MARY BARTON by Elizabeth Gaskell

Appallingly, I may have become too woke for Victorian literature. I hope not, because I have always liked Elizabeth Gaskell. But this book, MARY BARTON, I had to give up. The title character is a young seamstress who it is clear is about to be led astray by a wealthy man. There are lot of warnings about getting puffed up by vanity and etc. I just couldn’t slog through to where this poor girl gets her just deserts. Her aunt had followed the same path and there is a gross/laughable section in which we meet her as a despondent prostitute.

That said, Gaskell was woke by the standards of her day. In the introduction, she speaks about how she wrote this book to speak for the working classes, who she unself-consciously calls ‘this dumb people’. She is making a valiant effort to capture the lives of the poor, and It is interesting to reflect that even so recently as 1848, working class people had so little access to literacy, or leisure for writing, that indeed they had no hope of writing their own story.

WILFUL DISGREGARD by Lena Andersson

This book shows how love is a madness, and not in a cute fun way. This woman meets this semi-famous artist (I mean, let’s not be silly: artists not famous, except in a tiny bubble, but anyway she lives in that bubble). They go out to dinner a lot, talk a lot, but nothing HAPPENS. Then finally things HAPPEN, like three times, and then doesn’t call her very much and she loses her shit.

Thank god she does not do anything publicly embarrassing (e.g., cry at party) but she is a mess: thinking about him obsessively, changing her life to be nearer him, writing him lengthy and shameful emails about ‘their relationship’ Most harrowing is how the cycle repeats: every time she is about to break free, he offers her a little hope, and it begins again. To me it is obvious that he is enjoying the attention, and does not care what it costs her. (You can tell it is a good book because I am talking about it like I know them).

It’s a really unsettling book, because it shows how easy it is to slip into mania, be it about hand washing, about the second coming, or, as here, about a boy.

THE SECRET DAIRY OF ADRIAN MOLE AGED 13 AND 3/4 by Sue Townsend

I re-read this while slogging through COVID, and I am struck by what a good book it is. According to my blog, I haven’t read it since at least 2009 (when I started keeping track). I am amazed by how clearly I remember it: characters, incidents, even lines. Pandora Braithwaite is the ur-crush of Western Culture.

I was surprised to learn that Townsend was 35 when she wrote it, and it was her first published book. Her teenage son apparently once asked her why they didn’t go on safari ‘like everyone else; and the voice for the book popped into her head fully formed. She wrote the first third in a matter of weeks – and then put it away in a box. It only got finished because other people pushed for it (a similar story btw for Stephen King’s CARRIE) and it just shows you: we really have no idea about the quality of what we are doing. I find that both horrifying and liberating.

FIRST LOVE by Gwendoline Riley

This is a harrowing story of a marriage going bad. I clearly have little to no experience of really toxic relationships, because mostly I was just like: why don’t you leave? Clearly I lack experience, because I struggle to even imagine a world where I would put with how this lady gets spoken to.

Also super harrowing is her relationship with her mother, possibly worse because here there are not so many harsh words. Let me quote at length. Here she is on her mother:

Perhaps I should be moved by her more than I am. I love animals, their natural ways. I have asked her about my – our – childhood, that house, but you wouldn’t think I’d spoken. She just stared back at me. Maybe she never noticed what we grew up with. Left to herself, back there, as I’m sure she felt she was, she laced the fetid air with her high-pitched humming her little self-announcements:

‘Well, I’m going to sit in the sun lounge if anyone wants me. Do they? No.’

‘Well, I’m going to eat some strawberries and cream and watch Wimbledon, Yes.’

My brother was even more incensed by these notices than I.

‘Do I give a shit?’ he’d scream.

You couldn’t see the television if the curtains were open, so they never were open. She’d clear aspace on the settee and hold up by her chest a bowl of mushy frozen strawberries, topped with a spray cream. She lifted her chin, bared her teeth.

THE SHOOTING PARTY by Isabel Colegate

Historical fiction is kind of rare, and this is a wonderful example of it. It tells about a 1913 shooting party, and is really remarkable in just 181 pages in creating a complex series of relationships and characters.

It’s difficult to summarize it, despite it being so short, because it’s a masterclass in density of feeling and incident. As in real life, not much is happening, but beneath is a heaving mass of emotions.

Most interesting I found was the way in which the book functioned as a meditation on the pre-War world. These people had so much inherited wealth they could do whatever they wanted with their time, and they chose to spend it killing things. Is interesting to think if automation/AI ever ends work for all of us, what we will do with the time.

Also, just FYI, the Criterion notes about Colegate that she “may well be the greatest living English novelist, and yet many readers have never heard of her.” Truly, ladies, the playing field is not level.

THE NEW ME by Halle Butler

I liked this book for its rage. It tells about a middle class woman in Chicago who has cycled through many interests as she tries to find her path in life. Now, at thirty, she is stuck temping, and her aspirations are narrowing to just being made permanent at a job she despises. She starts to fall apart when she is let go. Before you feel sorry for her, let’s note her parents have been funding all this dicking around. It’s amazing how needing to make the rent can focus the mind.

Let me just give you this snippet:

In the windowless back offices of a designer furniture showroom, women stand in a circle, stuffed into ill-fitting black jeans, grey jeans, olive jeans, the ass cloth sagging one inch, two, below were the cheeks meet. They don’t notice theis on themselves, but they notice it on each other.

I wish I had never come across the words ‘ass cloth’ because now I think about it every time I see it.

A TIME TO BE BORN by Dawn Powell

This book is viciously hilarious in a way that suggests it is absolutely personal. Apparently, it is, written specifically as satire on a woman who was perceived as having (as the patriarchy likes to say) slept her way to the top.

In this book, the woman comes to a bad end, but Wikipedia tells me the actual woman never paid her dues. This makes sense: some of us have to pay so many dues it makes sense that some others must be skipping out.

Mostly this book is notable for the hilarious descriptions. On a busty woman’s blouse:

. . the yellow print now gracing her form, strained in a taut line across her back and then across her front so that bosoms popped out behind and before, above and below as if there were dozens of them, all crying for freedom

Or on this guy, who almost went bankrupt:

It was this snarling pack of debt which speeded (him) into the first World War and unquestionably caused him to become quite a military hero. He distinguished himself at Belleau Wood, and in Chateau-Thierry he went over the top as if he were chased by six process servers

Or an old man, with

surprisingly red hair that sprouted gaily from his ears

I ordered another book by Powell right after I finished this one.