Here we go again...

Moving house today...  I have a post automated to come out tomorrow, but no guarantees after that!  See you on the other side...

A Card From Angela Carter - Susannah Clapp

When I was given A Card From Angela Carter at a Bloomsbury party a while ago, I was excited to read it - but, at the same time, I worried that it might be a bit barrel-scrapey.  The barrel that, as far as I know, has in fact scarcely been investigated.  The publication of some of Carter's postcards seems as though it would be the afterthought to a long series of edited diaries and letters - none of which have been published (or have they?)

But I needn't have worried.  The selection of postcards Angela Carter had sent to Susannah Clapp was really just an ingenious way for Clapp to organise her thoughts about a dear friend, and a refreshingly original take on the memoir genre.

I love biographies where the writer knew and loved the subject.  Indeed, I'm reading one at the moment that is a strong contender for my favourite book of the year.  So it is lovely to see Angela Carter as Susannah Clapp saw her - witty, a little rude, loyal, colourful, more political than I expected, and a lover of literature.  It is the last quality which I noted down most (perhaps unsurprisingly).  I was surprised, though, to learn that she didn't like Dickens - that she didn't find him funny.  I know some people do not, but having read Wise Children (which, thankfully, is the novel Clapp talks about most in A Card) I assumed Carter had been influenced by Dickens' own extravagant joie de vivre.  But there are plenty of writers Carter did admire:

Yet for her deepest admiration she went further back.  Chaucer - who was "so nice about women" and who, in the Wife of Bath, created a character she loved - was to her the "sanest, the sweetest and most decent of English poets".  She liked the idea that he wrote "before English became a language of imperialism".  She liked the notion that The Canterbury Tales, coming from an oral tradition, had to be direct and forceful enough to transmit when read aloud to a room full of people who were busy "sewing or shelling peas".  She liked the aspects of Chaucer's work that pre-dated the novel, and half-disapproved of the genre in which she made her name.  "I'm sufficient of a doctrinaire to believe that the novel is the product of a leisured class.  Actually."  That 'actually' dangling from the end of a sentence was habitual when she spoke.  Dainty but adamant, it was like the flick of a heel or the toss of her head.  It warded off objections but also slightly invited contradiction.  It both emphasised and slightly undermined what she had just said.  Actually.

And then, of course - of course - there is Shakespeare.  Wise Children is a love letter to Shakespeare - and Clapp's first-hand knowledge of Carter offers an interesting perspective:

She favoured the bland lines that moved the plot on: "a ship has come from France".  She was dismissive of the routine idea that had he been alive now he would have been writing for television: he would more likely have been a used-car salesman.

As for the cards themselves - they're reproduced in b/w in the book, and are mostly a little silly.  There's the car which looks like a chicken; the myth of mountains in love; the Charles/Diana divorce card... the Statue of Liberty in a lake; Betty Boop as a geisha, and (but of course) Shakespeare.  Clapp uses these cleverly to organise her thoughts about Carter, only occasionally seeming to read more into the choice of card than was probably intended.

It could have all been the scraping of a barrel, but it actually turned out to be very innovative, and rather moving.  For a writer as unusual as Angela Carter, only an unusual form of memoir would do, wouldn't it?

Wise Children - Angela Carter

Twins. Theatre. Shakespeare. Eccentrics.  There was never really any chance that I wouldn't like Wise Children (1991) by Angela Carter, was there?

Everything kicks off with 75 year old twins Dora and Nora Chance (with Dora as our narrator) getting an invitation to their father's 100th birthday party.  Only he (Melchior) has always denied his parentage, instead claiming that his twin brother Peregrine is their father.  They're understandably a bit miffed by this, but nothing keeps them down for long.  They really are eternal optimists - and delightfully over the top.  They prepare for going out...

Our fingernails match our toenails match our lipstick match our rouge.  Revlon, Fire and Ice.  The habit of applying warpaint outlasts the battle; haven't had a man for yonks but still we slap it on.  Nobody could say the Chance girls were going gently into that good night.

That's a pretty good example of the tone of the novel, actually.  It's the heightened, slangy voice of Dora, a little coarse but endlessly cheery heroine, along with a good dose of literary references (but the sort that even someone with my rather fleeting familiarity with poetry will get.)  (Yes, I have studied English literature for eight years now - argh! - but I've always avoided poetry wherever possible.)

It took me about half the novel before I realised the significance of the title, but I'll save you some time - it is a wise child that knows his own father, as the proverb goes.  Oh, and if you've got the edition pictured (and probably others) then there's a Dramatis Personae at the back - I didn't find that until the end, but it would have been VERY useful, as the family is complicated beyond measure.  Heaps of twins, heaps of multiple marriages, and all manner of possible and probable illicit parentages.  All very Shakespearean - which, of course, is precisely the point.  I learnt, in Susannah Clapp's A Postcard From Angela Carter (which I'll be writing about soon - maybe tomorrow?) that she intended to get in references to every one of Shakespeare's plays, but missed out Titus Andronicus.  I wish I'd known that before I started - I'd have had my checklist!  Some are more obvious than others (they film A Midsummer Night's Dream, for instance) but some are fun to try and spot (is the mysterious resurrection of a character presumed dead a reference to A Winter's Tale?)

A little while ago I mentioned my literary bête noire, of novels starting in 'present day' and then going back to the beginning.  I would probably have loved Wise Children more if Carter had chosen a different narrative structure, but that is what happens here.  We reverse back to Dora and Nora's youth, their early activities in theatre and film, and their various beaus.  Not to mention the increasingly complex family.  Melchior's various wives make for fun reading.  Then there is Nora's boyfriend whom Dora rather likes, so they swap perfumes (the only way they can be told apart, apparently) and Dora has her wicked way with him... and there is a fire.  Everything is gloriously over the top.  So much happens, to so many people, that it is a little dizzying in a short novel, and impossible to recount in detail.  But that is what I loved most about Wise Children - it is mad.  Dora Chance is wonderful - particularly in old age (which is why I wished we'd spent more time there, and less on the past) and the whole novel is wonderfully exuberant - mostly because of the inexhaustibly optimistic voice of Dora, and her turns of phrase, her cheekiness, and her ability to laugh at everything life throws at her.  And Carter is obviously having a whale of a time - it must be an author's dream to be able to use the most excessive and absurd images all the time - par example:

Flash! A passing paparazzo took a picture of an old lady who looked like St Pancras Station, monumental, grimy, full of Gothic detail

- and to concoct the most extraordinary plots and interrelations, while still able to point over her shoulder and say "Well, it's no more zany than Shakespeare."

It's such a fun book, and a good introduction to Angela Carter for me.  It was her last novel, and I have plenty more to explore now - maybe I'll even work my way backwards?  But my second dip into Carter territory was, as mentioned, the book Susannah Clapp wrote about her postcards - more on that coming up shortly!


Others who got Stuck in this Book:

"Angela Carter’s last novel is an over-exuberant bear hug of a book; it’s the literary equivalent of being dragged into a conga line at a party, and it does this with such big-hearted, good-natured cheeriness that it is quite impossible to resist." - Victoria, Tales From The Reading Room

"I think that Angela Carter is like what I imagine marzipan to be like, or maybe this particular sort of chocolate mint cake my father has: delicious and rich but you maybe wouldn’t want a massive lot of it at once." - Jenny, Jenny's Books

"The novel succeeds on multiple levels, and on a uncomplicated plane it sincerely argues for the recognition of simple joy under the long and often theatrical masks of seriousness and complexity." - Leif, Leif and the Pages

Song for a Sunday

A lovely lady called Diana got in touch with me a while ago to recommend Christian artist Sara Groves as a Sunday Song singer.  Well, I know and love Groves' album The Other Side of Something, but Diana sent a few links to more recent songs, and I liked them.  I picked 'Childhood Summer' more or less at random, because it seemed appropriate for the last-ditch effort at summer we've been having this weekend.  Thanks, Diana!

Stuck-in-a-Book's Weekend Miscellany

My weekend is looking pretty busy - a wedding later today, and then packing, packing, packing.  For I am moving house - to Headington, just east of Oxford.  If anyone would like to update their address books, email me and I'll let you know my new address...  My actual move date is next Wednesday, so I may go a bit quiet, depending on how internet goes in the new place, and whether or not I manage to prepare some blog posts in advance.


1.) The book - nearly two years ago, I was surprised by how much I liked Ned Beauman's Boxer, Beetle, and now his next novel has been published by Sceptre.  It's called The Teleportation Accident (great title; great cover) and you can read more about it here.

2.) The link - is hilarious.  Fancy eavesdropping on a sleep talking man?  His wife records his alter ego (he does know about this!) and then transcribes.  It's so funny!  Have a listen here.

3.) The blog post - it's that time already!  Rosamund Lehmann Reading Week starts on Monday.  When I first heard about it, I didn't know I'd be moving house... I'm still very, very keen to join in, but... well, I'll try really hard.  If you're not in the process of packing up all your belongings, you should definitely join in. Let Florence tell you more here.

Have a great weekend!

His Monkey Wife - John Collier

Some titles are metaphors.  Some titles seem to suggest one thing, only for the book to be about something completely different - from The Silence of the Lambs to A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian.  And His Monkey Wife (1930) is also a bit false... but only because he isn't married to the monkey.  There is some question of it later.  But, as the novel kicks off, it's simply that a monkey is in love with him.  That's all.

Mr. Fatigay is an English schoolmaster in the Congo whose charms (mostly of a scholarly nature) win him the love and affection of Emily, a chimpanzee.  (I'm afraid I don't know the difference between monkey, ape, and chimp, or where these things might overlap - for the sake of argument, I'll refer to Emily as a chimp [which she definitely is] rather than the title's monkey [which she might or might not be.])  Emily is rather a dear.  She is incredibly intelligent, and with an eavesdropping sort of learning, manages to become an expert reader - although she cannot talk.  You might remember that last October I wrote about G.E. Trevelyan's Appius and Virginia, where a woman tries - with a limited sort of success - to educate an ape as her son.  Well, Mr. Fatigay is a fairly oblivious man, and has much greater success without even meaning to.

Is it so hard to understand how she came to a comprehension of the function of books, and even, perhaps, of the abstracter functions of language?  Our scientists may think so, who have chosen to measure the intelligence of the chimpanzee solely by its reactions to a banana.  They suspend the delicacy from the ceiling of a cage and assess the subject's mentality in terms of the number of boxes he or she will pile one upon another in order to secure it, failing to see that nothing is revealed except the value which that particular chimp chooses to set upon the fruit.  And, beyond a certain low limit, this surely is in inverse ratio to intelligence.  What boy of ten would not pile up a dozen boxes in an attempt to climb within reach of it?  How many would Einstein clamber upon?  And how many less would Shakespeare?  Emily, though a fruitarian by instinct, would have disdained an eagerness capable of more than two and a jump.

For Emily is quite concerned with etiquette, and wants to do things properly.  And thus it pains her to break into Mr. Fatigay's desk and read the letters from his fiancée in England - but she is not perfect, and not unafflicted by jealousy.  She is all ready to sacrifice her love at the altar of Mr. F's happiness, but when she has read the letters, she (and the reader) realise how callous his fiancée, Amy, really is.  She is stringing out the engagement, clearly not eager for Mr. Fatigay to return from Congo.

But they do go back to England.  Emily is thrilled to be accompanying Mr. Fatigay... but less thrilled when she realises why.  He is giving her to Amy as a present, to be Amy's maid!  Emily is not averse to a little hard work, but it is hardly dignifying to be the maid of your rival in love... especially one who shrinks from Mr. Fatigay's touch, and treats him appallingly.  What can Emily do?....

Celebrity librarian (!) Nancy Pearl apparently called Emily one of the best characters in modern fiction, which is quite the claim -  but I can see where she's coming from.  Emily is so charming.  Besides being besotted with Mr. Fatigay, she is wholly enamoured with books.  She manages to sneak out of Amy's apartment to visit the British Museum - and becomes quite a cult figure there.  Apparently the simple expedient of wearing clothes renders her more or less indistinguishable from a human (and there is, sad to say, a bit of 1930s racism in this section, when various gents try to guess her country of origin.  For the most part, they settle on Spain - but because of her spirit, rather than her appearance.)

"Well, I like her," said a simple fellow, "because she's a little woman.  A bouncing little woman.  I like them like that.  My first wife was not.  I was deliriously happy with my first wife.  With my second - not altogether so.  I like a bouncing little woman." 

"Well, gentlemen" said the senior member of the company, who ignored the last remark as being the probably carnal utterance of one whose work was merely the compiling of a cyclist's encyclopaedia.  "Well, gentlemen, we had better make a move if we're to catch a last glimpse of her, for like all that's best in life, she comes late and departs early, Heaven knows where."

I always find it impossible not to love a bibliophile in a novel - and Emily's love of the written word is a joy.  Indeed, she is a joy altogether.  As Osbert Sitwell writes somewhere, she is in many ways the least animalistic of all the characters.  She is certainly more sophisticated, responsible, moral, and caring than Amy - although things do take rather a twist later in the book... and the ending came as quite a surprise...

Collier has picked an eccentric theme for his novel, and sometimes that might have hindered rather than boosted my interest in his writing.  Sure, I wouldn't have read this novel if it weren't relevant for my thesis - but I can't help wondering how his talent for characterisation and writing would fare in a more quotidian novel.   The only other thing I've read by him (and this will serve as my post to link to from A Century of Books, as I don't think I'm going to blog about it fully) is Green Thoughts (1932), a short book (c.50pp.) where people metamorph into plants - also well-written, but absorbed by the strange.

What I liked most about his writing were the incidental similes he used, and they crop up a lot.  Here's one:

Fate, whose initial gifts to lovers are supplied as generously as those free meals an angler offers to the fish[...]

And there are plenty more to look out for!  He's also pretty witty, adept at turning a sentence in a semi-Wildean way:

The men were the sort who have given up art for marriage, but, as if nature was scheming to restore the balance, many of their women appeared likely to give up marriage for art.

Collier really is quite an impressive prose stylist, finding that middle ground between modernist experimental and simple storytelling.  There are loads of literary references throughout, from Virginia Woolf to George Moore: Collier clearly respects his audience's intelligence.  I don't really know what else he wrote, but I think this might be a case where the novelty of his topic overshadows the talent Collier simply has as a novelist.  I admired His Monkey Wife, and I'd be intrigued to read something else... does anybody know anything else about John Collier and his work?

Manguel on... the Destruction of Books

For a while I've been reading Alberto Manguel's wonderful The Library at Night, given to me by my brother last year.  It's the perfect book to have next to my laptop while I'm writing my thesis - when I need a quite break, rather than browsing Facebook I read a few delightful pages of Manguel.  And, like I did with Stop What You're Doing And Read This, I'm going to be posting quite a few funny, recognisable, thought-provoking, or simply good, excerpts from The Library At Night, along with some paintings I like, preferably of readers (following Harriet's great ongoing series - I may accidentally use pictures which have already featured over there!)  First off is 'Reading Room at Buxton Library' by Robert McLellan-Sim, from the 1930s..

"As repositories of history or sources for the future, as guides or manuals for difficult times, as symbols of authority past or present, the books in a library stand for more than their collective contents, and have, since the beginning of writing, been considered a threat.  It hardly matters why a library is destroyed: every banning, curtailment, shredding, plunder or loot gives rise (at least as a ghostly presence) to a louder, clearer, more durable library of the banned, looted, plundered, shredded or curtailed.  Those books may no longer be available for consultation, that may exist only in the vague memory of a reader or in the vaguer-still memory of tradition and legend, but they have acquired a kind of immortality."

--- Alberto Manguel, 'The Library at Night' (p.123)