Happy Halloween!

Not having children, this evening means little more than opening the door and handing out chocolate bars to shy little vampires and fairies, but I do enjoy seeing the costumes. One I particularly remember was when, along with a more usually costumed group of children of about five years of age, there was a little two year old brother tagging along dressed in a cloak and mitre like a bishop, or perhaps he was the Pope as the costume was white. Seems a strange choice for Halloween but it was very sweet.

To partake more fully of the Halloween seasonal spirit, I think I'll spend the evening reading some suitably creepy short story, maybe from Bram Stoker. In the meantime, here is a bit about an M R James tale - slightly out of order from the collection, but one of my favourite stories.

Casting the Runes
Although it can't really be classed as a ghost story - not having any ghosts - this is a really excellent example of how good a writer M R James is. The main characters are vivid and the story is so involving and packed with events that it is hard to believe that it was not a novel, which is, I think, a sign of a great short story author.
It begins with the secretary of a learned association telling his wife about the terrible letters he receives from a man called Karswell because they turned down his papers on alchemy for publication; they did this on the advice of a learned authority, Mr Dunning. The couple then visit friends who coincidentally tell them a story about 'The Abbot of Lufford', as they jokingly call their neighbour ; this, it transpires, is Karswell again. Although he doesn't often directly appear in the action, the tale is dominated by the malevolent presence of this strange man.
The friends do not have a high opinion of their neighbour, particularly since he scared the village children half out of their wits with a 'treat'. The treat was a magic lantern show of stories such as Little Red Riding Hood, where the wolf was all too realistic and scary, and the frightening effects that accompanied the stories seemed to be a little bit more than a magic lantern alone could provide.

'"Of course this was too much and he spoke very sharply to Mr Karswell, and said it couldn't go on. All he said was: 'Oh, you think it's time to bring our little show to an end and send them home to their beds? Very well!' And then, if you please, he switched on another slide, which showed a great mass of snakes and centipedes, and disgusting creatures with wings, and somehow or other he made it seem as if they were climbing out of the picture and getting in amongst the audience; and this was accompanied by a sort of dry rustling noise which sent the children nearly mad, and of course they stampeded. A good many of them were rather hurt in getting out of the room, and I don't suppose one of them closed an eye that night."'

The description of this terrible show and the malicious enjoyment Karswell took from terrifying a room full of small children is the most memorable part of the story, but this is really just a prologue to introduce the character of Karswell before the story really begins.
The main part of the story is about Karswell's discovery of the identity of the expert who advised that his papers be rejected and his mystical persecution of him. This was not the first such persecution: Karswell had once hounded John Harrington, the author of a bad review of his History of Witchcraft, to such an extent that the man hanged himself.

An example of the oddities inflicted upon Dunning is when he notices a strange message etched into the window of a tram he is travelling on, stating the date of death of John Harrington and that 'Three months were allowed'. Dunning meets with the brother of Harrington, in a desperate attempt to discover what could be happening to him and escape the same fate.
This is one of my favourite M R James stories. The horror of the children's treat in the prologue is classic James, an innocuous event turned into a nightmare but the story then develops into a desperate race against time as Dunning battles Karswell, and is a thriller as much as a supernatural tale. It has some moments of nail-biting tension and a deliciously satisfying ending. It is so good, I can't help wishing M R James had written more of these thriller-style stories. A film was made based on this story which is a dvd to hunt out, I hope it's a Hammer Horror.
One point has always intrigued me about this story and looking through it to write this has reminded me of it. The fact that Karswell wrote a History of Witchcraft, as well as the descriptions of him, have made me suspect that the character might be based on Montague Summers. I don't know if M R James met Summers, but I think the periods they were writing in means it could be possible. Now I am reminded of this question I am going to look into it; a tiny and pointless quest, perhaps, that will satisfy no one but me but I am interested. If nothing more I would like to find out more about Summers and this is a good excuse.

Christine Kringle by Lynn Brittney

I am someone who loves Christmas, especially the run-up to it. Every year I have certain rituals: the Phil Spector Christmas album is brought out - to loud complaints from the husband; Holiday Inn is watched, and sometimes White Christmas too; decorations go up at the beginning of December, the cat's favourite part as he tries to get into the cupboard that is only ever opened to retrieve the decorations; and, of course, something suitably Christmas-y is read.
This year, the last part began early when Lynn Brittney sent me her book Christine Kringle, and I already feel that warm cosy Christmas glow after reading it.
It is a story for children probably around 10, but will equally be enjoyed by adults who have kept the child in them alive. It has some charming illustrations throughout by Brita Granström and you can buy it from Amazon or visit the Christine Kringle website.
The book tells of the Yule dynasty, all the different gift-bringers from around the world who ensure that children receive their presents during the Christmas period. This role is passed down through the generations from father to son but Kris Kringle, the American Santa, has a problem. He only has a daughter, Christine. He knows she would be perfect for the job but the rules say it has to pass to a son, or son-in-law if there is no boy in the family, so the Kringles arrive at the annual Yule Conference determined to persuade the delegates to amend the rules and allow Christine to become the US's Santa.
There are some lovely descriptions of the Conference in Finland, where all the different traditional gift-bringers from around the world gather, such as Babbo Natale, the suave Italian who drives a flying red Ferrari rather than a sleigh, and the Finnish Old Man Christmas, who is chairing the Conference and frequently wishes he wasn't. There are also the Black Gang, men dressed head to toe in black who, tradition says, punish the naughty children while the good children receive presents and who act as the Conference security team.
Christine makes friends with two other children: Nick, son of the English Santa, whose mother is ostracised and doesn't attend the Conference because she is an elf, and Little K, son of the Japanese Santa Kurohsu.
I particularly liked the conference pack they received full of Christmas goodies: Finnish Christmas pastries, ginger cookies, blueberry pie, a wooden advent calendar and more. I was pretty pleased to get a little tin of mints and a pen at a conference I went to over the summer, if only I could receive a pack like that!
Though the conferences are never dull with the presence of the Sisterhood, militant female gift-bringers who quite rightly are constantly calling into question the male domination of Christmas, things really heat up when a news announcement is broadcast to the delegates: the council of a town called Plinkbury in Worcestershire has cancelled Christmas.

'The Plinkbury Council decided that because of issues of health and safety and out of respect to ethnic and religious minorities that Christmas will not be endorsed in any way, shape or form in this town. In fact, the Council have gone further than that. We have passed a bye-law which gives us the power to fine any local shops that put up Christmas decorations.'

Of course it could only happen in this country! With the Yule Conference concerned that it could be the start of a trend, the rest of the story follows Christine and her friends as, with the help of Nick's elf mother and uncle, they attempt to take a little of the Yule spirit to Plinkbury and save Christmas.
The book is a lot of fun and hits just the right notes for the Christmas season. The characters are all engaging and likable, and the story is modern but without any pretentiousness or irony that could potentially ruin the warm feelings it inspires. This book does just what a Christmas story should, it reminds you that the season is an excuse to be happy and kind and enjoy life that should not be missed.

The extra hour

This Sunday had an extra hour as the clocks went back, and I spent yesterday constantly thinking things like -it's four o'clock, no it's only three, hooray!
So did I make the most of the extra hour?
The husband says no, as I just sat around reading all weekend -and doing the washing, and the shopping, and clearing the kitchen etc, although to be honest I was a bit lazy yesterday while he has been doing some tricky and lengthy work on the house.
I think yes, though.
First I finished reading Christine Kringle, a charming children's Christmas book sent to me by Lynn Brittney which I will write about properly later in the week.
Then I read a bit of the R M Hare book mentioned a couple of days ago and, oh yes, it went straight over my head. I quickly realised that there was no point in tackling a book that examines and criticises a philosophy that develops utilitarianism without really understanding what utilitarianism is. And since I bought a volume of Jeremy Bentham and John Stuart Mill last year called Utilitarianism and other essays, this seemed like a good prompt to pick it up and read it. This is now my commute-read and is sufficiently brain-stretching to keep me happy.
However, I was slightly depressed to discover that this book does not, as I thought, contain a copy of John Stuart Mill's On Liberty that I said I'd read for the Index Librorum Liberorum challenge, d'oh!
Why I put the wrong essay down I have no idea, but I now have to find a copy of On Liberty. Hopefully it won't be too hard to get hold of, I might see if it's available online.
I spent some quality time with The Count of Monte Cristo and have abandoned all previous attachments to be fully concerned with Dantès. I think the fact that he has aged a few years helped, as he is now about twenty-six. I have reached an age where nineteen year old men inspire maternal feelings rather than romantic ones.
I read, a week later than intended as the book went on holiday or something last week and I couldn't find it, The Great Switcheroo from the Roald Dahl short story collection. It is a story about a man who, as he fancies his neighbour's wife, concocts a plan with the neighbour whereby they can wife swap without the wives realising. Being a Roald Dahl story, there is of course a sting in the tail and it does not end entirely happily for the husband - serves him right.
The extra hour also enabled me to catch a Columbo which I thought I'd missed as I was looking at a clock that hadn't been put back. It was one I've seen a few times with Robert Culp as the guest star, who is always an extremely arrogant murderer (I love the way Columbo has a repertory feel, reusing the same actors in different roles). I'd never before managed to catch it from the beginning, though, and see the actual murder committed. It was about a murderer who used a subliminal message in a film to send his victim out of the cinema where he was waiting with a gun.
I love Columbo because he is interested in everything, and often that is how he catches the murderer: he takes an interest in their work, and is able to deduce how they could have committed the murder by using that knowledge - in this case he read the books that the murderer had written on marketing, including the use of subliminal messages. There are no car chases or shoot outs, just a battle of minds often with the murderer arrogantly assuming superiority because they judge on appearances. I like to watch as Columbo gently pushes and irritates them until they are backed into a corner, at which point he drops the genial pretence and shows them who they have really been up against. Unless he likes the murderer of course, in which case he is always courteous.
And finally, I changed my blog comments to require word verification. I do apologise for this but I spent a good hour Saturday morning clearing a ridiculous number of spam comments from my posts. I hope it won't cause too many problems.
J told me the other day of a scheme he'd read about where, when old rare texts are being scanned to go online and a word is not recognised by the computer, it is used in a verification tool like the ones we have on blogs so that a person, who is more able to decipher the text than the machine, can type it in, in addition to some letters that the computer already knows for the security verification. I don't think Blogger is part of this but I hope it will be, it would be nice to know that I was helping to put a rare text online every time I put up a comment.

Pygmalion by George Bernard Shaw

Most people will know the story of Pygmalion, from My Fair Lady if nowhere else, where Eliza Doolittle is taught to speak 'like a duchess' by Professor Henry Higgins. Shaw describes this as a didactic play in his preface, revelling in its success when popular opinion says that art should not be didactic. Yet it is also a charming play with likeable characters, which allows you to painlessly engage with the serious message underlying it.
It begins with a scene on a rainy London street. A flower girl begins causing a nuisance of herself, trying to sell her flowers to anyone standing still; gradually the people milling around realise that a man is noting down everything they say. After accusations that he is a copper's nark, the note-taker astounds everyone by being able to pinpoint exactly where they come from by how they speak.

'THE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER: Yes: tell him where he come from if you want to go fortune-telling.
THE NOTE-TAKER: Cheltenham, Harrow, Cambridge, and India.
THE GENTLEMAN: Quite right.
Great laughter. Reaction in the note-taker's favour. Exclamations of He knows all about it. Told him proper. Hear him tell the toff where he come from? etc
THE GENTLEMAN:May I ask, sir, do you do this for your living at a music hall?
THE NOTE-TAKER: I've thought of that. Perhaps I shall some day.'

The note-taker is, as you will have gathered, Professor Higgins. The play concerns his attempt to take this cockney flower girl and teach her to speak properly, and how this affects both their lives.
'You see this creature with her kerb-stone English: the English that will keep her in the gutter to the end of her days. Well, sir, in three months I could pass that girl off as a duchess at an ambassador's garden party.'
Reading this has reminded me that Shaw's plays are both eminently readable and, I've always found, eminently watchable. It is light and engaging, with witty dialogue. The play is dated in the sense that it is firmly set in the Edwardian era and I feel it would be hard to set it in the present without significantly changing the text (for instance, the swear word 'bloody' does not have the same capacity to shock in the twenty-first century), but the dialogue is clear and natural, and you can believe in the characters, no matter how bizarre the situation they are in.
However, there is a social commentary underlying the romantic veneer - Shaw's didacticism; this is a play very firmly about class. As Higgins says:

'This is an age of upstarts. Men begin in Kentish Town with £80 a year, and end up in Park Lane with a hundred thousand. They want to drop Kentish Town; but they give themselves away every time they open their mouths.'

Class is something that still obsesses us in England ninety years later, and for this reason the play stands the test of time. There are constantly new books written, television programmes being made about it; we have just recently had a furore in the press about 'middle-class drinking'. We all define ourselves and others as belonging to one class or another, and the way we use language is a large part of that. This obsession is satirised by Shaw in this play, this need to classify ourselves and others and present ourselves according to the station we believe we belong, or want to belong, to by the way we speak.
As time passes, Eliza comes to realise that there is more to becoming a lady than her accent. Her character develops throughout the play as she becomes a strong, dignified woman who is able at last to stand up to Higgins.
She also finally recognises in Higgins and her father the meaning of true classlessness, in the way that, with no thought for ceremony or situation, both treat everyone the same whether they be a duke or a dustman: Mr Doolittle with easy-going familiarity and Higgins with bored contempt.
Raymond Williams (in Drama from Ibsen to Brecht) describes how Shaw did not consider plays where there was little more than the dialogue to be a true art form, they need the directions of the playwright for the entire vision. For example, Shaw believed that we do not have the full genius of Shakespeare available to us because we lack his character notes and directions. Shaw will not allow this to happen to his plays, and with a preface, an epilogue and detailed directions throughout Pygmalion has more the air of a play-novella hybrid than a piece of drama. For reading purposes this is fine, but I wonder how restricting directors find this interference from Bernard Shaw.
An example of Shaw's control over his vision is the ending of the play, which does not make clear what will happen to Eliza. In case you should be tempted to romantically decide for yourself, however, in the epilogue Shaw provides a realistic and pleasing, if not romantic, future for Eliza, Henry and the other characters.
It is pleasing because I had grown very fond of the defiant yet vulnerable Eliza, and the infuriating but essentially innocent and child-like Higgins, as well as the other characters. So even if there is a slight irritation at Shaw's need to control even after the end of the play, there is also a certain satisfaction in ending with everything sorted, rather than having Eliza and Higgins teetering on the edge of either perfect happiness or abject misery.

GBS inspired ramblings

I've spent a happy morning reading Pygmalion by George Bernard Shaw, which I shall write about for the Outmoded Authors Challenge and here soon. Reading this has led to an unfortunate side-effect, however, as I am wandering around the house humming a tune from My Fair Lady.
I don't know if anyone else has this affliction, but whenever I read a book that has any kind of music associated with it the tune rattles around my head constantly while I'm reading.
While I read Don Quixote I had the Nik Kershaw song of the same name in my head the whole time. Which was a very long time, it is not a short book.
Don Quixote
What would you say?
Are we proud, are we brave or just crazy?...
Or something, the lyrics may be wrong after 20-odd years.
It was the same with The Stranger by Camus, when it was The Cure, and today, maddeningly, it is I've Grown Accustomed to her Face.
To make it worse, although I love musical comedies of the Fred and Ginger-type, I've never been interested in shows like My Fair Lady and don't really know the songs, so I'm just humming one line over and over. And I'm not even sure if the tune is from My Fair Lady or the recent Simpsons parody. Pity my poor husband.
Another vague train of thought inspired by the play concerns Shaw's preoccupation with language. The preface discusses phonetics and phoneticians Shaw knew who, in part at least, inspired the character of Henry Higgins. While reading this and Shaw's note about the upside down 'e' symbol he uses to denote a neutral vowel sound but which has no equivalent letter in the alphabet, I was reminded of a legal case: Re Shaw (1957). This was one of the most interesting cases from my study of trust law and concerns George Bernard Shaw's will.
He left a sum of money to be set up as a trust, the aim of which was to develop a 40 letter alphabet. (It had to be ascertained whether the trust was charitable - the judge held that it failed as a trust for the advancement of education as the increase of knowledge alone, without being combined with teaching or education, was not a charitable object.)
I found myself wondering what Shaw had in mind, which sounds not signified by the current alphabet did he want to allow us to express in writing; presumably this neutral vowel sound would be one. We take language for granted but when one actually thinks about how it is used and expressed in writing, it is very interesting; linguistics is one of those subjects I find fascinating but know very little about. If anyone knows of a good introduction to the subject I'd be very grateful.

The stray book

Do you ever have a book which you look at and think 'where on earth did you come from?' I don't mean books you've forgotten you've bought, but ones that you just can't imagine why you would possibly have bought it?
I found when cataloguing my books to go on Librarything.com that I had a good fifty or sixty books that I had completely forgotten I owned, it was quite wonderful - as though someone had turned up at my house and given me a huge box of books. However, once I saw them they all sparked a bit of recognition in me and I knew that I had indeed bought them.
There was one second hand volume, though, that as I catalogued it was a complete mystery to me. Hare and Critics.

Now, I know how it got into my house. My father was moving his books and sorted out the few remaining children's books that I had left behind (noticeably not my Nancy Drews, though, my parents always change the subject when I ask about them. I think there is some guilty secret there, possibly concerning a damp garage and a book-munching mouse). He returned my much loved copy of Penelope Lively's Ghost of Thomas Kempe, which I read countless times before I was ten and is probably at the root of my deep love of ghost stories, a few Enid Blytons, Jill's Pony Club books and Hare and Critics. It was slightly conspicuous, a very serious book in the midst of this company.
-That's not mine, I said.
-It must be yours, it's not mine, said my father vehemently.
So I accepted that it was indeed mine and assumed without really looking at it that it must be a volume of essays on the work of David Hare that I had bought while studying for my theatre studies degree.
Then, when cataloguing it for Librarything, as I picked it up and actually looked at it, I realised that it was absolutely nothing to do with David Hare the playwright. This Hare is R M Hare, who is, I find, an eminent twentieth century moral philosopher. Now I do read philosophy, but tend towards the classics, Plato or Aristotle for instance.
I think I would be unlikely to pick up a modern philospher of this type on spec. The essays by Hare's critics have some pretty forbidding titles, such as Prescriptivism, Constructivism, and Rights or Problems with Act-Utilitarianism and with Malevolent Preferences.
I don't generally buy books without checking what they are, so I also can't imagine that I bought it mistaking this Hare for the playwright, a cursory glance at the cover showed that this was not the case. And I'm quite sure my father wouldn't have bought it, I've never known him to show an interest in moral philosophy. So where on earth did it come from?
It has intrigued me, that this stray book has somehow found a home with me, and I feel almost obliged to read it if only to find out who R M Hare is and what his critics think of him. I've been reading a lot of fiction recently with the challenges, and feel like a bit of stretching non-fiction; I think this book, wherever it came from, may well be one of the most stretching books I own. I'll have a go at an essay or two over the weekend and see if it makes any sense to me, or whether I need to work up to Hare's philosophy a bit more gently though the centuries, although with the headache I've had all day I think I might stick to something light tonight.

Going Challenge-Crazy

With the posting of my thoughts on Sheridan Le Fanu's Madam Crowl's Ghost and other stories, I have completed the RIP II Challenge. I do feel like I've achieved something with this. I wasn't certain when I signed up for various challenges if I would end up getting distracted by other things and not manage them, but the first one is done, hooray.
Completing this has given me perhaps a little too much confidence in my challenge completing abilities, as I have signed up for another, rather more demanding one; not reading this time but writing, NaNoWriMo.
This challenge (National Novel Writing Month) is to write a novel of at least fifty thousand words from scratch during November. My brother had a go at it last year and at the time I thought he must be a bit cracked in the head to even attempt it.

This year I have gone similarly mad, but am feeling very excited about it. I have had an idea for a story rattling around my head for the past couple of months, which has been very irritating as it has distracted me from the other things I'm trying to write. It is, if possible, even cheesier than the exorcist novel I'm halfway through, so I thought this challenge would be the perfect opportunity to get it out of my system in one quick burst and then get back to the ghost stories I prefer writing. If you want to check out my progress during November I have signed up as EloiseG - I was too late to be able to get Eloise.
The hardest part will be to avoid the temptation to edit. One of the hints of how to complete this mammoth task sent in the joining email was that editing is for December. I have a nasty habit of constantly going back over stories while I write them, which is probably why I have never managed to finish writing a novel. And that fact in itself says to me I might be being a bit ambitious in attempting this, but nothing ventured, nothing gained!
The first few chapters at least will be plain sailing as they are pretty well worked out in my head, and I have a good idea of what will happen at the end. So that's the first five and the last five thousand words sorted, and all I really have to worry about throughout November is the forty thousand words in between!

Oh dear, I think I am definitely a bit cracked in the head, it must be genetic.

Is War and Peace too long?

With the Russian Reading challenge looming, as this year is racing away, it was interesting to read this article from the Guardian book blog about a shortened version of War and Peace that is being published, and the argument about it being conducted via open letters between its editor and the translators and publishers of the new full version of War and Peace that many people are reading for the challenge.
I agree with the author of the post: although feeling sympathy for the poor translator who is on the sharp end of the row, I won't be reading this short version; I just can't see the point.
Having read War and Peace is something I'm quite proud of having done. And what's more, I enjoyed it too. I couldn't have done it without the handy list of who's who at the front and, with the exception of Pierre, I must admit that several years later I don't have that clear a memory of many of the characters or events in it. However, I do remember clearly that I loved it and didn't even break in the middle to read something else for a change of pace. This is because it's a good book!
This shortened version is based on research into Tolstoy's drafts and three serialised chapters that Tolstoy published in a journal. Yet the established longer version is one that Tolstoy worked on for a further three years after the serialisation and first draft; this is not a case of an author publishing a book and then coming back to it decades later to add to it, in which case I believe there are legitimate arguments about which is the 'correct' version. In this case, if there is to be an argument about which is the correct version then I have to say I am on the side of those who say it is the one that Tolstoy revised and added to before finally seeing it published. Surely what came before were only drafts that Tolstoy then developed into the finished article? Of all the people who are capable of saying which is the better version, Tolstoy himself must carry some weight.
So why provide this shorter version? The most disturbing thing about this story is that the publishers must see this as a step that will be popular. Rather than tackle the issue that sometimes popular ideas of the classics may belie how enjoyable they are to read, they would rather pander to these misconceptions. It says to me that their idea of the book-buying public is that although we'd like to be well-read and to enjoy literature we are too lazy and stupid to ever actually manage it and will grasp at an easy way out, especially if it is given the veneer of authenticity because it is based on the author's own drafts; this is quite an insult.
It is also worrying that it might become a trend; what other classics will there be early drafts of amongst authors' papers that could be used to provide a text that is easier to consume? Tristram Shandy without the asides and digressions? Gulliver's Travels where he goes home after Lilliput? To strip any novel of this stature of the thought-provoking asides, the description, the poetry that can turn a good story into an experience that you live with for the rest of your life seems not only sacrilegious but a way to ensure that a great deal of enjoyment is lost to those who buy them.

Madam Crowl's Ghost by J Sheridan Le Fanu

This collection of twelve ghost stories, (my copy was published in a Wordsworth Classics edition ISBN: 1-85326-218-8) was collected by the great M R James, who says of Le Fanu in his introduction:

'He stands absolutely in the first rank as a writer of ghost stories.'

I agree completely. The beautifully crafted, descriptive stories draw you slowly into the setting and time, allowing you to get to know the characters involved and gradually building up the suspense until the occurrence of the supernatural event that is the centre of the story. They are so well done that almost every one had me checking how many pages there were, as I was certain that I must have read a much longer story to have been so successfully and completely submerged in its world.
The collection begins with 'Madam Crowl's Ghost', told from the point of view of a girl taken into service in a large manor house where her aunt is housekeeper; the sole responsibility of the household is to look after the aged and decrepit Madam Crowl. The description of this hideous old woman as the girl takes a peek when left alone with her for the first time is an image that will stay with me.

'There she was dressed out. You never sid the like in they days. Satin and silk, and scarlet and green, and gold and pint lace; by Jen! 'twas a sight! A big powdered wig, half as high as herself, was a-top o' her head, and wow! - was ever such wrinkles? - and her old baggy throat powdered white, and her cheeks rouged, and mouse skin eyebrows, that Mrs Wyvern used to stick on... Her wrinkled little hands was stretched down by her sides, and such long nails, all cut into points, I never sid in my days... my very heart stood still. And in an instant she opens her eyes, and up she sits, and spins herself round, and down wi' her, wi' a clack on her two tall heels on the floor, facin' me, ogglin' in my face wi' her two great glassy eyes, and a wicked simper wi' her old wrinkled lips, and lang fause teeth...She came clatterin' after, like a thing on wires, with her fingers pointing to my throat, and she makin' all the time a sound with her tongue like zizz-zizz-zizz.'

The stories are gently paced, generally with one or two strange events occurring which the protagonist is often left to puzzle over; for instance, in 'Dickon the Devil', a young man is sent to look at some property left to two old women and knows that there are strange stories associated with the place but the locals are singularly reluctant to tell him about it until he experiences a visitation from the previous owner first hand.

Sometimes the reader is left to decide whether the occurrence is supernatural or just strange coincidence; in 'The Vision of Tom Chuff' a wife beater and drunkard has a vision of his future in hell, and reforms under its influence for a while. Whether his eventual fate is the result of paranormal events or just the reaction of an impressionable mind is left to the reader's discretion.

The stories are written in a variety of styles; some are set in England and others in Le Fanu's native Ireland, which means that the dialogue is written to portray various local accents but it is never too dense. Some of the later stories in the book, which are from earlier in Le Fanu's career, are written as a series of short tales of hauntings around a particular area.

One of my favourites from this collection is 'Wicked Captain Walshawe, of Wauling,' the story of a man whose treatment of his wife and insult to her corpse, as he rips the candle from her dead hands, causes her faithful Irish servant to curse his soul to be trapped in the wick of the holy candle until it is burnt down. Years later, a visitor to the recently deceased man's house unwittingly lights the candle, leading to this wonderful image:

'He saw the extinguisher lifted by a tiny hand, from beneath, and a small human face, no bigger than a thumbnail, with nicely proportioned features peep from beneath it. In this Lilliputian countenance was such a ghastly consternation as horrified my Uncle unspeakably. Out came a little foot then and there, and a pair of wee legs, in short silk stockings and buckled shoes, then the rest of the figure; and, with the arms holding about the socket, the little legs stretched and stretched, hanging about the stem of the candlestick till the feet reached the base, and so down the Satyr-like leg of the table, till they reached the floor, extending elastically, and strangely enlarging in all proportions as they approached the ground, where the feet and buckles were those of a well-shaped, full grown man, and the figure tapering upward until it dwindled to its original fairy dimensions at the top, like an object seen in some strangely curved mirror.'

A better and more consistent writer, in my opinion, than other Victorian writers of the gothic genre such as Bram Stoker, Le Fanu's work has been unjustly neglected. His writing is gentle and works by a detailed creation of atmosphere, with a slow increase in tension as the story progresses. They may leave fans of modern horror wondering where the blood is, but the stories are beautifully written and if you allow yourself to be drawn into this world of the supernatural, where fairies entice children from their homes and ghosts return to finish the work they began while alive, they will leave a lasting and chilling impression.

The Old Bailey

There are some fascinating and informative sites on the internet, and I'm sure we all have our favourites for browsing to fill an odd five minutes now and again. One of my favourite websites is The Proceedings of the Old Bailey.
This site contains transcripts of cases heard at the Old Bailey from 1674 to 1834. I love first hand history and, having recently got a law degree, this website is particularly interesting. I always enjoy historical documents that allow you to see how ordinary people really lived in past times and these cases are fascinating social documents.
For instance one case that particularly sticks in my mind was of a woman who accused her maid of assault (I'm afraid I can't remember the name of the accused). It was in the late eighteenth century and the mistress of the house had invited some friends to her house for tea, where the maid offered them bread and butter in a surly way. When the mistress went to the kitchen to remonstrate the maid lost her temper, shouted at her mistress and threw the bread and butter and kitchen implements at her. This insight into the relationship between a middle class woman and her servant was fascinating.
Sometimes the crimes are horrific, people were as evil in the past as now, but it is easy to avoid those if true crime is not to your taste, as it is not to mine. It is easy to browse through the trials by year, or there is a good search facility.
However, one shocking part of the trials which cannot be avoided is of course the penalties for those found guilty of, at times, quite minor offences. For instance, I recently read about a case of highway robbery, that of James Smith in 1781; this was not a story of a glamourous highway man calling 'stand and deliver' to a coach full of rich people, but rather a man who held a bayonet to another man's throat as they walked along the same bit of road and demanded money - basically a mugging.
When the victim had handed over two half-crowns and said that was all he had, the robber then stole a bundle of dirty clothes the victim was carrying. The robber was apprehended because the victim chased after him shouting 'Stop Thief!' and others intervened to help. It is quite an amusing description until you reach the end of the document when the prisoner was asked if he had anything to say in defence and the verdict was stated:

'PRISONER's DEFENCE. I have nothing to say unless to beg the mercy of the court; it is the first fault I ever did in my life.
GUILTY ( Death .)'

We Can Remember It For You Wholesale

We Can Remember It For You Wholesale by Philip K Dick was my choice for LK's Horror Short Story Short Challenge.
It is the story of Doug Quail, a meek clerk who longs to visit Mars and dreams of being a secret agent for Interplan. The obsession is destroying his marriage and has taken over his life. As he can't afford to visit Mars, and isn't likely to become a secret agent for Interplan, he decides to go to Rekal, Inc., a successful company which enables people to believe they have experienced their dreams. They will plant false memories in his head so that he will be convinced that he did these things and perhaps get on with his life.

'"You won't remember us, won't remember me or ever having been here. It'll be a real trip in your mind; we guarantee that. A full two weeks of recall; every last piddling detail. Remember this: if at any time you doubt that you really took an extensive trip to Mars you can return here and get a full refund. You see?"'

Except that when they try and implant the memories in Doug's brain they hit a problem, the memories are already there. This story is full of action as Doug tries to work out what is real and who he really is, while Interplan attempt to resolve their inconvenient problem of his dangerous regained memories. It is a great story, with an ending that made me smile.
So does this count as a horror story? I would have to say definitely yes. It is written in Dick's straightforward and deceptively simple prose that ensures the story comes first as it draws you quickly along, but it is when you start thinking about what is behind the story that it begins to chill.
The whole concept behind Rekal, Inc, the idea that memories can be added or subtracted from your brain at will, is the horrific part for me. The idea that false memories could be implanted in your brain and that you are unable to tell them from real ones is quite terrifying, especially as this is done by ordinary people to themselves as an alternative to real experiences. Imagine not being able to be completely certain that your most treasured memory was real, that you didn't just pay somebody to plant it in your head. Your wedding day, holidays, romances, did they really happen? Or did you just want them to have happened?
With the news stories of misguided therapists unwittingly placing false memories of abuse in people's minds a few years ago, this does not seem to be beyond the realms of possibility, which is always what makes stories like this truly horrifying.

A weekend of short stories

Poor Dantès will have to continue to rot in the dungeon of the Château D'If, as this weekend I will be spending my reading time on short stories.
I've been picking up Madam Crowl's Ghost every now and again for a story but this week it took hold and has been my commute reading; a couple more wonderfully atmospheric Le Fanu stories left to finish and then I have completed my first reading challenge!
I also intend to read We Can Remember it for you Wholesale by Philip K Dick, for LK's horror short story short challenge, so I will hopefully be able to post about that over the next couple of days. LK has posted her readers' choices of horror short stories too, including my ten, and there are some interesting titles there from other readers. All to be filed away in the 'look out for these' section of my brain.
As well as these, I have been urged to read Roald Dahl's Switcheroo from my new short story collection by a fellow Librarything-er, so I will try and fit that in.
One of the stories on LK's original list was The Lottery by Shirley Jackson, which I have recently found online and read. It is very short, and very good; shocking is probably the best word.
Set in rural United States, it's a real contrast to the Victorian stories I more usually read, and is a horror rather than ghost story. The inhabitants of a village gather for the annual lottery. More than that about the events I won't say as it will spoil it- if you haven't read it I can definitely recommend it.
Despite only being a few pages long, it creates the atmosphere perfectly, going from comforting and familiar to terrible in moments. It also creates firm and believable characters and establishes their relationships in a very short space.
I think one of the things I found most striking about the story is that it shows that the old ways are not necessarily the best, and modernity and the changes in thinking that it brings has something going for it. This is a change from dystopian visions such as Brave New World and quite refreshing in a time when, as the world moves forward at an unbelievable pace, so often we are trying to return to nature and the centuries-old ways of being. Not everything from the past is better, and it's good to be reminded of that every now and again.

Left to my own devices

After my mini-'flu bout last weekend I passed it on to my husband who has been ill all week. This has meant that I've been left on my own at lunchtimes, which is never a good thing for our poor floorboards groaning under the weight of the book piles. They are going to be groaning a little bit louder today as I wandered past a charity shop, just on the off-chance there was something good, and ended up with seven books. As they came to a grand total of seven pounds I feel I did pretty well.

The '50p each, three for a pound' table doesn't often have anything on it; more often than not books which look interesting from a distance turn out to be Readers Digest condensed versions, but today I managed to find four good ones.
First, with a rather sun-bleached spine, a copy of Tom Brown's School Days by Thomas Hughes, one of those classics that I've never got round to, so the opportunity was not to be missed.
Then a Georges Simenon novel, Chez Krull. All I really know of Simenon is that he wrote Maigret, but I read a review of Simenon's The Little Man from Archangel on Inside Books recently that intrigued me about his other writing, so I'll give this a go.
I have a bit of a penchant for thrillers of the Edgar Wallace variety, and have the impression that Ellery Queen is in a similar style. I hope so, as this was the next find - And on the Eighth Day.
The final one from the table is a Georgette Heyer novel, The Reluctant Widow. Although my parents have been big Georgette Heyer fans for as long as I can remember, and I have one of their copies of a Heyer novel to read (my father is re-reading them all and pressed it on me to try) I've never really fancied reading her; I'm suspicious of historical novels that aren't by Scott. My father had almost persuaded me to overcome my prejudices though (as he was right about Rafael Sabatini), and then I saw a programme called Guilty Pleasures where Stephen Fry talked about his guilty pleasures, as you probably guessed from the title, one of which was Georgette Heyer novels. This gave me the final push and I decided to give her a go. I'll read my parents' one first, as I hate having borrowed books around; I always feel guilty that I take so long to get round to them.

After these four I moved inside to where the books are more expensive but I have found some great volumes in the past. Today was no exception.
First a Rumpole, which is not to be missed, Rumpole A La Carte by John Mortimer. My slowly growing warmth towards Wordsworth will no doubt increase further, thanks to the poetry quoting barrister.
I love reading essays, especially essays from the eighteenth century, so I picked up a selection of Addison's essays written for the Spectator. I already have a collection of Addison's Spectator essays but this one seems larger; I'm hoping there will be quite a few essays included that I don't have elsewhere. The book has obviously fallen into the clutches of a bored child over its seventy or so years of life, as there is a picture of Mickey Mouse on the fly leaf at the front, and a rather charming drawing at the back which looks like people being bombed at a bus stop. Maybe it was drawn during the war from the child's own experience but, remembering my own childhood, could just as easily be from any decade when destruction on a large scale seemed appealing on a bored afternoon. Happily the child seems to have kept to the blank pages and the essays themselves are bomb-free.
Finally, a book which might be an addition to the Russian Reading Challenge although I'm reluctant to pile too many on to that list: Nicholas and Alexandra by Robert K Massie, which traces the years leading up to the 1917 Revolution. This should be very interesting reading, whenever I undertake it.

The Uncommon Reader by Alan Bennett

I've read a lot of reviews in blogs of Alan Bennett's The Uncommon Reader (published by Faber, ISBN: 978-1-84668-049-6) and they have all said what a wonderful book it is.

People have recommended Alan Bennett books to me before but I've never felt like reading him, however this one began to intrigue me; the quotations that fellow bloggers included in their reviews were very funny, and, after all, it is a book about books - my favourite subject. I found it was on my mind more than was healthy and so, as Lord Henry says in The Picture of Dorian Gray, 'the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it' and I bought a copy yesterday.

I then went to buy a sandwich and while I stood in the queue read the first couple of pages. Sandwich bought, I immediately headed for the nearest churchyard, settled myself on a bench and continued to read as much as was possible in the remaining twenty minutes of my lunch break. It was a chilly October day, my fingers began to turn blue and I must have looked a little crazy, laughing out loud as I sat huddled on the bench, but I didn't care. I finished it that night before doing anything else. Everyone else was right, this book is wonderful.
It's a small pocket-sized book, only a hundred and twenty or so pages. It begins with the Queen already in the throes of her reading obsession, questioning the French President about Jean Genet, before quickly taking us to the fateful Wednesday afternoon when the dogs drag her into a rarely visited part of the Palace grounds and she discovers the mobile library van. Inside is the librarian, who hits his head as he quickly stands when he realises that his monarch has just entered the van, and one solitary reader, Norman, a skinny ginger-haired lad from the kitchens who is borrowing a book on Cecil Beaton.
Out of politeness, Her Majesty borrows a book by Ivy Compton Burnett, as it is the only name she recognises, and she struggles through a rather dry read. That would have been that if, the next Wednesday, the Queen had not been cornered by her Private Secretary and used returning her library book as an excuse to evade him. This time she borrows a book by Nancy Mitford.

'"Now. Didn't her sister marry the Mosley man?"

Mr Hutchings said he believed she did.

"And the Mother-in-law of another sister was my mistress of the robes?"

"I don't know about that, ma'am."

"Then of course there was the rather sad sister who had the fling with Hitler. And one became a Communist. And I think there was another besides. But this is Nancy?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good."

Novels seldom came as well connected as this.'

This book is much more to the Queen's taste; she even fakes a sniffle to be able to stay in bed and read it. As a result reading becomes a passion and regular library van borrower Norman is promoted from the kitchens to page, where his duties revolve around the Queen's reading. He has the solemn responsibility of choosing the Queen's library books, a duty which he initially has some concerns about as he only really reads gay authors. The friendship that develops between Norman and the Queen is touching in its enthusiasm and innocence. They are from different worlds and eras but their love of literature brings them close.
The book perfectly describes the worlds that books can open up to anyone and how a passion for reading can change the way you live your life. The love of books that grows within the Queen is one that all avid readers will empathise with; you cannot help but feel sad that the poor woman has had to wait until she is in her seventies to be able to really enjoy books. She realises how much she has missed out on by not really reading in her life, and the opportunities to talk to authors, now dead, that have passed her by because she had not read their works when she met them.
Also recognisable is the way she looks at the world once she has gained her love of literature; she simply cannot comprehend how anyone can live without constantly having a book on the go. Accordingly she changes her small talk with members of the public from chitchat about the traffic to what they are reading - a question which stumps the vast majority of the people who meet her. She even develops a passion for reading aloud, attempting to build it into public engagements wherever possible. There are some wonderful images in this book, that I just would love to be true.

'...late one night, as she closed her book on the Elizabethan Settlement, it occurred to her to ring the Archbishop of Canterbury.

There was a pause while he turned down the TV.

"Archbishop. Why do I never read the lesson?"

"I beg your pardon, ma'am?"

"In church. Everyone else gets to read and one never does. It's not laid down, is it? It's not off-limits?"

"Not that I'm aware, ma'am."

"Good. Well in that case I'm going to start. Leviticus, here I come. Goodnight."

The Archbishop shook his head and went back to Strictly Come Dancing.'

However, as the Queen enjoys reading more and more, the officials at the Palace become suspicious and do their best to persuade Her Majesty that it is not for her.

'"I feel, ma'am, that while not exactly elitist it sends the wrong message. It tends to exclude."

"Exclude? Surely most people can read?"

"They can read, ma'am, but I'm not sure that they do."'

One of the reasons that I was not immediately drawn to this novel was the thought that it might be making fun of the Queen, not that I'm fanatically Royalist but I just don't see the point. There are so many people more deserving of satire in this country. This book does not do that though; it is gentle and respectful but with the wonderful dry Bennett humour throughout - usually delivered by the Queen at the expense of someone else. The Queen is portrayed as an intelligent woman who has been held back from one of the simple pleasures of life because of her role. It is impossible not to feel sympathy for her.
I doubt the Queen will read it, I would imagine that it would be a very uncomfortable experience, but if she does I wonder if she will recognise herself in Bennett's portrait? In Woodrow Wyatt's journals he talks of a meeting with Princess Margaret, and I think the Queen too, where he was berated for not having read the latest biography of Coleridge by Richard Holmes. So perhaps in reality she does find some time to read and enjoy books; I hope so.

Mummies and Zombies

Another birthday, my brother's, which necessitated a trip into Waterstones to find him a copy of Anansi Boys by Neil Gaiman. I've read a lot about Gaiman on blogs, especially as part of RIP II, and have decided to give him a go. My brother's taste in books is sometimes very similar to mine (I lend him all my classic ghost story collections) and sometimes so very different it baffles me. However, I decided it's time to brave Gaiman and have asked to borrow Coraline, a story that was picked by a few RIP-ers. We'll have to see how that goes.
Of course a trip into a bookshop means I come out with presents too, although only a couple more of the Wordsworth Mystery and Supernaturals, so it wasn't too extravagant. It's very childish, I know, but one of the things I love best about these editions is the embossed skull and blood drops that adorn the title on the cover of each one.
I realised, to my horror, that I don't own a copy of The House by the Churchyard by Sheridan Le Fanu, so this was the first I picked up. Then J waved Return from the Dead, a collection edited by David Stuart Davies, in front of me and I bought it without even checking what it was; if it's a Wordsworth Mystery and Supernatural, I'm bound to like it.
It turns out it was one I'd avoided buying, a collection of stories about mummies. This is not because I've anything against these stories but most of the book is taken up with The Jewel of the Seven Stars by Bram Stoker, which I already have and have read.
It's a strange novel; I learnt a lot about Egyptology when I read it about five years ago but don't remember there being much else in the book, certainly not much Gothic horror apart from at the very end. I might just be remembering it wrongly, as I've seen reviews that say of Stoker's novels it is second to Dracula (I'd have to say a long way second). I got the impression that Bram Stoker was obsessed with Ancient Egypt when he wrote it and just wanted to put everything he was learning into the novel.
However, I did enjoy reading about Ancient Egypt, and when, shortly afterwards, we visited London and went to the British Museum, the Ancient Egypt section was particlarly fascinating as a result. We've since also visited the Ancient Egypt rooms of the Louvre a couple of times, and I'm sure the information gathered from Bram Stoker has helped to make the experiences more enjoyable - an example of Bertrand Russell's 'useless knowledge' in action.
One example that particularly sticks in my mind was the description in the novel of a small mummy of a cat; we were then able to see some at the British Museum. This link should take you to a picture of one.
I'm quite glad I've got the book now; my dodgy 1970s paperback of the Stoker can go to my brother and I'll re-read The Jewel of the Seven Stars in this new version and see if I missed the horror first time round, or at the very least refresh my knowledge of Ancient Egypt. And then there are the other stories, which are unlikely to be in other anthologies as they are not about ghosts as such.
Finally we picked up a book for J: The Zombie Survival Guide by Max Brooks. We do like to be prepared for this eventuality; perhaps we take Resident Evil and 28 Days Later too seriously, but you never know what's being cooked up in secret government labs. I particularly liked the excerpt from the New York Post review on the back of the book:
'A tome you start reading for fun and then at page 50 you go out and buy a machete just to be on the safe side'.
We've already got a machete; it's for hacking back the brambles in the garden, not really for fighting zombies. However, after looking through this book J went and sharpened it, just in case.

The Chinon Parchment

I am wishing extra hard for a lottery win this week, nothing too greedy, just a few thousand pounds so that I can buy a copy of the Chinon parchment that the Vatican is producing. It is a facsimile of the details of the Fourteenth Century investigation into and trial in Rome of the Knights Templar that has been discovered in a box in the Vatican, described in this BBC story yesterday. It's in Latin and would take me ages to translate with my very rusty GCSE Latin skills but I really want one of this very limited edition.
Better still would be if someone else would translate it and publish a reasonably priced version. I have an obsession with all things Templar, which goes back many years and is nothing to do with Dan Brown; to see what the Vatican actually thought of this Order and get more of an insight into the reasoning behind its persecution would be fascinating.
Can you imagine anything as wonderful as discovering something like this at work? This is from the news story about the Vatican historian who found it:
'She says she stumbled across the document in a box containing other papers five years ago, having been lost for centuries after it was wrongly catalogued.'
Sadly, I'm unlikely to come across anything so interesting in my office.

I listened to the second episode of Mrs Lirriper via the BBC website last night (it will be there for a few more days), it is lovely and the book is definitely on my Christmas list.
This episode even included a ghost story! It is one I know well as it is often included in anthologies of classic stories, The Phantom Coach by Amelia Edwards, but it was very enjoyable to hear it told well. It is the atmospheric story of a man who loses himself on the dark moor in the snow and his attempt to be picked up by the mail coach.

M R James Part Three

As we run up to Halloween, here are some more stories from M R James Collected Ghost Stories.

Count Magnus
This is another unusual story for James, but I couldn't say how without a spoiler, so no more on that.
Mr Wraxall is a writer of a book of travels and was in Sweden to gather material for such a book. He stays in a house originally owned by a family called de la Gardie, and he learns from papers of one of the family, Magnus de la Gardie, who suppressed an uprising of his time with severe punishment. A portrait of Magnus shows him to be 'almost phenomenally ugly'.
He finds out more and more about Magnus, including the fact that he had been on the 'Black Pilgrimage'.
As he passes the mausoleum containing the Count's body after a day of learning about him, he says aloud:
'"Count Magnus, there you are. I should dearly like to see you."
"Like many solitary men" he writes, "I have a habit of talking to myself aloud; and, unlike some of the Greek and Latin particles, I do not expect an answer. Certainly, and perhaps fortunately in this case, there was neither voice nor any that regarded: only the woman who, I suppose, was cleaning up the church, dropped some metallic object on the floor, whose clang startled me. Count Magnus, I think, sleeps sound enough."'
Most will guess that Count Magnus does not sleep as soundly as he should in the remainder of this very tense story. '"What is it that I have done?"' asks poor Wraxall, as he leaves Sweden pursued.

"Oh whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad."
Parkins is a Professor with firm views on the supernatural.
'"-I hold that any semblance, and appearance of concession to the view that such things exist is equivalent to a renunciation of all that I hold sacred.'"
Well, obviously he is just asking for it!
On a holiday he looks at some archaeological ruins for a colleague and discovers a small metal tube with some markings on it. He makes out that the markings are Latin:
'"The long one is simple enough. It ought to mean, 'who is this who is coming?' Well the best way to find out is evidently to whistle for him."
He blew tentatively and stopped suddenly, startled and yet pleased at the note he had elicited. It had a quality of infinite distance in it, and, soft as it was, he somehow felt it must be audible for miles around. It was a sound, too, that seemed to have the power (which many scents possess) of forming pictures in the brain.'
The blowing of the whistle begins the trouble, which centres around the wind that almost immediately starts to blow quite ferociously. More and more strange things occur, dreams, scared hotel staff, all building up to something terrible that Parkins has to face.
This is an excellent story, another one the BBC has televised. It is especially good because, as well as the scientific but naive Parkins' experience, there is the bluff Colonel Wilson, Parkins' rather short-tempered golf partner, whom Parkins turns to for help when the strange occurrences begin. The Colonel is a good man, full of common sense, but a man who is prepared to accept the supernatural. He believes that Parkins is 'little better than a Sadducee' for his views. The contrast between the two men as they face what comes at Parkins' whistle is very effective.

The Treasure of Abbot Thomas
This begins with a long paragraph in Latin, which is obligingly translated by an antiquary, Mr Somerton; the Latin describes a treasure supposed to have been hidden by the 16th century Abbot Thomas at Steinfeld, who would tell people: 'Job, John, and Zechariah will tell either you or your successors' when asked where it is.
Mr Somerton decides to attempt to solve this centuries-old riddle and takes a trip to Steinfeld.
Next we are with Mr Gregory, a rector and friend of Someton, who receives an urgent message from Somerton's servant to come to help his very ill master. Gregory travels to Steinfeld and hears how Somerton solved the riddle of Abbot Thomas but with terrible consequences.
This is a nice story, slightly reminiscent of The Gold Bug by Edgar Allen Poe, another story of treasure hunting and code breaking, but James' story has terrible supernatural consequences.

V for Vendetta

I don't think the 'flu has kicked in properly, it's just a cold, but I felt very rough yesterday; thanks so much for the good wishes left in comments, it really has made me feel better reading them.
So I spent yesterday afternoon in bed which, on a Saturday, is quite an awful waste. When I eventually roused myself after a big bowl of porridge, which was the only thing I could face, and not feeling like reading, I settled down in front of V for Vendetta.
This is such a brilliant film but terrifying, as at times we seem to be only one step away from it coming true. In the film, several tragedies blamed on terrorists have allowed an extreme political party to take power in Britain; this has led to anyone who is 'different', for example Muslim or homosexual, being violently removed from society, it is a capital offence to own a copy of the Koran, there is a nightly curfew and a list of banned artworks. The country is kept passive because it is all being done to 'protect' them.
V, wearing a Guy Fawkes mask, attempts to wake people and remind them of what liberty is by dramatic acts, such as blowing up the Old Bailey to the sound of the 1812 Overture coming through the public announcement system.
V's favourite film is The Count of Monte Cristo, which is what put it into my mind to drag out the DVD. V, like Edmond, cares solely for vengeance against the people who did these terrible things to him and the country, until he meets Evey, the heroine of the film who unwittingly becomes involved in V's plans. Like so many of the best films of the past few years, it was originally a graphic novel which I would love to read.

Coming down with the 'flu

I came home early yesterday, as I felt pretty dreadful, headachy and hot, and spent the afternoon on the sofa in front of Newlyweds drinking orange juice and tea. Pepys' wife believed that tea was a cure for the cold and since I read that, I've held to it too. I'm sure the fluids help, if nothing else.
Every time I complain about my symptoms the husband holds out a wavering finger and proclaims, soothsayer-like, 'You've got the 'flu! You'll be in bed for week!'
I think this sounds great, apart from the fact that he then goes on to say everyone at his work who has had it has spent a week absolutely knocked out, so I won't be able to read.
That would be terrible, as I've just started The Count of Monte Cristo. I'm only a little way in, my attention was wandering yesterday, and not a lot's happened yet but I think I'm on the brink of a terrible event.
I'm already pretty hooked and falling in love with one of the characters, but not the handsome and virtuous Dantès; perversely my affections are tending to the sly and scheming Danglars, who, at the moment, is the villain of the piece. It is probably due somewhat to the fact that I see novels as films in my head and have a tendency to cast them, and this part went to James Mason. I adore James Mason, shown by the fact that I've watched the quite dreadful Stewart Granger Prisoner of Zenda countless times just to see Mason as Rupert of Hentzau.
I may change my mind once Dantès becomes the Count of Monte Cristo and hopefully a bit more interesting. There's a long way to go, anything could happen.

In Praise of Idleness by Bertrand Russell

This collection of fifteen of Bertrand Russell's essays is published in an attractive paperback edition by Routledge (ISBN: 0-415-32506-4). A number were originally written for magazines including Harpers Magazine and The New Statesman and Nation. Russell writes in a clear and easily accessible manner which, while intelligent, does not exclude the layman.

The essays were written in the late 1920s, early 1930s and some of the political essays are of more historical interest, than particular relevance today. His comparison of Communism and Fascism, for instance, where Russell explores the problems behind both ideologies, seems dated; it was written before the Second World War, and therefore without the full knowledge of the horrors that were perpetuated by the Nazis and before the Cold War had truly got under way. Looking at the essay from here, although his points are still valid, it seems to only be part of the story. As a result I found these essays less interesting.

When Russell is dealing with more universal subjects, though, the essays are absorbing. His clear and intelligent writing is a delight to read, even if I am not always persuaded by his viewpoints.

Russell's Utopian vision of life under socialism is attractive in some respects; the idea that everyone should work four hours a day so that all needs are catered for, with the rest of the time devoted to leisure is extremely seducing. As is the idea that women (bearing in mind that it was written in the 1930s, although studies show that it is still true in a lot of households today) should not then additionally have the care of children and the home as well as work. However, his solution of socialist communities where all children go to nurseries and everyone eats in a communal dining room (to remove the pressure to prepare meals for their families from women) is less attractive. I find the thought of enforced socialisation every evening, and being forced to eat what someone else has decided to prepare for everyone rather than what I want, quite dreadful. I would also hate to lose my time pottering around my kitchen; at times food preparation is a chore, but it can also be a joy. So nice idea in theory, but not one I would want to see taken up by policy makers.

However, I wholeheartedly applaud Russell's ideas in '"Useless" Knowledge', where he describes the value of knowledge of all kinds in enriching our lives:

'Curious learning not only makes unpleasant things less unpleasant, but also makes pleasant things more pleasant. I have enjoyed peaches and apricots more since I have known that they were first cultivated in China in the early days of the Han dynasty; that Chinese hostages held by the great King Kaniska introduced them into India, whence they spread to Persia, reaching the Roman Empire in the first century of our era; that the word 'apricot' is derived from the same Latin source as 'precocious', because the apricot ripens early; and that the A at the beginning was added by mistake, owing to a false etymology. All this makes the fruit taste much sweeter.'

Near the end of the book is a charming little essay which I particularly enjoyed, 'On Comets'. It discusses how comets used to be a source of great terror and foreboding to man until science realised that they are regular occurrences rather than omens or warnings from God, and how this is a gain but also a loss. We have surrounded ourselves with man-made objects and light, and have lost the ability to be awed by such phenomena.

Overall, I highly recommend this enjoyable collection of essays by a great thinker. I am looking forward to reading my copy of Russell's History of Western Philosophy.

Contradictions

I've been thinking a bit about my own internal contradictions and hypocrisy this week as two issues have come up that touch on a similar area but that I have a very different reaction to.
The first issue is that the British Board of Film Classifications has again refused to give Manhunt 2 a certificate which means it is not going to be sold in the UK. This is despite the fact that other countries have relented after changes were made to the game.
For those who don't know, Manhunt was a Playstation game made by Rockstar Games. You play a man who was on death row but, instead of being executed, he is smuggled out of the prison and taken to a place where various gangs of thugs and psychopaths attempt to kill him, all to make a very nasty film. The main character constantly has the voice of the deranged director in his ear (brilliantly voiced by Brian Cox) commenting on his work as he is put in a kill-or-be-killed situation again and again. It is very violent and I loved it.
As one of my favourite Playstation games, and as a consenting adult of mature years, I was looking forward to the sequel at an appropriately rated 18, but apparently we are not able to make our own decision about whether or not to play it; the BBFC has done that for us. This censorship makes me very angry.
The second issue is literally closer to home. A beautiful black and white timbered pub in the centre of my town has been bought by a company that has managed to get planning permission to turn it into a strip club. This horrifies me. I don't want it in my town and I certainly don't want it on one of the main streets where I have to walk past it every day.
I am partly justifying it by the fact that the groups of drunken men that are likely to swarm around the place (knowing our town centre on a Friday and Saturday night) will be very intimidating if I am walking home alone past it. Basically, however, I have a deep objection to such places and the way they encourage the objectification of women in our culture.
My desire to not have this club, though, is effectively censorship, and I would deny adults the right to make their own choice about whether to go into such a place or not, just as the BBFC is denying me the choice about whether to play Manhunt 2. If this club is censored, then what else should be? Surely it is also right to censor a game of extreme violence? And where would it go from there, censorship of the news, censorship of books?
I am finding the contradictions in my thoughts and beliefs this week very difficult to sort out. I think that I maybe have to accept that freedom of thought and speech and the right to make their own choices means that sometimes people make decisions that I would not necessarily want them to, but I have to respect their right to do so.
Benjamin Franklin said: 'Without freedom of thought there can be no such thing as wisdom; and no such thing as public liberty, without freedom of speech.'
But then he also said, 'Only a virtuous people are capable of freedom. As nations become more corrupt and vicious, they have more need of masters.'
It seems I am not the only one who has faced contradictions of this kind.

To celebrate my self-restraint...

I have been very good lately, it must be a week and a half since I bought any books. So to celebrate my self-restraint I decided to treat myself to - a couple of books! Well, I need something to look forward to, now the nights are drawing in.
Hesperus Press sent me their last couple of catalogues the other day and I spent a happy hour or so looking through them and making a list of all the books I wanted. I am sticking to the classics, rather than risking new fiction, and Hesperus have some very interesting titles that aren't run of the mill. It is wonderful to be able to find these books, especially when they are in such lovely editions.
I have restrained myself to ordering just two at present, and went first for Commonplace by Christina Rossetti, mainly because I read a story of hers (Maude) a few years ago that I really enjoyed and it stuck in my head. Unfortunately it didn't stick to the extent that I remembered who wrote it, as about a year later I spent an afternoon sat on the floor by the bookshelves going through all my novels and short story collections trying to track down who had written it; I remembered some time later that it was Rossetti and therefore, to confuse, included in a book of poetry. I wish I could clear some of the rubbish from my brain, like useless celebrity gossip, and just keep the important things there in good order. Anyway, Commonplace sounds like an interesting story about Victorian women's lives.
The second treat is The History Of the Reign of King Henry VII by Francis Bacon. I enjoy Bacon's essays and, as I'm reading Bacon for the Index Librorum Liberorum challenge, thought I'd widen it out a bit with this history. It will be interesting to read a Jacobean view of Henry VII, and to see if it differs greatly from more modern histories.
I decided not to get Mrs Lirriper, despite loving Dickens, as J has hinted that he will get it for me for Christmas. Mind you, he then said he wouldn't as now it won't be a surprise, despite the fact that he was the one who told me! I think I will have to be firm that it should be a present and I will forego the surprise.

The first month of challenges

As I have had just over a month participating in three reading challenges, I thought I'd have a little look at where I am with them.
RIP II was the first I read for, this runs until Halloween and I went for the four book challenge. Three have been read and reviewed here, but I have saved the best for last, which I can say quite confidently as it's a collection of Sheridan Le Fanu short stories; his ghost stories are, in my opinion, only topped by M R James, who collected and introduced this volume. I read the first story, Madam Crowl's Ghost, on Sunday, but I'll review them all together.
I am enjoying reading other people's reviews for this challenge, which is pushing me towards maybe giving a couple of modernish authors a go. Ray Bradbury's horror stories sound very good, I had thought he just wrote science fiction; does he do both or am I thinking of someone else?
Outmoded Authors: this runs till the end of February but I feel that there is the black cloud of DH Lawrence hanging over me. I just don't want to read Lady Chatterley but am hoping that when I do take the plunge I'll wonder what I've been fussing about. However, this is the good thing about these challenges, they encourage you to go a little outside your 'comfort zone' (apologies for the dreadful business-speak, I recently went on a 'leadership' course and some of it obviously stuck).
I know I could change what I've picked for the challenge but I'm bloody-minded and since I've said I'll read it, I'm going to do it. I also have a sneaking suspicion that it won't be half as bad as I expect. And, besides, the Chesterton was marvellous and there is the prospect of Scott to cheer me up.
I have also bought The Worm Ouroborous by E R Eddison after reading about it on the challenge site and it looks very good. I suspect there may be a few more purchases following other people's reviews as Outmoded Authors progresses.
Index Librorum Liberorum: this runs until August next year and although I haven't started reading for it yet, I finally have my full list of books, as I am now the proud owner of The History of the Devil by Daniel Defoe. I am looking forward to all of the books I've picked for this, especially The Count of Monte Cristo, which might be my next main book after I finally finish Bertrand Russell's In Praise of Idleness. Poor Bertrand is not getting the attention he deserves at the moment, as I seem to be reading him only during my daily commute.
My treatment of Bertrand Russell leads me to think that my reading pattern has changed slightly over the past couple of months. I can't tell if it's the influence of the challenges or just a phase I'm going through. Previously I preferred to read one book entirely before starting another, but I now seem to be getting into the habit of picking up a novel and reading it all, or most of it, in a concentrated burst over the weekend, while reading something else in the week. It began with the last Harry Potter which I desperately read one Saturday in case someone unwittingly spoiled it for me, and I have done the same with other books a few times since. As this began before I began the blog I think it is a phase, and I'm quite enjoying reading in this way. I get to enjoy novels properly, losing myself in them without continually having to break off because my train has arrived or I have to be up early for work, but then read something more serious in the week in short bursts with lots of time to mull over the interesting points in between. I may keep it up.

The Napoleon of Notting Hill by G. K. Chesterton

Written in 1904, The Napoleon of Notting Hill is set in 1984. However, this is not a brutal Orwell-like dystopian vision of the future. 1984 is exactly the same as 1904, but duller. The population has accepted the concept of evolution so completely that revolution is no longer relevant, and therefore nothing changes.
England no longer has elections for political power; instead the country is run by a monarchy where a member of the population is picked at random to succeed to the throne. It is hoped that the seriousness of the post will keep people who are picked to be King on the straight and narrow.
It is a system that works; one day is very much like the next and the country is trundling along without much colour or life, to the extent that a man dressed in a green uniform walking down a London street causes a stir. The man is the ex-president of Nicaragua, a country which attempted to hold out against this tyranny of mediocrity in the last war that the world knew. He meets three of the central characters of the book: little Auberon Quin who talks nonsense to the bemusement of his rather stupid and bluff friend Lambert, and the annoyance of his politically astute and ambitious friend Barker. It is the ex-President of Nicaragua who, as well as astonishing Lambert and Barker with his patriotism for a country that no longer exists, realises what Quin is.
'"He is a man I think," he said, "who cares for nothing but a joke. He is dangerous man."'
The new king is picked and it is Auberon Quin; King Auberon ascends to the throne, with the one aim of squeezing some amusement out of the country. He comes up with the idea of turning the boroughs of London into feudal states ruled by Provosts, picked at random like the king, who are to be constantly accompanied by trumpeting heralds and flags, and have to pay homage to their liege.
The scene is ridiculous, as Quin intends; some ten years later when they have all come together at Court, Quin is in his element. The Provosts, business men and politicians, stand before him uncomfortable with the archaic costumes and forms of speech when trying to discuss something as mundane as road development, and the heralds that accompany them slouch around the sides, smirking at the proceedings. It is all very amusing, until-

'Enter a lunatic'.
'...these Notting Hill halberdiers in their red tunics belted with gold had the air rather of an absurd gravity. They seemed, so to speak, to be taking part in the joke. They marched and wheeled into position with an almost startling dignity and discipline...the big blue eyes of Adam Wayne never changed, and he called out in an odd, boyish voice down the hall-

"I bring homage to my King. I bring him the only thing I have - my sword."

And with a great gesture he flung it down on the ground, and knelt on one knee behind it.

There was a dead silence.

"I beg your pardon," said the King, blankly.'

Adam Wayne is the new provost of Notting Hill but he does not see the joke; he believes fervently in Notting Hill, in its beauty, its feudal rights, its allegiance to the crown, and he is prepared to go to battle to defend it against the road developers. Notting Hill will fight the rest of London!
The novel builds up through Quin's ridiculous proceedings, to the monumental changes that begin to occur to the country as Notting Hill goes to war; it is a great story and very enjoyable.

The style of the prose is most definitely Edwardian - very English, very male (I don't remember a single female character appearing in it), and down to Earth. The narration takes the tone of a detached, amused observer with a wry, tongue-in-cheek manner, which the character of Quin reflects throughout the story. Quin takes nothing seriously, and is staggered by Wayne who is very serious. Even more staggering to him is how Wayne's romantic patriotism takes hold; the point of the joke was that no one should take it seriously. When everyone takes it seriously, life is irrevocably changed.
The battle scenes are both ridiculous and fantastic, set in ordinary London streets among familiar objects; despite generally not being a fan of battle scenes I was on the edge of my seat, willing the Notting Hill-ites on in their desparate fight against the other boroughs and modernity. The novel touched a part of me that yearns for the romantic and chivalrous, that part of me that loves the pre-Raphaelite painters, Scott and Tennyson's Idylls of the King.
Although the novel is not as dark or foreboding as visions of the future like 1984 or Brave New World, it has a serious message: it says that one man's seriousness and love for his land can change everything. My volume had a newspaper article from 1921 tucked into the front cover, which says that it was the Irish Republican leader Michael Collins' favourite book. I can understand why.

A first edition

As I really need to get on with the Outmoded authors challenge, I spent a chunk of yesterday reading The Napoleon of Notting Hill by G K Chesterton which I will review here and on the challenge site this week.
I realised, though, that I have had a first edition sat on my shelves! My second hand copy was published in 1904, and has no other editions listed so I assume this is a first edition Chesterton. I am looking at it with new respect now; as far as I know, it's the only first edition I have that is from an author I've heard of. I have a few obscure volumes, usually of recollections, that didn't make it to a second edition so I don't think they count. I enjoyed a few dreams of early retirement on the E-bay proceeds; however, after checking it out on the internet I think it's worth £50 or so, which is more than the £4 I paid for the book, but not enough to part with it. It feels quite special to own it.
Another thing I really like about this volume is the inscription on the fly leaf. A previous owner had written their name and the date of 1919. I love seeing that and realising that someone held and read the same book as me all those years ago. It obviously meant a lot to this person, as there was a newspaper article carefully folded and kept with the book. It is from a periodical of 1921 and talks of The Napoleon of Notting Hill, which was, it states, Michael Collins' favourite book.
Sadly, if anyone reads my books in ninety years time they will probably find little other than the occasional tea-stain. It is quite humbling to realise that my books will have a life after me and be loved by new people.

A Seafaring Challenge and Captain Johnson

I have been tempted by one more reading challenge, but this is it, now, until at least well into next year as I need time to be able to actually read the books I'm signing up for.
The siren call of the sea is too much for me though, and I am putting my name down for I Heart Paperbacks' Seafaring Challenge. I blame Ex Libris and Eva from A Striped Armchair, as the books they chose for the challenge looked so good I want to take part too! The challenge is to read books about the sea by the end of January, and the number you read will decide which naval rank you get.This is my little starter pool that I will read from, I'll see how I get on and what rank I achieve - I'm aiming for Admiral but unless I start reading more and signing up for challenges less it will be cabin boy.

Captain Blood - Rafael Sabatini
Mr Midshipman Hornblower - C S Forester
The Princess Bride - William Goldman (a re-read but this challenge is a great excuse to spend some time with the Dread Pirate Roberts)
Benito Cereno - Herman Melville

Trawler - Redmond O'Hanlon
Nelson - Terry Coleman

I love all things piratey and, if I hadn't recently read it, would include in the challenge Captain Charles Johnson's Pirates: A General History of the Robberies and Murders of the Most Notorious Pirates, republished a couple of years ago by Conway Maritime Press Ltd (ISBN: 978-0851779195). I can heartily recommend this book to anyone undertaking this challenge, or with an interest in pirates.
The mysterious Captain Johnson wrote the book in the eighteenth century, ostensibly from his own experience and conversations he had with various men who had been part of pirate crews, and it gives the true stories of the many pirates that infested the seas in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Some are famous, like Blackbeard or Captain Kidd, but others are less successful, for instance Captain Worley who started off with a little crew in an open boat and managed to take a couple of sloops; he was hanged a few weeks into his adventure. There are even a couple of famous women pirates included, such as Anne Bonny.
The book has caused a great deal of speculation over the years, as the author's identity has never been discovered; some think it may have been Daniel Defoe, although many others disagree. Research that has been done on the pirates he writes about has been unable to find foundation for some of the stories in the book and it used to be treated as partially fiction, although more recent studies have found that a great deal of the information he includes is correct; maybe, as Captain Johnson was closer to the scene, he had access to information such as eyewitness accounts that we just don't have now.
My favourite pirates in the book were the dandy Captain Roberts, who preferred a cup of tea to rum with his men, and Captain Davis whose escapades rival those of the best swashbuckling films, as he tricked and plotted his way to take over ships and armouries.
This book gives a great deal of interesting details about life as a pirate, the codes they would sign up to, how the booty would be shared, and how they lived on the ships. It should be clear, though, that this is basically a true crime book and not for the fainthearted or children; it does not spare the often nasty and sordid details of what these terrible men did.
Overall, it is not a romantic picture, and much as I like the idea of being taken captive by Errol Flynn as a chivalrous and romantic pirate, the real pirates generally don't bear thinking about. The picture of Blackbeard, a giant of a man with his shock of hair and burning matches twisted into his beard to create the image of a demon and terrify his enemies, and the dreadful things he did is one that will stay with me for ever.

The Illusionist

We watched a DVD of The Illusionist the other night. It is a beautiful film, set in Vienna at the turn of the 20th century; the scenes of the city and the surrounding countryside are breathtaking.
Edward Norton plays Eisenheim, a magician who fell in love with a girl above his social sphere many years before, who is now a duchess. They meet again at a point when she is engaged to Prince Leopold, the heir to the empire and Eisenheim is a famous magician, and the story traces how they renew their love.
All the parts are very well acted; Norton is understated and mysterious as Eisenheim, and the Police Inspector who is set the task of uncovering his fraud by Leopold, is brilliantly played by Paul Giamatti. His fascination with the magician's act, as an amateur conjuror himself, shines out of him, as does his sympathy for the man, although it conflicts with his hopes of advancement when Leopold is emperor. The film has a haunting soundtrack by Philip Glass, which suits it perfectly. I am becoming more and more fond of Philip Glass as the years pass.
My taste in films recently has seemed to have almost exclusively centred on ones starring Will Ferrell, where subtle humour is not the order of the day, so this thoughtful and gentle film made a nice change of pace. I can highly recommend it if you haven't seen it.
I was so entranced by the film that I wanted to find out more about the writer of the original story. The Illusionist was based on a short story by Steven Millhauser, an American writer I hadn't previously heard of, not that surprisingly as he is still alive and therefore outside my usual reading taste; his stories, according to Wikipedia (what would I do without it!), are very American and as such perhaps have not been particularly pushed in the UK.
The Wikipedia synopsis of Eisenheim the Illusionist suggests that perhaps the story has only been a marginal inspiration for the film, rather than being translated literally onto the screen in the manner of a film like Death in Venice where Visconti did not give the actors a script but just copies of Mann's novella. It is described as an exploration of how magic shows in Vienna developed to unsustainable heights, each attempting to outdo the last.
Much as I enjoyed the romance of the film, this sounds more interesting and the brief description of his other stories, arcades where the machines come to life for instance, sounds right up my street. So I have hunted out another American author who is difficult to find in this country, as Wendell Berry was. I didn't even bother with the local bookshops after I saw that it is only available through the Amazon market place and Blackwells say nothing by this man is available in their stores; I went to AbeBooks again, and ordered a copy of The Barnum Museum containing this story. It makes me appreciate the internet, though, to know that even when writers like this are hard to find, if there is a copy available out there I'll be able to get it. Some things have definitely changed for the better over the past couple of decades..

Russian Reading Challenge 2008

As I mentioned yesterday, Ex Libris is hosting a Russian Reading Challenge to run through 2008 and I have signed up for it. I fell in love with Russian literature when I began to read Chekhov's short stories at fifteen, and the feeling hasn't lessened over the years.
I've put a list together for the challenge which is, in the light of Ex Libris' lovely stacks of interesting volumes and Dark Orpheus' monumental list, extremely weedy. I decided it was best not to give myself too many to read, as I am also taking part in a couple of other challenges that run into 2008, and I generally read books as and when I feel like it rather than in any planned manner. I am in danger of mapping out my entire year's reading if I'm not careful; that would make me feel far too pressured and sap the enjoyment from reading, which would be a disaster.
I've picked four Russian books (in translation of course) and one about Russia that I have sitting on the shelves and that I've been thinking about getting around to. This is especially true of Tolstoy's Anna Karenina; it is one of those permanent niggles at the back of my mind that I haven't read this yet, so this challenge is the perfect push.
I wrote in my sign up comment for the challenge that I have to feel mentally strong enough for Russian literature, and I was mainly talking about Dostoevsky; The Idiot is the one I have picked for the challenge. Dostoevsky is one of my favourite authors, but his work can be an uncomfortable experience. Notes from the Underground was the first I read, more of a novella than a novel, and I still cringe slightly when I think of it. Through the experience of the protagonist I visited a side of my personality that I don't like to admit is there, which was uncomfortable; nevertheless it is a brilliant book and I loved it so much I went back for more. I'm very glad I did, Crime and Punishment is one of the greatest books I've ever read and, dark though it was as it progressed, I found the novel extremely uplifting in the end. It's one of those books that made a difference to my life and I can't now imagine not having it in my head.
A little bit of Chekhov: My Life which, when I put it down on the list, I thought I hadn't read but bits keep creeping back to me so this may be a re-read (or I may be thinking of something completely different). Not that I mind if it is, Chekhov is worthy of repeat visits and it might help it stay in my sieve-like brain a little longer.
A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Solzhenitsyn is, I think, on a number of people's challenge lists. I read Solzhenitsyn for the first time last year and was captivated, he is a brilliant writer and I'm looking forward to this.
Finally, to break up the fiction, I've got a non-fiction work about Russia, Stalin, The Court of the Red Tsar by Simon Sebag Montefiore. I bought this a while ago and have been meaning to get round to it; a friend keeps telling me it's excellent. Stalin is one of those monumental figures of history who is appalling and fascinating at the same time. I'd like to know more about him and Russia during his life.
So this will be the start and then anything I come across that fits the bill next year can be added in - I've just remembered that I bought Alexander Hertzen's memoirs recently, so that might be an early addition to the list. The only problem is as soon as a challenge is announced I want to start on it, because I start thinking about the books; I'm now desperate to read Anna Karenina!

LK's Horror Short Story Short Challenge

The Literate Kitten is hosting a Horror Short Story Short Challenge, where the challenge is to read a horror short story this month, which is of course right up my street. I was looking through the challenge list last night with interest; it includes a few that I haven't read such as The Lottery, as well as some that I love, like The Fall of the House of Usher, The Monkey's Paw, and The Horla - all are classic stories for good reason and well worth reading.

For the challenge I'm going to read We Can Remember It For You Wholesale by Philip K Dick, as it's the only one that I definitely know I have out of the stories I haven't read.

LK has also asked for participants' own Top Tens, so here are my current Top Ten ghost and horror stories, plucked from the Victorian and Edwardian era (give or take a few years for Lovecraft and Blackwood). I have only included one from each author, otherwise there'd be room for little else after I listed the M R James ones.

1 Number 13 - M R James.
My absolute, number one, favourite ghost story. A hotel guest in room number 12 finds he has a bizarre next door neighbour.
2 Carmilla - J Sheridan Le Fanu.
Seminal vampire story, quite long though for a short story.
3 The Judge's House - Bram Stoker.
A young man rents a house to get some work done but is annoyed by a rat. Scary with a shocking ending. Brilliant.
4 The Picture in the House - H P Lovecraft.
I think this scared me more than any other story has ever done. A young man shelters in a run down house where he finds a valuable book open at a certain picture.
5 The Strange Case of M Valdemar - Edgar Allen Poe.
This is a truly ghastly story, and thought-provoking, as the best Poe stories always are.
6 The Kit Bag - Algernon Blackwood.
Very very creepy. A real hairs-rising-on-the-back-of-the-neck story.
7 To be Taken with a Grain of Salt- Charles Dickens.
A classic tale of retribution from beyond the grave.
8 The Grey Woman - Elizabeth Gaskell.
This is a terrific piece of nail-biting gothic horror as a young woman makes a bad marriage.
9 The Open Door - Charlotte Riddell.
The tale of a young man who decides to solve the mystery of a house where a door just won't stay closed. I enjoyed it immensely. This is in the Oxford Book of Victorian Ghost Stories (as is the Blackwood) which is a very good collection.
10 The Canterville Ghost - Oscar Wilde.
Very funny and quite poignant, as a ghost comes face to face with the modern world.

There are many more I could include but these came to mind immediately. These should all be available in various modern collections; I do have a couple of obscure collections from 80 years ago or so, but tried to avoid those when thinking of a list.

Another great challenge, thanks Literate Kitten!

I also signed up for Ex Libris' Russian Reading Challenge last night, which I'll post about tomorrow.

Sweeney Todd, or the String of Pearls

Sweeney Todd, or the String of Pearls (ISBN: 978-1-84022-483-2) is published by Wordsworth Editions on their Mystery and Supernatural list. Although the villainous figure of the Demon Barber of Fleet Street will be well known to most people, the story that began it is not one that has been widely reprinted. I am very grateful that Wordsworth have published it; the story was written to get people quickly gripped and eager to buy the next installment and it works, I was gripped all weekend - it is, quite simply, a cracking good read!
Despite the way in which it was written as a 'Penny Dreadful' by a team of people, as discussed in an earlier post, it is quite well written. For example, here is the atmospheric description of the cellar bakehouse of Mrs Lovett's pie shop:

'There is a cellar of vast extent, and of dim and sepulchral aspect - some rough red tiles are laid upon the floor, and pieces of flint and large jagged stones have been hammered into the earthen walls to strengthen them; while here and there rough huge pillars made by beams of timber rise perpendicularly from the floor and prop large flat pieces of wood against the ceiling, to support it.

Here and there gleaming lights seem to be peeping out from furnaces, and there is a strange hissing, simmering sound going on, while the whole air is impregnated with a rich and savoury vapour.'

Sweeney Todd is set in a somewhat pantomimish version of Georgian England; indeed, the whole story has a pantomime feel, at one point there's even a glorious 'he's behind you!' moment. The subject is extremely gruesome but the way in which it is written means that it is a fun story where you wait with baited breath for Todd to get his come-uppance, rather than a voyeuristic tale of realistic murders.
The first murder we witness occurs in the first chapter, although it is clear that Todd is a villain of longstanding. Lieutenant Thornhill enters Sweeney Todd's barber shop for a shave on his way to deliver an extremely valuable string of pearls to Johanna Oakley, the beloved of his good friend Mark Ingestres who was lost at sea. Needless to say, the pearls do not make it to poor Johanna, the beautiful daughter of a spectacle maker and heroine of the piece.
Sweeney Todd is a marvellous villain, hideously ugly and revelling in his murderous actions with a disturbing laugh that tends to put people's nerves on edge. He is a self-serving psychopath, who kills because he wants something and has no conscience about how he gets it. The idea of him is, in my opinion, scarier than other Victorian bad guys like Dracula or Mr Hyde as, rather than being a monstrous and supernatural personification of evil, he is something far more terrifying - an ordinary man who could be running the barber's shop near you!
Sweeney Todd's only concern throughout the book is for himself, and his quick thinking when he finds himself in a sticky situation is very entertaining. He may lose his temper to make a point, especially with his hapless apprentice Tobias Ragg whose poor head is repeatedly bashed against the wall when he dares to contradict Todd about who has visited the shop, but he doesn't lose his cool when it may hurt him. While escaping another difficult situation, Sweeney enters a den of thieves and finds himself faced with a group of men who would cut his throat for a shilling, while he is carrying the valuable string of pearls. Cool as a cucumber, when they quiz him about his illegal profession he claims that he is a sham pearl maker and tosses the string of pearls carelessly on the table, challenging any of the thieves in the room to tell the difference between his 'creations' and the real thing.

As the story progresses the heat is turned up on Todd, as a number of events begin to come together: Lieutenant Thornhill's friends search for him, poor Tobias becomes more and more suspicious and desperate, and the nearby St Dunstan's church develops a nasty smell rising up from some unused crypts. All this is interlaced with scenes at the sinister Mrs Lovett's Pie Shop where the veal and pork pies are so delicious that she does a roaring trade.

'And well did they deserve their reputation, those delicious pies; there was about them a flavour never surpassed, and rarely equalled;the paste was of the most delicate construction, and impregnated with the aroma of a delicious gravy that defies description. Then the small portions of meat which they contained were so tender, and the fat and the lean so artistically mixed up, that to eat one of Lovett's pies was such a provocative to eat another, that many persons who came to lunch stayed to dine.'

What is the secret of her success and what is her connection with Sweeney Todd, who seems to derive some ominous pleasure from sending people to eat in her pie shop?

This is a fun read and, for what was basically trash writing, it is well put together with literary allusions and quotations littered throughout the text; I wonder if today's trash writing would bear comparison? It is also fun to spot the literary plagiarisms in the story; some points bear a close resemblance to other more literary works. The most striking was Mr Oakley's trouble with his wife. She has become close to a local preacher who enjoys insinuating himself into a home and liberally helping himself to the comforts contained there. There is a comic scene as Johanna's father sorts him out, and the whole bears more than a passing resemblance to the part of The Pickwick Papers where Sam Weller's father has similar trouble with his wife. The revenge of Mrs Oakley on her husband in Sweeney Todd is hilarious, though, and, I think, original.

There are also some loose ends in the tale, perhaps a result of the team approach to writing and the speed with which the parts will have been produced. For instance, there is no resolution to the declaration of love and threats against Mark Ingestres that Mr Oakley's apprentice makes to Johanna, and there are a couple of other characters' stories told, especially in the madhouse of Mr Fogg, which are left unresolved as we concentrate on the main characters. However, these faults are not serious enough to particularly detract from the story; the ending, as all is revealed, is exciting and satisfying.