Monday, 31 August 2015
[1171: Adelia is a doctor from Salerno, visiting England and investigating a series of crimes]
It was the custom in Cambridge for those who had been on pilgrimage to hold a feast after their return… it was the turn of the Prioress of St Radegund to host the feast… It was not until the morning of the day itself that a Grantchester servant arrived with an invitation for the three foreigners in Jesus Lane.
Left to herself, Adelia would have put on her grey overdress in order to tone down the brightness of her best saffron silk underdress, which would then only have shown at bosom and sleeves. ‘I don’t want to attract attention.’
The [maids] however, plumped for the only other item of note in her wardrobe, a brocade with the colours of an autumn tapestry, and Gyltha, after a short waver, agreed with them. It was slid carefully over Adelia’s coiffure. The pointed slippers Margaret had embroidered with silver thread went on with new white stockings.
The three arbiters stood back to consider the result.
observations: Historical fiction is a funny thing: I don’t like much of it, but the authors I do like, I really love. Hilary Mantel, Philippa Gregory, and CJ Sansom are my favourites. I remember picking up the The Other Boleyn Girl, by Gregory, and being jolted by its unusual take on women, its frankness and straightforwardness, its wonderful female characters. For me, she changed the face of historical fiction.
I have tried many pre-20th -century historical crime series in my day, and only Sansom has really kept me reading with his Shardlake books. After finishing some of the try-out volumes, I thought ‘well that was OK, but I don’t need to read any more.’ Others of them I flung across the room. These days it takes quite a lot to make me try a new one, but a passing mention by Bernadette at Reactions to Reading (a reviewer I revere) made me think I should try this one. And although it contained many features that I would expect to dislike, I enjoyed the book hugely: full marks Bernadette.
Ariana Franklin (1st strike: I get confused between the author name and the heroine) says that Adelia Aguilar could have existed and been trained as an anatomist and medical doctor in Salerno in Italy in the 12th century. I bow to her knowledge, though it seems unlikely Adelia would have been quite as modern as she is portrayed. The two things I hate in low-grade historical fiction are 1) people with progressive, pleasantly right-on attitudes that they surely would not have had back then and 2) adoring, deeply loyal retainers with a twinkle in their eyes. Franklin is guilty of both these things, but somehow gets away with it: her heroine is funny, and would be totally believable as a 20th/21st century woman, and I decided just to enjoy it and go along for the ride.
She has been sent to Cambridge to try to look at the murder of some children (don’t even bother asking why – the author has to get her heroine a medical education AND into a local setting, so she was forced to make something up.) The local Jews have been blamed, and are suffering persecution as a result. Naturally Adelia isn’t bigoted at all, and has Jewish friends, so can start off with the assumption that they are not guilty. So – she solves the crime, and it is an exciting and tense investigation, with a lot of detail of 12th century life, and great characters. King Henry II makes a cameo appearance, and there is mention of the whole Thomas Becket affair – there were a couple of blog entries in 2013 on Becket and on TS Eliot’s Murder in the Cathedral.
Ariana Franklin was the pen-name of Diana Norman, who was married to Barry Norman, probably the UK’s most famous film critic in his day. She died in 2011.
I didn’t read Bernadette’s actual review of the book till after I’d finished it: it is here.
Bernadette mentions that the author also wrote a non-fiction book called Terrible Beauty: Life of Constance Markievicz, 1868-1927. Happily I can inform her that Terrible Beauty is a quote from WB Yeats (on the aftermath of the Irish 1916 uprising, not on any woman) and that Con Markievicz was an extraordinary and fascinating woman: a revolutionary, and the first woman to be elected to the British Parliament (though she never took her seat). In fact I visited her childhood home while on holiday in Ireland a couple of weeks ago – blog post here, and more on Markievicz and her sister in this entry.
The picture is ‘12th century woman’, from a 1906 book of theatrical costumes.
Sunday, 30 August 2015
Carnival! Girls from work, boys from the salon, old school friends, Michel’s cousins from south London, all walk the streets with a million others. Seeking out the good sound systems, winding their bodies close to complete strangers and each other, eating jerk, ending up in Meanwhile Gardens, stoned in the grass. Usually. Not this year. This year they finally accept Frank’s annual invitation to a friend of a friend’s with ‘an amazing carnival pad.’ They turn up early on the Sunday morning, as advised, to get there before the street is closed off…
Leah accept a rum and Coke and sits in a corner chair, looking out the window, watching the police lining up along the barricades….
Now the flat fills very quickly. The doorbell rings continuously… People stream into the party like soldiers into triage. It’s hell out there! I thought we weren’t going to make it. Everyone takes turns to stand on the white stucco balconies, dancing, blowing whistles painted in Rastafarian colours at the carnival crowds, far below. Very soon Leah is drunk…. Nat’s coming later. She’s with the kids on one of Marcia’s church floats. Sausage roll?
observations: Today sees the start of this year’s Notting Hill Carnival in London.
The Carnival is a key part of London life in August – a huge street party, one of the largest in the world, with a massive parade with floats, costumes and dancing. Over the two days, culminating in August Bank Holiday Monday, a million people take to the streets in what is usually a rambunctious but peaceful enough event. Every year there are fears and threats, discussions over the police presence, and concerns over public safety. There is plentiful and varied music, food and drugs on offer. Carnival is a terrific celebration of the multi-cultural diversity of modern Britain.
It’s a central part of this book, which is itself a celebration of London life: the Carnival brings together the different strands of the story – see this earlier entry for details of the plot.
The book is very good on the two young women, Nat and Leah, getting older and comparing how they are doing. Just as at school they reached a point where ‘They had only Prince left [in common] and he was wearing thin’ – here Leah doesn’t know Natalie’s friends, while Nat herself is trying to find common ground with her family by going on a float.
Natalie is the high flyer: when she goes to university and meets privileged white young people, she wonders ‘Were these really the people for whom the Blakes had always been on their best behaviour?’ Her strategy for getting on is ‘Do good work. Wait for your good work to be noticed.’ She has a short fascinating encounter with an older black female barrister/judge, who wants to give her good advice.
There is a big variety of voices and styles, most of them very well done. I particularly liked the community activist Phil Barnes, living next door to Felix’s father and talking about the past and his sense of belonging. I liked the rich boy’s parents, who wouldn’t understand ‘downstairs neighbour’ or ‘night bus’ or ‘unpaid internship’.
The top four photos are from Wikimedia Commons, of recent carnivals.
The bottom four photos are ones I took myself at the Notting Hill Carnival back in 1979.
Saturday, 29 August 2015
Ladd Cunningham drove his Corvette home, too fast for town streets. Displaying his virtuosity, he whipped into the long driveway without slackening speed, and zoomed between the high grey stucco house on his right and the pool enclosure on his left…
The young people on the pool deck were shouting “Hi” – he didn’t want to answer…. He sidled towards the fence. The Lorimers were in there and Gary Fenwick. He didn’t want to talk to the Lorimers.
He said, “Hey, Gare?”
“Come on up.”…
Felicia Lorimer sat on the pool coping and lifted her brown legs, let them down, watched the blue and crystal movement of water and light swirling in beauty around her ankles.
Her brother, supine on the diving board, said “His not to reason why”.
observations: Charlotte Armstrong was a very successful thriller writer in her day – she wrote a lot, won awards, and some of her work was made into films. Her books tend to be short, atmospheric and very tense – not big on jokes. I thought I’d remind myself about her, and picked this book at random.
The setting is among wealthy families in the LA area: the young man Ladd, above, is unhappy about the death of his father and his mother’s subsequent remarriage. Is there something suspicious about the death? There are awkward encounters at the swimming party, and at a dinner party later – these prosperous middle-class people see each other all the time, adults and grown-up children socializing and networking together, indulging in a lot of drinking and brittle dialogue. They are doctors, business men and artists.
So I’m going along with this – it’s all very Mad Men in fact – when I suddenly realize that this is actually a re-working of the plot of Hamlet. You could have knocked me down with a feather, I haven’t been so surprised since I first saw the equally-Shakespearean The Lion King.
Luckily this isn’t a spoiler – the book follows the plot of the play at times, when it suits, but you can’t predict anything from that. The other great theme of the book is Freudianism – various characters are trying to work out what is wrong with Ladd, and what can be done about him, in those terms. The discussions on this were surprisingly absorbing.
It’s a quick and very entertaining read – you never know where the plot is going next, or whose side you are meant to be on, who’s good and who’s bad. (Impressive, given the Hamlet structure.) The only thing I didn’t like was that the women characters are very flimsy compared with the men: Felicia, above, is Ophelia, while Ladd’s mother is standing in for Gertrude, but a 16th century man did a better job at creating women characters than the 20th century Armstrong. If I’d read the book blind I would have been convinced it was by a man, because male feelings and ideas are given so much more importance than female ones.
But the book certainly left me with an appetite to read more of Armstrong.
The photo is of a swimming pool in Florida in the 1950s.
Friday, 28 August 2015
One day my mother told me that Mrs Jardine had asked us to pick primroses on her hill, and then, when we had picked as many as we wanted, to come in and have tea with her….
Next Thursday was fine. We wore our sailor blouses and skirts… and set off after lunch accompanied by Mademoiselle. She wore her best off-mustard flannel skirt, cream satin blouse with tucks, net yoke and whaleboned neck…
As we crossed the lawn, a french window in the front of the long, low, creeper-covered house opened, and a woman’s figure appeared. She waved. She gave the impression of arms outstretched, so welcomingly did she surge forward to meet ups.
She was dressed in a long gown… she had a white fleecy wrap round her shoulders and on her head, with its pile of fringed puffed, curled hair, a large Panama hat trimmed with a blue liberty scarf artistically knotted, the ends hanging down behind.
observations: Should be read in conjunction with the first entry on this book.
The edited extract above is from the opening pages of The Ballad and the Source, and to me is an enticing and very promising setup.
It is set around 1910-12: Mrs Jardine meets the narrator, 10-year-old Rebecca, daughter of a family Mrs J feels close to - though Rebecca’s father doesn’t feel close to Mrs J at all: there is obviously scandal rolling around in the background, and he discourages the relationship. Mrs Jardine makes Rebecca the recipient of a long involved recounting of her family history, full of troubles. Rebecca is clearly too young for most of this (and leaves the reader to draw his or her own conclusions quite often), and spends hilarious amounts of time seizing the opportunity to eat as much as possible of whatever is on offer – this is a continuing theme. The book is, perhaps surprisingly, very funny, full of a deep sense of the absurd.
Sometimes Rebecca is trying to learn. When Mrs J makes sweeping comments on Frenchwomen and how they ‘put a natural value on themselves as women’ she thinks about the French governess above:
Perhaps, I thought, that accounted for her. Perhaps I ought to view her in a more reverent light.Rebecca’s sister Jess dislikes Mademoiselle very much, forming the theme of another running joke, with an admirably heartless ending with the governess caught in Belgium at the start of WW1.
I recently re-read this book after a gap of many years, and here are some of the books & writers it made me think of:
Sybille Bedford (very much)Occasionally in Ballad there is a quite unexpected and intriguing throwaway remark, as this one about a woman whose life goes badly wrong:
Ford Madox Ford
Les Liaisons Dangereuses
She sounded rather proud of it all. I think it’s only in books that women are ashamed of being prostitutes. Her idea was to make herself interesting [to a man] - dramatic, important.--- and it is this kind of almost-incidental upsetting of the moral norm that reminded me of the other authors.
The Ballad and the Source is delightfully full of clothes and clothes descriptions. Take the statuesque Mrs Jardine in her cloaks, for example, wearing:
A dove-grey cloak lined with lilac silk, long grey gloves and a shallow wide-brimmed silvery straw hat girdled with blue and mauve ostrich feathers.While Tilly the trusted retainer and sewing woman has her dolman cape – Mrs J sees it as ‘singular’ where the reader sees that the two women are two of a kind, at opposite ends of the social scale.
Rebecca and her sister Jess have ‘our long-sleeved velvets…cut by local Miss Midgley with more optimism, fitted and finished with more complacency than the results warranted.’
There is a woman in an Indian-based outfit, perhaps made from a sari:
a queer dress: a dark yellow bodice and a long, bright-coloured skirt, sort of magenta, not an English colour, and edged with a gold band.The colours of the picture above do not match up exactly with Lehmann’s descriptions (‘off-mustard’! how I wish I had been able to find something that fitted that description…), but the image still seemed to perfectly represent the occasion. It is from a lovely collection of illustrations from fashion mag Gazette du Bon Ton – this one from 1913, and called Le gouter au Jardin.
Rosamond Lehmann’s wonderful The Echoing Grove has also featured on the blog.
Licensed under Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.
Thursday, 27 August 2015
I very rarely write about books I don’t like, unless they have high entertainment value and the author won't care. And I don’t usually do straight reviews, but I am making an exception in this case to make an unusual point. For this reason, I am not dealing with the clothes in the book, and there is no fashion illustration for the blogpost. The images above are the UK and US covers of the book. And the author for sure won't care, she's done very well with it.
One of the features of A Little Life that I didn’t like is that it is way, way too long - more than 700 pages - and that the claim by the author and editor that it couldn’t be made shorter is simply not true.
I’d have done it for them.
(The lovely online magazine Slate - for whom I used to work - simply encouraged them both by giving them this space to discuss not editing it: they’d have been better employed spending the time getting on with the red pencilling.)
The writing and story are certainly compelling in a weird way, but the style is also very workmanlike, nothing special, and is done in that strange manner peculiar to modern US novels where everything is written as history: first this happened, then this happened, then they went uptown, then it was Thanksgiving. It is quite a distancing way of writing.
It’s also disconcertingly unreal: though given a very thorough geographical placing – largely Manhattan and Massachusetts – the timing is completely non-existent. The novel covers more than 50 years, but all of it seems to be happening right now (in terms of, say, technology) and never, in terms of events in the outside world. Or convincingness. It starts as though it is going to be the story of four college graduates, close friends, making their way in New York in different professions. Two of the friends get ditched by the author – we know almost nothing of them, the odd page or two over the course of this very long book. The novel is actually about Jude who –
SLIGHT SPOILER BUT REVEALED IN EVERY SINGLE REVIEW
--- spent his childhood subjected to the most terrible sexual and physical abuse. Having met not one person in his first 16 years who could either help or protect him or even just refrain from mistreating him, he now spends the next 40 years surrounded (equally unconvincingly) by people (with one exception) who love him, who adore him, who will do anything for him.
All this is quite ridiculous, along with the fact that everyone is terribly good-looking and quite bizarrely successful in their lives, and those who were not fabulously wealthy to begin with become so through those well-known moneymaking pursuits of acting and art.
You can say that this is a fable, a parable, a fairytale (there are strange echoes of the Little Mermaid) – but then the author seems to want to have it both ways, with this ludicrous world on the one hand, but Jude demanding our pity and sorrow on the other. We are asked to believe in his story. I didn’t. The book left me unmoved by its attempts to show the love and kindness of his friends.
But my major objection to this book is something different. What I hated about it was the complete lack of a true moral framework. The author’s attitude is that what happened to Jude is dreadful because he is a beautiful clever sensitive boy.
This underlying assumption – that he didn’t deserve this because of who he was - is appalling, because of the flipside, that it all wouldn’t have been quite so bad if Jude wasn’t so attractive. (To be clear: Yanagihara never overtly says this, but I think it is an inescapable conclusion from her line of writing.) That goes against everything I believe in. If we don’t at least try to believe that all humans are worthwhile, and work and live with that assumption, then we are lost.
In addition, Jude can only be helped by money, success, fame, networking, other beautiful people. Everything that helps him is the result of money: this is one of the most materialist books I have ever read. I think that is why I winced at quite a number of things in the book but (unlike other readers and reviewers) I did not find it affecting or moving or profound. I found the character of Jude’s great friend Willem completely unreal, and the endless kindness and affection handed out by him and others to Jude nearly as unconvincing as the bad times the author put him through in his earlier life.
I have rarely felt so strongly about the morals in a book, particularly one that appears to demand our sympathy for a bad situation.
I thought the ghoulish descriptions of the abuse were vile and unnecessary and pointless – it isn’t real, and it is quite unbelievable, so why is it so detailed and unrelenting? Yanagihara wanted, presumably, to invent and write about Jude, and to imagine what it would be like to be him – but she didn’t fulfil her contract with the reader by making this worth our attention.
There are other absurdities: The author seems to have decided to emulate Hilary Mantel by using the pronoun ‘he’ for Jude – but this is just confusing and messy (and inconsistent - in the para below, the first 'he' is Willem). When Mantel did it in Wolf Hall, where if in doubt, ‘he’ means Thomas Cromwell, it was clever and persuasive.
Then there are the stupid names, with characters called Citizen & Contractor. The whole adoption scenario. The fact that there are virtually no women in the book. The endless repetitions of very similar scenes. The complete lack of any humour or wit. The observations on modern life shoe-horned in for no reason. The completely unbelievable set of lawsuits at the end of the book, making no sense on any level - including, yet again, morality. The paragraphs like this:
JB has been on a fellowship in Italy for the past six months, and Malcolm and Sophie have been so busy with the construction of a new ceramics museum in Shanghai that the last time they saw them all was in April, in Paris - he was filming there, and Jude had come in from London, where he was working, and JB in from Rome, and Malcolm and Sophie had laid over for a couple of days on their way back to New York.The US cover of the book – above right – seems both horrible and eminently suitable for the contents: unsubtle, forcing the story, insisting on something to the reader, shouting at the reader.
If I want to read a story about a man having a hard life I will re-read the Book of Job from the Old Testament.
Tuesday, 25 August 2015
[Mrs Jardine is describing a meeting with her long-lost daughter, Ianthe]
“What did you wear?” I said.
I had in mind some vague conception of mother clothes as distinct from lady clothes…. Mrs Jardine might have chosen to set off the extravagant and therefore unmaternal quality of her beauty by wearing something on the eccentric side. Ianthe might have been put off by this…
“I wore a white frock. I remember it so well: long, simple, classical lines, narrow ruffles of lace round neck and wrists. At that time I had all my clothes especially designed for me, as all beautiful women should. And I nearly always wore white. Dear me, what a divinely pretty dress it was! I can still feel the texture of the material – like apple blossom petals. I asked myself: what will most charm this child? – and that is what I chose. I thought: if things go awkwardly we will speak together of clothes.”
“And did you?”
Pause. “I do wonder if she liked it.”
Mrs Jardine shrugged her shoulders.
observations: For a long time I would have said this was one of my favourite books, in the top 10, but you get cautious about saying that when many years have passed since the last reading. I loved Echoing Grove by the same author on a recent re-read, and then mentions of Ballad in a collection of criticism by the novelist Jonathan Coe made me think I should go for it again. Coe says this:
When I first read it, I bought copies for many of my friends, confident that they would thank me for introducing them to a masterpiece. Polite silence, however, seemed to be the more usual response.--- and oh how I empathized. Many was the happy-fellow-reader I brought to water (“You must read this book, you’ll love it”), but I’m not sure I made any of them drink.
Elsewhere Coe says:
A lot of people who like [Lehmann’s] books are slightly embarrassed by it. They find it melodramatic and over the top and a little bit silly.
Anyway, no hesitation, I loved it as much as ever on a re-read, I still think it’s a masterpiece, a deep piece of work hidden in a highly entertaining and enjoyable wrapper.
The passage above contains everything I love about it – the importance of clothes, the weirdness of the conversation, the beautifully-described uncomfortable relations between the mothers and daughters. The novel consists mostly of Mrs Jardine telling young narrator Rebecca highly unsuitable stories for her age (10) and the times (about 1910), and it catches how much children like the attention and interest of an unrelated adult – Mrs J charms and entrances her with her stories even though, as Rebecca says, she plainly keeps forgetting who she is talking to. Rebecca solidly eats her way through the teatable and listens and remembers. And occasionally there is a moment like this:
I writhed in my chair, pierced by a chilling thought. Could Mrs Jardine be – not quite right in the head? And I alone with her?I loved the continual contrast between Mrs J’s rather practised way of telling her extraordinary stories – all tilted in her own favour – filled with strange spiritual notions, and then Rebecca, stolid and slightly wary. I found this very very funny, the absurdity never failed me.
The strange narration, where Mrs J reports on all kinds of things that she has heard from elsewhere, is reminiscent of Wuthering Heights (though you couldn’t think of a more distant contrast from that book’s storyteller, Nelly Dean).
There will be another entry on the book later.
The white dress above, totally unsuitable for a mother meeting her child, seemed ideal. It is a fashion illustration of the right era: "Mes invités n'arrivent pas" by Francesco Javier Gose, from The Red List. Licensed under Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.
Monday, 24 August 2015
9th in the triple trilogy of Bernard Samson books
The theme of the party, as stated on the printed invitations, was ‘The Golden Twenties’. Its ambivalence had left the German guests uncertain of whether to respond with a fancy dress suited to Berlin in the Weimar years, or simply to wear gold. Many had done both. There were plenty of gold lame gowns, and gold jewellery was in abundance, for this was Berlin and flamboyant ostentation was de rigueur. There was even a gold lame evening jacket – although that was worn by a tenor from the opera and so didn’t count as a surprise of any kind – and there was a glittering outfit of gold pyjamas worn by a skinny old lady who did cooking lessons on TV. Gold wire and gold foil and gold ornaments of many kinds were liberally arranged on the walls. Gold ceiling hangings echoed in shape the antique glass chandelier that Werner had bought in an auction, so that it could become the centre-piece of the room. The moving beams from clusters of spotlights were directed upwards to patch the false ceiling with their light, and create golden clouds that floated overhead.
observations: And so to book number 9 of the triple trilogy. It’s 1988 and Bernard Samson is trying to pick up the threads of his life, but is thwarted all the way by stuff like being dragged off a Polish train by Secret Police and beaten up. He is worried about his children, and wondering which of the women he knows is his real true love. More regular features: There is a hilarious and dreadful dinner party. Nothing but the best for Dicky Cruyer:
‘We haven’t used these caterers before. They sent six packets of frozen bite-sized pizzas without asking if we had a microwave. I was hoping they would thaw but they are rock-hard.’Even in 1988 you would sack those caterers.
There is the grand party in Berlin, above, reminiscent of the one at the end of Spy Line. And there are the usual inter-departmental meetings to remind us that spy organizations are just like any other workplace, and to give us the witty Deighton details:
Bret waved away the biscuits, poured cream into his coffee and drank some. His offhand self-assurance in respect of digestive biscuits revealed his transatlantic origins.Len Deighton’s introduction to this edition is as riveting as ever. He talks about the importance of the church in the fall of communism – that contribution has been devalued and played down, he says. He tells us that in his view:
surely the Bernard Samson stories are comedy thrillers – boardroom dramas perhaps – about a man in love with two women.He talks about his love for Berlin, and says the city
is like an ever-present character in all my Bernard Samson books.-- so room for one more of Audrey Stafford’s pictures of Berlin – this is a historically-preserved checkpoint, part of the history and remembrance of the Wall in the city.
The books are an amazing achievement: I am sad to have finished them, and look forward to reading all of them again at some time in the future.
The top picture is from the German Federal Archives, and shows young women getting ready for a ball in Berlin in 1934 – it’s from the same series as the one illustrating Kerry Jamieson’s Forgotten Lies here.
Sunday, 23 August 2015
published 1937, under pseudonym MJ Farrell
LOOKING AT WHAT GOES ON UNDER THE CLOTHES
[Simon and Susan are brother and sister: they are planning a fancy-dress event for his coming of age]
Simon’s idea (for it had come to be called Simon’s), had caught on.
The countryside ransacked their cupboards, delved in domed boxes, fought out bitter contests for the first services of the Little Women Round the Corners. They were all coming to the party at Garonlea. Simon’s party.—— A Period Party. ’95 to ’07. Come as yourselves, your Uncles or your Aunts. Dancing 10.30——
“I would like to come to Simon’s party in some very high corsets, to make me some bosoms, and a really tricky pair of white nainsook knickers run with black ribbon and frilled at the knees. Pads for my hair, and black silk stockings. I know I’d have the success of my life.”
“I think it would be very unfunny, Sue,” Simon said.
“Well, I won’t, Simon. But I could have called myself a postcard from Paris. And do you remember the first bicyclists, Aunt Enid?”
“No, I don’t,” said Enid, sharply. Why should it appear grotesque to any one— that time of youth? These clothes that had looked so right in their own romantic period! All there seemed to say in their defence now was that they were not unlike the clothes of to-day. You could not say, “We looked lovely in those clothes. We had bosoms which attracted the gentlemen and beliefs to which we clung, we were not rude and unhappy and flat-breasted like our children.” Not unhappy? The denial too was true to type and period.
observations: More Irish influences, after my recent holiday: Molly Keane is the queen of the decaying Anglo-Irish ascendancy, living out their lives in their big houses, knowing life is going to change. See first entry for more details of the plot. The dates for the party costumes are, obviously, 1895-1907.
Sue does not wear what she describes above for the party, and nor does she wear this:
Sue [picked] up a gold tissue bodice veiled and ruched and frilled by an apricot and diaphanous cloud. “I’ll have this, I think. Or shall I? Oh, my nainsook drawers! I suppose Simon wouldn’t be very pleased if I wore them. But I could, underneath. A nice bit of atmosphere. I’ll have these anyhow.”(Nainsook, apparently is a ‘soft light white cotton fabric’, much used for underwear.)
In the end she wears a hideous-sounding brown silk dress with a matching jacket, huge padded shoulders and a bustle. All the vintage clothing at the ball is deeply significant, as is Cynthia’s choice of dress – she looks like a ‘very clean black fish.’ (She is Sue and Simon’s mother.)
There is also the question of Cynthia’s sister-in-law’s clothes:
-- which I assume means she was lesbian.Diana came in then in a spruce little dinner-jacket. Her short hair brushed and pomaded and charmingly grey at the temples. Her finger-nails trimmed squarely. A blue lapis signet-ring. Simon helped her to dress like that. Although he was at Cambridge now, he scarcely realised the implications. In 1922 a great many people did not.
The question of killing yourself by drinking hat paint comes up – this is something we looked at on the blog a while back, in relation to Agatha Christie’s Murder is Easy.
The picture really is a naughty French postcard of the correct era. It’s one of a series - I used a similar one in the entry on this book.
Saturday, 22 August 2015
Under Ben Bulben by WB Yeats
Under bare Ben Bulben's head
In Drumcliff churchyard Yeats is laid.
An ancestor was rector there
Long years ago, a church stands near,
By the road an ancient cross.
No marble, no conventional phrase;
On limestone quarried near the spot
By his command these words are cut:
Cast a cold eye
On life, on death.
Horseman, pass by!
published 1933. Part VI
observations: WB Yeats wrote his own burial instructions, and put them into verse – this is part of a much longer poem.
Ben Bulben is a remarkable mountain lowering over this part of Sligo. Like the moon, it seems to follow you round as you drive through the beautiful countryside. (And you can make stupid jokes: ‘Old Ben Bulben is an atmospheric mountain overlooking the grave, not an aged Irish yokel.’)
On a recent trip to Ireland I wanted to do some Yeats touring – as one friend said ‘Nothing says fun holiday day out like a trip to a dead poet’s grave.’
The house at Lissadell – this entry – is very close to the graveyard at Drumcliff where Yeats is buried.
Or is he?
Shockingly, it has recently been suggested that the bones are not necessarily his. He died and was buried in the south of France in 1939: the transfer of his remains to Ireland didn’t happen till 1948. And now it seems there was trouble identifying the right bits – see this article here.
I still enjoyed my journey to his grave – and although there is a café and giftshop onsite (!!!) they are not nearly as tacky as that sounds.
Here’s another poem by Yeats, published in 1904:
Never Give All the Heart by WB Yeats
Never give all the heart, for love
Will hardly seem worth thinking of
To passionate women if it seem
Certain, and they never dream
That it fades out from kiss to kiss;
For everything that’s lovely is
But a brief, dreamy, kind delight.
O never give the heart outright,
For they, for all smooth lips can say,
Have given their hearts up to the play.
And who could play it well enough
If deaf and dumb and blind with love?
He that made this knows all the cost,
For he gave all his heart and lost.
More Yeats here and here, and another beautiful Irish poem here.
With thanks to the photographers and fellow-visitors.
Friday, 21 August 2015
[Small town Canada: some High Schoolers are having a party, in a house where there is a clothes collection on display to be photographed]
The new girls gasps. Jason flicks her arm and says she’s done.
But he takes L’s hand at the doorway and pulls her back – what for? Oh, to fix her dress. The tunic has fallen to one side. He straightens it, adjusting the folds, fingers cool on her skin. His breath on her shoulder….
The living room has furniture in it. Chairs, a glass table. And along the wall, a parade of dummies dressed in psychedelic clothes…
Jason says “But some of this stuff is valuable, I don’t want it wrecked or stolen…”
Jason and L take the dummies upstairs, one at a time: the backless, black-skirted, paisley-sequined cocktail dress; the Mondrian colour-block; the hot-pink mini that goes with the pink gloves. L puts the gloves in her pocket, rolled together the way Mimi always did. It’s kind of a nightmare because the clock is ticking – they’re still on the stairs with a long black satin Audrey Hepburn-type gown when the first bunch of people comes banging at the door.
observations: I explained in an earlier entry how much I loved this book, and how it was full of amazing clothes descriptions.
I could list what I liked about the book all day, but here are some of my favourite things:
The language is distinctive and matched to the character – I loved the word order of ‘who even is that?’, when the teenager L sees something unexpected at a party.
There is a look at a young woman cutting herself – it’s a minor, glancing moment in the book, but it was honest and totally convincing.
There’s a beautifully reported mother/daughter argument which the reader can see equally from both sides:
‘nobody in the world makes me as mad as you do!’I loved that at one point in the book Hugh thinks about all his friends and ends up making a table.
Shit, shit, shit, there goes the Buddhist vow. Give her a loving, gag-me, big-toothed smile, maybe she won’t start sobbing.
In his head he makes a list of what everybody needs:
What’s Wrong? What Would Help?
MIMI dying 0-nothing-nada-zip
RUTH old, poor affection, $$
--- and so on through all the characters. It was the perfect summing up two-thirds of the way through the book.
There are great coats in the book (‘Ivy loves a suitable coat for the person’) – an asymmetric tweed coat, a jacket with a $100 bill in the pocket, a black coat with a brilliant lining.
There are Hugh/you jokes and misunderstandings throughout the book, and also an unexplained series of anagrams: Argylle, Gallery, Largely and allergy all keep popping up.
As well as looking at people, relationships, love and money, Endicott also takes in art and art galleries, and acting and plays. The Masterclasses for the High Schoolers are particularly fascinating, as well as hilarious as they keep changing which play they are meant to be studying.
Honestly, this is a great book, and will surely be one of my Best Books of the Year: I highly recommend it for anyone who can get hold of it.
The top picture is an Oscar de la Renta dress (thanks to Leah for modelling) – zigzag hot pink colour blocking, whoo - the lower pic is an Yves St Laurent Mondrian.
Thursday, 20 August 2015
[Clothes descriptions from various points in the book]
She’s sitting opposite me now wearing a black trouser suit and white blouse combo with black pumps. Her hair is naturally blonde and she’s got great skin for a fifty-year-old woman. She could do with losing a couple of pounds, but she’d still get a stare or two in the supermarket aisle...
I give her a weary look. Shit, she’s gorgeous. I think Irish men have an extra thing for women with a tan. It just seems cleaner or something, I don’t know. Anyway, looking at her sitting there in a tight white vest and skinny black jeans and cherry Converse, there’s no other way to put it. She’s gorgeous….
His black Hugo Boss suit looks well though, and as always he’s wearing a shirt that couldn’t have cost less than one hundred euro.
observations: Col of Col’s Criminal Library is a good blogfriend, and there is a definite point where our tastes in crime books coincide. And Col bravely continues to visit Clothes in Books even when the subject is at the other end of the spectrum – some serious novel about relationships and feelings. He usually comments that he would not read the book in any circumstances, but at least he made an effort. There’s been slim pickings for him over here for a while, but luckily while on a recent holiday to Ireland I picked up a book that I think will appeal to him, so I am presenting it to him here with my compliments, and the news that it is only £1.99 on Kindle right now, and blow the embargo.
I came across Pat Fitzpatrick while reading an Irish newspaper: he made a joke in a column saying that David and Victoria Beckham had a friend who was now a player at Shamrock Rovers in Dublin, but:
It's fair to say the Beckhams won't be paying him a visit in that part of Dublin. They wouldn't want some future child asking, "Tell me again why you called me The Red Cow?"Now you need at least 3 pieces of trivial information and pointless celebrity gossip to understand this joke, but when you do it is hilarious, and I laughed so much I had to see what else he had written, and I read some more pieces, then bought this book.
It’s a highly entertaining thriller about the bold bad days of the Irish economy – the Celtic Tiger – and how it all went wrong. The hero, Noel Byrne, is a financial journalist in Dublin who gets caught up in various scams and is being blackmailed by several people at once. The opening of the book has him standing ready to make a TV broadcast:
This is the night I get to deliver a live news report in the firing line of two snipers. Both have orders to shoot if I don’t say exactly what they want me to say. That’s bad enough. What’s worse is they both want me to say different things.-- then the book rewinds to tell us how he got there. BTW the Ferraris of the title are a shady family of Italian origin, not the cars.
The book is full of violence, drink, drugs, cold-hearted sex, swearing and completely immoral behaviour, so I’m guessing Col will like it. It feels as though Fitzpatrick knows his stuff about finance, and he certainly does a good job on his characters. Some of it probably went right past me - I’m sure an Irish resident would get extra jokes and observations. But I found it very entertaining and clever in an outrageous way – not for the easily shocked…
The clothes described in the book certainly sum up a certain style of the time.
Tuesday, 18 August 2015
Clothes in Books took a holiday recently, and spent the time in Ireland.
Almost exactly three years ago, I did a blog entry on WB Yeats and his poem In Memory of Eva Gore-Booth and Con Markiewicz – it’s on the blog here. It begins
The light of evening, Lissadell,-- and Lissadell, in County Sligo, was one of the places I visited this month, a house and estate with a very melancholy beauty.
Great windows open to the south,
Two girls in silk kimonos, both
Beautiful, one a gazelle.
This is the house:
And these are the windows:
And on the window below the two young women scratched their names, you can almost see them here…
Lissadell is the epitome of all the Anglo-Irish houses so often found in the novels of the 20th century: slightly faded round the edges, symbolic of a running battle with the climate and a lack of money.
They're just the kind of novels I like, and many have featured on the blog. In Kate O’Brien’s The Last of Summer, set at exactly this time of the year in 1939, it was the RC middle classes, preparing for the outbreak of WW2.
John Banville’s The Newton Letter is a small, perfect novella with an Irish house full of secrets, and the blog entry featured one of my favourite pictures:
There is also WG Sebald’s not-exactly-fiction Rings of Saturn: two women living in a big house, come on hard times, and making a beautiful dress out of scraps. Time to bring out this favourite dress picture:
And the old country estates are very much Molly Keane territory - as in this recent entry on The Rising Tide.
There’ll be more Irish-influenced and Yeats entries coming up on the blog soon…
Friday, 7 August 2015
Thursday, 6 August 2015
[Actor Charles Paris is drinking in the BBC bar with his friend Mark, a radio producer]
Charles shielded his cargo of drinks back to Mark, negotiating the rare stepping-stones of carpet through a maelstrom of handbags, briefcases and legs. Mark, predictably, was talking to a girl.
She was short, probably not more than five foot three, and dark. Centre-parted black hair, well cut, framed an olive face dominated by enormous brown eyes. Once you saw the eyes you didn’t notice the rest of her. Charles was vaguely aware of a boyish body in trim cord trousers and Guernsey sweater, but he was mesmerised by the eyes.
She was talking animatedly as he approached. ‘But come on, of course it’s a political issue. No education is apolitical. None of it’s pure information...’
observations: Every month, Rich at Past Offences suggests a year, and bloggers pick a book from that year and write a post on it: Rich then does a round up over at his blog. This is the Crime of the Century meme. (Click here to read last month's post, 1987, with a title I am proud to say came from my contribution.)
Most months kind Karen Meek of the Eurocrime website does a list of possible titles for the chosen year – I’m sure we don’t thank her enough for this, and when I met her recently I was anxious to stress how much appreciated her list was. I certainly look out for it every month. This time I was determined to find a book from my existing bookshelves, and there it was: high up the alphabetical list, and a book I read when it first came out.
The Charles Paris mysteries were clever and witty – Paris was an older, not-very-successful actor who fell into a crime story from time to time, usually in a theatrical setting. One of the running jokes is that Paris thinks back to the various roles in his past, and the text appends a line of terrible review:
The Glaswegian voice was one had first used in a Thirty Minute Theatre (‘Is competence the highest we can hope for now in a television play?’ – The Financial Times)Simon Brett is now a full-time and very prolific writer, but he worked in radio for a good while, and this book has such a feel for the BBC in those days – I worked at the BBC and at other radio organizations at the time and can vouch for the complete authenticity of the background detail, onto which a wild criminal plot has been imposed. The descriptions of BBC meetings and the BBC Club/Bar are very good, and show that nothing much has changed since – they would fit right into the modern BBC satire W1A.
The crime story, on the other hand, is a complete farrago, involving, of all things, criminals being given their instructions via a series of records on a Radio 2 programme. This is possibly the least likely plot turn I have come across this year.
But am I complaining? I am not. And this is why:
I am an old radio hand of so many years that I think ‘Yeah, go on, radio IS that important, the cost of producing radio programmes and paying the music unions at the time is a VERY VITAL matter, well worth the ludicrous array of crimes committed, the violence and death surrounding it. Radio IS glamorous, and exciting, and a bit louche, and of course wicked career criminals are going to be attracted to it. There could easily be Godfather-like gangs and gentlemanly lowlifes. They were lucky that some of us stayed incorrupt, we were people of high principle doing key jobs.’ Who is going to argue with me over that?
As a 1980 book – I was surprised by a mention of ‘energy conservationists’ discouraging too much aimless driving. And it hit home to me: someone dies in an editing suite, and all modern radio people, much younger than I, would not understand why there were razor blades there, all very handy for the criminal. Children, that’s what we used to edit tape in a pre-digital age.
So great fun for anyone I think – lots of good jokes, and Paris is always annoying yet entertaining. I liked his lawyer friend Gerald defending himself when Charles used the word ‘soliciting’:
‘Charles, soliciting is what loose women do in small rooms, extorting money from and denying satisfaction to the ignorant and the innocent. Whereas what I do…’Gerald changes the subject abruptly.
And, as I say, special opportunities for anyone who worked in radio. The Programme as Broadcast lists (showing what music was played) assume a huge importance in the plot, and I was suddenly taken back to arguing with the person making the list for me one time: ‘there must be another piece of music you haven’t put down’ she kept saying. The reason was that the 1st piece, and item on the list, was:
Also Spake Zarathustraand she was reading it as
Also: Spake Zarathustraand she wanted to know what was really the 1st piece, what came before the Also? This would be a VITAL CLUE in this book.
So full marks for entertainment and nostalgia.
One young woman comes to a meeting
dressed in a man’s pin-striped suit, shirt and tie ‘as a protest against the sexist bias of the assembly.’
-- and there are subtle points here about the clothes. In theory it didn’t matter what you wore at the Beeb at that time, but in this book it is clear that women doing professional jobs are going to wear duller clothes than giggling young things in short skirts – this is VERY much 1980.
The two clothes pictures are from contemporary fashion magazines, the radio pictures from the National Library of Wales, showing BBC regional radio in the 1950s. Grams script and mike – none changed much in the next 20 years.
If you’ve made it this far, here’s a bit of blog news: I will be on holiday for ten days or so, and will not be blogging or blog-visiting or answering emails. Look forward to seeing you all again in mid-August.