Holiday reading

We're going away soon, to Boston (USA, not Lincolnshire) and J has been going through the guidebooks and showing me the pictures of some really very beautiful bookshops there. I am quite excited and thinking of how to cut down the luggage to allow room in the suitcases to bring back books.
It will be wonderful to be in a country where I can read the language. It was quite frustrating the last time we were in Paris; our hotel was near a street with several beautiful antiquarian bookshops that I was longing to go into but my French can only just about cope with a menu and would have no hope with a novel or history. This holiday, though, the language will be the same, give or take a 'u' or two.
I've developed a habit of buying books intimately associated with the country while there, probably because these are the books available in English translation. I bought the Icelandic Sagas in a really good Penguin edition from the Culture House in Reykjavik where I had just seen the medieval manuscripts of them, and A Winter in Majorca by George Sand from Palma cathedral.
I suppose when one thinks of Boston, it is Henry James that springs to mind but there are also the transcendentalists not so far away, and Melville. Or am I hopelessly wrong on the geography? It never was my strong point.
I'm also a big fan of second hand American baking recipe books which have no truck with any healthiness, lots of butter and sugar, so I'll be looking out for these too.
Currently, however, I am making the always vital decision about what books to take with me, especially with the prospect of a six hour flight. They have to be absorbing but not too light. I'm not someone who wants to switch their brain off on holiday (I do enough of that at work), so I'm not an airport blockbuster reader - Proust came to Iceland with me in January, which was perfect. Other previous holiday reads have included Boswell's London Journal, Alan Clark's diaries, Walter Scott's Old Mortality and Henry Fielding's Joseph Andrews.
This year I'm thinking of maybe taking a Sheridan Le Fanu novel, and perhaps a biography (we're only going for a few days) like Claire Tomalin's Pepys. Maybe I should take Emerson's Essays too.
I'm starting to get really excited about it now.

Augustus Carp Esq. by Himself, by Sir Henry Howarth Bashforth

This edition contains an afterword by Anthony Burgess who was a big fan of the book; he says that the book has never received the recognition as a comic great that it deserves. Part of the reason for a lack of recognition when it was first published in 1924, he believes, is because it was published anonymously and there was hesitation about whether it was a satire as it appeared, or whether it was indeed a genuine autobiography of a 'really good man'.
The fact that it is possible to doubt this is a testament to the consistency with which it is written. The narrator's voice never slips, the real author never intrudes to mock Augustus. The entire story is told in his pompous, confident, and exceedingly pleased with himself voice. It is a very enjoyable and funny book.
It begins with details of Augustus' birth and is written in the certain knowledge that the details of his life and the trials which he heroically withstands, will be of interest and an inspiration to us all. Augustus Carp is a really good man, as the subtitle to the book tells us, a Xtian gentleman (this is how Christian is written by Augustus and friends), concerned with tackling sin wherever he sees it in the world; whether it be the sin of cheating, smoking, drinking, adultery or acting he will fight it and the pernicious effects it has on the population.

'"I am the Vice President," I said, "of the Anti-Dramatic Union."
"And Saltatory," she said, "don't forget the Saltatory part.'"
"Would that it were possible," I replied, "but it isn't."
She gave a little sigh.
"No, I suppose not," she said, "not with all us girls earning our living by it."
"And hurling others," I said, "to their deaths."
"Oh no," she said, "not really?"
"Every night," I replied, "in thousands and thousands."
"Oh good gracious," she said, "not every night?"
I nodded gravely.
"Every night," I said, "in thousands and thousands and thousands and thousands."
"But goodness me," she cried, "that's more than ever."
"It's more and more," I said, "every night."
"Well, I never," she said, "what a fearful mortality."'

Viewed from the reader's perspective, Augustus is a prig, unjustifiably vain of both his accomplishments and his personal appearance, a sneak and even a blackmailer.
It is a very funny book and, despite myself, I found myself becoming slightly fond of the pompous Augustus, although I feel he often got everything he deserved. It is his complete confidence in himself that is actually quite endearing. He never suffers from self-doubt even when undergoing the greatest humiliation; it is all due to the evil of others and nothing to do with his own failings, and in this he is backed up by his good friend the Reverend Simeon Whey, who often shares passages from his own diary that he wrote about his friend.

'I increased in weight, and in which, as I am glad to believe, my moral stature also expanded and became consolidated. This was, at any rate, the conviction of my friend Simeon Whey, who took the opportunity of my twenty-sixth birthday to describe me in his diary as "now in the full flower of his southern Metropolitan Xtian manhood."'

The trials that he has to endure range from gastric complaints, to teachers and fellow students who do not live up to the Xtian ideal, to facing penury (as a result of his father's attempts to take people to court to claim damages after he is dropped three times when being removed prostrate from church after a dreadful incident caused by the introduction of an abhorrent lectern), to utter humiliation in front of his peers.
We have all met people like the Carps, people that are completely self-assured in the right of their convictions and their impossible-to-live-up-to ideals, whether it be in the name of religion, or some other cause (in my case over-the-top environmentalism).
It is for this reason that this book still rings true eighty years later and it is a shame that it is not better known.

I did it!

I can't believe I managed it, but I have written over 50,000 words of a novel this month, making me a Nanowrimo winner!
I feel very pleased with myself, and would never have believed it was possible. Writing has always dripped out of me at an extraordinarily slow rate in the past, a few pages every couple of weeks if I'm on a roll, but over the past 28 days I have written about a hundred pages.
I can't say that I really took advantage of the Nanowrimo community, I didn't post on any forums although I read a few posts. I had to make a choice, I either wrote or joined the community. So I wrote. However, a big thank you to the people who posted good wishes and encouragement here, it was very much appreciated.
My blog posting has been unusually erratic recently which has disturbed me, I usually enjoy posting every day; the novel is to blame. I have only really had time to concentrate on the one thing and I was determined to make that 50k mark. Things should settle down now, although I may settle into a posting every other day pattern from now on. It will give me more reading time if nothing else.
I haven't quite finished The Key to the Abyss yet, I'm at the big battle scene at the end, good versus evil and the fight to protect the world from being destroyed by the forces of Hell, you know, the usual stuff. A few more pages and then it will be finished.
Then the editing begins, and oh boy, will it need editing. However, at the moment I feel, as my brother said to me what seems like a year ago now, as though I have run a marathon. But this is much more rewarding. A marathon would only give me aching muscles, I've written a novel!
Now it's time to think about how to publish it...

William Blake's popularity

Following on from the poem of his I posted on Saturday, there was quite an interesting piece on William Blake on the BBC website asking why Blake is so popular in Britain even with people who have never seen his artwork or read his poems. It says that Blake made it into a list of 100 Greatest Britons, voted for by the public, while Wordsworth and Constable were nowhere to be seen, which does seem quite incredible. Is it just the power of the hymn, Jerusalem? Do most people even know that the words were written by William Blake? I didn't until a few years ago, despite singing it for years at school.
We saw an exhibition of Blake's paintings at the Graves Gallery in Sheffield some time ago and I think they are wonderful (even if the art critic quoted in the BBC piece disagrees) - I even have a Blake print on my bedroom wall - but I'm not sure how famous the images are. Apart from the occasional book cover, I haven't noticed that they tend to be reproduced, for instance they are never the paintings made into posters in the gift shops of any art gallery I have visited. And Blake was not among the poets that were on the syllabus for all the classes at my school. This was quite a while ago, admittedly; have things changed now? Is Blake a GCSE or A level set text?
I'm not complaining, I think it's great if William Blake really is such a large and important component of our popular culture. I just don't see much evidence of it, apart from that hymn of course. It really is quite fascinating, how has he got into the British people's psyche so firmly?

Busy busy busy

I seem to be very busy at the moment, which is quite difficult for a really very lazy person. Busy at work, busy at home and trying to write a novel before the end of the month (on the homeward run now - I hit 40,000 words yesterday and know roughly how it's going to end).
Last night we went to my brother-in-law's 4oth birthday party, for which I was so disorganised we had to wrap his present in last year's Christmas paper, and today, with rather tender heads, we are going to my parents for lunch and I have to write 2,000 words of the novel at some point, so there seems to be little time for reading.
Which is why the book that I intended to read very quickly this weekend, the one that has been calling to me since I came across it the other week, is only at chapter four.
However, it may be a good thing to linger over Augustus Carp Esq. by Himself: being the autobiography of a really good man, as it is very funny. This blog post is what most bloggers term a 'Pooterish' post, which I have no problem with as I have great affection for the Pooters. I would not want this to be called a 'Carpish' post though, the Carps are most definitely the Anti-Pooters.
Living next door to the Pooters would be fine, they would be quiet, pleasant, occasionally amusing (even if unintentionally) neighbours. After four chapters I can promise you that, even from my brief acquaintance with them, if the sanctimonious Mr Augustus Carp Snr and family moved in next door you would have to move - or be prepared for a life of argument and court cases! This was the first line, in Augustus' junior's preamble to beginning the story of his life that made me laugh out loud and it gives the tone of the book very well.
'I cannot pretend, of course, to attach much importance to merely paternal influence. Nevertheless in the lives of each one of us it undoubtedly plays a certain part. And although my father had numerous faults, as I afterwards discovered and was able to point out to him, he yet brought to bear on me the full force of a frequently noble character.'

I don't seem to have bought any books for ages but the list of 'The Best thing we've read all year' in the Observer has some interesting titles (and a great number that really don't appeal to me, it has to be said).
I'm particularly interested in Ian Hislop's pick, Stanley: The Impossible Life of Africa's Greatest Explorer by Tim Jeal and was impressed that Shere Hite picked Alice in Wonderland while everyone else just listed new books. If I had to pick the best thing I've read this year it is almost certain not to be something that was written this year. That's got me thinking now, what would I pick?
I enjoyed Caesar's Conquest of Gaul very much. Extremely lucid and compelling, a brilliant piece of history/propaganda.
Mrs Dalloway by Virginia Woolf was beautiful and intense, an absolute joy to read.
But for sheer unputdownable enjoyment, the book I raced to finish but then wished there was more, I'm afraid it would have to be Sweeney Todd. Yes, I think that Penny Dreadful would be my number one book so far this year, there's really no hope for me is there?

Poetry by Heart

I am in awe of people who can remember quotations or can recite poetry by heart. I have terrible trouble remembering even the most famous of lines, it's all I can do to keep the plot of a book or a play in my head, let alone the words. Even plays I was in in my drama days aren't still in there. To be honest, I never was very good at learning lines. When I think back to all the cues I fluffed I feel very sorry for the others in my am. dram. productions.
In the past, I have made a real effort to learn a few poems by heart though. Mostly these are from Edith Sitwell's Facade, or at least the portion that William Walton set to music, which I decided at sixteen I would learn. I managed to learn roughly half of them and now, about twenty years on, I think I can still recite two in their entirety and bits of most of the others.
I decided to do this because of Pamela Hunter's brilliant performance of them for a television programme, I think it was called something like Music in Camera, which won an award at the time. I have her reading of it on CD and it is very good, clear, simple and sharp, which suits the poems perfectly. I much prefer it, though it may be sacrilegious to say this, to the performance by Edith Sitwell herself and Peter Pears, but she was quite old when that was recorded.
Then there's a couple of Lewis Carroll poems from Alice in Wonderland in my head and apart from these I think the only poem I can recite is this tiny one by William Blake. I adore Blake, both his poetry and his paintings. This is from Songs of Experience - and I will check it after I've typed it out in case my memory is a bit shaky.

The Sick Rose

O Rose, thou art sick.
The invisible worm
That flies through the night
In the howling storm:

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

Trawler by Redmond O'Hanlon

In this book O'Hanlon is exploring another uncharted area, as he did in his books describing his journeys through Borneo and the Congo; this time it is the ocean he is journeying across, as he joins a fishing trawler crew. However, the book is less about the strange and unexplored reaches of the ocean and the strange creatures which inhabit it, although there is a lot of discussion about them, and much more about how a group of men stuck together on a trawler for weeks at a time and suffering from sleep deprivation get on together, and how they take the presence of an interloper.
I've previously read O'Hanlon's Into the Heart of Borneo which is a wonderful book, but I remember as I read that the thought kept crossing my mind, 'why is he doing this?'; the same thought kept coming up through this book too.
It was a fast paced read, as it mainly records the conversations that O'Hanlon had with the crew members. Sleep is in short supply because they have to be awake for the catch to immediately gut it and pack it on ice, by which time they are almost at the next catch. With Force 12 gales and enormous waves (or 'lumps' as the crew call them) it is incredibly dangerous, and there is a high mortality rate for trawler crews. The captain, Jason, is two million pounds (yes, that is million) in debt; he needs to be the best fisherman there is and the crew have to work at top speed with everyone pulling their weight. Except on this trip they have Redmond O'Hanlon on board.
'Jason shut down the engines, or thrusters, or whatever it is you shut down at that moment; he turned to me with a sudden super-signal grin, with a spotlight-dazzle of young teeth white in his dark face. "And now I also have a problem. I have a dangerous liability. I have one mad, seasick writer, who's no use to anyone!"'
At times the tale of his voyage is quite painful to read. Redmond O'Hanlon is someone I have grown to like an enormous lot through his writing, and it felt almost personal as the crew made fun of him or became plainly exasperated with him. At over fifty he was the oldest man on the ship, old enough to be the father of most of the crew.
He begins by being incredibly seasick, and although he tries to join in and lend a hand he does not have the speed or dexterity of the others when it comes to gutting fish. He does not know the ways of the trawlers and makes mistakes and, on top of it all, he is having to deal with chronic sleep deprivation, and the stages that people go through when they suffer this - manically talking non-stop about rubbish, falling asleep suddenly in odd places and being unable to separate dream and reality, and finally the point where talking stops and they become automatons unable to string a sentence together.
O'Hanlon thinks he is losing his mind at points when he is sure he has had conversations that haven't happened or when he says things and joins in conversations that he shouldn't, but he is unable to control himself - all because of the lack of sleep. The others suffer it too but because they are used to it, it does not trouble them in the same way.
O'Hanlon has to deal with the fact that he is seen at times as an encumbrance, and he is made fun of, sometimes gently, sometimes less so; he gained the nickname 'Worzel' as one of the crew members, one who is unhappy that he is on board, decides he looks like Worzel Gummidge. It is a sign of the different world that O'Hanlon comes from that he does not realise that it is a television programme of Worzel Gummidge that the crew are referring to, not the books that he had read to him when he was young, as he assumes they mean as he attempts to puzzle out why they are calling him that.
It does not help his cause that he is there officially to assist Luke, a marine biologist who will examine the catches and is also researching his PhD. Luke is a life boatman, which is something that gains immense respect from the trawler crew, and also an incredibly hard working and good fish gutter, as good as the best of the crew.
There are moments of camaraderie though, and the fact that O'Hanlon does pitch in and try to help, when the crew all expected him to take to his bunk after the first day and just swan about with a notebook, gains respect from them. One in particular called Robbie, who was given the task of looking after Redmond by the captain, really does look after him and enjoys talking to him and, in the most painful scene in the book, when the lack of sleep has everyone wrought to such a pitch that verbal attacks are frequent and the one crew member who seems to resent O'Hanlon's presence really pitches into him, he steps forward and puts the young man straight in defence of O'Hanlon.
The crew seemed to doubt whether O'Hanlon was really a writer and if the book would ever be written; I wonder what they thought of it. It is an intensely personal and frank account but it really does create a clear picture of the stresses that these crews face. One crew member said that they want to be able to let the people they care about read it, so that they can understand what they go through when they go out to sea.
The book was compelling and, although quite intense, as a clear description of a way of life that I am never likely to experience I am glad I have read it.

The beginning of an obsession

I received a copy of Abebooks' Avid Collector email newsletter today, and in it there is a bit about collecting children's books, and it talks of the fond memories we all have of the books that introduced us to literature.
It started me thinking about the books that, as a child, turned me from a normal reader into a true bookaholic and I think that maybe I can trace it to one in particular. I can't remember exactly when it was, but for a birthday or Christmas some time before my ninth birthday my parents bought me a copy of The Hobbit by J R R Tolkein.
This was not just any old edition though; I was already an avid reader and had lots of ordinary books. No, this one was bound in deep red leather, with a pattern on the front and the title and author on the spine etched out in gold leaf. It was, and still is, beautiful and, to this day, this is what I think proper books should look like. It started a love of owning beautiful books in me that I have never got over.
I read the story too, and enjoyed it a great deal; it was not all about the look of the book. However, the one thing that really sticks in my mind from reading it at that age was the smell of the book. It's a smell that you don't get from ordinary hardbacks, a peculiar sharp smell of ink and thick paper. In fact I don't think I came across this smell again until I joined the Folio Society a few years ago and started buying their beautifully bound volumes, mainly on the quest to own more proper books like my Hobbit.
I have to admit that I love to open my Folio volumes and inhale that new book smell (I don't think I could say that anywhere else but on this blog). I love the smell of old second hand volumes too, but it's very different - an adult smell for me, whereas this one takes me right back to my childhood, to the day when I got this wonderful present.
I still have it, and it has pride of place on the shelves in the living room where only the prettiest books are allowed.

Fishing in Iceland

There was a story on the news this morning that trawler men are having to throw dead cod and other fish back into the sea because they do not have the fishing quota for them and are not allowed to land them.
This was not news to me; I discovered this really quite horrifying fact at the weekend, as I am currently reading Trawler by Redmond O'Hanlon (which I will review for the Seafaring Challenge later this week). In this book published in 2003 O'Hanlon wrote about this practice that he witnessed while he travelled on a deep sea fishing trawler to research the book; which does beg the question why is this now being treated as news?
In Trawler, Redmond O'Hanlon writes about how he noticed that a deep sea catch included mackerel, which he did not expect to see that far out to sea, and after a discussion about why mackerel would be there, the dead fish are picked up and thrown down the chute where they throw the guts of the other fish that will be sold, out into the water for the waiting gulls to grab, because the captain of the trawler does not have a quota to land these particular fish.
The trawler men and Luke, a marine biologist whom O'Hanlon is officially assisting while he researches the book, discuss how this situation is dealt with in Iceland. There, when trawlers catch fish that they do not have the quota for, they land them and purchase unused quota from a captain who does have it. That way, they are not exceeding the fishing quota for the country and they do not needlessly destroy fish, and the fishing industry is able to make the most of its resources either by selling what it catches or at least not having a fishing quota which they have not filled.
J and I stayed in Reykjavik in January and after our experience there I am not surprised that such a sensible solution should come from this civilised, intelligent country. If I could, I would move there tomorrow; are you allowed to feel homesick for a country you've only spent a week in?
Here is a picture J took of the Hallgrimskirkja in Reykjavik to make me feel better.

Plutarch's Theseus

This is the first of Plutarch's Lives, which he picked to contrast with the life of Romulus: Theseus was the founder of Athens, and Romulus founded Rome.
Theseus brought together various areas to form Athens and instituted it as a republic, and he was a hero famed for his exploits; he is a mythical figure almost as much for Plutarch as he is for us, some two thousand years later, but in this Life Plutarch attempts to pull out what was most likely to be fact from the legends that had developed around the figure of Theseus. He compares the differing accounts of his life and picks out the areas where the authoritative accounts agree.
Probably the most famous of the stories about Theseus, his defeat of the Minotaur and escape from the labyrinth on Crete, is a good example of this process. The myth, which Plutarch includes for consideration, is that Theseus travels with the young men and women that are given to King Minos as tribute to be put into the labyrinth where they will face the Minotaur, a creature that is part human, part bull. Theseus defeats this creature, thereby ending the tribute. As Ariadne, Minos' daughter, has fallen in love with him she tells him how to find his way from the labyrinth by winding out a piece of cotton as he goes, and then following it back.
The alternative versions are slightly more prosaic, but certainly more credible. They include the idea that the young people were never intended for sacrifice, but rather to go into slavery; that Theseus took part in a championship and, as the victor, was able to end the tribute; or that Theseus battled a member of King Minos' army named Taurus and in this way ended the tribute. I like the last story particularly, with its neat explanation of the basis for the myth.
Plutarch makes a good point: if you are going to fight a battle it is best not to lose to a country where they are artistic and poetic, as it will result in you being demonised in art and literature for ever more, as Minos and his half-man, half bull creature have been by the Ancient Greeks.
There is something that struck me in this account of Theseus' Life, that has struck me in pretty much every account of a great person throughout history, there is always someone that the person in question looks up to and wants to emulate. Every hero has their own hero. For instance, there is the famous story of Caesar comparing himself and his achievements to Alexander at the same age, and feeling that he came up very short. For Theseus, it was Hercules that he compared himself to. When travelling to the land that became Athens, he had a choice of travelling by sea, the safe route, or by land where he was likely to be set upon by all sorts of bandits. He decided to travel by land and along the way to clear out any bandits that used violence against him in emulation of his hero, Hercules.
So he sorted out various bandits and arrived at his father Aegeus' court. His father, on the advice of Medea who makes a fleeting visit into this Life, was about to poison the young man but luckily realises that it is his son (whom he has never before met) before he does so. It is this father who later kills himself when Theseus returns from Crete but neglects to change the black sails that signify the Minotaur (or otherwise) has taken its tribute, for the white sails that would have meant that Theseus had prevailed.
Plutarch also notes that Theseus is possibly partially responsible for the Trojan War, as one of those who abducted Helen who was probably only a child at the time. This part of his life is unclear and shows a less heroic side of Theseus, as he was reputedly responsible for attacks on women on more than one occasion.
This life was interesting and made me realise that all I know of this era is the myth, and the thought that there might be a factual basis to it that historians much closer in time than us had tried to uncover, had never occurred to me. I hope to learn more of similar figures through Plutarch's other Greek lives.

Taste the Blood of Dracula

Friday afternoon's DVD time that I'd promised myself was not quite the cultural experience I'd planned: instead of an opera, I felt more in the mood for some classic horror of the Hammer variety.
Despite my love of Hammer films and vampire films generally, I've somehow managed to never actually see Christopher Lee in action as Dracula. I've started watching the films many times but either fallen asleep before Dracula comes into it (as they are generally shown in the small hours of the morning) or if I was watching it when J was out, he would always return home just as the film got going. I recently bought the DVD of Taste the Blood of Dracula though, and on Friday afternoon there were no interruptions.
I love Hammer horrors and am glad they are available on DVD now, a few years ago I couldn't find any of them. The sets were wonderful, as ever. The cluttered sitting room of one of the characters was perfect Victoriana, and the library of another made my mouth water. So many beautiful leather-bound books including, luckily for the hero, a book on vampires and how to battle them. I could have watched the film just for that.
The story itself was excellent. Not much to do with Bram Stoker, of course, but nevertheless very entertaining. It concerns three middle aged Victorian gentlemen who are outwardly respectable but one Sunday every month get together to perform some 'charity work' in the East End; this charitable activity consists of keeping a brothel keeper and his girls in business. But they are bored and want some new thrills, so when a dissolute young nobleman bursts into their room at the brothel and they learn that he is famous for having been involved in a Black Mass they eagerly pursue him, agreeing to be involved in whatever he suggests.
His suggestion is a Black Mass where they will drink the powdered blood of Dracula - there is a horrific murder committed by the three and Dracula is of course resurrected and pursues them to avenge his vessel. Add a couple of buxom daughters and boyfriends into the mix, and it becomes a 1960s version of a teenage slasher film. Some of the special effects were quite gruesome, and I did find it a bit disturbing that one of the middle aged rakes was Peter Sallis of Wallace and Gromit and Last of the Summer Wine fame.
Christopher Lee was marvellous. I have to say he did not have many lines to learn, most of the time he just had to look menacing, but he is still a wonderful Dracula. It brought back those memories of how much he used to scare me when I was a little child. He looked quite sad and sympathetic in part of the film, when he was calling over one of the daughters to turn her to the dark side, although whether that was intentional characterisation or just because he was tired on the day, I'm not sure.
The film's ending had a touch of the Dennis Wheatley's about it, more to do with mystical forces coming together than any Buffy the Vampire Slayer-style action, but all in all it was a very enjoyable way to spend an afternoon off.

Dracula's Guest and Other Stories by Bram Stoker

This collection of Bram Stoker short stories is published by Wordsworth Editions (ISBN: 1840225289), another of their Mystery and Supernatural series. Bram Stoker is possibly the most famous of Gothic novelists and yet, other than Dracula in a million and one editions, so little of his work is easily available; happily Wordsworth are helping to right this with this edition, which shows that Stoker is a writer of some very entertaining and, at times, powerful short stories. The collection shows how varied and talented a writer Stoker was, and how there is so much more to him than Dracula. It is well worth getting hold of.

The collection begins with a curiosity that fans of Dracula may have come across before, Dracula's Guest. This was a section of Dracula that was not included in the novel and has Jonathan Harker before he has met the Count travelling through countryside out of Munich on Walpurgis-Nacht, the night when all the evil spirits come out to play. It is very good, and I have always thought it would be a really good way to begin a film of Dracula, as an atmospheric and scary way to lead into the main story. However, that would involve someone writing a screenplay of Dracula who had actually read Bram Stoker and after seeing the BBC travesty last Christmas, this does not seem to be a prerequisite for the job.

The Judge's House is a ghost story in the tradition of Le Fanu, where the atmosphere is created slowly leading up to a shocking ending. The tension slowly builds as a young man rents an old house that for some reason is unpopular in the neighbourhood, and therefore cheap to rent, to undertake some quiet study. Well, that never works out in stories like this, does it?

This collection, as any, has a couple of uneven spots, such as The Crystal Cup written in a dream-like style which I found a little too self-conscious and predictable. But this was certainly an exception and its gentle style may appeal to others more than some of the other, more brutal, stories.

Other stories of note are the gruesome The Squaw, which I wrote about earlier in the month, a very exciting story about a Royal Navy frigate chasing Malaysian pirates called The Red Stockade, and The Gypsy Prophecy, a story where Stoker enjoys playing with the reader's expectations as there is a completely unexpected twist at the end.

The Burial of the Rats is a brilliantly executed thriller, which had my heart in my mouth as the young hero exploring the dust heaps of Paris realises that the inhabitants intend to murder him for his money. He has a desperate flight through this dark and treacherous area just outside Paris with his silent assailants following close behind him.

'I had no time for more than a passing glance, for as I cast an eye round the mound preparatory to making my descent I saw several dark forms rushing round on either side to cut me off on my way. It was now a race for life. They were tying to head me on my way to Paris, and with the instinct of the moment I dashed down to the right-hand side. I was just in time, for, though I came as it seemed to me down the steep in a few steps, the wary old men who were watching me turned back, and one, as I rushed by into the opening between the two mounds in front, almost struck me a blow with that terrible butcher's axe.'

There is even a story, Crooken Sands, which includes something I had never particularly before noticed in Stoker's writing to a large extent - humour. The description of the main character's children's reaction to his decision to wear full highland dress on a holiday in Scotland is wonderful.

The collection is often more about the horror of man's inhumanity to man rather than any supernatural agent of evil, and this includes the story which was perhaps the most horrifying one I have ever read, The Dualitists.

This story is written in a light-hearted, mock-heroic style which makes the culmination of events seem even more horrific. I sat reading it with my hand over my mouth, thinking 'I know where this is heading but surely he won't go that far.' He did.

Admittedly, I stick to classic horror stories and don't really know the lengths that more modern writers may go to but I do watch a lot of modern horror films, such as The Ring or the Saw films, or the classic Hellraisers with their skinned figures and hooked chains ripping people apart. None of them have ever shocked me as much as this story. And the fact that some years ago there was an infamous murder case along similar lines (if you are in the UK and read this story you will instantly know which I mean) made it worse, as I was not even able to take comfort in the fact that it could never happen. My apologies to Clive Barker, et al, but Bram Stoker is still the king of horror.

Flea market finds

From a bright and beautiful wintry morning yesterday, today is grey and dull so no poetic thoughts but at least my breakfast should be safe.

Instead, to cheer myself, I've been looking at the books that I found on the flea market yesterday. The woman who ran the stall told me that she's getting a lot of old books for the stall in the next couple of weeks (she seemed to be very glad that someone was buying the few she had) but unfortunately I'll be at work then and unable to visit the market. I'm curious now, what books is she going to get? What am I going to miss out on?

I picked up four books yesterday, three of them with the same name written on the flyleaf which made me feel a bit sad, as it is probably from a house clearance after a death. Two of the dates with the names are from the 1920s, however, so it's not so tragic.

First I have The Path to Rome by Hilaire Belloc and The Everlasting Man by G K Chesterton. I mistakenly assumed that these were two novels, but on closer examination both books seem to be the authors discussing their Catholicism. Which I don't mind at all, I enjoy reading books on religious subjects, especially when they are by writers as good as these two.

The other book from Mr Smith's library was a book of travel writing, The Traveller's Eye by Dorothy Carrington. This book looks at how English writers have written about their travel through the centuries, and how it has developed, as the author says: 'The story of how the English have looked on the world, and how they have acted in it.' I enjoyed Alan Sillitoe's book on a similar theme, Leading the Blind, and am looking forward to this.

Finally, the book I am most excited about: Private Letters of Princess Lieven. Who was Princess Lieven? I have no idea, but she wrote the letters in the 1820s and was mixing in some important circles. I have just opened the book at random and read this line for Friday 22nd February 1822:

'I was dining yesterday with the Duke of Wellington.'

This is going to be a very interesting book.

Frost at Midnight

It is a cold morning; I have been pottering about the house and trying to persuade the boiler to work. I was a bit sharp with it and it sulked but as soon as I said sorry, it lit; I know you shouldn't ascribe emotions to household appliances, but when they seem to react to you in this way it's hard not to.
Looking out at the back garden, there was a light touch of frost still visible, as the sun hadn't quite got to it yet, and I was reminded of a poem by Coleridge. I immediately ran upstairs to hunt it out, completely forgetting about my breakfast which was cooking and of course burned. It was worth it though, to reread Frost at Midnight, one of my favourite of Coleridge's poems.
I love this point of the year as autumn gradually becomes winter, the air is getting sharp and the frost appears in the morning to give everything a delicate white cover. Everything seems clearer and more pronounced on mornings like this and at night, in the still cold, it is easy to fall into deep and philosophical thoughts - as Coleridge describes perfectly in this beautiful poem.
Although a relatively short poem, it is quite long for a blog post, so I won't reproduce it all but you can read an online version of the whole poem here.
Here are the first few lines that came back to me this morning:

The Frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry
Came loud - and hark, again! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser musings: save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
'Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,
This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood,
With all the numberless goings-on of life,
Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not;
Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.

And the last three lines, with this beautiful image:

Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.

Early Friday

Sorry to gloat but I have two days off work now, so a double weekend has begun.
It's been quite a while since I've had any time off. This is not for anything special, I just have leave to take and thought the mid-point of Nanowrimo would be a good point to take it, so I'll spend some time writing.
I want to get some more Plutarch under my belt too, as my project to read it has stalled lately without any days off; another life will be read at some point over the next four days. I'm not sure which though, maybe a Greek one.
I also want to spend an afternoon watching an opera DVD, something I love to do but don't seem to have had time for recently. I think I might lose myself in Verdi's Macbeth on Friday afternoon. Although I also have a new DVD of House of Wax (starring Vincent Price, not Paris Hilton) and may watch that instead. Both are classics in their different ways - I'll have to see what I'm in the mood for.
And most importantly, some asparagus crowns arrived the other day that need to be planted urgently. It's been hard getting up the energy for the garden recently - this year was such a wet, snail-eaten disaster - but the little bit we did manage to grow was very good and much tastier than supermarket vegetables. Hopefully next year will be better.
It felt good to get my first Seafaring Challenge book under my belt with Mr Midshipman Hornblower, you may now address me as Lieutenant! I think I might read Trawler by Redmond O'Hanlon over the weekend and get another promotion.
This is a well travelled-travel book. I don't know if anyone else does this but there are couple of books that I always seem to pack for holidays as a standby in case I finish the other books I take, but never get round to them - light paperbacks that look interesting, and that I know will be good reads. Trawler is one, and The Old Curiosity Shop is another I always throw in the suitcase. I think that book must have been on six holidays with me now and I've still not read it. I do like to read Dickens over Christmas though, so perhaps I'll break the pattern this year and read it at home instead.

Mr Midshipman Hornblower by C S Forester

This is a real 'boys own' adventure. It is very exciting, as Midshipman Horatio Hornblower is involved in battles and many difficult situations where he has to prove himself to his superiors, the crew and, most of all, to himself.
'There was the crash of collision, both boats heeling wildly as the bow of the Spanish boat rode up over the British boat but failed to overturn it. Someone fired a pistol, and the next moment the pursuing guard boat came dashing alongside, its crew leaping madly aboard them. Somebody flung himself on top of Hornblower, crushing the breath out of him and threatening to keep it out permanently with a hand on his throat.'
The story begins with a seasick seventeen year old Hornblower arriving at his first ship, a run down old thing with a disillusioned crew past their prime and a dying captain. His first few months in the Navy are extremely unhappy. As a Midshipman he is on the lowest rung of the officers' ladder and is faced with the dual misery of being bullied by the other midshipmen, much older and more experienced than him but embittered by no hope of promotion, and of having to exert his authority as an officer over the sailors - no mean feat for a shy awkward young man. Forester captures very well the pain of being a bullied teenager despite the unfamiliar setting of the Royal Navy at the end of the eighteenth century.
The book is structured into a series of short stories; each chapter covers an episode in Hornblower's career as a midshipman. Happily, by the second chapter he has been moved to another ship, the HMS Indefatigable, where the other midshipmen are younger and more energetic, the Captain is a good and courageous man and they are in the thick of the war with France. Hornblower's character develops as he faces situations that test his intellect and authority, including land battles with French revolutionaries, fire ships, the plague, and occasional capture by the enemy.
The stories include a lot of naval detail, which was very interesting, and clearly describe how important discipline was to the Navy at the time; Hornblower has to harden himself and become an authority figure. It is of the utmost importance that his orders are obeyed, as all their lives may depend on it and he has to be harsh at times. I doubt the book comes close to how hard the Navy really was but it does give you the idea: the rations are monotonous, quarters are cramped, the work is very hard and insubordination is not tolerated.
'After divisions he tackled Mr Low the surgeon, in the gunroom.
"Boils?" said Low. "Of course the men have boils. Salt pork and split peas for nine weeks on end - what d'you expect but boils? Boils - gurry sores - blains - all the plagues of Egypt."
"On their faces?"
"That's one locality for boils. You'll find out others from your own personal experience."'
Hornblower is a sympathetic hero. He is not perfect; he struggles with decisions and frequently makes mistakes that he punishes himself for heartily. As a result, he is a character you can empathise with and root for.
This book is a relatively light read, but it is a lot of fun and I really enjoyed it. Although one of the later books Forester wrote, I'm glad that I managed to accidentally buy the book describing the start of Hornblower's career and look forward to discovering what becomes of him afterwards.

Quick Nano Update

Just quick, as it's late and I've been out celebrating a colleague's graduation. Apologies for going on about Nanowrimo but I'm finding it incredible that I'm writing so much in such a concentrated burst. It really does show the power of a deadline. I am currently at about 20, 500 words, which is just ahead of target.
I hit a bit of a block today as I realised that I've come up to what was going to be my ending with still thirty thousand words to write but luckily I've thought up a new plot twist, so what was my end will now be my middle and I don't have to write 'screw Flanders' fifteen thousand times (Simpsons joke, sorry. There's a Homer Simpson quotation for every situation).
I've also now got a title. I am calling it The Key to the Abyss, which is sort of pinched from Revelations. My King James Bible refers to the key to the bottomless pit, but I thought abyss was a bit catchier. I'm quite pleased with it.

M R James' thoughts on other writers

I have begun my quest to discover if I am right about the inspiration for the character of Karswell in M R James' Casting the Runes, and thought that James' letters would be a good place to start. It will be interesting to find out how far I can get using the Internet, or whether I will have to invest in some biographies and letter collections.
I think the first step is to see if James did know of Montague Summers, and whether he read his books (or at least reviews of his books). So I began by looking at what letters of James are available online and, of course, have become immediately distracted by one that has nothing to do with the subject. It is a letter published in an edition of Ghosts and Scholars (a magazine dedicated to James and those writing in his style).
I thought that others might find this letter interesting, as M R James discusses a text by H P Lovecraft about supernatural writing, and his views on it and the authors Lovecraft mentions. The text covers ghost story writers up to and including M R James, about whom Lovecraft writes several columns.
It is heartening to me, as someone currently engaged in writing a novel at top speed, to see a writer who is now as revered as H P Lovecraft criticised for his style by James, as being 'of the most offensive. He uses the word cosmic about 24 times.'
When he begins to appraise the writers that Lovecraft covers in his piece, James shows that he is not a fan of classic Gothic horror; he quickly dismisses Melmoth the Wanderer by Charles Maturin and Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, and as for Matthew Lewis' The Monk, it 'is really not fit to be read'. I can't say I agree with the great man, having enjoyed all three of these books, especially The Monk.
Discussing more contemporary ghost story writers James finds many to be just too nasty.
'Arthur Machen has a nasty after-taste: rather a foul mind I think, but clever as they make 'em. Percival Landon's Raw Edges has a horrid one called "Thurnley Abbey" which is included in A Muster of Ghosts by Bohun Lynch: almost too horrid.'
Ambrose Bierce is mentioned as great in his way, but a writer who goes too far.
All in all, being familiar with a number of the writers in his letter, I can't help wondering what James would have made of today's popular horror writers. Today horror often seems to go far too far, and to be more about blood and gore than the creation of atmosphere and tension. There should be more to horror writing than just the ability to appall.
So who does James recommend? He ends with this comment:
'By the way, I commend to you The House by the Churchyard. Chapters XI & XII have some very good ghost stuff, but the whole book is one I admire.'
J Sheridan Le Fanu, but of course.

Apologies

Just realised that one of my many misconceptions about Attila the Hun was how to spell his name! Apologies if it set your teeth on edge.

Meeting Atilla

I've just been watching a couple of episodes from Terry Jones' series Barbarians where he digs beneath the received ideas of the Barbarians in comparison with the Roman Empire to see how 'barbaric' they really were; the Romans do not do that well from the comparison. He describes how it suited the political needs of the Roman Catholic Church, which became the great power in the area in the centuries after after the fall of the Empire, to portray races like the Huns, the Vandals and the Goths as barbaric and violent when the truth was often very different. And it is this version which has filtered down to us hundreds of years later.
In one programme he describes Atilla the Hun's career, and I found it fascinating to discover how little we know of this man despite his name being one that I've been familiar with since a little child. The Hun Empire appeared to melt away into nothing after his death.
The lack of eyewitness accounts of the man himself was piquing; Terry Jones describes how there was only one man, a Roman called Priscus, who met Atilla and afterwards recorded his impressions. I have written before about how I love to read first hand accounts of history, so I fired up the laptop and found a translation of Priscus' dealings with the great Hun from the Internet Medieval Source Book.
It is not that detailed a picture as Atilla seemed to be playing political games with them, repeatedly telling them to leave then recalling them without actually meeting the delegation himself, but Priscus is able to give us a brief description of the man as a result of his encounters with Atilla. He gives the impression of a reserved man, confident in his authority but certainly not a brutal despot; with the vague ideas I had of who Atilla the Hun was, this is not at all what I would have expected before watching the programme today. Here is the description of the banquet thrown for the Roman delegation by Atilla:

'A luxurious meal, served on silver plate, had been made ready for us and the barbarian guests, but Attila ate nothing but meat on a wooden trencher. In everything else, too, he showed himself temperate; his cup was of wood, while to the guests were given goblets of gold and silver. His dress, too, was quite simple, affecting only to be clean. The sword he carried at his side, the latchets of his Scythian shoes, the bridle of his horse were not adorned, like those of the other Scythians, with gold or gems or anything costly. When the viands of the first course had been consumed we all stood up, and did not resume our seats until each one, in the order before observed, drank to the health of Attila in the goblet of wine presented to him. We then sat down, and a second dish was placed on each table with eatables of another kind. After this course the same ceremony was observed as after the first. When evening fell torches were lit, and two barbarians coming forward in front of Attila sang songs they had composed, celebrating his victories and deeds of valour in war... After the songs a Scythian, whose mind was deranged, appeared, and by uttering outlandish and senseless words forced the company to laugh. After him Zerkon, the Moorish dwarf, entered... On the occasion of the banquet he made his appearance, and threw all except Attila into fits of unquenchable laughter by his appearance, his dress, his voice, and his words, which were a confused jumble of Latin, Hunnic, and Gothic. Attila, however, remained immovable and of unchanging countenance nor by word or act did he betray anything approaching to a smile of merriment except at the entry of Ernas, his youngest son, whom he pulled by the cheek, and gazed on with a calm look of satisfaction. I was surprised that he made so much of this son, and neglected his other children but a barbarian who sat beside me and knew Latin, bidding me not reveal what he told, gave me to understand that prophets had forewarned Attila that his race would fall, but would be restored by this boy...'

Well, I've slept since then

Add to the list below The Awakening by Kate Chopin which I bought on Tuesday especially for this challenge and then managed to completely blot from my mind. Perhaps my subconscious is trying to tell me something!

My Year of Reading Dangerously

I have signed up for another 2008 challenge, I'm not even going to say that this will be the last as it probably won't be.

However, fresh from discovering via the Outmoded Authors Challenge that an author who had previously intimidated me (W Somerset Maugham) was a joy, I thought the My Year of Reading Dangerously Challenge hosted by Andi and Heather F of Estella's Revenge was the perfect opportunity to discover that I was similarly misjudging others.

The challenge is to read 12 books through the year that intimidate you, whether from the official list, or twelve of your own choice. Like a number of the other participants, I'm going for a mix of the two.

Here is the official list:

The Twelve "Official" Novels by month

January: Great Expectations, by Charles Dickens

February: The Bluest Eye, by Toni Morrison (African American)

March: Cat's Eye, by Margaret Atwood

April: Transformations, by Anne Sexton (Poetry)

May: Other Voices, Other Rooms, by Truman Capote (Southern)

June: Lolita, by Vladimir Nabokov (Russian)

July: The Chocolate War, by Robert Cormier (adolescent)

August: Maus I and II, by Art Spiegelman (Graphic Novel, Pulitzer winner)

September: The Secret Lives of People in Love, by Simon Van Booy (Independent)

October: The Human Stain, by Philip Roth (Contemporary/Jewish)

November: A Month of Classic Short Stories, Various - watch for a list

December: The Grapes of Wrath, by John Steinbeck

I haven't finalised my 12 yet but this is it so far:

From the official list, The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck. I have the impression that this is unutterably depressing, I'd like to be proved wrong.

To be read by the end of February (because it's a bit of a cheat as it's one of my Outmoded Authors books) Lady Chatterley's Lover by DH Lawrence. I have mentioned on several occasions that this is a book I have real difficulty in wanting to read, it truly does intimidate me. And including it for this challenge has the added bonus that I can forget about it till after Christmas, instead of going through the tussle with myself every weekend about whether I will give it a go or not.

American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis, as mentioned a couple of days ago. Eva has kindly warned me of the explicit content but I am determined, if only to be able to say I won't read books like this with a clear conscience, as I've tried it.

A suggestion from my brother was Dune by Frank Herbert. Serious SF really does intimidate me.

Another couple from the official list Cat's Eye by Margaret Atwood, an author whom I have always avoided, and The Chocolate War by Robert Cormier, which was a set book at school for a different GCSE group to mine - we did Wuthering Heights, thankfully and they did this book. I have always been very reluctant to read it for no good reason but that it brings back memories of that time at school and of it being a book for others not me.

So that's half a list, I will add the other six as I think of them. With this and the Russian Reading challenge it's going to be an interesting year.

Six characters in search of a title

Well, I am about 12,000 words into my Nanowrimo novel, and I think it's about time I came up with a title; I can't keep calling it 'To be decided'. I am very bad at thinking up titles for stories.
So I have a novel which includes demons, hell being unleashed on Earth, infighting immortal adepts and a couple of vampires - it's not exactly what you could call a 'literary novel', but I don't care as I'm having great fun writing it.
But what to call it is the problem. I think some sort of public domain quotation is the best bet, and with this sort of subject matter I am currently thinking of trying to find something pithy but not too hackneyed from Revelations.
Any suggestions will be gladly received, or any links to sites of quotations. I think it is possibly time I had a dictionary of quotations, one for the Christmas list perhaps.
Now back to it, as I am a few hundred words behind but hopefully nothing I shouldn't be able to catch up when I have a couple of days off next week.

Never the Bride by Paul Magrs

Published by Headline (ISBN:9780755332885), Never the Bride is the story of Brenda, a middle aged woman who recently moved to Whitby to run a bed and breakfast. This is not a tale of fry-ups and bedmaking however; instead Brenda and Effie, her best friend and proprietor of the next door junk shop, find themselves embroiled in mysterious and ghoulish adventures as Whitby becomes the centre of a hellish invasion.
Brenda is no ordinary landlady, though; her history is complicated, to say the least. Although she attempts to blend in with the general public in Whitby her large uneven frame, and terrible scars make it difficult. She says she has no family but there is a man she calls father. Her first memory is of a laboratory, a smell of formaldehyde and her father's appalled face as he beheld his creation, which should give you a clue as to her identity.
Part of the fun of the book is in recognising the classic horror characters and plots that are referred to. Some are easier to spot than others, for instance when Effie gains a new beau, a suave and mysterious man named Alucard who flinches, ever so slightly, at the presence of the sun. Well, it is Whitby after all, a place this particular character should know very well.
And the description of the delicious and suety pies at a Pie and Peas evening at the Christmas Hotel is more than a little reminiscent of a particular piece of Victorian horror I wrote about recently.
The book is structured into a number of relatively self-contained chapters, each revealing a little more of the secrets of Whitby and its inhabitants. The characters are great fun, such as the sinister Mrs Christmas who runs the Christmas Hotel where it is Christmas all year round, or Brian the TV psychic who arrives with the crew of Manifest Yourself! and investigates Effie's house to spectacular effect. As a (slightly cynical) fan of these ghost hunting TV programmes, this chapter particularly made me smile.
It did seem that the ending did not quite wrap up all the storylines, but it gave the impression that there is more to come and I have just seen that a sequel was recently published. Overall, the book is an amusing read, that respects the stories and films that inspired it. I thoroughly enjoyed it and definitely want to read the next one.

Birmingham Day

No, not a local Bank Holiday, but my day in Birmingham at a conference - all quite dull and non-book related, so I won't bore you with what it was about but I am pretty knackered after a day of trying to concentrate and also facilitating a group for two break-out sessions; it shows how you can change, the prospect of doing this would have kept me awake for days with dread a few years ago. Now I barely even thought about it beforehand, I've got so used to doing things like it.
I got my quality-Count of Monte Cristo-time on the train, which I thoroughly enjoyed. I felt a bit bad about abandoning him over the weekend. Then, with a bit of spare time before I had to be at the venue, after getting lost trying to find the right exit from New Street Station as I always do, I popped into Waterstones for a browse.
I decided no more than a fiver was to be spent on books and brought it in under that, but still managed to come away with two, after which financial wizardry I treated myself to a celebration hot chocolate and a chocolate twist in the coffee shop (it's important to have a healthy breakfast!). The books were a Penguin Popular Classics edition of The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux and a Dover thrift edition of Kate Chopin's The Awakening.
The latter is not a book I've ever really wanted to read, but I've just signed up for Estella's Revenge's My Year of Reading Dangerously, and I thought this would be perfect for it.
I am thinking very hard about my 12 books for this challenge, and I think I'm about half way through my list. I want to really push my own boundaries and include some books I would normally shy away from, which will mean stepping into the late twentieth and possibly even twenty-first century for me.
One book which is definitely on the list is American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis. With my taste in literature, a modern book about a serial killer is about as dangerous as I can get. Things like this prey on my mind and keep me awake at night hearing noises in the house and I find it easier not to read them. But the idea of this challenge is to do just that, challenge yourself. I'll be posting a full list soon, and I hope that I will discover when I begin reading them that a lot of the books I choose are less intimidating than I expect.

Cakes and Ale by W Somerset Maugham

This quiet book is a joy to read. In another writer's hands the subject matter could easily have become rather sordid and angst-ridden, but Maugham has a light touch that is so engaging and delightful you are won over by the character of Rosie, even when your intellect tells you that you shouldn't be - which reflects how the characters in the story react to her.
The story begins at the end. Edward Driffield, a famous novelist, has died a little while before the story begins; from humble beginnings, at the end of his life he was considered to be the Grand Old Man of English letters, in large part due to the exertions of his second wife. The narrator, Willie Ashenden, knew him and his first wife when he was younger; he is called upon by Alroy Kear, who is about to write a life of Ted Driffield and wants to know about his experiences of Driffield.
Kear's attitude towards writing Driffield's life is a warning to us all about not implicitly accepting the veracity of biographies - they will always be written to portray the writer's idea of the subject.
'It would be rather amusing to show the man with his passion for beauty and his careless treatment of his obligations, his fine style and his personal hatred of soap and water, his idealism and his tippling in disreputable pubs; but honestly, would it pay? They'd only say I was imitating Lytton Strachey. No, I think I shall do much better to be allusive and charming and rather subtle, you know the sort of thing, and tender.'
Ashenden has no intention of discussing most of his recollections with Kear but begins to privately reminisce about his experiences of Ted Driffield, a quiet man in a loud suit when he first met him, and his wife Rosie who used to be a barmaid. The couple were frowned upon in the small town because of their humble backgrounds and Rosie's less than pure reputation, and Ashenden, as an awkward fifteen year old, is prepared to cut them as his social inferiors. However, from the moment that Rosie collides with him on her bike she begins to weave a magical spell over him.
'I did not, of course, realise it then but there was a disarming frankness in her manner that put one at one's ease. She talked with a kind of eagerness, like a child bubbling over with the zest of life, and her eyes were lit all the time by her engaging smile. I did not know why I liked it. I should say it was a little sly, if slyness were not a displeasing quality; it was too innocent to be sly. It was mischievous rather, like that of a child who has done something that he thinks funny but is well aware that you will think rather naughty.'
Rosie dominates the book; even when she is not directly in the action it all revolves around her and the feelings she inspires, positive feelings from those who knew her but also negative ones, as Kear attempts to whitewash over her part in Driffield's life and writing.
Rosie should not be appealing; she is promiscuous, giving herself to every man who wants her, cheating on poor Ted virtually in front of him but still she remains a loveable, atractive character. The novel describes Ashenden's development from a boy into a man and the large part that Rosie played in that, as he becomes closer to the Driffields and their circle. He has to deal with becoming aware of her as a woman, and then with the jealousy and other emotions that are an inescapable part of such a relationship. However, as everyone in Rosie's life, he is unable to be bitter about her; she is described by an artist in her circle as 'like the sun shining silver' and, like the sun, while she may shine on someone for a time, she belongs to no one. This is what is so attractive about her, she takes a joy in everything, and moves through life determined to have the best of it.
Although the character of Rosie dominates the novel, the gentle smiling Ted is the one that I felt most attached to. Quietly sitting in the background while everyone discusses his work, not seeming to care about playing the author but taking everything in and knowing a lot more about his wife's actions than anyone, including her, realises, he is a sympathetic character. It is hard to not feel sorry for him when at the end of his life his second wife, who was conscious of his literary reputation, tries to stop him from stealing out to prop up the bar at the local pub despite the fact that it makes him happy.
This book is funny, charming and, at times, incredibly moving but all in such a simple unpretentious way that it was only after I finished it that I realised just how powerful it is and how much the story will stay with me.

A little Sunday round up

A tiny post. My head is full of Rosie Driffield but I think Cakes and Ale is a book I want to let swim around my head for a little while before writing about it. I think it is definitely a story which is going to live with me from now on.
I'm halfway through a book which both my father and brother have read and enjoyed called Never the Bride by Paul Magrs; this is a rare occurence - books are frequently passed from one to the other but very rarely travel around the three of us. The classic horror references they talked about were too enticing to pass up, though, and it is a very funny and appealing read so far.
It has been at the expense The Count of Monte Cristo though; I am enjoying it but haven't been completely hooked yet. I remember this happening with The Mysteries of Udolpho, until about a third of the way through when I was unable to put it down until my eyes hurt so much I had to. I think that may well happen with this book, and I've a conference in Birmingham on Tuesday which means a couple of quality hours on the train with it.
I've managed to lose my Mill and Bentham - I think down the back of the sofa so it's not a complete tragedy, but that may be on hold until I can locate the exact cushion it's hiding behind.
Other than Cakes and Ale it's been a bit of a wasted weekend as far as anything constructive goes. We went out for a lovely meal with my family last night but a little too much wine was drunk so there's been little done today other than playing computer games and reading, much to the detriment of the state of the house and Nanowrimo where I'm a teeny bit behind now. Nevermind, I'm sure I can make it up in the week.

A late appreciation of Somerset Maugham

This weekend I felt in the mood to read another novel in (virtually) one go and am currently half way through Cakes and Ale by W. Somerset Maugham. It is a book I chose for the Outmoded Authors challenge, and I'm really glad I put it on the list.
Somerset Maugham is one of those authors whose name I seem to have always known but whose books I've never picked up. I've been thinking about why that might be today, and I think I have to blame Educating Rita. This is one of my favourite films, that I have watched countless times, and there is a wonderful scene where Susan is reading Of Human Bondage in the hairdresser's she works at, and puts her copy down where the middle aged woman whose hair she is tending notices it.
'My husband's got loads of book like that.' says the woman.
'Somerset Maugham?' says Susan, impressed.
'No! Bondage books!'
That scene always makes me laugh and shudder at the same time. However, the unfortunate side-effect was that I subconsciously associated Somerset Maugham with unsavoury topics and put him into the D H Lawrence camp of authors I tend to avoid.
What a mistake that was. I am enjoying Cakes and Ale so much, a quiet meander through the narrator's memories of his relationship with a famous author before he was famous and of one meeting after he has become a very old and venerable grand old man of letters, 'the last of the Victorians'.
Somerset Maugham denied that the character of the author was based on Thomas Hardy, as was suspected, but I have to say with the little I know of Hardy as an old man (admittedly, only really from Virginia Woolf's diary where she describes her meetings with him) I can see why people would think that.
I hope to finish it tomorrow, and will be purchasing more Somerset Maugham as soon as possible. I love this feeling, a mixture of disappointment that I have waited this long to read an author who is so good, and excitement at having discovered yet another treasure.

The Hanging Court

There are some days when you want to retract your membership of the human race and this is one of them.

We arrived at the station this morning to go to work only to find that the trains were all being cancelled because some selfish moron had stolen the signalling cable a few miles away. So for the sake of a few pounds worth of copper someone is prepared to cause chaos and potentially put hundreds of lives at risk; I don't understand how I can be a part of the same species as these people.

After a frustrating hour at the station we decided to use some flexi-time and went home for a couple of hours until the trains were running, which gave me the opportunity to nip to the sorting office and collect a book I ordered recently, so it wasn't all bad. And quite aptly, since the phrase 'hanging's too good for them' had been running through my mind this morning about the cable thieves, the book was Tales from the Hanging Court by Tim Hitchcock and Robert Shoemaker.

A little while ago I wrote about The Proceedings of the Old Bailey web site, which I enjoy visiting; this book is a history of the cases of the time written using the information from this website by its directors. The book concentrates on the eighteenth century crime and looks extremely interesting; if you fancy a look at it and a taste of eighteenth century justice there are a couple of extracts on the book's web site; the second extract is about the Gordon Riots, an event I knew little about until I read Barnaby Rudge by Charles Dickens. I am looking forward to dipping into this book.

November begins

So it's All Saints Day or, as it is to be known in this house this year, NaNoWriMo day. Finally I can begin typing the novel that has been bursting to get out since I signed up for National Novel Writing Month a week ago. I am scared; I know the first few days will be easy but then I'll hit a block. My brother said it is the literary equivalent of a marathon, which seems very apt.
And there was an ever so comforting email from the NaNoWriMo team yesterday which said that all you have to do is write 1,666 words today, and another 1,666 words tomorrow and the day after that, and that, etc. All panics aside, I am really looking forward to it.
Last night was a bit of a bust for the trick or treaters, one lone little vampire (with mum watching from the gate in case you're concerned about him). He seemed to be doing pretty well on the chocolate front though, as the only trick or treater in the area.
I then settled down to read The Squaw by Bram Stoker, not picked for any particular reason other than it is the third in my Bram Stoker collection and I'd read the first two elsewhere. It is described as Stoker's most grotesque story and it certainly is gruesome; the introduction talks of the senseless deaths in it, which I was quite complacent about until I read the first one near the beginning. Senseless human death in a story is one thing, and only to be expected from Bram Stoker who writes much more cold-hearted ghost stories than someone like M R James or Le Fanu, but this is too much:

'...the stone fell with a sickening thud that came up to us through the hot air, right on the kitten's head, and shattered out its little brains then and there.'

As you can probably tell from the picture that adorns the top of the blog side bar, I am a cat person and this upset me. After this accidental tragedy the characters are wandering around the town with the kitten's furious mother following menacingly. It is difficult not to feel sorry for the cat, humans can treat animals' lives so lightly. It is a good story but not for the faint hearted, although for me the part quoted above was the worst bit.
It also gave me a nightmare; a large part of the story takes place in an old torture chamber that was shown to visitors as a tourist attraction. J and I visited a museum of medieval torture in Prague (on our honeymoon no less, how romantic is that) so I had no problem imagining it, and the image obviously stuck in my subconscious to provide a nasty and claustrophobic dream. Which was quite apt for this particular night of the year, so I don't begrudge it.