June 2017 re-reading: Christina Stead

In 1982 the number of books I read was a much more healthy 36, according to my records, 26 of which were novels. Quite a few of 1982’s books are worth re-reading – for instance Esther Waters (George Moore), poems by Tony Harrison, or Kafka’s Metamorphosis. But it also seems to have been a year when I went for some out-of-the-mainstream authors: James Hanley, Alexander Herzen and Christina Stead, for example (it was also the year I discovered Anne Tyler – I hope to return to her in a later blog entry). And it is to Stead that I’ve turned for this month’s re-reading.

In fact, I read three Christina Stead books in 1982: The Puzzleheaded Girl, The Man Who Loved Children and Miss Herbert (The Suburban Wife). I’ve no idea why, to start with, I picked up The Puzzleheaded Girl from my local library; but soon after, I bought what is generally agreed to be her best novel, The Man Who Loved Children, and remember being stunned by it, reading it on holiday in West Cork.

Anyway, it’s The Puzzleheaded Girl I re-read this month. While the library copy I first read was a hardback – possibly the original 1967 edition – this time I had the later Virago edition, with an introduction by Angela Carter. The Puzzleheaded Girl is actually four novellas, all either set in the US or featuring Americans in Europe: it wasn’t until later that I realised that Stead wasn’t American herself but Australian, though she and her husband William Blake (described in one biographical summary as a “Marxist banker”, whatever that can mean) travelled widely in Europe and America. The first novella, which gives the collection its title, is perhaps the most memorable: the puzzleheaded girl in question, Honor Lawrence, appears on the first page “a young seventeen, perhaps, dressed like a poor schoolgirl” looking for work at the newly established Farmers Utilities Corporation in New York. She is indeed a puzzle for the men running this firm, and their wives, and that is emphasised by the way the story is told: we never really enter into any character’s thoughts, least of all Honor’s, and have to judge them by what (we are told) they say and do. This can be disconcerting: it’s as if Stead is not so much a novelist telling us readers what she has invented, but rather is working her way through the story with us, finding out about her characters just as we are. Towards the end of the novella’s 60-odd pages Honor apparently disappears for several years: sudden jumps in time seem typical of Stead.

I have to say I wasn’t so impressed by the second story, ‘The Dianas’, which is about Lydia, a young American girl in Paris apparently looking for a husband but unable to decide between various men. Eventually she returns to the US and gets married for no clear reason to “a stately young man of athletic build”. It’s not that I found Lydia unsympathetic (I’m not the kind of reader who needs to find at least one “likeable” character in a story); she was simply not interesting enough, and her conversation – there are pages of it – goes nowhere.

Lydia is linked in Angela Carter’s introduction with Linda, one of the women in the last story, ‘The Girl from the Beach’. Linda, “the child of that lost cause, the American left” (Carter’s words), is also adrift in Paris, but it is the journalist-cum-crimewriter George Paul who is the real centre of that novella. He’s there at the start, talking about himself, his ex-wives and current obsessions, and he’s still at it 100 pages (and several years) later. Stead doesn’t express any judgements – that’s not what she does – but it’s clear he’s irredeemably self-centred and won’t ever change.

Both ‘The Girl from the Beach’ and its predecessor, ‘The Rightangled Creek’ have a curious two-part structure. It’s signalled with two separate headings – “New York: Late Forties” and “Paris: Early Fifties” – in the case of ‘The Girl from the Beach’. With ‘The Rightangled Creek’, set in New Jersey “hill country”, we have only a year between its two halves, but the house that is the centre of the story seems to change. It is a retreat from New York and alcoholism for writer Laban Davies, his wife and precocious son in the first 30 or so pages; then it becomes a summer cottage for Sam Parsons and his wife. They learn from locals about the house’s owners, the Dilleys, and their mad daughter Hilda, which leads to suggestions of a haunting (or is it just mice in the walls? We can’t be sure). And then it rains so much that the house is inundated and the Parsonses have to leave. They come back, talk about turning the place into a writer’s refuge, but nothing seems to come of it. Typical, perhaps, of Stead’s waywardness is the way two brothers, Frederick and Walter Imber, turn up towards the end of the story, ostensibly to help dam the eponymous creek. They first appear on page 177; by page 179 one of them is dead, apparently through ignoring warnings about poison ivy. Yet of all four novellas, this is the story, with all its loose ends, that I remember most from my earlier reading and stays with me again.

Stead died in 1983, the year after I discovered her, and there is a copy of her Times obituary inside my paperback of The Man Who Loved Children. There the (anonymous) obituarist describes her as “one of the century’s outstanding novelists” but also reveals that she and her husband “settled down in a flat in Surbiton” in the 1950s, an unlikely location perhaps. (She returned to Australia in 1969 after Blake’s death.) Incidentally, don’t take my word for the excellence of The Man Who Loved Children: here’s Jonathan Franzen lavishing praise on the novel: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/06/06/books/review/Franzen-t.html)

Was this the best book I read in June? I think so. There was Sartre’s The Age of Reason, which took a while to get through, maybe because it suffered from a less than fluent English translation. By contrast to that very male-centred novel, Lucy Caldwell’s Multitudes, short stories about girls growing up in Northern Ireland, were fluently written; and I was really impressed with The Immigration Handbook, a recent collection of poems by Caroline Smith. I’ve now gone back to the nineteenth century and have started reading another Trollope … while contemplating what to re-read in July.

May 2017 re-reading: Alan Brownjohn

The year in question this month is 1981 – the year I briefly assumed the role of strike leader* as well as letters editor (still), father-of-four, husband etc … But back to reading. There are only 18 entries in my “books read” tally for this particular year, making it one of the shortest lists (only 1997 has fewer, I think), though I see that I read two really big novels – Tom Jones and Bleak House – in 1981. But for my re-reading I’ve gone for a book of poetry: A Night in the Gazebo by Alan Brownjohn.

At least one volume of poetry has appeared in most years’ lists, but I may have missed out some of what I’ve bought or borrowed in the last 40 years. Perhaps because I’ve only half-read some of the poems therein, or not wholeheartedly liked them, I haven’t bothered to make a note of them. Alan Brownjohn is actually a case in point: I have two of his collections on my shelves – A Song of Good Life (1975) and The Old Flea-Pit (1987), neither of which feature on any year’s list, even though the first actually has an inscription on the title page that shows I went to poetry reading by him (“Signed for John with all good wishes – Alan Brownjohn, Walthamstow Central Library, 28th February 1979”). A Night in the Gazebo, though, must have been borrowed.

For this re-reading, I’ve read not only the book in question but also some poems in the other two mentioned, plus a later Brownjohn: Ludbrooke & Others (2010). Although not a Top Writer, AB is, I think, my kind of poet: observant, fond of expanding on the details of everyday life, occasional user of elaborate poetic forms, and not afraid of seeing the funny side of things. In A Night in the Gazebo there are some good examples: ‘A Bad Cat Poem’ is simply about a couple trying in vain to make their cat use a cat-flap; ‘Union Man’ is a poem in praise of a union official (“In a city where minds are slabbed with gold, / He builds a sheltering-wall of brick”); another poem is entitled ‘Art Deco Railway Advertisement’ and that’s what it’s about. Although some poems are dull or disappointing, I liked the collection’s final offering: ‘The Seventh Knight and the Green Cat’ (more cats!), a kind of alliterative parody of Gawain and the Green Knight. This shows, as well as Brownjohn’s sense of humour, his penchant for narrative – which also comes to the fore in his ‘Old Fox’ poems (two in this collection, another couple in A Song of Good Life) which feature a disreputable subverter of committee meetings and other conventions. Something of the same tone is to be found in his sequence of 60 poems, all 13 lines long, about ‘Ludbrooke’. This (fictional) character is an ageing and somewhat deluded figure trying to maintain his dignity while chafing at his lack of recognition for past achievements and his failures to attract younger women. Sample lines:

No one has phoned him for what seems several days.
Ludbrooke tries one-four-seven-one, the lonely man’s friend,
And confirms it, his last call was on the ninth… [‘His 1471’]


He does not concede that any quality
Essential if one wants to look civilised
Is actually beyond him. He expects
To be thought well-informed, open-minded, and controlled
In every sort of appetite … [‘His Excuse’]

Brownjohn is also, it should be noted, a London poet. I call in evidence ‘Reflections on Learning’ in A Song of Good Life, an elaborately rhymed poem about his schooldays in Hither Green; or ‘Waterloo Road’ in The Old Flea-Pit, which describes the road’s “rainy stretch up to the river / Past garage, café, theatre, a grey half-mile /Slowing down to a darkness under the railway / Where pedestrians cross it and not notice.” I like that sort of thing.

One further observation: Brownjohn – who is now 85 – seems to have been passed from publisher to publisher in his long career, rather in the manner of a not-quite-top-class utility midfielder moving regularly between football clubs. After Macmillan, Secker & Warburg and Hutchinson, he seems to have settled in at Enitharmon, whose print and paper quality are far superior to (for instance) Secker – their hardback copy of Song of Good Life has paper that has yellowed badly on my shelves. (Secker’s habit of starting a completely new poem two-thirds of the way down a page is irksome, too.)

I think I’ve gone on enough for this month, but more by Brownjohn can be found on the web, for instance at http://www.poetryarchive.org/poet/alan-brownjohn

As for other stuff I read in May, there were a couple of short story collections, very different in manner and subject matter: William Maxwell’s All the Days and Nights (American, suave and rather old-fashioned) and Ludmila Petrushevskaya’s There Once Was a Girl Who Seduced Her Sister’s Husband … (Russian, bleak and blunt). Plus Graham Greene’s The Tenth Man and Going to the Dogs by Erich Kästner. A mixed bag there but, oddly, nothing set in Britain …



* I was father of the Radio Times NUJ chapel at a time when we had a dispute with BBC management – RT being part of BBC Publications in those days – and we had been ignored in a corporation-wide “regrading” exercise, seemingly denied the pay rise that other BBC journalists got. The strike lasted nearly a fortnight, and threatened to disrupt production of a special Royal Wedding issue. But it ended up being settled in talks at ACAS, where the NUJ side was led by John Foster and the late (and much missed) Vincent Hannah. I was, I felt, more a figurehead than a firebrand – most chapel members provided the impetus in picketing, leafleting and demonstrating, and I was more or less an onlooker at the negotiations.

April 2017 re-reading: Olivia Manning

So far my re-reading has confined itself to Dead White Males, so for the revisit to something from my 1980 ‘Books Read’ list I’ve found a Dead White Female: Olivia Manning, whose The Danger Tree I read towards the end of that year. (Incidentally, there are plenty of women writers in my list potentially to be re-read in the coming months, including some real favourites: Anne Tyler, Christina Stead, Lorrie Moore, Alice Munro, Muriel Spark, Ellen Gilchrist …)

Why did I go for this book, presumably a library borrowing? The Danger Tree (published 1977) is the first of Manning’s so-called Levant Trilogy, three semi-autobiographical novels set during the Second World War. The final book in the trilogy, The Sum of Things, came out in 1980, soon after her death. So I suppose obituaries or reviews had alerted me to Manning’s work; and I have a vague memory of someone asserting at the time that her descriptions of battle in the Egyptian desert had a remarkable authenticity, given that she could not have experienced anything like that herself. Certainly these passages, which centre around Simon Boulderstone, a junior officer newly arrived in Egypt in 1941, read quite vividly – the boredom as well as the danger of desert warfare are convincingly depicted. Briefly at the beginning of the novel Simon meets Harriet Pringle, and it is the story of her uncertain acclimatisation to Cairo, and her relationships with her husband Guy, local Egyptians and various other British and American hangers-on, that takes up more than half of the novel. It’s all written as a conventional third-person narrative: the only characters whose thoughts we are aware of are Simon, Harriet and (briefly) Guy: everyone else is observed from outside, as it were.

The problem with this novel is that although it is the first of a trilogy, it is itself a sequel to Manning’s earlier ‘Balkan Trilogy’ (The Great Fortune, The Spoilt City and Friends and Heroes) which begins in 1939 and follows the fortunes of Guy and Harriet in Romania and then, fleeing the German war machine, Athens. So the new reader – as I was – is given only perfunctory introductions to characters from the earlier novels. What was Dobson doing before he reached Egypt? What’s the significance of Lord Pinkrose? We’re apparently expected to remember them from reading the earlier novels. At least Simon is a new character, is given a fair amount of background and so feels more fully realised. I suppose that is the reason my memories of the book are of the desert soldiering passages rather than anything else.

My novel reading seems to be full of sequences, I have to admit: I’ve read all 12 of Antony Powell’s ‘Dance to the Music of Time’ novels, and most of Patrick O’Brian’s Aubrey-Maturin stories; Waugh’s Sword of Honour trilogy and Ford Madox Ford’s Tietjens tetralogy. The constituent parts of the last two I got through in quick succession, but Powell’s sequence took me from 1977 to 2012, and reading O’Brian has taken me from 1995 to 2010. Oh, and there’s Trollope’s Barchester novels, consumed between 2012 and 2014. Why this sequence-reading habit? Obviously it’s because one has enjoyed X that one turns to X’s sequel(s), and I suppose there’s a feeling that there are loose ends, narratively speaking, that might be resolved in its successor. But even in a sequence it should be possible to read each novel as a stand-alone piece of literature. I think this is the case with Trollope; I’m not so sure with Powell, and I might try reading an O’Brian novel from the middle of his series to see if it ‘works’ on its own. With Olivia Manning, however, I’m sceptical: I note that in 1980 I wasn’t tempted to continue from The Danger Tree to the next novel, and I’m not sure I want to carry on now, either. (Too many other books waiting to be read.) While quite readable, Manning’s style is a bit flat-footed at times, and her attempts at atmospheric description can read awkwardly: “The evening star appeared as if from nowhere, radiating long rays of white light, and the coloured electric bulbs were lit among the creepers …”

What I haven’t got round to mentioning yet is that the whole thing – the two trilogies (hexalogy?) – became The Fortunes of War, a seven-part serial for BBC1 starring Emma Thompson and Kenneth Branagh, transmitted in 1987. I notice that in that same year I read all three of Manning’s Balkan Trilogy novels: I was still working at Radio Times and although I remember we put the serial on the cover when it started have no memory of what the accompanying feature consisted of. Did we interview the star actors? The adapter, Alan Plater (who, I note, had done a TV version of Trollope’s Barchester novels a few years previously and was to write Channel 4’s A Very British Coup the following year)? Or was it one of those features that looked into the original books behind the adaptation? Although Olivia Manning was dead, her widower, Reggie Smith, a former BBC radio producer, was still alive, so he may have had a role to play. Anyway, the serial seems to have been well received and to have boosted Manning’s reputation. Most of it can now be found on YouTube: as well as Thompson and Branagh, it featured Rupert Graves (as Simon Boulderstone), Robert Stephens and Alan Bennett.

As for my other April reading, I managed to read two other novels by women: Edna O’Brien’s The Red Chairs (ambitious but slightly disappointing) and The Man in the Wooden Hat by Jane Gardam (recommended). Also three (translated) novellas by Patrick Modiano, a writer I’d like to return to some time.


March 2017 re-reading:
W.N.P. Barbellion

In 1979, the year Clever Daughter Number 2 was born, I read (according to my records) 30 books, 18 of which were novels (or 19 if you count Bruce Chatwin’s In Patagonia). But for my re-reading in March I went for non-fiction: The Journal of a Disappointed Man, by W.N.P. Barbellion.

I remember buying this (see pic above) in the Oxfam shop opposite where I was then working, in Marylebone High Street.* What did I know of this writer? Very little, but I may have recalled some lines from the poet Christopher Middleton (it’s from number 3 of his “Five Psalms of Common Man”, reprinted in Penguin Modern Poets 4 (1963)):

W.N.P. Barbellion (pseudonymous)
March 1915
sees ‘on top of an empty omnibus
a little heap of dirty used-up bus tickets
collected by chance in the corner’

felt sick
the number of persons
the number of miles
the number of buses …

Barbellion is indeed a pseudonym: his real name was Bruce Frederick Cummings, and he lived from 1889 to 1919, suffering in his later years from what was then known as “disseminated sclerosis” (MS in modern parlance). He grew up in north Devon and kept diaries from an early age, initially recording his boyish enthusiasms for nature, from collecting birds’ eggs to examining insects and small marine creatures under a microscope. Soon he widened his diary entries to include reflections on his own life, his adolescent yearnings and frustrations and, later, his physical decline: the published journal was, his brother A.J. Cummings stated, just “a carefully selected series of extracts from twenty post-quarto volumes of manuscript” (I wonder if the whole thing survives anywhere). Despite a lack of formal scientific education and being initially obliged to follow his father into local newspaper journalism, Barbellion/Cummings was invited to apply for a vacancy at the British Museum of Natural History (what we now call the Natural History Museum, in Kensington) and moved to London at the beginning of 1912. Soon after this he seems to have started thinking about publishing a selection of what he had written and was continuing to write. He had had little luck getting his essays, on natural history and literature, placed in the magazines of the time, but eventually he got Chatto & Windus interested in the project; they published The Journal of a Disappointed Man, which runs from 1903 to October 1917, just a few months before he died.

So did I enjoy re-reading the Journal? This time I had the advantage of the 1984 Hogarth Press edition that, unlike that old Penguin, included Barbellion’s posthumously published Last Diary. Well, yes, I was hooked again; though there are overblown introspective passages, one can skip them (published diaries, after all, can be just dipped into). The diary is divided into three parts – the second and third parts are labelled “In London” (from 1912) and “Marriage” (from September 1915) – and it is the London passages, where Barbellion observes street life, writes about his museum work or embarks on tentative love affairs, that are the most interesting. Thomas Mallon, in his A Book of One’s Own: People and their Diaries (1984) says that “there is no room in Barbellion’s world for anyone but himself”, but I disagree. I could quote extensively, but here are just three passages:

In Aldgate, stopped to inspect a street stall containing popular literature – one brochure entitled Suspended for Life to indicate the terrible punishment meted out to – a League footballer. Another stall held domestic utensils with an intimation, ‘Anything on this stall lent for 1d’. [24 October 1914]

After four months’ sick leave, returned to work and London … On the Underground, I was delighted with the smooth, quiet way with which the ‘Metro’ trains glide into the Station. I had quite forgotten this. Then, when my hand began to get better … I re-enjoyed the child’s satisfaction in coaxing a button to slip into its hole: all grown-up people have forgotten how difficult and complex such operations are. [2 Feb 1917]

And this (which would merit inclusion in any anthology of literary allusions to breastfeeding):

On a ’bus the other day a woman with a baby sat opposite, the baby bawled and the woman at once began to unlace herself, exposing a large, red udder, which she swung into the baby’s face. The infant, however, continued to cry and the woman said –
‘Come on, there’s a good boy – if you don’t, I shall give it to the gentleman opposite’
Do I look ill-nourished?  [7 August 1915]

It also caught my interest that in 1916 he wrote that “my gorge rises at those fatuous journalists continually prating about this ‘Greatest War of all time’ … We ought to hush it up, not brag about it”. And that in 1919, in his Last Diary, Barbellion noted that he was reading serialised extracts from Ulysses, “an interesting development”, but that “of course, the novelists are behind the naturalists in the recording of minutiae”.

Incidentally the quote that Christopher Middleton adapted doesn’t come from the published journals; rather it’s to be found in Enjoying Life and Other Literary Remains, another posthumous publication which collected some of Barbellion’s “scientific” essays as well as further essayistic diary entries omitted from the Disappointed Man journal. Some time after 1979 I managed to find a copy of that book too, in another second-hand-book shop trawl, I’m not sure when.

As for Barbellion’s aforementioned brother, A.J. Cummings, he had a distinguished journalistic career, ending as the political editor of the News Chronicle, by virtue of which he got an obituary in the New York Times (6 July 1957 if you want to look it up) and fathered the cartoonist Michael Cummings.

Meanwhile, in today’s infosphere, there are two Twitter accounts that occasionally tweet extracts from Barbellion’s journals: @wnpb and @WNP_Barbellion (“A Disappointed Man”), And a recent posting on the MS Trust website discusses Barbellion’s “literary classic” from the point of view of a present-day person with MS: https://www.mstrust.org.uk/news/views-and-comments/diarist-who-made-a-literary-classic-his-life-ms. Worth reading.

In March I also read: The Infatuations by Javier Marias (not an easy read, but it has stayed with me) and two US novels: Colson Whitehead’s The Underground Railroad (good) and Noah Hawley’s The Good Father (a journalistic page-turner – which is not a bad thing, of course)


*By 1979 I had been letters editor of Radio Times for a couple of years – the nicest job I’ve had. For anyone interested, here’s a sample of the kind of pages I was responsible for, in those days:


February 2017 re-reading: Mark Rutherford

And so to 1978 – the year Leyton Orient reached the FA Cup semi-finals, I learned to swim as a 30-something adult (for which I will be eternally grateful to Waltham Forest baths) and the Callaghan government limped on. According to my records, I read 35 books, 23 of them novels or short-story collections (including an unfinished Mill on the Floss) that year. Which to re-read?

I have gone for something obscure that still sits on our bookshelves: The Autobiography of Mark Rutherford. An old hardback that I remember buying, one lunchtime, in a second-hand-book shop in Bell Street (Marylebone). Why did I buy it? I suppose I must have had some idea that despite his obscurity Mark Rutherford was a serious writer – perhaps thanks to George Orwell. There are a couple of substantial references to MR in Orwell’s four-volume Collected Essays, Journalism and Letters, parts of which I had read in the early 70s. In an essay on Gissing (1948) Orwell claims Rutherford is the “English writer nearest to Gissing”, although he was “less definitely a novelist [and] wrote much better prose”.  He thought the two writers had “a sort of haunting resemblance, probably explained by the fact that both men lack that curse of English writers, ‘a sense of humour’” and that what they had in common was “a certain low-spiritedness, and air of loneliness”.

Certainly there is an air of loneliness, and no humour to speak of in The Autobiography. What there is in its 139 pages is a lot of introspection, a lot of agonising about nonconformist versions of Christianity … and very little plot. Which is, to summarise: middle-aged man looks back looks back on his “weaknesses and failures”, from growing up in a Calvinistic Independent household in the East Midlands, his attendance as a student at a “Dissenting College”, and then his career as a preacher, first with “Independent” nonconformists, then Unitarians. His gradual loss of faith in any organised form of religion leads him to give up this life and move to London, where he rejects a teaching job and finds work as a clerk with a publisher. Among the characters that cross his path are the “strictly proper” draper Mr Snale, a deacon at MR’s first chapel; Mardon, a local newspaper compositor who is sceptical about religion, and his devoted daughter Mary; and a butterfly collector who has no name but inspires MR with his enthusiasm.

But before I go any further, I’d better introduce some salient facts for the uninformed. As I learned after my first reading, “Mark Rutherford” is a pseudonym for the Bedford-born William Hale White (1831–1913), who wrote five novels late in his life, beginning with The Autobiography (1881) and its immediate successor, Mark Rutherford’s Deliverance (“one of the best novels in English” according to Orwell): both of these purport to be “edited by his [Mark Rutherford’s] friend, Reuben Shapcott” – a distancing effect that was maintained in his subsequent books. In the voice of Shapcott an introduction claims that “Rutherford, at any rate in his earlier life, was an example of the danger and folly of cultivating thoughts and reading books to which he was not equal”. An awkward don’t-trust-this-writer message to wrong-foot the reader

In reality Hale White did attend a “dissenting college”, but was expelled for his unconventional views, and the publisher Wollaston who appears in the Autobiography’s last chapter is apparently based on the radical publisher John Chapman; his niece “Theresa” is similarly a version of Mary Anne Evans (in other words, George Eliot), whom the author met before she was well known. Hale White spent most of his working life as a clerk at the Admiralty, supplementing his income with journalism: his career as a novelist did not begin until he was 50. He also translated (and must have been influenced by) Spinoza.

What was/is the appeal of Mark Rutherford? His concerns seem much more remote from our present day than other writers of the 1880s such as Hardy, Trollope or Robert Louis Stevenson (OK, Trollope died in 1882, but the other two were flourishing right through the decade). His plain prose has a kind of earnestness that is attractive, though; and the fact that it throws a light on a way of life and thinking which despite everything still pervades our mental and physical landscapes (think of all the used and disused nonconformist chapels here in South Wales) makes him worth reading. The only similar work I can think of is Edmund Gosse’s Father and Son (1907), a memoir about growing up among Plymouth Brethren.

I was also interested to find an unexpected consonance between MR and another book I’ve been reading recently: Sarah Bakewell’s At the Existentialist Café, about Sartre, de Beauvoir and their influences. Here’s Mark Rutherford:

As I got older I became aware of the folly of this perpetual reaching after the future, and of drawing from to-morrow, and from to-morrow only, a reason for the joyfulness of to-day. I learned when, alas! it was almost too late, to live in each moment as it passed over my head, believing that the sun as it is now rising is as good as it will ever be, and blinding myself as much as possible to what may follow. But when I was young I was the victim of that illusion … which causes us, on the brightest morning in June, to think immediately of a brighter morning which is to come in July.

Now Sarah Bakewell, on phenomenology:

The point is to keep coming back to the ‘things themselves’ – phenomena stripped of their conceptual baggage … it is a liberating task: it gives us back the world we live in. It works most effectively on the things we may not usually think of as material for philosophy: a drink, a melancholy song, a drive, a sunset, an ill-at-ease moment, a box of photographs, a moment of boredom. It restores this personal world in its richness …

Or her observation that phenomenologists and existentialists

set out to detect and capture the quality of experience as we live it rather than according to frameworks suggested by traditional philosophy, psychology … or any of the other -isms and disciplines that explain our lives away.

Also interesting in my edition of The Autobiography was the previous owner’s (or owners’) annotations. He/she/they obviously took Mark Rutherford very seriously, underlining in the margin passages such as “Those who have sobbed together over a dead friend, who have held one another’s hand in that dread hour, feel a bond of sympathy, pure and sacred, which nothing can dissolve”. Or this: “Passion may burn like a devouring flame; and in a few moments, like flame, may bring down a temple to dust and ashes, but it as earnest as flame, and essentially pure.” How did that chime with their own experiences?

Before I finish, it’s worth noting that if you type “Mark Rutherford” into a search engine you’ll discover there’s now a Mark Rutherford school in his birthplace of Bedford: among the school’s alumni is the now US-based comedian John Oliver. Do they ever read the works of MR there? There is also a small but enthusiastic Mark Rutherford Society, I gather, to be found at http://www.davidfrench.org.uk/markrutherford/mrsociety.htm. May they flourish.

As for my other reading in February, another not-quite-novel I enjoyed this month was Julian Barnes’s The Noise of Time, which might more properly be called a “biographical fantasia” based on the facts of Shostakovich’s life. I liked it a lot – Barnes’s output, whether fictional or journalistic, is generally worth making time for. I also enjoyed a short story in the New Yorker: ‘The Prairie Wife’ by Curtis Sittenfeld. However, another much-praised recent novel borrowed from the local library was a disappointment. I won’t name it.

January 2017 re-reading: Cakes and Ale

My list of “books read” from 1977 is quite an impressive one: it starts with Anna Karenina and ends with Beryl Bainbridge’s Injury Time, it includes The Mayor of Casterbridge, Gulliver’s Travels and several volumes of poetry. The writer who gets the most mentions, though, is Anthony Powell: I started what was to be a long journey through his 12-volume sequence by reading the first three – A Question of Upbringing, A Buyer’s Market and The Acceptance World – in 1977. But I’ve chosen something else to return to: Somerset Maugham’s Cakes and Ale. This seems to be for two reasons: (1) I can hardly remember anything about it, and (2) it’s still there on my bookshelves (A lot of what I read back then came from either Westminster or Waltham Forest libraries: this was an old second-hand paperback, bought I don’t know where).

So what did I think of it? Perhaps I shouldn’t have first read Maugham’s introduction (presumably added for the Penguin edition, first published in 1948) where he denies the accusation levelled at him that his novel was based on the life of Thomas Hardy, and specifically the behaviour of his second wife in protecting his reputation (Hardy died in 1928, survived by a second wife who had been his secretary, and Maugham’s novel came out two years later). Well, it’s true that Cakes and Ale is all about a dead author’s reputation, and the suppression of uncomfortable facts that accompanies the writing of that author’s biography. But Rosie, the first wife of the fictional author Edward Driffield, is nothing like Hardy’s Emma; Driffield’s novels, from the vague outlines we are given, don’t sound much like Hardy’s; and apart from London the setting is a thinly-disguised Whitstable rather than Wessex.

Actually, the best things about Cakes and Ale are, I think, (1) the observations about class distinctions in the first half of the book, where the narrator looks back on his adolescence in “Blackstable” and Driffield’s ambiguous status vis-à-vis his (Maugham’s alter ego’s) higher position as the vicar’s nephew; and (2) the inside view of literary London of the 1920s and an earlier (undated) period, which is presumably around the same time as Maugham’s early literary career – his first book came out in 1897. In fact, the first chapter, which is all about man-of-letters “Alroy Kear” and his collaboration with Driffield’s widow to write a biography, made me wonder if Kear was to be the central figure. He seems to be more definitely realised than Driffield is, and seems to have more pages devoted to him than anyone else. Meanwhile Rosie, Driffield’s cheerfully promiscuous first wife, becomes more and more central as the novel goes on – at the same time as she becomes less a real-life woman and more a typical fantasy figure, especially when she takes her clothes off (“her breasts were straight and firm and they stood out from the chest as though carved in marble. It was a body made for the act of love.” Really).

Here I am going to quote from a contemporary review (not something I think I will do much) by Arnold Bennett, who was seven years Maugham’s senior. In the last few years of his life Bennett wrote a weekly column for the Evening Standard – it came about because of Bennett’s friendship with Lord Beaverbrook – and his review of Cakes and Ale was written just a few months before he died.

“In principle I am against authors as protagonists in a novel,” Bennett writes; but Maugham has “seen and avoided” the danger of over-stressing the “literary side of these fellows”: “To the general public novelists are, rightly, more interesting … as husbands, lovers, and ingenious exploiters of their own talents” (as is perhaps even more the case in the 21st century). For Bennett, Cakes and Ale’s portrait of Alroy Kear is “delicious” and “will intimately amuse and exasperate the ten million [sic] authors of Great Britain”. Bennett also notes that the novel is “oddly constructed … [in that] Maugham jumps to and fro between ‘present day’ and thirty years ago”; but the best point made in the review is that the book “stops too soon. We do not learn what kind of a sticky mess [Alroy Kear] made of the biography of Driffield nor what were his methods of preparing the book-market for it.” Well said, Arnold.

Final (for now) confession: I am a member of the Arnold Bennett Society (www.arnoldbennettsociety.org.uk), which is celebrating the 150th anniversary of his birth this year, so I will probably return to Bennett if this blog continues … There doesn’t seem to be an equivalent Somerset Maugham Society. I wonder why not?

Why this?

Forty years ago, in 1977, I started keeping a record of the books I was reading. So this year, 2017, I plan to begin what might or might not be an interesting project: to take a book from each of those 40 years and re-read it, recording my impressions of this second reading and including any memories I might have of it from the first time … My aim – to start with, anyway – will be to re-read one book per month, interspersing it with my “usual” reading of new titles, fiction and non-fiction. Forty books at the rate of one per month means more than three years’ worth of re-reading; whether I last the course, time will tell.  But to begin …