The Mrs Jellyby of Manchester: Sarah Moss, ‘Bodies of Light’

I don’t often write here about new or recently published books; mostly I read from the teetering TBR pile of older works – as regular readers will no doubt have noticed. Modern English fiction I find uneven in quality (Americans like Denis Johnson seem to me superior to what the UK can offer at present). All the fuss in the media and blogosphere about what’s on or should have been on the Man Booker long list published yesterday doesn’t pique my interest too much.

Sarah Moss

Image of Sarah Moss taken from Granta books website

Earlier this month, however, I read a review on Susan Osborne’s site A Life in Books of Sarah Moss’s new novel, Signs for Lost Children, a sequel to Bodies of Light, which was published by Granta last year; Susan put this sequel on her own list of Booker predictions. She mentioned that the central character of the first book, Ally, becomes a doctor in an asylum in Truro, Cornwall. As that’s where I live, and I find literature to do with mental health fascinating – one of my earliest posts was about Oliver Sacks’ The Mind’s Eye, and I’ve long admired the seminal work on women, mental health and literature The Madwoman in the Attic, and Lisa Appignanesi’s Mad, Bad and Sad: A History of Women and the Mind Doctors From 1800 to the Present (the link is to Viv Groskop’s 2008 Guardian review) is excellent – I decided to give Ally’s story a try.

Susan did a fine job reviewing Bodies of Light, so I won’t summarise the plot in detail. It’s an account of a family’s ordeal at the hands of a fiercely idealistic and evangelical Victorian mother who, like Mrs Jellyby, the ‘telescopic philanthropist’ in Bleak House, who also neglects her own children while obsessing about an obscure African tribe’s plight, devotes all her attention to the care and welfare of the poor and ‘fallen women’ while neglecting and abusing (physically and emotionally) her own two daughters – as her own mother had with her and her sister. Her husband, Alfred, an artist of the Pre-Raphaelite type who builds a successful career as painter and interior designer, is also excluded by his wife, and he finds solace elsewhere.

The epigraph from RD Laing and A. Esterson’s Sanity, Madness and the Family is salutary and apt: ‘We have clinical terms for disturbed, but not disturbing persons’.

The novel is mostly very well written. The theme of parental neglect and cruelty passing on through the generations is Dickensian in its seriousness and emotional clout. I found the novel a little slow, however. Despite the often beautiful prose (Susan gives some fine examples) the relentless narration of the mother’s cruel, deluded treatment of her girls is just too long and repetitive.

There is interesting use of catalogue-type descriptions of artworks by Alfred and his friend Aubrey West at the head of each of the ten chapters, which poetically and symbolically foreshadow the sexually ambiguous, hypocritical treatment of the growing sisters by parents and by West – but these are brief points of light in a gloomy plot.

I also found the latter part of the novel, in which Ally struggles against social prejudice and general misogyny to become one of the first women doctors, rather contrived and predictable. The author’s research (the 1864 Contagious Diseases Act and its disastrous consequences for Victorian women is a central feature, for example) is a little too evident and becomes intrusive. The (justifiably) angry message dominates the narrative. Ally is ultimately a credibly damaged but insubstantially realised character.

S Moss Bodies coverI feel Sarah Moss missed the opportunity to introduce a little contrast into the depiction of this deeply unhappy family’s life. The father, Alfred, doesn’t share his wife’s tormented, demented obsessions; why couldn’t he have stood up to her more, defended his suffering children – and himself? His acquiescence seemed to me unlikely, and his character fades quietly into the background as the novel proceeds, and his wife’s tyrannical domestic regime is unchallenged.

At the end, though, Ally has developed an interest in mental illness, and has moved at last to Truro. I hope to find the sequel (I shall certainly read it) less predictable and a bit more varied in tone. Sarah Moss can write, but she needs to preach a little less and let her characters breathe.

Postscript: in her Acknowledgements at the end of the book Sarah Moss points out that she wrote much of it in cafes in Penryn and Falmouth; is this JK Rowling type activity coming into vogue? She also states that she wrote and read a lot on the Cornish Riviera trains from Paddington to Truro, and expresses gratitude for their provision of Quiet Coaches. I would have thought that tapping away on her laptop would not have endeared Ms Moss to her fellow quiet-seeking passengers…

10 thoughts on “The Mrs Jellyby of Manchester: Sarah Moss, ‘Bodies of Light’

  1. Hello, Simon. The wonderful phrase “teetering TBR pile of older works” reminds me of something out of Bleak House:

    “On the darkest lane of a small village in Cornwall, lived a queer gent known to sequester himself for hours on a perfectly fine and blooming summer day, immersed in his books. Looming over him, the TBR pile teetered most perilously, giving off a scent of fine must, dog dreams, and the ancient pipesmoke of bachelor uncles.

    “Simon!” ejaculated Roseanne Chegwidden, the gent’s long-suffering housekeeper on one such day. “You’ve got to do something about the TBR pile! You’ll end up buried like that Wicket Witch on the telly, you with your striped socks hanging out. Lord help us all!”

    [Above strictly the product of an American with no idea about historical OR modern Cornwall and its housekeepers, except what she can glean from the remade “Poldark,” when she is not distracted by the rakish good looks of Aidan Turner, the series lead.]

    NOTE: Your perceptive review provides fair warning for aspiring novelists to get down off their crusading hobby-horse and let the characters do their own thing!

    Enjoy your summer! Go outside! Maureen : )

    • Maureen – I relished your take on Cornwall! Truro is technically a city, though – or what passes for one in this wild west peninsula…Would be good to have a housekeeper to defend me from those pesky piles of books. I did manage to venture outside today, and the sun shone pleasantly. Visitors next week, then soon after a brief trip by train across Europe, so won’t be posting much next month. Nice to hear from you.

  2. P.S. Have you read “Wide Sargasso Sea?” A marvelous book, written by a writer originally from the Caribbean (Jean Rhys) which tells the tale of Jane Eyre largely from the POV of the “wife in the attic.” Wildly imaginative and clearly by someone with a deep understanding of both the islands and the UK.


    • Yes, I read it a while ago – interesting. The proto-madwoman indeed. Must re read Jane E…oh, that TBR pile keeps growing & teetering. Did you know Aidan T on Poldark is Irish? Name a bit of a giveaway. He was also good in UK show Being Human: quirky vampire werewolf ghost house share.

  3. I absolutely loved the BBC “Being Human” series. Didn’t see it until 2012 but gobbled it up over the course of one summer. Much superior to the US version.

  4. Hallo, Simon. Couldn’t resist returning to the well one more time….

    [“Americans like Denis Johnson seem to me superior to what the UK can offer at present”]

    Strange serendipity. Just discovered Johnson last week, looking forward to reading some of his work.

    [“Sarah Moss can write, but she needs to preach a little less and let her characters breathe.”]

    Happened to come across a reference to just this topic yesterday in a rereading of a wonderful writing book (my all-time favorite) called “Dare To Be A Great Writer – 329 Keys To Powerful Fiction,” by Leonard Bishop.

    In a section called “Polemics and Sermons,” Bishop, in his typically incisive and meaty fashion cautions against these additions for two reasons:

    a.) The reader may or may not agree (at least initially) with the opinion or attitude of the writer, and “[A]ntagonsim of this type alienates the reader from deeper involvement with the book.”

    b.) “It is an intrusion. It hinders the flow of the story, the scenes, the action. It forces the reader to think about content that does not emerge from the novel’s inherent content.”

    Bishop concludes “It is not that the writer’s attitudes or beliefs have no place in the novel. The writer’s responsibility to his craft obligates him to develop characters who convey the writer’s beliefs, in their own language, in their own time, through their own situations, based on their own solid characterizations. The writer must remain where he belongs-in the background, writing.”

    Food for thought!


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