Harriet Devine's Blog

Woman Reading

What exactly is going on here? It seems that the book is so fascinating that she's stopped what she was doing because she's got to go on reading -- but was she getting dressed, or getting undressed, or what? The painting is by the Hungarian artist Miklos Mihalovits (1888-1960), who seems to have specialised almost exclusively in pictures of naked ladies (try putting his name into Google Images if you are so inclined). 

When We Were Romans

Sometimes when I read a really interesting review on someone else's blog, I rush off and immediately order the book. That's what I did recently with When We Were Romans, though as usual I can't remember which blog I saw the review on. I'd heard of Matthew Kneale after the great flurry of interest in his 2007 English Passengers, a book which is still languishing unread on a bookshelf in a house I don't currently live in.

So -- this is a novel with a child narrator. That's s tricky one to pull off successfully -- Emma Donaghue did it with Room a couple of years ago, but I wasn't very taken with that much-praised novel -- the narrative voice started to irritate me a lot. But this one I thought was spot on.

Nine-year-old Lawrence tells his own life story, complete with misspellings. From his point of view, what happens is simple. His parents are separated, and he lives with his mum Hannah and little sister Jemima. Once day his mother tells him they must move to Rome, where she once lived, because his father has found out where they are and is threatening them. So begins a tremendous adventure -- first of all the journey, then the arrival in Rome, the meetings with Hannah's many old friends, the problems with finding a suitable and attractive place to live. Lawrence is an intelligent and responsible boy, and his ability to cope, even to take charge and make decisions, is often called upon, because, as he sees it, Hannah is quite often sad. In fact, as is abundantly clear almost from the beginning, Hannah is suffering from some form of mental illness, bringing with it both depression and paranoia. But this is only clear to the reader. Lawrence, in his innocence, though he gets angry with his mum from time to time, never questions her view of events. As time goes on, and Hannah's condition deteriorates, this gets harder and harder, but though he is aware that something is wrong, he doesn't realise how seriously her perceptions are skewed. He does, though, have a lot to worry about:

she said "what d'you think, should we put a chair against the door?" She was waiting again. I thought "why are you asking me, mum, you usually do the chair against the door, you don't ask me" so I said "I don't know I suppose so" and d'you know that's what got her really angry, it was funny, I only said "I don't know I suppose so". She gave me a look like I was really horreble, like I was a really bad boy, and she said "all right then I'll just do it myself". So she went off with a kind of thumping walk and got a chair from the dining room and I tried to help her, I tried to carry one of its legs, but it was too late, she wouldn't let me now, she lifted it up high so I had to let go, actually it hurt my hand a bit but I didn't say anything. Then she put it against the front door and walked off, she didn't look at me at all.

Interspersed with the story of the events in Rome are accounts of Lawrence's reading matter. He is fascinated by stories of ancient Roman Emperors and Popes, whose madness and paranoia cause terrible suffering to the people. Needless to say, he never sees the parallels with what is happening in his own life. Obviously things cannot go on like this for ever, and the ending is certainly sad, though we have to hope Lawrence will win through to a happier future.

This is a very moving, very truthful novel. It's often painful to read but also beautifully written and constructed. I'm very glad I read it, and next time I find my copy of English Passengers, I shall give that a go too. 

Cat(s) with Book(s)

 

This very familiar image is by Reinhard Michl,  a German illustrator about whom I'm afraid I know nothing, apart from the fact that he's a living artist specialising in paintings of animals doing bizarre and incongruous this. You can see lots of them here.

I suspect I've put it on the blog before, but I was reminded of it this week because I took a photo of my own cat with a book, though whether she's reading it or not I'm not prepared to say. 

Little Egypt: Guest Post by Adele Geras

I'm very pleased today to be posting a guest review by Adele Geras, and here it is:

As I sit down to write this review, there's an article in the Times telling us all about mummies. There's an exhibition about them at the British Museum. You would think Egypt was having a 'moment' but in fact, it's always vivid in our imaginations, thanks to the beautiful  imagery, the hieroglyphics, the gods and monsters, the  scarabs and cats and above all the way they dealt with death.

 

Salt have published LITTLE EGYPT by Lesley Glaister with a beautiful cover which I hope will attract readers who do not know this fine writer. I read her first novel, HONOUR THY FATHER and have been a fan ever since. She's written a dozen novels and  one of the big mysteries of the literary world is: why is Glaister not better known? Or more widely read? Or appearing on prize shortlists?  She's a supreme describer of that side of life which you could call  disturbing or dark but even the most grotesque of her characters comes to life in her pages so that you find yourself understanding and sympathising  with even the most damaged/monstrous/demented of them.

 

Have you ever watched those tv programmes about the hoarders next door? The camera swings over the piled-up detritus of their lives, lingering on the dirt and the sheer hugeness of their problems, made real and visible through accumulated junk and we, the viewers, ask ourselves: how can people get into such a state? Where are their families? Where are the social services? Their neighbours?

 

Glaister provides, in this book, reasons for the decline of a huge house called Little Egypt. It's the home of Isis and Osiris, twins in their nineties. Their parents were Egypt fanatics and neglected the children in favour of exploration among the sands and the fruitless search for a never-found tomb.  The children were left in the care of Mary and other assorted grown-ups including their damaged Uncle Victor, who never recovered from what he went through in the Great War.

 

There's a double narrative here, and we see things through the eyes of  Isis, both in the third person and in the first. This works brilliantly. The first person is reserved for the present-day old woman, wandering the aisles of the supermarket she visits.  This is built on land which was once part of the Little Egypt estate but which was sold to  developers. She meets an American anarchist called Spike and becomes friendly with him.   She loves going to the café and having hot coffee served by Doreen. She likes the light and the noise and above all the order. When we are shown  the conditions she's living in, back in the house, this is all too understandable.

 

The central part of the novel goes back to Egypt.  Uncle Victor takes the children by ship to look for their parents. Terrible things happen all the time, and Glaister is very good at pointing out the tiny everyday tragedies as well as the huge cataclysmic ones, but she also succeeds in conveying the magic of a country that can enthral otherwise sensible people like Isis and Osiris's parents and lure them away from a life where they'd have to do mundane things like attend to the welfare of their offspring.

 

The third part of the novel I won't even mention, for fear of spoilers. I ought to have been prepared for everything and it still came as a shock. Be warned...you will need a strong stomach to read parts of  it, but it's well worth it and it will, I promise you, stay with you for a long time. You won't forget the gallant and warm-hearted Isis  and the neglected rooms of the house called Little Egypt will return to you in nightmares.

 

 Adele blogs at History Girls (http://the-history-girls.blogspot.com , a joint blog written by authors of historical fiction and fantasy history for Junior (middle Grade), YA and adult readers.

Woman Reading

This lovely painting is 'La Letrice' (the Reader) by Alix Aymé (1894-1989). It is lacquer and gold leaf on a wooden panel and probably a self-portrait with a young relative. Kindly sent by a friend in the US who is collecting and cataloging her work -- you can see the website here, with lots of information and more lovely paintings. Apparently she died 'on her 95th birthday while putting the finishing touches to one of her lacquer pieces'. I can't think of a better way to go! 

Literary Coincidences

What do a 19th century housewife and a contemporary writer of humorous non fiction have in common? More than you might think. The housewife was Frances (Fanny) Trollope, mother of Anthony, and the contemporary writer is Bill Bryson, who presumably needs no introduction. As it happens, by pure chance, I am reading a book by each of them, to review for Issue 2 of Shiny New Books, and suddenly realised how interesting this pairing is. 

Here's the thing. Fanny Trollope went to America in 1827, and when she got back to England wrote Domestic Manners of the Americans (1832). And Bill Bryson has just finished his umpteenth book, One Summer: America 1927. See what I mean? Two accounts of the state of the States, neatly and satisfyingly divided by one hundred years. Not only that, but both write with great wit and irony, simultaneously informing and entertaining. 

Fanny was much reviled by American critics who thought her book was unkind. So indeed it was, but it was truthful, too. This is what Mark Twain said about it:  

Mrs Trollope was so handsomely cursed and reviled by this nation [for] telling the truth... she was painting a state of things which did not change at once. ... I remember it.

As for Bryson -- well, you'll just have to wait for my reviews come out on 1 July, but I can tell you these are two excellent reads.

Book Bed

Ever wondered what to do with all those books that keep piling up? Here's an idea.

Image found here.

Rivers of London

Hooray for World Book Night! For without it, I very much doubt if I'd have read this totally delightful novel. As it happened I was having tea on 23 April with my co-editors of Shiny New Books, and Annabel happened to be a WBN giver, so she gave. I actually left the book behind in London when I went back to France the next day, but as I was there again for a couple of days at the beginning of this week, I picked it up and started reading it. And how I galloped through it, loving every minute.

It appears that I've really missed the boat where Ben Aaronovitch is concerned. I suppose that may be partly because his novels -- of which this is only the first -- have been classified as fantasy, or even SF, neither of which is a genre I'd normally give the time of day to. But of course this is also a thriller, and a police procedural -- it just happens to include a good helping of magic as well. 

This is the story of PC Peter Grant, a young man who joined the police because his A-levels were not good enough to get him into university. But Peter, the son of a jazz trumpeter and his African wife, is far from stupid, and in addition, though he hasn't realised it until the novel begins, has the ability to tune in to ghosts and other supernatural phenomena. This turns out to be quite lucky for him in a way as, rather than having to join the Case Progression Unit (basically pen-pushing) he is recruited by the suave Chief Inspector Thomas Nightingale, who drives a Mark 2 Jag and heads up a secret branch of the Met whose task it is to tackle ghosts, ghouls, faeries, demons, witches and warlocks, elves and goblins,  and much more besides. Almost before he can turn round, he finds himself living in Nightingale's grand house in Russell Square and working on two separate cases -- in one, some malign force is taking over ordinary people and forcing them to act in senselessly brutal and violent ways, and in the other, a dispute has broken out between the two river gods in charge of the two halves of the River Thames.

If you think this sounds as if it might be a bit twee, think again. It's a proper thriller, and also, importantly, witty and intelligent. It manages to combine the kind of realism you expect from a novel in which the police play an important part, with history, folklore, and as much imaginative action as you could ever wish for. One critic described it as What would happen if Harry Potter grew up and joined the Fuzz, and though this isn't strictly accurate (unlike Harry, Peter is very much a beginner), it gives the general idea of the fun to be had. It's impossible not to love Peter, with his wry wit and his penchant for beautiful girls, most of whom turn out to be non-human in varying degrees of scariness. Nightingale is great, too, a relic from the early twentieth century though he doesn't look it -- and then of course there's his very strange housekeeper Molly, who seems unnaturally fond of raw meat, and Beverley Brook, one of the many tributaries of the Thames, and Lesley, Peter's co-constable, who may not be all she seems, and Dr Abdul Haqq Walid, a world renowned and 'cryptopathologist', who performs the autopsies on the variously mutilated victims. And then there's London, which is almost a character in itself -- the novel made me quite homesick for my hometown, something the doesn't happen very often.

So -- I can't recommend this highly enough, and I'm already planning to read the next in the series. The only downside is that I started reading a conventional police procedural straight afterwards and kept expecting ghosts and vampires to pop up at any time. But hopefully that will pass. So thank you, Annabel, and thank you World Book Night.

Nude Women with Cats

Slightly concerned about what sort of traffic this title will attract, but nevertheless it is indeed what this painting is called. The artist is Felix Valloton (1865-1925), who painted it in about 1895. He specialised in domestic scenes, of which this is obviously one. 

Bones Are Forever

I used to be the most terrific fan of Kathy Reichs' Temperence Brennan novels, then I found myself getting a bit bored and disillusioned -- they seemed to be more and more formulaic. So it's a few years since I last read one and this, published in 2012, completely passed me by. It might have done so forever but I have a 2-book per month membership of Audible and sometimes can't decide what to buy. I'm really glad I decided to give this a try, as -- though probably not up to the high standards of the earlier books in the series, of which this is number 15 -- I enjoyed it a lot.

For anyone who doesn't know this series, Temperence Brennan is a forensic anthropologist, which means she examines human remains which are too degraded to be analysed by a coroner. She teaches at the University of North Carolina, but she also works in Montreal, for the Laboratoire des Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale. This is, in fact, exactly what Kathy Reichs herself does, and many of the novels are based on cases Reichs has been involved in. But Reichs, as far as we know, does not solve crimes or get into danger in the same way as Tempe does. nor, we also assume, does she have an on-off affair with a gorgeous Quebec detective named Andrew Ryan. 

In Bones are Forever, Tempe gets called in to a most distressing case. The remains of a newborn baby are found hidden in a flat belonging to a girl who was working as a prostitute but has now disappeared. Further searches reveal that, tragically, other tiny bodies have been disposed of in the same way. A visit from RCMP Oliver Hasty, an old flame of Tempe's who seems determined to rekindle the fire, confirms that this girl really needs to be found. So it is that Tempe, Ryan and Oli (the two men sparring in an endless and, to Tempe, extremely boring testosterone-fuelled way) set off for the diamond-mining town of Yellowknife, in the North West Territories, where the babies' mother appears to have come from. Soon they are embroiled in all sorts of complicated overlapping issues, including environmental problems, the history of diamond mining, claim-staking, racial and cultural antagonism, and more besides. As always, Tempe's forensic skills are called into action, and described with just enough detail to be fascinating without ever becoming boring. 

What lifts Reichs at her best out of the crowd is partly this intricate and accurate detail, but also, of course, it is Tempe herself. Smart and witty, easily irritated, and far too impulsive to keep herself out of danger, she is always prone to get herself and her colleagues into trouble, but of course always escapes at the end, sometimes by then skin of her teeth. Readers who know the previous novels will be longing to know if she's going to get back together with Ryan, with whom she broke up a few books ago -- well, Ryan is in a really foul mood for a good deal of the story, but why, and what happens at the end, you will have to find out for yourself. 

So it was a pleasure to get back to Tempe and find her pretty much back on form. I'm a couple of novels behind now, so who knows, I might try the next one and hope for the best.