Random Jottings

Daphne - Margaret Forster

From Justin Picardie's Daphne to the Daphne of Margaret Forster.  This biography was published a few years ago and was universally praised, but I did not read it at the time even though I am a huge admirer of Forster's writing. Then I had no desire to read it.  Now, of course, it is a different matter and I was eager to learn more about Daphne du Maurier having been intrigued with the part of her life portrayed by Picardie and her writing of the Infernal World of Branwell Bronte.

I took this to Barcelona with me and had time on planes and in airports, as well as my nightly obligatory read before I can sleep, to get through this over the weekend though I did not expect to.  I have yet to read a duff book, fiction or non-fiction, by Margaret Forster who I think is one of our finest living writers and one much undervalued.  This masterly biography only confirms my feelings and I found it fascinating.  This is a well researched, credible and easily readable book about a complex woman and, thankfully, totally free of speculative theory about some of Daphne's actions and behaviour.  The kind of biography that uses phrases such as 'it is a possiblity that this happened because she felt...' or 'surely she must have thought that...' is anathema to me as it is pure guesswork, it is not up to the reader to make up their mind what the subject thought at the time, the reader is there to be told by the biographer what took place.

The facts of Daphne's life are laid out before us, her relationship with her father Gerald du Maurier, possessive and overbearing and slightly uncomfortable to put it mildly, her lack of love from her mother, probably jealous of her husband's obsession with his daughter, her feelings that she might have what Daphne calls 'Venetian tendencies'. her lifelong battle to keep 'the boy in the box' as she fought these feelings and strived for normalcy.  The facade she presented to the world, her No 1 personality which she used to keep No 2, her darker side hidden, her distress at being deemed only a writer of 'romantic novels' and lack of critical appreciation, her somewhat semi-detached attitude towards her two daughters and total adoration towards her son, her affair with Gertie Lawrence, and throughout it all, her love for her husband who she adored in her own way and whose death left her bereft and lonely.  All this laid out before us the reader to read in total fascination and to be drawn into her thoughts through her diaries and letters to her family, friends and publisher. 

A simply terrific biography and once I started could not put down.  Forster is scrupulously fair about Daphne and is not judgemental in anyway. A good biographer should give the facts, the relevant circumstances, the pros and cons and reasons for the subject's behaviour and it is left to us, the readers, to make up our minds how we feel about the chosen subject.

And how did I feel?  I am sorry, but I closed up the book with a sense of relief that I had finished with her.  I decided after quiet thought, that I could not warm to Daphne.  In fact, I am afraid that I just did not like her at all.  Sad but true and this does not denigrate this brilliant biography in any way. If Justin Picardie's book has whetted your appetite then I recommend that you get hold of a copy of Margaret Forster's, you will find it totally compelling.

Barcelona Report

I am going to give a, hopefully, a couple of posts about Barcelona listing places we visited and comments on same, and try and keep them as concise as possible, otherwise they will turn into War and Peace and this is a book blog after all.  Photos will appear now and then under Photo of the Day so not to bombard everyone all at once, though I suppose it might be a good idea if I learned how to load photo albums on Typepad so that would be a problem solved. OK perhaps that will be my task for the weekend.

So here we go, Kathryn and I went for a stroll round the port and marina, see above, weather beautiful, early 70s, light breeze, wonderful.  Decided to grab an ice cream and sunbathe for a bit which we duly did and then ambled further along the Paseo de Maritime and came across this wonderful sculpture, The Fish, created for the Olympics.  Walked back to our apartment which was five minutes from Santa Maria del Mar in the Barri Gotic and full of little tiny fascinating streets, crashed out for two hours, and then sallied forth for our evening meal.  Sitting outside, lots of tapas and wine, chilling, talking, bliss.

Saturday, off to Sante Maria del Mar, setting of Cathedral of the Sea about which I have posted.  Walked inside, totally and utterly beautiful, simple, austere with soaring pillars and oh so quiet (not so the Cathedral about which more later). Then disaster, my camera's battery conked out.  It is a permanent battery and I had left the charger at home. I could not swear bearing in mind where I was so borrowed Kathryn's camera for the rest of the weekend so photos will have to wait.  Have this one so here it is.

 

Then a coffee break and off to the Picasso Museum which was simply amazing.  All his early works were there (which of course I much prefer to his later output), but fascinating to see how much he changed his attitude and style of painting throughout his career.  Two hours there and totally engrossing.  Visited shop on way out and bought a mug (of course) which will later appear as Crock of the Day.  Then lunch at a super cool creperie next door and had the best crepe I have ever eaten, Serrano ham, Brie and red onion marmalade.  Just sat drooling.

Siesta and off to Park Montjuic, full of museums and galleries, all of which were closed by the time we got there in the evening, but simply beautiful to walk through.  There was the stunningly grand palace of Eugenie and Alfonso dominating the view down into the city and in front of it the main reason for our visit - Font Magica, designed for the International Exhibition of 1929.  Here is what the guide book says "as darkness descends, countless jets of water are choreographed in a mesmerising sound and light show. When the water meets in a single jet it can soar o 50ft. The extravagant finale is often accompanied by Freddie Mercury and Caballe's Barcelona (it was!) as the fountain fades from pink to green and back tow white before silently and gracefully disappearing".  It was wonderful, park was full all ooohing and aaahing and when Barcelona came on the loudspeakers great cheers and hollering.

OK enough for now: next time - Gaudi, the Cathedral and more.

I am currenlty watching Manchester United play Barcelona..

Estoy aqui

I am back and will be writing later as I did not get into bed last night till 2am.  I had taken the precaution of parking my car at Stansted Airport instead of taking the bus shuttle to Colchester as my flight landed at 11.15 pm and as last bus was midnight, should have had time to catch it, but I don't trust planes and airports so parked instead.  Just as well as passport control was a seething mass, half the number of checkpoints open, three planes had all landed within ten minutes of each other and it took me half an hour of silent simmering fury to get through and if I had been waiting for the bus would have been stumped.

Did not enjoy drive much, never do late at night but as the roads were clear I put my foot down and made it in record time and was SO glad to see my bed.  Sitting here in dressing gown, very tired, but glad to be back and will post later.

Barcelona was simply terrific and I visited Santa Maria del Mar - the flat I had rented for the long weekend turned out to be five minutes walk away which was wonderful - and it was simply breathtaking.

But will not start now ....

Barcelona!

Off today to Barcelona with Hija Numero Uno and back next week.  Will be looking and seeing and taking photos and have managed to locate Santa Maria del Mar, the cathedral which is the centre of my recently read Cathedral of the Sea, and will visit, plan to eat lots of tapas and as Kathryn and I always spend all our time together non-stop chatting, will have lots of laughs on the way.

Adios amigos!

The Great Western Beach

When starting a post I think carefully about the opening sentence.  I want to write something that will grab the reader's attention, will be witty, wise, amusing, smart, erudite ...yes, well gave up on that one and just as well as the only opening line I an think of relevant to this latest read is:

I loved this book.

There you have it. Perfect opening line.  And it is true. I simply loved reading the Great Western Beach which was sent to me for review by NewBooksMag.  I plonked myself down last weekend and just read and read and felt quite melancholy when I came to the last page and realised there was no more to come.  Emma Smith's award winning novel, the Far Cry, was republished by Persephone a few years ago and I read it then with great enjoyment, not least for the fine writing, not a dot or comma or excessive adjective  anywhere, just a clear flowing narrative.

In this book Emma Smith recalls her childhood spent in Newquay between the two World Wars. She and her three siblings and their totally mismatched and unhappy parents live in straightened circumstances which her father, in particular, loathes.  A hero in the first World War, decorated for bravery and awarded the DSO, he cannot come to terms with his mundane existence and is prone to violent rages and cruelty towards his family.  Emma is his favourite because, as she freely admits, she keeps quiet out of sheer self preservation and does not argue with him.  Though he is not a lovable person she feels shame that she does not love her father, but she certainly seems to understand him and the frustration and inner rage that eats him up.  One evening he takes her down to the beach to watch a violent storm:

"My father stood wordless, perfectly still, holding my hand and gazing out across the surging, heaving, tossing savage ocean, smiling dreamily almost as though mesmerised by the storminess of the scene confronting him.  I knew how he felt.  His mood was peaceful because, for a short while, here and now there was no need to be angry.  The violence of the wind and waves was expressing on his behalf, more vividly than he ever could, the rage that had to be kept bottled up inside him"

Such insight and understanding makes us feel far more sympathetic towards him than he deserves, as he sounds a pretty rotten person to live with, is petty and cruel towards his wife, terrorizes his quiet,nervous son who he despises and reduces his wife to frequent tears.

"Oh my parents, my poor tragic parents, my good and beautiful, brave, dramatic, unperceptive mother, my disappointed, embittered, lonely talented father, locked both of them inside a prison they had not deserved, for reasons they did not understand, by conventions they took to be immutable laws..."

Emma's mother receives an inheritance from an uncle and financially life improves with a move to a bigger house and membership of the tennis club and society in general which was barred to the family when lacking in funds and life broadens and becomes more satisfying.  The varied and many eccentric characters living in Newquay are portrayed with great warmth and charm and, despite the unhappiness of her parents, Emma at least, has memories of a wonderful childhood by the sea and writes of it with great happiness.  Anybody who reads this book who has run shivering from a swim in British waters and rushed back to their mother to be wrapped up in a towel, given a sandwich, a boiled egg, a Fyffes banana (it was always a Fyffes when I was a child) and a plastic cup of warm milky tea from a giant thermos, and to feel the exhilarated flow of warmth which follows a bracing dip, will understand exactly why I enjoyed this book so much.

When Emma and her family eventually move to Plymouth, as her father has been promoted from his rather lowly bank clerk position, she realises what she is losing and is bereft:

"How can I express in words the immensity of the loss I have begun to realise is mine?....the sea, the sea, most of all I shall miss the sea.  Goodbye my childhood"

I shall end as I started.  I loved this book.

Rant of a Commuter on a rainy day

Questions to which I require an answer:

• Why do men always sit on the train with their legs wide open, thus taking up a seat and a half?
• Why do they get very annoyed when you ask them to put their legs together so you can sit down?
• Why do commuters use backpacks instead of the old fashioned briefcase?  They all look like they are going on an expedition to the South Pole, though it would appear that from the logos on these bags, ie Nike, Puma, Adidas, the South Face they are also training for the marathon or about to climb the Eiger.  As they are all, without exception, pasty faced and over weight I think this is highly unlikely
• Why do the aforesaid commuters, plus assorted backpackers at the station, not realise that they have the equivalent of a two year old strapped to their back and that when they turn round without looking they quite often swipe a traveller behind them, nearly knocking them over in the process. If you shout at them they then turn round to apologise to you and knock somebody else over as well
• Why do I get on the train with a large tote bag (not a backpack I hasten to add), laden with books, make up and water and all the bright young things who get on are clutching little diddy bags only?
• Why do people get huffy if they have sat next to me and pinned me to the seat by my coat/jacket whatever and I try and pull it out the way?  It is not my fault they did not look before they sat down.
• Why is there a mad rush to get off the train at Liverpool Street and everyone MUST be first off the train?  Why do they stand ages before the train reaches the platform and then stagger backwards if it stops abruptly which happens frequently?
• Why do commuters (it is usually men who do this, I am aware I am sounding sexist here) when pulling down their coats from the rack not look who is below and not hit them on the head with their heavy rain/overcoats? And then when they swing it round their shoulders and put their arms in the sleeves, not look to see who else they have knocked flying behind them?
• Why do commuters who know we have arrived get to the automatic ticket barriers, realise they have not got their ticket ready, stop suddenly, thus causing a mass pile up behind them?
• Why do commuters, on looking up at the arrivals and departures board at the station, always have their mouths open?  (This ranks alongside the question which I have seen in a men's mag - why do women always open their mouths when putting on mascara?)  I don't think there is a sensible answer to this one.
• Why do I keep worrying about all these philosophical questions?  I have been commuting for over 25 years and answers come there none

Christine revisited

A few days ago I posted on Christine by Alice Cholmondeley (AKA Elizabeth von Arnim) and made this comment on a dedication inside my wonderful old copy:

"This edition was published in 1917 by the Macmillan Company, New York with a lovely cover and printing and inside a greetings card to Nelly from a Mr Russell O Snyder from Wilkinsbury, Pennsylvania.  Now I wonder just who Mr Snyder was and why he gave this to Nelly - was she his sweetheart, his wife, his daughter?  We shall never know.  A slightly odd and unusual book to give as a Christmas present considering its content."

Well, to my total and utter astonishment and delight up popped an email a day later from Trevene Shillam, who lives in a relatively isolated part of New South Wales, no broadband as yet but fingers crossed, who reads my blog and because of being on dial up does not leave comments very often, but after reading my post on Christine, send me an email and and this is what it contained:

"My husband's great grandmother was Ellen Shillam who, when widowed, emigrated to the USA and married a Mr A R Snyder.  Her youngest daughter who accompanied her was Nell who was born in Coventry in the UK in 1905.....it's probably stretching coincidence too far to suppose she was the actual recipient, but the two names struck me when I read them and it would be nice to think you identified a previous owner of the book"

Can you beat that?  I can't.

Mrs Darcy's Dilemma - FREE COPIES

Those nice kind people in the USA, Sourcebooks have offered four copies free and gratis to anybody who would like to get hold of this simply delightful book.  Only string attached, if you win, please read and tell everyone about it.

Simply leave your name in the comments box of this post and I will make the draw next week when I return from Barcelona.  I think it is too much of a rush to do it this week as I am off on Thursday and with time differences, zones etc a week should give everyone a fair crack of the whip.

Henry the Bear will do the draw and when the names are chosen I will ask you to forward your address details to Sourcebooks (or to me if you prefer and I will pass on) and they will mail the copies anywhere in the world.

So please do enter.

A-Z How many can you do?

Simon on Stuck in a Book has printed a list of authors A-Z Favourites and next to them a book by this particular author all the way through the alphabet and has challenged others to do the same.  This is a fun exercise I have done countless times while waiting for trains, planes etc but though I have listed authors and titles have not necessarily named books I have read by the chosen on the list.  That is slightly more problematical but have had a go and here is my result (some are easier than others and some have had to be dredged up from my teenage memory as well):

• AUSTEN, Jane - Emma
• BRONTE, Charlotte - Jane Eyre
• CHOPIN, Kate - the Awakening
• DICKENS, Charles - Bleak House
• ELIOT, George - Adam Bede
• FERRIER, Susan - Marriage
• GROSSMITH, G - Diary of a Nobody
• HARDY, Thomas - Mayor of Casterbridge
• ISHIGURO, K - Remains of the Day
• JEROME K JEROME - Three Men in a Boat
• KENNEDY, Margaret - The Constant Nymph (had to work my memory for this one read years and years ago. Rather purple prose if I remember correctly)
• LEVERSON, Ada - The Little Otleys
• MARTINEUA, Harriet - Deerbrook
• NICOLSON, Juliet - The Perfect Summer
• ORCZY, Baroness - The Scarlet Pimpernel
• PANTER-DOWNES, Mollie - One Fine Day
• QUILLER-COUCH, Arthur (writing as Q) - Hetty Wesley (Have to own up and say only a quarter of the way through, I looked at this totally out of curiosity as we had shelves of these in a library in Highgate where I then worked and I was intrigued. I can remember little about it so really perhaps it does not count but just have to have an author beginning with Q!))
• RENDELL, Ruth - An Unkindness of Ravens
• SAYERS, D L - Gaudy Night
• TROLLOPE, Anthony - Barchester Towers
• UNSWORTH, Barry - Pascali's Island
• VON ARNIM, Elizabeth - Vera (May be cheating here a bit as I have seen her books filed under A as well as V), so if the consensus is that she is under A then I will add VIORST, Judith - It's Hard to be hip over Thirty. I was going to put Barbara Vine but as she is Ruth Rendell thought that was pushing my luck
• WHARTON, Edith - House of Mirth
• X - PASS!
• YOUNG, Angela - Speaking of Love
• ZOLA, Emile - Ladies Paradise

Of course, the next trick is not only to have a book you have read by each A-Z author, but the book's title must also be the same initial as the author chosen - is this possible I ask myself?  Some are easy, some impossible.

This is going to niggle at me now...

Happy Birthday Virago 3

"One rainy Sunday in January Mrs Palfrey, recently widowed, arrives at the Claremont Hotel in the Cromwell Road.  Here she will spend her remaining days.  Her fellow residents are a magnificently eccentric group who live off crumbs of affection, obsessive interest in the relentless round of hotel meals, and undying curiosity.  There is Mrs Burton with her mauve rinsed hair, her costume jewelery and her drinking; Mrs Arbuthnot, bossy and arthritic; Mr Osmond with his risque stories, his endless stream of letters to the press.  Together, upper lips stiffened, teeth gritted, they fight off their twin enemies: boredom and the grim Reaper.  And then one day Mrs Palfrey encounters the handsome young writer, Ludo, and we learn that even the old can fall in love....."

As with Jane Austen, Elizabeth Taylor's novels and stories are painted on a small canvas, a group of people in one place and a needle sharp winkling out of their insecurities, thoughts and feelings.  I picked this up in a second hand book shop (where else?) and took it home, entranced by the cover.  I am sure Virago are fed up with us all banging on about the Green jackets but I bought this purely and simply because it was Green, and discovered a wonderful writer.  Another edition and I would probably not have given it a glance and that would have been my loss.  A wonderful story.

The painting is by Margaret Foreman and is a portrait of Mrs Mabel Whitehead.  My apologies to Mrs Whitehead but this will always be Mrs Palfrey to me.