Hurricane Season

Reading Hurricane Season, by Fernanda Melchor, is to be plunged into a fast-moving, compulsive, bluntly lyrical (yes, read it and see what I mean!) narrative that keeps ripping away layers of itself by switching perspectives throughout the book.  It shows a cruel, hopeless, hard world, with characters so damaged by their circumstances that everything is tangled with superstition, poverty, violence, power, sex, and drugs.  The prose is written as long, unbroken-up chapters, a technique that could have obscured the content: instead, it pulls you further and further into the story, as if you are helplessly locked into a roller-coaster cart racing down a steep, steep slope.  The writing is precise, evocative, brutal, and shows the talent of both Melchor and her translator, Sophie Hughes. 

I'd been recommended this book by one of my MA Publishing students, Ana De La Borbolla Escalante: her energetic praise for it convinced me to give it a try, and I am so glad I did.  It's not a book I'd otherwise have picked up, but one that will stay with me for a long, long time.  Its bleakness, and yet its packed-with-colour, life-and-death precarity, written so skilfully, makes this a modern classic.  I can understand why it has been shortlisted for this year's International Booker Prize, and been reviewed so positively by The Guardian, NPR (I think the reviewer here has it spot on when he calls Melchor's prose "a linguistic blitzgrieg"), The TLS (which calls the effect the book has "a kind of sensory bludgeoning"), and The New York Times, where the reviewer praises both writer and translator, saying, "Melchor has an exceptional gift for ventriloquism, as does her translator, Sophie Hughes, who skillfully meets the challenge posed by a novel so rich in idiosyncratic voices."

Fernanda Melchor is a 38 year old Mexican writer; Sophie Hughes a British translator (who coincidentally did an MA in Comparative Literature at UCL, I discovered!). In an interview they did for Granta, Melchor talks about writing, and her aims:

"Without a reader, a book is nothing, just paper and printed smudges. For me, the real book only exists inside the reader’s mind, and I take that very seriously. One of the things I really like of Stephen King’s books is that he’s always addressing his readers, saying things like: ‘Take my hand, Constant Reader, and let me guide you into this darkness’, and that’s precisely what I love about novels and books and literature in general: that they’re journeys, dreamscapes made possible only by the imagination of those who wrote them and those who read them. And it’s easy to forget the power of words in an era ruled by profuse, beautiful and entrancing images, a time where it seems impossible to focus on reading for more that ten, twenty minutes without feeling the urge to tweet about it. Never before have we been so distracted, and never before have those distractions been so enjoyable. Why bother to read a novel when you can buy a videogame console and be the hero of your own adventure? That’s why I wanted to make an experience of Hurricane Season. It seemed to me the only way possible to communicate that particular story, even if that meant grabbing the reader by the throat and roughing her up a little. But then that’s exactly the kind of books I like, the ones that are like natural disasters, the ones Kafka said were like axes for the frozen sea within us."


Hughes, in another interview, said that the process of translating this book was "emotionally draining and creatively exhilarating".  Her own description of Melchor's achievement explains the challenges she had with  the translation: "There’s a kind of warped beauty to both Fernanda’s language and her eye for detail. I relished having a ringside view of the latter and really enjoyed trying to match the musicality of the gross vernacular and the clash of registers in the original by making strange brews of English words that might have the same effect that the Spanish had on me, which was to jolt me out of complacency."

Thank you, Ana, for bringing this book, and these two incredibly talented women writers, to my attention: I'll be watching what both do next, and rooting for Hurricane Season to win the Booker!

(And, as a PS, kudos to Fitzcarraldo Editions for a beautiful reading experience:  these deep blue books with French flaps, custom serif typeface and quality paper pages definitely set up the text to its best advantage.)

Heloise and Abelard, or Love in the Time of Covid19

We are in the middle of a strange and unsettling time, with Covid19 forcing us to work from home, and stay away from workplaces, friends, and family.  Having some annual leave now seems odd, but it's been booked for a while, and because of how crazy busy the crisis has made work, it's actually perfect timing to step away from the inbox and video calls, and do some catch-up reading.  This weekend, therefore, I tackled two historical novels that both tell the story of the twelfth-century scholars and lovers, Heloise and Abelard:  Peter Abelard, by Helen Waddell, and Love Without End, by Melvyn Bragg.

I'd bought the Bragg a few weeks ago in Toppings in Ely, -- historical fiction, medieval, beautiful cover, irresistible! -- but the Waddell was a coincidental find, via a friend and Victorian specialist, Lizzie Ludlow, who had recommended it to me, describing it in such glowing terms that I sourced a lovely old Pan edition from Ebay, and read it this Sunday, after finishing Love Without End on Saturday.  Reading them together made for a rewarding experience, and because they approach the lovers in such different ways, this opened up the history, making the perspectives shed light on what's known about their lives so that a deeper appreciation of what they endured -- and what they achieved -- could be appreciated.

It has also, as I think Lizzie expected it would, made me fascinated with Helen Waddell.  From previous posts you'll know I've been looking at women writers, especially women historical writers, from the first part of the twentieth century, and Helen Waddell is certainly someone who should be better known.  She does have champions:  Kate Mosse did a documentary about her for the BBC in 2018 , saying that "Helen Waddell was a pioneer in the now flourishing world of historical fiction, yet today she is barely remembered," and an article in The Irish Times in 2014 describes how she was "an Irish literary superstar" of her time, adding that as an academic, her lectures at Oxford "drew audiences that today would almost compare with rock-star status."  She came late to academia, having had to care for her ill step-mother; when she died in 1920, Helen was able to go to Oxford, to Somerville College.  Her first academic book, The Wandering Scholars, was published in 1927, by Constable.

This was a book looking at medieval Latin lyric poetry, with many translations done by Waddell herself:  it was an academic bestseller, and she was the first woman to be awarded the A. C. Benson Foundation Silver Medal from the Royal Society of Literature for her achievement.  Peter Abelard, also published by Constable, came out in 1933, and was a great commercial and critical success (I will check this out with more research once I can get access to archives again).  As Constance J. Mews points out, Waddell and Heloise had a great deal in common: "they were both educated women, gifted with an acute literary sensibility [and] neither could easily find their way in a world in which academic opportunities were largely controlled by men." ('Helen Waddell and Heloise: The Continuity of a Learned Tradition', in Jennifer Fitzgerald, ed., Helen Waddell Reassessed:  New Readings, Peter Lang, 2013, pp. 21-39). 

And yet, in Waddell's novel, it is Peter Abelard who gets star billing, and from whose perspective most of the novel is given, not Heloise.  Melvyn Bragg weaves the twelfth century with a twenty-first century one, using the vehicle of an author writing about the lovers, in Paris, and talking about his book with his daughter, to bring out some of the challenges of the story to contemporary readers.  The writer's daughter, Julia, is incensed first by Abelard's actions, and then Heloise's acceptance of her future at Abelard's direction.  Bragg uses the voice of Arthur, the writer, to explain how the historical and theological contexts the lovers lived in means that it is impossible to judge them on today's standards.  Although this technique is not always effective -- there are several points when the exposition feels awkward and patronising -- Bragg does succeed in telling a story, as he has Arthur insists he is writing, "about Heloise and Abelard.  . . not a pound of Heloise and a ton of Abelard" (p.215).  Waddell's novel is more detailed, historically, but leaves the lives of Heloise and Abelard well before they end (there is a hint that Waddell intended to write more books about the pair, and never managed it, which would make sense of where Peter Abelard finishes): it also leaves Heloise the more shadowy, contained character.  Without giving out too many spoilers for either fictional retelling, what both succeed in doing is underline the remarkable talents of the couple, in a time when the Church held power over people, and when an intellectual woman, or a woman with any education at all, was a rare thing. 


Both novels have sparked a deeper interest in learning about Waddell, and about Heloise and Peter Abelard; in inspiring not only that, but the desire to pick up my blog again and record these reading experiences, both books have helped me to switch off from the news, and from work, and for that respite I am very grateful.  Thanks to Lizzie for the nudge to discover Waddell, and, during this time of isolation, to Toppings in Ely, who are helping to further this new-found curiosity by posting out the Penguin Letters of Abelard to Eloise to me, so I can keep reading! 

A Room of One's Own

I was encouraged by a friend last week to blog about my reading and my work: too embarrassed to admit that I had, in fact, got a blog that has been sadly neglected because of the non-stop demands of my job, I have finally found the nerve to revisit it.  I am on sabbatical (a proper, personal, research-focussed one this time!) and more surprised (and depressed) than I thought I would be to realise that the last time I found time to write like this was over 3 years ago.  That's salutary evidence of just how much energy and focus the day-job demands, and despite the fact that it is a fascinating, endlessly challenging, very rewarding job, and one I am lucky to have, it also clamours for attention all the time.  I've almost forgotten how to read for long stretches, as a result: reading, even for pleasure, has become a luxury that gets crammed into odd corners of the week, and so it's taking me a while to settle into my research again.  It's no coincidence then that my reading is around the history of scholars and scholarship, and the way English literature curricula were developed in the mid-twentieth century; and how those histories connect with the growing demands of the Common Reader, and the publishing lists that responded to them.

One of the revelatory books of the past month, therefore, has been Virginia Woolf's A Room of One's Own, a text I thought I had read (surely?  It's such a seminal piece of writing!) but now doubt I had, as the effect of reading it was so strong.  In the first chapter Woolf writes about a visit to Oxford, and how she was literally shut out of a college library: "a deprecating, silvery, kindly gentleman. . . regretted in a low voice as he waved me back that ladies are only admitted to the library if accompanied by a Fellow of the College or furnished with a letter of introduction." (Penguin Modern Classics edition, p. 9) .  She goes on to reflect on the context of the college, where male scholars had access to "the admirable smoke and drink and the deep arm-chairs and the pleasant carpets; of the urbanity, the geniality, the dignity which are the offspring of luxury and privacy and space." (p25) She draws out the contrast between one male-dominated college, with its lunch of soles in cream, partridges, and a "confection which rose all sugar from the waves" (p. 13), and dinner at the women's college, with its plain gravy soup, beef and vegetables, and prunes and custard, and concludes that "one cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.  The lamp in the spine does not light on beef and prunes." (p20) . The first sentence of this quotation I have known for a long while, so frequently is it trotted out.  I have an M&S shopping bag, used very often, with it written on the side - but I had never stopped to consider the context of the quotation, or known what came afterwards.  That second sentence says it all.  It isn't just good food that helps the creative or intellectual process, Woolf argues, but also space to write in, and a release from the daily distraction of domestic duties which make focus a challenge.

The end of the book exhorts women to try harder, to grasp the opportunities that 1928 offered them: to try and help rewrite history, so that women's place in it is more visible.  It struck me forcibly that what she is advocating is, primarily, for a more active academic presence from women: although she uses a fictional sister of Shakespeare's to make her point, she is using this to illustrate the invisibility (at the time she was writing) of women's histories, and urging women scholars to help redress this balance.  It is a call to arms, and perhaps one that I heard because it so happens that this chimes with research, findings, and ideas (muddled and still in progress as they are) in my own head this year.

And now I do have a small temporal space to try and focus on research, room to think and read, I will keep Woolf's exhortations close by, remembering that she ended her book by talking about a future time, a hundred years later (ie 2028, not that far away...) when, if women take up her call, "the opportunity will come and the dead poet who was Shakespeare's sister will put on the body which she has so often laid down." (p112)

Footnote: The Smiths had a single called Shakespeare's sister (see here), a song Morrisey described as being "the song of my life. I put everything into that song and I wanted it more than anything else to be a huge success and - as it happens - it wasn't." (see https://www.songfacts.com/facts/the-smiths/shakespeares-sister).   This song in its turn inspired the name of Siobhan Fahey's new venture post-Bananarama, Shakespear's Sister....

Dreaming in Books

 It's March.  It's 2015.  And well into my sabbatical, I am finally making some time to get back to this blog.  Which, as I flick back through previous posts, is a good thing for personal bibliotherapeutic outcomes, just like making more time for fresh air and walks every day.  What's helped nudge me back to this space?  Andrew Piper's Dreaming in Books: The Making of the Bibliographic Imagination in the Romantic Age (University of Chicago Press, 2013).  I have so much to catch up on, but rather than try and backfill, let's start from right now, and the visceral and intellectual jump-start responses evoked from the first pages of this book: this beautifully produced, pale cream-paper, Spring-coloured-cover, book!  It arrived today, after I'd ordered it after starting to read another of Piper's books, Book Was There (University of Chicago Press, 2012).  This one, too, excited with the promise of the first few pages, so more will follow on that, am sure.  I've been doing a lot of talking about books - specifically academic books - recently, as part of the AHRC/British Library Academic Book of the Future project that I'm involved in, but ironically, haven't had much time to read any.  Yet my to-read list has been growing, glutting, on all the recommendations that people have been passing on.  Books about books; books about reading books; books about conserving books; books as containers for research, for ideas, for dreams....

Piper says, in the Acknowledgments section of Dreaming in Books, "Academic books by their very nature belong to a profession.  But as my Doktormutter once wrote, the dividing line between professing and confessing, between public speech and private sentiment, is hard  to trace."  It's made me think hard about Acknowledgments: rare to find an academic book that doesn't have some sort of acknowledgment declaration, or a dedication (although I find I must immediately undermine that declaration by noting that Piper's Book Was There has none!) We write and research courtesy of our colleagues' generosity with advice and time, and with the patience and support of friends and families.  The domestic, as well as professional, contexts in which research is produced are co-existant, co-dependent. 

So, what effect might these contexts have had on the final, disseminated product?  Any published work has a hidden set of histories and secret agents: but what might we learn about the processes of academic research from these?  Since studying the recent Crossick Report, I have become intrigued by the idea that some works of research become iconic - they shape the field, and remain an important part of it for generations of scholars who follow.  Take C. S. Lewis's The Allegory of Love: a key text for medievalists, I'd argue, and certainly one which helped direct my own academic research.  Lewis thanks many people in his Preface, including some very familiar names: do the comments that Tolkien made on the first chapter, for instance, still exist?  What impact did his input have on the final draft?  Alongside academic thanks, though, Lewis says "the greatest of these debts -- that which I owe to my father for the inestimable benefit of a childhood passed mostly alone in a house full of books -- is now beyond repayment". A glimpse of a very personal history, yet clearly one which the author felt had bearing on his research.  The book is dedicated to Owen Barfield, Lewis's long-standing friend, "wisest and best of my unofficial teachers".  The debts Lewis feels he owes to people reveal, very quickly in this Preface, the web of influence that surrounds any great work.  Barfield dedicated some of his own books to Lewis, and Lewis's fictional bestseller, arguably also iconic piece of children's literature, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, was written for Barfield's daughter, Lucy.  As Lewis says, "facts and inferences and even turns of expression find a lodging in a man's mind, he scarcely remembers how".  Yet as academics, as writers with any sort of integrity, we must try and acknowledge where these come from, trying to create a road map of the genetics of ideas.  There's more to pull on, here, but am signing off to do some more dreaming in books of my own.....

Merivel: A Man of His Time

It's been a while since I've had time for reading, and a long while since I've read any books that have inspired me to blog -- but this one definitely deserves some praise.  Rose Tremain's novel is a sequel to the prize-winning Restoration, but it can be read as a stand alone book: it's been years since I read Restoration, but this didn't detract at all from the reading experience.

Tremain's prose is fluent and elegant, and you feel immersed in the period and the character of Merivel from the very beginning.  Merivel is a book about aging: as Charles II declines in health, there is a sense that the country, too, lapses into decay.  Merivel himself tries to seek new adventures, but these do not turn out as optimistically as he begins them.  This is a story about expectations, about the limitations of human life - and those of animals - and how dealing with this brings both comedy and tragedy. 

As you can see, the cover of the paperback, by Vintage Books, is one of the most beautiful I've seen for ages.  There is a Tumblr animation of how it evolved here, which shows the imagery progress from some embroidery in the V and A to the final cover design.  The lettering is hand-drawn by Stephen Raw, whose work is itself worth investigating - reminds me a lot of the work of David Jones. 

If you like historical fiction, this is going to be a real treat.  Highly recommended!

Reviews:
Guardian
Independent
Telegraph

Interview with Rose Tremain

Historical Fiction - Tudor Tangle

Over Christmas and into the New Year, I've been indulging my love of historical fiction with some recent publications.  I left Mantel's Bring Up The Bodies until last week, when a friend (not a fan of the historical novel) phoned me to say she'd loved it, but that it had polarised opinions at her book club.  Having had it on my bedside table for a couple of months, curiosity finally made me launch into it properly.  I must confess to a curious antipathy for Mantel's work: Wolf Hall should have left me an acolyte, but I felt let down.  It wasn't a badly written book (although her use of pronouns, and the confusion this causes, really irritates me), but it wasn't as brilliant as the reviewers made it out to be, either.  There are so many good historical novelists out there: why is Mantel a literary Booker-prize-winning prodigy, when others, perhaps as worthy of note, are consigned to less mainstream literary genres?  The announcement of the launch of  Bring Up The Bodies therefore left me cold: feeling no inclination to buy a copy, I only have one thanks to the kindness of a colleague who sent me hers.  This is a book I felt obliged to read, a rare feeling for me, especially when it's a historical book.  Bibliotherapy as medicine, then - hard to swallow, but needing to be addressed.  And maybe I would find this one a revelation.  Having read several other historical-related novels in the past few weeks, I was keen to see if, by comparison, Mantel would shine out.  Did she? 


Karen Harper is an American author, now picked up by British publisher Ebury (part of Random House).  I first came across her by reading, in an American paperback, The First Princess of Wales, which is about Joan of Kent.  I really enjoyed this, and have been delighted to find her other books now more widely available over here.  The Queen's Governess  was one of my Christmas reads.  It's about Kat Ashley, governess to Elizabeth Tudor, and gives another side to that great Queen's story.  It is well-written for a fast read, with few glitches in historical accuracy to mar the plot.  I also read The Queen's Confidante (about a candle maker who becomes involved in the life of Elizabeth, wife of Henry VII) and Shakespeare's Mistress (about the allegedly 'other wife' that Shakespeare had).  All readable, and although I found Shakespeare's Mistress less of a hit than the other two, none would be a let-down if you wanted a fix of historical fiction.  However, in a Harper v Mantel comparison, Mantel would win on approach and character choice: Cromwell makes for a much grittier, more dense reading, and his opaqueness, well-captured by Mantel, compells attention.  Harper's descriptions of place may have the edge - but Mantel has more muscle as a writer. 

Next up, Fiona Mountain. She's another recent find  - Cavalier Queen chose another character from history whose story has rarely been a focus for attention, Harry Jermyn,  and looks at his career at the court of Charles I.  Mountain's enthusiastic research makes this a really good read.  It's not quite as polished a piece as it could be, and there are hiccups in authenticity, but it's recommended.  Rebel Heiress, which is based on the life of Eleanor Glanville, who had a great interest in butterflies in the late seventeenth century, is also worth a look.  This has a lighter touch, and shows that Mountain has skill as a storyteller.  Definitely one to watch in the future, although quality-wise, Mantel wins again. 

Philippa Gregory is more well-known as a historical novelist, and her books on the Tudor court have reached a wide audience thanks to the film of The Other Boleyn Girl. I had The Kingmaker's Daughter, Gregory's 2012 Simon and Schuster bestseller, and it didn't disappoint.  About Anne Neville, daughter of Warwick the Kingmaker, and future wife of Richard III, this is a well-researched novel with bite.  Gregory has a PhD and is an established historian - and it shows in her work.  As a contrast with Mantel, she could surely be a contender....yet something (and I will be doing more research here to try and find out what, exactly) has meant her work is categorised as more "popular fiction" where Mantel's is "literary fiction". The gulf between those two genres seems huge.  Why?

So, back to Mantel.  Bring Up the Bodies was the best of the bunch, but it wasn't a book I became attached to, or would want to read again.  There is something missing in Mantel's prose, as if she is viewing every one of her characters via the same lens, rather than trying different ones to see if they have more complex corners.  Cromwell is well-drawn, and the tight focus works, all the while you focus on him, too.  But the other characters are more two-dimensional, unconvincing, and when you try and slide round Cromwell there is little there - it's like a film set.  So, it's a flawed performance, for me.  Maybe the familiarity of the historical facts help make this succeed, as readers can fill in the gaps themselves.  If you have read lives of More, of Wolsley, of Fisher and of Henry himself, there is a much more complex set of varying impetuses at play in this period than Mantel chooses to try and portray in her works (especially the religious and spiritual controversies and tensions, which she hardly explores at all).  Like the self-serving actions of Jane Boleyn, Mantel, through her Cromwell, makes this a very myopic view of the Tudor court.  In this, it succeeds.  But it doesn't satisfy.  It was, for me, a better read than Wolf Hall, and I shall be looking forward to trying the third book in the trilogy when it comes out. But is it great historical fiction? I think not.  In later posts I will be arguing for other authors who do deserve more kudos:  Dorothy Dunnett and Sharon Penman top of that list.

However, as an endnote to this piece, a surprise Christmas reading hit: Barbara Cartland's Elizabethan Lover.  Yes, it's Barbara Cartland!  I know -- if you were brought up, like me, to view BC as a frothy joke whose heroines were all heart shaped faces and violet eyes, then this endorsement will be a shocking confession.   I picked it up, honestly, thinking it would be a good laugh - but several decades since I last read a BC novel have meant a new reading perspective.  I was pleasantly surprised.  In the light of the historical novels that have flooded the marketplace since she was writing, she comes out very well -- and in this particular novel, which is less fluff than some of the Regency romances, respectably competing with novelists who command much more kudos than she does. A reminder not to judge a book by its cover, but also not to accept without question its marketed genre category.  It may be time for a reassessment of Cartland, too..More on this in weeks to come!

Reviews of Bring Up the Bodies: Telegraph Review, Independent Review, New York Times Review, New Yorker Review,

Reading Spa in Bath

Now this is a find for my bibliotherapy research - a bookshop in Bath that offers the Reading Spa experience: Mr B's Emporium of Reading Delights.  It's nailed it.  Unlike other so-called bibliotherapy services, this one delivers without pompous or patronising claims.  Mr B's has been open since 2006, and won best Independent Bookseller of the Year twice.  You can read about its rise to success on the website, which also tells you about the individual team members and the Reading Spa experiences.  Would you buy one of these for a friend?  Yes!  Listen: "As the recipient of a Mr B’s Reading Spa voucher you are invited to visit our gorgeous shop in Bath for a one-on-one book chat in our sumptuous Bibliotherapy Room with one of the Mr B’s team over a mug of tea or coffee and a delicious slice of cake. Your bibliotherapist will then gather and introduce you to a tower of books specially selected to suit your reading tastes. Each Reading Spa voucher includes an amount to spend on books, so that you can pick your favourite recommendations and take them away with you."

 You can spend £55 or £100 on a voucher, which includes £40 or £75 respectively to spend on books.  I'd call that a bargain, with tea and cake thrown in AND a goodie bag AND one-to-one advice on what to read next. 

It's hard not to get over-excited about this find (WHY did I not know about this place before?!) because as someone who has worked in bookshops, who is convinced there is a future for bookshops (the real sort, with people, and shelves and actual books) the website for Mr B's makes me want to cheer.  And make a pilgrimage right now to Bath.  So, if even the website can make me feel so happy, imagine what bibliotherapeutic power must lie in the shop itself.....