The Rings of Saturn by W.G. Sebald (translator: Michael Hulse)

There are many kinds of books you can encounter in a lifetime. There are books which are soulful and full of grace. Books that are like a slap in the face. Books that nurture and console you. Books that make you laugh. Books that are like a lifelong journey. Books that are like a puzzle you don’t have the brainpower to solve. Books that never seem to end.

Then there are books that are like walking along the riverside in the company of an erudite and well informed man, someone with whom you have only a tenuous relationship, perhaps through work or a shared acquaintance, but whose company is always interesting. You are walking along the riverside on a pleasant summer day, heading towards a pub you visited together a number of years ago. The sun is blinking through the trees, there is a gentle breeze and soft summer clouds floating fatly in the blue air. Your companion is telling you a story about a man he once encountered as a child, a lord of something or other who had a peculiar penchant swans – your friend mentions this pointing towards a pair of swans paddling along the river. The lord had such a love of swans that he had created a sanctuary somewhere hereabouts. The swan sanctuary turned out to be short lived and the ruin of the man.

As your companion talks you see the pub come into view. It is on the top of a small hill to your left, its grounds rolling down towards the riverbank clustered with picnic benches and you remember when you came here the last time. Then you were much younger, you were newly arrived in the area and this man, through your shared acquaintance or work, had offered to show you around. The day, one similar to today, was bright and warm, there were bees buzzing in the grass and ducks on the water and your anxiety about having moved from your home to a new, strange place had been assuaged for the duration of the afternoon. Something about your companion and his excellent conversation.

When you arrive at the pub the man goes off to the bar to buy beer, and you sit down at one of the tables close to the waterside. It is then that you discover that things are not exactly the way you remember them. The pub, its grounds so well situated on such a lovely day, is largely deserted. The wood of the picnic table splinters under your nails, there are cracks in its surface and great gouges torn out of the wood. The swans are gone from the river and the ducks from your memory are absent. Your friend returns and sits down, passing you your beer glass from which you take a great gulp. The beer doesn’t taste as good as you remember. ’It was here,’ your friend explains. ‘This was the place of lord such-and-such’s swan sanctuary.’ The Swan, is the name of the pub. As the bitter taste of beer melts from your tongue, you realise with surprise that you are now the same age as your companion was the last time that you were here together.

The air turns chill, a dark cloud rumbles overhead blocking out the sun. A melancholy mist rises from the river, drawing with it the brackish tang of decay. It reminds you, somehow, of a dream you had recently in which you had been walking along the self-same riverbank heading towards the pub at which you were now drinking. In the dream it had been a day much the same as today, but you had walked alone. The air seemed thick and dense, and as you walked a great, ancient forest appeared. With each step more trees grew, until the forest grew so thick you became lost within it. The familiar houses and landmarks had decayed to tumbledown ruins, and if there were any other people in the forest there was no sign of them. You walked until you were ready to lie down with exhaustion, and only then did the forest open into a clearing and the way out became obvious. You turned to find that the light was failing, that the path you had walked along had disappeared. It was a peculiarly vivid dream, and though you had felt lost you woke from it feeling only that you had experienced something like truth.

That is The Rings of Saturn.   

The end of #TBR20, and a confession

It is done. My TBR20 challenge is complete. Last night I read and read doggedly, and I finished David Mitchell's The Bone Clocks. I did not greatly enjoy it, which makes me sad. It wasn't the pressure of reading - had I been enjoying it there would have been no pressure at all - but rather it was a Mitchell book I didn't feel engaged with. Has my Mitchell worship been broken? Quite possibly.

Yes, I have finished reading my 20 books. The full list is as follows:

1. Ancillary Justice by Ann Leckie

2. Ancillary Sword by Ann Leckie

3. The Waves by Virginia Woolf

4. The Years by Virginia Woolf

5. Flush by Virginia Woolf

6. Between the Acts by Virginia Woolf

7. Why Be Happy When You Can Be Normal by Jeanette Winterson

8. Good Morning, Midnight by Jean Rhys

9. Moominland Midwinter by Tove Jansson

10. A Field Guide to Getting Lost by Rebecca Solnit

11. Full Tilt by Dervla Murphy

12. Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn

13. Caramelo by Sandra Cisneros

14. Behindlings by Nicola Barker

15. Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

16. The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot

17. School for Love by Olivia Manning

18. The Rings of Saturn by W. G. Sebald

19. The Mill on the Floss by George Eliot

20. The Bone Clocks by David Mitchell

If you recall from this blog entry I made a cracking start on my TBR and by early January I was already half way through. So I decided to make it harder. Then I made it even harder on myself by going stir-crazy over library books so my TBR reading has taken about 3 times longer than it had to. And whilst this is no excuse whatsoever, I have to admit that when I stalled on my last 3 I totally caved and bought 4 books. Yes, I am a terrible cheat. Mea culpa.

So, what have I learned from the process? It's been great. I may have cheated towards the end, but by that point it had been over 3 months since I'd last bought a book which is probably the longest I've managed without book buying in the last 10 years. I think, whilst not being 100% successful, it has gifted me a better relationship with book buying. Now I only want to buy books I intend to keep. I'm using the library much more, which is no bad thing, and whilst I haven't completely quashed my acquisitive spirit or the compulsive curiosity that makes me want to immerse myself in random themes (right now it's islands and cyber crime. Don't ask) I am in a lot better shape. One of the things I've done is to create a spreadsheet where I can note down books I want to read, then I research what I can source at the library and which I really want to buy. I find writing them down helps to quell the desire to impulse buy, and by spreading out my planned acquisitions it gives me time to decide I don't want to read them after all. Sounds crackers, I know, but it helps. 

Would I do it again? Absolutely. In fact once I've got my initial need to acquire some new books out of the way (by the end of this weekend, then) I will select another 20 from my to read pile and implement a new book buying ban. Next time I'll go a little easier on myself, and perhaps pick a selection of books which is not quite so mentally challenging (or at least I won't save all the long ones to the end). 

In the meantime, I have a lovely book about Tove Jansson to reward myself with...

School for Love by Olivia Manning

I’ve had School for Love sitting on my shelves for a mere eternity, after having bought it on impulse on a recommendation from a trusted source. Years passed. The shelf grew dusty and the book has had time to yellow before I eventually stuck it on my TBR list and it finally saw the light of day. What a shame it took me so long.

School for Love tells the story of Felix, a boy living in the Middle East during World War II. His father, a soldier, has been killed and when his mother dies from typhus he is left an orphan. This is how he ends up going to live with his Aunt, Miss Bohun, who lives in Jerusalem. Miss Bohun is not a blood relation, but was adopted by his father’s family as a child. In all his life Felix has never been to see her, and all he knows about her is that his mother never wanted to visit her. Why, he didn’t know or understand.

There is a reason, of course. Miss Bohun is one of the most appalling, mean and reprehensible characters I have ever encountered in literature. If there is no other reason to read this book, the dreadfulness of Miss Bohun is it. She is truly memorable. When Felix arrives, he is welcomed by Miss Bohun who almost immediately begins to discuss expenses. Felix can stay with them, she says, but his share of the cost will be eleven pounds. Immediately we know something is awry, as the vulnerable Felix notes when catching a glimpse at the list of shared household expenses, “She did not hand him the paper but, peering at it over her arm, he noticed she had put Telephone and Kerosene down twice. He did not like to mention this.” It is this ‘not liking to mention’ things that Miss Bohun so neatly relies upon and exploits.

Living in the house with Miss Bohun is another women, Frau Leszno, who appears to be a servant, her son Nicky and an old man, Mr. Jewel, who lives in the tiny attic room. Frau Leszno is extremely hostile to Felix and it’s apparent that there is some conflict between her and Miss Bohun, a suggestion that the house is in fact Frau Leszno’s but somehow Miss Bohun has engineered things so that she is in control. Nicky, too, is quite ambivalent to Felix. The loneliness and austerity of their living conditions are almost unbearable, except for the presence of Faro the cat, who becomes the sole repository of affection for Felix in the house.

School for Love is a classic coming of age story. Felix’s trajectory is quite familiar; having come from a situation of extreme naivety, he is forced to grow up quickly and take responsibility for himself. He begins to make his own judgements, heavily influenced by the arrival of Miss Ellis who comes to live in the house when both Frau Leszno and Mr Jewel are unceremoniously ousted by the terrible Miss Bohun. Felix finds himself entranced by Miss Ellis, who is a pregnant widow and extremely pretty and who, in Felix’s words, “When Miss Ellis spoke he suddenly, with the instinct of youth, of a creature with unblemished eyes, recognised truth, truth, truth, and he knew that truth was the thing he wanted.”

But it is the awful Miss Bohun that really makes this book. Miss Bohun with her ‘charitable’ acts, her commitment to the ‘Ever Readies’ a religious group whose sole aim is to prepare for the end of days. In the house there is an ever-present power struggle, initially between Frau Leszno and Miss Bohun, and then between Miss Ellis and Miss Bohun, the conclusion of which is surprising and I won’t reveal it here. Miss Bohun sees herself as a charitable person, yet she uses her position to seek out and dominate vulnerable people like Felix and Mr Jewel, takes them in with her initial kindness then gradually exploit them. As described here as she explains her ‘arrangement’ with Frau Leszno:

“’Our first arrangement was that we held everything in common. She supplied some pieces of furniture, it is true, and I supplied others. But if she chooses to be petty and lay claim to the things she provided – well, she must just take them with her. I don’t doubt something will be found to take their place.’ Miss Bohun’s voice became cheerful as she talked. ‘I find that my troubles always sort themselves out. You can’t do better than trust in the Lord. I don’t know of any occasion when God has failed to look after me. Faith is a wonderful thing. Since I’ve found it, I’ve never had a day’s illness and as for money – well, money seeks to grow on trees! I used to be such a nervous ailing sort of girl! I used to dread the future with nothing but my own little private income – a mere two hundred pounds a year – but how wonderfully things have worked out for me.’ There was in Miss Bohun’s tone something exultant that held Felix amazed.”

She is the ultimate manipulator, taking people in then gradually taking them to pieces. Yet there are many questions about her behaviour: is Miss Bohun knowingly terrible, or does she truly believe she is doing people good and all her good fortune comes from her belief in God and her commitment to the Ever Readies? Does she truly believe she takes the destitute and offers them salvation, only to have her ‘gift’ unappreciated? These are the questions that Felix wrestles with, as he watches Miss Bohun and her machinations unfolding. Can a person truly care for others when they truly believe the world is destined to end? Does Miss Bohun really believe in the twisted logic she espouses?

Whatever the answer to those questions, the journey is fascinating. I was honestly appalled by Miss Bohun, the level to which she would sink whilst seemingly believing in her goodness was hard to comprehend. Yet there are people like Miss Bohun out there in the world, doing terrible things in the name of charity and salvation. The veil gradually drops from the innocent Felix’s eyes. Can he escape from her grasp, or will he too find himself inadequate to the challenge of Miss Bohun?

School for Love is an excellent book, engaging, funny, appalling (I’ve used that word a lot, but it’s very appropriate) and clever. It is the story of a women who has not loved and what that lack of love has done to her; it is a story of power, control and manipulation. It is a story about growing up, about the nature of ‘wickedness’ and what that really means in the real world. It has one of the most memorable characters I have ever encountered, skilfully played out on a canvas so tight you can feel the tension just waiting to break. 

Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn

 I’d heard a lot of conflicting reports about Gone Girl, even before acquiring the battered second-hand copy that’s been sitting on my shelf for a good few months unread. I think the conflicting reports really put me off reading it, no one wants to start a book thinking they’re going to hate it, and originally Gone Girl wasn’t going to be in my #TBR20 list. Plus someone at work vocally let out the ending, having seen the film and thought it ‘terrible’, which also put me off (and nearly resulted in a lynching of that individual). Then I let my daughter pick a book for me, and for some reason she was determined that Gone Girl was going to be it.

Thus committed, I decided to put Gone Girl higher up the list. I sighed. I cursed the weirdly soft cover that makes my fingers itch just thinking about it. I cursed the press and the reviews I’d read and the underlying feeling of certainty that I was just going to hate it. Then I started reading. Then I read some more, and before I knew it I’d finished the book. Did I hate it? No. Is it a great book? No.

In case you don’t already know the story, Gone Girl is the story of a marriage coming apart. Nick and Amy have been married 5 years. They were forced to move from New York, Amy’s home, to Missouri (Nick’s home) due to redundancies and sickly relatives. Then, on the morning of Nick & Amy’s 5^th wedding anniversary, Amy goes missing. Somehow Nick doesn’t seem as sad about it as he should be, and soon the suspicion falls to him; perhaps because that’s exactly how Amy planned it.

The story is told in alternating chapters from Nick’s then Amy’s point of view. It soon becomes very apparent that neither Nick nor Amy are very nice people. In fact Amy, it appears, is something of a psychopath and Nick is an adulterous coward and a liar. I think that pretty much sums them up. I can understand the number of people who have complained that neither are sympathetic characters.

Fortunately for me I am not put off by unsympathetic characters, and in fact I rather enjoy them more than sympathetic ones. This whole novel swings back and forth between the two characters as they sink deeper and deeper into their own depravities. In Amy’s absence both characters come to appreciate something about the other, that perhaps they are better together than apart whilst recognising that neither is exactly ‘catch of the year’. As Nick reflects here:

“[…]Amy was blooming large in my mind. She was gone, and yet she was more present than anyone else. I’d fallen in love with Amy because I was the ultimate Nick with her. Loving her made me superhuman, it made me feel alive. At her easiest, she was hard, because her brain was always working, working, working – I had to exert myself just to keep pace with her. I’d spend an hour crafting a casual e-mail to her. I became a student of arcane so I could keep her interested: the Lake Poets, the code duello, the French Revolution. Her mind was both wide and deep, and I got smarter being with her. And more considerate, and more active, and more alive, and almost electric, because for Amy, love was like drugs or booze or porn: There was no plateau. Each exposure needed to be more intense than the last to achieve the same result.”

Okay, so the punctuation is a bit iffy, but this is the 21^st Century and no one cares about that now, right (forcing myself not to care)? Gone Girl covers a lot of ground about fakery and what is ‘real’, the difficulties of establishing a true and honest identity in an era defined by relentless advertising and media, in which the idea of ‘self’ has never been more under attack (or so it seems. Always hard to judge against earlier eras). This is particularly drawn out in the character of Amy who, it appears, is always playing a role whether it’s ‘Amazing Amy’ the character from her parents’ series of books, obsessive Amy, the ‘too nice to be true’ Amy from her diary, or ‘Cool girl’ which is an identity I encountered in this book then saw all over the place. As Amy describes here:

“That night at the Brooklyn party, I was playing the girl who was in style, the girl a man like Nick wants: the Cool Girl. Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they? She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gangbang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry: they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl.

Men actually think this girl exists. Maybe they’re fooled because so many women are willing to pretend to be this girl. For a long time Cool Girl offended me. I used to see men – friends, co-workers, strangers – giddy over those awful pretender women, and I’d want to sit these men down and calmly say: You are not dating a woman, you are dating a woman who has watched too many movies written by socially awkward men who’d like to believe this kind of woman exists and might kiss them.”

This kind of social commentary peppers the book, with Amy and Nick’s disastrous relationship serving as a pivot for a deeper view of human interaction in the media age. It makes for an entertaining read. At its heart the concept is a bit silly, and the execution edges on the ridiculous, but even so I enjoyed watching Nick and Amy slowly tear each other to pieces realising along the way that perhaps they were still the best person for the other. The lengths to which they each will go to punish the other are extraordinary, and in the end the story is not in any way believable, but it is fun and entertaining and rotten to the core and I enjoyed it. 

Reflections on reading Virginia Woolf

A few months ago I set out to read everything by Virginia Woolf. Over the months this task has morphed into reading all the fiction by Virginia Woolf, with her non-fiction – essays, letters – to follow on. Partly this change was because of my commitment to the #TBR20 initiative, which I didn’t want to be entirely populated by Virginia Woolf books; partly this was down the need to return all the Woolf books I’d borrowed to the library – for some reason they wouldn't let me hold onto them indefinitely. So in the end I managed to read all Woolf’s novels and, at some point later this year, I’ll start working my way through her non-fiction writing. I’m looking forward to her letters in particular.

So what did I learn from this? Was it a worthwhile exercise? Yes, I think it was. My early attempts at reading Woolf were fraught with conflict. I’d tried Mrs. Dalloway, I’d read Orlando. There was something about both of these books that I struggled to reconcile myself with, and in my wider reading of Woolf that hasn't changed. These books are not the exception; I found myself polarized by her catalogue: some books I loved, thought were wonderful; others I had to force myself through. Is Woolf a great writer? Undoubtedly. Some of her novels are astoundingly good, and even when she’s not on her ‘best’ form, she is still extraordinarily good. She has a sharp eye for character, I have encountered no other writer who has Woolf’s capability for skewering the essence of a person in a mere handful of words. She had an eye for ‘scenes’ and this eye pierces her work with some memorable short observations, like the little old blind woman in Jacob’s Room who, even now, I can see. She has a capacity for fun, as demonstrated in Night and Day; she is never sentimental or mawkish. She is a poet, her writing is vivid and memorable even if sometimes it descends into chaotic, feverishness that is hard to follow.

It would be hard to rank Woolf’s novels, I suspect that different people will have very different experiences of her work. I have heard from many people who love Mrs. Dalloway and Orlando, but find her other works impenetrable. For me, the standout works were To the Lighthouse (which I think is her absolute best), Jacob’s Room and The Waves. Of these The Waves was hardest to follow, her most poetic and ‘difficult’ work, but I think if you can approach it without trying too hard to understand it, just let the prose wash over you like the waves on the shore, then the extraordinary beauty of it becomes more clear. Next for me would be Night and Day and then The Years. I have a great fondness for Night and Day, it is a personable and lovable book. Dalloway and Orlando are books with which I have a complicated relationship. I want to love them both, but I don’t. Maybe my views on those will change in the future, I think Dalloway in particular needs multiple readings to draw out its worth. The Voyage Out is a good introduction to Woolf for anyone who wants to start reading her without leaping into her more experimental works. That leaves the ones I didn’t like: Between the Acts and Flush. I struggled to find redeeming features in either of these books.

To the Lighthouse, though. That’s a book that I would be happy to read over and over. It is a magnetic read, beautifully written and absorbing. It is a true testament to Woolf’s ability as an artist that she could take such a seemingly insignificant event and draw every drop of quiet drama from it. It is a masterpiece that everyone who loves to read ought to read. To the Lighthouse is the book, in my opinion, that shows Woolf at her best and earns her a well-deserved place in the literary canon.

What I haven’t mentioned here is Woolf’s diary which is the book that propelled me on this journey through Woolf’s books. I have only read the abridged version, the version Leonard Woolf edited to show Virginia’s life as a writer, but would like to read the full unexpurgated versions one day. In her diaries we learn of Woolf’s writing journey, her tortures and triumphs and we also see something of the woman, her concerns and her desires. It makes for an enlightening read, and I would recommend this to everyone.

I am so glad I spent some time discovering the treasures in Virginia Woolf’s writings. It is not a journey I have finished, in fact I think it is a journey I am still at the beginning of. I still have to read her non-fiction works and I’d love to read her letters too. I suspect I will re-read a number of her works over the coming years: Jacob’s Room, The Waves, Dalloway, Night and Day and my beloved To the Lighthouse which I could read and read and read again. If you haven’t yet discovered this marvelous woman’s writing, please do. 

The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot

This book was a gift from a friend, and it’s been languishing on my shelves for some time (as books often are) waiting to be read. It’s exactly the kind of book I would like: non-fiction (because I am trying to read more non-fiction…and succeeding), written by a woman about a woman, sciency. All those things add up to a considerate gift. So why had it been sitting on my shelves for so long? The answer: it seemed like quite a daunting read. So when I signed up to the #TBR20 initiative over on Twitter, this seemed like the exact kind of book that should be on my list.

The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks tells the story of one woman’s search to find the story of the life of another woman, a poor black woman who died in the 1950s from cervical cancer, whose cells have changed the face of modern medicine. The cells, known as HeLa, have allowed significant medical advancement to be made because they were the first cells that were successfully grown and kept alive outside the human body. As a student of biology Skloots learned of the HeLa cells and how important they’ve been in medical science – enabling development of a polio vaccine, cancer therapies, cloning and gene mapping – but discovered that little was known about the woman herself. So she set out to write this story which is at once a personal history - piecing together Henrietta Lacks from her medical records and the vague memories of friends and family, many of which have suffered as a result of the famous cells - as well as a potted history of cell culture, including both the development and ethics of this branch of medical science.

What follows is an incredibly engaging story. Skloots is open about her investigations, she manages to insert her search for Henrietta Lacks’s story into the book though it’s neither arrogant nor self-serving or intrusive. Instead we learn through Rebecca’s eyes how the Lacks family have been affected both by their personal loss – the loss of Henrietta as a mother, partner, cousin – as well as the impact of having Henrietta’s famous cells linked to their family. There is also the ethical impact: in the case of the medicine industry millions of dollars have been earned selling Henrietta’s cells, yet the Lacks family, including Henrietta’s children, are so poor they can’t even afford medical insurance. Henrietta’s cells have benefitted millions, enabled many people to become rich, yet not the Lacks family itself.

This leads, neatly, onto the question of medical ethics which is explored in some depth in the book. Skloot manages to sit very carefully on the fence neither judging for or against the medicine industry. On the one hand there is considerable benefit in allowing the medical profession to conduct research openly and freely, so the idea of allowing individuals a proprietary interest over their tissues and cells could inhibit medical progress. On the other hand, some appalling abuses have taken place in both the context of medical research programmes and the acquisition of samples from living patients. It raises some interesting questions about the nature of informed medical consent that still need to be answered today. I found myself horrified by stories of medical experimentation such injecting healthy and unhealthy patients with HeLa cells to see if they developed cancer, without telling them that there was a cancer risk (many injectees went on to develop tumours). In many cases these experiments were conducted on black people, and there’s a sense throughout the book that the black community were subjected to some terrible treatment simply on account of being black, including Henrietta’s deaf & dumb daughter Elsie who died shortly after Henrietta in an overcrowded and dirty asylum where she, too, had been experimented on. There’s also the question of whether allowing organisations to apply a proprietary right over things like genes is, in and of itself, a greater inhibiting factor. The idea that organisations must be allowed to make money or research will not happen is a silly one; history is peppered with examples of scientists undertaking research as a matter of following curiosity, or out of a personal interest (loss of a family member) or simply for the common good. Included in this is George Gey, the man whose lab took Henrietta’s cells and grew and grew them. Cells that he gave away, freely, enabling others to conduct research and make money whilst he remained always on the cusp of broke.

But this is a story about Henrietta, and Skloots manages, through careful piecing together, to construct the story of Henrietta Lacks. It is a name more of us ought to know, to understand how her contribution has led to significant medical advancement. Her story is not an untroubling one; her children have led difficult lives and are variously proud and fed up with the story of HeLa. Skloot doesn’t let us forget that this is a story about a woman, a family and a community, that at the heart of the HeLa story is a dead young woman who left behind a grieving family which have never quite recovered from her loss.

Was it a daunting read? No, it wasn’t. At times it was infuriating (arrogant researchers); at others it was touching, sad, uplifting. It was certainly enlightening, and definitely a worthwhile read. Many thanks to the considerate friend who saw this book and knew it was perfect for me.