times. As I said: the marmite effect.

I do rail against the back cover synopsis that opens with "We don't want to tell you what happen in this book. It is a truly special story and we don't want to spoil it." It goes on to provide a vague, enigmatic description of the novel and then tells me to tell my friends about it but not to tell them what happens because I am in the habit of spoiling books for my friends/readers and to take orders from a publisher who should be capable of publicising a book and its plot without spoiling it.

That is my rant concluded and it is only against the promotion of the novel, the content of which I loved. I don't think it was a life-changing book but it was a compelling read and one I found that challenged me in parts and amused me in others, which was a welcome dichotomy. The Other Hand concerns Sarah, a magazine editor, mother, and wife from the London suburbs and Little Bee, a sixteen-year-old Nigerian refugee; Sarah and Little Bee met two years previously on a beach in Nigeria where their lives were irreparably altered and fatefully intertwined. I found the basic plot of a Nigerian girl seeking asylum in Britain thought-provoking and challenging of any preconceptions I may have had of our immigration system. Essentially though The Other Hand is a heartrending novel and not social commentary; the novel educates mildly where it can but ultimately it serves to entertain and emote.

I really did enjoy this novel and immediately popped it into an envelope to send to my mother-in-law who loves a gripping read. I recommend this to anybody who likes to be engaged in an addictive, emotional roller-coaster of a story.

Book Cover Collecting

If you managed to read my guest post for Verity's Virago Venture then you will know that I am hopeless at resisting a pretty book cover and if you read my blog regularly then that probably didn't escape your notice; I also enjoy owning matching sets of books and today's blog post covers both. Virago Press have over the last few years begun marketing beautifully illustrated re-issues of books that feature on their Virago Modern Classics list by some of their most popular authors; first came new editions of the Angela Carter books that they publish, followed by Muriel Spark (some of which are still forthcoming) and now they are in the process of publishing new editions of Barbara Pym's novels. These series of books had to be part of my collection as I find the artwork stunning.

I would have entitled this post "book cover coveting" but have purchased all of the ones published thus far. This week saw the re-issue of both The Comforters (her debut novel) by Muriel Spark and Some Tame Gazelle by Barbara Pym, hence the timely post.

The Muriel Spark copies are photographed above and I have read the first to be published, Symposium and Loitering with Intent. Expect to read a review of The Comforters soon as I expect that it will be a book that I love based on the fabulous synopsis:

In Muriel Spark's fantastic first novel, the only things that aren't ambiguous are her matchless originality and glittering wit. Caroline Rose is plagued by the tapping of typewriter keys and the strange, detached narration of her every thought and action. She has an unusual problem - she realises she is in a novel. Her fellow characters are also possibly deluded: Laurence, her former lover, finds diamonds in a loaf of bread - could his elderly grandmother really be a smuggler? And Baron Stock, her bookseller friend, believes he is on the trail of England's leading Satanist.

To introduction to this new copy written by Ali Smith can be read here.

The cover art (and lettering) for these editions is done by Martin Haake and the cover for Symposium can be found on his website. Re-issues of both A Far Cry from Kensington and Memento Mori are forthcoming in this series.

As yet I have not read any Barbara Pym novels but I have heard delightful things and look forward to reading these funny novels.

The cover illustrations in their case are courtesy of Jessie Ford and I think they are fabulously colourful and amusing. An article this week accused these covers of belonging to the '"chick-lit" genre' (the photograph featured is the cover for A Glass of Blessings, which will be published later this year as well as other Pym titles) but I don't agree. Virago have been guilty of publishing dubious covers for other VMC reissued titles that can be completely misleading (see this) but I think that the Pym covers are fresh and fun and to be taken in the witty light of their content.

The commissioned covers for both Spark and Pym are reminiscent of the wonderful covers and typography for Virago's Angela Carter titles by Roxanna Bikadoroff, some of which are photographed below. These are by far my favourite illustrated covers and I upgraded my Angela Carter collection to include these editions as they encapsualte her rich, lush, and bizarre creations. I think this is an admirable marketing ploy and coup for Virago.

Roxanna Bikadoroff is also the illustrator for the North American Penguin copies of Angela Carter's work, a fact that I am amazed I did not realise sooner as I also have a couple of those copies from across the pond. I found a great blog post by Caustic Cover Critic that features images of some of those editions (look at the very clever Penguin logos). It interests and pleases me greatly that Carter can now be universally identified (well, despite for the Vintage editions of her work. I love Vintage Books but their Carter covers don't excite me nearly as much as the ones photographed).

I hope you have enjoyed today's foray into the wonderful world of cover art.

Blackberry-Picking

My facebook status just now reads "Paperback Reader is eating blackberries". I was eating blackberries and they were delicious. One of my friends commented with this quote:

"Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen."

I didn't know the quote so I googled it and found it was the opening lines from the poem "Blackberry-Picking" by Seamus Heaney. I am not a huge poetry fan (it is my least favourite literary form) but this poem strikes a chord with me and, importantly, is accessible. It is quite dark, especially when it moves onto decay, but I really like it. I enjoy the blood imagery and comparisons. I think that the poem is about the end of things, about relationships, and of beautiful things becoming ugly and dying. I especially liked this line:

"Our hand were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's."

The Bell Jar

"It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn't know what I was doing in New York". Such an opening line! It was a queer, sultry summer, ten years ago that I first discovered Sylvia Plath, the summer before I began University. Back then I didn't know who the Rosenbergs were, I didn't know who Sylvia Plath was, but it was enough to know that she had killed herself by putting her head in an oven to court my interest. As an angsty eighteen year old whose own pain made her self-involved, I loved controversy and Sylvia Plath with her tragic suicide and appropriation of the Holocaust to evoke her pain, was right up my street. That summer I read her poetry and then during the year I read The Bell Jar around the same time that I first read The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides. Melodramatic much?

Re-reading it a decade later for the Savidge Reads Book Group I had more of a perspective. Where the first experience of it spoke to my tortured, intense, and angst-filled self, the revisit allowed me to appreciate the beautiful prose and the humour that pervades the novel that is inaccurately thought of as depressing. The Bell Jar is dark, of course it is: it deals with the themes of depression and attempted suicide (the first of its kind) but amidst some comedic instances. Plath/Esther Greenwood is exceptionally observant and witty; her observations and insight into her thoughts and thought processes are highly amusing; Esther gives voice to bizarre thoughts, the type of which we wouldn't admit to anyone. I appreciated the stripped-back exposure of Esther, naked and wounded. The ones at book group who were re-reading the book agreed that it should be compulsory for adults who had read The Bell Jar in their youth to re-read it again in adulthood. It resonated with me in my angst-ridden days and it resonated with me again -in a different way- as a more mature, less naïve adult; having been in the bell jar -that confined, claustrophobic, introspective place- between now and then, I appreciate it more and am less inclined to think that it "speaks to" my poor, immature, tortured soul. Yes, I am being self-deprecating but I recognised its black humour during this re-read and perceived that it is not all darkness and tragedy. In many ways I identified more with Esther this time around than I ever did, or thought I did.

These are more my thoughts and impressions outwith a normal book review but I have a lot of thoughts and impressions about this book! I suspect that most posts made after book group will be random observations about the book as I ponder it after discussion, rather than a cohesive account.

To lighten what can often be a light book anyway, I would like to share a favourite quote from a favourite show, Gilmore Girls:

"Hey, did anybody ever think maybe Sylvia Plath wasn't crazy, she was just cold?" Lorelai Gilmore

Often, when I feel cold, I love to take a bath.

"There must be quite a few things a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them. Whenever I'm sad I'm going to die, or so nervous I can't sleep, or in love with somebody I won't be seeing for a week, I slump down so far and then I say: 'I'll go take a hot bath.'" (page 18)