Wives and Daughters (Elizabeth Gaskell)

I do not enjoy Gaskell. I find her quite, quite dull. I was going to add the disclaimer that this opinion has been formed from having read only two of her novels, but upon discovering that she only ever wrote six I feel that a blanket statement is suitable considering I have in fact read a third of her oeuvre.

We had to study North and South at high school. I remember that English class well. We had an entirely useless substitute teacher for most of the year. She set us 50 questions to answer on North and South. My friend and I, deciding that the task cut into far too much lying in the sun time, decided to submit the project as a joint effort. And neither of us finished our halves. The teacher laughed softly when we wove a fictitious tale of forgetfulness and camaraderie and we thought no more of it. It was only on the last day of term that she announced in high dudgeon that anyone who had not completed the assignment would receive an 'E' for the semester. Unlike in Harry Potter, this is not indicative of 'Exceeds Expectations'. An 'E' meant 'you go to a school where we do not award fail grades, but, be not comforted, we are not amused'.

So, obviously, I feel great discontent whenever I think about North and South. It was not sufficiently gripping to hold my attention and I have long written it off as a plodding tome that extols the idiocies of the upper class and the inadequacies of the lower class with no hint of hope for either.

But this post is not about North and South. Nay! It is about Wives and Daughters.

I shall be brief in my criticism because the book itself was brief. I borrowed it from the library and did not realise I had taken the "In Half the Time" version. Supposedly, these editions cut out unnecessary minor characters and plot lines which have no influence over the ending. Considering Gaskell died before finishing the book I feel that this approach is slightly cavalier. John Smith who was cut out in chapter three could well have been meant to turn up in the final chapter and save the day!

Not that the day needed saving. That would suggest that the book was in any way interesting. And it was not. It was duller than David Cameron's dishwater. It was also silly and insipid. I don't understand why Gaskell is so often compared to Austen. Even the emptiest of Austen's novels (Emma... vomit) could steamroller over Gaskell's works. I shudder to think what the novel is like if this is the interesting, important cut of the work. Cynthia was the only sympathetic and mildly intelligent character and she promised to marry Mr Preston if he'd loan her twenty pounds.

A classic best left on the shelf I feel. Behind a locked glass cabinet. With a warning sign- "Open at risk of death from supreme boredom".

Rating: 4/10.

Cakes and Ale (W. Somerset Maugham)

Satire does not make you smile. Satire makes you sneer knowingly. Or shake your head helplessly. Or flap your hands about nervously. But it does not make you giggle gleefully or find you with a stupid smirk on your face, tongue stuck between your teeth, lost in thought. Satire, in short, does not make you silly.

So then why do I find myself acting so vapidly whenever I look at the cover of Cakes and Ale? Maugham's favourite of his own works, this novel takes a direct stab at the London literary scene, satirising the elevation of popular authors and the artistic appreciators who surround them. The narrator Willie Ashenden is Maugham's voice and conscience throughout, although how much their experiences overlap is anyone's guess. I suppose I could read the introduction and then hazard a more informed opinion in this area but I DON'T HAVE THE TIME! Also, introductions bore me. The unfortunate person who pens such a chapter is so often enamoured with their own brilliance and insight that they mistakenly assume they are the main event between the covers.

The novel is chock-a-block full of tasty literary mouthfuls I plan to immediately turn into sound-bites. Sigh. One of these days I really must stop being so referential and find out if I have an actual brain beneath all the stuff I have absorbed over the years. Probably not.

However, the real charm that I now associate with this novel is what happened to me whilst coming home on Sunday evening on the tube. I was reading Cakes and Ale, scribbling in the margins as I am wont to do. I could feel the person next to me staring. This often happens on the tube and most of the time it is someone creepy or it is some old professor who lectures me about writing on my books. So I steadfastly refused to look up. The next moment-

"Excuse me, do you have the time?"

I looked up and saw a guy whose smile was too big for his face, in a very charming kind of way. I was not in the mood, having spent several hours with a friend. I have a limit to how much time I can spend with people these days and my socialising quota for the day had been filled. Thus, I fixed him with a stern look.

"I don't wear a watch. I will get my phone out of my bag but please don't snatch it and run off because I'm too tired to chase you."

He assured me he would not and then seized the covers of my book.

"I love Maugham! Although, as a woman, don't you find him quite sexist?"

"I suppose. Can I have my book back?" See? I was still not in the mood.

"You're so friendly! You're definitely not from London."

At this point, with me glowering at him, I decided he was probably still wired from a big evening the night before. This was further affirmed with his next, loud declaration.

"You're not supposed to talk to strangers on the tube. Everyone in here is looking at us! Because we're enjoying each other's company but we're on the tube! We're breaking down social barriers here!"

I tried in vain to snatch my book back but he had opened it at a random page and began quoting out loud. The people opposite me looked horrified. Despite myself, I was beginning to enjoy the conversation. No sooner had I begun to talk about Faulkner then he started quoting Hemingway's For Whom the Bell Tolls (he got a bit muddled, but full marks for effort I suppose). His next musing was how films and books would be different if all wartime stories were totally populated by female characters. Very seriously he said "Now, I'm not saying you'd be giving each other manicures, but I'm having trouble coming up with a female equivalent for the male camaraderie that prevails in all those stories... OH! This is my stop! What's your name fair lady? I must find you on facebook and we can continue!"

At this point I decided I had nothing to lose and gave him my name. He gave me a cheeky salute and vaulted off the tube, pausing to stick his head back inside. "It was a pleasure. An absolute pleasure Miss." I then had to sit through three more stops with everyone in the carriage staring at me. It was quite, quite mortifying yet an altogether satisfying way to end the weekend.

So despite Maugham's fantastic wit and the highly sympathetic character of Rosie, this book will always make me think of that idiot on the tube and thus will always make me smile.

Rating: 7/10.

The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge (Rainer Maria Rilke)

I am a creature of extremes. Some days, I will achieve nothing. Yes, I will rise. Eat. Continue to exist. Ensure none of the children left in my care catch on fire. But those little yellow slips listing activities to achieve will remain depressingly devoid of bright red ticks. Years ago I worked out the trick. If I do just ONE THING on one of those lists I will inevitably do everything I wanted to achieve that month in a single day. ONE THING is all it takes to get the ball rolling.

This morning, my friends, that ONE THING was deep-fried Cadbury's Caramel Eggs. Frozen caramel eggs, wrapped in doughnut batter, deep-fried. I could attempt to justify these mini odes to heart failure, but I fear any defence I cobbled together would essentially be semantically null. I had promised the kiddywinks an Easter treat and, having delivered what can only be described as the Best Easter Treat That Ever There Was, I immediately rolled onto the next thing on my list- my next review!

I apologise so very much for the lack of posting this year. A friend who reads the blog regularly confessed that he now diligently reads every book we post about. Considering the speed of his reading and the turtle-slowness of our reviewing he is filling in the gaps with In Search of Lost Time. Kudos to N in that this is probably the best way to read Proust. I read all seven volumes one after the other and by the end of it my amazement with the prose was rather over-shadowed by my great desire for Proust to have run out of paper and ink about ten thousand words earlier.

Today, however, is not about good old Marcel. Nor is it about deep-fried Cadbury's Caramel Eggs (thank you Peabody), contrary to what the first part of this post may indicate. It is about Malte, the overly morbid and depressing young narrator of the German poet Rilke's only novel The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge.

I am in the very bad habit of scribbling on books that I read. It's because I am an English major. Mostly it is incoherent scribbling, but I do like to underline little bite-sized lettered gems that tickle my fancy. If I were to do this in Notebooks, entire pages would be underlined. For Rilke, plot seems to be largely irrelevant, especially the establishment of any discernible linear structure to said plot. Instead, each paragraph tackles a new idea afresh, with characters only occasionally overlapping. An unknown man in a hospital waiting room is given as much importance as Malte's father, demonstrating the author's erratic fixation of topics as well as Malte's emotionally absent state.

As a result of this format, this became a novel I was able to pick up and put down, which is helpful when taking into consideration my line of work, the London transport system and my woefully short attention span. One particular topic Malte expounds on is the 'woman who is left behind', when her lover betrays her or is brutally slain in battle (obviously there are quite a few other ways in which she can be left behind but those two in particular spring to mind.) There is a bemused worshipping of women that occurs throughout the novel, Malte seems to understand women all too well, he is startlingly sensitive when talking about them, but his tentativeness seems to suggest he suspects women (as a whole) could turn on him at any time. This timidity probably stems from the fact his mother used to dress him up as a girl and refer to him as Sophie.

You can see why Rilke is known as a poet rather than an author- this is really a collection of lengthy prose poetry, without any rhythm or structure. So, poetry written by someone who couldn't actually be bothered to write poetry. Notebooks is perhaps the actual notes of Rilke, who, jotting down ideas for his poetry and subsequently realising just how many genius thoughts he had, saw the task of turning them into poetry too gargantuan. Having already achieved some fame as a poet, he decided to take a punt and see if the publisher would take his word for it that this was a novel, rather than his riverside scribblings.

Rating: 7/10.

Bel-Ami (Guy de Maupassant)

I shall start with a disclaimer: I am not approaching this review from a particularly objective point of view. As stated in an earlier post, I am in my happy place- Bath. Well, near Bath, but for the sake of anonymity I shall not name the tiny hamlet I am currently residing in. Furthermore, I am wrapped in the world's largest, baggiest jumper, drinking a mug of coffee and eyeing in the mirror the image of myself leaning against a walking stick carved like a swan. Needless to say, I am in a serene mood and disinclined to engage in much slating of literary ability at this moment.

That is all slightly redundant considering I am reviewing Bel-Ami, Guy de Maupassant's novel about a charismatic young veteran soldier who rises to the highest circles of the Parisian bourgeois with the help of several powerful mistresses. The classic has undoubtedly stood the test of time and creates a memorable, if totally unlikeable protagonist in Georges Duroy. I shall get to my main quibble with the text in a moment and instead concentrate on the positives for now.

Although 'a scoundrel' in very sense of the word, the reader cannot help cheering on the meteoric rise of Duroy. He uses the women in his life without a thought for their happiness or sense of self. He tosses one aside for another with little compunction. Duroy happily claims any credit for his successes, although most of the time they come about as a result of the labours of his wife or mistress at the time. However, when a character is so deliciously self-involved it is easy to see there is no malicious intent behind his actions. Duroy acts only for himself and the toe-stepping that occurs is merely a consequence of these actions rather than a driving motive.

Because I came away from the text with a slight feeling of derision for all the women Duroy uses I suspect the text was subliminally rather misogynistic. Considering the time in which it was written I am not surprised or even annoyed about this. Nor am I much riled by the depiction of Duroy's peasant parents. They are described in a scornful tone and their surroundings are much ridiculed which can only be attributed to Maupassant's ignorance due to his aristocratic upbringing.

No, my main issue is that the book is quite obviously poorly translated. There is no way the story of Georges Duroy would have lasted as an enduring classic if the original French version were written in the basic manner in which the English version stumbles along. After doing some research on Douglas Parmée I find that he is a well-respected translator of French literature. I, however, remain underwhelmed by his abilities. I finished the novel and enjoyed it on the strength of the plot and characters but felt I was perhaps only being shown the basics of what is a much richer story in the original language.

Still, absorbing and insightful, Bel-Ami is worth a read and, if you speak French, most probably a MUST READ.

Rating: 7/10.

This Side of Paradise (F.Scott Fitzgerald)

Often after I have finished a book I take a few days to ruminate on the characters I have just given free passage into my subconscious. They all reside in a particular space in my brain- I call it the Syd Barrett Memorial Room. 'Tis a wonderful place; its only problem being it IS located right next to my memory room, and the adjoining door does not lock.

This has proven embarrassing over the years. I will be entertaining a group with an anecdote and be interrupted with- "That wasn't you, that was Huckleberry Finn, YOU EGOTISTICAL FREAK." Having been berated thusly I will shake my head vigorously, which looks to be a denial but is, in fact, me merely trying to get everyone back into their proper rooms.

As you can see, this adjoining door which does not lock has been problematic. In fact, 'adjoining door' is incorrect. It is more of a swinging half-door, like those you see in old-fashioned saloons. Sharon Stone often strides through it wearing chaps, dragging a be-chained Russell Crowe behind her. I must stress they belong in neither room, but have wandered over from the 'Career Aspirations' part of my brain.

I digress.

ANYWAY, in the SBMR all the characters I have ever met lounge about haphazardly. Those that are hazy around the edges are people who left little impression on me. Those with sheets draped over them were extremely memorable for terrible reasons and I have tried my best to forget about them (the more enterprising have cut holes in the sheets so as to retain a certain amount of vision and dexterity).

My favourites are those normally to be found at the bar. Vernon God Little is always hanging around the door to the Gents. Jo March and Olive Kitteridge do not get along AT ALL and tend to stand on opposite sides of the room. Aloysius normally takes refuge under a chair so as to avoid unwanted cuddles.

And everyone defers to Gatsby... including myself when I am able to get away from the incessant nothingness that is my life. He stands to the side of the room, drink in hand, never taking a sip. He is tall and commanding; a chilly heat permeates from his person. No one can take their eyes off him, but no one can talk to him.

Just recently, Amory Blaine from This Side of Paradise has been admitted into the SBMR. He shares a father with Gatsby, as well as a certain poise, smoking jacket, 'man about town' air. But he stumbles where Gatsby stands tall. He is drunk when Gatsby remains sober. He falls to pieces when his love is spurned. But worst of all, his courage is shown only through the supremely self-indulgent journey he takes and his final realisation: "'I know myself,' he cried, 'but that is all.'"

Great Amory. Compare yourself to Gatsby, who sacrifices his reputation and livelihood for the girl (who doesn't deserve him it must be added) and ultimately forfeits his life. You, Amory, have moped for 254 and a half pages and the only admirable thing you've done is taken the rap for your friend who was entertaining a lady in his hotel room.

Because some of their characteristics are similar I suspect Amory may have been a young, rough prototype for Fitzgerald's greatest character Jay Gatsby. Gatsby also had his flaws and weaknesses, but they merely served to strengthen his character's attractiveness rather than render him useless and pathetic. In fairness, this was Fitzgerald's first novel and he's done a bang-up job- it's intelligent, witty, memorable and passionate. But compared to the elegance and restrained desperation of The Great Gatsby it is clear Fitzgerald perfected his craft over the years.

Rating: 7/10.

Lady Chatterley's Lover (D.H. Lawrence)

I challenge anyone to not pick up Lady Chatterley's Lover after learning that Penguin Books were prosecuted in 1960 under the Obscene Publications Act for releasing the book. I am glad to see that novels can no longer be banned under the Act (ridiculous) and am quite eager to read other titles that were previously hauled into court by the braying conservatives. Inside Linda Lovelace and Lord Horror have been added to my list!

I was going to start off this post with a brief rehash of Sons and Lovers and then swoop saucily into a review of Lady Chatterley's Lover. Sardonic eyebrow cocked, I would note wittily that Lawrence's earlier title had hinted at his grasp of the relationship between sexuality and creativity but further life experiences (and partners) must have educated him further, as the latter novel clearly demonstrates. Then, with a sigh, I realised I had not read Sons and Lovers (I saw the TV series) and could not say this with any authority. Perhaps more importantly, I also realised I cannot cock my eyebrow, sardonically or otherwise and thus I decided to angle the review in a different direction.

This book shocked me several times. I can understand why critics claimed it was just a series of lewd sexual encounters held together by a shaky plot line. I DO NOT HAVE A PROBLEM WITH THIS. If the plot line were any more complicated or emotionally involving the book wouldn't achieve one of its main purposes: to put promiscuity on a pedestal. The shocks came not from this but rather from the swearing and sexual descriptions which seemed far too graphic for lovers in the early 20th century. Surely they were only indulging in this sort of carry-on in uncomfortable silences with yards of starched muslin petticoats hampering their every move?

Lady Constance Chatterley needs a lover because her husband has come home from the war paralysed from the waist down. He doesn't much mind if she takes a lover, as he would quite like a son to look after the small copse on their property that has been there for hundreds of years. He worries what will happen to the trees if they do not have an heir. He is, to be honest, not the most exciting of characters. Connie takes a few lovers but the lover of the title is Mellors, the new gamekeeper on their property.

I had a bit of trouble feeling attracted to Mellors. He has a ginger moustache. He seems to have the same expression on his face for most of the book and that is an amalgam of terrified and watchful. He is not very strong and he wheezes when he pushes Connie's husband around in a bathchair.

Well, I can hear you saying, as long as Connie's happy, that's all that matters. That would be all well and good, apart from the fact that I shudder every time I remember the moustache.

What follows is a torrid love affair and some of the most insightful prose I have ever read. Lawrence is a master of dialogue... never straying into the trap of using it for plot momentum. His descriptive text is evocative but sparse, focusing on the thoughts the landscape generates rather than the landscape itself. The characters themselves are not overly glamorous or worldly which adds a charm to the novel it might otherwise have lacked.

In conclusion, a thoroughly satisfying read. Even if you don't want to read it, I recommend picking up a copy purely for the cover. Has there ever been a more hilarious Penguin Classics jacket?

Rating: 8/10.

Jack London: Various Works

Perusing the lamentably slim pickings in the classics section of my local library the other day I came to several conclusions:

1. Library staff who classify Salman Rushdie as a classics author are morons.

2. Libraries who do not possess ONE SINGLE COPY of The Portrait of Dorian Gray are naught but an ode to the socially bureaucratic inefficiencies that this country is riddled with.

3. I ought to read some Jack London.

And thus to a triumphant fanfare I introduce my latest review... Batard and The Call of the Wild. The book had several more stories in it, including White Fang, but at the end of The Call of the Wild I felt that I had delved sufficiently into the mind of London and thus closed the book.

There is little doubt in my mind that London is a talented writer. Batard in particular is a masterpiece of literary wrangling... 18 pages have seldom yielded so potent or powerful a story. London's writing is akin to that of McCarthy and Steinbeck, whose stories of rough and terrible lives are spotlighted by brief moments of humane feeling that could come from any point on the infinite spectrum of human emotion.

NOTE: I said HUMAN emotion. HUMAN. This is where I think London falls down, attributing dogs with the ability to think as people. Batard, the angry and bitter dog of the first story, plots the death of his master for years before finally exacting revenge for the cruel and barbaric existence he has been subjected to. Buck in The Call of the Wild is similarly intuitive and emotional, his journey from privileged pet to wild wolf penned brilliantly by London, apart from the fact that Buck, AS A DOG, does not have the mental acumen that London bequeaths him with.

However, for all this I could suspend disbelief if I had found myself enjoying the stories anyway. But I did not. I reject violence on all levels and I don't even like reading about two fully grown men having a fight. But when said violence is turned against children (see here) or animals, my stomach turns. Page after page London describes dogs being beaten by humans, dogs tearing each other apart, dogs being shot/hung/starved/dragged in the snow. ARGH. Trying to flick ahead to skip the violence ultimately meant reaching the back cover and not having read a thing.

Thus, I could forgive London endowing canines with impressive minds but cannot get on board with the whole incessant physical abuse thing. Have moved onto Lady Chatterley's Lover and this is proving far more enjoyable.

Rating: 3/10.

May Classic: Tess of the D'Urbervilles

Ahhh...so I completely forgot I was doing the may classic, not Alcott, which is why this one is so late. Oops. Which means my review comes without a re-reading of this classic - was planning to have a bit of a refresher read before my June classic review. No matter - I studied this one at school so god knows I had to read it over and over and over and over and over...

Which is really too bad for me because I hate this book. I rarely say that about books - even while disliking just about every character in Wuthering Heights I was able to appreciate it as a great piece of literature - I can see where people are coming from with that. Tess of the D'Urbervilles not so much. Seriously, Thomas Hardy: What was your problem? Do you hate happiness that much? Would it have killed you to give Tess a skerrick of joy in her miserable depressing life?

Tess Durbeyfield is a poor girl sent to rich relations to get cash, the rich son takes a liking to her and so rapes her. She gives birth to a kid called 'Sorrow' who dies, she falls in love, on her wedding night tells her new husband of her past, he chucks her, her father dies and her family is facing life on the streets so she becomes rich-son-who-raped-her's mistress. Husband comes back feeling bad, she tells him its too late, then angry at life, stabs rich guy to death, kisses husband one last time before being hung. The End. 

Can you hand me that straight razor?

The thing is, not only is the book incredibly depressing, but it is a chore to read, each chapter drags on and on and on and on and on...AND its confusing too. Half of my year eleven English class didn't even realise that Alec had raped Tess. Suddenly this random baby turns up and you have to turn back a chapter and realise that when Alec 'gives her a flask' you're supposed to assume he give her something else as well. Wink wink. Except in my second hand old copy the text is still censored so Alec 'gives her his cloak'. Wink?

Maybe there is something I am not getting: my English teacher assured me that in 30 years time I will have grown to appreciate the wonder that is Tess. I think not. Feel free to disagree though...

3/10

Hashish, Wine, Opium (Charles Baudelaire and Theophile Gautier)

Do we not all think that Theophile is quite an amusing name? And what a difference the end of a name does make:

Theodore: cute, teddy-bear like person, could be English, definitely wears a waistcoat.

Theophile: drives a white van, drinks vodka from a syringe, sweats a lot.

HIGHLY intellectual musings aside, I quite enjoyed this little homage to narcotics and alcohol written in the early 19th century. Baudelaire and Gautier both wrote extensively on their experiences with hash and opium in particular and both were members of the Club of Assassins. Detailed sketchily in the book (everything is a bit sketchy, most of it was written while they were stoned or drunk), the Club of Assassins was a little group of men who used to meet on Ile St Louis in Paris and get stoned together. They then used to go home and write or paint about the effects they had experienced.

I picked this up for the title and who wouldn't? I am well-versed in the effects of wine, but opium has never been offered up at any of the parties I've gone to (actually most of the time the most potent thing offered up is a vodka watermelon, and that's on a REALLY wild night) and I giggled to think of 19th century philosophers in knickerbockers smoking joints, thus I felt this was a necessary purchase.

The book was informative as well as amusing... I learnt that these dudes used to cook the hash with butter, pistachio nuts, almonds and honey to form a kind of jam "similar to apricot conserve". YUM. Sounds delish, I could even do without the hallucinogen to be honest. It's like... baklava jam! GENIUS.

I also learnt that the word 'assassin' is actually derived from the Arabic 'hasishin', which means to be under the influence of drugs. Assassins in Persia were fed drugs before they killed. Interesting non?

Last lesson I learnt from this book- If you work with children (sigh, as I do), do not leave this lying around your place of work. The only thing worse to leave around is Dead Babies.

Rating: 7/10.

April Classic: The Master and Margarita

There are those readers out there who don't like to give the classics a go. (There are also those readers out there who don't like to read. Go here.)

I present to you a book (a classic no less) that EVERYONE should find enjoyable, accessible, hilarious and downright moving... Mikhail Bulgakov's The Master and Margarita.

This is hailed as one of the greatest Russian satires to have ever been written. It attacks, with increasingly dark humour, the Soviet Union and the lack of revolution and true, unfettered thought under a ferocious, authoritative state. One fine spring day, the devil arrives in Moscow, chatting up two prominent Russian thinkers of the time: the poet Berlioz and the journalist known as 'Homeless'. The novel then proceeds to switch back and forth between Jerusalem during the time of Jesus' trial and crucifixion and 1920s Russia, where widespread atheism is the accepted spiritual frame of mind to be in.

The devil's machinations send Homeless into a lunatic asylum where he meets the Master, an author who was driven by despair into the asylum when his manuscript for the alternate story of Pontius Pilate and Jesus Christ failed to get published. He has burned his manuscript and refuses to live in the real world, thus also turning his back on his mistress... Margarita. From this scene comes the most famous line in the book, uttered by the devil: "Manuscripts don't burn". This part of the story would appear to be autobiographical- Bulgakov began writing his first version of The Master and Margarita in 1928 and then burnt the original manuscript. He began writing it again a few years later with the help of his (I imagine long-suffering and incredibly patient) wife.

I don't know enough about Russian history to understand all the subtle nuances of satire and irony that Bulgakov employs (although Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky's excellent translation and notes help somewhat), but this doesn't matter, as Bulgakov writes with such simplicity yet force that the reader cannot help but be swept up into this tale.

The thing that surprised me most about this read was how funny it actually was, it seemed a bit indecent actually. Russian novels are supposed to be unrelenting in their depressing nature. You're supposed to feel as though you'll never be happy again after reading a russian classic. Thus, the devil mincing around in disguise, bickering over warm apricot soda and a cat who packs some serious heat are all welcome diversions. This is a visceral read, you'll feel enlivened, outraged... and seriously, seriously amused.

Rating: 10/10.

N.B. I HAVE read another of Bulgakov's works, thus justifying the Author Love tag. It was A Dog's Heart, wherein a stray dog takes on human form. He then proceeds to become head of cat control. Brilliant.

March Classic: Three Men in a Boat

Sorry sorry sorry - both on the lack of posts front (I now have Internet in my new place so am connected to world again!) and the fact that this March Classic post is practically an April classic. The reason for the delay is that about a month ago I had sudden inspiration as to what should be my March classic, and promptly forgot all about it. All month there has been this thought in the back of my mind that I couldn't choose anything else because I had the perfect classic all picked out, if only I could remember what it was. Finally, last night I looked on my own bookshelves (what an innovative idea!) and there it was: Three Men in a Boat.

Possibly the funniest book known to man, Three Men in a Boat was written in 1889 (so it's a REAL, more than 100 years old classic!) and details a boating trip up the Thames, undertaken by three men (to say nothing of the dog....) The narrator and his two friends have got to be three of the most ridiculous characters in fiction. We can tell this three sentences in, when J. is talking about the various maladies he is suffering...'It is a most extraordinary thing, but I never read a patent medicine advertisement without being impelled to the conclusion that I am suffering from the particular disease therein dealt with in its most virulent form'. J. says this without a trace of irony let me assure you.

The trip up the Thames is an educational one for the reader, as J. offers his observations on camping, cheese, women, sea trips, as well as a running commentary on the trip and experience thereof. I cannot think of any other book which is as funny today as it was over 100 years ago (although according to my friend Wiki, it was initially seen as a book for the 'Arrys and 'Arriets, evidently it was not something read by the upper classes...). I'm going to leave you with this musing over an Irish Stew:

"I forget the other ingredients, but I know nothing was wasted; and I remember that, towards the end, Montmorency, who had evinced great interest in the proceedings throughout, strolled away with an earnest and thoughtful air, reappearing, a few minutes afterwards, with a dead water-rat in his mouth, which he evidently wished to present as his contribution to the dinner; whether in a sarcastic spirit, or with a genuine desire to assist, I cannot say."

In case you are wondering, Montmorency is in fact, a dog.

9/10

Fanny Hill: Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure (John Cleland)

This is often hailed as the original erotic novel; it is 212 pages of the many and varied sexual romps of one young Fanny Hill. Written in 1748, it certainly caused a storm when it was published; it was banned and the author and publisher were apparently arrested for 'corrupting the king's subjects'. Hah.

I am a firm believer that a banned book should be read. I like to think there is a whole belt of kids reading Harry Potter under their covers at night, risking corruption and eternal damnation because they REALLY need to know if Hermione and Ron ever get it on. I love it that a few years ago Penguin released a box-set of previously banned books including One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich and A Clockwork Orange. They sold like you wouldn't believe. I bet no customers actually read the books, they would have just placed the set on their rough-hewn oak bookshelves and looked coy when Bollinger-sipping guests pointed it out. A cultivated air of anarchy will ALWAYS be in vogue.

Fanny Hill starts off mildly: a little innocent girl on girl action in a brothel... and just escalates from there. To enjoy the hilarity of the story you have to ignore Cleland's very liberal interpretation of how the English language should be written. The random italicisation of words that need no emphasis is bad enough; but it really started to annoy me when he only wrote out the first few letters of long words, apparently finding it too tiresome to write them out in their entirety.

Taking my own advice and pushing this issue aside, I can really recommend this novel. Any accounts of lewd behaviour in the 18th century should be enjoyable, but throw in Cleland's sophisticated wit and perceptive parodies of English society and government and you've got yourself a damn fine read.

Rating: 7/10.

The Yellow Wallpaper (Charlotte Perkins Gilman)

If you have a spare fifteen minutes I would seriously recommend reading this short story. Written in 1892, it is the story of a woman suffering from depression (I suspect post-partum) who is taken to stay in a large country house with her husband for three months in order to recover. Husband John is a physician and his cure for his young wife is to keep her away from her child and any 'stimulating acquaintainces'. She spends most of the three months in a room at the top of the house, decorated with a psychedelic yellow wallpaper.

For the first few weeks the woman is able to talk about her confinement logically, although she has an irrational hatred of the wallpaper. Gradually she begins to see a woman in the patterns of the paper, a woman who is trying to get out. Husband John and the housekeeper Jennie become concerned at her fixation with the wallpaper. Suddenly, the woman is convinced that it is she who is the woman in the wallpaper. She ties herself up with rope and walks around the room in constant circles, carving a groove in the wall with her shoulder because she is pressed so tightly against it.

Husband John comes in and faints to see her like this.

THE END.

Teehee.

I know I've just told you the plot, but that's not the attraction of this story. The writing is fantastic: honest and whimsical prose give way to an unbelievably creepy denouement. The text seems to become faster, the pages turn a lot quicker at the end as the woman's mind speeds towards and then overtakes the line of sanity.

If you can get over the fact that Husband John is a patronising chauvanist and the woman, (even before she goes completely bonkers) is kind of whiney and immature, go sit in a room with bad wallpaper and shot this down like a Patagonian Black Bush.

Rating: 7/10.

The Castle of Otranto (Horace Walpole)

I've been perusing the brick 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die. Some of the titles seem bizarre to say the least. I mean, we're on this earth for a very short time. Surely one should steer clear of such books as Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit (John Lyly)?

I noticed with some amusement that The Castle of Otranto by Horace Walpole made it onto the list. We studied this book in school and after reading the first chapter aloud my English Lit teacher was faced with a classroom of stony-faced students.

"We're studying this as a bad example of the gothic." she assured us.

Considering the good example was Wuthering Heights (and it is well-documented how we feel about that), I have been left with a relatively healthy disregard for the entire genre.

I doubt there is another book that begins as ridiculously as Otranto does: the villain Manfred's son is killed when a giant helmet falls from the sky and crushes him.

Honestly.

Then we of course have the token virgin, the lusty pursuer who clearly mutes his television during the advertisements ('No' means 'No' Manfred), a blood-red moon, baying wolves, water-logged dungeons and breathless chases at midnight. A smorgasbord of gratuitous ludicracy that should leave all lovers of the gothic satiated, if not stuffed.

Is it ridiculous?

Yes.

But, I suspect that, given half a chance, I would derive great pleasure from reading this again, sufficiently sloshed of course. I might even spill some red on the carpet and pretend the moon is bleeding, to REALLY get me in the mood.

Rating: 6/10.

February Classic: Brideshead Revisited (with mention of The Secret History)

I count this as one of my favourite books, even though I haven't read it in years. Thinking I better read it again as my featured classic this month I grabbed a copy the other day and prepared myself for a reawakening of my literary senses... a re-working of my laughing muscles... a renewed enthusiasm for Sebastian and Aloysius.

Except I had the strangest feeling I'd just read it... every page I was deja vu-ing like you wouldn't believe.

Then it hit me. I haven't read Brideshead Revisited in the last five years, but I HAVE read The Secret History by Donna Tartt recently.

Zing!

I can't believe I failed to make the connection sooner. The narrators, Charles in Brideshead and Richard in Secret History, are two of the most annoying, passive and boring characters ever to be written. Both are keen to enter worlds they are not quite interesting enough to prosper in, worlds which contain the eccentricity only found amongst those that spend a great deal of time together. Charles has just come up to Oxford to read History and Richard is at an exclusive East Coast college where he eventually reads Ancient Greek. For both narrators, their university education takes a second place to the emotional journeys they subsequently take.

However...

Sebastian Flyte, the young man who lures Charles into the world of Brideshead, is one of the most original, compelling and marvellously disturbing characters to have ever been written. Whilst mention must be made of his special relationship with Aloysius, (who is, in fact, a teddy bear), it is his exuberance and gradual decline into a permanent state of melancholy whilst still possessing the ability to charm all those in his path that makes him so enigmatic. (The fact that he's totally smoking hot doesn't hurt). His alcoholism eventually leads him to what we assume is the most ridiculous yet fitting end Waugh could conjure for him, but it is a pity as the reader is loathe to let him leave the story.

What makes Waugh so utterly brilliant is that I believe he sees the world as it is, but he can imagine the ridiculous, the surreal, the escapist world that his characters wish to capture and reside in. Thus we have these magical, romantic scenes that contain Waugh's personal mixture of morality, hilarity and the eagle-eyed take of one whose phenomenal social perception would have left him laughing behind pot plants at many a cocktail party.

There is nothing wrong with the way Donna Tartt writes, but Evelyn Waugh she ain't.

Brideshead Revisited: 9/10.

(The Secret History: 7/10)

Of Cheese and E. Bronte

First off let's get the preliminaries out of the way, this is an Emily Bronte-free zone. Or, to be more exact, this is a Heathcliff-free zone. Cathy we take issue with as well, but we hold a much larger chunter with Mr. H.

It is almost, almost the same issue I have with those ridiculous people out there in the virtual world who find Severus Snape compelling/sexy/misunderstood, (Les Francais, bien sur.) Except that Snape redeems himself somewhat, (ack, hope I'm not ruining some tortoise's Harry Potter experience here. Really though, slow and steady will only leave you disappointed), and Heathcliff NEVER DOES. He is the most hideous, selfish reprobate, without any of the gorgeous maverick connotations that often come with the latter term.

I think perhaps some of my hatred of Heathcliff (and Cathy) is an extension of my dislike of the layout of the novel. Wuthering Heights is no structural masterpiece. Cathy's early death means that the reader never actually gets a chance to emotionally invest in her relationship with Heathcliff. (And Emily, Heathcliff talking to her ghost and planning to exhume her do not count as relationship progression.)

Of course, we then come to Bronte's complete inability to think of names for her characters. Seriously, she came up with 'Heathcliff' and then had a complete and utter mental block and had to use the same names of the original characters in part 1 for all the other characters in part 2. I know the importance of lineage and family in the story, but when I can't work out if one of the Lintons is courting his sister or his cousin or his niece it's VERY disconcerting.

Hailed as one of the best love stories of the period and in fact IN THE WHOLE HISTORY OF LITERATURE if you listen to certain misguided fools, I put forward another argument. This is melodramatic drivel. Twilight and Romeo and Juliet at least attempt to toe the line of decency, although they do overstep it on occasion. The line is not even VISIBLE to Wuthering Heights.

If you're going to do cheese, do it well. Make a minimum of one of the characters in the relationship likeable, relatable or at least believable. Make the sexual tension appealing rather than abhorrent. I do not want to read about greasy-haired leers from the corner or fever-soaked hallucinations that lead to death rather than a romp in the bedroom.

The best part of this novel is at the beginning, with two very choice quotes from Mr Lockwood's narration.. the first being when "Mr. Heathcliff and his man climbed the cellar steps with vexatious phlegm"... hah. The second is when he asks Mrs Heathcliff if her favourite animals are what he assumes to be a pile of sleeping cats on a cushion. "Unluckily, it was a heap of dead rabbits."

Seriously, stop there. That's all you need to read. The rest is just AWFUL.

Rating: 4/10

January Classic: Jane Eyre

So I've always felt vaguely guilty about never having read any of the Brontes. I never had to do them at school, and then it just never happened. A friend recently lent me The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde, and I thought she was going to slap me when I revealed that I'd not actually read Jane Eyre itself. Hurried promises were made (and kept!) to read it IMMEDIATELY which I did, and I have to say I am in love. I am head over heels, and not just with the snarky, sexy Mr Rochester, but with the whole book.
Just in case you're like me and managed to make it through your life thus far without ever picking up Charlotte Bronte's masterpiece: the book tells the story of Jane Eyre (no, really?) through her childhood in the care of a cold and unfeeling aunt and her time at the harsh Lowood school, before she is employed as governess at Thornfield Manor, home of the mysterious and brooding Mr Rochester. Seriously, Darcy's got nothing on him. Jane and Rochester fall in love, but since this happens halfway through a pretty thick book, you can assume that you don't get the happy ending right away. The scandal! The drama! The intrigue! The insane sexual tension! Fantastic!

I am astounded at how involved I was in reading Jane Eyre - I am told my face was hilarious to watch when certain dramatic revelations took place. I cared so much about the characters and so much about what happened to them. This was a huge (and refreshing) change from many of the contemporary authors I read, where I am interested in what happens to characters, but in a detached kind of way. Charlotte Bronte makes you feel what Jane feels, when she is heartbroken, you are heartbroken, and when she is happy, you are ridiculously excited. If you've not read Jane Eyre I can only judge, if following this you do not go and pick it up immediately. 9/10