A Neglected Novel & a Melodramatic Bildungsroman: Jean Stafford’s “The Catherine Wheel” and “Boston Adventure”


Jean Stafford is my favorite American writer, or, rather, she has written two of my favorite books.  She won the Pulitzer in 1970 for her stunning Collected Stories. I also return again and again to The Catherine Wheel, her restrained, elegant, little-known Jamesian novel, set during a summer in Maine. 

The Catherine Wheel is a sophisticated, if chilly little book, told from the perspectives of two troubled characters.  

The seemingly tranquil  Katharine Congreve, a middle-aged spinster who believes in “the pleasure principle” but also dislikes change of any kind,  now faces a sexual crisis.  As a young woman, she was in love with John Shipley, an architect who inexplicably fell for her blander cousin,  Maeve.  Weirdly, John and Maeve invited Katharine to accompany them on their honeymoon, claiming that she had made the match.  And now she is having an affair with John, who wants to divorce Maeve, and insists Katharine must marry him to “save him.”  This salvation is not what Katharine had meant by the affair.

The Shipley children spend summers with Katharine in Maine while Maeve and John go to Europe, and this summer is no different.  The teenage twins, Honor and Harriet, are excited about having new dresses made and meeting new boys at tea; but 12-year-od Andrew, bullied at prep school and friendless in the city, is crestfallen because his local friend, Victor, has dropped him.  

Victor’s neglect of Andrew seems pathological. Victor is nursing his older brother, Charles, a sailor, who has come home with malaria.  Victor does not even speak to Andrew when he passes the house.  He refuses to allow Andrew into the house to visit him and Charles.

And so  Andrew lies in a hammock all day, violently fantasizing about killing Charles. 

In this small town in Maine, everyone meddles in everyone’s business.  People  gossip when Katharine’s lights are on all night, and speculate that she is ill, or that she was up reading Gone with the Wind.  Katharine feigns calm and pretends she has been making a list for a grand outdoor party, which will end with her favorite firework, the Catherine Wheel,  named after the martyr St. Catherine of Alexandria.

Needless to say, Katharine is no saint, and it is a difficult summer, despite her aristocratic manners and dependence on tradition.  Stafford, who was raised in Colorado and graduated from the University of Colorado, learned the manners not from childhood from her husband, Robert Lowell, who grew up in a wealthy Boston family. 

Ready for melodrama?   Finally I am reading Stafford’s debut novel, Boston Adventure (1946).  It is a little dated, and though it is well-written (okay, anyway), I find it heavy-going.   

Stafford’s debut dud

This 500-page bildungsroman is a dud. There!  I’ve said it! I had my doubts from the beginning, with the narrator Sonia’s simple statement that she “used to sleep on a pallet of old coats and comforters in the same room with my mother and father.”  

Sonia’s family life is violent and poverty-stricken.  Her father, Hermann, a German immigrant shoemaker, has physical fights with his wife, a Russian immigrant, and both of them drink too much.  He deserts them after reading too many Westerns translated into German – to the West, they presume. Sonia’s mother, who possibly killed Sonia’s epileptic younger brother,  is too lazy to work, and depends on Sonia’s after-school earnings as a maid.  Finally Sonia’s mother  is committed to a lunatic asylum.  Sonia is both relieved and guilty.

In the second part of the book, Sonia fulfills her dream of moving to Boston, where she is taken in by Miss Pride, a Boston spinster who spent her summers at the hotel in Sonia’s hometown, Chichester. Now Miss Pride is writing her memoirs, and sends Sonia to secretarial school.  Oh, and there is a Proustian tea party…

I have not finished this yet, but  I am not overly pleased.  It is now my midnight-falling-asleep reading. It reminds me of nothing so much as Nancy Hale’s best-selling blockbuster, The Prodigal Women, the sob story of three women who were friends as girls, and grow apart dramatically as adults.  (Both Stafford’s work and Nancy Hale’s short stories have been published by Library of America). 

Other best-sellers of the time included books I prefer to Boston Adventure: Vera Caspary’s Laura, Olive Higgins Prouty’s Now Voyager, and Upton Sinclair’s Lanny Budd books.

Stafford is a great American writer, but do start with her later books.

Weekend Reading: Kurt Vonnegut’s “Slapstick”


Kurt Vonnegut is our weirdest great American comic writer, and if you’re looking for a laugh, you will marvel at his wit and acumen even as he chronicles the most horrific events of the twentieth century.  His most famous novel is Slaughterhouse-Five, which describes Billy Pilgrim’s survival of the fire-bombing of Dresden (based on Vonnegut’s own experience) and Billy’s subsequently coming unstuck in time. But Cat’s Cradle and Timequake are funnier and lighter, and I much prefer them.

I recently read and enjoyed  Kurt Vonnegut’s best-selling post-apocalyptic comedy, Slapstick (1976), which received the worst reviews of any of Vonnegut’s novels.  Vonnegut wrote, “The reviewers…actually asked critics who had praised me in the past to now admit in public how wrong they’d been.  I felt as though I were sleeping upright in a German box car again.”  
In Slapstick, Vonnegut apparently went too far for the critics, though not too far for me: I do appreciate satire.  Vonnegut’s description of American society in the post-apocalyptic future – which occurs a bit later, but not much later, than now, or perhaps in a parallel time – satirizes American politics, the National Archives, American loneliness, the nuclear family, the fossil fuel shortage, and The Green Death, a pandemic. 
The energy crisis is acute when the narrator, Dr. Wilbur Daffodil-11 Swain, is elected President of the United States.  He has run on the platform of the eradication of American loneliness. His political slogan was,  LONESOME NO MORE!  Everybody could relate to that.

But how do you obliterate loneliness?  Swain plans to assign new middle names to each citizen.  These computer-generated middle names will automatically align them with a new extended family – tens of thousands of people who will be committed to caring for its members – as opposed to the too-often neglectful nuclear family.

But when Swain is elected, he has to figure out first how to generate electricity.

The fuel shortage was so severe when I was elected, that the first stiff problem I faced after my inauguration was where to get enough electricity to power the computers which would issue the new middle names.

I ordered horses and soldiers and wagons of the ramshackle army I had inherited from my predecessor to haul tons of papers from the National Archives to the powerhouse.  These documents were all from the administration of Richard M. Nixon, the only President who was ever forced to resign.

 Vonnegut is very funny about Nixon:  he says that Nixon and his cronies weren’t really criminals, they were just lonely.  And so they wanted to commit crimes so they could belong to a crime family.  Vonnegut adds, The National Archives are full of papers about political crimes committed by lonely politicians.

 The structure of Slapstick is odd, as so much of Vonnegut’s work is. Vonnegut says this novel is as close as he’s ever come to writing an autobiography.  It’s what life feels like to him. In his autobiographical prologue, he says he prefers “common decency” to love, and examines the importance of the extended family in his own life and that of his brother.

Chapter 1 begins not in medias res (in the middle of things), but in ultimas res (the end of things).  Swain, now very old and long retired from office, is living on the first floor of the Empire State building with his teenage granddaughter and her lover.  The Green Death has wiped out much of the populsyion. Sickness and disasters are widespread and living conditions are primitive.  The King of Michigan is at war.  Swain’s  granddaughter was lucky that people helped her reach New York safely.

Swain is writing his memoirs, though he doesn’t know for whom:  the young can no longer read or write.    Born in New York City, Swain and his twin sister, Eliza Mellon Swain, were “monsters” from birth, black-haired giants with the features of adults, not Mongoloids, but born with out-of-the-ball-park high intelligence.  He explains, “We were something new.  We were Neanderthaloids.”

 Their beautiful, rich parents were repulsed by their children, and for years hid them away in an isolated house.  The twins could literally put their heads together and solve any problem:  math, science, linguistic, psychological, creative, you name it.  And so a cruel psychologist evaluated the twins and decided to separate them:  their IQs dropped  considerably when they were apart, and thus the psychologist felt secure and brilliant again.

Meanwhile, the Chinese had learned to miniaturize themselves  to solve the food shortage. Part of the formula came from a paper written by the twins when they were children. 

Swain  has the humor and intelligence to know he cannot control the future.  That is for his granddaughter, Melody, and her generation to figure out.

Genius has had its day.

Perhaps my favorite part of the book is the prologue.  Here is an excerpt.

The Booker Prize 2022 Longlist: A “Holiday” Read

The annual Booker Prize longlist is a “holiday” read:  there is a glamour about this prize.  It is more alluring than the didactic International Booker, whose motto seems to be “LITERATURE IN TRANSLATION IS UNDER-READ,” (but is it?) or the more relaxed, where-are-all- the-women Women’s Prize, formerly known as the Orange Prize.  (That said, I have best luck with the longlisted books for the Women’s Prize.)

The 2022 Booker longlist was announced today.

I love the Booker. I became obsessed with it when I discovered Ruth Prawer Jhabvala’s Booker-winning novel, Heat and Dust.  I read a review in the Chicago Tribune, and  when I found the book at a local store, it came with a Booker Prize sticker.

But you want to know about this year’s longlist! There are  many fascinating titles, but the list is heavily weighted by Americans:    six Americans, three Britons, two Irish, one from Zimbabwe, and one Sri Lankan. (Source:  The Guardian.) 

The inclusion of so many Americans is disappointing to us Anglophiles, because we use the list to learn about  British and (formerly)”Colonial” literature. We have our own American prizes.

 I have read one novel on the longlist, Oh William!, by the American Pulitzer Prize winner, Elizabeth Strout, who writes so gracefully she is like a prose ballerina. I loved My Name Is Lucy Barton, a piercingly lyrical novel about a complicated mother-daughter relationship, and Lucy’s escape to New York, where she reinvents herself as a writer.  Her latest novel,  Oh William!, is a sequel.  Lucy pities her ex-husband, William, whose second wife has just left him, taking their daughter with her.  Lucy, his first wife, left him years ago, taking their two daughters, and seems to have set a precedent. 

I enjoy the eclectic work of the American writer, Karen Joy Fowler, who has experimented with genre over the years, including science fiction/historical fiction (Sarah Canary) and women’s fiction (The Jane Austen Book Club).  Her masterpiece,  We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves, was shortlisted for the Booker Prize in 2013 and and won the PEN/Faulkner Award in 2014 – a family novel, about a psychologist’s daughter who is raised with a chimp, Fern, whom she regards as her sister – and then Fern disappears.  Fowler is nominated this year for her historical novel, Booth, apparently an unusual take on the story of Lincoln’s assassin, which is described at Goodreads as “an epic and intimate novel about the family behind one of the most infamous figures in American history.”

As a child, I was a fan of the award-winning British children’s author, Alan Garner.  My favorite was The Owl Service (I still have my copy), though I’m a little vague about the others.  Garner has been longlisted for his new adult book, Treacle Walker, which is published by a small press in the UK.  I would love to read this novel,  but alas! it is not available in the U.S.

I would like to read Selby Wynn Schwartz’s After Sappho. (I have never heard of this author but am a fan of all the Greek lyric poets.) According to The Guardian,  this novel “is a fragmented collective biography of female artists and writers in the late 19th and early 20th century – women pushing at the bounds of an oppressive society and asserting their desire to study, create, and love other women. It’s lyrical, scholarly, passionate and entirely unique.”  Again, there is the small press problem.  This book is not available in the U.S.

Below is the complete Booker prize 2022 longlist!  Let me know if you’ve read any of these.

Glory by NoViolet Bulawayo
Trust by Hernan Diaz
The Trees by Percival Everett
Booth by Karen Joy Fowler
Treacle Walker by Alan Garner
The Seven Moons of Maali Almeida by Shahan Karunatilaka
Small Things Like These by Claire Keegan
Case Study by Graeme Macrae Burnet
The Colony by Audrey Magee
Maps of Our Spectacular Bodies by Maddie Mortimer
Nightcrawling by Leila Mottley
After Sappho by Selby Lynn Schwartz
Oh William! by Elizabeth Strout

A Short Novel for the Weekend: Colette’s “The Vagabond”

Last spring, I did not require a soporific cup of Ovaltine at bedtime, nor did I pop a daring over-the-counter sleeping pill.   After 10 minutes of reading Proust’s self-indulgent musings in Sodom and Gomorrah (Book IV of In Search of Lost Time), I fell into a deeply bored, dreamless sleep. The character Albertine was  back, and I wished the narrator would hurry up and decide whether she was his girlfriend or a lesbian.  But no, he went on and on and on and on.  Finally I dismissed Proust as a  boring old droner who had only one good book in him – Swann’s Way.

And then I turned to Colette, my favorite French writer of the 20th century, who may be underrated these days because her short, lyrical,  decidedly feminine novels often take the form of  irreverent meditations on love.  People tend to think a sprawling  novel in need of a very strict editor is more impressive than a short, concise, perfect novel.

Colette was a celebrity writer, an actress, a music hall artist, bisexual, and married thrice.  My favorite of her books is The Vagabond, a charming, witty novel based on Colette’s experiences as a traveling music hall artist.  The narrator, Renée, is divorced and a former writer, who has found peace in the routine of the theater and enjoys her financial independence. She describes her life backstage and onstage, the eccentricity of her colleagues, and her blissfully solitary home life with her dog, Fossette.
Renée captures her experiences succinctly and gracefully.  From her dressing room she writes:  

It’s absolutely freezing in here!  I rub my hands together, grey with cold under the wet white which is beginning to crack.  Good Lord!  the radiator pipes are icy; it is Saturday and on Saturdays here they rely on the high-spirited popular audience, rowdy and slightly drunk, to warm the auditorium.  No one has given a thought to the artistes’ dressing-rooms.

This is primarily a theater novel, but it is also the story of a love affair.  Renée has an admirer whom she calls Big Noodle: he keeps sending her notes and flowers, though she does nothing to encourage him.  Divorced and traumatized by her first marriage to a famous philandering painter (Colette’s first husband was a famous philandering employer of ghostwriters),  she does not want a relationship with a man.

You know how it is when you’re in your thirties and single.  You tell your friends you don’t want to meet anyone, and still they arrange blind dates. Friends and fate conspire against Renée.  They worry that she will be lonely as she ages.  And they think Maxime is a good egg.  Renée jokingly thinks Maxime is the courtesan, doing nothing, while she goes out to earn her daily bread.  She finds it ridiculous that he doesn’t work.  And she is determined to go on a 43-day spring tour in France with her co-worker, Brague, and a young man they call “the troglodyte.” 

  I love Renee’s descriptions of life on the road in the many letters she writes to Maxime.  Spring arrives, and she is enchanted by the sudden appearance of flowers (all of which she knows by name) and takes long walks in parks.  And she is not at all sure she wants to exchange her solitude for wifehood. 

We love Colette’s novels because her characters are shrewd and vulnerable at the same time, as women usually are.  But in one of Colette’s later books about a middle-aged women (Break of Day may be the one I’m thinking of), she admits that she and her fictional counterparts diverge in their choices. Colette is not Renée.

The Teaching of Victor Crabbe: Anthony Burgess’s “The Malayan Trilogy”

Anthony Burgess’s anti-hero, Victor Crabbe, is one of his most memorable characters.  Who is Crabbe, you may ask? This idealistic teacher is a type everyone recognizes, though few teachers retain their idealism. 

Crabbe is the intellectual, quixotic, half-effective British protagonist of Anthony Burgess’s The Malayan Trilogy, written in the 1950s during Malaya’s struggle for  independence. The reader experiences the political and social upheaval partly through Crabbe’s eloquent observations, partly through the smouldering, eclectic clashes of  the Malay, Indians, Chinese, and Eurasians in Malaya.  

If you are a fan of Joseph Conrad and W. Somerset Maugham, you will enjoy this neglected trilogy, which consists of Time for a Tiger,  The Enemy in the Blanket, and Beds in the East.  There is a cast of hundreds of characters, or so it seems, but we always identify with Crabbe, who loves the tropical country but sweats up his shirts by the end of a morning’s teaching, because he walks to work, having refused to drive since he had an accident and his beloved first wife was killed.  

Crabbe is also hard-drinking.  In his free time, he drinks gin at bars with people of all races and easily makes friends, while his second wife, Fenella, a poet who longs to go home to England, miserably stays in bed with “a copy of Persuasion, a volume of John John Betjeman’s poem and a work of literary criticism by Professor Cleanth Brooks.” 

Burgess himself was a colonial officer in Malaya and Borneo from 1954 to 1960.  He writes in the introduction that one of the most attractive elements in Malaya at that time was “the profusion of race and culture and languages… [but] the Malays resented Chinese wealth and were determined to keep the Chinese out of politics.  They despised the Indians and had derisive names for them.  They even despised the English, whom they called ‘Mat Salleh’ or ‘Holy Joe.'”

In the first novel in the trilogy, Time for a Tiger, Burgess paints a vivid portrait of a sweltering, tropical country where extreme heat exacerbates the constant drinking of alcohol, which sometimes alleviates problems, sometimes intensifies them.   Crabbe, a talented, if often misunderstood, history teacher, hopes to promote tolerance and unity among the Malays, the Indians, the Chinese, and the Eurasians, before he leaves – or rather, till he is  kicked out with the rest of the British.  Burgess explains Crabbe’s point of view:  “The fact was that Victor Crabbe, after a mere six months in the Federation, had reached that position common among veteran expatriates – he saw that a white skin was an abnormality, and that the white man’s ways were fundamentally eccentric.”

Burgess’s sentences burst with intelligence and brim over with his polymathic vocabulary, complete with a glossary in the back with Malay phrases.  But none of the scholarship gets in the way of the page-turning story: he moves gracefully from musings on Malay politics to the description of a school staffed by permanently dissatisfied teachers to a dangerous trip through the jungle (where bandits and the Chinese communist terrorists live). 

Fenella is a complete innocent, pining for culture.  “Are the people really different up there?’ asked Fenella.  Cool libraries with anthropology sections were in her head.” 

In the second book, The Enemy in the Blanket, Crabbe has lost his teaching job but been promoted to headmaster in Dahaga, another Malay state.  Again, school politics are too much for him – rumor spreads that he is a communist, because he speaks of communism to a group of students, and the man who wanted his job digs up an article Crabbe had written on communism in college. (Actually, the article was supplied by one of Crabbe’s supposed old friends, a lawyer who has ended up in Malaya, and is one of Crabbe’s many ill-wishers. ) Unhappy Fenella finds a way to leave, and we are happy for her- anyway, Crabbe has been fooling around with a neighbor’s wife.

And, in the third novel, Beds in the East, Crabbe’s days are numbered, along with those of the British.  One of the most comic scenes is when he finds a paper in the train with a very bad poem by Fenella about their marriage.  He is startled.  But his role in this novel is disappointingly smaller than in the others.Here Burgess develops many of the characters native to Malaya.

Among the most memorable  in Beds is a beautiful Eurasian woman, Rosemary, who, like Fenella, longs to go to England. She keeps falling in love with Englishmen whom she fantasizes about marrying – but they have no intention of marrying poor Rosemary.

Then there is Victor’s protégé, Robert Loo, a Chinese merchant’s son who has written a brilliant symphony, without even knowing how to play the piano.  Robert loves math, and hears the music in his head.  Victor, who believes that, if performed, this symphony could improve the status of Malayan culture, contacts musical friends.  Loo, however, is an Aspergers type who is perfectly happy NOT to hear his music performed and doesn’t mind working at his father’s shop.

But no good deed goes unpunished:  But no good deed goes unpunished:  Crabbe has contacted musician friends, but Robert Loo rips up his symphony and begins to write jukebox-style songs – and Robet hates the jukebox –  after a single sexual encounter with Rosemary. 

And so – did any of Crabbe’s teaching make a difference?   Yes – no – perhaps – probably not. 

Burgess himself is both cynical and idealistic about the influence of the West.  

Light Reading for Hot Summer Days

 Air conditioners are for wusses, we used to think.

Now, alas, we need them.

It changed very fast – about 10 years ago in the U.S.  The temperatures are very hot now.  Day after day of 90-plus. Storms, wildfires. Yet it seems “normal” to everybody:  no one is driving less, no one connects the information about climate change with our actual life-style. In fact, Biden cut the price of gas to placate American drivers – and lost a chance to educate and ask Americans to make sacrifices.

Remember Kennedy: “Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.”

Meanshile , stay cool, hydrate, hydrate, hydrate! 

And here’s a list of light fiction for hot days of summer.


1.  Try Anthony Burgess’s Enderby and Enderby Outside, the first two novels of the Enderby quartet.  Enderby, a dyspeptic English poet, is happily writing poetry in the lavatory, writing on toilet paper, and storing pencils in the TP roll, until an arts maven, Vesta Bainbridge, seduces him away from his lavatory and dominates him. In  the second novel, Enderby Outside,  Enderby has been cured by a psychiatrist of writing poetry, but when a pop star, Yod Crewsley,  launches a book of poetry that turns out to be an unpublished tome of Enderby'(stolen by Vesta), Enderby goes berserk.

2.   The Marvelous Misadventures of Ingrid Winter, by the Norwegian writer, J. S. Drangsholt, is a very funny academic novel. The narrator, Ingrid Winter, is a harried English professor whose students accuse her of “mindfucking” when she talks about Lacan;  a frazzled mother of three who is always the last mom to pick up her pre-schooler; and  so in love with her dream house that she commits funds they don’t have in a bidding war –and wins!   When the head of the department sends Ingrid to a meeting in Russia with two unlikable colleagues, the situation is hilarious.

3.   Doris Langley Moore’s A Game of Snakes and Ladders, first published in 1938, is an utterly charming novel about two women in a traveling theater company.

At the end of World War I, Lucy and Daisy become friends:   Lucy, a charming vicar’s daughter and talented actress, finds an acting  job for Daisy, a lower-class woman stranded in Australia after a bad marriage.  When the company arrives in Egypt, the social gap between the two widens: Daisy climbs the social ladder by having  an affair with the owner of the theater company, while Lucy falls down the social scale as she tries in vain to save money to return to London.  Lucy loses her money, her looks, and job after a long illness, but she is courageous.  You will love Lucy’s story–she never loses hope but is stranded for years–and you will  admire Moore’s graceful, dazzling prose.  

4.  Elaine Dundy’s witty novel, The Dud Avocado,was ublished in 1958 and has been reissued by Virago and NYRB Classics.The narrator, Sally Jay Gorce, an aspiring American actress in Paris, has thrown herself into the bohemian life. She has a middle-aged lover, Teddy, Alfredo Ourselli Visconti, so she feels that she has left behind the stuffy mores of women’s colleges. And she doesn’t consider herself a tourist until she runs into Larry, a handsome American actor she worked with in a stock company. This time around, Sally falls in love with him at first sight, but he is less impressed with her. She has dyed her hair pink and and happens to be wearing an evening gown in the morning (everything else is at the laundry). Larry lectures her on the perils of “going native” and then tells her about the the different types of tourists. Sally won’t admit she is one.

5.  Mariana Leky’s lovely novel, What You Can See from Here, translated from German by Tess Lewis, is another charming book.  This gem-like novel, set in a village in Germany, is narrated by Luisa, whom we first meet at the age of 10.  Picture a group of quirky Anne Tyler characters, only not in Baltimore. In the first chapter, Luisa’s grandmother, Selma, divulges her dream of an okapi the night before.  (The okapi belongs to the giraffe family and is known as the zebra giraffe.) 

6.  The L-Shaped Room by Lynne Reid Banks. Pragmatic Jane Graham is respected at her public relations job. A sexual slip-up–an unplanned pregnancy–forces her to examine her life. In a bug-infested L-shaped room, she befriends some unconventional Londoners and makes peace with her disapproving father. (Two sequels published in the ‘70s, The Backward Shadow and Two is Lonely, relate Jane’s further adventures.)

7.  Bassett by Stella Gibbons.  In this delightful novel, two middle-aged women go into business together. Miss Hilda Baker, a Londoner who works in a pattern-cutting office, wants to invest her savings of 300 pounds.  She sees an ad in Town and Country that might offer what she wants:  Miss Padsoe, a spinster in a country town, needs a partner in the conversion of her house into a rooming house. Miss Baker cautiously visits Miss Padsoe, but doesn’t decide to invest until her boss fires her (he is downsizing).  And thus the adventures of Miss Baker and Miss Padsoe begin. 

8.  Charlotte Armstrong’s A Dram of Poison is at heart a gentle comedy of suspense. The hero, Mr. Gibson, a middle-aged bachelor who teaches poetry at an obscure college, marries Rosemary, who is 22 years younger, for altruistic reasons. Poor Rosemary is sick, hopeless, helpless, plain, destitute, and about to be evicted, because her late father, a cranky professor emeritus who spent his latter days writing angry letters to the editor, left her nothing.  And so  Mr. Gibson to the rescue!  they fall in love, but this is not a romantic comedy:  it is a comedy of suspense.  

9.  Elizabeth Goudge’s A City of Bells is a charming, once popular  novel of the 20th century.  Set in Torminster, a Cathedral town based on Wells in the UK, this well-written post-war novel is rich with comedy, descriptions of the city, and witty, believable dialogue.

 The hero of the novel, Jocelyn Irvin,  has been physically and psychologically damaged in the Boer War.  He has no vocation, so he goes to Torminster to stay with his grandfather, a canon of the cathedral. And while there he falls in love with Felicity, a charming, well-read actress who is visiting her aunt.  Due to the influence of Felicity and Grandfather, he opens a bookshop.  And there he finishes the manuscript of a poem by the former tenant;  he and Felicity produce it as a play in London.  When Jocelyn goes to London for rehearsals,  Grandfather runs the bookshop.

Goudge writes,

 Grandmother was outraged … That she should live to see her own husband on the wrong side of a counter was really the last straw in a married life strewn with straws.  “A Canon of the Cathedral serving in a shop,” she said indignantly to Jocelyn.  “I never heard of such a thing in my whole life.  What the Dean thinks I don’t know and don’t want to know.  And what your poor Grandfather, who has never, let me tell you, been able to subtract a penny from three-halfpence since the day he was born, gives in the way of change I’m sure I don’t know.”

  10.  The action of Grace Dane Mazur’s exquisite novel, The Garden Party, is set in a single day.  Two writers, Celia and Pindar Cohen, host a wedding rehearsal dinner in the garden for their son Adam, a professor poet, and his bride, Eliza Barlow.   

But the Cohens dread the party.  Celia is a literary critic and Pindar is researching a book about Babylonian cookery;  the Barlows are lawyers with whom they have nothing in common.  Celia would like to put the Barlows at a separate table.  She is still brooding over the seating chart and the menu as the guests arrive.

In the course of the day, there are many uncomfortable interactions.  The whimsicality of the Cohens’ garden does not appeal to their future in-laws, the Barlows.  And the bride and groom, Eliza and Adam, so dread the huge wedding that Eliza’s brother, Harry, a former seminarian, offers to officiate at a private ceremony to reduce the pressure of the big day.  An utterly brilliant novel, full of surprises, and slightly reminiscent of Virginia Wool!

Mrs. ‘Arris and the Arts

I’m disconsolate.  Nothing dramatic.  It’s an ordinary pandemic arts-deprived depression, precipitated by the realization that there’s nothing to do in town except go to the movie, “Mrs. Harris Goes to Paris.”

Years ago I read the charming, feather-light novel, Mrs. ‘Arris Goes to Paris (the book title charmingly drops the “H”)  and the movie, starring Lesley Manville, may be even lighter – too light.  I recall the basic plot from the book:  Mrs. ‘Arris, an English char-lady with a delightful Cockney accent, decides to go to Paris and spend her savings on a Dior evening gown. 

Darling Mrs. ‘Arris! Or do I mean Harris?  Naturally, her unaffected charm wins  the hearts of Parisian snobs.  Perhaps Lesley Manville- what better source? – will teach me the art of charming designers.  But the other movies in the theater – I shudder to mention this – have titles like Thor: Love and Thunder

I have read that movie ticket sales are recovering ground. The Hollywood Reporter says that box office sales in June were almost up to $1 billion, last achieved in December 2019.  Sales were boosted by a cartoon called Minions:  The Rise of Gru.  But I wonder, Where is the adult fare? How long must I stay in my living room watching Netflix limited series?

The pandemic shattered the arts, films, music, and theater, though many are slowly reopening – others killed for good. According to an article in Time magazine in June 11, 2021, “Putting an End to the Pandemic Means Putting Artists Back to Work,” half an estimated 500,000 jobs in the performing arts in New York were cut during the first year of the pandemic.  Elizabeth Alexander, the president of the Andre W. Mellon Foundation, writes warmly of the value of the arts in New York and California. 

What she doesn’t mention is that the states in between the coasts (America with a ‘k’?) also desperately need the arts.  Some of us drive 200 miles to an art museum, only to learn that it is closed for the next four years.  I know of one independent movie theater that never reopened, its proprietor claiming that there are no longer any independent films.  Bad news if true!

Well, the Met Opera is thriving (or at least singing its heart out), and for $500 we could have seen Sarah Jessica Parker and Matthew Broderick in Neil Simon’s Plaza Suite on Broadway.   

Despite my doubts about Mrs. Harris, the film may win an Oscar, judging from the rapt critics, who liberally sprinkle their reviews with the phrase “fairy tale.”  Forget the fairy tale – all I ask for is entertainment. 

The Spinster Problem: D. H. Lawrence’s “The Lost Girl”

By the middle of July, there is no question that I’m haggard. Try staying up and reading D. H. Lawrence till 2 a.m.  Wait till morning to slather on cold cream and rejuvenate yourself with cucumber slices.  In films women apply cucumber slices to their eyes,  but I find them more refreshing in a salad. 

I am reading Lawrence’s The Lost Girl (1920),  a mesmerizing, if uneven, novel about a woman with a paucity of sexual choices. It seems inevitable that Alvina Houghton, a maternity nurse whose inheritance was devoured by her once rich father’s debts, will run off to Italy with Ciccio (pronounced Cheecho), a traveling performer in a pseudo-American Indian dance troupe.  Alvina has had bad sex with him once, but she is afraid she will find no one better.

And she has reason to worry.  Lawrence informed us portentously on page 2 that in Woodhouse, Alvina’s hometown,  “there was a terrible crop of old maids among the ‘nobs,’ the tradespeople and the clergy.”  Her governess, Miss Frost, was an old maid, as was her father’s manager of a sewing workshop, Miss Pinnegar, both of whom lived with the family in Woodhouse. Miss Frost ran the household and essentially supported the family by giving music lessons.  After a while, Alvina gave piano lessons, too. Alvina’s mother, her only married role model, was an invalid. 

Alvina has few prospects. She has experience as a piano teacher, but it is not her vocation. And she is repulsed by the few eligible men in Woodhouse. In particular, an Australian teacher working on an Oxford degree who lives entirely in his head – and seems to have no heart – is confident that they are “walking out” together.” He will not take a hint:  he stalks her, and believes she likes him, until she bluntly tells him she is not interested.

 And later, Alvina desperately feels it’s better to run away with a young, attractive, impecunious, stupid, masculine Italian than to marry the smart, fiftysomething doctor WHO IS IN LOVE WITH HER, HAS A BEAUTIFUL HOUSE, MONEY, AND WILL GIVE HER ANYTHING SHE WANTS!  Oh, dear, I doubt her choice will bring much joy.  But she did not want to marry the doctor, and that is that.

But really, Ciccio? He’s so stupid!  Out of curiosity, I looked ahead at the next chapter, and as I suspected, she ran off with dreary Ciccio. Such a disappointing arrangement.

Lawrence is both brilliant and stupid about male-female relationships. As you can imagine, there is little communication between Alvina and Ciccio. Here is Lawrence’s take on them in Italy.  He writes,

Curious, he was somewhat afraid of her, he half venerated her, and half despised her. When she tried to make him discuss, in the masculine way, he shut obstinately against her, something like a child, and the slow, fine smile of dislike came on his face. Instinctively he shut off all masculine communication from her, particularly politics and religion. He would discuss both, violently, with other men. In politics he was something of a Socialist, in religion a freethinker. But all this had nothing to do with Alvina. He would not enter on a discussion in English.

Somewhere in her soul, she knew the finality of his refusal to hold discussion with a woman. So, though at times her heart hardened with indignant anger, she let herself remain outside. The more so, as she felt that in matters intellectual he was rather stupid. Let him go to the piazza or to the wine-shop, and talk.

Yes, yes, “somewhere in her soul.”  Very Lawrencian.  

This novel is kind of a mess, but it is fascinating and often gorgeously written.  A pity Alvina has so few choices – but after all she was born and raised in a town of old maids! And now I must read the last 30 pages. 

What Happened to Old-Fashioned Book Clubs? Miranda Mills Has the Answer

 I adore book clubs, and have belonged to many:  literary fiction groups, mystery groups, an Oprah book group, science fiction groups, celebrity memoir groups (Lauren Bacall’s By Myself is a classic), and a silent reading group from which I was, alas, expelled, because I was whispering, and I regret to say I giggled – very undignified.

Most online book clubs these days are what I call “unstructured parallel reading.”  For instance, during Virago Month (August), everybody solemnly swears to read a Virago, any Virago.  Call me crazy, but if I’m reading a wicked satire by Molly Keane, and you’re reading a surrealist novel by  Leonora Carrington, isn’t the only common ground the publisher? 

Perhaps the smartest book club on the internet today is run by Miranda Mills, host of the YouTube channel, Miranda Jane Mills:  Sharing My Love of Books.  In her early thirties, Miranda gives off a calm pre-Raphaelite vibe, with her long, flowing hair and floral-print dresses.  She addresses viewers from her beautiful home in Yorkshire, where we admire the decor, the flower arrangements, the table set for tea, and the  bookshelves filled with Penguin clothbound classics, reprints by small presses, gardening books, and art books.  Her succinct reviews and recommendations are always welcome, and her photography is of professional quality. 

She also runs the monthly Comfort Book Club at the YouTube channel with her charming mum, Donna. Among the titles they have discussed are Jane Austen’s Emma, Elizabeth von Arnim’s The Enchanted April, and E. M. Delafield’s The Diary of a Provincial Lady.  And during the pandemic, the Comfort Book Club really has been a comfort.

Here is Miranda’s description of the club:

The Comfort Book Club started in 2021 and is a book club for those who enjoy classic comfort reads. I run the CBC with my Mum, Donna, who is also an avid reader, and the books we choose reflect our tastes in literature: primarily classic British comfort reads (both fiction and non-fiction) from the 19th or 20th Century, although we do sometimes pick contemporary books too.

I look forward to Miranda’s new selection at The Comfort Book Club, P. G. Wodehouse’s Joy in the Morning, one of the best of the Jeeves and Bertie Wooster series.  The discussion will be held on July 22. 


As a longtime fan of P. G. Wodehouse’s goofy, inimitable classics, i am not only reading Miranda’s book club selection but revisited one of Wodehouse’s Blandings Castle books, Pigs Have Wings.  Lord Emsworth’s prize pig, the Empress, is at the center of the conflict – as is, I think, true in all the Blandings books. His neighbor,  Sir Gregory Parsloe, has purchased a new sow, Queen of Matchingham – a contender for the Fat Pig prize.   Due to a misapprehension, Lord Emsworth’s younger, wilier brother, Galahad, kidnaps (pignaps) Queen of Matchingham, while several mixed-up guests in love dither and wander the grounds,  – and even Beach the butler can’t keep everything straight.

What are your favorite online book clubs? I know there are many to choose from.

A Henry James Binge: “The Other House” and “The Spoils of Poynton”

I paid $1 for a used copy of Henry James’s The Other House (NYRB Classics).  I had never heard of it, for reasons which became clear as I read on. The prose is un-Jamesian, consisting of short, spare sentences rather than elegant, serpentine periods.   Divided into three short books, it reads like a three-act play.

This plot-driven novel may well be the right choice for non-James fans.  It is very short, and almost a genre novel.  It is not quite a whodunit, but there is a murder.  One might call it a psychological horror novel.  The moral is, Be careful what you wish for.  Words can be weaponized – and that happens here. 

The premise of the novel depends on a deathbed promise exacted offstage by Julia Bream from her husband, Tony Bream. After giving birth to their daughter, she feels ill and is convinced she is dying.  The doctor can’t find anything wrong but insists that Tony humor her.  And so Julia elicits a promise that Tony will not remarry within their daughter’s lifetime.  That last phrase seems very lawyerly – and yet its inclusion proves to be fatal.  To ensure the fulfillment of the promise ,  Julia repeats it to her neighbor, Mrs. Beever, asking her to repeat it to all in the house. Julia had an evil stepmother, but it is hard to see this promise as a safeguard for her baby.  Asking Mrs Beever to repeat the promise publicly can also read a a warning:  Women, keep off.

Julia has reasons for jealousy. Two attractive young women are in the house, Julia’s best friend, Rose Armiger (whose name means “arms-bearer”),  and Jean Martle, a very young, pre-Raphaelite beauty, who is staying with Mrs. Beever in the house across the bridge. Rose, a clever, plain woman who becomes beautiful when she is animated, is the most complex character in the novel, though whether anyone can be more complicated than the Machiavellian Julia I cannot say.  All the men except Tony are in love with Rose.  In fact, when her fiancé returns from China, Rose refuses him. 

So doesn’t Rose have everything? Well, she doesn’t have Tony.

The other young woman, Jean Martle, attracts Tony. His reaction to Jean makes us understand why poor Julia wanted an eye kept on Tony:  while she is dying, he is admiring Jean’s masses of red hair and flirting .  

Julia does die.  And when four years later, the same set of people meet again, the situation becomes very – shall I say complex? 

This novel, though a fast read, is not one of James’s best.  The characters have little depth.  Once he reveals the identity of the villainess, we continue to see her only on the surface.  Her character lacks the intricacy of Kate Croy in The Wings of the Dove, or Charlotte Stant in The Golden Bowl.  The women in The Other House are not materialistic like Kate and Charlotte, but it doesn’t prevent bad behavior. 

What I think about this novel is:  it is James’s beach book.  It is what you read when you have read all or most of James.

Do Read Henry James’s The Spoils of Poynton!
On the other hand, I was enthralled by a third reading of The Spoils of Poynton,  a masterpiece that examines the fine line between collecting objets d’art and materialism.

Mrs. Gereth’s house, Poynton, is filled with a collection of precious objects.  She and her late husband scrimped and saved to buy them. 

But the novel begins with a friendship. Mrs. Gereth meets Fleda Vetch at the Brigstock family’s hideous country house, Waterbath.  Mrs. Gereth and Fleda are skulking in the garden Sunday morning to avoid the other guests. They begin to chat, and discover that they have similar tastes, and even deplore the same people.

The following excerpt  is very Jamesian, witty,  exquisite, convoluted, and stylistically stunning.  Mrs. Gereth is very much a collector, and as such has her eye on Fleda Vetch.

This girl, one of the two Vetches, had no beauty, but Mrs. Gereth, scanning the dullness for a sign of life, had been straightway able to classify such a figure as the least, for the moment, of her afflictions. Fleda Vetch was dressed with an idea, though perhaps with not much else; and that made a bond when there was none other, especially as in this case the idea was real, not imitation…. for a minute, as they sat together, their eyes met and sent out mutual soundings. “Are you safe? Can I utter it?” each of them said to the other, quickly recognizing, almost proclaiming, their common need to escape. …That the poor child no less quickly perceived how far she could now go was proved by the immense friendliness with which she instantly broke out: “Isn’t it too dreadful?”

“Horrible—horrible!” cried Mrs. Gereth, with a laugh, “and it’s really a comfort to be able to say it.”

The Brigstocks’ house is particularly horrible to Mrs. Gereth because of the mass-produced furniture and decorations that reflect no one’s taste.  And  Mrs. Gereth is so taken with Fleda’s wit and understanding that she invites her to Poynton .  Fleda is hungry for knowledge – she is ecstatic to learn about art.

And then a threat to the collection looms.  Owen is engaged to Mona Brigstock, one of the daughters of Waterbath.  On a visit to Poynton, Mona shows no interest in the objects and paintings: she tells Vleda she wishes there were a billiards room and “a winter garden.”

Money matters to Mona, though.  When she learns  that Mrs. Gereth plans to move the things to the dower house, she realizes they must be valuable.  She tells Owen she will not marry him unless the collections remain intact at Poynton.  She nags Owen to hire lawyers and sue his own mother.

And so begins the battle between Mrs. Gereth, the collector, and the materialists. her son and his fiancee.  Mrs. Gereth genuinely delights in her things, loving the details of the work, as does Fleda.  But Owen is riled up and insists he is the master of Poynton, and that he has inherited his mother’s collections.  And Mona  is greedy;  she will deprive Mrs. Gereth of her lifetime collections just for the sake of ownership.

Are Owen and Mona in love?  Owen seems cowed by Mona.   Mrs. Gereth’s hopes for her collections depend on something less tangible than the legal courts:  can she manipulate  Owen into falling in love with Fleda?

And poor Fleda!  She loves Owen, who says he loves her and wishes they could live together in the dower house.  But Fleda’s ethics are so strict that she insists on a plan of action unlikely to end in anybody’s happiness. And that is primarily because she doesn’t understand Mona Brigstock.  She cannot imagine that Mona would not be, ultimately, as chivalrous and generous as Fleda.

Fleda’s naivete may prove disastrous, as did Julia’s in The Other House.  But I guarantee that you will not predict the ending of The Spoils of Poynton.

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