Evelyn Waugh - Scoop

This is the first book by Evelyn Waugh that I read. It also is the first book I've read, since I returned to the wonderful world of literature. I purchased this book, along with Brideshead Revisited, because I was drawn to the simplicity of the cover. Also, I have a book-buying problem! Scoop is a 1930s satire on the wonderful world of journalism, focusing on foreign correspondence. In a novel that reads like a comedy of errors from the very beginning, Waugh describes the adventures of William Boot, a journalist, in the fictional African country of Ishmaelia. The fictional country, it seems, is based on Ethiopia, where Waugh was a war correspondent in 1935. However, where Waugh was a prolific journalist, Boot was considerably out of his depth, and his adventures in the African country were nothing short of serendipitous.

In the first section of the book, John Courtney Boot approaches a friend to put in a good word for him to Lord Cooper who runs a newspaper called Daily Beast. Boot, a well-renowned author, is hoping to be assigned as the foreign correspondent for the Beast in Ishmaelia, in order to escape from some romantic endeavour. Lord Cooper is easily manipulated into thinking John Boot is the right man for the job, and commands his sycophantic foreign editor, Mr. Salter, to make it happen. However, Salter accidentally ends up contacting William Boot, a contributor to the nature supplement of the Beast, who is reluctant to take the job. However, a combination of threats, and the allure of an expense account, sees the bumbling incompetent William Boot head to the remote destination, with little clue as to what the political connotations of the war are, the parties involved, and what the nature of the assignment is. The irony, of course, lies in the fact that not even the journalists in the foreign office are fully aware of the details of the war, or where the countries are on the map.

William Boot arrives in Ishmaelia, and is immediately surrounded by a plethora of journalists, all of whom are looking to outdo the other in search for a story, when not much seems to be going on. Fictional accounts are created, and telegrammed back to the respective Fleet Street offices. A journalist, who previously had a contract with the Daily Beast, concocts a story set in a place which doesn't really exist. It'a spot on the map is simply a result of a non-local asking a local what that part of the country was, and the local replying in his native tongue with Laku ("I don't know"), which the cartographer deemed the name of the place.

As Lady Luck would have it, the British Vice-Consul in Ishmaelia is an old schoolfriend of William's, and he manages to feed William some information. He finds another source in Kätchen, a German girl who is evicted from her room to make place for William. Kätchen is married to a German, who was away on a mission, and due back soon. Invariably, William falls in love with her, despite it being evident that she is a gold-digger, looking for someone to take care of her while her husband is away. However, the twenty-three year old journalist remains unable to pick out newsworthy incidents, even when they are staring him in the face.

Due to lack of news coming from William, the Daily Beast decide to terminate his contract. He gets the message just as he is sending a telegram to them, with the words:

NOTHING MUCH HAS HAPPENED EXCEPT TO THE PRESIDENT WHO HAS BEEN IMPRISONED IN HIS OWN PALACE BY REVOLUTIONARY JUNTA HEADED BY SUPERIOR BLACK CALLED BENITO AND RUSSIAN JEW WHO BANNISTER SAYS IS UP TO NO GOOD THEY SAY HE IS DRUNK WHEN HIS CHILDREN TRY TO SEE HIM BUT GOVERNESS SAYS MOST UNUSUAL LOVELY SPRING WEATHER BUBONIC PLAGUE RAGING.

While one could consider the first phrase a litote, other examples speckled through the book indicate otherwise. Upon receiving that telegram though, the Beast decide to reinstate his contract. The naiveté and cluelessness makes him out to be incredibly incompetent, and yet, he remains oblivious to that. And yet, he manages to be the only journalist to capture the story of the fascists and the counterrevolutionaries, and he goes back home an acclaimed journalist.

The vaudeville doesn't end there though. Lord Cooper wants Boot knighted, but again, a case of mistaken identity results in the knighthood being for John Boot, not William. Mr. Salter goes up to the country-side to visit William, in order to convince him to attend the banquet, and Salter's interaction with the big family living in the country-side is almost slapstick (as is most of the book). Eventually, William's uncle attends the banquet... because, obviously, what one needs is another Boot in the mix.

There are racist undertones in the book, and stereotyping people and classes, which is quite reflective of the 1930s. No one is really spared, and Waugh's pen is generously scathing. The book also drags on in places, and the protagonist (William Boot) does not really have (m)any redeeming qualities. This might be the case with most satires, but occasionally, the book was excruciating to read, when you saw someone so out of his depth in a profession many suitable candidates would revel in, and make the most of, at any cost, as opposed to getting side-tracked, and focusing his energies on other trivialities. And yet -  yet, he got the scoop!

George Orwell - Down and Out in Paris & London

Let's defy convention for  a second, and instead of quoting the opening lines of this fantastic classic, below are the closing lines:

I can point to one or two things I have definitely learned by being hard up. I shall never again think that all tramps are drunken scoundrels, nor expect a beggar to be grateful when I give him a penny, nor be surprised if men out of work lack energy, nor subscribe to the Salvation Army, nor pawn my clothes, nor refuse a handbill, nor enjoy a meal at a smart restaurant. This is a beginning.

It's the last sentence in this vibrant yet bleak book that makes one want to go back and re-read it straight away. This is my second read of the book, and I was as mesmerised with Orwell's tales residing in the slums of Paris and London now, as I was then, some ten years ago.

It is difficult for me to pen down my thoughts on this book. Maybe start with the cover of my edition - it's incredibly simple, yet eye-catching. If I were to judge this book by its cover, I would say it's unpretentious, unapologetic, and is quite "black and white" (literally speaking). The contents are true to the cover - at least of the edition I am lucky enough to have on my shelf.

Paris, the most romantic city in the world, nicknamed the city of lights, unsurprisingly has a dark underbelly. Romanticism is abandoned as Orwell chronicles his time in Paris in the 1920s, spent completely broke in fairly squalid quarters. To get by, for some bread, wine and tobacco, Orwell worked some fairly grim jobs, which introduced him to a multitude of fascinating characters. The restaurant scene was buzzing in the city, and there were jobs available, but nothing to really write home about. Plenty to write a novel about though, littered with introspective and retrospective thoughts.

A plongeur is a slave, and a wasted slave, doing stupid and largely unnecessary work. He is kept at work, ultimately, because of a vague feeling that he would be dangerous if he had leisure. And educated people, who should be on his side, acquiesce in the process, because they know nothing about him and consequently are afraid of him.

Scammers, foreigners, war heroes, and eccentric neighbours all made multiple appearances as Orwell traipsed through Paris, fatigued and sleep-deprived, constantly being conned out of money, with most of his earthly possessions pawned.

It is a feeling of relief, almost of pleasure, at knowing yourself at last genuinely down and out. You have talked so often of going to the dogs - and well, here are the dogs, and you have reached them, and you can stand it. It takes off a lot of anxiety.

When he finally hits rock bottom, he sends a note to a friend in London, trying to see if life in London would improve. The friend suggested a job which seemed as an improvement, but Lady Luck was not smiling down on Orwell at the time, and by the time he got to London, the job was no longer available. History was about to repeat itself, as Orwell tried to navigate a very expensive city with no money, and few friends.

It (London) was the land of the tea urn and the Labour Exchange, as Paris is the land of the bistro and the sweatshop.

He slept in skipes, cheap skanky lodging houses, and Salvation Army shelters. For some of these places, you had to hand over all your money before you were allowed to enter; at others, you handed over all your tobacco. Unlike Paris, one couldn't sit on a bench in London lest the police arrested the offender for loafing around. Amidst other things, Orwell joined a bunch of ungrateful tramps in prayer for a cup of tea and a bun, he conversed at length with an amateur artist, and walked through the city waiting for shelters to open. One of the more thought-provoking sentences in the book was, in fact, mentioned by the amateur artist:

The stars are a free show; it don’t cost anything to use your eyes.

It is an amazing thought - simple yet evocative. Orwell even contemplates on the nature of jobs, and why the world sneers at beggars.

Beggars do not work, it is said; but then, what is work? A navvy works by swinging a pick. An accountant works by adding up figures. A beggar works by standing out of doors in all weathers and getting varicose veins, bronchitis etc. It is a trade like any other; quite useless, of course — but, then, many reputable trades are quite useless.

It is hard to dismiss poverty and beggars considering the amount they pay in suffering. Orwell, throughout the book, remains mostly conscientious and honest, as do a lot of the people he interacts with. He does not apologise for his situation, nor does he make any excuses for it. Orwell's claim to fame wasn't posthumous like Van Gogh's. Yet, when one considers how "down and out" Orwell was, and where he got to, and some of the books he churned out, one cannot help but be blown away. I say "one" in an abstract third-person kind-of way, but the previous sentence is meant to reflect what I think. I am absolutely blown away, for the second time, with this fantastic work of non-fiction.

Virginia Woolf - The Waves

The inexplicable fear that surged through me at the very mention of Woolf's name has alleviated somewhat after my first foray into her works three years ago. Granted it has taken me three years to pick up another book by one of the foremost modernists, but, it was also a book I picked up while trying to return to the world of reading and literature. I expected to struggle, as I did with Mrs. Dalloway; I was prepared to lose myself in the long-windedness, the meanderings; I looked forward to being blown away and challenged, in equal measure. I was not disappointed.

That would be a glorious life, to addict oneself to perfection; to follow the curve of the sentence wherever it might lead, into deserts, under drifts of sand, regardless of lures, of seductions; to be poor always and unkempt; to be ridiculous in Piccadilly.

The Waves is a colloquy of sorts. The interspersed monologues of six characters, through different phases of their lives is essentially the crux of the book. However, none of the words are being said out aloud; instead, it is simply the thoughts fleeting through their minds, in present tense. It starts when the six characters are children - friends - and carries on through the various phases in their life: school; marriage; children; and finally, inevitably, old age.

Let us again pretend that life is a solid substance, shaped like a globe, which we turn about in our fingers. Let us pretend that we can make out a plain and logical story, so that when one matter is despatched—love for instance—we go on, in an orderly manner, to the next.

Yet, can you really call them characters when all that is revealed to you, as a reader, are the thoughts racing in their minds, and nothing more? And nothing less? Merely their voices, distinguishable by subtle inflexions and that's it?

The nine chapters that make up this book represent two things: the time of the day, and the stage of life the protagonists are in.

The first chapter, abundant with the voices of childhood and playfulness, is prefaced with a beautiful image of the sunrise, with the waves softly splashing. All six characters make an appearance in that first chapter, almost as though they are introducing themselves. The final chapter, carries a lot more weight, and is a lot more reflective; it is prefaced with a stunning image of the sun going down, with the waves crashing, and only has one of the characters - Bernard - reflecting and introspecting, in his old age, with the benefit of hindsight. The book does rise gradually to the crescendo that is the last chapter, for when you turn that last page, the feeling that overcomes you, as a reader, cannot be translated into words. That is the power of Woolf's writing.

Initially, it is difficult to get accustomed to the writing. The main challenge has nothing to do with the convoluted sentences that Woolf is famous for. In fact, due to the extremely lyrical writing, the temptation is almost to close your eyes, and let the words take over. The emotions evoked by the descriptive writing results in images dancing before your eyes, more overwhelming than expected. Significantly so.

The waves broke and spread their waters swiftly over the shore. One after another they massed themselves and fell; the spray tossed itself back with the energy of their fall. The waves were steeped deep-blue save for a pattern of diamond-pointed light on their backs which rippled as the backs of great horses ripple with muscles as they move. The waves fell; withdrew and fell again, like the thud of a great beast stamping.

Instead, the challenge arises from how each character is an extension of the other, such that it is almost impossible to distinguish the soliloquies of one character from the next. The shift in voice is subtle, and easy to miss, unless you take in each word - slowly, patiently.

'But when we sit together, close,' said Bernard, ‘we melt into each other with phrases. We are edged with mist. We make an unsubstantial territory.'

No, the writing does not mimic the way people speak, or the way people think. It is overtly poetic, excessively exaggerated and wonderfully evocative, but that's what ensures the connection between the reader and the character. Due to the stream-of-consciousness writing, one can be assured of the character's candour, and this in turn strengthens the bond.

There is, then, a world immune from change. But I am not composed enough, standing on tiptoe on the verge of fire, still scorched by the hot breath, afraid of the door opening and the leap of the tiger, to make even one sentence. What I say is perpetually contradicted. Each time the door opens I am interrupted. I am not yet twenty-one. I am to be broken. I am to be derided all my life. I am to be cast up and down among these men and women, with their twitching faces, with their lying tongues, like a cork on a rough sea. Like a ribbon of weed I am flung far every time the door opens. I am the foam that sweeps and fills the uttermost rims of the rocks with whiteness; I am also a girl, here in this room.

As a reader, who has undergone similar experiences, it is easy to empathise and sympathise with the characters, while simultaneously berating them or unconsciously nudging them to change their course.

This is Woolf at her most experimental, after the unfortunate demise of her brother at the age of twenty-six. The themes of absence, loss and death are prevalent in the book, with the existence of a seventh character: Percival. At no point do you hear Percival's voice, or the thoughts running in his head, yet he is a central character in the book, by virtue of the fact that he is constantly referred to by the other characters. Praise is flung at him, and the consensus amidst the six characters that you interact with through the book is that Percival is perfect, and cannot do any wrong. Initially, there are high hopes and aspirations for him, until he dies in his twenties (Percival has died (he died in Egypt; he died in Greece; all deaths are one death)). The other characters try to rationalise his death, to no avail.

And in me too the wave rises. It swells; it arches its back. I am aware once more of a new desire, something rising beneath me like the proud horse whose rider first spurs and then pulls him back. What enemy do we now perceive advancing against us, you whom I ride now, as we stand pawing this stretch of pavement? It is death. Death is the enemy. It is death against whom I ride with my spear couched and my hair flying back like a young man's, like Percival's, when he galloped in India. I strike spurs into my horse. Against you I will fling myself, unvanquished and unyielding, O Death!

I have not dwelled on the six characters whose voices make up this classic. That is almost immaterial, I feel, as I reflect on this book. They all have their place, and their importance, and the lack of even one of them would render this book slightly less impactful. The imagery, the cornucopia of metaphors, the insecurities and the accomplishments of the characters, and the lingering presence of a dear departed friend results in a book that necessitates a re-read. And another read. A single read is not enough to appreciate The Waves the Woolf has woven, at what has to be her best. It's a bold claim for someone who has simply read just one other book by her, but over the course of this year, I would like to change that. And hopefully, re-read this masterpiece someday soon.

Sebastian Faulks - A Week In December

Set in London, against the backdrop of the subprime crisis and 7/7, Faulks' A Week In December takes place in the week leading up to Christmas in 2007. It's my first foray into the literary world created by Faulks, and I come out the other side marginally ambivalent. The book follows one week in the life of a myriad of characters: a hedge-fund manager and a porn star, a footballer playing in a top-four club and a jihadist, a tube driver and a lawyer, and... well, there are many characters.

The scene is set with Sophie Topping, the wife of a recently elected Tory MP, contemplating the invitation list for a dinner she is hosting in honour of her husband winning a by-election. This contemplation is merely an effective plot device to introduce some of the characters, as the author lists them out in a bullet-form. Their relatives and friends make up the rest of the cast, with two villainous personalities getting the star-billing. And, the book screams London, so much so that it probably is one of the more important characters of the book - it puts everything in perspective, and it brings everyone together.

The question though is, what's so special about characters that this book attempts to bring together? What makes them click? What sets them apart? And, the resonating answer is - nothing. The characters are flat, bordering on stereotypically boring, and the events range from unbelievable to are you kidding me? For example, an uneducated Asian pickle manufacturer is about to receive an OBE, and feels that he is inadequate to meet the Queen, lest the Queen would want to discuss literature, so, he hires a book reviewer to bring him up to speed on literature. Then, there's the tube rider, who lives life to the fullest in the alternate reality internet world, Parallax, neglecting reality. And the lonely alcoholic-loving wife of a rich banker, whose teenage son is enjoying skunk while watching a reality TV show called It's Madness (based on Big Brother?). Oh, and the jihadists communicate with one another using a porn site, by encrypting their messages in one of the images - the model on the image unsurprisingly makes a real appearance in the book.

That said, at times I thought that Faulks really enjoyed writing the book, with present-day pop-culture references being thrown around, subtly. Subtle enough so that it's not in your face, but once you notice it, you appreciate it. For example, Girls From Behind is a popular girl band, and there's a reference to Lemon Brothers - an obvious nod to Lehman Brothers. Social networks play a role too, with YourPlace being the chosen website - not sure if that's meant to be Facebook or MySpace. And then of course, there is Pizza Palace and Orlando (which I believe is a reference to the girly dive-prone footballer, Cristiano Ronaldo). Some of the references do come across as a tad forced, but nonetheless, all things considered, it makes the book feel very 2007.

While the subtlety was appreciated, the narration of the story left much to be desired. A lot of research has gone into the book, and a couple of the story-lines had me quite curious, but the "telling" of the story came across as forced, and the way events transpired left me confused and unsure...

* START SPOILER ALERT *

In the end, the quasi-jihadist who goes through all the trouble to procure the raw materials to make multiple bombs to blow up a hospital in London redeems himself by dropping the bag of detonators in the Thames, whereas the banker, Veales, is shown as the true force of evil. The way he manipulates the markets in his favour, and almost single-handedly causes the collapse of one of the national banks is shocking - and in light of the subprime crisis, that's probably the reaction Faulks was going for. Wealth and riches are his only interests, while his wife, children, TV, socialising and sports take a back seat.

How much does Faulks hate the bankers? How heartless does he think it is? It almost seemed like he had a personal vendetta that he wanted to settle, and he used this book as the medium. We live in a world of shades of grey, but Faulks managed to create a fairly black and white world, and while I find it hard to sympathise with banks whose greed led to the global economic crisis in the first place, I also feel as though this book is looking at the industry from an extremely myopic point of view. It's inviting the readers to hate the industry, it's typecasting bankers into one fairly unforgiving category... whereas... whereas, a person willing to create a pure Islamic world manages to redeem himself with no regrets or repercussions. It's baffling, really.

The last line of the book further pushes the point: "As he stood with his hands in his pockets, staring out over the sleeping city, over its darkened wheels and spires and domes, Veals laughed."

Instantly, my thoughts went to The Fountainhead, which starts, "Howard Roark laughed." Roark is the epitome of all things pure and unadulterated, the un-mercenary, if you like. Yes, this could be purely coincidental, and unrelated, but it was almost like Veals was offsetting the righteous and oh-so-irreproachable Roark.

{the below extract is from the first page of Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead}

He stood naked at the edge of a cliff. The lake lay far below him. A frozen explosion of granite burst in flight to the sky over motionless water. The water seemed immovable, the stone flowing. The stone had the stillness of one brief moment in battle when thrust meets thrust and the currents are held in a pause more dynamic than motion. The stone glowed, wet with sunrays.

The lake below was only a thin steel ring that cut the rocks in half. The rocks went on into the depth, unchanged. They began and ended in the sky. So that the world seemed suspended in space, an island floating on nothing, anchored to the feet of the man on the cliff.

[...] He laughed at the thing which had happened to him that morning and at the things which now lay ahead.

He knew that the days ahead would be difficult. There were questions to be faced and a plan of action to be prepared. He knew that he should think about it. He knew also that he would not think, because everything was clear to him already, because the plan had been set long ago, and because he wanted to laugh.

* END SPOILER ALERT *

It wasn't a comfortable read, by any stretch of the imagination, for there was no middle ground. Everyone and everything was over the top. The characters were dislikable, and even if this was all in the name of satire, one's got to wonder why the satire makes everything seem so bleak? In the twenty-first century, are we so doomed?

One of the reviews at the back of my copy reads:

The 19th century gave us Thackeray's Vanity Fair, Dickens's Our Mutual Friend and Trollope's The Way We Live Now; the 21st century has given us Sebastian Faulks's A Week In December.

If I may be so bold to say that the above statement is overtly generous, I would be understating the reality, and I make that comment despite never reading anything by Trollope. I want to read more by Faulks for I don't think this was anything close to his best, but I don't know where to start? Birdsong? Engleby? Human Traces? Or...? What would you recommend?

David Mitchell - Ghostwritten

Ghostwritten is David Mitchell's first novel, and on finishing it, I've now read all his works, which pleases me greatly. Of course, the fact that this is a tremendous debut adds to the pleasure, albeit, I really do wish there was another Mitchell on my shelf, just waiting to be read. The sub-title of the book reads, "a novel in nine parts," and so it is. It could easily a collection of nine short stories, each told in first person by a different narrator, who seemingly have nothing to do with the previous narrator(s). However, six degrees of separation (or fewer) bind the characters together, through time and different geographical locations. The link between the characters isn't blatantly evident though, as one might come to expect from Mitchell, and at times, it's confusing as to how the characters come together, and to figure out if there is any kind of causal sequence. That said, one can't help but anticipate the revelation of the link, and then deliberate over it for a bit, which in turn means that one can't help but read the book, scrutinising almost every word to see where the link lies.

{note: there are some spoilers below, but I have tried to keep them to the minimum}

The first story, Okinawa, is inspired by the Sarin gas attack on the Tokyo subway - an act of domestic terrorism. Quasar, a terrorist, is on the run after wreaking havoc on a train, as he imagines a world without the "unclean" - forgive the comparison, but similar to the way some pure-bloods (and Voldemort and his Death Eaters) fell about mud-bloods in Harry Potter. Quasar believes he can communicate with the leader of his cult telepathically, and while he hides out in Okianawa, waiting for things to quieten down, he gets the news that His Serendipity has been captured. While the locals rejoice, Quasar tries to get in touch with the powers that be, to figure out the next course of action. The password to get in touch with the powers that be is simply, the dog needs to be fed.

Cue the second story, and the shift in location to Tokyo, where a teenager works in a record store, specialising in jazz. One day, a group of girls enter the store, and he's instantly attracted to one of them, but they leave the store, and he is resigned to never meeting her again. A few days later, while he's closing up the store, he hears the telephone ring, and being conscientious, goes in to answer the phone. The voice at the other end simply says, it's Quasar. The dog needs to be fed. As fate has it, this slight delay leads to him meeting the girl again, and they immediately hit it off. End of the second story. Yes, the links are that random.

“The last of the cherry blossom. On the tree, it turns ever more perfect. And when it’s perfect, it falls. And then of course once it hits the ground it gets all mushed up. So it’s only absolutely perfect when it’s falling through the air, this way and that, for the briefest time … I think that only we Japanese can really understand that, don’t you?”

{end of spoilers}

Through the rest of the stories, the reader meets the Russian mafia, and a ghost that transfers from being to being by touch; a physicist involved with the Pentagon and a night-time DJ in New York; a tea shack owner at the Holy Mountain who laments as to why women are always the ones who have to clean up, and a drummer/writer in London who also works as a ghostwriter to pay the bills.

I couldn’t get to sleep afterwards, worrying about the possible endings of the stories that had been started. Maybe that’s why I’m a ghostwriter. The endings have nothing to do with me.

You know the real drag about being a ghostwriter? You never get to write anything that beautiful. And even if you did, nobody would ever believe it was you.

We're all ghostwriters, my friend. And it's not just our memories. Our actions too. We all think we're in control of our lives, but they're really pre-ghostwritten by forces around us.

The above quotes illustrate another prominent aspect of the book: the role of fate, of chance, of the chain-reaction. The sheer randomness of the stories, and the way the characters inter-connect is pivotal to the novel, and keeps the reader completely engrossed. Of course, the other side is, by the time the reader actually starts relating to the narrator or nodding in agreement with their sentiments, a new narrator is introduced and the old narrator a thing of the past.

And then there's sneaky little political comments just dropped, making the book a lot more relevant in today's day and age. The below snippet, for example, reminds me of the preamble to Iraq.

"Have you noticed," said John, "how countries call theirs 'sovereign nuclear deterrents,' but call the other countries' ones 'weapons of mass destruction'?"

It's an overtly ambitious work, with some fairly profound statements, that had me admiring the debut from the get-go. It was thought-provoking and massive - perhaps not as demanding as Cloud Atlas, but a hell of a ride, nonetheless, and one couldn't help but marvel at how it all unraveled.

Integrity is a bugger, it really is. Lying can get you into difficulties, but to wind up in the crappers try telling nothing but the truth.

Of course, the other impressive thing was, how all nine narrators found a unique voice in the novel, totally disconnected from the previous narrator, similar to Cloud Atlas. Speaking of his most acclaimed book so far, two characters from Cloud Atlas also made an appearance in this book: Tim Cavendish and Luisa Rey - their occupations remain the same across the books, i.e. publisher and writer respectively. Not only that, but a character with a comet-shaped birthmark has a cameo role to play as well. I have to say, love finding old friends in new books!

Personally speaking, my primary complaint with the novel was that I didn't get a sense of closure or fulfilment on finishing the book. I enjoyed it, but I just didn't get the ending. I re-read the last "story" thrice, but to not much avail. I believe this book would benefit from a re-read, as there might have been a multitude of subtle hints that I missed - inadvertently.

Have you read David Mitchell's debut novel? Or, anything by him? What's your favourite? My unequivocal pick would be Number9Dream, but that might have something to do with it being the first Mitchell I read. I almost feel as though I have to re-read all his works in the order of writing, to truly appreciate the erratic wondrous world of fiction he has created.

Helene Hanff - 84 Charing Cross Road

If there ever was a perfect book, this would be it. Yes, I know that's an extremely strong and subjective statement, but I don't think many people who have read this will disagree. It's feel-good, happy, and just... perfect. 84 Charing Cross Road revolves around two people living halfway across the world from one another, with their warmth, kindness, generosity, and love of books bringing them together. The book is a series of real letters exchanged between the two of them over a period of twenty years, starting in October 1949.

Helene Hanff, in New York, is a book-lover but she struggled to find good copies of the books she was interested in near her, so she wrote to a small second-hand bookstore in London, Messrs Marks and Co., which was located at 84 Charing Cross Road, requesting them to send her clean second-hand copies of books she was interested in. Frank Doel was her main correspondent at the bookstore, who replied, and through the letters, a beautiful friendship began.

What was amazing was how, through the letters, one can actually see the friendship evolve. The first few letters were "stiffer" and more formal, with Frank addressing Helene as "Madam" (to which she replies, "I hope ‘madam’ doesn’t mean over there what it does here.") and then moving on to Miss Hanff (to which she replies saying, "Miss Hanff to you (I’m Helene only to my friends")). Finally, they are on first name terms, as Frank isn't quite as stand-offish as he comes across initially.

Honestly, in an age that pre-dates online shopping by a few decades, the fact that Helene was buying her books across the pond seemed incredibly quirky. She had her reasons, which unsurprisingly I do agree with - the way books were made in New York didn't compare to the way they were made in London, and her philosophy was to not cram her shelves with contemporary books, but only purchase books that she'd read and loved - and she wanted the beautifully made ones from London sitting on her shelves.

I houseclean my books every spring and throw out those I'm never going to read again like I throw out clothes I'm never going to wear again. It shocks everybody. My friends are peculiar about books. They read all the best sellers, they get through them as fast as possible, I think they skip a lot. And they NEVER read anything a second time so they don't remember a word of it a year later. But they are profoundly shocked to see me drop a book in the wastebasket or give it away. The way they look at it, you buy a book, you read it, you put in on the shelf, you never open it again for the rest of your life but YOU DON'T THROW IT OUT! NOT IF IT HAS A HARD COVER ON IT! Why not? I personally can't think of anything less sacrosanct than a bad book or even a mediocre book.

The enthusiasm and passion that Helene had for her classics and books was incredibly endearing, as was her direct forthcoming manner which put Frank at ease.

“You’ll be fascinated to learn (from me that hates novels) that I finally got round to Jane Austen and went out of my mind for Pride and Prejudice which I can’t bring myself to take back to the library till you find me a copy of my own.”

However, what made her a truly remarkable character was her actions when she discovered everything in Britain was being rationed post-war. She promptly started sending the employees at 84 Charing Cross Road meat and eggs, and she even sent them nylons! Christmas presents were exchanged, and the friendship struck between the two people who had never met just came across as so real and wonderfully touching. In London, the rest of the staff started corresponding with Helene as well, as did Frank's wife, and again, the affection and kindness between these strangers who'd come together largely due to their love for literature was evident. Almost fairy-tale like. Too good to be true.

In fact, Helene was even invited by her friends in London to visit them, and stay with them. Her friends visited the bookstore in London, and once Frank et al discovered that they were her friends, they were treated like royalty.

...We walked into your bookstore and said we were friends of yours and were nearly mobbed. Your Frank wanted to take us home for the weekend. Mr. Marks came from the back of the store just to shake hands with friends-of-Miss-Hanff, everybody in the place wanted to wine and dine us....

It does make me wonder though - nowadays, the world is so much smaller, communicating across the pond so much easier, but how often are any of us going to be lucky enough to strike a friendship as pure and uncomplicated as that? No selfishness, no end-game, just affection and kind-heartedness. Remember: this book is non-fiction.

I loved all the characters in this book, and I think I'd feel lucky if I had the opportunity to befriend even one of them, for in a world as tainted as the one we are in today, such unselfish kind people are like hidden precious gems. I loved the sense of humour, the excitement and the literary passion.

I am going to bed. I will have nightmares involving huge monsters in academic robes carrying long bloody butcher knives labeled Excerpt, Selection, Passage, and Abridged.

Have you read this book? Is it the "nicest" book you've ever read? Or is it just me?

If you haven't, I really hope you're convinced that it's a must-read now. It really really is - I was slightly apprehensive when I began reading it, for I'd heard a fair few other bloggers gush about this book, but it really is all that.

Marghanita Laski - To Bed With Grand Music

I've been meaning to read a Laski for a long time, and I finally picked this book out of my shelf, just to help me return to the world of reading - one of my many loves that I've been ignoring recently. And on finishing it, I was gently reminded as to why I love reading so much. I've spent the past couple of months literally obsessing over things, and trying to make a life-changing decision (career-wise). However, while reading (and on finishing) this book, I almost immediately started focusing on the points it raises and the questionable character of this book's protagonist. Annoyingly, I can't seem to make my mind up about where I stand.

On the eve of Graham's departure to Cairo for an office job in the midst of the War, his wife (Deborah) and he are lying in bed talking. Graham is likely to be away for a few years, and right up front, he tells Deborah that while he doesn't think abstinence is likely, he will promise not to fall in love with anyone else, thereby remaining faithful to his wife. Deborah, the model wife, on the other hand, promises to be faithful on all fronts, and devote her time to looking after their baby, Timmy. Yet, within days, Deborah is bored to death by the banalities of life as a mother and home-maker, and it only takes minimal persuasion from her mother for Deborah to abandon life in the small Hampshire village, and head to London for an office job.

Her first day in London results in a drunken one night stand, which she is disgusted by, and returns home and devotes herself to Timmy. In general, she has a better temperament, much to the relief of her mother as well as her housekeeper, Mrs. Chalmers. However, she returns to London soon after, and shares an apartment with her college friend, Madeleine, leaving Timmy in the capable hands of Mrs. Chalmers. Initially, she spends the evenings alone in the apartment, despite Mady's best efforts to coax her into the life of glamour: going to parties and having fun, adamant that she should not even be tempted to be unfaithful to her husband. At this point, I sympathised with her, despite her abandoning her son, and looking for a more exciting life in London during the war.

Her adamance crumbles though when Joe, a married American, knocks on the door of her apartment, and convinces her to go out for dinner. While Graham promised Deborah that he would not fall in love,  Joe's promise to his pregnant wife was the inverse, i.e. he would not cheapen his relationship with his wife by sleeping with cheap women. They both appear to be on the same page when it comes to their marriage and their thoughts on infidelity. They do sleep together though, which they justify by saying they are still faithful to their respective spouses, as they are not in love. Many expensive presents and dinners and drinks later, the line between love and companionship blur, and Deborah is very much in love with Joe. Yet, when he has to leave the city, Deborah accustomed to a life of glamour and ostentation, finds another lover and then another - which is all too disturbing. It gets sickeningly worse when she asks men to visit her at the her cottage in Hampshire over the weekends, and it's evident that she's lost all her moral standards and naivety when she requests one of the men to teach her how to be a good mistress - only because it's a trait that Mady possesses, and Deborah envies that. The way she convinces herself that she's not in the wrong and justifies each and every action of hers is mind-boggling, for initially she does come across as someone with high principles and moralities. One can account for a weak character easily being dispossessed of all their virtues, but someone who is as uptight and "holier-than-thou" as Deborah morphing into a greedy tart almost seems to defy logic.

Overdrawing from her bank account, moving from man to man, to the extent that one man introduces her to another, and manipulating men at will to buy her fancy things and take her to restaurants and clubs which Graham would never be able afford seems to business-as-usual for her, and this hedonistic superficial lifestyle is all she cares about. Even her son takes second place. Yet, she manages to justify it.

"You're at least the third person," she said, "who has asked me if I mightn't be better if I went home to my chee-ild. Well, darling, that's just one of the things I've really thought out for myself and I know it's better to be happy than unhappy, and not only for me but for my baby as well. I like this sort of life, in fact, I love it, and seeing as how I'm hurting no one and doing myself quite a lot of good, I rather think I'll carry on with it. I've come to the conclusion that conventional morals were invented by a lot of unattractive bitches to make themselves feel good."

One does wonder though: is it the aftermath of war that prompts people to abandon their principles? Or, is war just an excuse for people to let loose their inner inhibitions an do what they want? If Graham hadn't been called up, would things have turned out differently, or was Deborah only looking for the easiest way out of a life of commitment and stability only to plunge into glamour and deceit? And, how exactly is it, that people who initially come across as so prudish are so quick to turn themselves into the "anti-prude", driven by envy and hedonism, and then, even justify it? Or, does the need to justify the actions arise from the prudishness, or the need to believe that they haven't done any wrong?

I was very much in love with Graham when I married him, conceded Deborah, who was determined not to be one of those low girls who denied a love as soon as it was over, but there's no reason why the person who suited you at twenty should still be the right person for you at twenty-five, when you've both developed and changed and in different directions too.

But honestly - the way Deborah's character spirals downwards is scary, and just... worrying. The transformation from naive and innocent to vice is so rapid, that I couldn't help but feel slightly overwhelmed and contemplative. Is it only a matter of circumstance? Can circumstance really justify this sheer selfish extravagant hedonism? And with no regrets? Actually, I lie - Deborah did end up regretting the fact that the war had ended, and she would be forced to go back to the mundane life of hers, and leave behind the thrills of London.

According to the introduction, this book is not entirely fictional, but an account of someone Laski knew who did transgress similar to Deborah. Initially, it was written under the pseudonym Sarah Russell, as, according to Laski's daughter, Laski was "fascinated and upset at seeing what the war had done to this person" but didn't want the person to figure out that she was the anti-heroine of the book. The person Deborah's character was inspired by managed to get a divorce from "Graham" and she re-married a rich man - probably one who was able to afford her extravagant way of living, and who liked showing off his trophy wife (the last bit's pure conjecture on my part).

I loved this book, and I really do want to read some more books by Laski. There are four published by Persephone, so I guess I have three more to go. Which would you recommend next?

Sarah Waters - Tipping The Velvet

Yay! I've finished all of Sarah Waters' novels. That's the first thought that crossed my mind after I finished this book, and it was immediately followed by a pang of disappointment, for now I have to wait for her next book to be released, before I can lose myself in one of the wonderful worlds she masterfully creates. Tipping The Velvet is Sarah Waters' debut novel, and it's quite impressive. Set in Victorian England, this is a coming-of-age story written in first person, where the narrator is Nancy Astley, or simply, Nan.

Nancy is a small-town girl, who helps out in her family's business to do with the famous Whitstable oysters. She's naive, innocent and loves the theatre, and so, she often attends shows at a nearby music hall, where she is smitten by the 'masher' (a girl dressed as a man) - Kitty Butler. The two soon meet, and a warm friendship strikes. So, when Kitty finds an agent and moves to the capital, Nancy goes with her as her dresser. However, soon enough, she swaps her skirts and dresses for the trousers, and joins Kitty's act on stage - as a masher as well. Soon enough, Kitty's and Nan's act are popular and the two are raking in the money. The two girls are attracted to each other, and so, we are introduced to the first of many lesbian relationships in this book.

However, there's a twist and a turn, and Nancy's life in London changes drastically, as she moves from lifestyle to lifestyle, partner to partner, in search of something. We discover the darker smuttier side of Victorian London, and while I don't want to give too much away, I have to admit, it was a hell of a ride. Cross-dressers, rent-boys and lesbians made appearances, and through them, we discovered how prominent lesbianism was, some two hundred years ago with both - the rich and poor. And, we also discover how people considered it to be taboo, much as it still is in some parts of the world today. And, as we all know, homophobia is rampant!

That said, some parts of the book made me look away. Okay, I know that doesn't make sense, but let me try and explain: I tend to look away from the screen during an overtly steamy scene, just because... well, I don't know... I don't know where to look? Some of the sex scenes in this book are extremely descriptive and long, and I just didn't know where to look, and it's much harder to look away while reading... Am I being weird? Is this out of the ordinary?

The story is interesting - who doesn't like reading about the dark underbelly of the Victorian age? And the writing is incredible - but that's something I've come to expect from Sarah Waters anyway. It's an ambitious debut novel - it covers a lot, and is racy and gripping - and she pulls it off in an inconceivable fashion.

However, it is with a vague sense of deja vu that I admit that I didn't think this book was a patch on Fingersmith either. Something to this effect almost seems obligatory, as I post my thoughts on Waters' books. I think I might have to re-read Fingersmith, just to see if I've imagined how good it was, or if I'm holding her other books to unrealistically high standards.

What's your favourite book by Sarah Waters? I guess Fingersmith's mine, with The Night Watch being the least favourite.

Do you have any other recommendations for books set in Victorian times? The more I read, the more drawn in I am.

Rachel Ferguson - The Brontës Went To Woolworths

The Brontës Went to Woolworths is one of those utterly bizarre books, with quirky characters and a story which makes the mind boggle. The thin line between fact and fiction is erased by the Carne sisters - the protagonists of this book - as they let their imaginations run away with them, and create a wondrous warm world of friendship, happiness and make-believe. A dog who used to be Pope, a doll who used to live in Paris and friends in high places, including Judge Toddington ("Toddy"). You also have their mother, who indulges them and the prudish governess, Miss Martin, who judges them, as she can't quite fathom what's going on inside the bubble the family has created for themselves, probably to cope with grief and sadness after their father's unfortunate demise. To be fair, one can't really blame Miss Martin for being confused about what's going on in this 1930s household - I was utterly baffled by what was going on for the first fifty odd pages, and I kind-of had an inkling of a clue. However, once I figured out the line that the Carnes had erased, things suddenly became much clearer...

...and while they became clear in my head, things got slightly more complicated for the Carnes, when Deirdre (the eldest sister) met Lady Mildred (Toddy's wife) at a charity bazaar, and ended up befriending the older lady and subsequently, her husband - the father figure that Deirdre had created for herself. The "Saga" the Carnes had created for themselves was suddenly moving closer towards reality, and the emotions that ran through the book were both, endearing and heart-rending. Shiel, the youngest daughter, practically had no grip on reality, and her older sisters were extremely protective of her - not only that, but, they themselves spent most of their time in the nursery, escaping their own reality.

The other thing I loved about this book was the irony and humour present throughout. There were a fair few chunks that had be laughing out loud. For instance, the opening paragraph, as narrated by Deirdre, reads:

How I loathe that kind of novel which is about a lot of sisters. It is usually called They Were Seven, or Three-Not Out, and one spends one’s entire time trying to sort them all, and muttering, ‘Was it Isobel who drank, or Gertie? And which was it who ran away with the gigolo, Amy or Pauline? And which of their separate husbands was Lionel, Isobel’s or Amy’s?

How can you not love the irony, when this book is about the three sisters, for the most part?

Another bit that absolutely had me in splits was when Deirdre talks about a proposal she received:

I couldn't accept the man, much as I liked him, because I was in love with Sherlock Holmes. For Holmes and his personality and brain I had a force of feeling which, for the time, converted living men to shadows.

I did enjoy this book thoroughly, and would recommend it highly. It's not very twenty-first century, though, so it's almost like a fairytale. The cynic in me did kick in from time to time, but, I just brushed it aside, for I couldn't help but hope for a "happy ending" for the kooky family, that resorted to escapism to find their solace.

Monica Dickens - Mariana

I bought this book back in January, simply because the blurb likened it to I Capture The Castle, and ended up "saving" it for the Persephone Reading Week (hosted by Verity and Claire). I had great expectations from this book (if you may excuse the totally unnecessary pun), not only because of the blurb comparing it to one of my favourite books from last year, but also because the writer is Charles Dickens' great-granddaugher, and I wasn't disappointed. The title of this book is inspired by Tennyson's Mariana:

She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary; I would that I were dead!"

and it's the story of a young girl, Mary, reflecting on her life as a child, teenager and finally, an adult. In the opening chapter itself, Mary hears the news that a British Destroyer has sunk, and the next-of-kin of those departed have been informed. There are some survivors. There's a storm outdoors, the telephone lines are down, and there's nothing she can do in that point in time to find out whether she's going to be the recipient of good news, or bad; whether her dearest has survived or not.

While she restlessly awaits the morning to go into town, she reflects on her life - from the time she was eight years old until now. The idyllic visits to her grandparents' estate in Chabury during the vacations, the stress of school, her hilarious experience at a school for drama, her fantastic year in Paris (being courted by the romantic Pierre) and of course, the "happily ever after" before now.

I don't know what it is about the name "Mary," but the characters are oft' quite contrary (as in the nursery rhyme). The protagonist of the Dickens' novel is no different. She's spoilt, wants her own way most of the time, and her mother normally gives in.

"You're so utterly wrapped up in yourself that you have no interests outside your own egotism. You've obviously been accustomed to having your own way all your life - someone to do this and that for you, to listen to your complaints and pander to your moods -"

Despite that, I found myself rooting for Mary through the book - her naivety coupled with her innocence and idealism make her quite a charming character. There were times she was annoying, and deserved to be put in place, though, and at some points she just seemed very weak-minded and self-pitying. Was it the childhood romance gone wrong? Or, the indulgent Uncle who lived with her and her mother? Or, just a part of growing up, struggling with identity and desiring independence?

The writing is humorous, and the book an easy, "fun" read. It's not like one giant reflection on her life. Instead, it's like numerous continuous flashbacks, with no nod to the present.

I thoroughly enjoyed the book, and half-wish I'd read it when I was still a teenager. While I had no trouble relating to Mary now, I think I'd've loved her much much more when I was sixteen.

Have you read any other Monica Dickens? Would you recommend them?

And how's your Persephone Reading Week coming along?

Muriel Spark - A Far Cry From Kensington

Sometimes, I wonder about myself. Half way through this Fantastic February Female Frivolities (I like alliterations, love double alliterations...), I realised I hadn't picked out a single Virago Modern Classic. Like I said, sometimes, I do wonder about myself. Anyway, the minute this hit me, I reached out for the first VMC I could find on my shelf, and here you have it: Muriel Spark's A Far Cry From Kensington. I haven't read anything by Muriel Spark before, and to be honest, I've always been kind-of intimidated by her works. I wasn't quite sure as to what to expect with A Far Cry From Kensington, but I definitely didn't expect it to be such an easy read - easy enough to finish in just one sitting!

Narrated by Mrs. Hawkins, a war widow, A Far Cry From Kensington is her reflections on a post-War London when she stayed in a "rooming house" in South Kensington, and worked in publishing houses in the early 1950s. Mrs. Hawkins is a likeable narrator - she doesn't hesitate to call a spade a spade, and there's no beating around the bush. Even when she talks about herself, she's direct, honest, and slightly hyperbolic - always good attributes in a story-teller.

There was something about me, Mrs Hawkins, that invited confidences. I was abundantly aware of it, and indeed abundance was the impression I gave. I was massive in size, strong-muscled, huge-bosomed, with wide hips, hefty long legs, a bulging belly and fat backside; I carried an ample weight with my five-foot-six of height, and was healthy with it.

One of the unwritten items on the job spec at a publishers is being diplomatic. While Mrs. Hawkins was well-liked and respected by everyone around her (even her boss confided in her), diplomacy wasn't her strongest asset. On calling an aspiring author, Hector Bartlett, pisseur de copie (a urinator of 'frightful prose') to his face, she finds herself in hot water - the author had a strong relationship with a famous influential authoress, Emma Loy, and she was looking out for him. Inevitably, Mrs. Hawkins lost her job, but the two authors (one famous, the other still unpublished) continued to plague her career, as she herself refused to withdraw the remark.

The secondary thread of the novel revolves around the other inhabitants in the housing, and how they bond together. Wanda, the Polish dressmaker receives an anonymous letter, which threatens to expose her to Inland Revenue for not paying her taxes, and the poor woman is convinced that she will be deported. Mrs. Hawkins (and the other residents) try to sleuth around, eliminating all possible suspects one by one... and then the episode slips to the back of their minds, until Wanda receives an intimidating phone call. The cycle repeats.

The book represents the post-War London, where people from different backgrounds are still affected by the horror of war, but, they're taking on the challenges to make a new life, almost optimistically. Throw in some extortion (fraudulence), some homosexuality, a budding love, humour, wit and even radionics (!), and you've got yourself an absorbing fascinating story, with vivid realistic characters - some awful, some immense. For instance, Hector Bartlett really is a pisseur de copie, but, by the time the book comes to a close, that's not the only phrase you'll use to describe him!

Oh, and let me repeat a small part of the opening paragraph of the book, for it drew me in immediately, and I felt compelled to keep flipping the pages. Even when I flipped to the last page, I almost felt as though I should go back and start from page one.

Can you decide to think? - Yes, you can. You can put your mind to anything most of the time. You can sit peacefully in front of a blank television set, just watching nothing; and sooner or later you can make your own programme much better than the mass product. It's fun, you should try it. You can put anyone you like on the screen, one or in company, saying and doing what you want them to do, with yourself in the middle if you prefer it that way.

Have you read any Muriel Spark? Do you have any recommendations as to what I should read next?

Sarah Waters - The Night Watch

Sarah Waters' The Night Watch is the third novel I've read by her, and it's as different as the previous two as it can be. While one was a gothic ghost story set in Warwickshire (The Little Stranger), the other was a Victorian thriller (Fingersmith). And then we have this: a book set (mostly in) London during and after World War II. The book moves chronologically backwards - the opening section starts in 1947, followed by a chunk set in 1944 and finally in 1941. While nothing much happens in the opening section, it does define the state of the main protagonists, and how the years of war have led to their present situation - which isn't exactly joyous.

Maybe it's right after all, what the newspaper prophets say: that one gets paid back in the way one deserves. Maybe we've forfeited our right to happiness, by doing bad things, or by letting bad things happen.

There's Kay, a lonely figure, who is a lesbian and spent the war years being a female ambulance driver, and playing hero. Now, she wanders the streets and goes to the cinema, sometimes just to watch half the movie.

Then we meet Duncan, a young boy who lives with his "Uncle." During the years of war, while most men were being drafted, Duncan was in another kind of hell, which led to his relationship with his family deteriorating further. He now draws comfort from his older sister, Vivian, the only person in the family who still seems to care about him. However, Vivian is fighting her own battles - in a relationship with a married soldier - a secret she harbours closely; Duncan being the only one privy to it. She works with the fourth primary protagonist, Helen, in a matchmaking office, as they try to find the "right" person for whoever enters their office.

Helen, also a lesbian, is in a loving relationship with Julia, a famous author. Yet, her jealousy and paranoia seems go beyond the natural, and one has to wonder as to why...

1944, when the war was at its worse and "blackout" was enforced, the characters real stories come to life, and it's not pretty. Nothing about war is pretty. Kay's work as an ambulance driver sees her recover as many carcasses as people who can actually be helped... maybe even more. She tries to protect those younger and less impressionable, and seems to do the humane thing, as opposed to being a stickler for rules. In the end, she was my favourite character - by far.

We see a horrific botched abortion, by a dentist, and its consequences; discover the houses which are now merely rubble and stone; walk the streets of London with the characters - be it with two women starting an affair, or two other women trying to rescue as many people as they can! Not only do we discover Duncan's past, but, we also witness the meeting of the "glamour girl" Vivian with the soldier, Reggie, in a train lavatory!

Little symbols are scattered through the book - Vivan clutching a gold ring in her hand, and then transferring it to its rightful owner; the most beautiful pair of pyjamas as a birthday present which were never worn; Duncan's job making night lights. The significance of each of these symbols, despite being introduced in the first section, isn't quite apparent immediately. Yet, as you read on, the jigsaw starts coming together and making more sense.

Yet, for everything I liked about this book, I didn't actually love it. Not at all. The lesbianism was overdone, and some of the descriptions was unnecessary. There seemed to be more emphasis on the sexuality of the characters than the actual horror of war, at times. Also, to me (and I might be wrong here), the inclusion of Duncan was simply to have a male perspective as well, but his character, despite being an interesting one, didn't really add much to the story. The authenticity of some of the intertwining stories defied logic (e.g. Reggie-Vivian), and I was left feeling quite confused about Duncan and "Uncle" Horace's relationship.

If you're a Sarah Waters fan, I'd suggest reading it, but, if not, I'd give it a miss. It's nowhere near as good as Fingersmith, so like me, if you are seeking a repeat of that experience, I'd suggest heading in the other direction.