Rest Easy Mr Yeats - The Faeries are Here to Stay

I'll always be grateful to W.B. Yeats for his beautiful faery poems, but there are some who feel they simply resulted in the whole leprechaun-isation of Irish identity and culture.  But I, for one, stand up for small people and take delight in the stories and poems that entice us to dream and imagine another world living alongside our own.

If British culture can celebrate a Tolkien, pint-sized, Hobbit and turn him into a global phenomenon, then why can't we?  It seems that people like' little folk', be they Borrowers, Lilliputians or just regular, garden variety, garden gnomes.
So, while Yeats, Lady Gregory, and the other members of the Irish Literary Revival,  were trying desperately to establish a separate, unique, Irish cultural identity, vastly different and unique from that of the 'British oppressors',' it seems, in the end, that faeries and elves don't just belong to the Irish, but indeed, are beloved the entire world over.

But who are we kidding, Yeats had stylistically  more in common with  Hardy and Wordsworth and the other Major English poets, than ever he had with the old traditional Irish bards who wrote in their native tongue.  Yet, the new, fledgling Irish nation took him to their hearts, faeries and all, and made him an Irish icon.  As any student of poetry can tell you, there is more to Yeats than faeries and none who could so skilfully string a line of poetry together and make the words dance and sing.  Their love of word-smith Willie Yeats goes far deeper than that.
And so, while we await in anticipation for the completion of Peter Jackson's adaptation of Tolkien's classic, 'The Hobbit', we cannot but smile and think with confidence that the 'little people' are here to stay and W.B. Yeats can rest easy in his Sligo bed.

Least We Forget Shakespeare...

It's February 14th and the world has gone mad on cheesy cards, boxed-chocolates and roses, dozens and dozens of red roses.  And while I am quite partial myself to the odd chocolate or two, I have to admit, that nothing says romance to me more than a hardback book of poetry.
For the last number of years, I have forgone the usual St. Valentine's Day gifts in favour of a beautifully presented book of verse and I now possess a whole shelf-full of delights that I dip into throughout the year, when even the last coffee flavoured chocolates have long since been devoured and the reddest of roses have sadly quite faded away.
This year I'll be giving the elegant 'Penguin Clothbound Collection of Shakespeare's Sonnets' to the special person in my life, for there are few poets who have expressed so truthfully and beautifully the act of loving and of being loved, as William Shakespeare has.  There are some moments in life when only the lines of a poem can echo the sentiment in your heart; when only the soul of a poet can express the words that you dare or dare not say.  I, for one, am happy to let Mr Shakespeare help me out on that score.
And so, least Shakeaspeare be forgotten, here is a little reminder as to why the words of the bard are oh so much more preferable as a Valentine's gift, than a box of Cadbury's best.  Happy St Valentine's Day!

Love Sonnet 147
by William Shakespeare.
My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
Th' uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as mad men's are,
At random from the truth vainly expressed.
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, 

Who art as black as hell, as dark as night. 

The Shuttle ~ by Frances Hodgson Burnett

 If there was ever a period drama adaptation waiting to happen, it is this book by 'Secret Garden' author, Frances Hodgson Burnett.  It has everything you would want in a period drama: the fiery female heroine, the brooding hero, the despicable villain and the benevolent father.  Indeed, this novel is a mixture of all the best parts of my favourite novels: the undying sisterly love of 'Pride and Prejudice', the palpable, simmering violence of 'Wuthering Heights', and the impossible love of 'Jane Eyre'.  
     So, why had I never heard of this book before?  Published in 1907, this text has been forgotten, just like the garden in the author's more well-known tome.   Indeed there are moments in this novel when it feels as if we have returned to the secret garden, as adults, and are allowed to step amongst the ruins of a wonderfully, dilapidated landscape that is crying out for a make over.  
     Into this air-less, lost landscape, comes the beautiful Bettina Vanderpoel, a wealthy American heiress, who is searching for her older sister Roaslie, who a dozen years before married Sir Nigel Anstruthers.  He is a tyrannous English aristocrat who only wed Rosalie for the great wealth that she would bring to his English estate. Of course he was a cad and ruthlessly crushed and brutalised her spirit, leaving her a mere shadow of her former self.  He spent her money and left her to rot in his decaying mansion, with only their young, ailing, son for company.  
     Bettina is like a magical princess whose beauty awakens the tired and sleeping land and with her energy brings it and it's lethargic inhabitants back to life. She rescues her sister and begins to salvage what is left of her crumbling home.  The results are breath-taking. She uses her endless supply of money to employ the local tradesmen and modernise and rejuvenate wherever she goes. Not only do we find a garden that needs a make-over, but there is an entire English village and its inmates that have been completely neglected, along with its local artistocracy,Lord  Mount Dunstan and Lady Anstruthers, who are veritible Miss Havishams, creeking and web-draped in their various forgotten mansions, decaying and stagnant in a gothic nightmare-reality. 
      Miss Vanderpoel  is a wonderfully strong female character, clever and entertaining and full of sense.  Considering that the novel was written when women had not yet won the right to vote, she seems to be way ahead of her time.  This comment is a case in point:  'Eve has always struck me as being the kind of woman who, if she lived today, would run up stupid bills at her dressmakers and be afraid to tell her husband'.  The novel is full of such witty observations and as such reminds me a little of Austen at times..  
     But while Bettina seems to have everything that money can buy, she cannot have the one thing she wants - the love of Mount Dunstan, the owner of the adjoining estate.  Like Elizabeth Bennent, she begins to fall in love with this dark-red-haired, brooding man,  as soon as she sees his enormous house and grounds:  'It was beautiful. As she walked on she saw it rolled into the woods and deeps filled with bracken;... she caught the gleam of a lake with swans sailing slowly upon it with curved necks; there were wonderful lights and wonderful shadows, and brooding stillness, which made her footfall upon the road a too material thing...'.  
     She longs to bring the sleeping medieval manor-house back to life, but Dunstan is a proud man and does not believe in marrying for money.  If he is to save his land, he is to do it by himself.  Yet, he is not immune to the allure of Miss Bettina Vanderpoel.  We are told,  'On his part, he... found himself newly moved by the dower nature had bestowed on her.  Had the world ever held before a woman creature so much longed for?'  So, a conundrum.  
     Running alongside this deliciously understated love affair, is the battle of wills between Bettina and her evil brother-in-law, Sir Nigel Anstruthers.  The two are evenly matched but on the opposite spectrum of good and evil.  And he is evil,a fiend of the worst order.  The unfolding power-play makes for excellent drama and produces a novel that you will not be able to put down.  The last 50 pages flashed by at break-neck pace; leading to a thrilling ending that did not disappoint.  
      As someone who spent many years to-ing and fro-ing between America and England, Hodgson Burnett excellently captures the differences between the two nations, focusing on the good and bad of each.  Ultimately, she seems to be suggesting that, where there is love, there is everything to be gained by the alliance of the wealth from the new world, and the beauty and culture of the old one.  There is no denying how fresh, new money, and new blood, can only benefit the English aristocracy and their beleaguered estates, but inevitably, there is more than just money involved:  the energy of the New World is what is also lacking in old England, and ultimately the idea of 'working for a living' is a necessity for everyone regardless of class. 
     The characters in this book would not have been out of place in a Hardy novel and many of my favourite scenes took place within the tiny parlours of the village houses, where little kindnesses engendered so much warmth and humanity.  Mr Doby with his adoring dewy eyes and his clay pipe, being my very favourite. 
      I ask again, why has this book, all 500 hundred pages of it, been so forgotten by the masses?  Is it simply because of the poor title?  Where is its sumptuous BBC dramatisation?  I call on scriptwriter, Andrew Davies and television producer Sue Birtwistle to get their skates on... you might just get this in the can in time for next Christmas, if you start on it right away.  I look forward to seeing it.  In the meantime - make sure you get a copy (it's free on Kindle due to lapsed copywright) and start reading right away. 
       If you have ever read any of Kate Morton's books and enjoyed them, well this reads like the original archetype. I think she must be a huge fan of Hodgson Burnett, so similar are the writing styles.  It is 'The Secret Garden', for  grown-ups, with a hint of gothic-thriller thrown in. I see Liv Tyler as Bettina and Benedict Cumberbatch as Mount Dunstan...?  It is going to happen any day now.  One doesn't mind waiting when such delights lie in store. 
 clear

Charles Dickens at 200

Hardly can I let the day go by without some reference to the great novelist Charles Dickens, whose 200^th birthday it would have been today.   I first read Dickens as a college student, and instantly fell in love with the numerous colourful characters that litter his books.  I was dazzled by his gift for language, dialogue in particular, and his ability to spin a good yarn with multiple twists and turns that could lead you miles from where the story first began.  Who could not fall in love with the tender young Pip, who was such a gentleman to begin with, although he didn’t know it, or the pillar box that was Wemmick, with his portable property, flag-pole and aged parent.  I was bowled over by the warmth of human kindness that flows throughout his stories;  the selfless deeds of ‘A tale of Two Cities; the brooding darkness and grime of ‘Our Mutual Friend’; and the warning against unsuitable marriage that was ‘David Copperfield’. 

But it was the sweet humour of ‘The Pickwick Papers’ that kept coming to my mind today when I thought of Dickens. Often his vast array of colourful characters are what he is most remembered for, the Scrooges, Steerforths and Little Nells of Dickensia, but let us not forget the slapstick, the witty retorts and the situation comedy that makes Dickens live on in his books, and leaves a lingering smile on our faces when we think on him.  

Happy Birthday Mr Dickens.

'A Study in Scarlet' ~ by Arthur Conan Doyle Versus 'A Study in Pink', ~by Steven Moffat

I can't really explain why it has taken me so long to read Arthur Conan Doyle, but I must admit to have been much inspired by my recent obsession with the BBC series, 'Sherlock'.  And where better to start than with the very first Holmes mystery; 'A Study in Scarlet'.
This little book is narrated by Dr John Watson, who, recently having returned from the Afghanistan war, with 'neither kith nor kin in England', happens to come into contact with Sherlock Holmes who, likewise, is alone and seeking a house-mate to share the expense of living in London in the 1880s.
I was expecting violin-playing, carriage-rides and plenty of fog, but I must say that the deserts of Utah came right out of the blue.  I had no idea that a Holmes novel ever ventured across the Atlantic, but it does so twice in this novel alone. One minute I was lounging around the rooms of 221B Baker street, sipping tea with Mrs Hudson, and the next I was in the American midwest, dying with thirst and planning to meet my maker, or Clint Eastwood at least.
Conan Doyle could have had a very successful career writing Victorian Westerns, but instead he conjured up the daring duo of Holmes and Watson, whose clever deductions and uncanny observations out-wit the wicked and out-manoeuvre the malevolent. And aren't we glad that he did, with some 56 books in the series in total for us to enjoy, not to mention the countless spin-offs and sequels, featuring the consulting detective in the deerstalker hat with a passion for puzzles.

I cannot finish without referring somewhat to the exceptionally good BBC series 'Sherlock'.  (Stop reading now if you have not yet seen the episode in question.)  Series creators Moffat and Gatiss, have adapted this text, calling it instead, 'A Study in Pink', which relates more to the case in question and just sounds more modern than 'scarlet'.  Indeed, everything about the new Sherlock is modern: the architecture, the décor and even the gadgets. Gone is Holmes's large spying glass, and in its stead is a tiny pocket one, (available from Amazon for £19) and everything from mobile phones, flat screen portable TVs and computer lap-tops all feature prominently in the cases.

Watson no longer painstakingly transcribes his journal using nib and ink, but recounts the details of their various adventures on his blog.  The lovely folks at the BBC have actually created John's blog and avid fans can read all about the additional cases on-line.  Here's the link:  http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/
In terms of the basic plot line, there are clear similarities between the original and the new adaptation.  The victims are dispatched in a similar manner, the murderers have the same occupation and affliction, and the stories both begin with the introduction of Holmes to Watson through a mutual acquaintance, Stamford.  However, the original text differs in that it explains in full detail the motivation behind the killings.  Indeed, in Conan Doyle's text, the word 'rache' scrawled in blood on the wall, does in fact, mean revenge in German, unlike the new adaptation, which opts to lengthen the word to 'rache..l'.

But, regardless of the modern glitz and soft-focus dazzle of this production, the heart of the story remains the same: a couple of lonely obsessives find friendship and mutual relevance while solving puzzles and combating crime.  Indeed, the archaic monikers of 'Holmes' and 'Watson' have been replaced by the altogether more socially acceptable 'Sherlock' and 'John', finally allowing the fans to be on first name terms with the Baker Street boys, played so brilliantly in this BBC series by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman.
I highly recommend both the novel and the series.  Both lead naturally to the other, for according to Moffat, everything goes back to the Conan Doyle novels and already I see various references and nods to the original texts when I watch the dramatisations; the case of the speckled blond, a pun on the text, 'the speckled band', to name but one,which makes the viewing all the more pleasurable.
So, if, like me, you are still puzzling over the mystery left us at the end of series two, the answer should, if Messers Moffat and Gatiss are to be believed, be found in the original novels.  For consider how both Moriarty and Holmes jumped from the waterfall in the original 'Reichenbach Falls', but only Holmes survived... surely that tells us something about the identity of the broken body found on the ground outside Bart's Hospital?
And the various hospital workers who descend on the bleeding Sherlock, don't they all look a little bohemian to you, long haired with flared suits?  Perhaps members of Holmes's homeless network, who have thankfully replaced the non-p.c. 'Arab boys' street children of the novels, have once again come to his aid?  Of course it is Molly who is the ultimate friend here, with Sherlock so uncharacteristically asking her for help, and luckily she is at hand in the morgue, to supply Holmes with dead body-doubles and to fake official reports.
One cannot ignore the importance of John's position in the scene, given that Sherlock insists not once but twice that he stay where he is and not move.  'Do it for me', he begs.  That is one thing that Sherlock never does and perhaps this is the very thing that Moffat was referring to when he said that the solution to the mystery lies in Holmes's doing something that he never usually does.  As Sherlock tells us in 'A Study in Pink', 'I've never begged ... in my life!'.
But let us not forget the role played in this scenario by Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes's smarter brother, who has been so badly used my Moriarty as a source and must suffer considerable guilt at the role he has played in his brother's demise.  One cannot imagine that he would stand idly by and let Sherlock take the fall all by himself. (No pun intended!).  I would not be surprised if he were somehow behind his brother's disappearance, being so total and complete as it is, thus allowing the dust to settle but only until his brother makes a valiant return, clearing his name when the time is right.  With the help of a well placed laundry truck, a beautifully timed road accident and the angular geography of London, the mighty Sherlock seems to defy death and logic all at the same time.  Well, that's my theory anyhow.

So...only 55 more stories to go... I might just have them finished by the time the next Sherlock series is due for release in about 2014..a somewhat elementary deduction.

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Authenticity ~ by Deirdre Madden

The joys of reading Deirdre Madden's novel 'Authenticity' were few and far between.  The sorry fact is that I did not enjoy reading this book half as much as I had hoped.  Set in Dublin in the recent past, the main characters, Julia, William and Roderick, are all artists of varying degree and talent.  They struggle with their creativity and egos as they try to find a balance between their inner, creative life and the social demands and obligations associated with family life,parenthood and financial survival.
Perhaps it is because Madden is trying to recreate the boredom of everyday life for an 'authentic' artist that she writes page after page of tedious details relating to the comings and goings of these characters.  There is an improbable love triangle of sorts at the heart of this text, but even that does not come to much and we care little if the various couplings ever get together or not.
By far the most interesting character for me was Dennis, the sober solicitor, who had the true soul of a painter and could see the world with an artist's eye for detail.  His were the most interesting sections, the most curious observations.  Indeed the best parts of the book, the long sections of descriptive language, when a stunning view or artwork is captured on the page, belonged to Dennis.
There was an interesting memory motif running through the novel, with objects and smells etc. triggering old, forgotten moments.  My favourite one of these was the apple, which reminded Julia of her mother.  The symbolism of the apple, with its traditional associations with Eden and The Fall etc. although a clever addition to the text, was not enough to save it and so 'Authenticity' remains one book I will not be on my great reads of 2012 list.  

An Austen Notebook to Begin the New Year!

A person in possession of splendid ideas must be in want of a place to write!

Death Comes to Pemberley ~ P.D. James

It is a truth, universally acknowledged that 'Pride and Prejudice' sequels are usually best avoided at all cost, but not so with P.D. James's 'Death Comes To Pemberley'. It is a rare thing to finish a novel with such a sense of contentment as I feel on finishing this delicious book.  Using the obligatory chocolate analogy, one would have to say that this book has all the feel of Galaxy chocolate, but with a slightly different flavour to it.  Mint or perhaps cinnamon? 
The true wonder of this book is how well ninety-two year old novelist P.D. James captures the nuances and sensibility of Jane Austen's writing-style. Her diction is almost an exact match, with her pages of dialogue being the most impressive.  There is not a syllable said by either Darcy or Elizabeth, now somewhat jarringly referred to as Mrs Darcy, that Austen herself could not have written.  It is clear that James researched her subject meticulously, indeed she is herself a self-confessed Janeite and an Austen aficionado of the highest order.
For me, P.D. James is to Jane Austen documentaries what Dame Judi Dench is to period drama: you really can't have one without the other.  So to learn that James had decided to write the one definitive 'Pride and Prejudice' sequel seemed too good to be true. The result was an overwhelming success and from here on in, a line can be drawn under the whole Jane Austen prequel/sequel phenomenon.  Quills down ladies - we have a winner!
Let us consider the plot of James's novel.  Without giving anything away, there is a murder at Pemberley some six years after Darcy and Elizabeth have set up home together.  There is an inquest and a trial and that is it.  In some ways the book begins and ends in the same way as 'Pride and Prejudice', with the arrival of a gallant stranger into the neighbourhood, with questions of the suitability of a possible suitor, and an ending very much in keeping with the Austen conventions that we are familiar with.
Yes,the plot is indeed that simple, but as with Austen, the real delight for the reader is the interplay of characters and the sparkling dialogue.  In this especially, James has kept true to the original style of the 'mother' novel.  It is simply delightful to hear Elizabeth and Darcy re-visit moments from their past and take up where they left off from 'Pride and Prejudice',as if the intervening two hundred years, were as unimportant to the reader as an ad-break to modern television audiences.  Similarly, characters like Jane and Mr Bennet wander into the story, using the phrases and idioms that we have long associated with these characters, and one cannot help but smile to hear them chime together in a worthy novel once more.  
And the resurrection of such familiar characters is not limited to the pages of 'Pride and Prejudice'.  No indeed! We hear mention of Emma and Mr Knightley, Harriet and Robert Martin, from 'Emma' and Sir Walter, Anne Elliott and Captain Wentworth from the posthumous novel 'Persuasion', which serves only to enhance the pleasure for the more avid Austen fans.  Indeed, aspects of the story reflect other novels too, such as 'Sense and Sensibility' and even 'Mansfield Park', but to mention them here might impinge on the enjoyment of others.  
One aspect of the novel which is entirely James's own, is her knowledge of the legal system during the Regency period,and an in-depth knowledge of the the physicality of murder and the damage that a blunt weapon can inflict on the human body.  But fear not, this is not such a gruesome tale as all that, and the 'death' of the title, it seems to me, reflects more about the death of Darcy's pride than of anything else.  He is forced to face the flaw that almost cost him his happiness with Elizabeth in the original text and to put old grievances finally to rest. 
Similarly, the atmosphere of the novel is also true to Austen's style.  It glides along at a slow, elegant pace, with the quiet ease of satin-soled slippers on a marble floor.  And it is this aspect of the novel that separates this sequel from all others.  Being a novelist of such a high standing herself, P. D. James has, perhaps, not the pressures that less well-known, younger writers might have, believing that their novels must be rip-roaring page-turners if the reader is to remain engaged.  Here James shows her master card; being of a generation that was born between the World Wars, where life did move at a slower pace than today, James can easily slip into the more authentic Austen style of writing, where life moves to a more leisurely rhythm, which is something to be relished and enjoyed in such a novel.
The resulting effect of all this mimicry and mirroring, is to create a sense that the shadow of Jane Austen lurks amid the pages of this fine book.  It is as if the long dead Jane is standing just behind the shoulder of the author, guiding her hand and smiling.  There is nothing here to offend the staunch J. A. fan, so feel free to dispense with the guilt that Austen fans often feel as their hands reach out for the latest 'Pride and Prejudice' sequel.  I often worry that I should not be wasting my time with some second rate sequel when I could be re-reading an Austen original.  Yet here, we can have all of the enjoyment and none of the regret:  we can return to Darcy and Elizabeth, while savouring the joys of a highly crafted novel by one of the great living writers in the English language.  It's chocolate, but without the guilt?  Now there's a novel thought.  

Major Pettigrew's Last Stand ~ Helen Simonson

It is perhaps fitting that I settle down to write this review with a cup of hot tea at my side, as tea-drinking, and all that we associate with that pleasure, (conversations started, friendships made, secrets shared etc.) is what I like about this book.  Indeed, reconsidering the cover of this novel, the artwork is perfectly apt.  A pair of tea cups feature greatly in the story, triggering old  memories and inspiring new. There is so much symmetry and possibility with a pair of tea cups: one just seems so forlorn in comparison.
   
And this is just how we see Major Pettigrew for the first time; solitary, overlooked and quite derelict in his dusty cottage.
Set in the sleepy English village of Edgecombe St Mary, the very name has inescapable echoes of the famed village of St Mary Meade, the setting of Agatha Christie's Miss Marple,and here too the world is never changing and steeped in the traditions and social hierarchy of middle England.

Still, this is a refreshing love story where the characters are of the more mature variety, on their second chance of happiness and who clearly know what they want from life: appreciating how good life can be when there is love and how lonely life can be without it.  They are no procrastinators. That is left to the younger generation, who give up on love for the sake of monetary gain, social standing and mere convenience. One flaw, I would say, is that the main characters seem much older than they really are, considering that the major is of the same generation as John Lennon and Mick Jagger.  It seems odd that he should be so affronted by the decadence of modern living.
That said, this novel reads like a ready-made script, just crying out for cinematic adaptation.  Indeed one can even predict it's Sunday night slot on BBC One.  I'm sure there would be a role for Maggie Smith in there somewhere, with, perhaps, John Cleese playing the love sick Major? The characters and events of this story would not be out of place in any BBC period drama: featuring impossible love; the avarice of younger generations; overbearing relations; stolen inheritance; runaway bridegrooms and dangerous old women with threatening knitting needles! In fact it seems quite incongruous when someone pulls out a mobile phone to check their messages,propelling us back to the twenty-first century with a stinging slap.

Author Helen Simonson presents us with a selection box of characters that we would expect in any text set in an English village from 'Last of the Summer Wine' and 'The Vicar of Dibley', to 'Middlemarch' and 'Emma'.  If you delight in such a story, 'Major Pettigrew's Last Stand' will not disappoint.  It's brimming with delicious descriptions of the English countryside, cottage gardens and coastal views.  And if there is one season that's best suited to the charm of this novel I would suggest that it is the Christmas holiday period.  One particular section wonderfully evokes Christmas in England complete with old lamps burning in cottage windows.   So I suggest this book be read deep inside a cushioned sofa, amid mountains of mince pies and between glorious sips of delicious, hot tea, for 'Major Pettigrew's Last Stand' is a fine book to escape into, as comforting as your favourite Sunday afternoon Miss Marple re-run, and just as familiar.  My one warning is that this is not a book to be rushed:time should be taken to really appreciate and enjoy this fine, flavoursome brew.

P.S. If you liked this novel, then I highly recommend Natasha Solomons' 'Mr Rosenblum Dreams in English' - reviewed here: http://www.mybookaffair.net/2012/08/mr-rosenblum-dreams-in-english-by.html

Galore ~ by Michael Crummey

If it were possible for a book to have a taste, then 'Galore', by Michael Crummey, would taste of salt water.  Every page is dripping with it: steeped as it is in the noise,and vitality of the sea. And what could be more fitting in a story about an isolated community on the island of Newfoundland some two hundread years or more ago.  It is difficult to tell when exatly the story is set, as the action occurs out of time and place, as we know it.  There is a blurring of reality and fantasy: a place where ghosts dwell amongst the living, where fishermen fall for mermaids, and where full-grown men are re-born from the guts of a whale.  As such, Crummey has based his book on a wonderful series of "what if's".  What if such a thing were possible?  What if Jona was actually swollowed by a whale, as the bible tells us.  And what would the reaction be if, one day, Jona were thrown up on a beech, in a place and time where superstitions were powerful motivators in society.  For the story of Jona - known here as Judah- is at the heart of this novel and immediately we are enthralled with the desire to finally learn of the fate of the character who for so long lived in our childhood imagination.  Like some sort of Boo Radley from the distant past, we yearn to know Judah's story and to learn what secrets lie behind those pale blue eyes. Indeed, the very first line of the book tells us the fate of Judah.  'He ended his time on the shore...'  To speak of endings at the very beginning of this tale is not enough for the reader and spurs us on to learn more.  Indeed, as time goes on, it becomes less and less acceptable that the narrator was telling us the truth in that first line.  In the world of Newfoundland superstition, even the rules of narrative fiction cannot be taken as gospel.  
Yet, there are other biblical echoes throughout this novel.  We see Mary Tryphena and Absolom Sellers sitting in Kerrivan's tree together  They are cousins, forbidden to fall in love. He takes an apple and passes it to Mary to take a bite and their fates are sealed. Similarities with the story of Adam and Eve are unmistakeable here.  Indeed, we find our very own Cain and Abel chracters, in the sons of Absolom Sellers, and something of Noah's tale in the slow building of the huge boat, that will ultimatley save the community from certain extinction. 
But it would be a mistake to limit the achievement of this novel to that of a modern re-telling of Old Testament stories.  This novel is so much more than that.  It's characters are revealled to us like a soul of a sinner is exposed in the confessional.  We learn about them from the inside out: given only the slightest hint about external appearances, but shown detailed accounts of the innermost desires and passions.  Like Joyce and Woolf, Crummey takes a light and shows us the inner-workings of his characters's minds.  We feel we know each character intimately, by the colours found within; the hue of their souls.  It is owing to such characterisation that we feel so bereft at the passing of each generation.  It is heart-wrenching to say goodbye to the knowlegde and wisdom of each character; their stories, their pain, their secrets.  Indeed, this feeling is best expressed by Devine's Widow, a natural-born witch if ever there was one, who says, 'She felt like she was being erased from the world, one generation at a time, like sediment sieved out of water through a cloth.'  It is no surprise to learn that Crummey is a fine poet  as well as an author of fine books. Yet the story belies such thoughts and actually reveals the cyclical pattern of lives and how one generation merges into another, with family traits being passed down through the family line.  There are patterns to be found and comparisons to be drawn.
The tell-tale sign of the poet is also apparent in the purity of the text.  Crummey writes of a world laid bare, without embellishment, with scant respect for the rules of language, reflected in the lack of punctuation in his writing.  Apostrophies highlighting dialogue are seen as unnecessary trimmings that are at odds with this tale of bare essentials, of life lived among the elements.  As such, Crummey's prose style is akin to the beauty of drift wood: rugged, stark and at times crude, but so steeped in narrative history, that it cannot help but be valued and higly prized.  This is a must read novel, for anyone who ever imagined 'what if', or  who simply ever imagined.  With 'Galore' you will be left with the taste of the salt -water in your mouth and gritty sand between your teeth, a pleasure truly not to be missed.

The Help ~ by Kathryn Stockett

From the very first page, I knew I loved this book.  Little Mae Mobley, the child her mother didn't love, wandered up, wrapped her tiny fingers around my heart and wasn't letting go.  It is fitting that this book begins and ends with this little girl, knowing, as we do, that this novel was written by a white woman, Kathryn Stockett, who was, herself, raised and loved by a black house maid, called Demetrie.

It seems to me that Kathryn Stockett and Mae Mobley have much in common, and I like to think that they are one in the same, because that would mean that the good work begun by Aibileen, one of the narrators and heroines of the book, was not for nothing.  Here was one little white girl who was going to learn that' coloured people and white people were just the same'.  For this is a book full of heroines; wonderful, brave, strong women, whom I will never forget.   But this book is as close as I will ever get to meeting them in person, although reading, and living, their stories comes in as a good second best.

There are three narrators in this novel:  Aiblieen, Minny and Skeeter.  The former two are black house maids, the latter is a white writer, who convinces them to tell their stories in a book; a very dangerous undertaking in Jackson, Mississippi in 1962.  Stockett uses the personalised vernacular of each character in turn, each with a slightly different accent and idiosyncratic phraseology, to create a realism that is startlingly effective and compelling.  I have to admit that Aibileen is my favourite character. That woman just oozed   goodness with a capital G.  It is for her sake that I found myself praying while reading the book, hoping that she would survive the tale, that she would escape the malicious revenge of  Hilly Holbrook; the nasty, racist, society queen/bully.

And the prayers don't stop there.  The tension is palpable on every page: we can never know what danger lurks around the corner for these women; what the racist population is capable of.  Balanced between the intimate relationships that exists between servant and family, are the twisted, un-written laws of behaviour that dictate how blacks and whites should co-exist.  The hypocrisy and double standards are obvious to our 21st Century eyes.  However, Stockett cleverly and artfully, uses music, fashion, current affairs, and a lot of hairspray, to take us back to that 1960s mindset, until, we too, see the insurmountable mountain that is social integration, rise up before our very eyes, casting its long, impossible shadow.  Every crunching footstep on the drive sends a shiver down our spines; every unexpected knock on the door leaves us in a cold sweat: their fear is our fear and Stockett could not have come up with a better way to enlighten us about the reality of life for thousands of black Americans living in the southern states at that time.

I love that this is a book about the power of the written word and reading.  With books come words, and with words come voices.  By writing their stories down, the characters are given power, given a voice; just as 'The Help' itself gives voice to the untold stories of so many black women who gave their lives to raising and loving generations of white children.  Indeed, this story need not be confined to the southern states of America and black house maids: it could be easily be transferred to India, England, Singapore or anywhere where an inequitable system exists of maids and masters.

Twice, Harper Lee's classic, anti-segregation novel, 'To Kill a Mockingbird', is mentioned in this text, and I believe that there is a little of it's main character, Scout Finch, in the person of Skeeter Phelan; the tom-boy who loved reading more than playing with her dolls, and who, despite the racism that surrounded her, could at last declare that 'folks is just folks'.  'The Help', echoes Harper Lee's book but tells the story from their maid, point of view and it makes for fascinating reading.  It is about human relationships, false impressions and the boundaries that we all place between ourselves and others.  I think these two books make wonderful, complimentary, reading.

Finally, the title, 'The Help' is loaded with extra meaning:  we see three women help each other, support one-another, to make meaningful, positive changes in their lives.  Each gives a gift of some sort to the other, each becomes a better person because of their friendship.  They help each other in ways that they cannot imagine or quantify - and isn't that what we all long for in a relationship?   Yet, this book does not just teach us about friendship: it says so much about parenting and motherhood too.  I will never forget the image of Aibileen taking her little charge by the hand and pressing her thumbs down in Mae Mobley's palms telling her, 'You are beautiful.  You are smart.  You are important'.  If that isn't the job of every parent, I don't know what is.  This is a hugely important book: I urge you to read it, and afterward to see if you can ever look on a uniform, a colour or a little child, in the same way again.
  Blooming Brilliant!

Water for Elephants ~ by Sara Gruen

'Water for Elephants', by Sara Gruen was just what I needed on a busy weekend in September.  Once started, I couldn't leave it down for long; it demanded that I give it the attention it deserved.  On a macro level this is a story about a young couple in love;  a small clown; a drunken angel; an elephant; a monkey and a circus.  There is  no denying the allure of the big top.  Gruen tantalises the senses with her descriptions of circus life in 1920's America.  Her language is so evocative, that the pages wreak of peanuts and candyfloss.  You loose yourself amidst the blurring of colours and the cacophonous din of the wild menagerie.  The equally colourful characters, we are told at the back of the book, were often times based upon real people who lived the life of travelling circus entertainers.  Their hitherto forgotten stories were happened upon by Gruen during her research.  It is almost unthinkable that so much of this novel is non-fiction, yet who could ever consider that Rosie the elephant was a figment of someone's imagination; she is so vibrant and alive on the page. 

But what this book actually left me with has nothing to do with jugglers and circus performers and is not half as exotic as we might wish.  It made me consider how older people are treated by society.  The book begins and ends with Jacob Jankowski, an elderly man, (of 90 or 93 years old; he can't remember which), who has been left in an old folks' home by his children to simply fade away.  His treatment at the hands of busy, bossy, carers left me livid.  To see this once vibrant, vital, man being treated so, was tragic.  He is shown to be yet another victim of our disposable culture: along with throw away razors and milk-cartons, throw-away parents.  It was not as if Jacob was suffering some horrendous illness; he was just an old widower, still with his full faculties, but suffering from terminal old age.  In this, I find that Gruen's novel is somewhat reminiscent of Nicholas Sparks's The Notebook; it provokes the reader into reconsidering our understanding of the experiences of the older members of society.  She makes us ponder what the future might hold in store for us, and it does not look good!  

I haven't seen the movie of this book, so I cannot comment on it, but I do know that it is well worth reading, if only for the way it will make us pause and take notice of the senior people in our lives, for who knows what wonderful stories lie hidden beneath the surface, just waiting to be told.  

From 'Mansfield Park', by Jane Austen 1957

'The carriage drove off....'

Alone in Berlin ~ Hans Fallada

It took me a little longer than usual to finish this book, because I longed to escape from it. Yet 'Alone in Berlin' had an invisible hold on me. I was trapped by it; the story was so gripping, I didn't dare to leave it hanging there haunting me; I had to end it. I owed it to the characters, to those who were suspended in time on page 241. And now that it is finished? Well, let's just say that I understand more about what it is to be human after visiting its pages, having journeyed into that place in history peopled by mad-men and tortured angels.

The book tells the true story of Otto Quangel and his wife Anna, (not the original names of the people involved) who decide to hit out at the Nazi regime in wartime Germany, by writing postcards decrying the actions of the Fuhrer. They leave them at various locations in Berlin, for the public to find. It's a dangerous action to take, punishable by death, in a world where everyone is a spy; your child, your neighbour, your boss.

So much for the plot. I cannot tell you any more about that or the book would be ruined for you. I will tell you that since reading this book, I have a deeper understanding of what took place in Germany during the Second World War. It's as if a veil has been lifted. I always wondered what the Germans were doing, letting so many people suffer in such brutality in the concentration camps; how Hitler and his henchmen were allowed to run riot for so long without decent people putting a stop to it. Now I know.

The brilliance of this book - and I do class it as a masterpiece - is that it captures the essence of fear. Written in 1946, just a year after the war ended, it is soaked in the atmosphere of that time: the terror, the distrust and the claustrophobic atmosphere of life under Hitler. I never realised how the every day German people lived under the constant threat of concentration camps and how brutally they themselves were treated by their own police force and the Gestapo. The author, Hans Fallada, tragically died before his book was published, but letters tell us that he knew he had written a good book. He at varying times during the war he was imprisoned for his anti-nationalistic writing but was also pressurised to write material in support of the Nazi Party. As a consequence, he spent much of the war locked up in a psychiatric hospital. It seems Fallada knew only too well the price of having a conscience in Nazi Germany.

Yet, at the heart of this book, there is a great love story. Against all odds, we see two people, Otto and Anna Quangel, risk everything for a cause they believe in, and in doing so, become deeper in love than they have ever been. They cling to each other, trust in each other. It's inspiring, moving.

But the plot involves various other characters too, many of whom would be at home in the dark corners of a Dickens novel. There is Enno Klunge who would sell his mother for a piece of bread; Borkhausen, the blackmailer, who preys on the newly-bereaved in case they should rant against the Fuhrer in their anger; Obergruppenfuhrer Prall who is so drunk on French wine that his wild and vicious attacks leave even the SS fearing for their lives; and Baldur Persickle, Nazism personified, whose malevolence knows no bounds.

Balanced against these despicable characters are the likes of Eva Klunge, the post-lady, who quietly delivers the death telegrams around the streets of Berlin and takes a stand against The Party; Trudel Baumann, who dreams of a private, safe existence for her husband and unborn child; and Judge Fromm, who, like a magical wizard from Tolkien, appears out of nowhere to achieve the impossible. I do not know if any or all of these characters have their basis in real life, but I do know that I will never forget any of then, so masterfully have they been created.

Fallada is indeed a master. Consider the cleverness of the book's title - especially the use of the word 'Alone'. It and all its connotations mean so much in relation to the story as a whole. Each character at some point comes to realise that they are all alone in the world. Some are driven by self-preservation, knowing that each person is ultimately alone and must ensure their own survival. Similarly, a number of characters are faced with physical isolation; and the author considers the consequences of solitary confinement and how it effects people. Characters are also forced to face their conscience, realising, or not, that they alone are accountable for their actions.

The idea of being 'alone' in the novel is also important in that, at times, it seems that the Quangels are alone in their defiance of Nazism - acting alone in Berlin- and while it appears that none of the German people really made any resistance to the Nazis, not like the organised resistance of the French for example, this book demonstrates that there was some defiance, but that it happened on a small, individual scale, as people acted alone.

This book is not one to read on a summer's trip to the beach, but is is still well worth reading. If you are interested in the history of this period, or simply would like to read about the triumph of the human soul, then this wonderful, wonderful book is for you.

From Jane Austen’s ’Mansfield Park’ - 1957 edition (Third Illustration)

Fanny was obliged to introduce him...

Star of the Sea ~ Joseph O'Connor

I took this book on holiday to the wilds of County Donegal and it is fair to say that I lived every word. It filled my waking hours, my sleeping dreams and everything in between. Around every bend I saw the fleeting shadows of its characters; every ruin was the abandoned home of Mary Duane or Pius Mulvey; and every mouthful of potato tasted like a blessed gift. The historical backdrop of this novel is the Irish Famine, the immensity of this event being such that it colours the entire text: the plot, the characters, the atmosphere. The story is concerned with a group of travellers who make the journey from Ireland to New York in 1847 on a ship called the 'Star of the Sea'. As such, the reader can pretty much guess what to expect with this novel... or can they?

Somehow, Joseph O'Connor manages to tell the tale in a fresh new way, while avoiding all the usual pitfalls that dog every Irish novel set in this period. He cleverly leads the reader through the story by hopping backwards and sliding forwards, so that your mind is preoccupied with trying to piece it all together. With this slight-of-hand trick, the reader does not have time to overly dwell on the unfolding tragedy. Likewise, the story itself has many twists and turns, with unexpected revelations at regular intervals, which keeps the reader enthralled.

I find myself really struggling to identify who is the narrator of the text, which I am sure is a deliberate ploy by the author. The lack of any one definite voice in the text creates an unsettling, shifting feel to the book, which corresponds to the transient lifestyle of the characters and the surging and swelling movement of the ocean. The book begins and ends with the twin narrative musings of American journalist G. Grantley Dixon. His words wrap around the main novel like an extra dust-jacket, commenting on the three main characters of the text: Mary Duane, David Merridith and Pius Mulvey. While we get to experience first hand the thoughts and feelings of the latter two characters, we never get to see the world from Mary's point of view. Indeed, she only drifts in and out of the text whenever her path crosses that of another character. It is as if we only catch glimpses of her through a mirror, but she is so fascinating that we yearn to learn more of her story, to fill in the gaps of her life. What becomes of Mary Duane is one of the most compelling questions that drives our desire to read on.

While the wealthy Lord, Merridith, and the shambling labourer, Mulvey, are both fine specimens in their different ways, it is the character of Mary Duane that has been so beautifully crafted. In fact, Mary Duane might easily be seen as a symbol, not only for every Irish woman who had to struggle for survival, but for Ireland itself. Long ago, when it was forbidden by the English to write or sing about Irish nationalism, bards and poets composed symbolic lines about a dark haired beauty, a woman, badly treated by those around her. Songs like My Dark Rosaleen,(Roisin Dubh in Gaelic) although appearing to be about a neglected and put upon woman, were actually discussing Ireland's struggle for freedom. So can be seen the character of Mary Duane; abandoned, abused and betrayed. Indeed, O'Connor dedicates almost two chapters of the book to the art of writing an Irish traditional folk song. Such a strange thing to do in the middle of a novel I thought, which made me wonder, until I noticed that all of the the six or so possible story lines, that appear in traditional songs, which O'Connor refers to in the novel, apply to Mary. She IS the embodiment of Irish song: she is a literary version of My Dark Rosaleen, and so she is a symbol of Ireland itself.


As I read through the pages of this book, something about its atmosphere reminded me of Wuthering Heights and low, there on the very next page was a reference to that very book! There are a number of plot similarities, which I cannot reveal here, which add a delicious extra layer to the Star of the Sea, reminding us that the world was not such a barren, god-forsaken place entirely during the Famine; that great writers, and great literary works were still coming into being. Part of the story is narrated through the diary of Captain Lockwood. Any Bronte fan will easily note that Lockwood is also the name of the initial narrator of Wuthering Heights, a sign of O'Connor's appreciation for that novel I presume. Indeed, my other favourite Victorian writer, Charles Dickens, makes a guest appearance in the book as well, a double delight. I would go as far as to hazzard a guess that the character of Pius Mulvey is somewhat based on Dickens's creation, Abel Magwitch, from Great Expectations, as both are, at one time, residents of Newgate prison, walk with a limp, and have criminal leanings.

However, if the text deals with the hell that was the Irish Famine, it also shows glimpses of heaven. We see young Mary Duane walk through her garden of Eden with David Merridith , in a long summer of love. It is a beautifully captured scene and funnily enough the one which resonates most loudly with me on having finished the book. The biblical imagery is also captured in the story of Pius and Nicholas Mulvey, with dire echoes of Cain and Abel. Yet this is a book not so much about religious difference as about class difference. For the poor, there is little mercy, yet, O'Connor manages to show the positions of landowners and tenants in an unbiased way; how people, rich and poor, made good and bad choices, something quite original and brave in a book about what is sometimes referred to as the Irish Holocaust.
Now that I am returned from the cottage in Donegal, I turn on the television to hear news of a new famine in Somalia, the worst in sixty years. In every face I see Mary Duane, her mother, her brothers, and know instantly the suffering and self-sacrifice that is going on off-camera. It is unfathomable that such horror remains in the world and I wonder have we learned nothing at all. And suddenly 'Star of the Sea' doesn't seem so much of an historical novel after all.

(Photos above taken on holiday in County Donegal, Ireland)

Available on Etsy!

I was reminded of W.B. Yeats's poem, 'The Stolen Child', when I stopped to take this photo last week in Donegal.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Surfacing ~by Margaret Atwood

I was awake until dawn finishing this book, fighting off sleep until the end. And then I knew it - this would be a book pretty near impossible to review without giving it all away. I'd known almost nothing about the story until I was waist deep in it, only that it was about a girl revisiting her Canadian-island, childhood home with some friends, her father having disappeared. But don't worry, that's all I'll share with you on that score. I'll pick at the story just around the edges, giving nothing of the plot away.

Thematically, the story deals with life and death and how people can become disconnected with all that they knew in their childhood; their parents, siblings, and neighbours, as they move into adulthood. The characters seem broken, adrift, some clinging on for survival by a mere thread, or so it seems. Relationships are fragile, crumbling below the surface.

Trust and the lack of it is at the core of this book and Atwood forces the reader to consider who is a threat, who can be trusted. This is a first person narrative, so we only have the protagonists word for what is happening. Can she be believed? Is she a reliable narrator? As such the text is a psychological journey and we are taking it with a nameless narrator, whom we long to understand.

The title 'Surfacing' is perfectly chosen, having so many connotations, one of which relates to the protagonists spiritual reawakening as she dives into the world of memory and re-emerges, altered. But It is not as you might imagine; there is nothing predictable about this book; not the characters; not the language; not the plot. That is what I found so thrilling about the text. Just as you think you have figured out what has happened to the character, another wave of information lifts the plot and deposits you someplace different, your knowledge of the characters and story deeper and wider as a result.
I must mention Atwood's use of language in the novel. It is so evocative, yet quiet pithy. Like the landscape of the island, it is stark and bare at times, but Atwood's one-line observations can say more than can a whole page of text:'A divorce is like an amputation, you survive but there's less of you', or 'the echoes deflect from all sides, surrounding us, here everything echoes'. You could lose yourself in language like that.

As for the plot of the novel - I simply could not put this novel down. It is full of suspense, drama and mystery; where is her father? Why did she leave this place and never return? What is the damage that needs repairing?

It is not my place to tell you these things. Go read this short, brilliant book and search for your own answers.

The End of the Affair ~ by Graham Greene

All day long I have been suffering in this dead heat and I am sure this headache I have is owing to it, or perhaps it is the intensity of this book I have been reading, Graham Greene's, 'The End of the Affair'. It seems that the incessant voice of the narrator, Maurice Bendrix, impassioned and bitter, is inescapable and relentless. His words of envenomed hatred have even been haunting my sleep. It is only to be expected, I suppose, because this is a novel about a haunted man.

As the title suggests, there has been an affair; it is at an end, yet it is not. Bendrix loved Sarah Miles, wife of civil servant Henry Miles, passionately, beyond reason. Even before it was over he tortured himself, and Sarah, continually about how it would all end, how she would one day destroy him. And even now that the worst has happened and she is gone, he still clings to the hatred he feels for her, haunted. It is this, most of all, that reminds me so much of Bronte's Heathcliff, for he and Bendrix have much in common. They hate with a passion, with such vehemence that only their obsessive love for their respective soul-mates, Cathy and Sarah, can equal it. Each of them curses and blames God for the cards that they've been dealt. It is all or nothing with these beautifully damaged men, their possessiveness a moment away from insanity.


As with Heathcliff, we long for Bendrix to find peace, to find love, to find forgiveness, but as he says himself on the very first page, 'this is a record of hate far more than of love'. Even when he is in the throes of love, jealousy and hate are never far away. Ultimately, there is no one who can help Bendrix and we slowly begin to realise, as he does himself, that it is only God who can offer any relief. Religion plays a central role in this text, just as it did in Greene's 'The Heart of the Matter'. The characters are torn between happiness in this life and eternal damnation, in the next. Physical pleasure combined with spiritual salvation seems an impossibility in a Graham Greene novel from this period. I suppose it makes for gripping drama, as to give up one soul for someone else is the ultimate sacrifice for love. Again, as with Heathcliff, Bendrix is in a battle with God for Sarah's soul and does whatever he can to keep sole possession of it.

Yet can such a man be like-able? I don't think that is the point of Greene's novel. Sometime, during the London Blitz of the Second World War, two strangers met, recognised something in the other that altered them irrevocably, then parted. It's a simple story. Yet Greene is writing purely about obsession; how one dwells in a sort of half-life of loathing and despair when the object of your desire belongs to another. And so, this can be read as an anti-marriage text, which sees matrimony as a mere trap for those unlucky enough to have made bad decisions. Yet, can a man be so beastly cruel to the person he professes to love? One can ask who has been the kindest to Sarah, the man who does her no harm, yet leaves her physically cold, or the man whose love is passionate, yet devastating and all consuming? But what has love got to do with kindess? According to Bendrix, love and hate are the two side of the one coin, merging into one another as day into night. The honesty of Greene's depiction of what being in love truly feels like, is what separates this book from others.

Henry, Sarah's husband, is described as dusty and semi-archaic and is meant not to appeal to the reader. He is not the reason why Sarah cannot leave her marriage. Bendrix's real rival is much more powerful and dwells in Sarah's soul. All-knowing and ever-present, God is the real third in Sarah and Bendrix's relationship, and from the very start, the reader can probably guess where the story will end.

This book has taken me on a journey, through the twisted maze of Bendrix's tortured, suffering mind. I have felt every beat of his thwarted desire, every throb of rejection, until I thought my head would tear apart. But the forecast is for heavy rain, a welcome blessing for my aching head, for at last I have the promise of relief and can sit and ponder the affair, now that I have come to its end, and I can say that it is a book worth reading, a journey worth taking.

Elizabeth and her German Garden ~ by Elizabeth von Arnim

What a delightful short novel, 'Elizabeth and her German Garden' is, especially when read on a warm summer's day. It is made up of a collection of diary entries from April to May, in the late nineteenth century in Germany, before the two world wars made living in Germany so difficult for an English woman. The Elizabeth of the title, has escaped to her husband's country home and has fallen in love with it's dilapidated garden. She promptly decides to make the country hideaway her year-long home and gardening becomes her passion. Regardless of the weather or the season, she can be found out of doors, harassing the various gardeners (they keep leaving for some reason)and urging them to plant and prune as she would like. There are pages and pages of floral descriptions, which would truly delight any keen gardener. However, as she is a novice, she makes numerous errors.

Interesting as this is, and Elizabeth does like to wax lyrical at length about her plants, the really interesting thing to note is how the lives of women in this period are described in the text. It is unthinkable that Elizabeth herself should ever take up a spade, or plant seeds, although she yearns to do so. Instead, she must have her gardener do it, as gardening is not regarded as a decent occupation for a lady of note. Elizabeth, of course, belongs to the upper classes and although she has more freedom than ordinary, working women, she is not allowed to tend her own garden. The right to truly express herself in the language of plants and flowers is denied her. Elizabeth herself notes that some of the Russian immigrant labourers on the estate are women. They are allowed to tend to crops. Indeed some of them are known to have given birth in the middle of a shift, only to return to work within the hour. This shocking glimpse into life of women just over one hundred years ago makes this an especially interesting read.

The views on women, as expressed by Elizabeth's German husband, known only as 'The Man of Wrath', are enough to make any modern reader squirm in disbelief. Women are, he says, '"like children...What you say... is all so young and fresh, what you think and what you believe, and not of the least consequence to any one."' [sic].
Of course Elizabeth pays no attention to him and manages to convince him to move the entire family to the country, which he does not want to do, and spends all her time in her garden, which he equally despises. One therefore might ask who has the real power in the household, and whose words have 'the least consequence' at the end of the day!

There is a small collection of characters in the book consisting of Elizabeth, her husband and her friend Irais. An acquaintance comes to join them for Christmas, called Minora, who befriends the nanny, Miss Jones. There are also a number of unhappy gardeners and lastly the nameless 'babies'. These are Elizabeth's children, who are known only by the months of their birth:'April baby' and 'June baby' etc. The various babies are very amusing and express themselves with great honesty and frankness, causing much hilarity as small children are wont to do. One conversation which comes to mind is all about where angels buy their 'dwesses'. There is much humour in the book, courtesy of Elizabeth's antics and her tongue-in-cheek comments. The gentle irony of some of her remarks made me laugh out loud in places. Also, there are some funny situations, like when the three ladies go for a winter picnic by the Baltic, where they manage to eat more glove-fur than sandwiches for their lunch.

If this book were written today it would take the form of a blog, being diary-like in form, and having a private yet public audience in mind. It is interesting to note that Elizabeth von Arnim did not put her name to the text when it was originally published, her anonymity giving her some semblance of artistic freedom so often denied at the time to women. I doubt very much that her husband would have been pleased with what she wrote about him, although her own friends must have delighted in it. I don't think their marriage was a lengthy one (mercifully). How far we have come in a hundred years.

Consisting of just over 200 pages, of large, sparce text, 'Elizabeth and her German Garden' barely constitutes a novel. As such, it is the perfect read for a sunny summer's day, as your ice-cream begins to slowly melt, in your very own garden paradise.