“I have always been ridiculous…” #dostoevsky #dostoyevsky

I am nothing if not a biddable reader… My general hopelessness at sticking to plans is evidence of that, but a good example recently was the fact that I came across mention on a BookTube short of a Dostoevsky story I hadn’t read which highly recommended it. Of course, I instantly had to dig about on the Dosty shelf to see whether I had it, and indeed I discovered that I owned the story in five different volumes with four different translations! So I instantly had to read it, although actually deciding which version to read was quite difficult. In the end I plumped for the Constance Garnett translation in this Dover Thrift collection – more on the translations later…

The story is called “The Dream of a Ridiculous Man” and it was first published in 1877, in Dostoevsky’s own monthly journal, “A Writer’s Diary”. The first couple of sentences are intriguing, recalling the opening of the earlier “Notes from the Underground”; there, an ‘underground man’ declared himself to be sick, spiteful and unattractive (depending on the translation you read); here, our first person narrator claims to be a ridiculous person, a madman. Truly, Dostoevsky’s characters don’t like themselves much!

Our unnamed man is something of a nihilist, convinced that life is pointless, and at the start of the narrative he’s wandering the streets of St. Petersburg, trying to find a meaning to it all. The fact that he cannot has decided him on suicide, and gazing at the stars he resolves that tonight will be the night. A young girl tries to attract his attention, to gain his help, trying to tell him that something has happened to her mother. He rejects her and stomps off home to do the deed. However, sitting at his chair he begins to wrestle with himself; acknowledging that the plight of the girl has got under his skin, he doubts if he is therefore in the right place to kill himself. Unexpectedly falling asleep, he passes into a dream sequence which will change his whole life.

This takes him from the grave into space and eventually to a sister planet of our own; a kind of mirror to the earth where human beings live in peace and harmony, free of suffering and without sin. So bearing in mind Dostoevsky’s religious fervour, this is a kind of humanity before the Fall. They accept him and he stays with them in a kind of Utopia. However, the serpent has come into the garden, and his presence eventually corrupts the beautiful people of this planet, bringing them progress, civilisation and all the horrors which go with modern life. Just as things become to much for him, the narrator awakes. Considered a madman in his dream, he is also considered a madman in his real life, as he tries to preach love and harmony; but nothing will stop him trying to spread the message of his dream.

Dostoevsky is always such an interesting read, whether in short or long form, and these stories and novella are perhaps concentrated looks at his worldview which is often clothed with a lot of plot in his chunky novels (not that I don’t love those…!) The ridiculous man has a pedigree in Dostoevsky’s works, the kind of holy or wise fool; and many of his protagonists have no filter, not caring how foolish they look. Again, the nihilism is often present – I suppose Raskolnikov in “Crime and Punishment” is the most obvious example, and he indeed finds release with religion. Dreams, too, recur, and there is another short story I have on my shelves called “Uncle’s Dream” which I’m not sure I’ve actually read yet. So, many regular themes are here, in what is an absorbing and quite moving tale.

“The Dream of a Ridiculous Man” is a fascinating look at the human condition, and our constant search to find meaning in our lives. We all do that in different ways, but the emotional effect of being unable to find a point in life is always a powerful one for Dostoevsky. The story doesn’t take long to read but it certainly left me thinking, and wondering just why we humans have to make life so difficult and painful for each other. I have no religion, so I can’t put it down to the Fall; and the jury is out on nature vs nurture. But reading this book has reminded me that it *should* be possible for us to live in peace and harmony; I just don’t know if we’ve gone past the tipping point and it’s too late to redeem humanity… 😳

*****

A little word on translation, a subject which often vexes me a little! The renderings I have here are, from the top, by David Magarshack, Andrew R MacAndrew, Olga Shartse and Constance Garnett (x 2).

I’m not quite sure why I have quite so many short story collections except for the fact that probably no collection has *all* of Dostoevsky’s short works. When deciding which one to read, I read the first paragraph of each and no one rendering completely grabbed me, so I picked up the Garnett. It read well, and I enjoyed it, but I stumbled a little on the last line. The meaning didn’t seem entirely clear, and looking at the other versions, they were much more lucid. So I guess I will keep having to try all versions of a translated work when I can, and have others on hand in case of confusion….

“Sunday was a day of massacre in our house.” #thetalnikovfamily @ColumbiaUP

If you cast your eyes over the canon of Russian authors, you could be forgiven for thinking that women writers were as rare as hen’s teeth. There are a few names, mainly poets – Akhmatova, Tsvetaeva – who spring to mind, but the big guns were men – Pushkin, Tolstoy, Dostoevesky, Bulgakov et al. However, in recent years a new spate of translations has put paid to that myth. It seems that although the men are well known in English versions, it simply may be a case of the fact that the women authors have never been translated. Teffi, of course, has been a huge success in translation, and I’ve covered a number of her works on the Ramblings. But there *were* earlier women writers in Russia and their books are gradually creeping into the west.

I have a number of these on the shelves, some still unread (“The Boarding School Girl” by Nadezhda Khvoshchinskaya and “The Nihilist Girl” by Sofya Kovalevskaya spring to mind). However, Columbia University Press have been doing sterling work in bringing unsung and pioneering women writers to Anglophone readers. I’ve previously covered books they’ve issued like “City Folk and Country Folk”, Sofia Khvoshchinskaya (from the 19th century) and “Klotsvog” by Margarita Khemlin (from the 20th century). Now they’ve rediscovered a fascinating book by a pioneering woman author – “The Talnikov Family” by Avdotya Panaeva, translated by Fiona Hill – and it makes powerful reading.

“Talnikov” is set in 1820s St. Petersburg, and the narrator is young Natasha. Her household is a chaotic one, full of violence; her parents are callous, disinterested in all of their children and ready to dole out punishments everywhere. Her father, in particular, whips his children yet dotes on his pets. Death is an everyday presence – the book opens with one of Natasha’s young siblings dying and being buried – and life is harsh. The family’s mother cannot be bothered to deal with her children and employs a ghastly governess; ruthless and disciplinarian, the latter’s only real interest is preening herself in the hope of finding a husband.

The governess quickly settled on an educational program that completely fulfilled our parents’ requirements and thereby earned their full favor. From the moment she took us on, children’s laughter died out in the house. Our constant tears proved that the woman to whom we had been entrusted was tirelessly devoted to our moral education and our parents’ peace. Our governess had a well-developed oppressor’s spirit. Perhaps she wanted to recreate the system of tyranny in which she herself had been brought up.

Then there are the various aunts who live with the family, who are just as cruel as the rest of the adults. There’s little comfort to be found for any of the siblings, as one brother finds out when he’s farmed out to live with an uncle who’s happy to administer beatings as well. The relatives scream and argue; the surroundings are grim, full of poverty and cockroaches; and it’s amazing, frankly, that as many of children survive as do.

Natasha is a sharp-eyed observer, and smart with it, and although she gets caught at times, she does manage to outwit the adults as well as painting a vivid portrait of them. Nobody is happy; the women flirt with anyone in trousers; the men drink; and there is no warmth directed at the children at all. In a telling section, the family decamps to a dacha for the summer, but this potential heaven is a hell for Natasha who finds the whole place seedy and sordid, and the sea is so alarming she develops a fake limp to avoid having to go near it. Their poverty is noticeable here, with the children dressed in what are virtually rags.

Events move on and suitors for various older ladies appear; but Natasha herself is growing, and despite considering herself unattractive and unloveable, it seems there might be a chance for her to at last escape her awful family situation – but will she take it?

“Talnikov” is a remarkable and eye-opening work and it’s not hard to see why it was considered such a shocker on its first appearance in 1848. Drawing on the author’s own upbringing, it caused a scandal, and was promptly suppressed by the censor who called it “cynical” and “undermining of parental power.” Yet the topics of female emancipation, revolution and the horrors of family life were being intensely debated in the Russian society of the time and so the book was incredibly relevant. Intriguingly, it also explored the experiences of the lower classes, the servants and the workers, alongside the better off elements of society, and so was really a ground-breaking work.

Panaeva herself is a fascinating figure; married young to a nobleman, she mixed with the intelligentsia of the time and was involved (along with her husband ) in publishing a number of iconic authors. The revolutionary author Chernyshevsky was a friend, and Panaeva had a long relationship with the writer Nekrasov, the two producing works together. So she really was a pioneering woman, and it’s bizarre that she’s not been translated before.

“Talnokov…” is not an easy book and is aptly named; although Natasha is the central point, the story is of the whole family and their trials and tribulations. Although it’s a harsh and painful read, it’s laced with dark humour and moments of joy, and Natasha is an unforgettable heroine. I can see why this book was so important on its release as it shines a bright light on the horrors of family life at the time and the mistreatment of children; but as well as that, it tells a compelling story, and I’m very glad it’s now been made available to monolingual readers.

(Review copy kindly provided by the publishers, for which many thanks)

“I love tremendous and sonorous words.” #virginiawoolf #thewaves

Memo to self: do not be afraid to revisit ‘difficult’ books. Not only are they truly wonderful to read, you’ll also see so much more in them than the first time round! Yes, I’ve been re-reading Virginia Woolf, a long time favourite author, and the title I went back to was one which I really can’t be sure when I last read. It could, in fact, be decades, and it’s a work which is probably considered her most experimental – “The Waves”, first published in 1931. I’ve wanted to re-read this for ages but somehow my courage failed me. But “The Years” was such a marvellous experience, earlier in the year, that I girded my loins, so to speak, and launched out on “The Waves” – which turned out to be a stunning and immersive experience.

The novel’s structure is far from conventional; it’s told via a series of six voices in monologue, a group of friends called Bernard, Susan, Rhoda, Neville, Jinny and Louis. We first meet them in childhood, when their voices narrate their experiences – which by necessity, at this age, are short and simple. Shadows falling on a path, the sound of a bird, basic sights and sensations – these are the initial impressions of very young minds. The children grow and relate how the world around them appears, the things they see and their emotions. The paragraphs become longer as their minds develop, and we hear of their schooling, their feelings about each other and also their fears and insecurities.

It seems as if the whole world were flowing and curving—on the earth the trees, in the sky the clouds. I look up, through the trees, into the sky. The match seems to be played up there. Faintly among the soft, white clouds I hear the cry “Run”, I hear the cry “How’s that?” The clouds lose tufts of whiteness as the breeze dishevels them. If that blue could stay for ever; if that hole could remain for ever; if this moment could stay for ever——

The book’s sections are divided by beautiful short pieces describing landscape, specifically relating to the sea and the waves breaking on the shore. These start at break of day and work through to the end of the day; the sections in between follow different stages of the characters’ experiences at particular points of their lives. So they go to boarding schools and university; follow varying paths into work and adult life; some will start families, some will not; and they reach older years, still in contact with each other at times but each forging a route of their own. Although they have in many ways parted company, there is still a huge bond which is renewed whenever they do meet.

I don’t know if I’ve read another book which is written like this, with each character telling of their life, their inner self, their feelings and emotions in such a way, via what is in effect a series of soliloquies. I’ve commented before on Woolf’s ‘moments of being’, those points where life stands out in sharp focus instead of the everyday blur, and much of what the characters in “The Waves” capture is just that. Each of the narrators is looking for meaning, and each finds it in a different way; their characters are strongly defined, each very different and individual yet bound together by their childhood. And despite the fact that these are internal monologues, coming from the sensibility of each individual, it’s startling to realise that they are also in dialogue with each other. Phrases repeat and move from one narrator to another; thoughts and emotions are shared; and we learn of the fate of some individuals from the responses of others. It’s brilliantly done and although I recalled this as being much more difficult to read, with the voices hard to distinguish, that’s never the case as each character is well defined and clearly identified.

You might wonder if it’s possibly for six individuals to be created this way, by simply allowing them to reveal their inner thoughts; and I think in a lesser writer it might not have succeeded. However, with an author such as Woolf the results are stunning; the writing is superb, it’s Woolf at her best. Each character has a distinct personality: Susan, with her love of the country and hatred of city living follows the path she very much wants, although there are hints of regret; Louis, the Australian with an inferiority complex, makes a successful career in the city; Jinny is the beauty of the group, self-assured and like a butterfly flitting over the world, taking what she wants; Neville is the sickly and poetic one, who loves Percival and will never recover from that; there is the elusive Rhoda, also not to be tied down and always hiding from the world; and then there is Bernard. He is in many ways the centre of the book, the spinner of stories, and it is left to him to round up the history of the group of friends at the end. He’s perhaps the heart of “The Waves”, and I did feel that Woolf perhaps put much of herself into Bernard, although with her shyness and insecurity she’s perhaps reflected in Rhoda too.

Shall I always draw the red serge curtain close and see my book, laid like a block of marble, pale under the lamp? 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.

I mentioned Percival, loved by Neville (and perhaps all of the other characters in one way or another); he is, in fact, the seventh character in the novel. He never speaks directly to the reader but instead is seen through the eyes of the six main protagonists. He’s central to events at school/university, and yet dies young leaving a void which is never filled. He reappears throughout the book in the memories of the characters and takes on a strong life of his own. I believe that Woolf may have drawn for him on memories of her brother Thoby, who also died too young.

Interestingly, having revisited “The Years” relatively recently I saw synchronicities between that book and this one. In both, Woolf’s interest is in following a group of people at set points of their life; however, in “The Years” this is a more global view, looking at the world and reflecting the changes taking place in society. Here, in “The Waves” there is a more personal take, examining life from the particular viewpoint of six individuals through the lens of their perceptions. Nevertheless, their observations do reveal much about the world in which they live; for example, the striking differences between the educational system for male and female. As well, the differing characters in “The Waves”, although six distinct individuals, almost come together to form a single consciousness, exploring the aspect of community and how much we need others. The blurring of the lines between the monologues and the crossover and repetition of elements highlights that angle, and makes for an altogether original book which defies genre.

Obviously I’m really only scratching the surface of the book here; “The Waves” is a book that would warrant a University thesis or a hundred, there’s so much in it. It’s a work of genius, of that I have no doubt, and one with so many layers that would repay multiple re-readings. This is not a book to be hurried – nothing by Woolf is, really – and I spent a happy week wallowing in her most wonderful prose. I don’t think any other author I’ve read has captured the inner life the way she does, and her prose veers close to poetry throughout the book, so beautifully is it done. Of course the book is full of images of the sea, with the waves marking the changes in time and the way events often sweep over our lives, taking things over. Reading this kind of writing is just pure joy for me, and although in some ways I wish I’d re-read “The Waves” sooner, I’m glad that I chose to come back to it now. Woolf will always be one of those life-changing authors for me, and although I can’t recall now what I thought of this book when I first read it, on this revisit I’m even more convinced of her brilliance – what a truly unique and special author she was.

*****

A little world about the edition I read. My original copy is an old and fragile Granada edition which I picked up in the early 1980s, and I did consider re-reading this. However, when tidying the shelves recently I discovered I had picked up a more recent Oxford World’s Classics edition and so I went for that. It was fine, although I oddly found myself vaguely irked by the inclusion of notes! I tended to ignore them because I didn’t want the flow of my reading interrupted, and in many cases because I am an older reader (ahem!) I didn’t need certain names or phrases explained. I also chose not to read the introduction; a quick flick through it revealed mention of the lenses of colonialist views and the like. I read Woolf for her supreme artistry and her magnificent prose, and that’s what I wanted to take from this book!

“…innovate a bit, dream a bit.” #markcousins #dearorsonwelles @irishpages

I’m always interested in expanding my bookish horizons, so when I was approached by a new-to-me publisher about a forthcoming release I was very interested. The publisher is The Irish Pages Press, an award winning outfit based in Belfast, and they’re a non profit organisation; as well as issuing “Irish Pages: A Journal of Contemporary Writing”, they also put out some very intriguing sounding books with an Irish angle. The new release is “Dear Orson Welles” by Mark Cousins and it’s a fascinating read.

To my shame, I’d not heard of Cousins before, but a quick look reveals a prolific career. Born in Belfast, he made his home in Edinburgh in the 1980s and is described in the press release as a Scottish-Irish director, writer and wanderer! Certainly, the latter description is very apt, as he’s filmed in a huge range of locations and this is reflected in the essays. These range from short pieces to long, fiction-like works, all of which probe his life, the art of film-making, the history of the industry and its possible future, favourite creators and much more. The structure is often innovative, an element presumably reflected in his films, and whatever form they take, Cousins’ writing is never less than interesting. He has a distinctive style, often asking rhetorical questions of those about whom he’s writing, and I imagine he must be very entertaining in real life!

Cinema tells the most beautiful lie, it shows us the vivacity of the ongoing moment. Its luminous here-and-nowness distracts from the fact that the clock is ticking. But I think my favourite films somehow know that. They are all about the joy of the moment but also about the fact that everything is being filed away as memory.

Cousins is often in conversation with other film makers and artists, whether real or imaginary, and his writing interrogates the whole process of making movies and, indeed, the film industry itself. He has a wide range, and his interests displayed here reflect the variety of his own work – he has filmed in Iraq, in Sarajevo during the siege, Iran, Mexico, widely across Asia, as well as in America and Europe. I found his dialogues with Sergei Eisenstein particularly interesting; I’m a huge fan of the Russian film-maker, and Cousins’ insights were revealing. He also has conversations with his younger self, and these are often very moving.

As I’ve said before about essays, much of the success of these depends on how you relate to the author, and Cousins is certainly an engaging one. Built into the pieces are many elements of autobiography; and as someone who grew up in Belfast during the troubles, he’s well placed to deal with trauma, conflict and the effects of War. I found myself wondering if it was his background which makes him something of an outsider, working in the margins and the boundaries of his industry; and thereby presumably offering much more in the way of interesting films than the mainstream blockbusters. Cousins explores the negative influence of the studio system and the positive ones of technological breakthroughs; we can now all make our films on tiny cameras we carry with us and that has revolutionised film forever. His thoughts on film festivals were particularly pithy, exploring as he does how they’re nowadays basically a shop window for the latest blockbuster.

But he has a deep reverence for classic cinema (as do I) and its transformative power; his recollections of adventures in Hollywood and meeting with the greats are revealing, and I loved the balance of older film-making and contemporary work. There are touchstones which reappear in the essays – the grave of Monroe, “Singing in the Rain”, of course Orson Welles – and these obviously affect Cousins deeply. My own range of knowledge about current movies and independent films is very narrow, so I came away with lists of names to explore; I know of Agnes Varda, for example, but have never heard of the classic Egyptian director, Youssef Chahine (amongst many others discussed here). So this book is a useful nudge to venture more widely into modern film.

I also found Cousins’ discussions of documentary really interesting, as the form has changed so much over the decades. He has a strong belief in the importance of this genre, and certainly it’s moved away from a simple narrative telling. Too many television programmes still stick to the ‘clip-talking head-clip-talking head’ model, and it was very refreshing to hear Cousins’ thoughts on how factual films can adopt innovative structures.

Cousins is a literate commentator, moving outside the realms of film and its makers to draw in authors, artists and writers; D.H. Lawrence, Virginia Woolf, Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo are all grist to his intellectual mill. This extensive collection of essays spans a couple of decades and, gathered here, makes an excellent introduction to his work and his thoughts.He’s a quirky, entertaining and yet very thought-provoking writer with so much to say about films, making them, enjoying them, and indeed life itself. I feel rather daft not having heard of Cousins before being offered this book, but I’m very glad to have finally made his acquaintance; his essays make wonderful reading and I’ll make a point of looking out for his films from now on!

(Review copy kindly provided by the publisher – thank you; the book was published yesterday)

September reading, and plans for next month’s #1970Club!

I’ve probably mentioned here before how I’m a great fan of autumn, and September is a favourite month in many ways; I love to watch the season changing and the colours of the trees turning to red and gold. It’s also a month which hints at cooler, darker evenings and being able to hunker down under a blanket with a book, so that’s all good too! This September has been an interesting month of reading for reasons I’ll get onto, but in the meantime here is the pile of books I actually finished – a perhaps more modest pile than usual:

In case the image is not clear on your device, here’s a list of the titles:

Atoms of Delight by Kenneth Steven
The Waves by Virginia Woolf
Maigret’s Madwoman by Simenon
Maigret and the Wine Merchant by Simenon
Rommel Drives On Deep Into Egypt by Richard Brautigan
The Talnikov Family by Avdotya Panaeva
Trip Trap by Jack Kerouac, Albert Saijo and Lew Welch
Places by Colette
Dear Orson Welles & Other Essays by Mark Cousins

All of the books were fascinating in one way or another – no real duds (although I have thoughts on at least one of them which will follow – I am still playing catch up with reviews). Quite a variety of reading, though, which I’m always pleased about – I like to mix things up!

You may notice from the titles of some of these that I have started reading quite early for next month’s #1970Club; I don’t normally begin so far ahead, but there’s a good reason for this and all will become clear in the fullness of time… 😂  However, I will say that this might have something to do with the fact that my reading pile is slightly smaller than usual; I have spent the second half of September immersed in one particular book which I am still reading, and my thoughts on it will turn up next month. It’s had a profound effect on me and my reading though.

It might sound strange to say, but I am feeling very *connected* to my books and reading at the moment. I think this could be because I’ve been digging back down into favourite authors and books, exploring the stacks and returning to volumes I haven’t picked up for ages, and also subjects or kind of works I’ve loved for a long time. This is a wonderful feeling and has kept me buoyed during the month when life was busy or difficult.

As for October, well, obviously I’m looking forward to the #1970Club which I will be co-hosting, as always, with Simon from Stuck in a Book. I shared a picture before which hinted at possible reads:

As you can see above, one of those titles *did* make it off the pile, but you’ll have to wait until club time to find out what else I chose/will choose for the rest of the days! 1970 has some really interesting titles so I’m very much looking forward to seeing what people decide to read and share.

If our Club reading weeks are new to you, welcome! These are low-pressure events, and basically Simon and I choose a year between 1920 and 1980 (because that’s a period we enjoy!). We encourage everyone to read, share, review and comment on any book from the year in question and you can get involved as much or as little as you like. You could read one book or several; as I said, it’s low pressure and you have a wide choice of reading matter! As always, I will have a dedicated page for the club where I’ll share links to other people’s posts and reviews. So do join in if you can – these are fun events!!

The rest of October on the Ramblings could well be catching up with reviews of books I’ve already finished; I’m not aware of any other pressing book events or challenges (though November looks to be quite busy on this front). Though if you know of any interesting ones I’ve missed do let me know, as I always love to see if I have anything on the shelves which fits in with an event!

What about you? Have you plans for October and will you be joining in with 1970? Do let me know! 😊📚

“There is a great deal of wickedness in village life.” #spinsterseptember #missmarple

September has been a month where I deliberately kept involvement in any events or challenges light; October will see a week of intense reading for 1970 so I’m trying to plan ahead a little for that (although we all know how my plans usually go…) However, one event I did want to take part in was #SpinsterSeptember; organised by the lovely Nora, who posts on Instagram as @pear.jelly, this focuses on books about or featuring spinsters, in all their variety and glory, and there is obviously a huge range of books to choose from. Of course, many 20th century women authors wrote this kind of literature (I have numerous Virago and Persephone titles which would fit the bill, and of course there are the British Library Women Writers and Dean Street Press books too). However, in the end I went a different route, thanks to an online suggestion, and chose some Golden Age crime – to be precise, “The Thirteen Problems” by Agatha Christie!!

Frankly, this has to be one of the daftest Christie covers I have… 😳

The protagonist of these stories is Christie’s wonderful Miss Marple, perhaps the quintessential spinster – yet one who refuses to conform to people’s stereotyped views about a single, older lady. She may look fluffy and vague, but she has a mind as sharp as a stiletto, and that brainpower is on show in this collection. The book was first published in 1932, so early on in the author’s career (although she already had a number of classic mysteries under her belt). This was only Miss Marple’s second appearance in book form; she had made full length debut in “The Murder at the Vicarage” in 1930, but interestingly, the first story in this collection was originally published in The Royal Magazine in December, 1927 under the title given to it here – “The Tuesday Night Club”. So Miss Marple was there from the very beginning of Agatha Christie’s career, and went on to be one of her best-loved characters.

The book does indeed collect together thirteen little problems, and these are perhaps like episodic tales in an overarching narrative. In the first six stories, there is a random gathering of people at Mrs. Marple’s house, including her nephew, Raymond West, and Sir Henry Clithering, an ex-Commissioner of Scotland Yard. Initially, the talk turns to unsolved crimes, and the guests all try to work out the solutions. They are, of course, inclined to be dismissive of Jane Marple, sitting looking fluffy and knitting away; but she wants to be involved and indeed comes up with the solution of the first case; this is a mysterious instance of poisoning, but of course Miss Marple finds a village parallel and works out whodunit quite easily.

Sir Henry sat up and straightened his hat. The name surprised him. He remembered Miss Marple very well—her gentle quiet old-maidish ways, her amazing penetration. He remembered a dozen unsolved and hypothetical cases and how in each case this typical ‘old maid of the village’ had leaped unerringly to the right solution of the mystery. Sir Henry had a very deep respect for Miss Marple. He wondered what had brought her to see him.

As the stories go on, it becomes increasingly clear that Miss Marple can always find something in her sheltered life which relates to the unsolved crime – after all, human nature is pretty much the same all over the world. The mysteries are a varied and enjoyable selection, with impossible killings, salvaged gold, a ghostly and ghastly case of a blood stained pavement, shenanigans with Wills, people falsely accused, identity switches – well, you could probably identify all manner of tropes which Christie would build into full length novels, but they all work wonderfully here.

The second set of six stories takes place a year later in St. Mary Mead and brings Arthur and Dolly Bantry into the story line, two of Miss Marple’s friends who will turn up in other Christie works. These are all equally inventive, and even have Miss Marple warning off a potential criminal, much as Poirot will try to do in a later story. The final tale takes place some time later and involves the Bantrys and Sir Henry. Here, Miss Marple manages to head off a terrible case of potential miscarriage of justice, seeing through all the flummery and fake alibis. She really is a formidable woman!!

I think it’s a very long time since I read these stories, since I remembered very little about them, but they were so enjoyable! Seeing Miss Marple in the early days of her career was fascinating, and I think the character definitely developed and changed a little after these works. Here, she’s dressed up like a Victorian old lady in lace and the like, and seems characterised as a bit sharp and gossipy. Certainly, she always had a steely core and a strong sense of justice, and those qualities are on display in these early works.

So how does Miss Marple relate to the concept of #SpinsterSeptember? Well, she certainly demonstrates that you can have a full and busy life without a man and whilst living in a small village; there is no barrier to the developing of intelligence, and you can see the world whilst staying in a very limited location. She has a wider experience of human behaviour from examining it at close quarters, and reading her adventures is pure delight. I’ve always said that when I finally retire, I want to start a project of reading Agatha Christie’s book in publication order; and spending time with Miss Marple will be a real treat!

“…frozen forever in a final meaningless posture.” #interzone #williamsburroughs

August saw me dipping back into the work of a number of authors whose work I’ve loved for decades; and one of those was William S. Burroughs. Although it’s a looong time since I read his best-known works, he’s actually appeared on the blog more times than you might think as I’ve dipped into some of his tangential writings on several occasions. However, when I had my big clear out of my Beat shelves, I discovered that I was missing some of his pivotal books, and a little shopping was called for. One of these was a collection first published in 1989 which brings together a number of foundational works: “Interzone“.

The book is edited and introduced by James Grauerholz who, for a long time, was Burroughs’ amanuensis, so is well placed for the job. The works collected here range from what is considered his first piece of writing, “Twilight’s Last Gleamings”, through more straightforward short works to a seminal piece called “WORD” which reveals the direction in which Burroughs’ muse would take him. There is a considerable difference between the straightforward, almost terse prose of his first published novel “Junky” and the intense, scatological and obscene writing of “Naked Lunch” and the pieces in “Interzone” trace that journey.

I could have been a successful bank robber, gangster, business executive, psychoanalyst, drug trafficker, explorer, bullfighter, but the conjuncture of circumstances was never there. Over the years I begin to doubt if my time will ever come. It will come, or it will not come. There is no use trying to force it. Attempts to break through have led to curbs, near disasters, warnings. I cultivate an alert passivity, as though watching an opponent for the slightest sign of weakness.

However, the roots of Burroughs’ later style are on display from the start. “Twilight’s” was originally composed in 1938, although the version here is taken from a later manuscript, and even at this early stage we’re introduced to Dr. Benway (Burroughs’ wonderfully scurrilous character) as well as murder and mayhem on a sinking ship. The rest of the pieces in the first section, which is entitled “Stories”, are ones which I had actually mostly read, as these were featured in Penguin Modern no. 25, which I reviewed here. I re-read them, and loved them as much as I did on the first visit. They’re fairly straightforward narratives, taking place in Burroughs’ native St. Louis and then later locations in Tangier, and can be surprisingly moving. The last story, “International Zone”, was written potentially as a travel piece, and it’s worth noting that the title “Interzone” was drawn from contracting the two words in the title of this piece; it was also the original title for “Naked Lunch”… However, this work is more reportage than anything else, and throws light on the place and the elements which would influence Burroughs’ later writing.

The second section of the book is entitled “Lee’s Journals” (William Lee was Burroughs’ authorial pseudonym at the time) and this is drawn from letters sent to Allen Ginsberg while Burroughs was living in Tangier. He was experimenting in writing, trying to find his own individual voice, and these pieces find him as a writer in transit. The pieces range from strange fictions to autobiographical works and all are fascinating. It’s clear that Burroughs was trying to clarifying exactly what he wanted to do as a writer, and there are many of his ‘routines’ included here. These are what Grauerholz describes as “an absurdist form of soliloquy”, and Burroughs seems to have been astonishingly prolific at producing these. They’re dark and often very funny, and in other circumstances you do wonder if Burroughs would have been a great stand up comedian! He was obsessed with conspiracy theories, convinced that language was a virus from outer space and that we were all under some kind of control – these themes turn up regularly in his work and make fascinating reading.

We have a new type of rule now. Not one-man rule, or rule of aristocracy or plutocracy, but of small groups elevated to positions of absolute power by random pressures, and subject to political and economic factors that leave little room for decision. They are representatives of abstract forces who have reached power through surrender of self. The iron-willed dictator is a thing of the past. There will be no more Stalins, no more Hitlers. The rulers of this most insecure of all worlds are rulers by accident, inept, frightened pilots at the controls of a vast machine they cannot understand, calling in experts to tell them which buttons to push.

The journals, however, do get more surreal, futuristic and extreme as they go on, leading into the final section, “WORD”. This was originally intended as part of “Naked Lunch” but I believe had never been published until its inclusion here in “Interzone”, the manuscript having lodged for decades in the papers of Allen Ginsberg after having been typed up for Burroughs by Jack Kerouac. It’s about as far as you could get from his early word; surreal and violent routines, scatological and obscene scenarios, drug taking all over the place and seemingly random imagery – well, it’s not for the faint-hearted, and not necessarily easy to read. But it *does* get under your skin, and despite being what Grauerholz describes as “willfully disgusting” it somehow left me keen to read more of William S. Burroughs.

Now the thoughtful reader may have observed certain tendencies in the author might be termed unwholesome. In fact some of you may be taken aback by the practices of this character.

“Interzone” turned out to be a fascinating read, and I was actually happy to revisit the stories I knew; it made a lot of sense to see them in context and to watch the development of Burroughs as a writer. I know he isn’t an author for everyone, but I do love his writing and his dark, dry wit which so often pops up in his books. He has wonderfully laconic voice, too, so I do recommend seeking out any readings you can find by him online. Me? Well I’ve invested in new copies of some works which are available in definitive versions – and I may spend the autumn going back to revisit more Burroughs!

“I made a concerted effort to get hold of my nerves…” #sherlockholmes #calebcarr

Some books and authors stay with you and stay on the shelves for years, even if you don’t always think about them and don’t always revisit the books. For me, that’s always been the case with Caleb Carr; Mr K (that great book enabler) presented me with Carr’s great novel “The Alienist” on its release in 1994 and I adored it; the same applied to his follow-up, “Angel of Darkness”. These were wonderfully written and sophisticated psychological thrillers set in turn of the century New York, featuring an ensemble cast led by Dr Laszlo Kreizler, the ‘alienist’ of the title; and like many readers I always hoped Carr would write more adventures of the team. Alas, that never happened, and I was sorry to learn recently that he’d died back in May; somehow, I had missed the sad news.

But the timing was rather strange, as Carr has a connection to the Beat writers with whom I’ve been revisiting lately. His father, Lucien Carr, was a friend of the beat writers, hanging around with Kerouac, Burroughs, Ginsberg and co in their early days in New York. And as I mentioned in my review of “The Unknown Kerouac“, Carr was found guilty of manslaughter after the killing of one of their friends, something which obviously marked him; I believe it had an effect on his behaviour as a father to at least his son Caleb, born sometime later, who apparently suffered physical abuse as a child.

That aside, I was saddened by Caleb’s death as I was really quite obsessed with his Kreizler books when they came out, and did consider a re-read. However, there is one more book of his I own which I have strong memories, and which was the one which drew me back; “The Italian Secretary“, from 2005. A novel of Sherlock Holmes, commissioned by Arthur Conan Doyle’s estate, I recall loving it back then and I was in the perfect mood for a revisit – which fortunately didn’t disappoint…

The story is narrated by the faithful Doctor Watson, and this is a tale which definitely needs to stay locked in a vault for a good number of years. Setting the adventure at the end of his time assisting Holmes in Baker Street, Watson tells of dramatic events which take the two men north of the border to Scotland. Summoned by a cryptic telegram from Mycroft Holmes (which allows Carr a little tongue in cheek, humorous dialogue between the two main characters as they decipher it), a secret train takes them to Edinburgh. Mycroft reveals that there have been deaths at Holyroodhouse, and there are fears that Queen Victoria’s life is under threat (hence the presence of a number of secret agents accompanying them on their journey.) A failed attack on the train would tend to support his theory.

However, once installed in Holyroodhouse, Holmes senses something more than a banal political plot, as both of the murdered men were involved in renovations to the North-West Tower of the castle, one previously occupied by the doomed Mary Queens of Scots, and rumoured to be haunted by her murdered secretary, one David Rizzio. Watson is sceptical about such tales, but a little concerned to see that Holmes appears to be taking the prospect of the supernatural more seriously. It will take all of their ingenuity, however, to deal with the various perils facing them.

And the perils are really rather scary. There are potentially: Scottish nationalists, Palace staff out for their own ends, young men willing to risk all attempting to assassinate the monarch, and even those rumoured unquiet spirits supposedly haunting Holyrood. Holmes and Watson mingle with the military in pubs; struggle to understand the methods of murder; and even fear for the safety of Mycroft. “Italian” is a lively and gripping tale of the great detective and his sidekick, and as I had completely forgotten the solution, I was unable to put the book down and finished it in a day!

It has to be said that Carr really caught the voice of the original; his Holmes and Watson are thoroughly convincing to my mind. Back in the day, I did read a number of ‘further adventures’ and I don’t think any of them got it quite as right as I feel that Carr did. But as well as that, he concocted a fiendish mystery with some truly wicked villains, as well as building in some wonderfully spooky elements to the narrative. One particular part was the only thing I really remembered clearly from my original read, and it still had the ability to chill. The original stories could do that too, especially something like “The Hound of the Baskervilles”; although Holmes always found a rational explanation for things. That may be the one place where purists will argue with this book, as it is not really made that clear whether the supernatural events really are supernatural or just a figment of imaginations. This didn’t bother me at all, though – I thought the whole thing worked brilliantly.

Re-reading this book was a bittersweet joy; I loved revisiting Carr’s prose and remembering how much I loved it. His all too slim oeuvre contains some of my favourite books; and although he wrote other books, mainly military history and a couple of non-related fictions, it’s his Kreizler titles and “The Italian Secretary” which are the ones I adore. I’d love to revisit the other two, and I’m sure I will when the time feels right; but for the meantime, rediscovering Caleb Carr was a poignant experience. I do recommend this book if you love Sherlock Holmes, or classic detective stories, or indeed just good writing – it’s a marvellous tale.

“…throwaway insightful, incisive phrasings.” #allenginsberg #beatgeneration

As I mentioned in my end of August post, I have been reconnecting recently with many of the Beat Generation authors I read widely in my younger years. This started with going back to Jack Kerouac; but having read his “Desolation Peak” and “Good Blonde“, I was reminded that I had on Mount TBR a book which I picked up in Foyles earlier in the year on a trip to London. This is “The Best Minds of My Generation” by Allen Ginsberg, and it’s subtitled “A Literary History of the Beats”. I’d not been aware of it until I spotted it on the shelves in Foyles, and was intrigued; so I thought that now might be a good time to pick it up.

“Best Minds…” takes it title from the first of line of Ginsberg’s most famous poem, “Howl”; and the book is drawn from a series of lectures given by the poet over the years, teaching a course on the literary history of the Beat Generation. There were a number of reasons for this, primarily because he was often asked to talk about them, but also to record his memories before they faded from his mind. Editor Bill Morgan has studied the many recordings of these and distilled them down to the essence of the lectures, presenting in the book Ginsberg’s memories of, and thoughts on the work of, the key figures of the Beat Generation. The focus is on the early years, and Ginsberg’s recollections are fascinating; however, also of great interest is his understanding of his friends’ works.

The book takes a roughly chronological view, starting with the early years and origins of the group of writers coming together, the influence of music, and also the environment of New York, particularly around Times Square. He takes in the period when he, Kerouac and Lucien Carr were studying at Columbia, their influence on each other and the introduction of Burroughs into the group. After this, Ginsberg explores the life and work of the main players, making his way through the writings of Kerouac, then Burroughs and of course his own. He looks at the influence of Neal Cassady; Burroughs’ adoption of cut-ups; the crossover between the works of the different authors; and also discusses subsidiary characters such as John Clellon Holmes, Peter Orlovsky and Carl Solomon. It’s a thoroughly absorbing work, and fascinating to experience Ginsberg talking about these seminal figure.

Ginsberg is an interesting commentator on what is in effect his own life and those of the writers around him; and as well as bringing insights and opinions on their work, he quotes liberally to illustrate his points. Despite being heavily distilled, the book is still long, and I have to be honest and say there a few chapters which were less interesting to me; those were the ones about poet Gregory Corso. He’s regarded as one of the important figures of the Beats although I personally am not particularly taken with his poetry. Nevertheless, I totally get why Ginsberg included him and there were elements in these chapters which were informative.

Where Ginsberg is particularly pithy is when discussing the methods used by the Beats; whether cut-ups or spontaneous prose, there was so much experimentation going on, and the writers really did break down many literary barriers. A particular revelation for me was Ginsberg’s own early poetry, and the chapters which discussed this were particularly fascinating. I had only read his later work so his earlier works, with their traditional structures and influences of Blake, Marvell and the like, were unexpected and very effective.

His discussions of Burroughs, too, were really insightful and are responsible for me going back to the latter’s work in a big way; Burroughs is not always an easy author to read, but there are rewards, and these explorations of his reasoning and his methods added much. Unexpectedly, he draws parallels between Burroughs and T.S. Eliot (both scions of St. Louis) and I never would have made that link. I don’t think I’d realised, either, how much involvement each had with the others’ writings; for example, with Kerouac typing out some of Burroughs’ work, and Ginsberg encouraging the latter to write and basically acting as his agent for a while. I thought I knew a lot about the Beats, but I learned much from this book and am looking at their lives and works with new eyes.

Maybe I should read this one soon… ;D

So “The Best Minds…” turned out to be an excellent read all round, and has sent me rummaging through my Beat shelves (as I’ve previously reported) as well as returning to William S. Burroughs. I was also reminded that I have the above in the stacks, unread, and now might be a good time to get to it. Ginsberg is an entertaining and erudite narrator, and I would love to have a time machine to travel back and sit in with these lectures. There’s a reading list and also a list of books mentioned in the lectures, both of which could be quite dangerous; and I suspect that I might spend a good number of reading hours with the Beat writers over the autumn and winter months. This book is probably not the right one for you if you’ve not read any of the authors discussed, but if you do like the Beats it will certainly add a lot to your experience of reading them; and I’m very glad that I spotted it in Foyles! 😀

“…I shall never consent to contribute to a universal dejection.” @TwistSpoonPress #apragueflaneur

As I’ve mentioned several times on the Ramblings, a favourite indie publisher is Twisted Spoon, an outfit based in Prague. I’ve reviewed a number of their books here, most recently the rather wonderful and very clever “The Unfinished Life of Phoebe Hicks“, and so I was attracted by a new release on their list – “A Prague Flaneur” by Vítězslav Nezval, translated and edited by Jed Slast. Nezval is a name new to me, and I don’t know how well known he is in the English speaking world; but the book sounded fascinating and so I was pleased when the publishers kindly provided a digital ARC.

“A Prague Flaneur” was first published in Autumn 1938 and its author was a leading figure in Czech literature. Responsible for poetry, plays, novels, memoirs, essays and translations, he also forged strong connections with French surrealists. He had particular friendships with André Breton and Paul Eluard and this led to him initiating the founding of the Surrealist Group in Czechoslovakia in 1934. However, at the time of this book, life was changing in his country, and the strange tale behind the writing and publishing of it reflects that.

Nezval’s city and country were closely allied with Soviet Russia, through a Treaty of Mutual Assistance signed in 1935; and indeed the author lauds the Soviet Union in many places, recalling his time in Moscow and drawing on many memories. As he wanders the streets of his city, he reflects on the current situation and the threats facing Prague. Europe was of course under threat from Hitler at that time, and Nezval looks to Stalin and Russia for support. So as he walks, explores and ponders, he looks backwards and here enter some very interesting elements.

You realize what it means to be a “flaneur” as soon as you’re fated to be chairbound. The antithesis of a throne, this chair is a cobbler’s stool, for working — and life is fleeting. Maybe this is why the role of the “flaneur” seems so ideal, because life is indeed fleeting. When we walk — and especially when we walk with no destination in mind — the faint images of our desire impose themselves on our steps and prevents us from seeing its end, its converse.

Nezval is very much a flaneur of the mind as well as the body – his physical wanderings send his mind on all kinds of journeys into his past, with memories of his time with Breton and Eluard. As is revealed, he feels strongly attached to these fellow artists, yet he has quarreled with their ideology, and also that of his fellow in the Prague Surrealist Group. The news of the Moscow show trials has been greeted with dismay and condemnation by many left-wingers, including Breton and co; however, startlingly, Nezval accepts the Moscow show trials at face value. The leads to part of the book reading as a polemic against the surrealists and in favour of the Soviets which, with the hindsight the modern reader has, gives something of a jolt! Nezval presumably is sincere in his beliefs, and wears his socialist views on his sleeve, but I did find myself wondering quite how blinkered he was about the Soviet behaviour.

Soon Prague will be teeming with terraces. In the afternoon as I was deciding which one of several I should visit in the heart of the city (sadly, too few!), my quest couldn’t help but spur in me the memory of one cafe terrace located in Moscow during the time of the All-Union Congress of Soviet Writers. It was the terrace of the Red Poppy. It was truly wonderful to sit there among people who had already made the revolutionary leap. The hope inspired, truly uplifting! Now, as the reddening sky between the hills of Petřin and Hradčany, the reddening sky on the Vltava to which I turn my eyes, brings to an end one magnificent summer day, the sight of swallows circling the tower of the former mill fills me with anxiety.

As well as this, however, “Flaneur” is of course a love letter to a city, a place which obviously means much to Nezval. There are mentions of the threat from Hitler and the Nazis, of bombers flying overhead, and the prospect of invasion is never far away. So the author visits his favourite cafes, using thoughts of Apollinaire as his guide, looks back to his student days, and rues the fact that all he loves may be destroyed.

“Flaneur” is a complex and not always easy book to read; yet perseverance brings great rewards if you sink yourself into the prose and just let it wash over you. The writing is often lyrical, obviously that of a poet, and the atmospheric prose does transport you into the past of the city. However, the supporting material provided with the book reveals another, and perhaps unexpected, aspect…

As I mentioned, “Flaneur” was first published in autumn 1938; but as Slast explained in his afterword, there were in effect two first editions. The ‘first’ first was the version provided here; the second, however, which came out apparently at almost the same time, was a radically different rendering of the author’s original text. Nezval had heavily edited his work and Slast provides in the appendix all of the revisions to the first version, with deletions and additions shown. These were substantial changes, mostly the removal of political references and names, and mentions of Moscow, Lenin, Stalin etc had vanished. Slast believes that this was because of the advance of Hitler, and the text became much more generic; obviously, if your country is about to be occupied by one factor, you don’t want to have just published a book lauding the opposing factor!

This is an excellent work of scholarship; the original ‘first’ is a wonderful read anyway, but the extra element of being able to follow the changes Nezval made is fascinating. So the edition presented here is the full original text, together with Nezval’s own photographs of some of the locations, but we also are able to study the changes and read the amendments (some of which were long poems written to replace points where several pages were removed). I don’t know that I’ve ever come across a book where this kind of editing has taken place, or where the comparison has been presented so well, and I applaud both Slast for his work and Twisted Spoon for issuing it.

So “Prague Flaneur” is a book which provides many riches; a glimpse of Prague at a point just before catastrophe; a look at the complex personal politics which existed at the time; and an exploration of the self-censorship which took place when invasion seemed imminent. It makes for an engrossing book, and I’m happy to have discovered Nezval’s work; he was obviously a fascinating writer, and I hope I’ll be able to track down more of his writing!

(ARC kindly provided by the publisher, for which many thanks!)