LEOPARD IS A NEUTRAL by Erica Davies

Randomly, books have started arriving at my house for someone who lived her years ago. They seem to be complimentary copies, I don’t know why. I’m enjoying the weird serendipity of unchosen books. I rolled my eyes at this book about style, written by a stylist, but then it occurred to me that just possibly a stylist knows something about style that I could learn from.

She did have some good suggestions. One is, throw away things that you hope will fit one day or that you will wear one day. If you keep too much clothing for the better person you will one day be, it’s hard not to feel bad about the person you are every time you open the closet. She also suggested that rather than think about minimizing your bad bits, you should think about how to accentuating your good bits.

What I found most interesting about this book though was the imagined reader. This lady I guess got big on Instagram, so she has a clear idea of who her audience is, being women just returning to work after having small children. It really made it seem bleak. She kept saying things like: ‘you may have no idea who you are,’ or ‘you feel terrible about yourself,’ as if this was a widely understood experience. I’m really glad to not be very close to all that, because I’m not sure even leopard print can fix that.

THIS MOURNABLE BODY by Tsitsi Dangarembga

I bought this book after the author got arrested.  I wanted to show her some support, pathetic and $11.99 as it was.  I recall well when thousands of us marched in the ‘Final Push’ against ZANU in 2003.  That Push has proved lengthy, and this year only a handful of people walked, and that in middle class areas.  They all got arrested, including Dangarembga.

Dangarembga’s first book was NERVOUS CONDITIONS.  Because it was the first novel by a black Zimbabwean woman in English, it is sometimes receives the insult of being called one of the finest African novels of the twentieth century. It is one, but it is also one of the finest novels globally.  It is a coming of age story, and THIS MOURNABLE BODY is its continuation.

The epigraph is from Lorraine Hansbury

There is always something left to love

And this despondent reflection – on how much easier it would be to just give up – works for both the main character, Tambu, whose life is in a downward spiral, and the country of Zimbabwe.  Tambu is struggling in the country’s economic collapse, not least because she takes its impact personally. She quits a job where she is treated badly and

Spends much time regretting digging her own grave over a matter of mere principle 

I have definitely been there.  There is much that is witty.  Here is Tambu on her cousin, an academic, and her husband:

You begin to suspect . . that they found each other because neither possess the hardiness success requires, so they have dressed discouragement up in the glamour of intellect

It’s a bleak vision of a life and a country, beautifully written. It made me proud to be Zimbabwean. 

HONS AND REBELS by Jessica Mitford

It is a well known that home-schooling rarely ends well, and here is a prime example.  . 

She is brought up with her five siblings in a stately home in the English countryside by her deeply eccentric parents, describing her childhood as having a ‘rich vein of lunacy.’  Interestingly, one of those siblings was Nancy Mitford, whose comic novel THE PURSUIT OF LOVE I have read four or five times.  It is so hilariously strange that I used to think it was semi-autobiographical, now I conclude it is just straight up autobiographical, perhaps even toned down a bit. 

It’s not so much they don’t’ send them to school as they don’t’ do anything at all for them. The kids, already pretty weird, are left to their own devices, and just get weirder and weirder.

Jessica saves all her birthday and Christmas money every year into her ‘running away fund’.  No one takes her seriously but at eighteen she runs off to join the Spanish civil war.  She doesn’t get there, but she does end up marrying some guy she has known for three weeks. Incredibly, it is a happy marriage but not without some challenges:.   

No one had ever explained to me that you had to pay for electricity; and lights, electric heaters, stoves blazed away night and day. 

They end up in a lot of debt.  They move to America and are overwhelmed by the hospitality, comparing it to the upper class England they know:  “It’s inconceivable that anyone would ask them to stay unless they’d known them for ages, and probably not even then if they didn’t know their parents.”

And how involved everyone is:

Roaming the streets of New York, we encountered many examples of this delightful quality of New Yorkers, forever on their toes, violently, restlessly involving themselves in the slightest situation brought to their attention, always posting alternatives, already ready with an answer or an argument

The book ends abruptly with her husband off to fight in WWII.  She tells us, in one of the only footnotes in the book, that “He was killed in action in November 1941, at the age of twenty-three,” making this by far the strangest sublimation of grief I’ve ever seen in a memoir.

This is not her only tragedy. While she ran off to join the Communists, her sister Unity ran off to join the Nazis, falling madly in love with Hitler, and then, when the war began trying to kill herself and ending a vegetable. 

I am going to read the next instalment.  I really can’t imagine where this life is going.

SATISFACTION by Gillian Greenwood

It could be true that you can’t judge a book by its cover, but I am here to tell you that you can judge a book by it’s author bio. The first line tells you not just that the author attended Oxford but exactly what college. RED FLAG.

The characters lead lives that are achingly upper middle class you could just vom. One character is impressed that someone wears white shoes with a summer dress without looking common. Apparently this is not supposed to be a judgement on this character, but just the sort of thing people do think about.

I picked this book out of the bookcase of an AirBnB and with such books I do usually like to roll the dice. Here I went with what looked like raging chick lit expecting to be pleasantly surprised. Instead I was unpleasantly surprised. It was both boring and unbelievable, which is something of a feat. Anyway the cold beer helped it go down

THE GREAT BELIEVERS by Rebecca Makkai

“the world is a wonder, but the portions are small” (Rebecca Hazelton SLASH FICTION)

This is a well-written novel with two parallel stories. One covers the AIDS crisis among gay men in the 1980s and the other is set thirty years later, with some tangential characters from that first story now dealing with different issues. I enjoyed each of the stories in themselves, a lot, because Makkai is clearly a gifted writer, but I kept waiting for the two stories to join up, or resolve somehow, even if only thematically. They never did. It was bizarre. It was like two traditional novels smooshed together for no apparent reason.

Also, and this has nothing to do with this novel, but it’s remarkably sad how many novels there are about AIDS deaths in the eighties for Americans and how few about Africans

I KNOW WHY THE CAGED BIRD SINGS by Maya Angelou

For some reason, I always thought this was an epic poem, and avoided it accordingly.  In fact, it is an account of the author’s childhood, which was packed with incident and heroism.  Incident and heroism is good for epic poems, but not what you typically want in a childhood.

She spent much of her early life in a small town in Arkansas, in the 1930s.  I do not need to say much more for you to get the general idea re: racism.  But still, the specifics are surprising.  Apparently, for example, the fact that her grandmother was sometimes referred to as ‘Mrs’ was regarded as a rare mark of great respect, accorded to her because she ran the general store. 

Later Angelou and her brother go to live with her mother, and there she is, as an eight year old, raped by her mother’s boyfriend (that usual suspect). It is a stomach-churningly terrible scene.  She is so hurt she has to go to hospital, but she won’t tell what happened because he threatens to kill her brother if she does.  Her brother reassures here that he can take ‘anyone,’ and so much does she admire him (despite the fact he is just eleven himself) that she believes him and so tells the name of her attacker.  He is sentenced to a whole year in jail. Not to worry, as her family has him murdered the day he gets out.

She moves in with her father for a while, but after being stabbed by her father’s girlfriend (after a very strange trip to Mexico) she runs away, and lives for a month with a group of homeless kids in a junk yard.

After a month my thinking processes had so changed that I was hardly recognizable to myself.  The unquestioning acceptance by my peers had dislodged the familiar insecurity.  Odd that the homeless children. . . could initiate me into the brotherhood of man.  After hunting down unbroken bottles and selling them with a white girl from Missouri, a Mexican girl from Los Angeles and a Black girl from Oklahoma, I was never again to see myself so solidly outside the pale of the human race. 

This bizarre translation of her time at the dump into a lesson in brotherhood is emblematic of the book as a whole. The summary here might make it sound like her life, and thus the book, was bleak and tough, but that is not at all how her it feels: it is fun, and loving, and hopeful, like there’s always a way out.  

In her late teens she becomes worried she is a haemaphrodite (don’t ask).  She approaches a popular boy, and asks the immortal words: 

Would you like to have a sexual intercourse with me?   

Apparently he would like that, and poor Angelous gets pregnant that day.  This is where the book ends, but given what I know about her, I have no doubt that she will transform getting pregnant in high school into something wonderful.  This lady is a boss.  It’s a high bar, in life and in literature. 

Side point, interesting overview of how she wrote:

She would get up at five in the morning and check into a hotel room, where the staff were instructed to remove any pictures from the walls. She wrote on yellow legal pads while lying on the bed, with a bottle of sherry, a deck of cards to play solitaire, Roget’s Thesaurus, and the Bible, and left by the early afternoon. She averaged 10–12 pages of material a day, which she edited down to three or four pages in the evening.

Wikipeda

Sherry! Like I said, she’s a boss. She was encouraged to write the book by James Baldwin (who reverse-psychologied her by saying no autobiography could be art) and the first person she showed a draft to was Jessica Mitford, sister of the famous Nazis. This is some six degrees of separation

THE UNKNOWN AJAX by Georgette Heyer

I needed some cheering up so decided to whip through a Heyer. My blog tells me I have read fifteen of her books in the last ten years, and this one was as comforting as any of them.

AJAX tells the story of a bankrupt aristocratic family who, due to a boating accident, are suddenly faced with an unknown cousin as their heir. Their scheme is to marry off the oldest daughter to this man. She violently objects. Being a Heyer, you know this is 100% what is going to happen.

It does indeed happen. But unusually for Heyer it does via lots of social issues, including customs duties, Napoleonic wars, champagne used for boot blacking, and the invention of the spinning jenny. But however she gets there, it happens cheerfully and all ends well. If only real life could step up to the Heyer bar. We seem to have all the social issues with none of the happy endings.

EXCITING TIMES by Naoise Dolan

This writer wishes she was Sally Rooney.  So do I. 

Their settings are similar, being mostly about an Irish millennial’s love life, but for me it lacks Rooney’s clarity and intelligence.  It also has some extremely contradictory axes to grind about left-wing politics. 

Ava is teaching English in Hong Kong.  She moves in with a banker she is sleeping with, Julian, largely because she does not want to pay her own rent.  This makes her sound venal, and she is.  Meanwhile, she enjoys lecturing everyone about left-wing politics.  On the other hand, no one can say she is cheating Julian, because he emphasizes repeatedly that they are not in a relationship.  This upsets her, but as she says:  

I couldn’t even feel truly, sumptuously sorry for myself, because it wasn’t reciprocation I was craving.  My desire was for Julian’s feelings to be stronger than mine.  No one would sympathise with that.  I wanted a power imbalance, and I wanted it to benefit me.

So the book wasn’t all bad.  It had some sharp and accurate observations such as the above.  But it really fell apart when it came to social commentary.  Here she is meeting Julian

People who had gone to Oxford would tell you so even when it wasn’t the question.  Then, like ‘everyone,’ he (said he’d) gone to the City.  “Which city?” I said.  Julian assessed whether women made jokes, decided we did, and laughed. 

I mean this is just nonsense.  Generally people who have gone to e.g. Harvard will go out of their way to stay they studied in Boston and similar.  And in general young men will laugh at your jokes. It’s older men who struggle with that. So to me it was all came across as rather pat, academic social commentary about income inequality, by someone who has so far had rather a good time.   Take the fact that she refers to her teaching English as the whole “neo-colonial TEFL thing.”  This just drips privilege, as if it would be better for kids not to be able to speak the international language of business because it would make history neater.  Or try this, justification of her living with Julian:

Who would believe me if I said it made no difference whether I lived in his apartment or a dingy Airbnb?  Yes, I’d say, I am perfectly apathetic as to whether I spend most of my income renting a tiny room with people who hate me.  These things are quite subjective.  I could have soft towels and five-star dinners, or I could check my windowsill every morning to see how many cockroaches died there in the night.

What a heart-breaking analysis of the challenges of inequality.  An expensive Airbnb: I mean. 

THE THORNBIRDS by Colleen McCullough

Colleen McCollough was working as a medical researcher when she found out she was making less than male colleagues.  Determined to make more, she turned to art.  Incredibly, this gambit worked.  This epic of an Australian family was a bestseller and spawned a very popular mini-series. (“Instant vomit,” according to McCollough).

While I can see many issues with this book, including extreme cheese and really stilted dialogue, I have to go ahead and confess: I enjoyed it.   Partly, I enjoyed the plot, with this much older priest falling in love with this young girl.  But mostly I enjoyed the setting.  For example, did you know that if you can shear sheep fast, (three hundred a day) you are a ‘dreadnought’ and can make as much money from betting how fast you can go as from actually shearing.  Also did you know that in shearing sheds:

At each’s man’s stand . . . was a circle of flooring much lighter in color than the rest, the spot where fifty years of shearers had stood dripping their bleaching seat into the wood of the board

Despite this being in many ways an old-fashioned book, McCullough certainly is unafraid to advance a specifically female view of the world.  She has a lot to say about domestic drudgery, and about how no one actually loves any of their kids after the fifth, and about how the men in rural Australia think they are good kissers only because the women are good liars. 

That instant vomit thing tips you off. This lady was a character.  She was convinced all critics knew ‘in their hearts’ she was just smarter and better than them.  She wrote 30,000 words a day, and virtually ‘never made mistakes’ because she had perfect spelling and great grammar.  And she died a millionaire many times over, so take that, other medical researchers

Let me note that I read this in my absolute favourite format, which is a very elderly second hand paperback, with browned pages, and as an amazing bonus it even had a weird newspaper clipping as a bookmark.  Enjoy the mysterious caption especially: “I used to be a teenage doctor until I discovered eminence.”

A GIRL’S STORY by Annie Ernaux

Here is a memoir about a summer of sex and fun.  It drips with shame.  I’m not sure why.  I guess in 1958, things were different for girls.  She’s French, she’s seventeen, a counsellor at a summer camp, and gets into it with a bunch of the boys.  If someone got that much action today it’d be all over her Instagram.  But that’s not how she takes it:

I am endowed by shame’s vast memory, more detailed and implacable than any other, a gift unique to shame. 

There is one boy she is particularly in to, and when she finally gets with him (after a fondue party (!)):

There is no sense of degradation, no room for anything but raw desire, chemically pure, as frenzied as the drive to rape, this desire for H to possess her, take her virginity. 

It’s like: sweetheart. Why you on about degradation?  It’s fine. You are allowed to want to have sex.  The whole thing is however swift and painful.  I’m too big, he helpfully tells her.  Also, he comforts her with the information that “often women do not climax until after giving birth”  

She is so bothered by what she did over this summer, and the ensuing rejection by this prince of a guy, that she develops bulimia and stops menstruating.  Then, she reads Simone de Beauvoir’s THE SECOND SEX.  Her life is transformed. She is:

. . .awakened to a world stripped of the appearances it had worn only days before – a world in which everything from the cars on the Boulevard Yser to the necktied students she meets  . . signifies the power of men and the alienation of women

It’s hard to imagine what it would be like having to survive your adolescence without even the basic vocabulary of feminism.  I found it very touching, because I read earlier de Beauvoir’s MEMOIRS OF A DUTIFUL DAUGHTER, where you learn how very hard she fought herself to own her ideas, and it is interesting to see what a gift they were to others.  Still, says Ernaux, understanding your shame does not make it go away. She is thus impelled to write this account of that eventful summer. She writes to understand it:

It is the absence of meaning in what one lives, at the moment one lives it, which multiplies the possibilities of writing

This is I think an interesting observation, but overall there was a good deal too much of this.  Ernaux is now an older lady, and spends too much of this memoir reflecting on what writing means in general, and describing in detail how she looked these boys up on this ‘Internet’ she insists on capitalizing.   Like no one ever stalked an ex- before. 

However it was interesting to see how she came to feel so ashamed, and how she hauled herself at least half way out of it.