Some Do Not (Parade's End Bk 1) ~ by Ford Madox Ford

If the measure of a book is how easily it transports you to another place, then Ford Madox Ford's novel, 'Some Do Not', is certainly a masterpiece.  I pulled back the curtains this morning and was surprised to see that I wasn't living in England in 1914.  I am not sure what I expected to see, army trucks lined up, gas-lit street lights, horse-drawn cabs perhaps, but my heart sank with the reality of rainy, suburban Dublin.

It is impossible to wait until the end of this four-novel series to write a review of 'Parade's End', in its entirety, and so I will do a diary blog post as I finish each individual book, beginning with the first.

 I understand now why Madox Ford is described as a Modernist writer, his place well-secured in the company of Woolf, Joyce and Conrad.  The narrative hops from one character's mind to another, but in such a deliciously revealing way, that the reader cares little for chronology.  What does a time-line have to do with the true meaning of a story anyhow?

By using this fragmented narrative style, we can see a scene from various people's point of view, until, ultimately, we get a sense of the truth of the matter, the truth of the story.  Like the glimpses of Tietjens' reflection, broken into many tiny pieces as the light shines from the multi-panelled window frame, the narrative of 'Some Do Not', is broken into many pieces.  Ultimately, we process the details and rebuild the story, into one, clear line, one clear truth.  Think of it like a diamond, with many sides, casting many reflections, but all the more beautiful for that.

In the character of Christopher Tietjens, we are given the embodiment of honesty, goodness and duty.  It seems all the more unexpected then, that he turns out to be the most romantic figure, that I have encountered in years.  By keeping his distance from Valentine Wannop, his academic equal and soul mate, he demonstrates the depth of his love.  It is the innocence and purity of their mutual feelings that is so moving and touching.  So much of the book takes place in the minds of the characters, in the silence of deep thought, that a verbal declaration of love is devastatingly profound.  It is the pure hearted Valentine who speaks first:

 'From the first moment I set eyes on you...' He interrupts, embolden by her honesty saying, ' And I ... from the first moment... I'll tell you ... if I looked out of a door ... it was all like sand ... But to the left a little bubbling up of water.  That could be trusted.  To keep on forever.'

 It is so typical that Christopher to declares his love through metaphor and simile and no one but Valentine can understand.  This is further proof that they are destined to be together.  How fitting that, in a Modernist text, where the whole reasoning behind the writing was to 'illumine the world within', that the secrets's of a heart should be communicated through imagery and visual means.  For Christopher, Valentine is the oasis in the desert, the only source of life, fertility and renewal in his desiccated world. The poetry of his language is the perfect mode of expression: not trite, but truthful.  The effect on the reader is all the more poignant as the words are uttered by a man in uniform, about to leave for the France, his beloved's talisman against harm tucked safely in his breast-pocket.
Of course this whole scene is so effective coming as it does after a sequence of fast-paced meanderings through Valentine's mind, as she races across London on foot, erroneously convinced that Christopher is the father of Mrs Macmaster's child, and that the rumours about him are true.  Her thoughts flood the page, as she hops from idea to idea.  The language is ceaseless, the ellipses reflecting her thought processes, as Madox Ford brings to light her inner life and the reader recognises in her how we too can think ourselves into a state.
By the time she meets Christopher face to face, she is only fit for crying, and we understand fully why this is so.  By now, Valentine has become a fully-rounded, living thing, no longer a mere fabrication on a page.

The book presents us with two specimens of womankind: Valentine, the virginal suffragette of high moral character, and Sylvia, the unfaithful wife, who disloyally, sends food parcels to her German friends despite, and because of, the war.  Life, for Sylvia, is one long party and so, perhaps, she represents the good life, the old life, of decadence, that ended with the horror of the trenches.  If she has her face turned to the past, Valentine's is facing the future.  She sees that change is coming,  and indeed hurries it along, with her demonstrations and embrace of the women's movement.  It is uncanny that Christopher, who prefers the world of the eighteen century to the England of 1914, should find himself falling hopelessly in love with a thoroughly modern girl.  Perhaps there is something deep in his unconscious mind that knows survival means embracing the future, and with it, hope.  He says earlier in the book:
'If you wanted something killed you'd go to Sylvia Tietjens in the sure faith that she would kill it; emotion: hope: ideal: kill it quick and sure. If you wanted something kept alive you'd go to Valentine...'.  It is clear that at the end of 'Some Do Not', Tietjens, despite being hurled back into the horror of the war, is opting for life.


The  'Some Do Not' of the title is referred to at least four times, once by an administrator in the War Office, who offers Tietjens a comfortable position at home.  He utters this phrase when Christopher declines: others may take the easy way out, but some do not.  Another time, it is spoken by the fly-driver, who conveys Valentine home after her horse is hurt in the fog near home.  He says: ' "But I wouldn't leave my little wooden 'ut, nor miss my breakfast, for no beast... Some do and some... do not".' Because the man has a taste for food in the morning, Valentine and Christopher's glorious time together on the hill is cut short.  How little decisions can make such a difference in the lives of others.
Then, being faced with the prospect of saying goodbye to Christopher, a tramp sees Valentine crossing the London streets, with tears streaming down her face and says to himself,  ' "Some do!" ...  then added: "Some do not!" '.  It seems that people from every level of society, have some comment to make about Valentine and Christopher.
Yet, the most informative reference to the title comes at the very end of the book, when fate once again prevents the couple from consummating their relationship.  Valentine offers herself to him saying she will be ready for anything that he might ask of her, but Tietjens says, 'But obviously... Not under this roof...' And he had added: 'We're the sort that... do not!' Suddenly they are a 'we', a self-declared couple, united in their mutual, moral understanding and feeling for one another.  The change is complete.  Overall, the title seems to suggest, the importance of the decisions that we make in life and while some are beyond our control, others, the really crucial ones, are not.

And now, I have torn myself away from the book too long and will begin 'No More Parades'.

By Michelle Burrowes

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The Irish Catholic Imagination of Elly Griffiths

So I went on a book binge - an Elly Griffiths book binge -starting with 'The Crossing Places', and then, 'The Janus Stone', followed by 'The House at Sea's End' (again) and 'A Room Full of Bones'.

The books' main character is Ruth Galloway, a cat-loving, archaeologist-turned-crime-investigator, whose love affair with Detective Chief Inspector Harry Nelson is strangely compelling.  Yet, this blog post does not deal with Ruth's love life, or any one book in particular, but rather an idea that has been building in my mind ever since finishing the last book some weeks ago: how the texts are loaded with Catholic imagery and motifs.

The first book, 'The Crossing Places', almost begins with Ruth declaring that she prefers the Catholic version of heaven, with incense and candles.  From here on in, Catholic imagery floods the books.  Consider how so many of the cases involve young children, especially babies, mirroring the Madonna and Child imagery so central to Catholic iconography.   There are children, long dead, who are executed during ancient rituals, others who are abducted from home, and sadly another who is murdered, its skull hidden in a doorway.
In contrast to these dead children, are the living children of Nelson and Ruth.  Ruth will do anything to protect her daughter but she struggles with being a working mum, and the guilt that she suffers when she is away from her is a central theme.  This, however is nothing to the guilt felt by Nelson, who suffers doubly having betrayed his wife and all his daughters.  He is in a double-bind, and endures Catholic guilt whichever way he turns.  His troubles are magnified as divorce is not an option for Catholics.

Nelson's mother is an Irish Catholic, and he himself visits Father Hennessey in one book to receive confession for his 'sins'. 'Once a Catholic..' Grffith's writes.   It is Nelson who insists that Kate is baptised.  He struggles with his physical attraction to Ruth and struggles to repress it.  As a Catholic, he knows too well: if it feels this good, it must be wrong.

Nelson is not alone either; Sergeant Judy Johnson is Catholic too.  In fact, many of the characters are Catholic and Irish, much more than you would expect in a book set in Norfolk.  Ruth's best friends, Shona and Cathbad are Irish, as are Irish Ted, Max's parents, Sister Immaculata and Father Hennessey, meaning that there is a high percentage of Catholic characters in the series.
These characters seem at home with mysticism and strange happenings.  The ghost of Eric returns in book four, despite having died earlier in the series.  We witness Cathbad, a practising Druid complete with purple cloak, who seems to be blessed with second sight, entering the Dreamtime, participating in rituals and pagan ceremonies.  It is he who officiates over a baptism of baby Kate.  At one point even Nelson is hospitalised after being on the receiving end of an ancient curse.

I feel that the tendency of Griffith to fill her books with Irish characters, is because she wants to fill it with Catholic mysticism and superstition inspired by the ancient world of archaeology, which is at the core of the Ruth Galloway books.
   A new book, 'A Dying Fall', the fifth in the Ruth Galloway series, is due out in 2013.  Let's hope the 'dying' of the title refers to no one we know.   But I think we can be sure that there will be flavour of Irish Catholicism about it, I would be disappointed otherwise.

 
By Michelle Burrowes

At Sea ~ Laurie Graham

Is this the new Agatha Christie without the body in the library?  No, it certainly is not. Yet, this book will keep you guessing and longing for high tea in the afternoon.
'At Sea', by Laurie Graham, is a novel about appearances, set on-board a cruise ship where people can easily adopt a new identity and live out their fantasies for a few weeks at least, before returning to normality on shore.
The story is narrated by the long-nosed, long-suffering Lady Enid Finch, who plays the neglected wife of Professor Bernard Finch, the ship's history lecturer (glorified guide) whose snobbery and egotism make him easily the most detested man on-board.  He is completely absorbed with his own image and status, sulking over his below-par accommodation and his having been denied a seat at the captain's dinner table.  In fact, he is so obsessed with appearing superior to all the other passengers, that it soon becomes clear that he is not who he claims to be.  When he is confronted by a fellow passenger and  boyhood friend, Enid soon realises that the man she married is not who he claimed to be, but is in fact Mr Willy Fink, a barely educated American from dubious parentage.  And what an appropriate name for the camelion-like Bernard, Fink sounding so much like fake.

But Bernard (or Willy) is not the only character who is not as they seem.  Lady Enid, we are told is actually not entitled to her title either, owing to second marriage and new heir.  To learn such untruths about our beloved narrator is quite unsettling and in keeping with the ever-shifting terrain of a stormy sea.  As the plot unfolds, more twists are revealed until we finally realise that nothing in this book is what it appears to be.  Interesting, it is only the loud Americans, so hated by Bernard for their being so 'American' in the first place, that are unchanging and steadfast.  They are what they appear to be.  Perhaps Graham is commenting on British society and how, like the effervescent Mrs Bucket, so much energy is spent in keeping up appearances, that life becomes nothing but boring show.  

Yet the theme of appearances goes still deeper in this text, infiltrating the very tone of the book.  For the first chapter or two I thought the book was set in the early part of the twentieth century and I kept expecting Miss Marple or Poirot to pop out from behind a cabin door.  How shocking then to hear a character refer to their mobile phone, or a reference to the year 2002!  Graham clearly sets out to make the book 'appear' to be set in pre-war Europe, but again is playing with our preconceptions, just like Bernard and Enid do.  In this way, the book harps back to an era long gone, when sea travel was a necessity, not a choice, which, in a way, all sea cruises do.

The book further reminds me of Agatha Christie because it contains a mystery, revolving around not the 'appearance', but the dis-appearance of an important character.  I cannot elaborate further for fear of spoiling the book, but the fact remains that the author has created a book which operates on may different levels.  Perhaps it is because of this interlacing of plot and style that I did not become very attached to any of the ship's passengers.  The all seemed a little shallow by the end and even Enid showed herself to be as unknowable as the rest.  Of course it is wonderfully enjoyable to see her abandon her grey wolly cardy for an electric blue dress, but she left me a little cold somehow.
Still, this is a very witty, enjoyable book that will keep you entertained to the end and rushing to read a little Agatha Christie and boil kettles, for some unknown reason.

By Michelle Burrowes

The House at Sea's End: A Ruth Galloway Investigation ~by Elly Griffiths

There is something alluring about stories featuring old buildings and 'The House at Sea's End', by Elly Griffiths, is no exception. Here we have a house perched on the edge of a crumbling cliff on the north Norfolk coast, inhabited by three generations of the same family - a family with a secret.

This is the third book in the Ruth Galloway series, but I must confess that it is the first one I have read.  It was easy to jump straight in and begin mid-sequence, but having read this one, I know I will go back and read the others, because, in short, I liked this book.

Ruth, our protagonist, is a 39 year old archaeologist who sometimes takes times away from her usual job lecturing at the university to help the local police with murder investigations.  This book begins with the birth of Ruth's daughter Kate, whose father is D.C.I. Harry Nelson - the man whom she works alongside, when solving crimes, who also happens to be a married man.  

So, in this novel, Ruth, back from maternity leave, is called in to identify some bodies found under rocks when a cliff collapses.  The six naked men appear to have been executed, as their hands are bound together and they lie back to back.  All of this is very interesting, as it points to a British war crime from the Second World War, but what is even more compelling is the drama unfolding between Ruth and Nelson, as she struggles with being a mother and he struggles with not being a father to their daughter, Kate.
Ruth continually assures herself and us, that she is not in love with Nelson, but she isn't kidding anyone.  And after one night, when they are trapped together in a snow storm...well... but I will say no more... only, that Griffiths's novel is something like a mixture between Bridget Jones's Diary, Foyle's War and The Inspector Lynley Mysteries... so if such a cocktail seems tempting to you, then you should give this series a try.  I realise that all of the comparisons translated well to the silver screen, and so too would this novel, if it has not already done so. 

Interesting too, is how Griffiths has added an extra dimension to her novel: there is a lovely symmetry to the book, as the author considers the idea of how the eventual location of a missing body in war-time, be it during the Second World War, or the Bosnian Conflict, can mean all the difference to a grieving family.  By comparing elements of the two conflicts, the 1940 murders seem more recent and all the more relevant to modern readers.  The plot is not overly complicated but does include a higher than usual number of Irish characters, all of whom have a taste for the demon drink; something that is somewhat stereotypical in truth.  Still, the characters are interesting and entertaining, none more so than Ruth herself, which is why I recommend this book for a cosy read on a rainy summer's evening, when the house is quiet and you want to settle down to a not-too-taxing murder mystery, with friendly characters and a teasing love triangle to boot.  Just sit back and enjoy!

By Michelle Burrowes

Mr Rosenblum Dreams in English ~ by Natasha Solomons

What is it about eccentric British people that is so appealing?  Well here we have a Jewish refugee from WWII, who has escaped Nazi Germany with his wife Sadie and daughter Elizabeth, who desperately wants to be accepted into English society.  Central to the story is the list that the refugees are given to enable them to assimilate into English society.  Finding the leaflet nigh on useless, Jacob amends the list, adding to it everything he notices about the English.

However, he still suffers from discrimination and is refused entry into a respectable golf club.   Undaunted, he decides to move to Dorset and build his own golf course, and in doing so becomes as eccentric as Bilbo Baggins himself! Here he and his wife come face to face with middle England and this is where the author, Natasha Solomons comes into her own.
Her descriptions of the villagers are akin to those of Thomas Hardy, as she creates endearing characters that jump off the page.  Equally, she creates beautiful glimpses of the English countryside, so that we can almost feel the scent of flowers in the air, and dappled light shining overhead.

More than anything though, I loved reading about Sadie Rosenblum, the forgotten wife, who expresses all her sadness and grief over the loved ones and way of life left behind in Germany, through the recipes that she makes from her mother's old cookbook.  The Baumtorte that she bakes, often the height of a small man, is something I will never forget.  It is a cake to remember and basically is like a pile of pancakes, each one sealed to the next with lemon icing.  When the village women eat the cake, they feel Sadie's sadness.  While her husband ploughs through the stones and scrub of the Dorset hills, making his golf course and changing the physical landscape, Sadie moves away the prejudices and small-mindedness of the people through the simple art of baking.
All night long she mixes and stirs her grief away.  She maintains her sanity too by dipping into her memory box containing a few trinkets and the only remaining photos of family members killed in the war.  She longs to look back to Before, just as her husband longs to move forward into the future.  She watches him change his name to Jack, wear tweed suits, buy a Jaguar sports car and feels that once again she is being left behind.  More than this I cannot say.  You need only rest assured that Solomons is a fine story teller who punctuates her tale with highs and lows at just the right places, making the plot bounce along pleasantly.

If you enjoyed 'Major Pettigrew's Last Stand', or 'The Guernsey Literary Potato Peel Pie Society', then you will love this book.  It contains a wonderful blend of comfortable characters and tragic historical background.  Just like one of Sadie's memory cakes, all the flavours of this book are delicately balanced, so feel free to open it without fear of reading harrowing war details; it is not that kind of book.  Instead, it deals with the survivors of the War, mentioning only happy memories of a life in Berlin before it all went bad.
In essence the book is about finding a home in the strangest of places; how we humans, like the humble tortoise, carry our homes with us wherever we go.  We learn that place does not matter, but that the people in our lives are irreplaceable. What you can expect from this novel is to feel inspired by human kindness and happy to be alive: what more can you want in a novel?

Note:  This novel is published under two titles:  'Mr Rosenblum's list: Friendly Guidance for the Aspiring Englishman' and 'Mr Rosenblum Dreams in English', but it is the same book.  Whichever edition you fancy, I urge you to give this book a chance - your inner book-God will thank you!

By Michelle Burrowes

To be Sung Underwater ~ Tom McNeal

If it is a great summer read that you are looking for, then look no further than 'To be Sung Underwater', by Tom McNeal.  It tells the story of Judith Whitman, an unhappily married mother of one who suddenly does not feel that she belongs in her own house any more.  Her family has outgrown her, her husband is having an affair, her teenage daughter is embarrassed by her.  So, she sets up home in a storage facility and makes up a new identity for herself.
I suppose we can all relate to the desire to disappear for a while, to our own private sanctuary and in this way, the book reminded me, favourably, of Anne Tyler's 'Ladder of Years', with escape and the need to be visible being central themes.  Here Virginia Woolf's notion of a room of one's own takes on an urban, modern feel, as Judith literally recreates her teenage bedroom, complete with her old furniture and quilt, the very place where she lost her virginity some 28 years previous.
This of course gets her reminiscing about her first love, Willy Blunt, who thought her 'dangerous' when first they met.  In a series of erotic flashbacks we watch their story unfold, during a summer full of secret rendezvous in out of the way places.

The sexual awakening of Judith Whitman is beautifully dealt with and this is just one of the many reasons why I was so surprised to realise that this book was written by a man.  He really describes the world exactly as seen from a female point of view, be it Judith's tender affection and loyalty to her father or the abrasive, railing against her mother.  The child of separated parents, it is difficult for Judith to see the bad in her father, allowing in him the sexual freedom that she despises in her mother.  The irony is, of course, that Judith herself is no prude, although she expects her mother to be one.

As such, the novel is a close study of how mothers and daughters interact.  Firstly we see how Judith and her mother have incompatible lifestyles, the daughter being shocked and embarrassed by her mother's partying when her marriage breaks up.  However, when Judith begins the steep decent into her own mid-life crises, the parallels between her teenage self and her own daughter are all too evident.  The only permissible intimacy between them occurs when Judith dares to kiss her daughter's ear as she lies sleeping.  The sadness of this should devastate Judith, but she too has moved on.  So, McNeal has drawn a plot that comes full circle: as a daughter she pushed her mother away and as a mother she in turn is given the cold shoulder.

Yet, as the circle turns, Judith learns how it feels to become an outsider when her daughter and husband grow closer and begin to exclude her.  So, Judith ultimately becomes more like her mother, which is something that every adult can relate to, despite our protestations that that will never happen to us. Such echoing through the generations, is fascinating to read and makes this book an incredibly enjoyable read.

Yet the book also considers the relationship between daughters and their fathers.  It seems that Judith's relationship with her father only develops fully when her mother has been left behind and her parents separate.  In a scenario that would have pleased Freud greatly, she becomes the main woman in his life, or so she thinks.  She accepts his strange foibles and his sexually appetite for younger women, because he is her father - totally irreplaceable. Indeed, their relationship is the most important of her life and the flashbacks deal with her love for her father as much as her love for her old boyfriend.

He is an English professor and this enables McNeal to reference many classic novels and their characters, such as Elizabeth Bennett, from 'Pride and Prejudice' and Isabel Archer from 'Portrait of a Lady'.  This sometimes can be very off-putting in a novel, but not so here.  In capturing the adolescent mind, McNeal depicts Judith imagining herself as a character from a classic novel, which is very much in keeping with the pretensions of a teenage girl on the brink of  adulthood.  It added to the realism of the story and made me want to read more Henry James!

McNeal also writes incredibly witty dialogue, which would translate into a wonderful film script.  Everything Blunt says is clever and entertaining, which is one of the reasons why he is such a compelling and downright attractive character.  This, actually, is one of the flaws of the book - Willy's charm.  He is so charming in fact that is unfathomable as to why Judith could bring herself to abandon him and marry another man.  Foolish the girl who married Malcom, with his million, instead of William with broad smile and grey eyes!

So, considering all the references to Lizzy Bennet, it is possible that McNeal is considering what if Elizabeth Bennett regretted marrying Darcy after all.  Would she have wondered what if?  I think not - Wickham and Mr Collins have nothing in common with the charming Mr Blunt.  It applies better to Isabel Archer, a girl who receives multiple proposals and marries a vile, devil of a man in error.  Yet, in a modern society where numerous partners are now the norm, McNeal is tapping into our tendency to wonder 'what if' and to look nostalgically behind, at past lovers, when future relationships are too exhausting to contemplate.
This is a fine novel, erotic, fun and thought-provoking.  It will leave you digging out your old phone book and searching for old lovers on Facebook.  What you do if you find them is your look-out, but I recommend you read this book before picking up the phone and saying hello!
By Michelle Burrowes

Happy Birthday Harry Potter and J.K. Rowling!

Today, July 31st, is J.K. Rowling's birthday and that too of her beloved character, Harry Potter.  So I think it fitting that we raise our (figurative) glasses to the pair who have done so much to introduce the power and magic of reading to a whole generation of young people and adults too.  I recently consulted a group of some 60 young teenagers, most of whom, to my amazement, had not yet read the Harry Potter books, but had, they were keen to tell me, seen all the films.

It is shocking to think that there are Harry Potter fans in the world who have not experienced the trails and tribulations of the boy who lived first hand and then I am reminded of what life was like before Harry Potter, when reading was not seen as a worthy alternative to Playstations or Nintendo in the eyes of most young people.  Of course, now the internet is also in the mix and I wonder if the time has come to re-visit the Potter books and celebrate them once more for their imaginative setting, original characters and heart-stopping plot lines; to buy them for our friends and urge all and sundry to give them a try.

So take a little time today and pull out your favourite Harry Potter book, dip into it and re-live some of the all-time best moments in Children's literature.  It will be a few moments of your day well-spent.

By Michelle Burrowes

The Problem with Shakespeare - Revisiting 'Othello'

What is Shakespeare's problem with women? In 'Romeo and Juliet', we watched Juliet thrust a dagger into her heart and die a needless death.  Then in 'Hamlet', the sweet Ophelia was driven into madness and drowned in the muddy depths, her garments, heavy with their drink.  In 'King Lear', faithful Cordelia was repaid for her filial affection by being hanged by the neck until dead.  There is so much pain and suffering heaped on the female lead in the Bard's great plays, that to play the heroine in a Shakespearean tragedy is a dangerous act indeed.

However, on re-reading 'Othello', for the first time in many years, it strikes me that poor Desdemona has the most violent, horrendous death of all.
Her husband is played on like a pipe and Iago whispers poison into the ear of his superior officer, Othello, telling him that his new bride is a harlot and has been to bed many times with their hitherto friend, Cassio.  So what does Othello do?  Does he approach his wife and accuse her openly?  For the sake of high drama, he does not.  Instead, his passion grows and he suffocates her in a fit of passion, not once, but twice!
A servant calls to him during the murderous act, perhaps distracting him, so she is not quite dead and speaks.  The horror is unbearable.  Othello, deciding to put her out of her misery, for he would not leave a dying animal in such pain, kills her again.  Yet, somehow, his powerful hands rebel against this unnatural act and Desdemona again speaks.  Once more she seems to survive the murder.
And what does she utter with her dying breath?  She says that her husband was not to blame for her murder, that it was her fault.  This, to me, is the most disturbing aspect of this very disturbing murder scene.  The idea that blame falls on the victim of the crime does not sit well with a modern audience.  At least  in 'Hamlet' Ophelia gets to vent her anger at her mistreatment by her beloved.  She runs mad and chides all men for their unruly ways.  Here Desdemona never gets that opportunity and when she does, she turns her eyes inward and chides herself for loving so a man that her father warned her against. Is this then the meaning of the play?  Is Shakespeare warning young women to listen to their fathers' bidding when it comes to marriage, or he is advising them not to marry into different cultures?  If this is so, then we can add xenophobia and misogyny both to Shakespeare's crimes.  
Indeed, the playwright deals with a similar theme in 'The Tempest', when Prospero tries to shield his daughter Miranda from falling in love, wishing instead to keep her protected and all to himself.  But such desires and unions are as natural as day turning into night and Shakespeare must have known the futility of such notions.
And so I wonder if the great poet and playwright was using the plays to live out some of his darkest wishes?  The virginal heroines, such as Juliet, Ophelia and Cordelia are blessed with quick, almost beautiful ends, but it is the lusty, 'spoilt' Desdemona who receives the most horrible of slow deaths, having the breath wrung out of her twice.  It is as if Shakespeare is punishing her doubly for her gender and sexual knowledge.  Indeed, in the play, Othello is punishing her for just that, for 'knowing' an other man, Cassio, when she should be his sole conquest.

In a world of sexual liberation such as ours, it is difficult to stomach such brutal repression.  If Desdemona had done all that Iago accused her of, should she have deserved to die?  Othello seems to think so, admitting openly that he killed her because she was a foul strumpet.  He is comfortable with his actions and believes that others will sanction them when they hear of her crimes.  Little does he think of his own guilt until it is too late.  The great irony, however, is that Othello tries to explain away his behaviour by pointing to a flaw in his character saying,

'Speak of me as I am...
Of one that lov'd not wisely but too well;'

 Here Othello concedes that it was his great passion for Desdemona that caused his violent outburst, yet he fails to realise that it was for this very trait that he executed his wife.  It seems allowable that he be passionate beyond reason, but that his wife be passionate too - that he cannot allow.

It is clear that we should not confuse Shakespeare's characters with the author himself, yet it is curious to note the recurrent themes and events, such as the murder of innocent women, which haunt his plays. While one cannot help but be awed by the author's vast body of work and the incredible levels of meaning and symbolism in his language, the maltreatment of his leading ladies clearly can be viewed as misogynistic.  Of course women in Elizabethan England and beyond were not given equal rights and freedoms, although Queen Elizabeth I governed her dominions with an authority stronger than many of her male descendants.  For women in Shakespearian England, burning at the stake was still common practice, as was branding.  Indeed, Elizabeth's own father showed a scant regard for the lives of his six wives, with beheading being the preferred method of ending unwanted marital ties.
So, perhaps Shakespeare cannot be wholly blamed that his works are marinated in the ideals and beliefs of the times in which he lived.  Still, it is a hard pill to swallow when so many fine female characters come to such violent ends.  I suppose it is that we are so enamoured with the genius of Shakespeare that to find fault with his plays is an anomaly and so maybe we can forgive him his own tragic flaw: the idealisation of women to the point that he must make saints and martyrs of them all.  Perhaps the reality of death by old age and all the decrepitude that that entails is too good for the likes of the fair Juliet, Ophelia and Desdemona?
Let us just ponder then the idea that for all the brutal putting-out of sweet female lives, Shakespeare has managed to highlight the horrendous crimes of mankind which sink no lower than the destruction of innocence and beauty, as demonstrated in the particularly brutal murder of the faithful, angelic, Desdemona.
By Michelle Burrowes

The Aran Islands ~ John Millington Synge

In 1898 John Millington Synge made the first of numerous trips to the Aran Islands in an attempt to record and archive the stories, poems and songs of the three western islands off the Galway coast.  The memoir he kept of this time makes up this 226 page book, replete with stories of the wonderful characters he met along the way and all their stories.
He captures a way of life that is long gone now and it is lucky for us that he took the time to make the often perilous journey to the islands because we now have this wonderful archive of material for posterity.   

What is most impressive is the love he clearly feels for the islanders, especially those on Inismeain.  He is in no way condescending or judgemental about their way of life which must have been so alien to him.  In fact, he longs to be part of the community and returns again and again to visit them.  By the end of the book, he is treated as almost family, having his own room ready for him on arrival and even entertaining the locals with his fiddle playing.  At last, he had a practical use on the island; to provide music and entertainment when musicians were scare.

The most poignant moment of all for me was when Synge recounted a story of a young man who had returned to the island from America, dressed in a fine suit of clothes.  His mother ran around the island telling everyone joyously that her son was home, until she learned the truth, that he was ill and had come home to die.  This story has extra meaning for us today, as we know that within a decade Synge too would be dead, at just 37 years old, having been diagnossed with cancer the year before his first trip to the island.  So maybe Synge was trying to find some answers about life and death on the islands, or perhaps he sought inspiration living with those who had so little in comparison to himself.

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There is poetry in Synge's language, making this book a joy to read, yet he also views the island and its people with the eye of an artist.  Indeed, while Jack B. Yeats may have added some of his illustrations to accompany this book, they were copied from original photographs taken by Synge.  One of my favourite descriptons is when he describes the young women washing in the sea:
'round the edges of the sea, I often come on a girl with her petticoats ticked up round her, standing in a pool left by the tide and washing... their red bodices and white tapering legs make them as beautiful as tropical sea-birds...'

 I imagine he is thinking of flamingoes but the romatic imagery is somewhat spoilt when we learn of the many cases of rhuematism on the island caused by sea salt remaining on washed clothes, which kept them continually moist.   So this is much more than a travel book as it is sometimes described, written as it is by one of Ireland's foremost playwrights.  There is no denying that life on the Aran Islands was horrendously tough, for both men and women, but Synge writes no sob story here.  Instead, he focuses on the unique charm and vitality of the islanders and details their way of life as true, essential and in many ways superior to life on the Irish mainland.
By Michelle Burrowes

I Capture The Castle ~ by Dodie Smith

'I Capture The Castle', by Dodie Smith, is a wonderful book narrated by a seventeen year old girl living in an old, ruined castle, called Godsend, with her beautiful sister, younger brother, glamorous step-mother, author father and love-sick admirer.
It is set in rural England, in the county of Suffolk, in the mid-1930s, before war destroyed everything for a second time.  But the England described in this book seems more like that of an ealier time, owing to the elegant poverty the family find themselves in, the Midsummer rituals and the glorious castle moat!

Cassandra Mortmain, the narrator, begins the story sitting on the edge of a draining board, with her feet in the sink.  From the first instant we simply adore her.  She has her dog's blanket and a tea-cosy beneath her for comfort, delighting in the warm glow from the kitchen range.   This story is her journal, written in three different notebooks, each one more expensive than the rest, the first one being the cheap six penny copybook, and each increase corresponding to a rise in the family's good fortunes.  Indeed, the family's poverty is shocking, with basics like jam and eggs being celebrated as delicacies.  These young women are in dire straits and will do next to anything to better their circumstances, with Rose, the eldest sister, warning the others that she plans to walk the streets for money, although, Cassandra reminds her, there probably wouldn't be much business in that line in rural Suffolk!

And the whole idea of marrying for money becomes a central theme of the novel when, just like in Austen's 'Pride and Prejudice', two young gentlemen of means arrive in the neighbourhood.  Just before this happens, Cassandra actually says how she would love to live in a Jane Austen novel, but then declares that she would rather live in a Bronte one.  Which novel is preferable, an Austen one with a touch of Bronte, or a Bronte one with a touch of Austen, Cassandra wonders?  She finally decides that a mixture of both would be the ideal and this is exactly what we are given in this novel.

On the one hand we are presented with the Jane-Bingley, Elizabeth-Darcy conundrum, while at the same time, living in the castle is a young man who has been brought up almost as a family member, but who is actually like a servant to the family, being the orphaned son of the old house-keeper.  He loves Cassandra deeply, although she sees him too much like a brother to allow any physical intimacy - well at first anyway.  Doesn't this storyline sound familiar?  Yes, it mirrors that of Cathy and Heathcliff in Emily Bronte's 'Wuthering Heights'.  How delightful to have both of my favourite plots co-existing in the same text.  For this alone Smith's novel is worth reading.  And she carries it off beautifully.  It is the atmosphere of young, frantic, love, that links these two novels and that she captures so perfectly here.  


The whole novel is dripping in the newness of first love at seventeen; the dizzy heights of it, the utter anguish and the crushing conviction that life will never be the same again - good or bad - because of love.  If you have forgotten how being in love at seventeen feels, then Dodie Smith's book will provide welcome reminder.

Of course the name of our heroine is also a nod to Austen, Cassandra being the name of Jane's only sister and confidante.  That being so, then perhaps her sister represents the typical English beauty - the English Rose, who so enchants the young Americans.  Maybe then, the family surname, Mortmain, relates to the ruineous situation that the family find themselves in, mort being latin for dead. Or perhaps it refers to how paralysed their father is, suffering from chronic writer's block, the artist in him being dead to the world which forces his daughters to sell everything they own to survive.

 Perhaps it was with a smile that Smith named her American millionare family 'Cotton', which suggests comfort and freshness, while at the same time hinting at new money, perhaps gained from industry and American enterprise.  In this way, the British way of life is pitted against the American, like so many previous novels, such as 'The Shuttle', by Francis Hodgeson Burnett or 'Portait of a Lady' by Henry James.  It is interesting to note that Smith wrote the novel while she was homesick for England and living in California, which very much explains the romantic depiction of Suffolk and the celebration of modernity of America, with its new gadgets, its energy and vitality.  It is interesting to consider how the co-dependency of these neighbours would be mirrored in a few years time when Britain would rely on the United States for these very same attributes, in the Second World War.  So on one level, I think Smith is considering how these two great nations, although being very different and independent, each need and rely on the other, culturally, economically and even politically.

Dodie Smith's style of writing is enchantingly funny and very observant.  She captures funny moments that we can all relate to, much like a comedian can.  For example, she says of her sister's old dressing gown; 'She has been wearing it so long, I don't think she sees it anymore...if she were to put it away for a month and then look at it she would get a shock.' How true that is!  Being a first person narrative, the novel is full of such honest witty observations.  Funny situations too litter this book, like when Cassandra bathes in the bath tub recently used for dying clothes and ends up with green arms ; or when Rose is mistaken for a bear when she wears her great grandmothers old furs out in public and is chased by half the village.  In this way, the book reminds me of the Nancy Mitford novels, 'Love in a Cold Climate' and 'In The Pursuit of Love', having the same blend of elegant-poverty, high-romance, and light humour, and embarrassingly eccentric families.

One original thing that I found when reading this book is the insight I gained into the whole idea of marrying for money.  The girls are so desperate, they are without clothes, food and the barest of essentials, that they make the sensible decision to use whatever means possible to pull themselves out of poverty.  It seems very improbable, but by the time the Cotton boys come along, we too are egging the girls on and are happy for Rose to sacrifice herself to either of the men, even when one looks like the devil with his little goatie.  I think this novel is more Jane Austen that Jane Austen novel!  Indeed, in 'Pride and Prejudice,' only a minor character, Charlotte Lucas, marries for money. Neither Lizzy nor Jane suffer that fate, although Elizabeth suffers a near miss with Mr Collins.

In this book, Dodie Smith goes so far as to demonstrate the awful poverty that untrained, women of a certain class experienced because they are not fit for employment, only for matrimony, and as such they were in some ways worse off than women in the lower classes, as they could not even earn a living.  This is the serious theme of the novel, but one that, luckily, works itself out in the end.

I cannot finish without mentioning the many animals that appear in the book.  Heloise is Cassandra's beloved white pitbull terrier, who follows and protects her wherever she goes.  Smith's love of animals is evident from how she depicts them as almost human in their expressions and behaviour.  It is easy to imagine how she went on to write the hugely successful children's story, '101 Dalmatians', later so famously animated by Disney, for which she is most widely remembered today.  However, there is much more to Dodie Smith than that, so do yourself a favour and read this delightfully, funny book, and wallow in every page, sitting on the edge of a draining board, feet soaking in the sink or not!

By Michelle Burrowes

Wired Love - A romance of dots and dashes ~ by Ella Cheever Thayer

'Wired Love- A Romance of Dots and Dashes', by Ella Cheever Thayer  (1849-1925),  is an enchanting book about a love affair between two telegraphers in America, code names 'N' and 'C'.  The couple fall victim to the dangers that internet chat-room users are faced with today: they begin to fall for the stranger on the other end of the line without knowing what they look like, who they are, or anything much about them.  For the first few chapters, 'N', known as Nattie, has no idea if the grapher on the end of the line is a man or a woman.  She leads a double life - her 'online' life and her humdrum normal life.  She has her real, 'visible' friends, and this increasingly special  'invisible' friend.  More and more the 'invisible' variety takes precedence.  How many of us can relate to that?  The amazing thing is that the story was written in 1879.  

It is clear that Cheever Thayer is a huge Dickens fan; her characters are cartoon-like in their depiction and comic too.  Like the Pocket family in 'Great Expectations', who are continuously described as tumbling and falling, so too is the love-sick Quimby, as he tumbles and falls, over logs, cushions, fire buckets etc. He is something akin to Stan Laurel and you cannot help but warm to him and respect his good taste as he is so enamoured with our witty heroine.  The novelist actually refers to two Dickens novels during the story as a nod of respect the great English writer who had died just nine years before this book was written.

The humour in this novel is touching and farcical at times, in the way of P.G. Woodhouse, and I found this to be one of the most charming aspects of the book.  Charming is the perfect word for it as you fall in love with the characters and delight in the myriad of misunderstanding that makes this novel so highly cinematic.

Indeed, it would make a wonderful play and an even better movie.  As such it would have been a perfect role for a young Jimmy Stewart and reminds me greatly of 'The Shop Around the Corner', which was recently re-made and updated as 'You Got Mail', starring Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan.  If you like either of those films, then you will love this book.  It is full of witty, sparkling dialogue, plenty of puns and word play, especially when they chat on 'the wire', and could easily be adapted into a modern tale about find love on the World Wide Web.

It is so interesting to note the freedom that these Victorian Americans, and women especially, were allowed.  It seems a million miles away from the sheltered, chaperoned existence of the Brontes and George Elliot.  It is no surprise to learn then, that Cheever Thayer was a suffragette and wrote plays on the subject.  Here is a section from the book that I found very interesting, given the early date of its origin, and how pertinent the words are even in today's world:

'... She had growled at herself all the way because she was not smart enough to get on in the world, even so far as to be to stay at home in such weather.  For storms of nature, like storms of life, are hardest to a woman, trammelled as she is in the one by long skirts, that will drag you in the mud, and clothes that every gust of wind catches, and in the other by prejudices and impediments of every kind, that the world, in consideration, doubtless, for her so-called "weakness", throws in her way'.

Such words of frustration echo Bronte's novel written some thirty years previously, but would not have been out of place if there were said by Jane Eyre herself!  So while the book has a light, romantic tone, there is substance there all the same and you do not need to dig very deep to find it.

But what is most memorable about this book is the voice of the author; this vibrant, clever, witty woman, who had worked in a telegraph office herself, and had spoken in morse code on the wires, and, perhaps, had experienced some of the funny situations that she describes so deftly in the book.

A regular reader will finish this short book in a day, and what a pleasant, romance-filled day of smiles that will be!

By Michelle Burrowes  

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The Paris Wife ~ Paula McLain

Rage, rage and more rage... for Hemingway, his wife and me. 
'The Paris Wife', by Paula McLain, is like a slow growing hurricane: its passion builds and builds until you find yourself being carried away by its characters and finally deposited a long distance from where you originally started, feeling battered and bruised.
It is a story of the courtship and marriage of Hadley Richardson and Ernest Hemingway, the acclaimed novelist and self-proclaimed hero of modern American literature.  It follows the life cycle of a love affair, from the heady first days, to the post-mortems and as such should come with a health warning.  Let the broken-hearted everywhere beware!  We are taken down the road of break-up and recrimination and while Mrs Hemingway, the narrator, may not feel anything close to hatred for her ex-husband, the reader certainly does.  Like her, I fell in love with Hemingway in those early chapters and even ordered myself some copies of his novels to enjoy, but by the book's end, I found myself cursing the man.  Like I said - this book is all about rage, the good sort and the bad.  


The book also made me long for Paris, its cafes and art galleries, its classic architecture and damp rain.  It made me yearn, too, for a writer's life and giving myself totally to a work of art, at the expense of health, wealth and everything else.  But who can live like that?  Ernest Hemingway certainly could and did.   The candle burned at both ends for this writer, giving a dazzling light that attracted its own set of fireflies and moths.  Yet, people cannot live like that for long, burning up everything and everyone in their path; old lovers and friends, family and patrons.  

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It is no mystery why 'The Paris Wife'  by Paula McLain is so popular with book clubs the world over for it leaves the reader with more questions than answers.  One of the main questions is, should someone be excused bad manners and cruelty just because they are an artist?   If so, then is meanness and infidelity only allowable if the artist is an extremely talented artist, or is every artist, be they Noble Prize winning or derivative and full of hot air, allowed such moral poetic-licence?  It makes me wonder about the true legacy of a person - which should be most celebrated, that you were a good writer, or that you were a good person?  After reading this book, I have to admit that Ernest Hemingway, despite being a gifted author, was a selfish, self-obsessed, childish man, whose ego knew no bounds, and who clearly had a problem with women.   By the end of it, I wanted to reach into the pages, grab him by the neck and strangle the man, but that is one pleasure, thus far, denied to an eager reader.  (You see... more rage!)



 The way Mclain tells it, Hemingway was almost a victim of a preconceived ambush - that Pauline Pfeiffer effectively waylaid the author and he was helpless to stop it happening.   It reminds me of some of the other first wives of successful artists: Cynthia Lennon, especially, comes to mind, a young wife and mother, abandoned very publicly by her husband and then by his entire entourage.  And what about Ann Hathaway, William Shakespeare's wife, who, like Hadley was also some years senior to her husband, and was abandoned by him in Stratford while he searched for fame and fortune in the playhouses of London.  Even the great romantic, Charles Dickens was not immune, leaving his once beloved wife, Catherine Hogarth, after she bore him ten children, for an 18 year old actress, Ellen Ternan.  


Why is it that so many of our greatest artists seem to outgrow the women they loved before they were famous?  Don't we see the same scenario playing itself out repeatedly in the lives of Hollywood celebrities?  In some of these cases there is not much artistic talent to speak of, but considerable fame and attention.  And so I conclude that it is the ego of the artist, and not their level of brilliance, that makes marital success, or mere monogamy, so elusive.

Even James Joyce, the writer who seemed to understand so intimately the working of a woman's mind, managed to be unfaithful to his mistress and muse, Nora Barnacle.  Their marriage 25 years later seemed to make no difference to their relationship and affairs with other women continued.

But this is not saying much of McLain's book itself.  It is a great piece of historical fiction, written as Hadley Richardson's memoir.  She makes an endearing narrator, although we occasionally see life from Hemingway's perspective and hear private conversations that Hadley would not have been privy to.   McLain brings their story to life as she imagines the conversations and situations that the couple found themselves in.  It seems that the essence of the Hemingways' relationship has entered into the very fibre of this text: their passionate, hunger for life; exhausting, exhilarating and extra-ordinary.  The text is light and the dialogue full of witty, American slang that was so popular in the 1920s.  Hemingway comes across as larger than life, his smile once described as spreading from his face and reaching every part of his body.  


The interesting thing is that Hadley writes her memoir in the same style as her husband; with pure, unadorned language.  Similarly, their world, like Hemingway's prose, is simple and clear, no frills, no unnecessary clutter.  Their home in Paris is scantily furnished and bare. They eat simply, sausage and potatoes being a favourite dish, and even their clothes resemble those of plain, working folk: baggy trousers and cotton shirts.  As their surroundings become more sophisticated, and they mix with the rich and beautiful, so too do their lives.  Finally, everything becomes so complicated, it is unbearable and, as Yeats said, 'The centre cannot hold'.

It is clear that McLain is a published poet as the novel is full of visual symbolism. When Hadley is at her lowest, feeling trapped and confined, beside her is a canary bird, caught in its cage.  There are other references to caged birds in the novel too.  If Hadley is represented by a caged bird, then Ernest is best symbolised by the charging bull that he loved so well; a huge physical presence, passionate, raging, wild.  At one point in the novel, the entire male entourage begin to adopt bull-like personae, squaring up to one another and challenging their friends to fight over a particularly beautiful girl.  The entire scenario would be laughable were it not for the pain it causes the women in the group. Yet, one of my favourite symbols in the text is the moment when Hadley finally realises that her marriage is over, and she watches the walls of their son's sandcastle crumbling into the sea.  This tiny cinematic detail captures the tragedy of divorce so beautifully, when a home is wrecked irreparably and all security for the family unit is lost.

The structure of the book has the symmetry of a poem too, with images from the beginning of the novel echoing through to the end.  Consider when Hadley and Ernest first kiss, he calls her a coward and bids her to jump off the top of a sand dune and when she does, he takes her in his arms and kisses her passionately.  On the day when she finally snaps, having had enough of his infidelity, he calls her a coward, telling her to dive into the water below.  This time she does not dive in.  There are so many clever, symmetrical echoes in this book, with mirrored stories of fathers lost and women abandoned, that you cannot help but smile.

This is a book to take your time over and enjoy, although your desire to discover how it all ends with have you devouring the pages in the all-or-nothing fashion of the Hemingways.  But be prepared to be shaken by this text, by the questions and the doubts it will leave you with, on the nature of love, fidelity and matrimony, and the eternal differences between the male and female of the species.

By Michelle Burrowes

Jane Austen's 'Pride and Prejudice' ~So simple, it's child's play.

Have you ever felt that there is something missing from your life?  Well, I have found what that 'something' is:  The Jane Austen, 'Pride and Prejudice' Baby Board Book!  This is and is not what you are thinking.  No, it is not a book about child-rearing Jane Austen style, although I suspect some Janeite somewhere in the world is working on that project as I type.  But yes, it is a book for babies.
How is that possible?  How can a mere child appreciate the pertinent prose, witty witticisms and clever character creation that we associate with Jane Austen?

  Well the awfully talented artist and author duo, Jennifer Adams and Alison Oliver, have come up with the solution to that very problem....
by making a beautiful book that babies will enjoy, on a very simple level.  And what do little folk like doing... apart from chewing?  Counting!  

Yes - this is a Jane Austen, 'Pride and Prejudice', baby counting book ... I kid you not.  'One English village.... two handsome gentlemen... three big houses...' you get the picture?

Indeed, the pictures are the most appealing thing about this little jewel of a book.  The illustrations are simply adorable, which brings me to my main point.  This is not actually a Jane Austen baby book... but a Jane Austen mummy book.
This book is so deliciously charming, it will make you feel complete, whole and happy with your lot in life.  Failing that, it will give you something nice to look at when you have finished dashing about and finally sit down with your child for some one on one time.
 It will also put a smile on your face as you teach your child how to count:   'Yes, five sisters, one who is very silly, another who is very pretty and one... just like your mummy; who is very, very clever.'  An added bonus is that this is one book purchase that you don't need to feel guilty about - it is educational after all.  

My final word:
Only very clever mummies will buy this book but only very silly mummies will actually let their children play with it... especially for those kiddies who prefer chewing to counting.

By Michelle Burrowes

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Corrag ~by Susan Fletcher

I have just finished reading 'Corrag' by Susan Fletcher and I can honestly say that I have never read a book like it.  Previously published under the title of 'Witch Light', it is a story about a young woman who has witnessed a massacre in the Scottish highlands and to silence her, the authorities have accused her of being a witch.  She tells her life-story to a visiting Irish political activist, Charles Leslie, who is secretly gathering evidence against newly crowned King William of Orange, the person behind the massacres.   At first he is reviled by the tiny witch creature, but slowly he begins to see the young girl beneath the tangled hair and torn garments for what she really is: an honest, frail orphan, who has been victimised all her life for daring to be different.
On one level this book tells the story of just one woman, but on another, it brilliantly describes the fate of hundreds of thousands of outspoken, clever women through the ages.  Corrag comes from generations of 'witches', that is women who led hunted lives and who were executed for being different, having a knowledge of homoeopathy or a child out of wedlock .  The term 'witch' is flung at her as a threat whenever someone takes against her on the flimsiest of pretexts.  The ignorance of people was appalling and I only wonder that even more women were not branded by such a title, given the random nature of it.  The book clearly sets out to illustrate the horrors experienced by so many women in the past and to tell their story.  Indeed Corrag herself calls on Charles Leslie, and indeed to the reader too, to remember the dead and their stories, as a way of keeping their memories alive.  Susan Fletcher certainly has achieved that goal in this novel.  

She uses a number of interesting narrative devices to seduce the reader.  For example, clever use of first person narrative ensures that we develop an intimate relationship with the main characters. The story is told in a collection of monologues: Corrag's dialogue consists of a one-sided conversation with Charles Leslie, and his dialogue consists of a collection of letters that he writes home to his beloved wife Jane.  It is a very simple yet ingenious way of learning what two different characters are feeling without slipping into third person narrative.  Most of the time we are listening to Corrag tell her tale, with letters from Charles adding some variety and filling in the gaps.  Interestingly, at the end of the book, this technique is reversed momentarily and it is Charles Leslie who speaks in a one-sided conversation and it is Corrag who writes a letter.  The impact of this surprise is to add drama to the text and to suggest an element of freedom for the characters.

Yet, while we are inside Corrag's head, our hearts pound wildly, as she fights-off drunken redcoats or sits in her cell awaiting execution.  We are with her when she struggles to live by the oath she gave to her mother, never to love a man.  She feels guilt when she begins to love the old mare who saves her life countless times and is the only true friend she has ever known.  But it is when she sees the face of Alistair Macdonald that her fate is sealed and her passionate, secret love for him cannot be quelled.  We are there, listening to every word that she speaks to Charles Leslie, the man who lost a daughter back in Ireland and begins to see in this tiny girl, resemblances of his wife and lost child.  In a way, Charles becomes a surrogate father to Corrag, but to give specific examples as to why that is, would spoil the ending.


There is great poetry in this novel, as the author uses the senses to describe every new place, character and object.  Fletcher describes a wild, untamed Scottish landscape, where prose and poetry merge and co-exist.  The reader is bombarded with a myriad of sensual description, in a way that reminds me of the great Romantic poets.  Every sense is seduced, as the scenes come to life on the page.  The synaesthetic imagery propels us back to 1692 and screams so loudly that we too feel the need to lift our skirts and flee.  As one might expect, in a tale about a girl living out of doors, there is mud, heather and moss, but there is also moonlight, mists and waterfalls.  Corrag dwells in a world without kings and religion, because she has learned that she is not like everyone else and she does not fit in to that traditional world.  Her world is the natural world, where she is ruled by her basic instincts of kindness, honesty and truth.  As such, she has a wisdom that endears her to some, but cause others to fear her.


The classical elements, earth, water, fire and air, are all central to the novel.  Corrag is so in tune with her surroundings that she is never happier than when growing her herbs in the brown earth, or standing naked amid silvery mists of water and air.  She was born in wintertime and so is a child of the snow.  So many of the important events in the story occur while snow is falling, which is in stark contrast to the burned houses during the Glencoe massacre and, of course, the execution fire that awaits Corrag.  Fletcher carefully balances all the classical elements in the text to emphasis the only 'witchcraft' or laws that Corrag adheres to, which are the laws of nature.  Corrag belongs to the physical earth and knows its ways.  With a mother who was cruelly taken from her too soon, she relies on the predictability of Mother Earth, its seasons and cycles, for emotional sustenance and protection.

But apart from the clever language, poetry and narrative voice, this book is an excellent read.  I urge you to read it and try it for yourself.  It is a book like no other, and believe me, Corrag is one character worth knowing.  But you must let her come close and whisper in your ear, her strange yet beautiful tale, of water, earth, fire and air.  Then, when next you say 'witch', you will think of the home in the highlands, between the gap in the rocks, where the girl with the moths in her hair bathes in moonlight and yearns for snow.

Five out of Five

By Michelle Burrowes

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The Islandman ~ Tomas O Crohan

Having recently finished reading 'The Island', by Victoria Hislop, about life on a Cretan island, I picked up a copy of 'The Islandman', by Tomas O Crohan.  This is a first hand account of O Crohan's life growing up on The Great Blasket island, off the south-western coast of Ireland.  We in Ireland are probably best familiar with the island because Peig Sayers lived there and the book she wrote about her life on the Blaskets was compulsory reading for every Irish teenager for many years.  As such, it was conservatively the most hated Irish textbook of all time.

Despite this blatant prejudice, I thought I would give Tomas's book a try.  Written in his native Gaelic tongue but translated into English, he begins by describing his first memory, that of being breast fed by his mother... apparently he was about 3 or 4 at the time.   Yes, the women were a hardy bunch on the islands.

Born in 1856, this autobiography spans a whole lifetime, up until 1926, when the final chapter was written.  O Crohan himself died in 1937.  The book is full to the brim with adventure, sadness and countless interesting characters.  More than anything though, it captures on paper a world that is long gone, where people fought against the elements and faced hardship on a daily basis.  Death was a regular occurrence, but people on the Blaskets just had to get on with life and focus on securing the next meal.  Out of his ten children, O Crohan lost eight in very sad circumstances and his wife too passed away quite young, leaving behind a tiny baby.

The women seem to die very early and lead hard, thankless lives, with their days spent cleaning, cooking and slaving after countless children and absent husbands.  If bread was to be had, it was the woman's job to bake it.  Marriages were based upon the ability of a woman to work hard, cook and care for animals.  Lack of space in the family home was another reason to have your eldest daughter married-off and moved-out into an in-laws house.  Love, as we know it today, was not even in the running. O Crohan too found a wife in this way, although he liked her first because of her singing voice.  From his descriptions, there were always people trying to make a match for him where ever he went.  He never describes what she looked like or anything about her as a individual.  Instead, he only tells us how her death meant he had more work to do around the place and was left short-handed.  The author is not very clear on such personal details, but instead tells the tale in broad brush-strokes, giving the reader a sense of life on the island in macro scale.

One of the most memorable stories he recalls was the day the bailiffs came to the island to claim taxes.  The men moved all their animals to a distant part of the island, while the women were left holding the fort, as it were.  As the bailiffs approached, each carrying a gun, the women began showering them with large rocks.  Children scampered about the fields collecting stones for their mothers.  After three attempts and with one man left unconscious owing to his wounds, the bailiffs sailed away and did not return.  Such were the women of The Blaskets.

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As you can imagine, each day was a struggle on the island, but the people there also knew great freedom and joy.  Couples were 'matched' together in marriage and at times there was plenty to eat and drink.  There was much celebration and drinking whenever a pig was sold, and drinks of commiseration too when one was not.  Many a good man was lost to the pleasure that alcohol could bring and O Crohan explains this at the end of the book by saying that they drank so much because of 'the need to have a merry night instead of the misery that we knew only too well before'.

The story also tells of the heartbreak of separation and emigration, as countless young people left the island in search of a better life in America.  What I did not know was that so many returned after a few years only to leave again a few years later.  From such examples we can see the conflict that raged in the lives of the islanders: wanting a better life for themselves, but being so instinctively drawn back to their island home.  I cannot imagine how these people coped with life astride two very different worlds: forsaking the traditions of the Great Blasket for the modernity of Manhattan.

So, if you fancy taking a step back in time, to see how Irish men and women survived on this tiny outpost, called the Great Blasket Island, in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, in the middle of the 19th century, then 'The Islandman' is the book for you.  You certainly will never forget it, and let us hope we will never forget the men and women of The Blasket Islands, for we certainly never will look on their like again.

By Michelle Burrowes