My punishment for rubbishing "Hard Times" seems to be that I'm now possessed with the spirit of Slackbridge. That I should quarrel with my employer, who suddenly considers "telemarketing" - that's cold-calling to you or me - part of my job description when I was hired as an administrator, and that I should join the union in consequence, may not be that strange. But that I should watch the first episode of the TV adaptation of Gaskell's "North and South" and think "Cut wages to below the level of five years ago? Nah, that's not right, you go on strike lads" - now that really scares me.
I may be too early to tell, but I must admit that so far Gaskell's treatment of the industrial North is more nuanced that Dickens's and fairer that I expected from a "Christian Socialist" (I'm a Christian myself, but I don't care for the combination with "Socialist" at all - in fact I find it insulting, as if people with other political views were automatically bad Christians). The reasoning we get from both sides of the factory owner-worker quarrel is far more sensible than anything Bounderby or Stephen Blackpool came up with, which I agree is not saying much. It is refreshing that the tender-hearted heroine from the South is not always right: in fact she is sometimes blatantly naïve ("and all this for cotton no-one wants to buy!"). But didn't we have the whole "factory owner scarred by years of hardship" plot in Charlotte Brontë's "Shirley"? It irritates me that there has to an "excuse" for the fact that he is not dancing around kissing babies. Maybe what made factory owners of the nineteenth century somewhat edgy was not their own early experiences, but the annoyingness of bleeding-heart authors who swooped in, complained about their town, idealised their workforce and then "wanted some answers" about why things had to be the way they were.
I wonder what kind of early experiences could possibly have counted as an excuse for Henry VIII's style of leadership. Mind you, he's more kindly portrayed in "Wolf Hall" than one might expect, maybe in order to make us see why a sensible man like Wolsey would call him "the sweetest prince in Christendom". I've now read the whole novel and yes, it is good until the very end, though Wolsey is sorely missed after his demise by both Cromwell and the reader. It does suffer a bit from Tudor-novelitis, that is, too many "atmospheric" descriptions. I really don't care what the weather was like or how the trees or the water looked on this-and-this day. Give me another scene with überbitch Anne and her likewise bitchy ladies-in-waiting instead. I confess I thought Cromwell's interest in Jane Seymour, still an obscure (non-bitchy) attendant on Anne and nothing more, somewhat unlikely, but it does provide a cliffhanger. At the end of the novel, Cromwell is planning a visit to the Seymours' place Wolf Hall. We know butter-wouldn't-melt-Jane ended up with the king and not with "Master Secretary". So what happened there? I'll definitely be buying Mantel's next Cromwell book so I can find out.
Wednesday, 8 September 2010
Monday, 30 August 2010
Wonderful Wolsey
I think I may have discovered something - a piece of good advice if you're thinking of writing a novel where you mean to defend a much-maligned historical or fictional character. Don't tell it from his or her point of view: tell it from the point of view of someone close to him or her.
I'm reading "Wolf Hall" and yes, it is seriously good. I knew Hilary Mantel could spin a yarn because I read "A Place Of Greater Safety" a great many years ago (although I must admit, French Revolution fanatic that I was, that I skipped some of the back-story and zoomed in around 1789). At first I was incensed because the author off-handedly slated my favourite revolutionary: "Max was surprised that any girl would be attracted by Fouché, with his frail, stick-like limbs and almost lashless eyes." Ironically, this is probably exactly what Maximilien Robespierre (though Max seems an unlikely nickname for him, like a flamboyant theatre agent or sci-fi baddie) did think. Still, I mean to say, what. Mantel didn't have to sound as if she agreed with him. This aberration of taste put me in a bad mood, and yet I grudgingly had to admit that "A Place Of Greater Safety" was a good read. If you're interested in the French Revolution, go ahead and read it, but bear in mind that the characterisation can be quite cynical. Camille and Lucile Desmoulins, the revolution's golden couple, as manipulative monsters? Babette Duplay a nymphomaniac? Surely not. Robespierre, whether or not he is a Max, is spot on, though.
Anyway, back to "Wolf Hall" and the art of saving someone's reputation at one remove. The novel is narrated from Thomas Cromwell's point of view, but it's not he (so far) who comes out of it best. Mantel's Cromwell is admirably able, but he's more bulldog than wolf. Sometimes he can be funny - as when he's sparring with Anne Boleyn - but a great deal of the time he's quite dour. I rather miss the popular image of Cromwell the villain - but then I would. Cromwell's master Cardinal Wolsey, on the other hand, is delightful. When seeing Wolsey's portrait in The National Portrait Gallery, I have asked myself how they could have the face to engage Sam Neill to play this man. Now I understand. Ah, the charm, the wit, and somewhere beneath it all, underlying kindness too! When it comes to Wolsey, Mantel has won me over completely. Let's see if she can do the same for her hero in time - there's more than half the book to go.
Elsewhere, there is not the same cynicism as in "A Place Of Greater Safety". The characterisation seems mellower. Of course, the sainted More is depicted as thoroughly nasty beneath his surface geniality. But then he was, wasn't he?
I'm reading "Wolf Hall" and yes, it is seriously good. I knew Hilary Mantel could spin a yarn because I read "A Place Of Greater Safety" a great many years ago (although I must admit, French Revolution fanatic that I was, that I skipped some of the back-story and zoomed in around 1789). At first I was incensed because the author off-handedly slated my favourite revolutionary: "Max was surprised that any girl would be attracted by Fouché, with his frail, stick-like limbs and almost lashless eyes." Ironically, this is probably exactly what Maximilien Robespierre (though Max seems an unlikely nickname for him, like a flamboyant theatre agent or sci-fi baddie) did think. Still, I mean to say, what. Mantel didn't have to sound as if she agreed with him. This aberration of taste put me in a bad mood, and yet I grudgingly had to admit that "A Place Of Greater Safety" was a good read. If you're interested in the French Revolution, go ahead and read it, but bear in mind that the characterisation can be quite cynical. Camille and Lucile Desmoulins, the revolution's golden couple, as manipulative monsters? Babette Duplay a nymphomaniac? Surely not. Robespierre, whether or not he is a Max, is spot on, though.
Anyway, back to "Wolf Hall" and the art of saving someone's reputation at one remove. The novel is narrated from Thomas Cromwell's point of view, but it's not he (so far) who comes out of it best. Mantel's Cromwell is admirably able, but he's more bulldog than wolf. Sometimes he can be funny - as when he's sparring with Anne Boleyn - but a great deal of the time he's quite dour. I rather miss the popular image of Cromwell the villain - but then I would. Cromwell's master Cardinal Wolsey, on the other hand, is delightful. When seeing Wolsey's portrait in The National Portrait Gallery, I have asked myself how they could have the face to engage Sam Neill to play this man. Now I understand. Ah, the charm, the wit, and somewhere beneath it all, underlying kindness too! When it comes to Wolsey, Mantel has won me over completely. Let's see if she can do the same for her hero in time - there's more than half the book to go.
Elsewhere, there is not the same cynicism as in "A Place Of Greater Safety". The characterisation seems mellower. Of course, the sainted More is depicted as thoroughly nasty beneath his surface geniality. But then he was, wasn't he?
Saturday, 21 August 2010
Aye, 'tis a muddle all right
Well now that's done and I'm glad it's over. I've finally read "Hard Times", which means I can lay claim to having read all of Dickens's novels, all his Christmas books and a fair share of his short fiction. The reason I waited so long with "Hard Times" was that I was warned against it, and suspected myself that, judging by the subject matter, I wouldn't like it. And I didn't, but now at least I can rubbish it knowing what I'm talking about.
Although I love Dickens and would rather read something mediocre by his standards than most modern authors' best efforts, I'm the first to admit that he isn't perfect. This is part of the fun: liking and disliking different part of Dickens's works can lead to very lively discussions among Dickens fans. For my part, I don't think that social satire, for which he is so lauded by high-minded intellectuals, is really his forte. What makes it bearable is how he uses human drama to illustrate diverse social ills. It is the fates of Rick and Ada and poor miss Flite (and Gridley if you feel more charitable towards him than I do) which make the description of Chancery interesting in "Bleak House", although Dickens does not have a single constructive idea as to how civil law cases should be handled instead. The Circumlocution Office is a pretty lame satire of a government department, but the Barnacles are instantly recognisable as types (as an administrator, I recognise and have occasionally myself used Barnacle strategies - pompous condescension, blustering defensiveness and friendly unhelpfulness - against hostile clients/customers). As to how a department should be run, Dickens has no more clue than William Dorrit would have. He is the Concerned Citizen who, if he didn't write books about his concerns, would write letters to the Times about them. He may shine a light on a particular problem, but that's all he does: for solutions you have to go elsewhere.
I was rather interested to see what a socially concerned, non-socialist observer like Dickens would make of industrial relations, but "Hard Times" leaves me little wiser. What is it he wants? Less smoke? Safer working conditions? More green spaces in the town? A less aggressive tone from factory owners when faced with complaints from their workers or from government officials? Something like that, I suppose, and it sounds fair enough, but it hardly adds up to a Grand Vision. You can't shake the feeling, either, that his observations are those of an outsider, an appalled Londoner on a flying visit who finds industrial towns aesthetically unappealing in their smokiness and sameness, although this may not be the main concern of the people who actually live there.
All right, but I didn't expect brilliant social satire, nor would I (if the truth be told) be that interested in reading a brilliant social satire on industrial England. The problem with "Hard Times" is that Dickens's imprecise rants are not balanced by the human interest you normally find in his novels. I hardly know which character is the more underdeveloped: the dastardly factory owner Bounderby (yes, that's his name!) or the honest, noble and extremely tiresome power-loom weaver Stephen Blackpool. Bounderby is incapable of one kind word or deed, but what's worse, he doesn't have the consolation usually accorded to Evil Capitalist characters, namely that of being brainy. In fact, he's quite impossibly daft: when there's a theft in his bank, he ignores a glaringly obvious suspect; he does not realise when an elegant London gentleman makes a play for his wife under his very nose; his housekeeper runs rings round him. The famous "gold spoon" tirade is woefully unfunny and does not improve on repetition. One of the strongest scenes in the book is when Bounderby's mum proudly defends herself against the charge of being a bad mother, not knowing that it is her "darling boy" who has slandered her in the first place. But the drama and the strength of the writing cannot make up for the fact that the whole situation is improbable in the extreme, for who in his right mind would denounce a loving parent just for the sake of being able to tell a hard-luck story? It is not only heartless, it is also stupid, when an enemy (and Bounderby does not lack enemies) can check up on his background at any time.
I do think though, on reflection, that Stephen is an even worse failure as a character, and a fine illustration of the both gushing and patronising tone Dickens uses when describing the factory workforce. I found myself positively warming to the wicked union representative Slackbridge (Marxists take note: Dickens is not in favour of unions, nor of silver-tongued middle-class socialist agitators) because he is so unlike the dense-seeming noble savages in workman's clothing whom he is haranguing and "leading astray". In particular, he is refreshingly mean to Stephen, who speaks like a not very bright ten-year-old with a speech impediment. If I were a power-loom weaver, I'm not sure I would be thrilled to be represented in a book by this surly, soppy dunce, however good and honest. The obviously well-educated (and yes, I admit I enjoyed that satirical detail) Slackbridge has one advantage over Dickens when it comes to being the workers' friend: he doesn't talk down to his audience.
The other theme of the novel - the attack on soulless education and philosophies that deny the power of feeling and imagination - works a little better, but again it is let down by weak characterisation, at least by Dickensian standards. The fact-obsessed Gradgrind who finally sees the error of his ways is the closest Dickens comes in this book to a well-rounded character, but he is not very engaging, and his supposedly damaged children even less so. Louisa is plain dull - even a cardboard cut-out like Bounderby deserves a better wife than this walking misery - and surely no education in the world would have made a good man of the ungracious Tom. Louisa's would-be seducer Harthouse is a tired Steerforth clone, of the kind we see a little too often in Dickens's novels. His seduction methods are not without interest, but there is not a lot of spark between him and the dismal Louisa. Sissy Jupe makes Pollyanna look like a troubled and brooding soul. My favourite character is Bitzer the teacher's pet turned social climber. I can't deny, though, that he is a minor character without much inner life to speak of: a promising boy ground down in the hard school of Dickens's didacticism. (Trust me, Manchester liberalism does not prescribe putting your mum in the workhouse.) He wins the title of best villain in the book more or less on walkover.
Although I love Dickens and would rather read something mediocre by his standards than most modern authors' best efforts, I'm the first to admit that he isn't perfect. This is part of the fun: liking and disliking different part of Dickens's works can lead to very lively discussions among Dickens fans. For my part, I don't think that social satire, for which he is so lauded by high-minded intellectuals, is really his forte. What makes it bearable is how he uses human drama to illustrate diverse social ills. It is the fates of Rick and Ada and poor miss Flite (and Gridley if you feel more charitable towards him than I do) which make the description of Chancery interesting in "Bleak House", although Dickens does not have a single constructive idea as to how civil law cases should be handled instead. The Circumlocution Office is a pretty lame satire of a government department, but the Barnacles are instantly recognisable as types (as an administrator, I recognise and have occasionally myself used Barnacle strategies - pompous condescension, blustering defensiveness and friendly unhelpfulness - against hostile clients/customers). As to how a department should be run, Dickens has no more clue than William Dorrit would have. He is the Concerned Citizen who, if he didn't write books about his concerns, would write letters to the Times about them. He may shine a light on a particular problem, but that's all he does: for solutions you have to go elsewhere.
I was rather interested to see what a socially concerned, non-socialist observer like Dickens would make of industrial relations, but "Hard Times" leaves me little wiser. What is it he wants? Less smoke? Safer working conditions? More green spaces in the town? A less aggressive tone from factory owners when faced with complaints from their workers or from government officials? Something like that, I suppose, and it sounds fair enough, but it hardly adds up to a Grand Vision. You can't shake the feeling, either, that his observations are those of an outsider, an appalled Londoner on a flying visit who finds industrial towns aesthetically unappealing in their smokiness and sameness, although this may not be the main concern of the people who actually live there.
All right, but I didn't expect brilliant social satire, nor would I (if the truth be told) be that interested in reading a brilliant social satire on industrial England. The problem with "Hard Times" is that Dickens's imprecise rants are not balanced by the human interest you normally find in his novels. I hardly know which character is the more underdeveloped: the dastardly factory owner Bounderby (yes, that's his name!) or the honest, noble and extremely tiresome power-loom weaver Stephen Blackpool. Bounderby is incapable of one kind word or deed, but what's worse, he doesn't have the consolation usually accorded to Evil Capitalist characters, namely that of being brainy. In fact, he's quite impossibly daft: when there's a theft in his bank, he ignores a glaringly obvious suspect; he does not realise when an elegant London gentleman makes a play for his wife under his very nose; his housekeeper runs rings round him. The famous "gold spoon" tirade is woefully unfunny and does not improve on repetition. One of the strongest scenes in the book is when Bounderby's mum proudly defends herself against the charge of being a bad mother, not knowing that it is her "darling boy" who has slandered her in the first place. But the drama and the strength of the writing cannot make up for the fact that the whole situation is improbable in the extreme, for who in his right mind would denounce a loving parent just for the sake of being able to tell a hard-luck story? It is not only heartless, it is also stupid, when an enemy (and Bounderby does not lack enemies) can check up on his background at any time.
I do think though, on reflection, that Stephen is an even worse failure as a character, and a fine illustration of the both gushing and patronising tone Dickens uses when describing the factory workforce. I found myself positively warming to the wicked union representative Slackbridge (Marxists take note: Dickens is not in favour of unions, nor of silver-tongued middle-class socialist agitators) because he is so unlike the dense-seeming noble savages in workman's clothing whom he is haranguing and "leading astray". In particular, he is refreshingly mean to Stephen, who speaks like a not very bright ten-year-old with a speech impediment. If I were a power-loom weaver, I'm not sure I would be thrilled to be represented in a book by this surly, soppy dunce, however good and honest. The obviously well-educated (and yes, I admit I enjoyed that satirical detail) Slackbridge has one advantage over Dickens when it comes to being the workers' friend: he doesn't talk down to his audience.
The other theme of the novel - the attack on soulless education and philosophies that deny the power of feeling and imagination - works a little better, but again it is let down by weak characterisation, at least by Dickensian standards. The fact-obsessed Gradgrind who finally sees the error of his ways is the closest Dickens comes in this book to a well-rounded character, but he is not very engaging, and his supposedly damaged children even less so. Louisa is plain dull - even a cardboard cut-out like Bounderby deserves a better wife than this walking misery - and surely no education in the world would have made a good man of the ungracious Tom. Louisa's would-be seducer Harthouse is a tired Steerforth clone, of the kind we see a little too often in Dickens's novels. His seduction methods are not without interest, but there is not a lot of spark between him and the dismal Louisa. Sissy Jupe makes Pollyanna look like a troubled and brooding soul. My favourite character is Bitzer the teacher's pet turned social climber. I can't deny, though, that he is a minor character without much inner life to speak of: a promising boy ground down in the hard school of Dickens's didacticism. (Trust me, Manchester liberalism does not prescribe putting your mum in the workhouse.) He wins the title of best villain in the book more or less on walkover.
Thursday, 12 August 2010
Regency romance pitfalls
Lately I have been doing more Amazon-surfing than is strictly good for me. Always on the look-out for more self-indulgence reads, I have been criss-crossing the site following up "if you like Georgette Heyer you'll love..." tips. It's strange, this preference I have for regency romances. I suppose it's chiefly because 1) they are rom-coms 2) they are historical 3) they are not too historical. More specifically, they are virtually free from references to maggotty food, faulty sewage and rotting teeth, plus you are spared all those look-how-learned-I-am earthy descriptions of street-life you are likely to get in books set, say, in the 16th or 17th century, not to mention the Middle Ages. And perchance the language is not too stilted. If there were Victorian romances, I'd rather go for them, but as it is, what interests modern authors about Victorian times is apparently "Victorian London's dark underbelly". Unless Fagin happens to be around, though, I couldn't care less about Victorian London's dark underbelly. Which means Regency romances will have to do.
The down-side is there are a number of things that can crop up in a typical Regency romance which really get my goat, namely:
Predictability You would think authors would learn some things from the masters. When I first read "Pride and Prejudice", long before Colin Firth's wet shirt, I had no idea Elizabeth would end up with Darcy and was pleasantly surprised. Not because I liked Darcy overmuch, but because I hadn't expected it. Innocent girl that I was, I hadn't come across the love-starting-as-antagonism-plot before. Now I have, of course. Many, many times. But it was still fresh in Austen's day.
Perhaps this is part of the trouble, that it is hard coming up with plot developments that haven't already been done and that seasoned romance-readers recognise. Apart from the one above, there is the good-dependable-man-proves-better-catch-than-exciting-cad-plot (Austen invented that one, too); the suddenly-realising-you-love-your-best-friend-plot (Austen again, Dickens used it as well: in his case, refreshingly, the chump who saw the light was a man); the couple-who-pretend-to-be-together/are-forced-together-fall-in-love-for-real-plot... You can get good mileage out of these old war horses: especially the last one is hard not to make enjoyable. But the main difficulty is that there is bound to be one Hero, and one Heroine, and once you know who they are the suspense is limited. You know they'll end up together. You know if there are any significant others, they'll be ditched, and if there are any misunderstandings, they'll be straightened out. Is it really that hard to make the pairing off just that little bit more unpredictable? After all, there was a horrible moment (the masters again) where you were actually afraid Jane Eyre would settle for St John, not least because he was cunning enough to seem to take the moral high ground. And who would have guessed Dorothea and Lydgate in "Middlemarch" wouldn't even get close to ending up together?
Rakes What is so attractive about rakes? I don't get it. I'm a villain-lover, all right, but that is because villains can be so intelligent, razor-sharp, wonderfully sarky, able to cut prosy heroes and heroines down-to-size and, well, clever. The villains I admire have attained their position by making an effort when thinking out all their dastardy plots. What does a rake do? He drinks, gambles and is insulting to women rather than flattering them, assuming that he is so irresistible they will fall for him anyway. Which they do, the silly cows, after some desultory "I hate you"s! Which leads me seamlessly to:
Aristos For pity's sake, they're everywhere! Earls, viscounts, dukes, the odd marquis... a Regency romance hero, it seems, positively must have a title. Blame class-consciousness (I'm rather stridently middle-class), blame the Scarlet Pimpernel books (Chauvelin's so cute!), or blame the fact than when I first made acquaintance with Napoleonic France it was by way of Stefan Zweig's "Joseph Fouché", which meant the aristocratic Talleyrand became an enemy for evermore. The fact remains that the more dandyish, the more languid, the more elegantly lazy and indifferent, the more Hessian-booted, tightly-trousered, artfully-cravatted and, as I have touched on before, quizzing-glass-carrying a Regency buck gets, the more I want to string him to the nearest lamp-post. Not that all the nobs are like that, but I would have appreciated the odd tradesman hero.
"Boney"-bashing One has to be realistic. Napoleon the first, Emperor of the French, was not Regency England's most popular man. Even today, the English resist such an obviously good thing as the Metric system because "The Corsican Bandit" implemented it in the rest of Europe (or so I've heard it said). In a typical Regency romance, the hero has fought in Spain and/or at Waterloo and is chummy with "The Duke". Or, ludicrously, he's a spy. And we are supposed to cheer these noodles on in their effort to put the Bourbons back in power?
Sex scenes I thought they were rather sweet at first, but now... Please, no more!
Having said all that, a fun frothy read is a fun frothy read. There are not so many about that you can afford to be picky. I have mentioned Julia Quinn before, and she is the wittiest of the Regency romp authors I've read this far, though not, I suspect, that well-read up on the period. Mary Balogh is another worthy contender for the Georgette Heyer crown if the one novel I've read by her so far is anything to go by - she is not as funny as Quinn, but she can create likeable characters and is probably more of a Regency buff than Quinn. Heyer still reigns supreme when it comes to plots and blissful lack of sex scenes (scenes that are unavoidable in Quinn and Balogh). Let's see, in time, what else I can dredge up from this genre filled with titles like "The Duke's Desire" and "Romping with a Rogue". All right, I made them up, but I wouldn't be surprised if they do exist.
The down-side is there are a number of things that can crop up in a typical Regency romance which really get my goat, namely:
Predictability You would think authors would learn some things from the masters. When I first read "Pride and Prejudice", long before Colin Firth's wet shirt, I had no idea Elizabeth would end up with Darcy and was pleasantly surprised. Not because I liked Darcy overmuch, but because I hadn't expected it. Innocent girl that I was, I hadn't come across the love-starting-as-antagonism-plot before. Now I have, of course. Many, many times. But it was still fresh in Austen's day.
Perhaps this is part of the trouble, that it is hard coming up with plot developments that haven't already been done and that seasoned romance-readers recognise. Apart from the one above, there is the good-dependable-man-proves-better-catch-than-exciting-cad-plot (Austen invented that one, too); the suddenly-realising-you-love-your-best-friend-plot (Austen again, Dickens used it as well: in his case, refreshingly, the chump who saw the light was a man); the couple-who-pretend-to-be-together/are-forced-together-fall-in-love-for-real-plot... You can get good mileage out of these old war horses: especially the last one is hard not to make enjoyable. But the main difficulty is that there is bound to be one Hero, and one Heroine, and once you know who they are the suspense is limited. You know they'll end up together. You know if there are any significant others, they'll be ditched, and if there are any misunderstandings, they'll be straightened out. Is it really that hard to make the pairing off just that little bit more unpredictable? After all, there was a horrible moment (the masters again) where you were actually afraid Jane Eyre would settle for St John, not least because he was cunning enough to seem to take the moral high ground. And who would have guessed Dorothea and Lydgate in "Middlemarch" wouldn't even get close to ending up together?
Rakes What is so attractive about rakes? I don't get it. I'm a villain-lover, all right, but that is because villains can be so intelligent, razor-sharp, wonderfully sarky, able to cut prosy heroes and heroines down-to-size and, well, clever. The villains I admire have attained their position by making an effort when thinking out all their dastardy plots. What does a rake do? He drinks, gambles and is insulting to women rather than flattering them, assuming that he is so irresistible they will fall for him anyway. Which they do, the silly cows, after some desultory "I hate you"s! Which leads me seamlessly to:
Aristos For pity's sake, they're everywhere! Earls, viscounts, dukes, the odd marquis... a Regency romance hero, it seems, positively must have a title. Blame class-consciousness (I'm rather stridently middle-class), blame the Scarlet Pimpernel books (Chauvelin's so cute!), or blame the fact than when I first made acquaintance with Napoleonic France it was by way of Stefan Zweig's "Joseph Fouché", which meant the aristocratic Talleyrand became an enemy for evermore. The fact remains that the more dandyish, the more languid, the more elegantly lazy and indifferent, the more Hessian-booted, tightly-trousered, artfully-cravatted and, as I have touched on before, quizzing-glass-carrying a Regency buck gets, the more I want to string him to the nearest lamp-post. Not that all the nobs are like that, but I would have appreciated the odd tradesman hero.
"Boney"-bashing One has to be realistic. Napoleon the first, Emperor of the French, was not Regency England's most popular man. Even today, the English resist such an obviously good thing as the Metric system because "The Corsican Bandit" implemented it in the rest of Europe (or so I've heard it said). In a typical Regency romance, the hero has fought in Spain and/or at Waterloo and is chummy with "The Duke". Or, ludicrously, he's a spy. And we are supposed to cheer these noodles on in their effort to put the Bourbons back in power?
Sex scenes I thought they were rather sweet at first, but now... Please, no more!
Having said all that, a fun frothy read is a fun frothy read. There are not so many about that you can afford to be picky. I have mentioned Julia Quinn before, and she is the wittiest of the Regency romp authors I've read this far, though not, I suspect, that well-read up on the period. Mary Balogh is another worthy contender for the Georgette Heyer crown if the one novel I've read by her so far is anything to go by - she is not as funny as Quinn, but she can create likeable characters and is probably more of a Regency buff than Quinn. Heyer still reigns supreme when it comes to plots and blissful lack of sex scenes (scenes that are unavoidable in Quinn and Balogh). Let's see, in time, what else I can dredge up from this genre filled with titles like "The Duke's Desire" and "Romping with a Rogue". All right, I made them up, but I wouldn't be surprised if they do exist.
Friday, 30 July 2010
That pill Florence
It's high time for a Dickens-related entry. I have taken my blog name from one of his characters after all, as well as my blog picture. Maybe I should feel a bit guilty about the latter part, as although I support Georgiana wholeheartedly, I cannot say the same for Florence Dombey. The reason I pinched a picture of her is that I imagine she and Georgiana look quite alike - the same dark, timid, corkscrew-haired, slightly droopy look. There are other similarities as well: they are both shy girls, dominated by a pompous father, who have a great deal of growing-up to do. However, there are differences as well, and in my opinion they are not in Florence's favour.
Dickens's heroines are often a lot more appealing than their reputation as tiresome goody-goodys suggest. Esther Summerson's insecurity, due to a loveless childhood, explains why she is so jubilantly grateful for every kind word and deed, and she is no ninny: her summing-up of characters like Skimpole and Mr Turveydrop can be quite caustic. Amy Dorrit may take her self-sacrifice on behalf of her father too far (giving up her lunch for him! No wonder her height gets stunted), but her love for Mr Clennam, hopeless as it seems for the most part of the book, is both warm and touching. Little Nell is hardly my favourite character in "The Old Curiosity Shop" - I think she only barely makes it to the top ten, after Kit's pony - but she is surprisingly plucky, and no, you do not feel any desire at to laugh when she cops it. Please read the book before you feel tempted to quote Wilde's quip. Hopeless Dora Spenlow knows she's hopeless, which is rather poignant, and Agnes Wickfield, though suffering from an excess of good judgement, does have strength of character. Remember, she tries more than once to correct David's slushy "good angel" picture of her, with indifferent success. Generally, Dickens's heroines have a great deal more spine than they are given credit for, which is needed as they more or less have to drag the hapless heroes to the altar. Dickens often spins out his plots for a few additional chapters by making the heroes convince themselves in some tortous way that they are unworthy of the heroine's affection and cannot possibly propose to her. What's a poor girl to do, except confess her love and risk the rejection her swain shies away from?
Having said all that, there are Dickens heroines who really are as wet as they seem, and Florence Dombey in "Dombey and Son" is one of them. She is usually criticised for not standing up to her father. What surprised me, on the other hand, is that she doesn't stand up for her father. She is supposed to be the perfect devoted daugther, yet everything she does - or does not do - only brings the already sorely tried Mr Dombey more grief, that is, until their final reconciliation, after which she can finally become his Amy Dorrit. That she should cling first to her mother, then to her little brother, in such a desperate way is not difficult to understand, although I understood Mr Dombey's feeling of being shut out, especially in the case of little Paul. The siblings hardly seem to spare him a thought when they are together. What is harder to grasp from the devoted daughter perspective is why Florence leeches on to Edith Granger, née Skewton, later mrs Dombey - or vile Edith, as I call her. Not once during the deeply unhappy marriage between Dombey and vile Edith does Florence try to use her influence with her stepmother to bring about a reconciliation. Instead, she makes things worse by indirectly accusing her father of sending Walter Gay to his death (as she thinks) and confessing, wobbly-lipped, that she is "not a favourite child". She does more to blacken her father in vile Edith's eyes than Carker. I'm sure this is not deliberate, but one could be forgiven for thinking that Florence in a passive-aggressive way makes sure that her dad will not get the love he needs from anyone else, as he does not want any love from her. After all, she is happy enough to take her stepmother to task once Mr Dombey has finally capitulated in her arms.
I think a way of understanding Florence is to remember how young she is - she is practically a child and shows no signs of wanting to enter the adult world. That would also explain her strong reaction when meeting James Carker: she "recoil[s] as if she had been stung". Now, Carker is Dickens's sexiest villain. To some, that might not be saying a lot - no more than if you commended a frog for being the sexiest in the swamp. But coming from me, this is high praise indeed. I will cut my gushing short this time: suffice to say that he is both incredibly brainy and handsome. But he is also, undoubtedly, a representative of the adult world, and his insinuating ways would probably seem disquieting to a girl who does not want to grow up.
Nevertheless, Florence will never be a favourite heroine of mine. In one of the Jeeves and Wooster novels, a character congratulates himself for having escaped an engagement to "that pill Florence" (not Miss Dombey, naturally). I'm afraid it is as "that pill Florence" that I will always regard Florence Dombey.
Dickens's heroines are often a lot more appealing than their reputation as tiresome goody-goodys suggest. Esther Summerson's insecurity, due to a loveless childhood, explains why she is so jubilantly grateful for every kind word and deed, and she is no ninny: her summing-up of characters like Skimpole and Mr Turveydrop can be quite caustic. Amy Dorrit may take her self-sacrifice on behalf of her father too far (giving up her lunch for him! No wonder her height gets stunted), but her love for Mr Clennam, hopeless as it seems for the most part of the book, is both warm and touching. Little Nell is hardly my favourite character in "The Old Curiosity Shop" - I think she only barely makes it to the top ten, after Kit's pony - but she is surprisingly plucky, and no, you do not feel any desire at to laugh when she cops it. Please read the book before you feel tempted to quote Wilde's quip. Hopeless Dora Spenlow knows she's hopeless, which is rather poignant, and Agnes Wickfield, though suffering from an excess of good judgement, does have strength of character. Remember, she tries more than once to correct David's slushy "good angel" picture of her, with indifferent success. Generally, Dickens's heroines have a great deal more spine than they are given credit for, which is needed as they more or less have to drag the hapless heroes to the altar. Dickens often spins out his plots for a few additional chapters by making the heroes convince themselves in some tortous way that they are unworthy of the heroine's affection and cannot possibly propose to her. What's a poor girl to do, except confess her love and risk the rejection her swain shies away from?
Having said all that, there are Dickens heroines who really are as wet as they seem, and Florence Dombey in "Dombey and Son" is one of them. She is usually criticised for not standing up to her father. What surprised me, on the other hand, is that she doesn't stand up for her father. She is supposed to be the perfect devoted daugther, yet everything she does - or does not do - only brings the already sorely tried Mr Dombey more grief, that is, until their final reconciliation, after which she can finally become his Amy Dorrit. That she should cling first to her mother, then to her little brother, in such a desperate way is not difficult to understand, although I understood Mr Dombey's feeling of being shut out, especially in the case of little Paul. The siblings hardly seem to spare him a thought when they are together. What is harder to grasp from the devoted daughter perspective is why Florence leeches on to Edith Granger, née Skewton, later mrs Dombey - or vile Edith, as I call her. Not once during the deeply unhappy marriage between Dombey and vile Edith does Florence try to use her influence with her stepmother to bring about a reconciliation. Instead, she makes things worse by indirectly accusing her father of sending Walter Gay to his death (as she thinks) and confessing, wobbly-lipped, that she is "not a favourite child". She does more to blacken her father in vile Edith's eyes than Carker. I'm sure this is not deliberate, but one could be forgiven for thinking that Florence in a passive-aggressive way makes sure that her dad will not get the love he needs from anyone else, as he does not want any love from her. After all, she is happy enough to take her stepmother to task once Mr Dombey has finally capitulated in her arms.
I think a way of understanding Florence is to remember how young she is - she is practically a child and shows no signs of wanting to enter the adult world. That would also explain her strong reaction when meeting James Carker: she "recoil[s] as if she had been stung". Now, Carker is Dickens's sexiest villain. To some, that might not be saying a lot - no more than if you commended a frog for being the sexiest in the swamp. But coming from me, this is high praise indeed. I will cut my gushing short this time: suffice to say that he is both incredibly brainy and handsome. But he is also, undoubtedly, a representative of the adult world, and his insinuating ways would probably seem disquieting to a girl who does not want to grow up.
Nevertheless, Florence will never be a favourite heroine of mine. In one of the Jeeves and Wooster novels, a character congratulates himself for having escaped an engagement to "that pill Florence" (not Miss Dombey, naturally). I'm afraid it is as "that pill Florence" that I will always regard Florence Dombey.
Thursday, 15 July 2010
Summer reading
I recently finished my latest Ambitious Book Project - Haruki Murakami's "Kafka on The Shore" - and now there will not be any more ABPs for some time to come. Not that I didn't enjoy the book. It had a lot going for it. There were several engaging characters, such as Nakata, the sweet old man who can talk to cats, Hoshino, the down-to-earth lorry driver who helps him, and Oshima, the friendly librarian who seems to have a bit of a crush on the troubled hero. It also has passages of understated humour where the characters accept surrealist situations as given. "I wouldn't want Mickey Mouse to be my pimp", Hoshino says at one point, in a context where this comment makes perfect sense. A lot of the philosophical musings are way too deep for me, and the hero "Kafka" Tamura is rather too serious for my taste, but it is a quietly gripping book with occasional references to Western culture which make one feel at home (though I may never view Johnnie Walker or Colonel Sanders in quite the same way again).
So why no more ABPs for a while? Because it is summer, and my vacation. Each year, I get irritated by the recommendations for summer reading in the newspapers' culture/review sections. Critics and authors invariably come up with the most intellectually demanding or downright tedious stuff they can find and feel no shame in foisting their unhelpful recommendations on readers who just want a good read for the beach.
Lets get this straight once and for all. When you sit in the sun with an overheated brain, your concentration is not likely not be on top form. What you long for is an easy read, a page-turner preferably, or something funny in the Wodehouse vein. This is not the time to get to grips with modernist poetry, or with Proust (yes, believe it or not, two Swedish critics recommended him: one the whole "In Search Of Lost Time", one only what I have been given to understand is the most boring volume in it).
Here are my recommendations for the beach/hammock/anywhere comfortable in the sun or out of it:
Just about anything by Agatha Christie: Although she's a best-seller, Christie is very much underrated as an author. I have reread many Christie novels more than once, even though I knew perfectly well who the murderer was. The first time you read a Christie, you want to know who did it. The second time you want to pick up all the clues you missed. The third, fourth time etc. you just enjoy the succint prose and the human drama. You may not always agree with Christie's psychological statements - she is a bit too cynical for me at times - but the characters are no stereotypes either. A problem with Christie is that she doesn't film very well, which makes people who have only seen a creaky adaptation believe she is boring, which she definitely is not. (There are other dangers with adaptations: the latest miss Marple films are reasonably pacy, but approximately every second mystery has nothing whatsoever to do with the book it is supposedly based on. "The Secret of Chimneys", for instance, was pure invention from start to finish, including the identity of the murderer.) If you truly have little time for whodunnits, try her adventure yarns like "The Secret Adversary", "Destination Unknown", "They Came To Baghdad", "The Man In The Brown Suit" and "Why Didn't They As Evans?". Avoid her very last books where her prose starts to wander a bit and get repetitive and you'll be fine.
The Jeeves and Wooster books by P.G. Wodehouse: Yes, the Blandings novels are good too, but I prefer the Jeeves/Wooster novels because of Bertie Wooster's endearing narrative (and because efficient secretaries aren't pillorised). Invest in an omnibus, but alternate with a crime story or two so you don't get overfed on Wodehouse. What ho!
And if you have to read something ambitious: a really good 19th-century yarn: I once read "Crime And Punishment" in the sun and enjoyed it immensely. Fun cop. Colourful characters. Villains a-plenty and high drama. Or just settle for one of Dickens's best, like "Great Expectations" or "David Copperfield".
Ah, well back to my Georgette Heyer: another good holiday read, though her heroes are supremely irritating. I would like to shove their quizzing-glasses and snuff-boxes down their conceited throats. If I come across a novel where the hero does not get on my nerves, I will recommend it unreservedly.
So why no more ABPs for a while? Because it is summer, and my vacation. Each year, I get irritated by the recommendations for summer reading in the newspapers' culture/review sections. Critics and authors invariably come up with the most intellectually demanding or downright tedious stuff they can find and feel no shame in foisting their unhelpful recommendations on readers who just want a good read for the beach.
Lets get this straight once and for all. When you sit in the sun with an overheated brain, your concentration is not likely not be on top form. What you long for is an easy read, a page-turner preferably, or something funny in the Wodehouse vein. This is not the time to get to grips with modernist poetry, or with Proust (yes, believe it or not, two Swedish critics recommended him: one the whole "In Search Of Lost Time", one only what I have been given to understand is the most boring volume in it).
Here are my recommendations for the beach/hammock/anywhere comfortable in the sun or out of it:
Just about anything by Agatha Christie: Although she's a best-seller, Christie is very much underrated as an author. I have reread many Christie novels more than once, even though I knew perfectly well who the murderer was. The first time you read a Christie, you want to know who did it. The second time you want to pick up all the clues you missed. The third, fourth time etc. you just enjoy the succint prose and the human drama. You may not always agree with Christie's psychological statements - she is a bit too cynical for me at times - but the characters are no stereotypes either. A problem with Christie is that she doesn't film very well, which makes people who have only seen a creaky adaptation believe she is boring, which she definitely is not. (There are other dangers with adaptations: the latest miss Marple films are reasonably pacy, but approximately every second mystery has nothing whatsoever to do with the book it is supposedly based on. "The Secret of Chimneys", for instance, was pure invention from start to finish, including the identity of the murderer.) If you truly have little time for whodunnits, try her adventure yarns like "The Secret Adversary", "Destination Unknown", "They Came To Baghdad", "The Man In The Brown Suit" and "Why Didn't They As Evans?". Avoid her very last books where her prose starts to wander a bit and get repetitive and you'll be fine.
The Jeeves and Wooster books by P.G. Wodehouse: Yes, the Blandings novels are good too, but I prefer the Jeeves/Wooster novels because of Bertie Wooster's endearing narrative (and because efficient secretaries aren't pillorised). Invest in an omnibus, but alternate with a crime story or two so you don't get overfed on Wodehouse. What ho!
And if you have to read something ambitious: a really good 19th-century yarn: I once read "Crime And Punishment" in the sun and enjoyed it immensely. Fun cop. Colourful characters. Villains a-plenty and high drama. Or just settle for one of Dickens's best, like "Great Expectations" or "David Copperfield".
Ah, well back to my Georgette Heyer: another good holiday read, though her heroes are supremely irritating. I would like to shove their quizzing-glasses and snuff-boxes down their conceited throats. If I come across a novel where the hero does not get on my nerves, I will recommend it unreservedly.
Monday, 5 July 2010
Avoiding effort
There is a lovely German word called "urlaubsreif". It means "ripe for vacation", and that is exactly what I am. I'm one week from my blissfully long Swedish vacation, and I feel like one of those policemen in detective stories who are a few days from retirement, but still have to take on a final big and nasty murder investigation. Business has been slack for a while, but now, typically, the wheels have started spinning again. I catch myself humming "At the End of The Day" from Les Mis. At least it's not "Look Down", or the entirely un-Les Mis-related "We Gotta Get Out Of This Place", so there's still some way to go before I start smashing the office furniture.
It's not just work, either. Everything feels exhausting, even TV. Should I blame the World Cup, which has got me used to watching TV without having to follow any plot whatsoever? Or the summer weather? Or is it just sheer laziness? Anyway, I can't even be bothered to watch a recorded "Tudors" episode, let alone Gaskell's "North and South" (or John Jakes's "North and South" for that matter - too long!).
"The Tudors" has itself to blame, in part. It's getting increasingly obvious that nothing in Henry's later life really matches the Boleyn story as far as juicy drama is concerned. Well, except perhaps the disastrous marriage to Catherine Howard, and that's ages away. Meanwhile, you're left to ponder such things as: does this series have a pro-Catholic bias? Consider the evidence. The characters are described roughly in the following manner:
Catherine of Aragon Loving, loyal, popular, suffering with dignity: all in all a pearl among women.
Anne Boleyn Slut. Didn't sleep with her brother, but that's really all that can be said for her.
Cardinal Wolsey Corrupt. Should not have tried to box through that divorce. But as he's played by Sam Neill, the audience sides with him anyway.
The sainted More (That's how we "Daughter of Time" readers think of him, in an ironic, non-complimentary way) Honest and upright. The king's one true friend who could not bring himself to compromise his religious beliefs. Aaah, you break my heart.
Thomas Cromwell Ruthless persecutor of innocent li'l old monks. Takes bribes too.
Bishop Cranmer A coward. Yes, that's the-hand-that-recanted-first-in-the-fire-Cranmer. Nowhere to be seen in series 3, by the way: a bit odd, surely?
Charles Brandon, duke of Suffolk A tormented soul - he didn't want to kill all those women and children, honest. He only did it because mean old Cromwell and the king made him. This is the same character who behaved like a proper swine in series one, bedding Buckingham's daughter out of spite etc.
Mary Tudor Put-upon, innocent young girl, quite pretty, friendly with Elizabeth in spite of everything. Honestly, the series seems to ask, after all she's gone through, who can blame her for finally setting fire to a Protestant or two?
Jane Seymour Unfailingly sweet. OK, she married a man who had his previous wife put to death to make himself available. So what?
Robert Aske Noble, touching, unwilling to fight, entirely justified.
Cromwell's chum with the patch over one eye Well, the patch says it all really. Sleeps around. Threatens to smash lady Mary's skull in.
At this point I might hear some complaints along the lines of: "Oh, come on, you've already blogged about The Tudors. Couldn't you try something a little more intellectually challenging? An essay on Florence Dombey whose picture you've filched? Even more Ancient Rome?" Sorry, no. Can't be bothered.
It's not just work, either. Everything feels exhausting, even TV. Should I blame the World Cup, which has got me used to watching TV without having to follow any plot whatsoever? Or the summer weather? Or is it just sheer laziness? Anyway, I can't even be bothered to watch a recorded "Tudors" episode, let alone Gaskell's "North and South" (or John Jakes's "North and South" for that matter - too long!).
"The Tudors" has itself to blame, in part. It's getting increasingly obvious that nothing in Henry's later life really matches the Boleyn story as far as juicy drama is concerned. Well, except perhaps the disastrous marriage to Catherine Howard, and that's ages away. Meanwhile, you're left to ponder such things as: does this series have a pro-Catholic bias? Consider the evidence. The characters are described roughly in the following manner:
Catherine of Aragon Loving, loyal, popular, suffering with dignity: all in all a pearl among women.
Anne Boleyn Slut. Didn't sleep with her brother, but that's really all that can be said for her.
Cardinal Wolsey Corrupt. Should not have tried to box through that divorce. But as he's played by Sam Neill, the audience sides with him anyway.
The sainted More (That's how we "Daughter of Time" readers think of him, in an ironic, non-complimentary way) Honest and upright. The king's one true friend who could not bring himself to compromise his religious beliefs. Aaah, you break my heart.
Thomas Cromwell Ruthless persecutor of innocent li'l old monks. Takes bribes too.
Bishop Cranmer A coward. Yes, that's the-hand-that-recanted-first-in-the-fire-Cranmer. Nowhere to be seen in series 3, by the way: a bit odd, surely?
Charles Brandon, duke of Suffolk A tormented soul - he didn't want to kill all those women and children, honest. He only did it because mean old Cromwell and the king made him. This is the same character who behaved like a proper swine in series one, bedding Buckingham's daughter out of spite etc.
Mary Tudor Put-upon, innocent young girl, quite pretty, friendly with Elizabeth in spite of everything. Honestly, the series seems to ask, after all she's gone through, who can blame her for finally setting fire to a Protestant or two?
Jane Seymour Unfailingly sweet. OK, she married a man who had his previous wife put to death to make himself available. So what?
Robert Aske Noble, touching, unwilling to fight, entirely justified.
Cromwell's chum with the patch over one eye Well, the patch says it all really. Sleeps around. Threatens to smash lady Mary's skull in.
At this point I might hear some complaints along the lines of: "Oh, come on, you've already blogged about The Tudors. Couldn't you try something a little more intellectually challenging? An essay on Florence Dombey whose picture you've filched? Even more Ancient Rome?" Sorry, no. Can't be bothered.
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