‘The Prisoner of Zenda’ by Anthony Hope
Every so often I feel like reading something which doesn’t require me to think. I find it relaxing for my brain to read a book once in a while where I’m not constantly thinking about the beautiful, stylish writing, the complex subtexts and the hidden meanings. Sometimes it’s nice to gallop through a plot which is, quite simply, good fun; if it is ridiculously silly, so much the better. Anthony Hope’s delightful novel The Prisoner of Zenda is just such a book.
Rudolph Rassendyll is an upper class English idler with a distinctive nose and red hair which suggest that rumours of a family connection to the royal family of Ruritania might just be true. As upper class English idlers were wont to do in the Victorian era, he decides to journey around Europe to kill some time and his travels soon lead him to Ruritania itself. There he meets the king the night before his coronation and, amused by their uncanny resemblance to one another the king (also called Rudolph, naturally) invites English Rudolph to celebrate with him. The next morning, the king’s retainers are horrified to find that his villainous half brother, Black Michael, has drugged the king so that he will be unable to attend his own coronation. In desperation, Rudolph agrees to stand in for the king for the day, but by the time they return the king has been kidnapped and so the charade must continue until the king can be rescued from the castle of Zenda. Meanwhile, Rudolph must avoid attempts on his life, fool the nation and court the king’s intended bride without falling in love with her himself.
This is the sort of book in which characters are black and white: every bad person is a dastardly, scheming, blackguard and every good person is honourable, gallant and virtuous. It’s also the sort of book in which words like ‘blackguard’ and ‘cad’ (greatly underused in modern conversation, I feel) are thrown about with wild abandon. There are duels, mysterious notes and daring escapes a-plenty. It’s a rollicking adventure story, full of implausible plot twists and unlikely situations in which many buckles are swashed and swashes are buckled. It’s language is arch and witty and it’s great fun to read.
The Prisoner of Zenda is also not at all what I expect when I think of Victorian literature. However, as it was first published in 1894, Victorian is what it is. When I think of Victorian literature, I tend to think of books that may be entertaining and absorbing but are rather weightier and more serious than Anthony Hope’s novel. It’s easy to forget, I think, that the Victorians enjoyed fun and froth in their literature just as much as we do now, and that for every Jude the Obscure there were many more lighthearted, silly novels such as this one. I’ll definitely be looking for the sequel to this book, Rupert of Hentzau, for the next time I need to be reminded that the Victorian era wasn’t all about morality and seriousness. Does anyone know of any other similarly amusing Victorian literature? I’d love to read some more.
The Prisoner of Zenda by Anthony Hope. Published by Penguin, 2007, pp. 200. Originally published in 1894.
‘South Riding’ by Winifred Holtby
My favourite place that I’ve ever lived is, without any hesitation, York. I lived in a cold, dingy cellar room where I used to become trapped in the house if it rained heavily because the area between my doorstep and the stairs up towards street level used to flood with almost a foot of water, but I was in the heart of the city, I could be at the Minster within five minutes and I loved it. The city was a revelation, with so much packed into such a small area, the modern jostling good-naturedly alongside the historical. The people were some of the friendliest I’ve met, and the easy, casual chatter is something that I miss unexpectedly now that I’m London-based. The countryside around the city, when I managed to escape, was so wide and open that you could see for miles, traversed only by hardy, agile sheep and the equally hardy and agile Coastliner buses (how a double decker bus navigates some of those tiny roads with their sharp bends and steep slopes still baffles me). Reading South Ridingby Winifred Holtby was less like reading a book and more like suddenly finding myself living in Yorkshire again. For a few days I was an inhabitant of the fictional South Riding and I absolutely loved the experience.
South Ridingis set in Yorkshire in the first half of the 1930′s, focusing on the everyday lives of the people who live there. There is Sarah Burton, the new headmistress of the girls’ school who returns to the area armed with progressive ideas and is determined to make a difference; there is Mrs Beddows, the council’s only female alderman who is torn between her desire for progress and her personal loyalties; and there is Robert Carne, staunch proponent of the old ways, desperately trying to care for his mad wife and fragile daughter while not losing his tenuous hold on his lands. The book chronicles their struggles, sometimes against each other, sometimes alongside one another for a common cause, and those of a whole host of other characters.
The cast of this novel is huge, with more than a hundred characters (listed handily after the introduction), but it never feels overpopulated or confusing. In fact, they are what makes South Riding such a great read. I felt as though I knew each and every one of those characters, even if we only had a nodding acquaintance. It is testament to Winifred Holtby’s writing skill that she manages to create such a wide variety of characters with equal authenticity; I believe in Midge Carne, who is young, female, highly strung and unthinkingly cruel, just as much as I believe in Castle, who is an elderly, male, gentle salt of the earth type. I particularly liked the fact that no character is as straightforward as they at first seem, and not in a gimmicky everyone-has-a-dark-secret way, but in a these-are-all-real-people-with depth way. They aren’t defined by their quirks, but these help to gain a deeper insight into the characters and why they behave the way they do. Councillor Snaith at home with his cats was a particular favourite of mine.
A wide range of characters means a wide range of relationships, and here too Winifred Holtby excels. Whether two people are cooperating or at loggerheads they always act in a way that is so appropriate and well described that I experienced everything along with them. Tom and Lily’s relationship broke my heart time and time again, and they are relatively minor characters (if there can be said to be such a thing in this novel). Not only does she write scenes tightly focused on one individual or group, she also writes the best, most effective crowd scenes I’ve ever read. The outside performance put on by Madam Hubbard’s girls, at which cast and audience alike spend more time focusing on their own individual thoughts and agendas than the show, is an absolute masterpiece. Her writing reveals a wealth of life experience put to very good use.
I also appreciated the fact that, although people struggle and fight with one another, there is no cruel, cackling villain in this book. The characters go through hard times and experience tragedy, but that is because life is hard rather than because someone is plotting against them. Harvests fail so people lose their money. People become sick and, because they are poor, they die. It’s all very matter-of-fact and realistic. This may make the novel sound rather bleak, and it’s definitely not without its bleak moments, but there is also a great deal of comedy in this book. There is stoicism but there is also humour; the people of South Riding endure hardships and they do so with a shrug and a grin. Despite some of the tragedies that occur, Holtby never allows characters to wallow or the tightly controlled plot to spiral into melodrama, which I find only adds to the pathos. I’m sad to leave South Riding and it’s definitely a novel that I’ll be rereading in the future.
Unlike The Vet’s Daughter where I thought that the original cover was far superior, in this case I rather prefer the reissued cover. I had bought myself a copy of the original green edition before Christmas as I was continually hearing good things about this novel and I wanted to have read it before the new BBC adaptation begins later this year, but last week I was surprised to receive a copy of the new edition in the post from the publishers for joining their new book club. It was this version that I ended up reading, as I was drawn in by the lovely cover art, a reproduction of a Yorkshire Railways poster, which suited the book perfectly. I also thought that the extra material was better in the newer edition as, while Lettice Cooper’s introduction in the earlier edition is useful, it is mostly a summary of the story and the new preface by Shirley Williams and introduction by Marion Shaw are excellent.
South Riding by Winifred Holtby. Published by Virago, 2010, pp. 518. Originally published in 1936.
The Unique Pleasures of Second Hand Book Shopping
In my first post at the start of Rachel and Carolyn‘s Virago Reading Week, I mentioned how much I enjoy hunting these lovely green books down in second hand book shops. There is a particular joy in catching sight of that distinctive spine when it is least expected, and I often find myself emerging from a charity shop having pounced on a Virago bargain, my glee at my new book completely obliterating any feelings of guilt I should probably be experiencing at acquiring yet another book.
On very rare occasions, I am particularly lucky and unknowingly stumble on a book which is not just a bargain but also rather special in a way that a new book, shiny and attractive as it may be, can never hope to achieve. I was browsing through my Virago stack trying to decide what to read next, when I came across this note fixed inside my copy of Try Anything Twice by Jan Struther:
Happy Christmas 1995 and much love from Robert and Claudia. Almost every year since 1974 our “Christmas card” for the family has been a home-made pamphlet on some aspect of family history, or a tape, or photographs of paintings etc. This year I am absolved from producing anything so original, having acquired the publishers’ remaining stock of my mother’s book, “Try Anything Twice”, at a price no greater than that of printing one of my leaflets. So this is in effect our Christmas card or 1995. To make the book short enough for their series, Virago Press had omitted two essays from the 1938 edition — “The Curious Phenomenon of the Militarist’s Sister” which Virago thought politically incorrect in 1990, and “Cruel Collinses” which by chance had been included in my 1988 booklet “Just a Family Joke”. My family did not approve Virago’s choice of cover illustration; but apart from that we hope you will enjoy this book, which I think makes better reading now than her “Mrs Miniver” (1938, reprinted 1989).
I feel as though I own a little piece of Virago history! I was particularly interested to learn about the omitted essays and, although the 1938 edition seems impossible to get hold of, both essays are available to read for free here, so I’ll definitely be reading them along with the rest of the book. Without this note I would never even have known about them. I can’t wait to get reading.
‘Sense and Sensibility’ by Jane Austen
There are some books which it’s impossible for me to review with anything even vaguely approaching objectivity, and the works of Jane Austen feature very high up that list. I love everything about all of them, even the aspects which, critically speaking, might be weaker or less good. I don’t often reread books (too many books, too little time) but I’ve read Jane Austen’s works often enough for them to be like old friends to me, and I’m no longer sure whether I love them in spite of or because of their perceived faults. Consequently, this is going to be a less of a review and more of an appreciative enthusing about her first published work, Sense and Sensibility. Needless to say, there are spoilers aplenty here, so if for some inexplicable reason you haven’t read this book yet (or seen the lovely Emma Thompson film and so know the ending anyway) stop reading now and go away and do so instantly.
When I noticed that a group read of all of Jane Austen’s novels was proposed for this year on LibraryThing I jumped at the chance to revisit these old friends again, chiefly because it gave me an excuse to buy myself copies of the Virago Modern Classics editions of the books. Jane Austen isn’t an author that I automatically associate with the Virago Modern Classics imprint, mostly because (rightly or wrongly) I think of it as a press which rescues female authors from obscurity and Miss Austen is the very antithesis of obscurity. However, on reflection, her work fits perfectly within Virago’s remit: it is intelligent fiction which focuses on the day to day lives of women and, although its subject matter is mundane, the writing transcends that to say far more than the story does. Although I read this book last week, my review is ready just in time for Rachel and Carolyn‘s Virago Reading Week, and it’s done a marvellous job of reminding me quite how wide Virago’s range of authors is.
Purely by coincidence, I read Sense and Sensibility for the first time when I was the same age as Margaret Dashwood, for the second time when I was Marianne’s age and for the third time when I was Elinor’s age. Now I’m reading it for the fourth time, and only the impending September nuptials stand prevent me from being an object of pity for being an unmarried spinster past my prime (at the grand old ago of twenty four, that is). At Margaret’s age, most of the humour and subtlety of Austen’s wonderful writing went way over my head, but I just about grasped the story and thought myself very grown up for doing so. When I was Marianne’s age I was far more open to Austen’s caustic wit but was unsatisfied with the plot, as the ending seemed a huge disappointment. I wanted Willoughby to see the error of his ways, for him to beg Marianne to take him back, for Austen to somehow rid him of his inconvenient wife in a way which didn’t implicate him, and for Marianne to end up happily married to him as romance surely required. At Elinor’s age I was no longer reading the book for pleasure but studying it as part of a required ‘Inventing the Novel’ first year English course at university. This really brought Jane Austen’s writing skill alive for me and I appreciate having this critical background just as much as I appreciate having read the novel for the first time without it. This is the context in which I approached my most recent reread of Sense and Sensibility.
This is definitely the time that I’ve enjoyed the novel most. It was a relief not to be reading along underlining passages with a pencil going, ”Behold! Amusing social commentary!” and, “Ooh, irony!” but at the same time I was far more aware of all the different layers and literary devices which work to give the novel its delightful light yet serious tone which is so typically Austen. Many critics find this much less polished in Sense and Sensibility than in her other novels, but I actually find I quite enjoy this; it is a book about passions, after all, so it seems appropriate that the writing style should be a little less tightly controlled than it might otherwise have been. In particular, Sense and Sensibility conveys real, raw pain through Marianne, an emotion which I don’t think Jane Austen ever really covers again. There is sorrow, displeasure, regret and gentle anguish such as Elinor displays, but never the wild outpouring of passion which she shows here. Yes, it is melodramatic and overdone and yes, it can be seen at least partially a satire of the typical heroine of sensibility, but I have never had any doubt that Marianne’s suffering is real.
Because I was reading for pleasure this time, I was also far more aware of the individual characters, which somehow often fade into the background when studying a novel, odd as that may seem. This time I thoroughly enjoyed watching Marianne behave like a typical teenager, alternating between being genuinely concerned at her suffering and rolling my eyes at her overblown ways of expressing it. Her exclamation to Elinor which essentially boils down to,”You couldn’t possibly understand! No one could ever understand my pain!” in particular had me grinning with recognition. Although I have always loved Elinor herself, she is far less staid than I remember her. I don’t think I’ve ever really noticed the incident where Edward appears wearing a ring containing a lock of hair and Elinor somehow convinces herself that the hair is hers, despite knowing intellectually that it can’t be, and I found this wishful thinking incredibly endearing. The secondary characters were also more pronounced this time around: I greatly enjoyed Mrs Jennings’ unrefined warmth and kindness and found Fanny Dashwood and her weak husband completely odious.
The ending of the novel seemed much more appropriate this time around too. Previously I had thought that she merely settles for Colonel Brandon and so I didn’t really believe in her happiness, and while I still think that she settles, it made sense to me this time. Marianne spends much of the novel talking about how she doesn’t believe in second marriages and romances, so it seems logical that she wouldn’t hold out for another love match after her experiences with Willoughby. Instead she vows to spend the rest of her life devoting herself to her family, and the thing most likely to make them happy is to do what they think best for her and to marry Colonel Brandon. Because Marianne isn’t a character to do anything by halves, it similarly makes sense that her regard for her husband should eventually turn into love and that she should be happy with him. It is not a spectacular romance, but that would have been at odds with the way the novel develops and indeed with Marianne’s character.
Ask any reader of Jane Austen what their favourite of her novels is and it’s unlikely that the answer will be Sense and Sensibility. I know it’s not my favourite, but that doesn’t stop me from loving it and from finding something new to appreciate in it each time I revisit it.
Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen. Published by Virago, 1989, pp. 279. Originally published in 1811.
‘The Vet’s Daughter’ by Barbara Comyns
Every so often I am lulled into a false sense of security by a Virago; some of them are quite short books with rather large print and thus I am deceived into expecting them to be ‘easy’ books. That was certainly what went through my mind when I picked up The Vet’s Daughter by Barbara Comyns to read on the train yesterday morning, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. I was very surprised to learn that Barbara Comyns was inspired to write this while on her honeymoon in Wales though, as it’s far from being the idyllic, romantic novel that you would hope someone would produce while in the first flush of love and is really rather dark. This was not a book I bought myself, but one that I was kindly sent by my LibraryThing Virago Secret Santa in 2010, so I knew very little about it and the author was entirely new to me. All I can say is that she did a splendid job of choosing books for me if this one is anything to go by, as, while it wasn’t an easy read and I would hesitate to term it an enjoyable one, it was very powerful and well-written book and the perfect way to begin Rachel and Carolyn’s Virago Reading Week.
The Vet’s Daughter tells the story of Alice, the eponymous vet’s daughter, who lives in an unfashionable area of London with her irritable, brusque, cruel father, her timid, suffering mother and a whole menagerie of animals. Following a series of traumatic occurrences in her life, Alice discovers that she has the ability to levitate and things appear to improve for her: she moves to rural Hampshire to act as companion to a frail lady and finally begins to enjoy herself away from the tyranny of her father. However, this cannot last for long and soon she finds herself even worse off than before.
The novel is written in the first person from Alice’s perspective, in prose that is spare and bleak with not a single word being wasted and no event without significance at some point in the novel. The starkness of the writing makes the terrible things that happen stand out because they are reported in such a mundane way, such as when she tells the reader:
One morning a dreadful thing happened. A man came to measure Mother for her coffin as if she were dead already. He said Father had told him to come. (p. 18)
The straightforward nature of these simple statements makes it seem as though these situations are usual, and my heart went out to Alice every time I read something like this that she should think that the case. Her voice is lost and sorrowful, a child trying to make sense of an adult world which is cruel and confusing, and at times it is almost painful to read. There are brief flashes of happiness, but these are fleeting and serve only to provide glimpses of what the reader quickly suspects Alice will never be able to attain. These pleasant experiences are always cut off prematurely, such as when Alice’s friend Lucy comes to visit:
Then she produced a fortune-telling tape-measure and we laughed a lot over it. My waist measurement said, ‘Next year’, and my wrist ‘He loves you’ and my nose ‘A sailor’, and my head ‘You will be surprised’. We were still laughing when I heard Father come in and I knew our happy time was over and I would have to get Lucy out of the house quickly. (pp. 33-34)
Although she is the narrator, Alice has no agency in this sad little novel: things happen to her and all she can do is talk about them to the reader. Her power goes no further than little things, such as rescuing a woodlouse from the fire with a teaspoon, and that makes this actions seem all the more poignant and significant. There are times when she appears to be able to exercise her own will, but this is swiftly undermined as Alice is brought back down to where she started. Her lack of ability to act makes her seem somehow detached from the events of the novel, as though she is disconnected from them even though they happen to her. This detachment is manifested in Alice’s levitation, which Comyns handles very skillfully. I like the way that at first it is impossible to say whether Alice really floats in the air or whether it is just her imagination protecting her mind from things that have happened to her. Even so, told in the same style of prose as the rest of the novel, her levitation comes across as simple fact and I accepted it without question. At one point she makes the very logical argument that:
Perhaps it was something that often happened to people but was never mentioned, like piles — I’d seen an advertisement “Why suffer in silence?” — but they were rude things, most likely, and floating would be rather nice when one became used to it. (p. 121)
Even Alice’s levitation goes from being something that she can control at will to something that she must do at the will of others and so it is in many ways emblematic of her position in the novel. It’s not just a silly device to add interest or get around awkward plot problems (my issue with a lot of magical realism) but an integral part of the book which is vital to the tragic yet inevitable ending.
I thought that the cover of this edition is perfect. The girl in the picture by Walter Crane, famous for his children’s book illustrations and his beautiful edition of Edmund Spenser’s Faerie Queen, not only has Alice’s distinctive blond hair, she also displays a blend of innocence and sadness which is exactly in keeping with Alice’s character. Virago haven’t done nearly so well with their cover for the newer reissue of the book, brought out in 2000. The girl on the cover looks altogether too healthy, robust and jolly to be Alice and, for that matter, scandalously dressed for an Edwardian lady. In fact, had I seen this book with the new cover I would never have picked it up, assuming it was about sturdy, practical girls having a jolly good time in the countryside. Don’t let the rather ill-chosen cover image put you off though, as this is an excellent book and well worth reading.
The Vet’s Daughter by Barbara Comyns. Published by Virago, 1981, pp. 190. Originally published in 1959.
Virago Reading Week is Here
Greetings and welcome to my little corner of Virago Reading Week, a reading event hosted by Rachel of Book Snob and Carolyn of A Few of My Favourite Books to celebrate a publisher which is dear to the hearts of many and which I only discovered last year. Visit Rachel’s blog for more information about this week and go to Carolyn’s to read an interesting story about how Virago came to be.
An interesting side effect of book blogging is that it has made me far more aware of who publishes the books I read. After noticing that two of my favourite books from 2010 were Virago Modern Classics (The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton and The Return of the Soldier by Rebecca West) I suddenly became interested in these wonderful books written by women with their distinctive green designs and little apple logo. I love the fact that I can pick up a book or an author I’ve never heard of before and be sure that I’m probably going to have a good read because it’s been produced by a publisher I know and trust and whose tastes largely align with my own. I even enjoy the process of hunting them down: every time I go into a charity shop now I scan the shelves looking for dark green spines in the hopes of discovering a new title. Somehow it’s so much more exciting than ordering them online.
Virago acquisition is the main reason I’ve failed to kerb my book buying this year as I keep spotting titles that I must have (well, not must, but you know how these things go). According to LibraryThing I have forty three unread Virago Modern Classics in my library, so I’m well stocked up for the week ahead. I’m starting out with The Vet’s Daughter by Barbara Comyns, which I received as a lovely gift from my Virago Secret Santa this Christmas, then the plan is to dive into Winifred Holtby’s South Riding about which I’ve heard only good things. After that, who knows?
‘Flowers for Alys’ by Irene M. Redpath
So far, I haven’t had much luck with the books of which I’ve received free copies for review from Goodreads and LibraryThing. More often than not, I read the descriptions thinking “Oooh, what an interesting concept!” and eagerly click the request button but the books haven’t really lived up to my expectations when they’ve arrived. So when Flowers for Alys arrived and I saw that, like my previous early reviewer books, it was self-published, I could feel my heart sinking. Which just goes to show that I shouldn’t be so prejudiced because I couldn’t have been more wrong about Irene M. Redpath’s book.
Flowers for Alysis set in an unspecified time which I presume is the middle ages in an unspecified place which, again, I presume is England. It centres around Jenet, a young woman who has a disfigured mouth which renders her mostly unable to talk and hence is also presumed deaf. Jenet adopts a baby whom she finds lying abandoned by the side of a river, and raises her despite the ensuing difficulties. As the infant, given the name Fleur, grows up, it becomes clear that she is a remarkable child in a great many ways.
This is a quiet, simple, heartfelt book, which refreshingly abandons lengthy descriptions and elaborate prose in favour of a more straightforward writing style which really suits the little tale that Redpath tells. For all its simplicity, her writing conveys strong emotions, particularly in the first chapter when we learn the origins of the abandoned baby. The closing lines of this chapter, intriguingly titled ‘The End’, are heart-wrenching and I think that more complicated prose would have spoiled the impact that they have. The final chapter, which, in corresponding backwards fashion is titled ‘The Beginning’ was also well written.
Although this book is light on characterisation, at a mere 115 pages I wasn’t expecting in-depth analysis and the somewhat sketchy character profiles are all that is necessary to carry the story. Jenet is innocent, reliable and homely, and the occasional glimpses inside her head provide an interesting perspective. Fleur is particularly intriguing in her fey ways, and it would have been nice to see a bit more of her. I liked the scenes of her being inexplicably drawn to the river where she was found and her strange rituals with flower petals which become so important.
Of course, this book isn’t perfect. The representation of perceptions of disability in the middle ages is woefully inadequate; I felt as though Jenet’s disabilities were used casually as an excuse to justify her not having married and without consideration for the implications of this. However, although this was an issue it bothered me less than I expected because the book reads more as a parable with a historical setting than as a strictly historical novel. I also thought that the magical overtones could perhaps have benefited from some expansion to make them sit better in the story as a whole.
This was a quick, enjoyable read and I’m really glad to have finally received a self-published book about which I am happy to say that!
Flowers for Alys by Irene M. Redpath. Published by Lulu, 2010, pp. 116. First edition.
‘The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms’ by N. K. Jemisin
There are numerous different reasons I’ve never joined a book club before: I’ve never found one that I could attend a train journey; the ones that I could get to are run by bookshops and so focus on new releases that they can sell rather than books that a particular group of people might find interesting; and I spend at least four hours a day on a train anyway, taking up most hours when such social activities as book groups tend to occur. The Women of Fantasy Book Club, run by Erica from Jawas Read, Too solves all of these problems: because it’s based online, I can happily participate from the comfort of my own home; all the books on the list were ones I wanted to read anyway; and time spent on trains just means more time for reading rather than time when I need to be somewhere else. The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms by N. K. Jemisin is January’s book for this book club.
The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms tells the story of Yeine, who is summoned to the ruling city of Sky following the death of her mother, Kinneth. There she finds herself named as one of her grandfather’s three heirs and must compete against her two cousins to succeed him as ruler of Sky when he dies. While trying to keep herself alive, Yeine is befriended by the Enefadah, the god of night, Nahadoth, and his children imprisoned in human form and forced to serve Yeine’s family. They offer to help her but not without a price and Yeine soon finds herself tied up in events much bigger than she had anticipated.
I think my chief issue with this book was that it was not the book that I was expecting it to be. The title The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms suggests fantasy of epic proportions, concerned either with a journey through many distant lands or with political intrigue affecting whole nations. In fact, it had a grand total of three different settings (although the palace of Sky is a fascinating one) and any plotting and scheming was secondary to what quickly became the main storyline: the romance between Yeine and Nahadoth. From the moment that Yeine and Nahadoth, on first meeting, both try to kill each other, following which he inexplicably kisses her and both feel a wave of desire it was apparent that this book was not going where I had anticipated. I get the feeling that in some of these reviews I come across as a bit of a prude. I’m not: I have no objections to sex in books, and certainly not to romance in books, per se. What I do object to is romance that comes out of nowhere and sex that feels gratuitous or is poorly written. The sex in The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms does have some significance to the whole mythology of Jemisin’s world, so it (mostly) doesn’t fall into the former category. It is, however, possibly the most overblown, ridiculous sex scene I have ever read (this coming from someone who read a sex scene involving tinfoil penis hats and false moustaches last year), in which Yeine and Nahadoth fly through the sky and see, amongst other strange visions, ‘vast, whalelike beings with terrifying eyes and the faces of long-lost friends‘ (p. 322). Whales! Why whales? I could just about have coped until the whales came along, making me snort with laughter in a way which attracted most unnecessary attention on the train. So, I didn’t like the sex and the romance and the fact that this was a large part of the book distinctly lessened its appeal for me, unfortunately.
Characterisation is also an area in which I consider this book falls down. With the exception of some interesting traits which result from being a god, Nahadoth is the stereotypical dark, brooding romance hero. As the novel is written in the first person from Yeine’s perspective, it is understandable that he remains a mystery up to a point, but I can only take so much enigma and angst before I find the romance unbelieveable and this book pushed beyond that stage for me. A lot of the other characters are left unexplored, which is a shame as a lot of them have really interesting back stories which could have been fascinating if developed further. The glimpse of Yeine’s grandmother is intriguing as are the snippets of information that are gathered about Yeine’s parents, but these are left as scraps and fragments. A closer look at Dekarta and what exactly motivates him would also have been interesting. Similarly, Relad had the potential to come across as compellingly conflicted rather than weak and insignificant, and I would have enjoyed Scimina, his rival cousin, more had she not been quite such a cackling Disney villain. On the other hand, I thought that Sieh, the child trickster god, was beautifully drawn. His character was multifaceted and mercurial, changeable in a way which made me wonder what would happen next. I thought that the way that his physical form reflected his state of mind and his strength was a particularly clever touch, appearing as an old man when he is exhausted or in pain rather than his usual childish guise.
Yeine herself is of course fascinating, and this is primarily due to the wonderful, skillful use that Jemisin makes of her as first person narrator. It is apparent that this is going to be a little bit different from the opening lines of the book:
I am not as I once was. They have done this to me, broken me open and torn out my heart. I do not know who I am anymore.
I must try to remember
**********
My people tell stories of the night I was born. They say my mother crossed her legs in the middle of labor and fought with all her strength not to release me into the world. I was born anyhow, of course; nature cannot be denied. Yet it does not surprise me that she tried. (p. 1)
She doesn’t just tell the story from her perspective, she changes her mind, she forgets details, she goes back to add things in and tries to puzzle things out as she goes along. It is exactly as though she is a real person talking directly to the reader and I loved it. Admittedly, I wasn’t sure about the narrative style at first, as the little broken up paragraphs can feel rather bitty and disjointed, but once I reached longer passages of continuous narrative I realised that this was a deliberate choice and a perfect reflection of Yeine’s broken mind. It certainly makes for compelling reading.
I also really enjoyed the mythology that Jemisin has created for this world. It is only revealed in fragments, which can be frustrating, but each detail that Yeine reveals adds to the overall picture of the gods and what happened to them until the reader begins to understand how current situations have arisen. I particularly liked the limitations that have been put on the Enefadah, specifically that they have to obey any order given to them by one of the Arameri clan. The ways in which they can choose to misinterpret these orders and the fact that Yeine deliberately tries to avoid giving them are important points in the development of these characters.
I intend to continue with this series because, although I found the story disappointly not to my tastes, I thought Jemisin’s writing was superb, plus I’m intrigued to see how she continues after an ending which is quite so spectacular. Hopefully further installments in this trilogy will develop some of the other Hundred Thousand Kingdoms and some of the characters neglected in this book.
The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms by N. K. Jemisin. Published by Orbit, 2010, pp. 421. Originally published in 2010.
‘Queen Lucia’ by E. F. Benson
“Oh, if you like those books, then you really should read the Mapp and Lucia books,” said the lovely man at the Winchester book stall, eyeing the pile of books in my arms. I thanked him, paid for my stack of books and promptly hunted down the series, which conveniently turned up in my local charity shops all in the same lovely Black Swan editions, the cover images of which are just perfect for the books. All, of course, except the first one which I couldn’t find anywhere. Typical. Eventually I gave in and ordered the first book from Amazon Marketplace and it arrived just before Christmas but I saved it as I thought that, with its comic tone and lightheartedness, it would be a great book to keep me sane through the first few days of going back to work in the new year.
Queen Lucia introduces the village of Riseholme, its inhabitants and, most importantly, Lucia Lucas who presides over Riseholme’s social scene as benevolent dictator. In this first installment in the series, Lucia’s unspoken sovreignty comes under threat from an Indian guru, a Russian medium and a celebrated opera singer and we see how she deals with these attempts, whether intentional or not, to go against the status quo.
The appeal of Queen Lucia is explained rather well by Olga Bracely:
‘Oh, it’s all so delicious!’ she said. ‘I never knew before how terribly interesting little thingswere. It’s all wildly exciting, and there are fifty things going on just as exciting. Is it all of you who take such a tremendous interest in them that makes them so absorbing, or is it that they are absorbing in themselves and ordinary dull people, not Riseholmites, don’t see how exciting they are? (pp. 258-259)
It is a novel about little things that happen and are only made interesting by the way in which the entertaining cast of characters treat them.
Lucia reminded me of no one so much as Mrs Elton from Jane Austen’s Emma: she is shallow, snobbish, pretentious and completely convinced of her own importance. In other words, she should be a rather unpleasant character but is absolutely delicious to read about as she lords it over her friends. The only facet of her character which I didn’t particularly enjoy was her fondness for baby talk with the men in her life; self-importance and snobbery, while irritating traits in real life, can be made great fun to read about, but adults trying to sound like infants is something that I will always find annoying.
Riseholme’s other inhabitants are equally as obsessed with social climbing, though in different ways. I enjoyed Daisy’s futile attempts to usurp Lucia’s prominence by launching the latest trend before Lucia can pick up on it and annex Daisy’s latest discovery, something which always ends in disaster. Georgie’s delight at having a secret from Lucia which gives him some sort of power over her is amusing and infectious as the reader spends more time with him than with Lucia. Although Benson’s writing is sharp and biting, it was without any particular malice. I felt that, although he mocks these silly social situations he also loves them and thrives on them, and that he would be behaving exactly the same as the other villagers if he were to live in Riseholme and would love every minute of it. He certainly has great fun writing about them.
To continue the Jane Austen comparison, there were times when this book felt like it needed a Mr Knightley. It has the intrigue of people being manoeuvred into relationships, the fast-fading fashions for particular activities and the carefully considered, smiling social warfare between the characters, but I would have liked to see someone with sense and morality who wasn’t taken in by all of this nonsense to provide some much needed contrast. While I know it’s a light, humorous novel and I enjoyed it for what it is, it felt a bit relentlessly shallow and breezy at times and I would have preferred an occasional change of tone. Hermy and Ursy, Georgie’s irrepressibly robust sisters, would have done this perfectly but they remained fairly marginal characters in this first book. I hope to see more of them in future volumes as I would love to see someone practical tell Riseholme to stop being so ridiculous. Nevertheless, it is an enjoyable ridiculousness (ridiculousity? I think I prefer ridiculousity) and I look forward to continuing the series.
Queen Lucia by E. F. Benson. Published by Black Swan, 1986, pp. 266. Originally published in 1920.
‘False Friends Faux Amis’ by Ellie Malet Spradbery
Language is something that I find absolutely fascinating: I love reading about how different languages developed, their particular foibles, the origins of words and the meanings of obscure idioms. I was therefore ever so pleased to be sent a free copy of False Friends Faux Amis by Ellie Malet Spradbery to review through the LibraryThing Early Reviewers programme. I’ve studied a reasonable about of French, both modern and medieval, so I thought that my knowledge was probably sufficient to appreciate such a book and French and English share such a lot of vocabulary that an exploration of faux amis sounded like an interesting concept. The blurb promised ‘A light-hearted exploration of the French language and culture, and, in particular, words and phrases that could trip up the unwary linguist’. Having read books on the English language which sounded similar, how could I possibly resist.
Unfortunately, this book turned out to be a huge disappointment. The description ‘exploration’ implied, as far as I was concerned, that there would be some sort of discussion of the French language and those unusual words and phrases which an English speaker might find confusing, perhaps explaining where the differences arise and what their roots are in an accessible fashion. However, with the exception of an ‘And Finally’ section so brief you could swallow it whole without needing a glass of water, the aforementioned blurb constitutes the only complete sentences in the entire book. To my surprise, the book consists entirely of vocabulary lists and, while these can be interesting up to a point, a list can only be so engaging. The definitions felt brief and lacking in context or information and there isn’t even an introduction stating what the author is trying to do in the book, it just launches straight in with the lists. ‘A light-hearted exploration of the French language’ it most definitely is not.
The lists are divided into six sections. The first deals with the faux amis of the title, taking words which are either common to both languages or are aurally or visually similar and providing French-English and English-French translations for them. The second section was the one that I found the most interesting, dealing with translations of French idioms, but was also the chapter where I felt humorous explanatory prose was the most lacking. I would have really enjoyed the author’s conjectures as to why the English say ‘whipping boy’ while the French say ‘tete de Turc’ and why the French for ‘to faint’ would literally translate as ‘to fall in apples’. It’s a shame that this opportunity wasn’t taken. Section three tackles French words which look very similar but have totally different meanings, such as ‘le loup’ (wolf) and ‘la loupe’ (magnifying glass). Section four contains thematic vocabulary lists, such as tree and animal names, which is all well and good but seems very odd considering the aim of the book, which is supposedly to clear up linguistic misunderstandings, not teach the reader how to say ‘hedgehog’ (that would be ‘herisson’, by the way) and other woodland creatures in French. The fifth part is helpfully entitled ‘Miscellaneous’ and is the most bizarre collection of words and phrases, ranging from a few articles of clothing to how to ask for the bill, completely unrelated either to one another or to faux amis. I’m at a loss as to why they were included at all. The sixth and final chapter is back on track as the author translates common English phrases into French by sense rather than literally. The problem with this is that I could never use this as a reference book: if I came across a word of which I thought I knew the meaning but it didn’t seem to fit, I would look it up in the dictionary, not go to this book on the off chance that it’s one of the words and phrases listed in its 87 pages. If I needed to translate an idiomatic phrase, my first resort would, again, be the dictionary, or another source with a more academic tone and fewer exclamation marks. When she tries to make vocabulary sound fun and accessible, Spradbery stops sounding reliable, which is an unfortunate flaw.
False Friends Faux Amis has a really good concept, but it is sadly let down by execution. The lack of an effective system of organisation and the informality of style make it largely unhelpful, but the lists unbroken by any prose make it largely uninteresting. This book suffers because it can’t decide whether to be an entertaining curiosity or a useful reference tool and in trying to combine the two achieves neither aim.
False Friends Faux Amis by Ellie Malet Spradbery. Published by Matador, 2010, pp. 87.