Title:

Author: Wilkie Collins

Published: Penguin,1974, pp. 648

Genre: Classic mystery fiction

Blurb: Wilkie Collins’ sixth novel took the fashionable world by storm on its appearance in 1860 when everything from dances to dresses was named after the ‘woman in white’.  Its continuing power to fascinate stems in part from a distinctive blend of melodrama, comedy and realism; and in part from the power of its story.  Yet The Woman in White is more than just a classic thriller, and contemporary critics have found in it a feminist parable for our times.

When, where and why: I have no recollection whatsoever of buying this book, so I’m going to assume it’s been hanging around on my shelves for quite some time.  I picked it up to read now because there’s something about the colder weather which makes me want to read classic literature, and this one looked interesting.  It’s also book 23/50 for my Books Off the Shelf Challenge, and counts as 3/4 of my books towards the R.I.P. Challenge.

What I thought: After finishing this book I feel compelled to impersonate Mrs Bennet by throwing my hands into the air and exclaiming, “Oh, Mr Collins!”  I really enjoyed this book and, like so many authors I’ve discovered this year, I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to find out how good he is.  I have vague memories of reading The Moonstone when I was eleven (which I’ll now have to go back and reread) but I can’t remember enjoying it anything like as much as The Woman in White, probably because I was too young to appreciate it properly.

I found The Woman in White to be a very skilfully written work as it is presented from so many different perspectives.  The story is set up as evidence for the mystery of the eponymous woman in white, and so it is necessary for a string of characters to take charge of the narrative as the story progresses in order for the reader to be presented with a first hand view of important events.  Impressively, each character has a different and appropriate narrative style, with just the voice and preoccupations I would have imagined for them: Walter Hartright is romantic, emotional, and prone to waxing lyrical about things; Miss Halcombe is precise and detailed; the lawyer is sparse and abrupt.  I thought that the use of these different voices adds texture to the novel and helps to create suspense, as the individual characters reveal their information separately for the reader to piece together.

In Marian Halcombe, Collins has created a great female character.  She is resourceful, intelligent and strong-willed while still being constrained by her position in Victorian society.  She’s the sort of character I was was real because if she was, I’d want to have her round for tea and be her friend.  Had I been Walter Hartright, I would have fallen in love with Marian instead of Laura Fairlie (I notice that Collins is careful to state how ugly Marian is when she is introduced, which I assume is an attempt to explain this preference).  Where Marian seems real and lively, Laura Fairlie is a typical, insipid woman-written-by-Victorian-man; it works well in the context of the story, but I wish she’d been a bit more interesting.  Like Marain, Count Fosco is also a brilliant creation, but to say more would give too much away.

The story itself is engrossing.  Perhaps it’s due to my not reading many mysteries, but I found myself falling for every trap and red herring that Collins wove into the narrative.  This certainly didn’t diminish my enjoyment of the story; in fact, I found myself relishing being led around by Collins while convinced (incorrectly) that I had figured out the solution to the mystery.  I liked the slow, drawn out pace with which the narrative progressed (presumably partly due to its original publication in serial) and thought that it added to the suspense, as I had to wait until Collins was good and ready to reveal what happened next.

My only criticism of this novel is the way in which Collins solved the mystery.  It wasn’t the conclusion that I objected to at all, but the bizarre way in which Walter Hartright eventually uncovered it, completely unconnected to anything else in the text so far.  I couldn’t have been more flummoxed if a talking unicorn had suddenly popped up and solved everything for him.  While this seemingly strange addition was probably an enjoyable twist for Collins’ contemporary readers who enjoyed sensational literature, I found it out of character with the rest of the book and I wish the mystery had been concluded in a less surprising way more in keeping with the narrative so far.  However, I understand that I’m looking at this as a modern reader and so with different priorities.  Nonetheless, this didn’t diminish my enjoyment of the novel and I can’t wait to read more by this author.

Where this book goes: The old Penguin copy I read was quite tatty before I began and had fallen apart by the time I finished reading it.  However, I enjoyed the book far too much not to have a copy of it to keep around and so ordered a more durable looking hardback Everyman edition from Amazon Marketplace.

Tea talk: Until recently when I managed to guilt someone into sorting it out by subtly walking past the facilities manager wearing my coat, scarf and hat, there’s been no heating in my office at all.  Consequently, I’ve been drinking Lapsang Souchong in an attempt to make myself feel warmer.  I’ve decided this is the perfect winter tea, because it smells like sitting in front of an open fire.  Expect many more tea notes waxing lyrical about this smokey tea.

Title:

Author: Diane Setterfield

Published: Orion, 2007, pp. 470

Genre: Historical gothic mystery

Blurb: Angelfield House stands abandoned and forgotten.  It was once the imposing home of the March family – fascinating, manipulative Isabelle, Charlie, her brutal and dangerous brother, and the wild, untamed twins, Emmeline and Adeline.  But Angelfield House conceals a chilling secret whose impact still resonates…

Now Margaret Lea is investigating Angelfield’s past — and the mystery of the March family starts to unravel.  What has the house been hiding?  What is its connection with the enigmatic author Vida Winter?  And what is it in Margaret’s own troubled past that causes her to fall so powerfully under Angelfield’s spell?

Where, when and why: I bought this book up from a charity shop after it was chosen as a group read on Goodreads.  By the time a copy turned up in my locale British Heart Foundation shop the group read had finished, but it looked like such an interesting book that I wanted to read it anyway.  Perhaps it’s the cold weather, perhaps it’s the R.I.P. Challenge making me more aware of it, but I’ve been on a bit of a gothic fiction kick recently and this book fitted the bill rather nicely.

What I thought: This is the sort of novel that I finished and was instantly disappointed that it was the author’s debut, because I already want to read more and Diane Setterfield rather inconsiderately hasn’t written anything else yet (with the exception of some intimidating French literary criticism, which probably isn’t for me).  This book is atmospheric, intriguing and a very enjoyable read.

The Thirteenth Tale is a story within a story: dying author Vida Winter relates the story of her childhood to bookshop owner and amateur biographer Margaret Lea.  This narrative frame facilitates the build-up of mystery and suspense as the reader receives Miss Winter’s tale in fits and starts as she relates the tale to Margaret in installments for as long as her strength to withstand the pain of her illness will allow.  Miss Winter’s narrative is also fiercely chronological, resisting all temptation to look ahead to later on in her life and reveal more than she should.  Consequently, the reader finds out details as Margaret does and it just as tantalised by the snippets of information and speculation which she manages to garner elsewhere.  I also enjoyed the fact that the story refuses to be contained, but spills over into the frame narrative, Margaret’s own life and emotions connecting with those she is recording.

Miss Winter’s story is delightfully gothic, encompassing such topics as death, insanity, mental illness, incest, domestic violence and self-harm.  Emmeline and Adeline are eerie and chilling in their childish lack of remorse or morality, something which is established well by Diane Setterfield showing the twins through the eyes of various characters who try to influence them: the governess, the doctor, the housekeeper, the gardener and more.  The reader is kept firmly outside their insular, interior world and so they always appear strange and uncanny, and Diane Setterfield’s very precise use of pronouns and perspective help to accentuate this.  That their twisted family history is full of possible excuses to explain their behaviour sets them apart even more rather than offering an opportunity to sympathise with them.  Angelfield itself provides the perfect, typical decaying stately home setting, beloved of gothic novels and the setting for the frame narrative is equally atmospheric, the damp and chill of the Yorkshire Moors permeating the story.

My only slight problem with this book is Margaret, the first person narrator relating the story to the reader.  I don’t feel that her character is developed sufficiently; although the reader is supplied with numerous details with which to flesh her out, the central issue of her own missing twin and her accompanying bouts of mental instability are haphazard rather than developing consistently to a climax.  The climax comes, but out of the blue without any significant build-up.  I would have liked Margaret’s issues to feel more real for their own sake rather than as a way of tying her to Miss Winter and her story.  Nevertheless, this was a very good read and I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend it.

Where this book goes: This book is staying on my shelves along with my ever-growing collection of gothic fiction.  It may even come out again next year when the weather starts to turn cold and the days get shorter.

Tea talk: This book called for more warming smoked tea.  I’ve nearly exhausted my Russian Caravan supplies, so I might treat myself to some Lapsang Souchong this week for comparison.

Title:

Author: Sarah Waters

Published:Virago, 2010, pp. 501

Genre: Historical gothic fiction

Blurb: In a dusty post-war summer in rural Warwickshire, a doctor is called to a patient at lonely Hundreds Hall.  Home to the Ayres family for over two centuries, the Georgian house, once grand and handsome, is now in decline, its masonry crumbling, its gardens choked with weeds, its owners — mother, son and daughter — struggling to keep pace with a changing society.  But are the Ayreses haunted by something more sinister than a dying way of life?  Little does Dr Faraday know how closely, and how terrifyingly, their story is about to become entwined with his.

Where, when and why: I really enjoy Sarah Water’s writing, so I snapped this book up when I saw it on the shelves of a local charity shop a few months ago.  The R.I.P Challenge gave me the perfect excuse to read it now, rather than banishing it to the bottom of the TBR mountain.

What I thought: When I started reading this book, I was instantly put in mind of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca which, given how much I loved that novel, can only be a good thing.  Sure enough, this book did not disappoint.  The Little Strangerhas the same eerie feel, the same crumbling manor house setting, the same complex psychology, and the same basic premise of an outsider breaking into the closed social circles of the landed gentry that has made du Maurier’s work such an enduring classic.  In spite of this, Sarah Waters’ book is not in any sense a copycat; it draws on the standard themes of this type of gothic novel and employs them to create a new novel which is fresh, engaging and wonderfully, chillingly open-ended.

It’s very difficult to describe and analyse this book without giving anything away as it is so ambigous.  The story concerns  the rapidly disintegrating fortunes of the Ayres family and their house, Hundreds Hall, charting their inexorable social and psychological decline at a time of great change in Britain’s history.  The book is narrated by Doctor Faraday, a middle aged doctor from a working class background who is the perfect narrator for this story because he is dogmatic, superior and rather dislikeable.   His dogged insistance that all the strange events at the hall must have a logical, rational source actually serves to make the reader ever more aware of the possibility that there might not be a reasonable explanation for things, or indeed that he himself is less than innocent.

The chilling uncertainty of the novel is very well balanced.  The build up to the strange events is very gradual and the occurance of these events is random so that the reader never knows when the next will happen, creating an atmosphere of suspense.   As the novel progresses, these events slowly increase in frequency and develop from being things which are reasonably easy to explain (an old dog biting a young child, for example) into the inexplicable, leaving the reader unsure of exactly what is happening and why.  Is the little stranger a ghost?  An evil presence brought about through the thoughts of one or other, or possibly even all, of the characters?  Is it merely the imaginings of a family of overwrought people struggling desperately to make ends meet?  Are they mad?  Sarah Waters doesn’t lead the reader to any particular conclusion, but leaves you stranded in your own confused thoughts.  I loved this about the book, but I appreciate it isn’t for everyone.

What I enjoyed most about The Little Stranger was that it isn’t just a ghost story or a psychological drama, but also a portrait of the declining fortunes of the aristocracy following the Second World War.  Like many others, the Ayres family find themselves inundated with land and a lovely (albeit dilapidated) historic house in which to live, but utterly lacking in money onwhich to live.  This is a novel of social history as much as it is of possible paranormal activity, and rather than sitting uneasily side by side, the two aspects are inextricably linked.  As the social and economic difficulties for the Ayres family increase, so too do the strange occurrences at the house until the two seem interdependent.

My only quibble with this book, and it is a very tiny one, is related to the narrator.  I’ve already mentioned that Faraday is an excellent narrator and character, allowing the novel to have such an eerie feel of ambiguity and suspense, but be that as it may, with the notable exception of Gok Wan I don’t think I’ve ever known or read about a man who pays so much attention to the appearance of the women around him.  He notices their complexions; their body types and whether the clothes they wear flatter that shape; their hairstyles and how fashionable they are.  Yes, it helps the reader to visualise the characters, but it’s not particularly believable.  When listening to the voice of a middle-aged, unmarried, post-war country doctor it is a bit off-putting when it starts to sound like an episode of How to Look Good Naked.  However, these descriptions were infrequent enough that they didn’t disrupt my enjoyment.  I’m very glad the R.I.P. Challenge prompted me to pick up this book.

Where this book goes: It will be no surprise after reading that review that The Little Stranger is staying put on my shelves along with my other books by Sarah Waters.  I hope that it isn’t too long before she writes something else for me to add to my shelves.

Tea talk: This was the perfect book for reading while curled up with a pot of tea on a cold night, and the weather has been rather obliging on that front recently.  I’ve been drinking Taylors of Harrogate China rose petal tea, which has a delicate taste and wonderful fragrance which reminds me of summertime and seems an appropriately English flavour to accompany this book.

Barcelona, 1945-just after the war, a great world city lies in shadow, nursing its wounds, and a boy named Daniel awakes on his eleventh birthday to find that he can no longer remember his mother’s face. To console his only child, Daniel’s widowed father, an antiquarian book dealer, initiates him into the secret of the Cemetery of Forgotten Books, a library tended by Barcelona’s guild of rare-book dealers as a repository for books forgotten by the world, waiting for someone who will care about them again. Daniel’s father coaxes him to choose a volume from the spiraling labyrinth of shelves, one that, it is said, will have a special meaning for him. And Daniel so loves the novel he selects, The Shadow of the Wind by one Julian Carax, that he sets out to find the rest of Carax’s work. To his shock, he discovers that someone has been systematically destroying every copy of every book this author has written. In fact, he may have the last one in existence. Before Daniel knows it his seemingly innocent quest has opened a door into one of Barcelona’s darkest secrets, an epic story of murder, magic, madness and doomed love. And before long he realizes that if he doesn’t find out the truth about Julian Carax, he and those closest to him will suffer horribly.  (Goodreads Summary)

I read a great many books, but it’s rare that I find one that I enjoy quite as much as I did this one. It intrigued and fascinated me to the point where, although I guessed the end relatively early on, I was still devouring the book at a rate of knots in order to find out how exactly the author would get there. I look forward to reading more from this author.

The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon.  Published by Phoenix, 2005, pp. 510.  Originally published in Spanish in 2003.

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.