Yeah, I've mentioned this one before.
I confess I've never read one of Susan Hill's novels, I haven't even the slightest idea of what she writes, although Those Who Know reckon she's A Literary Heavyweight. Cest la vie, you can't read everyone, although literary snobs would undoubtedly be looking down their nose at me for that admission. But, as a bibilophile with a book collection that's evolving into a world devouring entity, the central idea of the book was irresistible - opt out of the literary rat race and instead turn inward to devour your own collection. Like I say, irresistible, particularly since I don't think I could do it myself.
This is far more personal than a straight autobiography could be. Anyone can tell their life as they saw it. Hill instead puts her library up for public scrutiny, and thereby exposes her personality and tastes for all to see. That's far more daring and interesting than selecting the events in your life you want to show people. And she isn't shy, openly proud of her collections of children's books and pop up books where others might have deliberately dodged mentioning them. I'm not sure I'd actually like Hill if we ever met, there's often the loud clanging of literary name drops, her life path and attitudes differ and our generational outlooks and tastes seem vastly divergent. And she often seems a touch on the haughty side, but given the literary circles she came to maturity in, that's perhaps only to be expected.
The book's at its best when she's enthusing about her favourite books, or books I didn't know about but which she makes fascinating. She's quite brilliant on the subject of the King James Bible and why it matters to her so much, and you'd be a curmudgeonly individual indeed (or a massive bibliophile. Or both) not to be moved to follow up on at least a couple of the books she comes across. I considered it a triumph to restrict myself to two (the already-covered-in-this-blog The Smaller Sky and The Paper House). It's that type of recommendation of books you otherwise probably wouldn't hear of that makes this such a fascinating and worthwhile book, although following up on those recommendations is obviously at odds with the book's central conceit. I'm determined to follow that conceit myself one day, but that book addiction is a hard habit to break. Probably worse than crack, although with less physical symptoms.
It doesn't matter if you've no idea who Hill is, by the end of this book you'll feel like you know her personally. And probably be impressed by how lovely her use of words is. It might only appeal to book lovers, but a book that can make you feel that not buying books is not only a worthwhile exercise, but something of a triumph, and not leave you feeling like a philistine, is a remarkable thing indeed.
Showing posts with label Susan Hill. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Susan Hill. Show all posts
Monday, 1 February 2010
Saturday, 23 January 2010
Walls Come Tumbling Down - The Paper House by Carlos Maria Dominguez
And this is the other book I bought after reading Susan Hill's book-about-not-buying-books Howard's End Is On The Landing. I feel quite proud at having stopped at just two. And after finishing The Paper House, probably relieved that I went no further.
I'm sure some pedant somewhere will take umbrage with The Paper House's self-description of itself as a novel. It barely breaks the hundred page barrier, taking the plentiful full page illustrations into account it probably wouldn't even get close to that. And, for such a short novel, it moves at a somewhat languid pace. Yet it has much to say about bibliophiles and the love of books, but never feels forced or hurried in what it says. It probably helps that it's a translation from a Spanish language original and, as with the few other authors I've read whose first language is of Mediterranean origin, the language feels poetic, helping to compress ideas and meaning without . How much of this is down to the author and how much the translator is difficult to know (perhaps translators have in mind that all South American authors should be as strange and beautiful as Marquez or Borges), but it's a stylistic translation tic I adore. It's a feeling of craftsmanship with words that never gets tired for me, but might be too rich for other readers, one that makes me feel there are sensations, feelings and happenings that the English language is inadequate for. In this case, the brevity means that richness never quite cloys as it does in longer, denser works from the South American continent. Adding to the slight dislocation caused by thoughts and ideas from one language being translated to another is the tale's structure. There's no real action, it simply follows the main character as he tries to track down the origins of a mysterious book sent to a colleague of his. Much of this involves him being told stories by others who knew the story of the man who sent the book, so the story at the heart of the book is always told at one remove, through the eyes of others.
For all that, it's strangely compelling. Well, it would be for me since my bibliophilia meant I could empathise with the book collectors and lovers here, even if not always with their reasons. There's always a grim fascination with getting to the heart of a man in the grip of a mania, as the mysterious Carlos Brauer is. It's the love of books taken to the logical conclusion, once he's obsessed over them to the point of anthropomorphising his books to the point where his personal index system means authors with grudges or disagreements with one another cannot be shelved next to each other (Shakespeare and Marlowe to pick merely the most obvious example). He ends up living alone in a house of his books, within the worlds of paper and words. And yet the most troubling aspect is that it's clear he loves the books, he's not merely a collector. He reads and annotates them, to the obvious disapproval of the book collector who narrates part of his story to the main character. We never meet Brauer, never even come close to it, never know anything about him but his obsessive all consuming passion for literature, but this aspect of his personality's lucidly realised. He even predicts the exact manner of the death that begins the book, another logical end to an obsession.
Also integral to the book are the illustrations. Starting with the cover, they're allusive, illustrating the text without ever being straightforward. It's an approach I'm not overly familiar with from English literature, but it's a refreshing and engaging approach which complements the textual style of this book (and the South American literature that's been translated).
It almost feels wrong that a book exploring the love of books dwells so much on the unhealthy aspects of it, it's almost an anti-book in parts. It'd no doubt raise a smile from my long suffering wife as books continue to pile up around the house. Actually that's a touch unfair, if anything it's a parable about the dangers of obsession lensed through a literary passion probably drawn from the author himself. But in warning of the perils an obsession with beauty, it finds a strange beauty of its own.
I'm sure some pedant somewhere will take umbrage with The Paper House's self-description of itself as a novel. It barely breaks the hundred page barrier, taking the plentiful full page illustrations into account it probably wouldn't even get close to that. And, for such a short novel, it moves at a somewhat languid pace. Yet it has much to say about bibliophiles and the love of books, but never feels forced or hurried in what it says. It probably helps that it's a translation from a Spanish language original and, as with the few other authors I've read whose first language is of Mediterranean origin, the language feels poetic, helping to compress ideas and meaning without . How much of this is down to the author and how much the translator is difficult to know (perhaps translators have in mind that all South American authors should be as strange and beautiful as Marquez or Borges), but it's a stylistic translation tic I adore. It's a feeling of craftsmanship with words that never gets tired for me, but might be too rich for other readers, one that makes me feel there are sensations, feelings and happenings that the English language is inadequate for. In this case, the brevity means that richness never quite cloys as it does in longer, denser works from the South American continent. Adding to the slight dislocation caused by thoughts and ideas from one language being translated to another is the tale's structure. There's no real action, it simply follows the main character as he tries to track down the origins of a mysterious book sent to a colleague of his. Much of this involves him being told stories by others who knew the story of the man who sent the book, so the story at the heart of the book is always told at one remove, through the eyes of others.
For all that, it's strangely compelling. Well, it would be for me since my bibliophilia meant I could empathise with the book collectors and lovers here, even if not always with their reasons. There's always a grim fascination with getting to the heart of a man in the grip of a mania, as the mysterious Carlos Brauer is. It's the love of books taken to the logical conclusion, once he's obsessed over them to the point of anthropomorphising his books to the point where his personal index system means authors with grudges or disagreements with one another cannot be shelved next to each other (Shakespeare and Marlowe to pick merely the most obvious example). He ends up living alone in a house of his books, within the worlds of paper and words. And yet the most troubling aspect is that it's clear he loves the books, he's not merely a collector. He reads and annotates them, to the obvious disapproval of the book collector who narrates part of his story to the main character. We never meet Brauer, never even come close to it, never know anything about him but his obsessive all consuming passion for literature, but this aspect of his personality's lucidly realised. He even predicts the exact manner of the death that begins the book, another logical end to an obsession.
Also integral to the book are the illustrations. Starting with the cover, they're allusive, illustrating the text without ever being straightforward. It's an approach I'm not overly familiar with from English literature, but it's a refreshing and engaging approach which complements the textual style of this book (and the South American literature that's been translated).
It almost feels wrong that a book exploring the love of books dwells so much on the unhealthy aspects of it, it's almost an anti-book in parts. It'd no doubt raise a smile from my long suffering wife as books continue to pile up around the house. Actually that's a touch unfair, if anything it's a parable about the dangers of obsession lensed through a literary passion probably drawn from the author himself. But in warning of the perils an obsession with beauty, it finds a strange beauty of its own.
Sunday, 10 January 2010
I'd Like To Stay Here And Be Normal - The Smaller Sky by John Wain
Here's irony for you. In his fine blog Paul Magrs had recommended Susan Hill's 'Howard's End Is On The Landing'. I'll deal with that in another post, but in short tt's a book about Hill's decision to abandon buying new books for a year and explore her own collection instead. A fine idea, and one my tottering to read piles suggest would be a good idea for me too. Instead of heeding Hill's words though, I did my usual and ended up thinking 'that sounds interesting'. Actually, Hill's words must have sunk in to some extent as I managed to restrict myself to ordering just two.
The Smaller Sky was the first (and currently only one) to make it through Britain's current Ice Age. I'd never heard of Wain before, a man who'd been on the fringes of the Inklings, the 'Angry Young Men' of the 50s and 'The Movement', a group including the likes of Kingsley Amis and Philip Larkin. But all the details I could find all line indicated he was a peripheral figure to all that, one of those dragged in the wake of others and destined to be half-remembered at best. If his potted autobiography at the front is anything to go by that's a shame, it's witty, considered and indicates a prolific if dilettante mind. My favourite type of writer.
The story's all about Arthur Geary, a middle-aged scientist who's left his job and family to live on Paddington Station, spending his nights in the station hotel. Paddington's fairly cavernous roof is the smaller sky of the title, a haven and retreat for Geary which stops the sound of drums he can hear in his mind. It's a place he can lose himself in the crowds. We never really learn if the drums in Geary's head are driven by events in his past; there are vague hints of work he couldn't talk about under the Official Secrets Act but there's no real indication that Geary's work and domestic pressures are any greater than normal for the time. Essentially, it's dealing with the issue of stress decades before it became a common topic. We're not given any insight into the reasons as to his decision bar the absolute basics needed for the story. It's obviously deliberate, as it keeps the question as to Geary's sanity fairly open - he's clearly not sane by the standards of a society that doesn't understand his actions, but each passage from his viewpoint indicates that he's thinking rationally. You can subscribe to either viewpoint depending on your sympathies for his actions.
Wain's take is definitely a 60s one though, his apparent penchant for social realism leading him to examine how it impacts on his family. It's arguable the whole issue at the centre of the novel is rooted in the Sixties though, although in this case the man 'dropping out' isn't a counter culture steeped hippy but an older man who's almost the most unlikely person to drop out . I wasn't quite sure if Wain was ridiculing the whole notion of 'dropping out,' although that's a valid reading. It seems to me to be more to be an early tackling of the issue of people who find themselves trapped by the straitjacket of everyday life, and lacking a release, rebel against it - Geary fits in a line including the more flamboyant likes of Reggie Perrin or Blur's Tracy Jacks. Wain's oh so Sixties realism marks this out as a different approach to most other takes though. Instead of concentrating on the heroics of Geary's small act of rebellion, he also shows how it might be judged by others; family, friends and even how it might be exploited by the media. And Wain's not afraid of taking that to the logical conclusion, turning the book into a tragedy as his protagonist finds there is no real peace as he's hounded to his death; his desire to go unnoticed sacrificed on the altar of another's need to be noticed.
Wain's writing in itself is lovely, at times acutely and acidly observant, particularly on character. He's particularly good with the young characters, perfectly capturing their yearning for to grow up, but that they lack the tools to properly deal with the adult world.
It has small imperfections - Swarthmore is a little too much of a black-hatted bad guy (although well drawn and motivated) and Elizabeth Geary's connection is perhaps tenuous enough that you can feel narrative gears grinding. They're minor flaws though, Wain's dealing with issues still relevant today and his take on it is still eloquent and cutting.
Oh, and one final point; the image on the cover? Was the artist trying to suggest Tony Benn's sanity as questionable or just that Geary missed out on an easier career as Benn's double?
The Smaller Sky was the first (and currently only one) to make it through Britain's current Ice Age. I'd never heard of Wain before, a man who'd been on the fringes of the Inklings, the 'Angry Young Men' of the 50s and 'The Movement', a group including the likes of Kingsley Amis and Philip Larkin. But all the details I could find all line indicated he was a peripheral figure to all that, one of those dragged in the wake of others and destined to be half-remembered at best. If his potted autobiography at the front is anything to go by that's a shame, it's witty, considered and indicates a prolific if dilettante mind. My favourite type of writer.
The story's all about Arthur Geary, a middle-aged scientist who's left his job and family to live on Paddington Station, spending his nights in the station hotel. Paddington's fairly cavernous roof is the smaller sky of the title, a haven and retreat for Geary which stops the sound of drums he can hear in his mind. It's a place he can lose himself in the crowds. We never really learn if the drums in Geary's head are driven by events in his past; there are vague hints of work he couldn't talk about under the Official Secrets Act but there's no real indication that Geary's work and domestic pressures are any greater than normal for the time. Essentially, it's dealing with the issue of stress decades before it became a common topic. We're not given any insight into the reasons as to his decision bar the absolute basics needed for the story. It's obviously deliberate, as it keeps the question as to Geary's sanity fairly open - he's clearly not sane by the standards of a society that doesn't understand his actions, but each passage from his viewpoint indicates that he's thinking rationally. You can subscribe to either viewpoint depending on your sympathies for his actions.
Wain's take is definitely a 60s one though, his apparent penchant for social realism leading him to examine how it impacts on his family. It's arguable the whole issue at the centre of the novel is rooted in the Sixties though, although in this case the man 'dropping out' isn't a counter culture steeped hippy but an older man who's almost the most unlikely person to drop out . I wasn't quite sure if Wain was ridiculing the whole notion of 'dropping out,' although that's a valid reading. It seems to me to be more to be an early tackling of the issue of people who find themselves trapped by the straitjacket of everyday life, and lacking a release, rebel against it - Geary fits in a line including the more flamboyant likes of Reggie Perrin or Blur's Tracy Jacks. Wain's oh so Sixties realism marks this out as a different approach to most other takes though. Instead of concentrating on the heroics of Geary's small act of rebellion, he also shows how it might be judged by others; family, friends and even how it might be exploited by the media. And Wain's not afraid of taking that to the logical conclusion, turning the book into a tragedy as his protagonist finds there is no real peace as he's hounded to his death; his desire to go unnoticed sacrificed on the altar of another's need to be noticed.
Wain's writing in itself is lovely, at times acutely and acidly observant, particularly on character. He's particularly good with the young characters, perfectly capturing their yearning for to grow up, but that they lack the tools to properly deal with the adult world.
It has small imperfections - Swarthmore is a little too much of a black-hatted bad guy (although well drawn and motivated) and Elizabeth Geary's connection is perhaps tenuous enough that you can feel narrative gears grinding. They're minor flaws though, Wain's dealing with issues still relevant today and his take on it is still eloquent and cutting.
Oh, and one final point; the image on the cover? Was the artist trying to suggest Tony Benn's sanity as questionable or just that Geary missed out on an easier career as Benn's double?
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