The Sack of Bath was written in 1973 in response to the decisions made by Bath City Council to demolish large swathes of Georgian cottages in order to provide the city with newer houses, better access and improved facilities.  Fergusson acknowledges that the aim itself was admirable but the ways in which they sought to accomplish it were misguided.  With words and pictures he illustrates the ongoing destruction of Bath and issues a heartfelt plea for it to be stopped and more reasonable measures, such as renovation and preservation, be considered instead.

Although The Sack of Bath is just as well written today as it was when it was first published, it lacks the immediacy which it would have had in the 1970′s when the demolition and construction was being carried out.  It is interesting, yes, but in a vague and distant way rather than in an inciting-architectural-rage-and-writing-to-your-local-MP-to-stop-this-sort-of-thing way that I suspect it was intended.  The closest thing that I can liken it to is reading a newspaper article covering some terrible natural disaster and trying to encourage readers to give aid, but doing so nearly forty years after the event when everyone appears to have recovered quite nicely, thank you very much.  It just isn’t the same as reading it when it was relevant.

The problem is that the book is written in such hyperbolic language and strident tones that it implies nothing less than the wholesale destruction of historic Bath, which couldn’t be more different to what any visitor to Bath today will see as they walk around the city.  In fact, the most recent new development is incredibly sympathetic to the aesthetics of the city and blends in beautifully (or as beautifully as modern high street shops ever could) with the historical setting.  Admittedly this is probably at least in part due to the pressure of action such as the publication of The Sack of Bath but there is such a huge gap between this and the city overrun with hideous concrete boxes that you might expect from reading the book that it lost a lot of impact for me.  Clearly this book was influential in its time and I have no doubt that it did a lot of good, but I didn’t find that it quite worked reading it now.

The Sack of Bath by Adam Fergusson.  Published by Persephone, 2010, pp. 81.  Originally published in 1973.

In this particular volume of Durrell’s memoirs of his journeys he travels to Mauritius with the dual aim of educating a Mauritian student in the conservation of the local wildlife and catching some of the more endangered species to take back to his Jersey zoo to start breeding programmes.  It sees him and his companions encountering marijuana growers in the high forests and scrambling around on exposed rocky islands chasing after skinks, all told with Durrell’s characteristic humour and flair for recounting anecdotes.

This isn’t my favourite of Durrell’s books that I’ve read so far, probably because it seems to focus more on the zoological aspects of Durrell’s expedition than some of his other books.  Although Durrell’s animal stories are wonderful, it’s his descriptions of human antics that accompany them which I enjoy the most and I think the balance between the two isn’t as even in Golden Bats and Pink Pigeons as in others, particularly his Corfu stories.

Nonetheless, it remains an entertaining book, not least because of some worrying illustrations of Gerald Durrell in the sort of terrifyingly short shorts worn only by teenage girls and British men of a certain age when on holiday in hot countries where they think no one will notice.  Dodgy clothing choices aside, his stories never fail to elicit a chuckle.  His account of chasing skinks over Round Island is a joy to read, and he is able to characterise animals in an unfailingly vivid and comic manner.  Take for example his description of some monkeys:

We rounded one corner and came unexpectedly upon a troop of eight Macaque monkeys, sitting at the side of the road, their piggy eyes and air of untrustworthy arrogance making them look exactly like a board meeting of one of the less reliable consortiums in the City of London.

Although it may not have been my favourite of his memoirs, Golden Bats and Pink Pigeons has reaffirmed Gerald Durrell’s place in my heart and on my bookshelf as a sure writer for a cheering book.

Golden Bats and Pink Pigeons by Gerald Durrell.  Published by Fontana, 1979, pp. 157.  Originally published in 1977.

Title:

Author: Angela Carter

Published: Penguin, 1987, pp. 133.  Originally published 1974

Genre: Short stories

Blurb: In each of these mesmerising tales is a search for heightened sensitivity.  Reality is left behind.  Filtering ordinary experience through her hallucinatory imagination, Angela Carter exposes the subterranean desires and obsessive fears lurking in the unconscious.  Her characters are haunting, often sinister: an expatriate Englishwoman who takes a Japanese lover, a white hunter who finds pleasure in killing, a puppet who murders her master.  With a voluptuous and elegant style uniquely her own, Angela Carter evokes atmospheres at once erotic and disturbing.

When, where and why: After I was introduced to Angela Carter’s writing at university, I bought everything of hers that I came across. I started reading this one while I was struggling through Pillars of the Earth as it’s a nice, small book and easy to read on the tube, unlike Ken Follet’s huge volume.  It counts as book 27/50 for my Books Off the Shelf Challenge.

What I thought: Fireworks is a very apt name for this collection of stories: like fireworks, they are short, sharp bursts of concentrated but brief beauty, all with an underlying element of danger.  However, while Angela Carter always writes excellently, this was definitely not my favourite of her short story collections as, although her prose is rich and full it sometimes feels a little stifling in this book and I often caught myself committing the sacrilege of wishing for fewer words and more plot.

In the story ‘A Souvenier of Japan’ Angela Carter’s fictional self says:

But I do not want to paint our circumstantial portraits so that we emerge with enough well-rounded, spuriously detailed actuality that you are forced to believe in us.  I do not want to practise such sleight of hand.  You must be content only with glimpses of our outlines, as if you had caught sight of our reflections in the looking-glass of somebody else’s house as you passed by the window. (p. 10)

This is a fair illustration of how these stories work: they don’t provide full narratives with fleshed out characters, but give tantalising glimpses into worlds where you can never be quite certain of anything.  There is a dream-like quality to the stories which makes them feel uncanny and remote and just a little bit too odd for me, I think.  Carter’s epilogue explains exactly what she was doing in this collection and I found that very helpful, illuminating some of the more bizarre elements of these madcap stories (particularly the incest; I swear incest has been a theme in almost everything I’ve read by Carter now).  I always enjoy it when an author decides to let their readers in on their thought processes, particularly when they are as patently oddball as Carter’s, so this provided a welcome opportunity to help untangle some of my thoughts on the book.

Even though I found Fireworks just a smidgen too off the wall for my tastes, it still bears Angela Carter’s wonderful writing style.  One of my favourite examples in this book is her description of London in the story ‘Elegy for a Freelance’:

London lay below me with her legs wide open; she was a whore sufficiently accommodating to find room for us in her embraces, even though she cost so much to love. (p. 115)

This perfectly illustrates why I love Angela Carter’s writing and will definitely continue to seek out and read her books.

Where this book goes: This book has been slipped back onto the shelf with the rest of my Angela Carter collection.  I’m looking forward to the next time I pick up one of her books, although I like to leave a fair while in between them so that she always seems fresh and new.

Tea talk: As I picked up this book specifically to read on the tube there was definitely no tea drunk while reading.  I’m lucky to have space to get my book out, never mind a travel mug as well.

Title:

Author: J. G. Ballard

Published: Vintage, 2004, pp. 224

Genre: General fiction

Blurb: In this hallucinatory novel, the car provides the hellish tableau in which Vaughan, a ‘TV scientist’, experiments with erotic attrocities among crash victims, each more sinister than the last.  Ultimately, he craves a union of blood, semen and engine coolant in a head-on collision with Elizabeth Taylor.

When, where and why: When I was at university there would often be a stand in the English department building selling copies of the Guardian along with various free gifts, and this book happened to be one of them.  As such, it definitely counts towards my Books Off the Shelf 2010 challenge, and is book 21/50.  It might sound odd, but I read this book now because I was fairly sure I wasn’t going to like it but I can’t get rid of books without having read them, so I wanted to get it out of the way so that I could pass it on to someone else.

What I thought: It’s quite difficult to review this book because, while I thought it was absolutely horrible to read, I get the feeling that that was exactly what I was supposed to react.  If my response to hadn’t been one of visceral revulsion then Ballard wouldn’t have been making his point about fiction, reality and desire.  Nonetheless, I found this a thoroughly unpleasant book and not an enjoyable read at all.  This was what I was expecting, but then I started reading A Clockwork Orange with the same preconceptions but was brought round by the impressive writing and message.  Crash had none of these redeeming features, in my opinion.

Leaving aside the twisted, horrible subject matter, I wasn’t convinced by the writing in this novel.  I appreciate that there are only so many ways to describe and refer to bits of car, horrific injuries and parts of the body, but it didn’t take long for this book to feel very repetetive and static.  A lot of the vocabulary comes up numerous times within the same paragraph even, and the word ‘stylised’ was particularly overused.  Consequently, it feels as though this novel never goes anywhere, but just replays the same scenes over and over again.

There is a similar lack of progression in the characters.  Ballard is so set on being shocking and perverse that the characters behave in such a  fashion from the outset of the novel.  The narrator associates car crashes with sex and takes an erotic pleasure in imagining the wounds of the victims even at the very beginning of the book when he first crashes his car.  His wife also responds in a sexual manner to road accidents once she is introduced to the idea, and even before this neither are very pleasant characters.  This being the case, there is no sense of character development or, more accurately, devolution as they descend into increased depravity.  None of the characters were in any way likeable or relateable, which I think weakened the premise that this isn’t simply a pornographic novel but one with a higher message: if I can’t identify with anyone in it, how am I supposed to see that this is relevant to my life?  Nonetheless, it must take guts to cast a fictional version of oneself as the narrator/main character in a novel as twisted as this, so kudos to Ballard for that.

Where this book goes: This book is in an envelope winging its way to Australia to make another reader happy.  J. G. Ballard is a popular writer, and this book was requested within half an hour of posting it on BookMooch.  I’m glad to be rid of it and glad it’s found a good home.

Tea talk: I’m being very boring with my tea choices at the moment, and I’m back to the Milk Oolong which I love so much.  I recommend it to any tea lovers.

Title:

Author: Martha Bacon

Published: Puffin Books, 1971, pp. 220

Genre: Children’s historical fiction

Blurb: ‘My little panther’, Nono’s father called her, but he didn’t get the chance to say it for long.  Her African village was destroyed and she first lived in the bush then was sold as a slave, given a name and a home and then — horrifyingly — sold once more into the hands of pirates.  A rich, exciting story about a fascinating and thoroughly believeable character.

When, where and why: I have a nasty feeling that I bought this book when I was the correct age for the target audience, which would make it at least thirteen years old.  It has languished on my shelves ever since, so it definitely qualifies for my Books Off the Shelf Challenge.  I was prompted to read it now by a challege in which I am participating on Goodreads, one of the criteria of which is to read a young adult book.

What I thought: Some children’s books are so delightful and charming that I love them just as much now as I did when I first read them so many years ago.  They have vivid, engaging characters and absorbing stories which draw me in time and time again.  Particular favourites are the wonderful stories of E. Nesbitt: The Railway Children and Five Children and It and the subsequent books. Reading Sophia Scrooby Preserved, I got the feeling that I would have really enjoyed it when I was eight or so, but it lacked the elusive magic necessary to translate into a book which I could still enjoy as someone in their twenties.

However, I do think it would be rather unfair to judge this book from my adult perspective when I’m clearly no longer the target audience, as this has all the elements which make for a good, if not great, children’s book.  It has a likeable and resourceful heroine in Pansy, as Sophia Scrooby is known, and a series of suitably far-fetched but exciting adventures for her to undertake.  It has danger, magic, and history.  It has so many of these things that at times they can feel a bit rushed.  Nono (as the heroine is initially known) sees her village being destroyed by Zulus, goes to live with a herd of impalas, then journeys to the coast and is sold as a slave without pausing for breath or reflection.  As a child, I would probably have found this fast-paced and exciting, but reading the book now I wanted more detail and development.

I thought the pictures throughout the book were a lovely accompaniment to a sweet story, and I would recommend this book as a good historical adventure for readers aged between eight and ten.  For me now it was a quick, simple, enjoyable read, but not worth revisiting.

Where this book goes: This book is going off to BookMooch to look for a new home.  It wasn’t bad (my usual reason for getting rid of books) but there’s no way I’m ever going to reread this or want to lend it to anyone and as I’m not likely to be spawning for many years it’s definitely not worth hanging onto for future generations to read.  It will be good to clear some room on my shelves.

Tea talk: I read this book while sipping some lovely golden Darjeeling.  First flush is just starting to be available in the shops now and I’m taking full advantage of that.

Title:

Author: Margaret Atwood

Published: Virago Press, 1990, pp. 345

Genre: General fiction

Blurb: From fat girl to thin, from red hair to mud brown, from London to Toronto, from Polish count to radical husband, from writer of romances to distinguished poet — Joan Foster is utterly confused by her life of multiple identities.  She decides to escape to an Italian seaside resort to take stock of her life.  But first, she must plan her death…

Where, when and why: The fact that I have absolutely no idea when or where I bought this book is a fairly good indication of quite how long it has languished on my shelves.  I ended up reading this book after a weekend of picking up books, reading the first few pages, and then discarding them.  I’m like a woman who has a whole wardrobe of clothes but complains she has nothing to wear: I have shelves of books but nothing to read.  I kept trying my luck among my older books (some of which are so old, they almost merit their own bus pass) and eventually settled upon this book.  It counts towards my Books Off the Shelf Challenge for 2010, details of which can be found by clicking the picture at the top of this post.

What I thought: If I were to say that this book was the humorous story of a girl who battles with her mother, her relationships and, most of all, her weight, you would probably dismiss it as fluffy chick lit, and that is certainly what it sounds like.  However, nothing could be further from the truth; this book is a perfect example of how a novel can be so much more than its plot.  Margaret Atwood incorporates all these aspects typical of chick lit in Lady Oracle and treats them in a way that is intelligent, engaging, and blackly comic .

It is impossible not to be drawn in to a novel which starts with the line:

I planned my death carefully; unlike my life, which meandered along from one thing to another, despite my feeble attempts to control it. (p. 7)

The narrator is fantastically unreliable. She spends the book developing so many different fictions of her own life to tell to people in order to disguise the truth that is is difficult to keep track of what is real and what isn’t, and furthermore I could never quite work out if what Jean is relating now is just another fiction, performing herself for yet another audience.  This novel reflects, distorts and echoes itself through layers upon layers of deception.  However, the pleasure of reading comes not from trying to find out the truth and outwit the narrator, but from becoming lost in the lies and so being made to examine the fragmentary nature of character.  Unlike a lot of books which have an idea though, Lady Oracle also has an engaging story with fascinating characters, and so I was able to enjoy the thoughts that the book inspired without having the feeling of being cheated that I get when I read a book that that seems to have been written purely to convey that idea without any thought for plot.

It sounds a bit pompous, not to mention odd for a book which involves faking one’s own death, but there is a peculiar universality to the narration which speaks to the reader.  My situation is very different from Jean’s (my mother is lovely, thank you very much; I somehow managed to completely avoid being bullied throughout my childhood; I have never been, nor intend to be, the mistress of a Polish count; and my future husband is not a manic depressive political activist) yet I found myself identifying with a lot of the things she said.  My copy of the book is filled with little pieces of paper marking memorable quotes that I particularly liked. I’m sure I’m not the only person who can identify with Jean’s despairing observation:

That was the difference between us: for Arthur there were true paths, several of them perhaps, but only one at a time.  For me there were no paths at all.  Thickets, ditches, ponds, labyrinths, morasses, but no paths. (p.169)

These observations always have a wry, humorous tone to them which made the book a very good read.  Jean’s imaginings of the home lives of important theorists and politicians, complete with peculiar hobbies and nagging wives, were particularly amusing.  And anyone who has ever been to Italy will recognise the truth when she relates:

Driving in Italy made me nervous.  People steered cars as if they were horses.  They didn’t think in terms of roads but in terms of where they wanted to go: a road was where someone else wanted you to go, a road was an insult.  I admired this attitude, as long as I wasn’t driving. (p. 132)

I could go on much longer with all the great quotations from this book, but you’d be far better reading it yourself.  It really is worth the time.

Where this book goes: It’s a mark of how good this book is that I didn’t even need to finish it before I knew it would be going back on my shelves.  I have three other unread Atwoods lurking on my shelves (one of which is also a bookshelf OAP) and enjoying Lady Oracle so much has inspired me to get some of those off the TBR pile sooner rather than later, so watch out for more Margaret Atwood books in the not-too-distant future.

Tea Talk: As the Polish count observes to Jean, Tea is the English remedy for everything.  They are a strange people. (p. 146). I may perhaps be strange, but my love for tea is completely understandable when it is tea as delicious as Regent’s Park tea from Yumchaa, which has been filling my pot again these past few days.  I’ll have to move on to something else soon or I’ll use it all up already.

When I was younger, I loved the Alan Garner books I read because of their exciting stories, fantasy characters and mythic themes, all of which attributes are completely absent from ‘The Stone Book Quartet’. Instead, this book tells a simple, quiet story through four vignettes of four generations of a family living in a village outside Manchester and their interactions with the land. While I’m very glad I didn’t pick this book up aged nine when I read the rest of his books as I suspect I would have been disappointed at how different it was, it has a beauty and a magic all of its own.

The way that Alan Garner handles time in this book is impressive: he manages to convey a the development and modernisation as the four stories progress, whilst simultaneously giving an impression of timelessness to the characters and their surroundings. There is a sense of sadness as the outside world changes and the characters must change with it, but the fundamentals of craftmanship, respect for the land and family relationships remain constant. Place is also very important in the book, and is conveyed effortlessly through the use of local dialect words, which felt natural rather than forced and self-conscious.

I do think that the book could have benefitted from a glossary explaining some of these local terms, but on the whole they didn’t interrupt my enjoyment of the story. Similarly, I sometimes felt that there were passages I couldn’t fully appreciate because I know nothing about smithing or stone cutting, but at the same time, any explanation in the text would have been out of place and would have spoilt the tone of the simple, direct narrative.

The Stone Book Quartet by Alan Garner.  Published by Flamingo, 1999, pp. 172.  Originally published in 1976.

N.B. This is an old review written in 2010 and posted on Goodreads and LibraryThing before I started keeping track of all the books I read here at Old English Rose Reads.  I’ve decided to keep copies here so that this remains a complete record of my reading since I started reviewing books for my own pleasure.

I read this book hoping for a take on the vampire story which was different from the rash of alternately saccharine and soft core porn vampire novels which proliferate at the moment, and it was indeed different. However, it seems that darker does not necessarily mean better and apparently it also does not mean I’m any more likely to enjoy it.

Yes, this book is dark, but it’s dark all the time and clearly takes itself very seriously. There are no moments of levity to break the monotonous, stifling morbidity, and while I appreciate this is the tone of the book, there are a lot of wasted opportunities for some delicious black humour which would have been the perfect accent to it. Louis’ constant philosophising which helps to flesh out Rice’s take on the vampire myth wandered between being pompous and being whiney and once again shows a complete lack of irony or self-reflection, even though the eponymous vampire is supposedly looking back on these thoughts from the distance of many years. The interview device which facilitated this is, at best, inconsistently maintained. Great swathes of text went by without any recourse to the interviewer, and I thought that better use could have been made of this neglected outsider perspective.

That said, there were some aspects of the novel that I enjoyed. Claudia is a fabulous character, far more interesting than the insipid narrator. I also appreciate the way that Rice gives the narrative a seductively sensual quality without ever having any of the characters have sex. This gives her writing a class and elegance which I find lacking in modern vampire books. It was also an enormous relief to see the word ‘velvet’ only ever used in the context of fabric (Christine Feehan, I’m looking at you). Nonetheless, this book just wasn’t for me, but I can see why so many people enjoy it.

Interview with the Vampire by Anne Rice.  Published by Warner, 1994, pp. 368.  Originally published in 1976.

N.B. This is an old review written in 2010 and posted on Goodreads and LibraryThing before I started keeping track of all the books I read here at Old English Rose Reads.  I’ve decided to keep copies here so that this remains a complete record of my reading since I started reviewing books for my own pleasure.