One Day

by David Nicholls

A good read about two very flawed people that sees them on the same day every year for eighteen years, while the author spins a ‘will they, won’t they’ web that draws you in. Once in a while I will read a book that's hugely popular, like this one, just to know what it's like, it's not as if my taste is particularly snobby or high-brow, it's just I don't seem to naturally go for the bestsellers...Although with this one I think the cover is a bit off-putting, it reminds me of an easyjet advert.

Anyway, Dexter and Emma are an ‘everyman’ and ‘everywoman’ for Generation X, who came to adulthood in the late eighties/early nineties.

I’m not sure if anyone has examined this one particular stand of the book, so I will try.

The most interesting thing about the book, I thought, was a buzzing undercurrent of political engagement and then, increasingly, disassociation.

Emma, the more politically engaged one of the main characters is described, in the late eighties as the book begins as ‘always boycotting something’, she goes to demos and reads difficult Russian and Scandinavian plays. She wants to be a writer (secretly) and ‘to change not the whole world, but the world around her, in a small way’. Her most exciting moment was ‘being struck by police baton’ in the poll-tax riots. The only thing is, it’s more about appearances than actual action, with Emma. It’s like this with most people, of course, we can’t all be Che Guevara, but it’s a very fine line from ranting on about everything that is in fashion, to thoughtfully living your life and trying to apply certain ideas to your reality. (I haven’t figured out where this line is myself, I know, so I am trying to not be shockingly hypocritical.)

What follows, is, in my mind, a perfect illustration of the state of Great Britain, in particular, and the political imagination of its people.

Emma moves to London, has to get a crappy job, which she stays at for two years out of fear, or ennui, becoming increasingly desperate and frustrated. Sound familiar? (I found myself becoming irritated, on Emma’s behalf, by it being hard for her ‘in the current economic climate’!)

Dexter, the other lead character, meanwhile has a decadent few years travelling and ‘teaching English’, roaming through Thailand, Italy etc etc.

The brassy glamour and excess of the nineties is vividly realised by David Nicolls and  is described by Dexter as ‘a huge relief from the gulag of the late eighties’, where people can finally ‘have fun’ and let off some steam, be young and free and careless.

However, it is with hindsight that we have now realised that these manic, pill-popping, boom years laid the foundations for what came to pass in the last two or three years, the recent financial breakdowns. The sagging of the grinning face of capitalism.  The nineties were the years of the slow extrication of the importance of politics from the minds of the British people.

There is a very telling argument that Dexter and Emma have towards the end of the book, in 2002, just after the 1million strong march against the Iraq war. Their opposing opinions are, I believe, representative of the two main bodies of thought on this abstract word: ‘politics’, which has lost almost all of its meaning.

Emma begins by bemoaning the fact that there was no opposition to the Iraq war after that large rally, surprised at the fact that the students are not more engaged/enraged. Dexter sighs inwardly and gets defensive, saying he has no interest in politics, that no-one cares, that it’s ‘over’. Emma tells him that ‘politics is people’, then Dexter reminds her that the fact that she isn’t doing anything, means that she doesn’t care, and maybe no else does either.

I really think that this was so relevant before these last three months. But now, suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, a whole new generation of students and young people has become radicalised. The new wave?

The monumental changes in Tunisia, and hopefully Egypt have given us a glimmer of hope that huge things are possible with action.

Maybe the kind of argument that falls between Dexter and Emma won’t be possible in popular fiction, won’t even be conceivable in reality, in the future. Maybe.

Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day

If you’re feeling a bit blue and under the weather, like I was the other day, this book is the perfect tonic. It’s the literary equivalent of a large hot chocolate with clouds of whipped cream followed by a hug from your boyfriend/ girlfriend/ cat.

It’s an unashamed makeover/Cinderella story, but one that is so gloriously light and deftly written you get swept along in a sea of ‘strong stares’ from men with ‘powerful builds’, silk dresses, fur and warm baths.

I am glad I happened to read this when the cold weather hit as a 1930’s set romp through glamorous (but still rainy!) London makes you appreciate this frustrating and yet lovely city.

Miss Pettigrew is such a wonderful character as Winifred Watson perfectly taps into a an emotion everyone has at some point – of feeling inconsequential and lost – and you really feel so desperately sorry for Miss Pettigrew, for she has never had any fun or frivolity in her life, that you realise that those two things, which are so often scorned and looked-down-upon, are clear and purely joyous, and that everyone should have a bit of jaunty flounce every so often.

While this book is not exactly a beacon of feminist thought, it deserves its respect as an unusual portrayal of middle age, where Miss Pettigrew’s life isn’t over because she is forty, which is a subject very few books had dealt with at that time.

But enough critical analysis. I think: drink it up in a day (it’s quite short), gasp with delight, have a warm and happy glow about your person afterwards! Sigh.

Moon Tiger

Claudia Hampton, infirm in old age, lying in bed, sets out to write a history of the world, and her own history in the process.

This book is about memory. The mystery of it, the way it develops and transforms over time. The way it can be deceptive, painful, vivid and generous all at once.

The narrative shifts between time and place effortlessly and fluidly. The narrative also shifts into the point of view of the other characters, telling one memory from the recollection of several people, illustrating perfectly how experience and subsequent memory of an event is only ever personal and always different according to whom you ask.

Penelope Lively writes wonderfully and the way that the book shifts is never uncomfortable.
It is very easy to follow, because of, not despite its fragmented nature. There are parts that are like a flash of an image, like some memories can be, there are parts that are remembered for an unexplained reason, parts that are richly detailed (particularly those parts where Claudia is in WW2-time Egypt), parts that are hazy and sparse. It is because of this fragmented nature that the book is not difficult. Instead, it is familiar, because this is the exact same way that most people remember.

Side note: if you are interested in films about memory, watch 'Amarcord' by Federico Fellini, filmed in a similar way to how this book is written, but about the director's childhood in a small town in Italy.

There was also a small but very interesting vein running through the book, that of collective memory. Claudia Hampton is a historian, so she mostly deals with this. Those facts and accounts that have become something everyone thinks of when they think of something they have not experienced for themselves. This is particularly relevant when she writes about the war in Egypt: from a human perspective, very biased.
That is something that collective memory can never be, violent and hot. Strangely enough when we talk of a memory of a people, wars and invasions in particular, the collective 'memory' is dulled and ground to the gray dust of numbers and impersonality.

I think this book is incredibly successful with its experimental style, I have never, until now, read a book that attempts so many stylistic devices and carries them off. It took me about three weeks to read, as sometimes I had to put it down because I had to think about what I'd just read (and I don't normally do this! Also I don't mean to sound horribly pretentious- just a bit maybe!).

This is a part that I particularly liked:

'...truth is tied to
words, to print, to the testimony of the page. Moments shower
away; the days of our lives vanish utterly, more insubstantial
than if they had been invented. Fiction can seem more enduring
than reality. Pierre on the field of battle, the Bennet girls at
their sewing, Tess on the threshing machine - all these are
nailed down for ever, on the page and in a million heads. What
happened to me on Charmouth beach in 1920, on the other
hand, is thisledown. And when you and I talk about history
we don't mean what actually happened, do we? The cosmic
chaos of everywhere, all time? We mean the tidying up of this
into books, the concentration of the benign historical eye upon
years and places and persons. History unravels; circumstances,
following their natural inclination, prefer to remain ravelled.'

Moon Tiger is also, by coincidence, being covered by the Guardian book club, if you wanted to read a bit more about it (better yet though, read the book!).

The Drunken Forest

Rainforest

If you’ve read ‘My Family and other Animals’ by the same author, you will know that Durrell has a fantastic ability to make his hair-raising anecdotes of encounters with animals both hilarious and informative. ‘The Drunken Forest’ doesn’t disappoint on that count. There’s a few in particular that could be published as short stories in them-selves.
As a self-proclaimed collector Durrell, with the help of his wife sets out to Argentina and Paraguay to bring home animals for his zoo and preservation trust in Jersey. This is all set in the early 1950’s.
What I found difficult in some parts was the idea of collecting animals for a zoo, sometimes taking fledgling chicks away from their parents. The idea of zoos though, has undergone a drastic change in the last 50 years, with many becoming a huge resource for the study and care of animals. Indeed, many animal species only exist in zoos now. Gerald Durrell definitely belongs in more in the ‘preservation collector’ category rather than the ‘stick pins through insects and mount them’ type!
This book is a joy to read and I will relay one story of a grey pampas fox…

‘Foxey’s… interest in cigarette butts amounted to almost an obsession.
Whenever he found one he would pounce on it and devour it,
with the expression of utmost loathing on his face. Then he
would spend an uncomfortable half an hour coughing violently,
have a long drink of water and be ready for the next butt-end.
One awful day, however, Foxey learnt his lesson. Carelessly I
had left a nearly full packet of cigarettes within his reach, and
before I had discovered it Foxey had eaten the lot. To say that
he was sick would be a vast understatement. His stomach per-
formed the emesis of all time, and every last shred of paper and
tobacco was returned to the light of day, tastefully mixed with
Foxey’s breakfast. He was so exhausted by this effort that he just
lay and let a chicken walk right past him, and never even twitched
an ear. By evening he had recovered enough to eat a couple of
pounds of meat and two raw eggs, but the offer of a cigarette
caused him to back away, sneezing indignantly. Never again did
he sample tobacco in any shape or form.’

Eve Green

photo

One of the most beautiful books I have ever read. One that I go back to again and again when I need to be reminded that the world is a fantastic place. When I need to taste the countryside in my sometimes stifling urban environment. I mentioned this book in an earlier review of 'When the Earth Hums in B Flat', as that one was also set in rural Wales. Here it is written of in Summer also, when I think it is most bewitching and unexpected, as Wales is never really thought of without greenness and dampness as its definition.
Of course, love is here too. Eve Green is a girl born of a hushed love-making, her mother dies very young whereupon Eve is brought to Wales.

'...Did I cry? No. But a
secret part of me unfurled up on the ridge that afternoon.
My loss billowed out before me, snapping at itself and
pulling me with it, streaming out over the sheep hills like
a funeral flag caught in the strong Welsh wind.'

Susan Fletcher's writing is alluring and poetic. She was young when she wrote this book (it won the Whitbread First Novel Award) and the language is sometimes a bit self-conscious, but this really suits the book, it feels like Eve Green is so real. Some phrases are heart-stoppingly lovely, but have a strangely shy air to them, as if these are words that Susan Fletcher saved for a long time and reluctantly decided to share.
I am very glad she did. This is also a book of grief, and the universal truth that time passes, and wounds heal, and if they scar, that they don't hurt any more.
Highly recommended, I know that Rebecca at Teacups, Cupcakes loved it too.

The Earth Hums in B Flat

Ever since I read 'Eve Green' by Susan Fletcher, (a heart-breakingly beautiful book - let down by it's chick-litty cover) whenever I pick up a book about a childhood in Wales, my mind thinks 'oooh'... This book has a gothic tone and a murder as it's backstory, but is really more about growing up in a tiny community and the pressure to live a quiet life and not arouse the attention of the neighbours.
Gwenni, the 12-year-old narrator, is strangely unlikeable, however, even though the author tries to make her sound whimsical and imaginative, she does not get developed enough to make her a fully rounded teller of the story, as this voice has to be very strong in a novel. But, somehow, this does not detract too much from the book. Gwenni's mother is the strongest character here, a woman with secrets that burden her, that make her a little too angry when her daughter acts 'dollaly', snappish, severe and caught up with what people think of her. I really wanted to find out why exactly she was so bent on getting the acceptance of the community and having a normal family.
I have never experienced first-hand what it is like to live in a tiny community, maybe that is why I am fascinated by books like this, as it may as well be describing living on the moon, with the feeling of 'otherness' I get from it. My mother talks frequently about the anonimity she cherishes while living in London (having lived until she was 28 in a tiny town in Russia), the feeling you can do what you want, go anywhere and nobody will be any the wiser. It must be a strange feeling to be so...well, known, I suppose. I think I would feel partly very safe but very watched too...
Anyway, back to the book!
Just to let you know, the ending does not dissapoint, everything unravels faster than a badly knitted sweater and it is a great relief to know the secrets, which is a glorious feeling...
Wales as a setting is perfect for this kind of story, and the author describes lusciously the damp greenery, the bright blue of a lost budgie's wing in a gloomy haze of rain.
I would read this book again I think, but only pay attention to the attention to detail displayed here and the vivid imagery, not the plot!

The Girl with Glass Feet

An assured first book from a very young writer (I think he is 24).
Ida McLaird's feet are turning into glass... At first, I thought that this would mean magical realism, but Ali Shaw chose a rather more unexpected route. He writes of Ida's illness acceptingly, so each character doesn't have to go through the whole tiresome rigmarole of disbelief, but instead the book focuses on her relationship with a lonely and cripplingly awkward photographer whom she meets as she returns to the island where her illness first manifested itself.
But (and this is my only but) the story begins in a dream-like way, so when suddenly Midas (the photographer) prints off pictures from his digital camera, it's very jarring and you have to re-assess your preconceptions about the book. Perhaps the author meant to do this, if so, it's a very clever device. I don't think that the book's cover does it any favours, as it prepares you for a very whimsical (dare I say it, girly) read. It isn't that at all.
St. Hauda's Land, where the book is set, is rendered stunningly by the author. He conjures up a marshy, misty land of snow and monochrome colour, which is starkly mirrored in what is happening to Ida. She comes back to the island to find a cure, to contact the only person she met when she last came. Henry Fuwa is a biologist studying miniature moth-winged cattle, which he desperately tries to keep a secret.
There is quite a complicated love-through-the-generations scenario, of Henry Fuwa having once been in love with Midas' mother. The story also intercuts with scenes from Midas' childhood with his cold, unaffectionate father, who he blames for his current inability to connect and sustain relationships with people.
Ida persists with Midas, however, constantly offering the refrain that she has no time, as the glass is rapidly spreading through her body. This becomes Midas' salvation, as he cannot wallow in self-pity and seclusion any longer.
'The Girl with Glass Feet' is very insightful and gives a different perspective on doomed love. It also helps you to understand human fear in relation to other people as something very universal, as there are so many cringe-worthy moments where Midas acts horribly, regretfully awkward, it feels incredibly true to life.
I can't wait to read more by this author, who very cleverly manages to avoid first-novel archetypes.

Corvus

From the Journal of Antiques

A most beautiful book, recommended to me by the lovely Sara.
A woman gets a rook, she observes it, her thoughts about this rook called Chicken and other Corvids, including a magpie and a crow, make up this fascinating volume.
Part memoir, part philosophy, part natural history, Esther Woolfson's writing is very eloquent, particularly on the subject of the differences between birds and humans.
The order of Corvids, which include those birds mentioned above and also jays, ravens and jackdaws, are believed to be the most intelligent of all birds. The interesting point the author makes is how flawed our judgement of intelligence really is. Firstly, we are quite cagey when it comes to defining intelligence in humans. Secondly, just because birds have not checked all our boxes of intelligence, the only thing this proves is that we do not understand them. I think that humanity has many many catastrophic errors in categorising intelligence and dismissing everything else. Our systematic destruction of native and 'primitive' culture is enough example, I imagine.
The author makes another interesting point in that, because we do not understand birds, as they are so very different to us, the seemingly unavoidable response is one of suspicion and, in most cases, fear.
The Corvid family, ravens and crows in particular, have a long history in Western Europe of persecution, appear in mythology as harbringers of death and have been long regarded as ugly and sinister. This book argues convincingly for their cause. The rook named Chicken is a constant source of fascination and surprise, displaying a myraid of brilliant behaviours, many of which can be paralleled to our own, indeed there are so many examples of percieved emotion (from Chicken basking in the sun joyously, to a positive response to a specific type of music, to fear and anger at the sight of a black pair of bathing shorts seemingly mistaken by Chicken to be a fellow rook, dead) that it is clear that people's superstitious attitudes towards these birds deserve to be altered.
A great, rich read, I enjoyed it immensely, I loved the geeky particulars and studies on animal behaviour, but I think the book has so much more to offer in questions about ourselves and our interaction with the natural world than any book I have read.

An account of first love

Image from the Victoria and Albert Museum Archives

I will not talk too much of the plot of 'I Capture the Castle' by Dodie Smith, here, I wanted to talk about the things I will always remember about this book, the only thing I want to stress is, please read it yourself. Do not dismiss it as a girl's, children's or 'young adult' book.

The first thing that makes an impression from 'I Capture the Castle', is the tear-inducingly vivid imagery of the Castle the Mortmain family inhabit and the countryside around it. The author was an Englishwoman marooned in the glaring sun and shiny automobiles of Hollywood, longing to see her home. Her descriptions of forests and grass make you feel as if you were pressing your nose into a field of wildflowers.
Further into the book, the sharply exact way Smith recounts the agonies of first love are at times so evocative that you have to stop and gape. The desperation, sleepless nights and endless daydreams Smith has her heroine, Cassandra experience are so beautifully truthful and universal, the book could have been written for anyone and about everyone.

Two quotes that elaborate on the theme of first love and the sheer maddening torture/euphoria of it all:

'It hurt me so much that I moaned out loud. I wanted
to fling myself down in the mud and beat my way into
the ground... '

On suffering:
'I said aloud: "I don't want to miss anything." And then
misery came rushing back like a river that has been
dammed up. I tried to open my heart to it, to welcome
it as a part of my life's experience, and at first that
made it easier to bear. Then it got worse than ever
before - it was physical as well as mental, my heart and
ribs and shoulders and chest, even my arms ached. I
longed so desperately for someone to comfort me...'

I don't want to sound too gushing, but I haven't even said anything about the other characters, all very wonderfully formed, or about Smith's portrayal of London in the 1930's.
So, if you can't go and sit in a bluebell wood with someone you fancy the pants off, this is the next best alternative, or maybe even better!