About Simon Lavery

Author, blogger.

Lives transformed: Keyserling and Tyler

June reading, part one. Two short novels about people whose lives are transformed through encounters with people who cause them to reassess the way they’ve been drifting complacently through life until then.

Eduard von Keyserling, Waves Translated from the German by Gary Miller (Dedalus European Classics, 2019. 19111

I came across the fiction of Eduard von Keyserling a few years ago when I followed the excellent translation by Tony Malone at Tony’s Reading List of an earlier work of Keyserling’s, Schwüle Tage or Sultry Days. Tony recommended Waves as a good place to continue exploring the work of this author. He was born in 1855 (he died in 1918) in a German-speaking duchy in present-day Latvia (a region then part of the Russian empire)

In the introduction to the book Miller makes the point that Keyserling forms a link between nineteenth century realism and twentieth century modernism in literature; his work is sometimes described as ‘literary impressionism’. Keyserling was a rather odd-looking, sickly aristocrat…whose books are largely about German aristocracy before the First World War; although limited in scope his depiction of these social elites [was] not uncritical.

(Adapted from Jonathan’s Intermittencies of the Mind blog 2019)

The intimate tranquillity of an aristocratic family’s holiday by the Baltic Sea is broken by the arrival of a controversial couple. Beautiful Doralice has left her stuffy, elderly husband, Count Köhne-Jasky; he was bending her into the shape he expected a dutiful, compliant countess to be, and this was stifling her. So she’s eloped with the bohemian artist who’d been (rather foolishly) commissioned by the count to paint his wife’s portrait. Shades of My Last Duchess.

Her impact on the extended family of Generalin von Palikow is seismic. There’s her two grown-up daughters: one has a philandering military husband and two impressionable teenage children; the other is joined by her (also military) fiancé – he too has a wandering eye. They all fall under the spell of Doralice, in various ways. Keyserling dramatizes the shockwaves she causes in their lives and relationships so that the fissures and faults in the aristocratic society of the time – this is set just before WWI – with subtlety and psychological insight. It’s notable that both military men will almost certainly be swallowed up in the horrors of the war that they don’t realise is about the break out and finish the job of destroying their crumbling aristocratic lives for ever.

The character of Doralice evolves from that of trophy wife (and second wife) into that of a proto-feminist. She comes to realise that her free-thinking new partner, the artist, instead of encouraging her to rejoice in her newly liberated self, is moulding her into his perception of a wife, just as her ex-husband tried to do. Frying pan to fire, perhaps.

The disabled neighbouring holidaymaker, Knospelius, is a witty, perceptive chorus to these goings-on. He sees more clearly than the participants in this drama what dangerous games they’re playing. He’s obviously an avatar of Keyserling himself – a sad, lonely figure, excluded from the main dance.

Thanks to Tony for the excellent recommendation.

Anne Tyler, Redhead by the Side of the Road, (Chatto and Windus, London, 2020)

I think this is the first novel by American author AT that I’ve read. I liked the film of her earlier novel, The Accidental Tourist. The central character there, as in Redhead, has a quirkly, whimsical air, darkened by melancholy and pain.

It’s opening is typical of the lucid, fluent style of the novel, and the engaging, button-holing narrative voice:

You have to wonder what goes through the mind of a man like Micah Mortimer. He lives alone; he keeps to himself; his routine is etched in stone.

He’s a reclusive, obsessively tidy man; it’s no surprise that he makes a living as a fixer of people’s computer/IT problems – he calls himself the Tech Hermit. His buttoned-up character is evident in both his rigid housekeeping routines and his relationships – to the detriment of his love life. He always finds fault with the women he’s with; it’s as if he can’t reboot them when he sees them as having gone wrong, so he moves on.

His present girlfriend, Cass, lives in her own apartment. Micah likes his own space. His tranquillity is shattered when a young man shows up at his door and says he’s the son of one of his ex-girlfriends and needs a place to stay. This leads to a reunion with the boy’s mother. Revelations about how and why Micah broke up with her cause him to take stock of himself.

Like the aristocratic families holidaying by the Baltic, he comes to question what he really values and wants in life.

This novel is less substantial than Waves, which is really about a decaying way of life for a whole social class in central Europe at the time it’s set. This one is more a portrait of a single man and his propensity for emotional evasion. I suppose he also represents, in a less complex way than Keyserling’s characters, the ways modern society has atomised, and people have tended to become less adept at what is required to maintain emotionally healthy relationships. Maybe a less profound or amibitious novel than Keyserling’s, but both are well worth reading.

Oh, and that enigmatic title? Micah’s unwavering routine involves going for a run every morning. Because he doesn’t wear glasses or lenses when he runs, he doesn’t see too well, and regularly mistakes a fire hydrant near his home for the roadside redhead. Another of his misperceptions about women.

Stefan Hertmans, The Convert

Stefan Hertmans, The Convert. Harvill Secker 2019. Translated from the Dutch by David McKay. 20161

 Back in November 2019 I posted on Flemish Belgian author Stefan Hertmans’ novel War and Turpentine (link HERE). The Sebaldian tone and style and metafiction/autofiction elements that I noted there are also present in this later novel, The Convert.

This novel also seems based on historical documents. This time not by someone in the author’s own family, but MSS from the 11C found in modern times and now stored in the Cambridge University Library. They relate the story of the terrible events that befell a young Norman Catholic woman of noble birth, and the Jewish man, son of a Narbonne rabbi, with whom she fell passionately in love. They married and had two children.

They are caught in a vicious anti-Semitic massacre perpetrated by the rabble of undisciplined plundering zealots calling themselves crusaders en route to fight in the Holy Land. Their hypocrisy is matched only by their brutality.

Vigdis sets off in the aftermath of this horrible event in quest of her two children, abducted by these thugs. Her journey takes her through many harrowing experiences to Cairo, and then back to the village in the south of France where she’d lived for a time with her beloved husband and children.

These events are interspersed with the author’s autobiographical account of his own pilgrimage in what he hopes is the same route taken by the distraught Vigdis. He becomes emotionally entangled in her unhappy quest, and takes his reader with him.

Although the pace and drive of the narrative fall away towards the end, and the focus shifts to the fate of the MSS that recorded the story of this unfortunate family, it’s a stirring, chilling story. The capacity of people who profess to be religious to persecute those of other faiths is depicted with the same vivid, unflinching language as that used in Hertmans accounts of WWI in War and Turpentine.

It’s another brilliant translation by David McKay.

Ernst Lothar, The Vienna Melody

Ernst Lothar, The Vienna Melody. Europa Editions, 2015; 19631

We went to Vienna via Zurich and Salzburg last month. When we returned it seemed a good time to turn to this hefty family saga (just under 600 pages). As its title indicates, it’s set in the capital of Austria (previously the Austro-Hungarian empire) 1880-late 1930s. It immediately had me gripped.

More particularly, its setting is largely the imposing three-storey house (later extended to four storeys) on the corner of Annagasse and 10 Seilerstätte (a real address: see a picture on Google maps), home to the Alt family (their name is not too subtly symbolic), whose modest fortune was made from their piano manufacturing business. Mozart played one of their earlier instruments, proudly displayed (but too dilapidated to be playable any more) in one of their rooms.

At the heart of the narrative is the troubled marriage of the present (in 1880) proprietor of the factory, Franz, aged 36, and his new wife Henriette, daughter of a Jewish professor. He’s so besotted that he overlooks her lack of love for him, and her pining for the handsome son of the Emperor, with whom she’d had an affair. She felt hurt and rejected when her royal lover took up with other women, and married one of them.

Early in the novel he summons her to make an extraordinary request. Her refusal precipitates a dramatic turn of events that haunts her for the rest of her life. Meanwhile, she has to learn to try to fit in to the hostile atmosphere in the house she has to adapt to after her marriage to Franz. The rest of the extended Alt family who live there view her with a mix of hostility and anti-Semitic suspicion.

Over time, the focus shifts to Henriette and Franz’s children, and in particular their sensitive son Hans. Mentally and emotionally scarred by his experience in WWI, on his return from the trenches he marries an academically brilliant fellow student, also Jewish, who becomes a prominent actress. The novel’s slowly accreting but always engrossing narrative and rich characterisation become increasingly nerve-shredding as the Nazi party rises to power. The Jewish characters face a deadly and brutally violent faction that horrifyingly takes a grip even on the outwardly respectable bourgeoisie like the Alt family.

The outsider’s image of Vienna as a stately, civilised centre of art, music, culture and socio-political stability is irrevocably shattered. Through our investment in this large cast of characters, portrayed with great subtlety and skill, we feel with increasing trepidation the decline of an empire into savagery, turmoil and intolerance. There’s a ray of hope in the figure of Hans.

Just one aspect of this edition annoyed me: the numerous typos. These appear on almost every page, at times even obscuring meaning.

Ernst Lothar was born in Brünn, Austria-Hungary (now Brno, Czech Republic) in 1890. He was a writer, theatre director and producer. He died in 1974.

Julian Barnes, Elizabeth Finch

Julian Barnes, Elizabeth Finch. Vintage, 2023 (20221)

I didn’t get on with this, Julian Barnes’ latest novel, at all well. Mrs TD tried it first, and gave up after about 40 pages; I persevered, thinking it might get better. It didn’t.

Elizabeth Finch, the rather smug narrator tells us (I can’t even remember his name), is an electrifying, inspirational lecturer, but I have no idea what her academic speciality is. We’re given long, tedious examples of her supposedly brilliant, off-piste, epigrammatic discourse on ancient (religious) history, and in particular that of Julian the Apostate.

For some reason this narrator and his fellow students are in their thirties. Their motives for studying this nebulous ‘subject’ – whatever it is – are unclear. When our adoring narrator feels the need to commemorate his teacher, we’re given in full his essay on Julian, the opponent of Christian theology. I suppose this section of the novel is about 20 pages long, but it seemed longer.

Then the novel meanders to an inconclusive ending. Was he in love with Elizabeth Finch? It seems that way, but I couldn’t summon enough interest to speculate on the nature of this love. Did she have a secret lover? This is a question that intrigues only our narrator; this reader couldn’t have cared less.

I’ve posted about two of Julian Barnes’ recent novels. The Only Story : the not very gripping story of a young man’s passion for an older woman.

The Noise of Time : a more successful account of the composer Shostakovich and his travails as an artist under Soviet dictatorship.

I enjoyed the early novels of Julian Barnes, but the quality of his fiction hasn’t reached the same standard again, in my view. It’s good that he’s always trying something different with each new novel, but that’s about the most I can say on a more positive note.

New York noir: Paul Auster, Invisible

Paul Auster, Invisible (Faber, 2009) I must have bought this hardback edition when it came out in the UK at a time when I was still enthusiastic about Auster’s fiction. Since then, I’ve had disappointing experiences with his work (so much so that I haven’t posted about them here – except for one, noted below). This, however, is one of his better efforts – despite some over-fussy tricksiness that has become rather a cliché in his narrative approach.

The first part, for example, is a first-person narrative in the voice of the protagonist, Adam Walker, a second-year undergrad at Columbia, NYC, and an aspiring poet. It’s 1967, and he meets at a party a fascinating but sinister Franco-German professor of politics called Rudolf Born (that’s another of PA’s not-so-subtle mannerisms: the suggestive names), and his lovely partner, Margot. This being Auster, Adam is angelically handsome (like his sister), Born is terrifyingly clever (and worryingly bigoted and a tad aggressive and sarcastic), while beautiful Margot is a bit of a cipher in the role of sort-of femme fatale.

Born makes Adam an unlikely offer of literary work. The young man, who has reservations about Born’s motives, is naïve and ambitious enough to accept. He has the inevitable and over-signposted affair with Margot (who’s ten years older than him, so even more of a young man’s fantasy figure), and then things go decidedly pear-shaped. Adam’s sense of morality is severely tested.

The second part, as our narrator intrusively points out, is in the second person – a device that doesn’t really work here. Adam has gone to Paris, and the plot with Born and Margot becomes even more noirish. The third part, set thirty years later, has a different (third-person) narrator. Here most of the loose ends of the unlikely plot are tied up. The final part is focused on one of the Parisian characters Adam had met, who has now also become entangled in Born’s schemes.

Invisible is almost a success. It’s quite an exciting (if highly implausible and over-crafted) plot, and there are some genuine, quite shocking surprises and revelations. This managed to hold my attention sufficiently not to give up. I found the foregrounded artifice off-putting. It all became a bit too ‘See how cleverly I deploy the post-modern tropes, while keeping a complex story on course?’

Interesting, then, and entertaining, but not great. And Adam Walker, as his name is perhaps meant to suggest, is just too pedestrian and plodding. Like the demonic Born and most of the women characters, he’s two-dimensional.

Invisible is nevertheless more rewarding than the only other Auster novel I’ve posted on here at TDays: Mr Vertigo.

 

Tenth blog anniversary

When I posted a recent reading roundup yesterday I should have noticed that 10 April marked the tenth anniversary of the first post on this blog. When I started Tredynas Days, I had no clear plan. Books would always feature prominently, but I also wanted to write about anything else that came to my notice and interested me, from online journals (topic of my first post) to medieval hagiography, podcasts, television, music, dogs, birds.

After a few years I clustered some of the more random pieces together under the category ‘Asides’. These often featured places and sights in Cornwall, where I live. DH Lawrence was the subject of a number of related posts with a Cornish theme: he’d lived in Zennor during part of WWI. He and his wife Frieda were famously expelled from the area when she was suspected of signalling to German submarines from the clifftops.

Travels to Spain, where our son and his family live, and Berlin before that, have also been a theme. I like to take a vaguely psychogeographical interest in the locations I find myself in. Indulge in ‘dérives’ through cities and countryside. Walter Benjamin and flânerie – the pleasure derived from aimless but open-minded wandering.

I started the blog at a time when my work life had evolved significantly. I had changed jobs and moved from full-time to part-time lecturing. This gave me more time in which to devote attention to the blog. Just before the pandemic I was made redundant. Even more time available. Then I increased the freelance work I’d done intermittently in the past with my wife, and now find that it takes up quite a lot more of my time and energy – but it’s editorial work that I enjoy. So posting on the blog has declined in recent months.

Anyway, if you’ve read this far I’d like to thank you for visiting. To all those who have over the years taken the trouble to comment and become involved in the online discussions that arise over topics in the posts, I’d like to say thank you. I’ve enjoyed meeting so many people online over these ten years.

As for the future: I don’t know. My focus has tended in recent years to be increasingly on what I’ve been reading, and I’ve enjoyed the discipline of putting into words what I’ve thought about the books I’ve read. But I daresay the ‘asides’ will continue.

Zurich, Salzburg and Vienna; Hustvedt, Cather, Bulgakov

This month’s reading has again been reduced by pressures of work, but also by travel. With Mrs TD I went to Vienna for a few days, stopping off en route (all by train – a great way to travel and see the snow-covered mountains close up) at Zurich and Salzburg for a few days each. Good to see memorials in these places to the artists who’d lived there: James Joyce in Zurich; in the same city The Cabaret Voltaire, where the founders of Dadaism used to meet, was empty and boarded up, unfortunately.

Salzburg was also where Stefan Zweig lived for some years; his villa sits high on a hill overlooking the city, and there’s a bronze bust of him nearby. I’ve posted here on two of his novels, both of which I enjoyed: The Post Office Girl and Beware of Pity. Mozart is of course associated with Salzburg, his birthplace, and Vienna, where he lived and worked.

There we managed only a few of the many museums and galleries – Klimt and the other artists of the early 20C were our prime targets, but we also made a point of going to the Sigmund Freud museum. This is where he and his family lived, and where he developed his theories of psychoanalysis on the basis of the clients he saw and treated (is that the right word?) there.

Now for the month’s reading:

Siri Hustvedt, What I Loved Sceptre, 2016; 20031

I nearly abandoned this during the first third, but then it picked up and I finished it. I can’t say I really liked it, though. A New York art critic (whose wife is a literary critic) and an avant garde artist (whose wife is a poet – you see the basis of my resistance to this novel) become friends. There are too many high-octane discussions involving art theory, literary theory, philosophy, and long descriptions of the artist’s work, and these tend to clog the narrative. Even when the plot picks up as their respective sons grow up and problems arise, I couldn’t summon much enthusiasm for the proceedings.

Willa Cather, My Ántonia VMC no.22, 1990; 19181

I got on with this one far better – at least, for its first third. Here we get the fascinating story of a young man’s journey west from Virginia to the vast empty plains of Nebraska, to live with his paternal grandparents after the death of his parents. On the journey he meets the Shimerda family, which includes Ántonia (the stress is on the first syllable). They’re from what Cather calls Bohemia, and only Ántonia speaks much English.

She and her family become the narrator Jim’s pioneer farming neighbours, and a firm friendship grows up between them. There are some great anecdotes along the way: Jim kills a huge snake, two Russian neighbours are said to have been involved in a gruesome sleigh journey beset by wolves…

The final two thirds dragged more. The central characters become adults and go their different ways. The lure of the town introduces tensions in the friendships of the various young women and men, and some of them struggle to maintain equilibrium. You’d expect the plot to involve a romance between the two central characters, but Cather avoids doing this. I’m not sure she pulls off what she does try to do with them. It’s a good read, though.

Mikhail Bulgakov, The Fatal Eggs Alma Classics, 2020; 19251. Translated by Roger Cockrell.

A satire on early Soviet Russian ineptitude and bureaucracy that taps into the sort of dystopian sci-fi of an author Bulgakov admired: HG Wells. The plot bears some resemblance to The Island of Dr Moreau (1896) and The Food of the Gods (1904). As in these two novels, the plot involves demonstrating the disasters that can ensue when scientists play god and dabble with the ways of nature. In that respect it also owes a debt to Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. For my various posts on this seminal gothic novel there’s a link HERE.

Professor Persikov is an eminent zoologist who accidentally discovers a light ray that stimulates and accelerates fertility in the creatures on which he’s experimenting. When agents of the state hear about the remarkable results, they want to exploit the possibilities of his discovery by using his techniques to increase productivity of animals bred for food. Being inept and bureaucratic, they make blunders, and all sorts of mayhem follows.

The satire is fairly heavy-handed, but the narrative rattles along at a pleasing pace, and there’s some wry dark humour (and some gruesome retribution from the animal world – as in Frankenstein).  The novella is just over a hundred pages long, so can be enjoyed easily in a couple of sittings.

I’ve posted on several of the titles in this Alma Classics set of Bulgakov’s fiction:

The Master and Margarita

 The White Guard

 A Young Doctor’s Notebook

Another satire on unethical scientists, A Dog’s Heart

 

 

Trollope, Lessard, Keegan, O’Farrell, Mandel

Feb-Mar reading

Another busy month, so here’s a brief look at what I’ve read.

Anthony Trollope, The Way We Live Now Penguin Classics, 1994. First serialised 1874-75; first book form 1875

I can’t do justice to AT’s longest novel in a brief note, but let’s give a go. The last few years of politics here in the UK, let alone in the USA and beyond, have been pretty unedifying; post-truth, fake news, sleaze. But AT had it all taped in the high Victorian age. Dodgy businessmen speculating and spinning non-existent railways in order to profit on the share flotation – not even having to pretend to build anything. Antics in Parliament. He nails it all brilliantly. The usual Trollopian love interest storylines weave in and out of all these shenanigans: as always, they tend to involve young people looking to marry money and avoid having to actually work. There’s one of the most caddish of his villains, the odious Sir Felix – a morally incontinent philanderer, drone, nightmare son and scary marriage prospect. The political and commercial part is the most satisfying, but AT is a master at manipulating a complex, multi-character plot.

PS Shortly after I finished this novel, the news broke of the appointment, at the recommendation of ex-PM Johnson, of a new chair of the BBC – R. Sharp (apt name). No coincidence that he’d been involved in securing a loan for Johnson. No scandal or sleaze, they insisted. A satirical piece in the Guardian by John Crace has this: [Sharp had been challenged about how corrupt this all looked] ‘Sharp shook his head furiously. The whole point of the establishment was that it covered things up. Look, he said. This is The Way We Live Now. [He and BJ deserved what they got: all on merit.] Society – his society – would demand no less.’

Ariane Lessard, School for Girls QC Fiction, 2022. Translated from the French by Frances Pope. This short novella can be enjoyed in one sustained read. It’s divided into four sections, one for each season, and each short sub-section is named after (and narrated from the pov of) one of the girls at a Canadian convent boarding school that’s nothing like the Chalet School novels.

We hear in free indirect form the experiences of about a dozen of these girls. They’ve developed factions, but the alliances shift, often causing deep cuts (sometimes literally). Adolescence kicks in and their sexuality stirs. Prose is often unpunctuated, febrile and associative, poetic – rather like Molly Bloom’s soliloquy, but spikier. The novella put me in mind of the film Picnic at Hanging Rock: the same sense of impending disaster, the hallucinatory, hormonally charged atmosphere. The nuns are as unhinged as their pupils. The wild forest beyond the school walls is always looming, encroaching – bears, moose. It’s a heady, intoxicating mix.

Claire Keegan, Small Things Like These Faber, 2022; 20211. Another short novella, but intense and powerfully moving. It’s so widely praised I don’t need to say much about it. Bill, an Irish fuel supply man in a small town near Waterford, Ireland, does business with a convent that supposedly cares for illegitimate girls. He’s perturbed to come across a young girl who seems to have been cruelly punished. What should he do? These are tough times (it’s the lean 1980s): local employers are laying workers off, there’s desperate poverty everywhere. Should he speak up, intervene, report abuse? An illegitimate child himself, he feels compelled not to turn a blind eye.

Stories about the  sinister Magdalene laundries, the hypocrisy of the nuns who ran them (and the communities in which they flourished, largely unchallenged), are well known, but Claire Keegan manages to tell her shocking story in a way that makes it disturbingly new. Despite the grim theme, it’s a profoundly humane novella that reminds us that even when society seems irredeemably corrupt (shades of Trollope again), some people refuse to look the other way, whatever the cost.

Maggie O’Farrell, The Marriage Portrait Tinder Press, 2022. Another shocking story about abusive treatment of very young women. In this case she’s the famous ‘last duchess’ of Browning’s poem. O’Farrell’s imagining of this murky story of a 17C tyrannical aristocrat’s abusive, potentially murderous behaviour towards a new young wife who’s too spirited for his liking is lively and entertaining, but I found it over-long. The structure, with its multiple flashbacks and jumps forward in time, is fussy and breaks the narrative flow. But as historical fiction goes, it’s not bad.

Emily St John Mandel, Station Eleven Picador, 2014. This would make an exciting action movie. As a novel it didn’t quite work for me. Surprising, because its story is timely and quite well handled: a post-pandemic dystopian world where order has broken down and life for the feral survivors is dangerous and precarious. But as with The Marriage Portrait, the fractured structure and leaps back and forth in time fatigued me. It should have been compelling, but for me it lacked originality and many of the characters were flat. Unlike Claire Keegan, this Canadian novelist doesn’t succeed in making a well-worn theme come to life.

Three novels by women

Here’s my latest round-up of recent reading.

Winifred Watson, Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day Persephone Books, 2008; 19381

 I’d read some glowing reports of this novel, and admire Persephone’s initiative in publishing works by women that have often been neglected. Unfortunately, I didn’t get on with this confection at all. I gave up halfway through. Its tone and content were similar to those frothy romantic comedy films of the 30s starring people like Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn – but lacking, I thought, their charm and wit. I didn’t warm to dowdy Miss P, whose transformation from impoverished and timid duckling (she’s an unsuccessful children’s governess) to confident swan (I presume that’s where it was going; she was just beginning to develop as I gave up) just didn’t ring true.

I know it’s not intended to be taken too seriously, but I also struggled to raise interest in Miss P’s unlikely new friend and employer, the supposedly glamorous nightclub singer and socialite Delysia La Fosse, whose name is as implausible as her characterisation. I found her susceptibility to caddish men irritating – and in fact, even allowing for changing social attitudes, the portrayal of sexual relations at the time was strangely disturbing, and not as funny as I think it was meant to be. But I know that most other readers had a much more positive response.

Rosamond Lehmann, The Ballad and the Source VMC, 1982; 19441

This was more to my taste. Sibyl Jardine, one of the central characters, is an elderly woman when the novel opens, but she has had an eventful past. She’s described by Janet Watts in the introduction to this edition as ‘one of the strangest and strongest heroines in English fiction, and her story is not for the squeamish’. It tells of ‘love corrupted into viperous hatred; of friendship betrayed; of treachery begetting treacheries’. What’s not to like? Puts mousy Miss Pettigrew into perspective…

The structure is unusual. Much of the novel is narrated from the viewpoint of precocious 10-year-old Rebecca, who quizzes this enigmatic, imposing Mrs Jardine (a neighbour whom her mother knows about and clearly mistrusts), whom she adores for her flamboyance, erudition and mystique, to find out that back story. (These long sequences were also a feature of her earlier novels.) It involves two generations of spirited women leaving failing marriages for more attractive prospects, then finding that leaving children behind as well as unwanted husbands brought unbearable consequences.

As the years pass and WWI breaks out, the web of relationships around the three generations of linked families becomes ever more tangled. Revelations cause Rebecca to reconsider her initial worshipping attitude to the formidable Mrs Jardine. The author’s handling of this complex plot, and of the differing accounts of the past (told by not entirely impartial or reliable adults to fascinated youngsters eager for intrigue and romance) is admirable. The young women’s eyes are gradually opened to the not-so-glamorous reality of the tainted loves they witness and are told about, and the poisonous fallout of failed relationships that damages the children as much as their parents. This causes the young women to confront and question their own burgeoning sexuality.

It’s a slow-burning novel, but fiercely intense. Mrs Jardine is an enchantress: alluring and deadly, vengeful and heartbroken. She’s an amazing creation.

There’s a link HERE to my posts on other RL novels, all of which deal in some way with sexual relations and the inevitable pain that goes with the bliss (usually more for the women than the feckless men): Invitation to the Waltz; The Weather in the Streets; The Echoing Grove.

Sarah Moss, The Fell Picador, 2022; 20211

 This novella is the first Covid lockdown fiction I’ve read. That soul-numbing solitude and sense of foreboding we all endured as a consequence – when we were told not to leave our houses and forbidden from mixing with anyone outside of them – is a key feature in The Fell.

It’s difficult to summarise the plot without spoilers. Let’s just say that when free-spirited, rather hippy-ish single mother Kate decides she’s had enough of going stir crazy in domestic confinement with her teenage son, and impulsively goes out for an early evening hike on the hills referred to in the title, all does not go well.

I enjoyed it, but not the structure and style. It consists of interlocking internal monologues from the points of view of several characters involved in Kate’s life. Through these various perspectives we slowly build up a composite picture of Kate’s character, and those of the individuals whose lives overlap with hers. But I found the colloquial, demotic prose failed to bring them entirely to life (except the wilful Kate). I’m not quite sure why she had the foresight to pack a rucksack with basic provisions when she set out for the fell on a whim, but didn’t take her phone. The hallucinatory sequences with a talkative corvid were pretty weird, too.

Sarah Moss’s novel Bodies of Light is stronger, I felt; my post about it is HERE.

 

Williams, Mantel, Bulgakov: buffalo, sad cases and chimeras

More recent reading.

John Williams, Butcher’s Crossing (Vintage, 2014; 19601) A very different, more brutal and elemental novel from the author of Stoner. Young Will Andrews travels west to Kansas, to the prairie buffalo-hunters’ town (aptly) named in the title, after three years at Harvard, to escape the urbane conformity of eastern civilisation in search of his ‘unalterable self’ in the wilderness. His Ahab-like quest also becomes a sort of Heart of Darkness trip: Miller, a seasoned, gritty hunter-trapper who knows this wild territory better than anyone, takes him and two other troubled men deep into the unmapped country in search of a legendary secret valley in the Colorado Rockies where, ten years earlier, he’d stumbled upon a huge herd of buffalo.

These animals had been hunted almost to extinction everywhere else. The railroad is rumoured to be coming to Butcher’s Crossing, and the old ways of life are doomed. What follows is a harrowing account of hardship and bloodshed. The group of hunters is pushed to the limits of endurance by the land and the elements. Will’s life, he realises, has been changed irrevocably. As in reading Moby-Dick, it’s apparent something allegorical is going on. I’m not quite sure what, but it’s perhaps something to do with our species pretensions, humanity’s obsession with cynical, destructive domination of the eco-system, and the thinness of our veneer of sophistication compared with the wild things we exterminate. We are, after all, poor, bare, forked animals ourselves.

It’s a beautifully written novel, but the hunting scenes are not for the squeamish.

Hilary Mantel, A Change of Climate (Penguin, 1995; 19941) The settings in placid, rural Norfolk and violent apartheid-era South Africa and Bechuanaland underpin this moving family drama. Ralph Eldred runs a charitable homeless refuge in London, and his family take social outcasts (‘sad cases’ or ‘good souls’) into their own home. But an oppressive paternal back story and a tragic event when he and his wife when first married were missionaries in Africa haunts him and, indirectly, his growing family back in East Anglia in 1980. Beneath the benign surface of this loving, caring ménage there is hopelessness, betrayal, passion and suffering. The novel is a bit short on events in the English-set sections, but it’s a gripping, sensitively constructed portrait of a damaged family who try to do good, to find fulfilment, perhaps love, but the dark secrets keep obtruding.

I’ve posted on two other Mantel novels here at the Days: Beyond Black and An Experiment in Love, both with modern settings (link HERE) – very different from her now more famous historical trilogy. Her range and artistry are impressive. She’ll be much missed.

Mikhail Bulgakov, A Dog’s Heart (Alma Classics) I’m slowly working my way through this bargain set from Alma books of the Ukrainian doctor and author (1891-1940). This novella was first published in 1925, but was confiscated by the Soviet government and banned for its anti-revolutionary satire (like most of his other writings). A cultured scientist-surgeon coaxes a stray street mutt, Sharik (= Fido) back to his home, an apartment larger than most of his fellow Muscovites’, using tasty sausage as the bait. His motives are not entirely charitable. What follows is a kind of spin on the Frankenstein story. It’s not giving too much away to reveal that he’s experimenting with human-animal chimera surgery. Poor, streetwise Sharik becomes a wisecracking, boorish man-monster. Although he displays some of the traits of a civilised person, his dog nature can’t be suppressed, and he behaves very badly. Local cats and the professor’s maid are particularly vulnerable. When he starts spouting anti-bourgeois clichés it’s easy to see why the regime banned this novella. (This was the turbulent period of the ‘new economic policy’, instigated by Lenin and continued in 1924 by Stalin to try to revive the failing post-revolution economy by relaxing laws forbidding private enterprise, and promoting a kind of diluted state-sanctioned capitalism. Maybe our recent and not lamented disaster of a Prime Minister, Liz Truss, was inspired by this book…)

My brief summary perhaps indicates that it’s not the most subtle of satires – but it still has some bite.

I posted on Bulgakov’s best-known novel, The Master and Margarita, HERE, and The White Guard HERE.

In another of these recent reading roundups I posted briefly on A Young Doctor’s Notebook (link HERE).