Review Post 28 - The End is the Beginning is The End...

I have, once again, managed to make it to fifty books fairly early in the year, and I can think of no more fitting way to bring up the half-century (a metaphorical drive back over the bowler's head for six) than with the final instalment of Anthony Trollope's Barchester series, The Last Chronicle of Barset.  The sixth of the Barchester novels, it brings together many of the characters from the first five from all over Barset to parade before the reader one last time, creating new ties between old friends (and enemies) and tying up a few loose ends before allowing the citizens of Barset to fade into the sunset.


Barset is a small place, and it's not beyond the realm of possibility that people like Lily Dale (the heroine of The Small House at Allington) and Archdeacon Grantly (one of the original 'cast members' from The Warden) should find their paths crossing; however, through a plot which manages to inflame interest and imagination across the county, Trollope manages to tie his favourite characters together even more tightly than this.  In doing so, he reintroduces us to some old friends, and it is to his credit that most of these old friends have not stayed the same but have developed since we last met them, some for the better, some for the worse.  And the whole kerfuffle all hangs on a little cheque for twenty pounds.


The story revolves around the Reverend Josiah Crawley, a supporting character in Framley Parsonage who takes centre stage this time, and the mystery of the aforementioned cheque, which he has used to pay his butcher's bill.  When the owner of the cheque charges him with unlawful possession of the money, Crawley is forced to explain where he got it; otherwise, he will be in trouble with the authorities (both civil and ecclesiastical).  The trouble is that he doesn't know...


The reason for this is that Crawley is an eccentric, a poor curate from the fire and brimstone days, who lives in poverty alleviated by his unwavering belief in his religion.  Driven half to madness in spite of (or partly because of) his intellect, his mastery of Greek and Latin, and his desire to do his best for the souls of his parishioners, he is simply unable to account for his possession of the cheque.  However, the more he begins to doubt his sanity, and his fitness for the role he carries out, the more our old friends rally round him, refusing to believe that such a pillar of the church could commit petty larceny.  As things get blacker and blacker for Crawley, such Barchester luminaries as John Eames, Lady Lufton and Mark Robarts do their best to help him out, in the process irritating the notoriously prickly Crawley even further.


The plot though is most definitely NOT the thing; this is all about the people and the place.  For those who have read the whole series in order, it is a joy to meet our old friends again, and it is, perhaps, for this reason, that Trollope's only minor failings occur.  The scenes in London, where John Eames whiles his time away with Madalina Demolines, and where the minor plot involving an artist and his love affair unfolds, fail precisely because they mostly involve newly introduced characters who add nothing to the main theatre of events and for whom the reader feels very little.  You can't help but feel that Trollope would have been better advised to stay in Barchester a little more (despite these little excursions pointing to how life will go on after Barchester).


Of course, as always, the book contains some more unforgettable confrontational scenes.  Crawley's memorable audience with Bishop (and, naturally, Mrs.) Proudie at the palace ranks alongside other famous moments in the series, with Crawley triumphant and striding majestically through the country lanes back to his house.  However, the truly moving scenes here are more pathetic than triumphant, and most of them involve our old friend, formerly The Warden, the Reverend Septimus Harding, one of the most angelic, lovingly-created characters in literature.  I don't want to give away some of the later events, but one passage sticks in the memory, where Mrs. Grantley accepts her daughter's request not to invite the old man to stay as she (the daughter) is now too high in the world to associate with mere mortals like her grandfather.  She calmly tells her husband:

'Do not let us say anything more about it.  Of course we cannot have everything.  I am told the child does her duty in her sphere of life, and I suppose we ought to be contented.'  Then Mrs. Grantly went up to her own room, and there she cried.  (Wordsworth Classics, 1994, p.21)

This final, subtly written sentence, stopped me dead in my tracks, and other, similarly subtle passages later in the book had me welling up with tears.  For those who have gone the whole journey, this novel can be extremely emotional.

And so, after 712 pages of the final chapter in the history of England's most famous fictional county, the author addresses the reader for the final time, summing up why he has been able to create a locale which fascinates twenty-first century readers as much as it did those who read the novels in instalments in the nineteenth century:

... to me Barset has been a real county, and its city a real city, and the spires and towers have been before my eyes, and the voices of the people are known to my ears, and the pavement of the city ways are familiar to my footsteps. (p.712)

It is this immersion in his fictional world which enables Trollope to create such an intriguing and enticing series of books, and it is not just the author who feels pangs of regret on leaving the English countryside behind (in Trollope's case, to move on to writing more about London and Politics - in mine, to return to the Australian winter and my family).  It's with a heavy heart that I must say that this really was the last chronicle of Barset.  However, as alluded to in the title to this post, it's not really the end.  Firstly, there's always the Palliser series of novels (with guest appearances from certain of our Barset friends) to go on to (perhaps not this year though!); and, of course, in a few years' time, I'll be standing in front of my bookcase, eyes roaming casually over my collection, looking for the next book to scratch the ever-present reading itch, when The Warden will catch my eye...

And it all starts over again.

Review Post 21 - The Joys of Youth

On to May, and that means it's time for The Small House at Allington, the fifth book in Anthony Trollope's Barchester Chronicles series. Each rereading of these books leaves you feeling all warm and fuzzy inside, and this month's instalment is no exception. Unusually for Trollope, the major event occurs early in the book when country belle Lily Dale captivates London man-about-town Adolphus Crosbie so completely that he decides to propose marriage. However, after an idyllic few weeks in Allington, Crosbie moves on to Courcy Castle, where he is besieged (in the most subtle, delicate and elegant way) by Lady Alexandrina. Despite knowing full well that he would be best served by remaining true to Lily, the snob in him is unable to resist the appeal of marrying into the aristocracy. Thus occurs a jilting which will change lives (at least three) forever...

Although Lily is widely acknowledged as the stand-out character, a burned moth unable to trust to her chances of recovery from her scorched attempt at romance, Crosbie, the undisputed villain of the piece, is just as fascinating. In Framley Parsonage, the figure of Nathaniel Sowerby exemplified the gentleman with all possible advantages in life who throws them all away, knowing all the while that the road he is treading leads only to ruin. So it is with Crosbie. He is fully aware that Lily would have made a far better wife than the ice-cold Lady Alexandrina, and he quickly realises that the degenerate assortment of alcoholics, scroungers and old maids who make up the Courcy family cannot hold a candle to the honest gentry surrounding Lily in Allington. So why does he do it?

Crosbie falls victim to his own delusions of grandeur, trading certain plain happiness for potential high status - something which never really comes to pass. Even while flirting at Courcy Castle, he admits to himself the inferiority of the people there, shuddering involuntarily at the ignorance and deceit he sees around him. Alas, his society time in London has become too dear to him, and he is unable to tear himself away from the bright lights; in truth, he is just as much of a moth as Lily is.

The observant reader (and I am sure that you are all observant - and highly intelligent as well) will have noticed that three lives were ruined by Crosbie's caddish behaviour. The third of these unfortunate souls is John Eames, a childhood friend of Lily's who (naturally) worships the very ground she walks on. He is a 'hobbledehoy', neither a child nor a man, and over the course of the novel, he develops socially and mentally until he believes (and is led by others to believe) that he may be the one to repair Crosbie's damage and mend Lily's heart. He is also a thinly-veiled portrait of Trollope himself and gives the author the opportunity to put aspects of his youth into his fiction, including his time as a clumsy clerk in the postal service. Quite whether Trollope would have been willing and able to avenge a lady's honour in the fashion Eames does is another matter entirely...

I'll leave you to find out how it all ends for yourself. As to the series itself, June will bring the review of what is, quite literally, The Last Chronicle of Barset, a glorious swansong for England's most famous fictional county and a chance to catch up with some old friends - some welcome, some not so. See you then!

*****

While we're on the topic of thinly-veiled autobiography, the David Mitchell reminiscence tour stops by the Worcestershire town of Black Swan Green this week. Set in 1982, with a background of Betamax, sherbert bombs and the Falklands War, the novel follows young Jason Taylor, a young secondary school student with a stammer, through one of his most formative years. Despite the simplistic style of the storytelling and the detached nature of the thirteen chapters, Mitchell manages to tie it all into a seamless analysis of both adolescence and a simpler, quieter era.

Let me get the references out of the way now. The style reminds me very much of Mikael Niemi's Popular Music, a Finnish coming-of-age tale, while some of the content matter is reminiscent of Roddy Doyle's Paddy Clarke, Ha Ha Ha, particularly in its treatment of the effect less-than-perfect marriages can have on impressionable children. However, having compared Mitchell to one of his great influences, Murakami, in an earlier post, it would be remiss of me not to mention the parallels with Norwegian Wood, another great tale of past love and loss.

Which is not to say that Black Swan Green is derivative. As usual, Mitchell manages to put his own stamp on an idea that, it's fair to say, is not entirely original. It helps that the setting is not exactly alien to me, born five years later than Jason (and about fifty miles east of his Worcestershire home), yet I suspect that anyone reading his experiences would be drawn irresistibly back to their own childhood, whether that involved first kisses, chases through fields, bullying at school, or playing Space Invaders. We've all been there.

The backdrop of the Falklands War was particularly poignant for me though for a number of reasons. Firstly, the way the children reacted, watching the news coverage as if it were a sporting event, is very similar to the way we followed the first Gulf War at school (with chalk maps of the Middle East drawn on the blackboard at lunchtime). The inability to realise what was actually happening due to a lack of close involvement is now, at a distance of twenty years, slightly embarrassing to recall. Secondly, having been born in Coventry, there are certain things which are part of our shared knowledge, and the moment we learn that one of the locals is a sailor stationed on HMS Coventry, I choke up a little. Every time.

Look, to cut a long story short, Mitchell is brilliant, the book's brilliant, and I can't wait to read The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet (currently reclining resplendently on the bookcase behind me).

And yes, I still hate him ;)

Review Post 15 - Five Weddings and a Couple of Elections

April already? Then it must be time for Framley Parsonage, the fourth in Anthony Trollope's Barchester Chronicles series and one of my favourites. By now, the reader is beginning to reap the rewards of reading the earlier novels, with the major players in the first three parts reappearing in this installment - some more foregrounded than others. It's a joy to encounter some of our old friends again: Septimus Harding and the Grantly family from The Warden; Dr. Arabin and Bishop Proudie (and, of course, his ambitious wife) from Barchester Towers; and Miss Dunstable, Dr. Thorne and the Greshams from Doctor Thorne.

In Framley Parsonage, we meet Mark Robarts, the vicar of Framley and a good friend of Lord Lufton, the young lord of the manor and owner of most of what he surveys. Robarts is not your average impoverished clergyman, his schooling and friendship with the nobility having prepared a comfortable path for him in life; however, tempted by society and the possibility of promotion, he allows himself to be drawn into circles which devout young churchmen shouldn't really frequent. Before long, events conspire to see him in debt and in the grips of London moneylenders, leaving him despairing as to how he will ever find his way back (both financially and spiritually).

Naturally, being a Trollope novel, Framley Parsonage also has its fair share of romantic byplay. Lord Lufton's mother, Lady Lufton, has selected Griselda Grantly (amusingly described by the blurb writer on my edition as "the original dumb blonde"), daughter of our old friend the Archdeacon, as the wife she would choose for her eligible bachelor son. But wait! Who is the pretty young girl Lufton is talking to in the corner? Lucy Robarts, the vicar's sister?! No, he couldn't...

I don't think that I'll be giving too much away when I say that Lord Lufton forms one half of one of the four weddings in the last chapter of this book. One of those nuptials may come as a little surprise though, involving as it does one of our old friends. You'll just have to read it to find out...

After the (comparatively) slightly disappointing Doctor Thorne, this novel is a welcome return to form. Trollope deals with the romantic side with a lighter and more believable touch than previously, and his knowledge of debts and bills (later to be seen again in the Palliser series) enables him to paint a stark picture of the dangers of putting your name to any paper with sums of money written on it. In the form of Nathaniel Sowerby, a habitual debtor who, as Trollope so neatly puts it, has finally been overtaken by Nemesis, he has also created a wonderful story of the perils of wasted opportunities. A man, born with everything, ends up with nothing - his money gone, his property mortgaged and then lost forever: and all through his own hand. The pathos is increased by the narrator's forgiving description of Sowerby's downfall, painting him as a man who knew better but was unable to behave as he knew he should.

It is though as a scene writer that Trollope excels. Yes, he can be over-dramatic, but nobody writes a good confrontation like our Anthony (I'm already looking forward to one in particular next month...). The chance encounter at Miss Dunstable's London party of Lady Lufton with the Duke of Omnium is, in reality, ten seconds of cold politeness; through the magic of Trollope's pen, it is transformed into a page of shock and awe, a mute gladiatorial contest to rival anything in the Colliseum. I love it :)

In finishing today, I'd like to mention that as well as alluding to the past, Framley Parsonage also looks to the future. The Reverend Josiah Crawley, the key figure of the concluding part of the chronicles is introduced here as a counter figure to the well-to-do, quasi-aristocratic Mark Robarts. You'll get to know him better in June. Finally, politics, Trollope's great love, makes its first real appearance with the election in West Barsetshire. It may not be to everyone's taste, but I find the details of nineteenth-century electioneering fascinating, and there's more of that to come in the Palliser series. Of course, for those of you back in the U.K, it's actually quite relevant...

*****

An election is also at the heart of my second choice today, Yukio Mishima's sumptuous novel After the Banquet (don't you just love how expertly I tie the books together?). Set in 1950s Tokyo, it lays out the rise and fall of a relationship between Kazu Fukuzawa, the proprietress of an elegant, traditional restaurant, and Yuken Noguchi, a former cabinet minster. The two become acquainted during a party at Kazu's Setsugoan restaurant, and the vivacious middle-aged woman quickly becomes entranced by the dry, intellectual Noguchi. Despite a twenty-year age gap, their relationship progresses, but they have widely differing ideas of their life together: while Noguchi is preparing for a quiet retirement, Kazu is in the prime of her life. And then comes the election...

The Tokyo Gubernatorial (governor) election is the central pillar around which After the Banquet revolves, and it serves to bring out the true colours of Kazu and Noguchi's characters. Kazu throws herself into electioneering, in spite of her husband's instructions, both tacit and explicit, to remember her position, and it is the woman of the people who is preferred by the crowds to the old, doddery politician. In a whirlwind of slush funds, dirty tricks and scare tactics, the tireless Kazu feels at home.

It would be easy to read this book in a feminist light, condemning the attitudes keeping women out of the public arena and ridiculing the (admittedly easy to ridicule) Noguchi. Kazu is certainly a sympathetic and intriguing character, and the reader feels for her in her efforts to support her husband. However, glimpses of humanity do shine through the politician's facade from time to time, and it is clear that Kazu is not without her faults. She lies constantly to Noguchi and is quick to go behind his back without a shadow of remorse whenever it suits her - in fact, she'd make an excellent politician...

As mentioned, it is the election which forces the couple's true characters to the surface, revealing their utter incompatibility and the absurdity of their relationship. Kazu discovers that she is unable to fade away into old age and attempts to rediscover her old life; Noguchi does just the opposite. The end sees them back where they started; but can we ever go back to where we once were?

It's a lovely book, if not on the grand scale of The Sea of Fertility tetralogy, but it does hold one last surprise. I only just found out that Mishima was (successfully) sued over the writing of this book as Noguchi was apparently based on a famous Japanese politician who had committed adultery with a Ginza nightclub hostess, one of the first cases upholding the right of a politician to a private life in Japan. How ironic that a book detailing the sleazy methods of successful politicians should end with a sleazy politician coming out on top. Truly life imitating art...

Review Post 11 - From the Comfortably Sublime to the Absurdly Ridiculous

It's March, so it must be time for Doctor Thorne, the third of Anthony Trollope's Barchester Chronicles (the one I've read the least as it took me ages to get a copy - pre-Book Depository, simpler times...). In this novel, we move away from Barchester itself and spend a while in the country area of Greshamsbury, home to the fallen gentry of the Gresham family. The Greshams have blood, but they no longer have much money; therefore, it is the duty of the young heir, Frank Gresham, to marry money. But wait! A penniless childhood sweetheart? Familial discord? A rival suitor? Don't you just love Victoriana...

So where's this Doctor then, you may ask (no, not that Doctor; there are no blue police boxes in this story)? Well, the Doctor, although (as Trollope himself admits) he may not be the true hero of the story, is nevertheless the key figure in the story. Uncle, and guardian, of our heroine, Mary, confidant and adviser of Frank Gresham's father, and executor of a will which may alter certain opinions (and prospects), the tireless Doctor Thorne winds his way through the novel, mending broken heads and hearts alike. While those familiar with Barchester may be forgiven for initially likening him to our old friend the Warden, it soon becomes apparent that he is a very different character. He is a much spikier, more independent and capable person who has no qualms about standing up to the 'quality' of the county, even when the weight of generations of blood oppose him.

Blood, more notable in this book (despite the title) for its metaphorical rather than literal appearance, is at the heart of events. Breeding may be important for livestock, but is it important for people? While Frank Gresham's qualities and the Scatcherd family's failings may suggest that it is, Mary's finer points and the absurd, patronising behaviour of the ancient De Courcys hint that having a traceable family tree isn't all that it's cracked up to be.

Of course, we all know what is going to happen; Trollope never lets suspense build up when he can tell us in advance what is likely to occur. However, in this book, I feel that there was too much inevitability about the plot. As always with Trollope, the characterisation was spot on, and some of the scenes (the Thorne-Gresham confrontations, the depiction of the drunken, dying Scatcherds) are fantastically written. I just thought that at 550+ pages (and with the ending as plain as could be from about half-way through), the book may have outstayed its welcome a little. It's still a pleasure to read, but it's not the best of the series by a long way. Next stop, Framley Parsonage in April...

*****

Blood also features in my other review today, albeit of a more literal kind. Albert Camus' classic novel L'Étranger tells the story of Meursault, a French Algerian, from the death of his mother through a serious crime and the ensuing trial. It's a fairly simple story (luckily for me; my French isn't what it used to be), but the ideas behind it are anything but. The story serves as a vehicle for Camus to expound upon his philosophical ideas and his take on existentialism.

Meursault is a curious character. The death of his mother leaves him cold, and he seems to be completely devoid of any real emotions. Despite the extreme situations he finds himself in, he never appears to get upset or hot under the collar. The reader is forced to decide whether he is emotionless or simply egocentric and unconcerned with the affairs of others. The answer, perhaps, is the latter; however, it's slightly more complicated than all that...

You see, Camus was one of the pioneers of Absurdism, a philosophical theory which basically held that life's a bit of a joke, and you have to make of it what you can. He developed the ideas of the Danish philosopher Søren Kierkegaard, who said that there are three ways to make sense of life: suicide, religion or accepting that life has no meaning except that which the individual can make of it. However, while Kierkegaard plumped for option b, Camus rejected religion as being a waste of time and went for the third option (in this novel, this choice extends to Meursault in his discussion with the prison chaplain).

Meursault plays this taking life as it comes role to perfection: no tears at his mother's funeral, no emotion when his girlfriend talks about marriage, no fear when on trial. He simply rolls with all that life throws at him and makes the best of his situation without stressing out about it. In the end, it is this 'unnatural' attitude which brings about his downfall. Although he is ostensibly being tried for a crime, the trial actually focuses on his behaviour before he commits it as the prosecutor and judge (and the jury) are unable to believe that someone who behaves so calmly could have acted on the spur of the moment. In effect, the trial becomes more a discussion of Meursault's inhumanity than of his guilt.

This is a wonderful read, short and (thankfully) fairly simple, while at the same time rather thought-provoking. For those of you without a guiding purpose in life, it's well worth a read. Those of you who are of a more religious nature may be a little more wary, but there is no strong anti-religious message here, simply a rejection of someone else's faith by a man who doesn't need it. Dorothy, we're not in Barchester any more...

Review Post 7 - Naughty and Nice

February began with the second of the Barchester Chronicles, the wonderful Barchester Towers. The story takes up life in Barchester a few years after the events of The Warden, where the old Bishop is on his deathbed, peacefully passing away just too soon for his son, the ever-formidable Archdeacon Grantly, to get political approval to replace him. A new bishop is appointed, but it soon becomes clear that despite the official decision, there are several people in Barchester who believe themselves to be top dog...

Don't be fooled into thinking that Trollope's stories are too clerical to be entertaining; the Barchester Chronicles are less about religion and the church than they are about petty fighting, internecine warfare and a love of tribal conflict. The invasion of Barchester by the Londoners who now hold the palace represents the incursion of industrialisation and progress into England's peaceful, bucolic heartlands. Mr. Harding's tribulations with The Jupiter in The Warden were merely the first warning shots of the coming struggle: this is the real thing.

Dr. Proudie is the Bishop of Barchester by appointment; Obadiah Slope, his personal chaplain, has the run of the diocese and enough intelligence to make himself pre-eminent in Barchester; Archdeacon Grantly virtually did the job himself during the final years of his father's life and sees no reason why he should not continue to do so; and Mrs. Proudie... well, you'll need to read the book to see how and why this Amazon hopes to take the power for herself!

These petty wars with their mini-Napoleons are beautifully characterised by a writer who had an unerring eye for the beautiful and absurd in the everyday. One of the best scenes in the book is the confrontation at the palace where, for the first time, the contenders for the real power of the Bishopric stand arrayed, each intending to be unrivalled in Barchester, scrutinising the other claimants with an experienced eye and preparing to dive headlong into battle. Of course, also present, standing quietly to one side, is Mr. Harding, whose readmittance to the post of warden is the field upon which the battle is to be fought. Four proud, worldly gladiators - and a modest, sincere, religious man (who, ironically, fades into insignificance whenever his matters are discussed).

Throw in a family of clerical absentees, whose return to Barchester from Italy stirs up affairs in the cathedral town, a wealthy young widow, wooed by three suitors from all the different camps and a couple of deaths and marriages, and you have a wonderful 500 pages of Victorian literary magic, perfect for a rainy day curled up on your favourite armchair. How does it end? Well, I'm sure you'll know after about 100 pages, but that really isn't the point: the writer himself hints at certain points what will and will not happen - and, in some cases, reassures the reader that certain feared events will not come to pass. It's not the destination, but the journey which is the attraction, and I, for one, am happy to go along for the ride. Next stop: Doctor Thorne at the start of March ;)

*****

I mentioned above Trollope's intrusion into his novels as a narrator, albeit an occasional, benevolent and good-humoured one, and Milan Kundera also likes to put himself into his works. However the emigre Czech writer's style is very, very different. Laughable Loves, a collection of (longish) short stories about love, lust and the games consenting adults play, is one of his earlier works; however, in some ways, it is more reminiscent of later works (Immortality, The Unbearable Lightness of Being) than his debut novel, The Joke.

The seven stories relate the interactions in relationships between men and women in post-invasion Czechoslovakia, a place of great cynicism and little hope if one goes by the atmosphere of the book. Infidelity is rife, despite the nosiness of the neighbours, and there seems to be a curious disregard for the notion of staying faithful. It's a very male-centred universe, with an expectation that it is simply part of a man's daily life to pursue, and conquer (if desired), any attractive woman one comes across. This is not to say that the women are the victims; they are quite prepared to use their charms as currency to find an easier life for themselves.

It all sounds a little pessimistic and unappealing (and no wonder given the external context), but the stories are intriguing, a fascinating insight into the battle of the sexes - which is just as much mental as it is physical. The reason for this is Kundera's detached, quasi-scientific style of writing, which treats his characters almost like specimens in a laboratory. The great skill in his stories lies in his ability to take his subjects, drop them into a setting, add a catalyst (in the form of an attractive woman, a weekend out of the city or a political investigation) and watch them continue in their lives as best they can.

This scientific approach comes across especially well in the style he adopts in discussing relationships. In some of the stories, short, alternating chapters tell the reader the thoughts of the two protagonists: we sit in the stark living room or the hotel restaurant, flitting from the mind of the man to that of the woman (and back again). Kundera has been criticised for the lack of development of his characters, with some saying that they are not characters at all, merely vehicles for Kundera to get his ideas across. This may be true; it does not, however, detract from the writing.

Two very, very different books. Trollope makes you laugh and allows you to while away many a pleasant hour - in your study pretending to work with a glass of port in hand. Kundera makes you think; you pause to reflect and stare out of the window as the long train journey you're on takes you through endless bleak, frosty plains. Very, very different ways to spend your time: but both enjoyable...

Review Post 1 - Religion, Sex and Cross-Dressing

Welcome to Year 2 of my little blog, dear reader. There'll be something old (the jokes), something new (the reviews), something borrowed (any decent opinions I can steal from other people) but nothing blue (not my style - sorry). Don't worry: this isn't a proposal...

There will be a few changes around here for 2010 though. 2009 saw me read and review 91 books in, at times, exhaustive depth, something which will be beyond me this year (unless I only read books longer than 600 pages in length). Instead, I will be blogging at regular intervals with summaries of what I've been reading, with the occasional full, in-depth analysis. Unless, that is, I change my mind. It's my blog, and I'll do what I want to.

So, taking advantage of the fact that I will not be blogging like it's 2009, I started the New Year by looking at a lovely style of book, but one I avoided a little towards the end of last year for fear of having to write a full review every twelve hours: the novella. The exact definition of a novella varies, but I believe it is any book which you look at and think "Well, I'm glad I didn't pay full price for that". As alluded above though, there is one problem with novellas; you tend to get through them very quickly, which is why I find myself about to tell you about my first three books of 2010 - after three days. I really need to slow down...


*****

My first book for the year is an old friend and the first in a series which I will be rereading over the first half of 2010. Anthony Trollope's delightful book, The Warden, is the first of his Chronicles of Barsetshire, the series which brought him fame. I first came across this book when living in Japan (now about ten years ago - how time flies...), stumbling across it in a second-hand English bookshop in Kobe, reading it voraciously and then scouring the shelves for the other books in the series. I was put off reading it when I went through my first real bout of classic literature reading in England by the description of its taking place in a rural clerical setting, but despite the prominence of Bishops, Archdeacons and Prebendaries, it has very little to do with religion and everything to do with the church.

The core of the book is an attempt by an over-zealous reformer, John Bold, to look into the management of an almshouse for poor workers, run by the Anglican church in the fictional city of Barchester and overseen by a warden, Reverend Septimus Harding. Bold, with the aid of a cunning solicitor and the greed of some of the almsmen, manages to set the national newspapers onto the poor unsuspecting warden, who stands accused of profiting from money set aside originally for the benefit of the poor of the city. The full might of the Church of England (in the shape of the formidable Archdeacon Grantly and his father, the slightly less formidable, but much nicer, Bishop of Barchester) gathers itself to see off the challenge from London and the secular world, but these legal machinations go over the head of the sweet old warden, for whom the question is not so much of proving himself to be right as of being so. What follows is a sketch of a good man trying to stay true to his conscience in the face of opposition from family, friends, employers and public opinion: can the warden throw away his livelihood merely to ease his conscience?


*****

Our second book also deals with matters of character, albeit of a slightly less noble kind. 'On Chesil Beach' is the shortest of the three books reviewed today, 162 pages long but with the kind of font size last seen in a teenager's deluded attempt to convince their teacher that they had fulfilled the word count criteria. If you're going to charge full price for that, you'd better make sure that the book is good, and McEwan doesn't disappoint; this is well worth reading (especially if, like me, you get it second hand). Edward and Florence are two English newlyweds, dining in a hotel on their honeymoon, ready to start their lives together. This being 1962, however, what should have been a pleasant meal is, instead, fraught by sexual tension and fear: you see, the wedding night will be the first time for both of them...

McEwan masterfully sketches out the nervous behaviour, suppressed sexual urges and contradictory actions of the confused young couple, interspersing his running commentary on the lead up to the main event with flashbacks to the couple's early lives, their chance meeting in Oxford and their long, slow courtship. As the reader is allowed to witness what led to the current moment, the two move off to the bedroom to consummate their marriage. This may sound slightly voyeuristic (if not pornographic - and there are a couple of extremely memorable scenes), but it is, in fact, a highly moving and somewhat sad portrayal of the complex courtship dance of two creatures trapped in a traditional society, where matters are not discussed until the last possible minute.


*****

To say more would detract from the enjoyment of the book, so I'll just leave the young couple in the bedroom and move on to the next story - which is a very different kettle of fish indeed. If only Edward and Florence had been around in the twenties heyday of the Bloomsbury group of writers, there would have been little embarrassment in bedroom matters (although there may well have been a third party present, something which might have soured the wedding night somewhat). Virginia Woolf, feminist icon, genius writer and general woman about town, was not backward about coming forward and was a solid believer in her group's relaxed attitudes towards relationships. So much so, in fact, that she created the trans-genre (and trans-gender) work Orlando as a tribute to her lover, Vita Sackville-West (nicer than the usual box of chocolates, but a little more effort).

Orlando is a young nobleman, born in Elizabethan times, who somehow manages to end the novel in 1928 - a pregnant, married woman. Over the course of the 160 pages, (s)he engages in various affairs, attempts to write plays and poetry, ponders the meaning of life, travels to Constantinople (where the world's first sex change - without surgery - takes place) and makes the acquaintance of three centuries worth of monarchs and literary icons. It's all a bit daft at times (and Woolf herself thought of it as a recreation from her usual writing), but this traveller's tale, reminiscent of Don Quixote or Candide (Woolf also meant it as a bit of a tribute to Defoe, drawing on the style of Robinson Crusoe and Moll Flanders) does have a serious side.

In addition to the thinly-veiled allusions to Sackville-West, the 'biography' looks at the evolution over the centuries of attitudes towards women and the societal constraints forced upon the fairer sex. On reentering civilisation as a woman, Orlando becomes aware of the many barriers separating women and free will, suffering especially under the stifling atmosphere of the 'moral' Victorian era which compels her to adapt and conform to the prevailing norms. Well, as much as a trans-gender, cross-dressing nobleman/woman is able to anyway...

The book is a quick and easy read, and the plot fairly races along, despite the more serious issues threaded around the hilarity. This would be a very good introduction to Woolf before diving into her more usual stream-of-consciousness style, even if it is one of her slighter and more whimsical works!

All for now; I hope I haven't disappointed my readers by fitting three reviews into one. As for my next review, I'll leave you now with a little clue. There was an Englishman, an Australian and an American with a confused Tory on the beach... No idea what I'm talking about? Then you'll just have to wait until next time...