The Story of a Year in Books…

A Victorian Murder Mystery

(OK, so I was bored. And it occurred to me it might be fun to see if I could make a story out of the titles of all the books I’ve reviewed this year… in the order I reviewed them! I really need to get a proper hobby… The eagle-eyed amongst you might spot one film in there – couldn’t resist – it just seemed to fit. 😉 )

Martin Chuzzlewit and the sisters of Versailles rattled through the swirling London fog and snow on their way to the Children’s Home. As they travelled along Coffin Road, their eyes were watching Godfrey, their cabbie, knowing his broken promise to turn up on the dot of seven o’clock had made them late for their appointment.

london fog

“Take the A26, Godfrey,” Chuzzlewit called out. Snowblind, Godfrey swerved, nearly knocking down Martin Luther and a clubbable woman who were crossing the road arm in arm. A passing journalist, Winston Churchill at The Telegraph, pushed them to safety just in time, crying “Even the dead would be scared to walk these streets in this damnable weather!”

“Thank you, sir!” said Martin, gratefully. “I am no one important, but Mrs Dalloway here is on a vital mission. She is carrying a potion made from the rare black narcissus, which it is believed may be the cure for the strange case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.”

Hyperventilating hysterically and gulping down some Vichy water, Mrs Dalloway cried “Blessed are those who thirst! You are beloved, dear sir! I call down all the blessings of heaven on your head! Now we must rush if we are to be in time to prevent the murder at the manor!”

At that moment, they heard the noise of time as Big Ben struck the hour. Turning into Euston Station, they hurried swiftly through the massive building, dark and echoing at this hour, like caves of steel. In a corner, an old flower seller had tried to fend off the cold by setting the heather blazing, but she still had a little left. “Buy some lucky heather, pretty lady,” she crooned as Mrs Dalloway sailed past. Nightblind, Mrs Dalloway heard only the echo of the words, which seemed to her disordered mind like a spectral voice rising from the cold, cold ground.

As they left the station and hurried across the Hyde Park green, Martin Luther’s fearful eyes searched around the green for danger. In the woods, he spied a group of Dubliners, teaching each other the names of the trees. “Well, this is an advancement of learning,” mused Martin, philosophically. “Hey ho! Let the great world spin!”

london-fog

Finally they arrived at the Theatre Royal where that evening a performance of Henry IV was to be staged. A woman in blue stood by the entrance, with a large dog on a leash by her side. The previous evening’s storm had uprooted an old tree which now lay across the road. In the gaslight, the shadow cast on the ground by its twigs looked so like a mysterious old map that Martin found himself unconsciously looking for the traditional marking: Here Be Dragons. But then, as he looked more closely, he saw to his horror a reflection of the moon in a dead eye!

Absalom! Absalom!” he cried in great dismay, recognising immediately his old friend and bank manager. The woman in blue, known to her wide acquaintanceship as Mrs Maybrick, cackled haggishly. “There will be a dark redemption for this night’s work, sir!”

Shortly, two Bow Street Runners arrived on the scene, Gandhi and Churchill. Earlier that day, they had been doing crowd control at the Easter Parade, (unusually, being held in November this year) where the ladies of the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society had got somewhat out of hand after imbibing rather freely of the punch provided at that event. Gandhi was still trembling nervously, for when ladies get up to horseplay, fear is the rider, he had discovered. “I wish I could go on a little holiday to the High Mountains of Portugal,” he thought, wistfully, “rather than having to deal with the sans pareil mystery that we have here!”

Close your eyes,” commanded Runner Churchill. “You know you’ll faint if you look at the murdered banker. Especially since he’s been so horrifically mutilated; that snow-covered thing on his left kneecap is a heart so white!

victorian-bobbies

Mrs Maybrick, (whom, after the sudden death of her landlady six months earlier, some suspected of being  the secret poisoner), was in the grip of a ruling passion by now, chuckling and dancing, till she was pulled from her feet by the power of the dog. Normally, she kept Daisy in chains, but that day she had felt in need of protection after having a strange, prophetic vision of a murder during a futuristic journey, in the year 2001: a space odyssey, in fact. It brought back to her all the horrible memories of her typist sister, Elizabeth: the forgotten years and the tragedy that happened during that other terrible journey she always thought of as her “travels with my aunt” – the wicked boy, the exposure and, worst of all, the dead witness. Thank goodness the other typist had been on hand to catch the culprit, and it would be a long time before her arch-nemesis Douglas MacArthur saw the outside of a jail cell again. But I digress!

Runner Churchill gazed at the open wounds on the victim, whose name he had now learned was Absalom Hudson. At that moment, the widow turned up, just as the organ grinder on the corner began to play the Rat Stone Serenade. Mrs Hudson, and the Malabar rose she wore in her lapel (a rare bloom), presented a tragic but charming picture as she begged Runner Churchill for a sight of her husband’s corpse.

“I fear that’s impossible, ma’am. It’s against the rules, and our Sergeant Cluff stands firm on the matter. And he’s American!” “Ah!” interjected Gandhi. “That explains the three-martini lunches, then!” Ignoring him, Churchill continued “No one may see the body till the police artist has drawn the hospital sketches – I wish someone would hurry up and invent photography!”

chalk-outline

At the hospital, Mrs Hudson was joined by a friend who was staying with them for a while, the visitor being a French citizen, Kane by name. Bending over the body, Nurse Oliver twisted round to confirm the corpse was dead – though most people felt the missing heart was a good indicator of that status. But it’s always best to have these things confirmed by a professional. “His pulse rate is zero, ‘K? That means he’s dead.” Mrs Dalloway’s eyes skittered around, for one moment making her look truly, madly, guilty. “Eureka!” cried Doctor LaRose. “I’ve always wondered how to tell! It’s always been an enigma to me!” The girls in nurses’ uniforms in the corridor giggled, especially Nurse Jane Steele, who secretly was rather in love with the doctor.

A crusading journalist, always the seeker after truth, arrived fresh from a prayer meeting at Chapel Springs, (survival of which was frankly quite remarkable given the length of the sermon). The magnificent Spilsbury, as he was called, had rushed to the hospital on the 4:50 from Paddington. He was a different class, upper-middle, to be precise, and wondered aloud if the death might have been accidental. Mrs Hudson was outraged. “It’s murder,” she said. “As my husband himself would tell you if only it were possible that he had from the dust returned.” Strangely, a kite suddenly appeared around the corner of the corridor, and a moment later, a small child ran by in the perfect pass, holding the kite. Runner Gandhi boxed his ears and sent him on his way.

All the parties now gathered in a conclave to hear the opinion of Runner Dick Churchill, who was considered something of a rising man. He had studied the methods of Sergeant Cluff, and refined them in his head as he walked his beat along the dirt roads of old London. His greatest success to date had been in the case of the Magpie murders, when he deduced that the perpetrators were the infamous Seagull Gang, led by the notorious Henry Vavasour. As a pupil, during the schooldays, of Jesus College, Cambridge, Churchill had often skipped off out of bounds, down by the Black River Road, where he had made a detailed study of various types of mud, and produced a short monograph that had about it some echoes of Sherlock Holmes.

london-fog-2

Churchill was something of a philosopher about death, having spent much time in the thin air of the Cambridgeshire countryside, contemplating, amongst other things, the long, long life of trees. He himself had no fear of the blood, cardinal red though it may be. He thought of death as but a passing, a welcome to the Universe where he believed the immortal soul would spend a blissful eternity, looking back at life simply as being in the past tense. His thoughts were suddenly disturbed…

“Lend me your moby, Dick,” said Mrs Hudson. “I’d like to call my lawyer.”

Suddenly it all fell into place. “Mobile phones haven’t been invented yet!” Churchill cried, cuffing her. He had realised she was none other than the Black Widow, a time traveller from the future who had come back to Victorian London to escape justice for the crimes she would commit in 2001 – three dead husbands and the murder of a lady! Locking her temporarily in the hospital’s Slaughterhouse-Five (a name they were soon to change to Intensive Care Unit), he set off to hail a cab to take them to the police station. And so we leave them, as the cabhorse pulls off onto the road to justice, and the wheel spins. We must pray that time will bring the balm of Gilead to those shattered witnesses of this horrific crime…

fog-cab

* * * * * * * * *

HAVE A GREAT DAY! 😀

Friday Frippery! Dear Santa…

…A Last Minute Request

I’ve gone and missed the last posting date for my Christmas pressies, so I’m hoping you and Rudolph could help me by dropping off some gifts while you’re doing your rounds tomorrow night. Here’s the list…

For Lizzie Bennet…

lizzies-present

…a set of noise cancelling headphones for when her mother’s trying to persuade her to marry the oleaginous Mr Collins.

mrs-bennet-gif

* * * * * * * * *

For Sherlock Holmes…

sherlocks-present

… a nice vaping pipe. Three of these should solve any problem…

* * * * * * * * *

For Hercule Poirot…

poirots-gift

…a Flick Knife Moustache Comb – useful should he ever have to defend his moustache from an evil villain.

* * * * * * * * *

For Mr Rochester…

rochesters-present

…one or other of these self-help books should be useful, I think…

* * * * * * * * *

For Miss Marple…

miss-marples-present

…a handy tote bag, and something to help her with that difficult gift for Hercule…

* * * * * * * * *

For Bertie Wooster…

bertie-and-the-aunts

…to help deal with those occasional pesky infestations…

aunt-spray-3

* * * * * * * * *

For Scrooge…

scrooges-present

… a nice t-shirt will keep him warm and provide a handy reminder for when he hears those chains start to clank…

* * * * * * * * *

For Darcy…

darcy standing

Ahh, Darcy! The man who has everything! What could I give him but…

mirror

Well, why should he be denied the opportunity to admire his own magnificence?

* * * * * * * * *

Thanks for your help, Santa, and…

santa-gif

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

 

Friday Frippery! A conversation regarding whales…

Call me FF…

moby-dick-john-barrymore

Tap-thump! Tap-thump! Tap-thump! FF heard the unmistakeable sound of the captain crossing the deck.

“Ahoy, FF, thou lazy dog! Whyest dost thou lyeth there on that… thing… whilst Ahab practiceth his best cod Shakespearian?? Whatest is that thing, anyway, in the name of the gods above in Heaven, or perhaps the devils beneath in Hell! Or vice-versa. If Gods exist. Eth.”

FF raised her sunglasses and perched them on her golden curls. “It’s a sun-lounger, sir. Don’t you like it? I ordered it from Amazon and they had a drone drop it off an hour ago. It’s very comfortable.”

Ahab stuck his bone leg in the socket he had had specially made for it and, swivelling madly like Zebedee on his spring, cried out, “Thou liest here in the sun imbibing the devil’s grog…”

“It’s a margarita,” murmured FF, sipping.

“… when there is work to be (or not to be) done! Hast thou seen the great white whale?”

“No, and I’m at 92% now. Strange, isn’t it?”

Ahab ceased to swivel and fixed her with his mad eye. “Eh? 92%? Thou speakest in strange riddles as of one who has seen things not of nature!”

“Well, the book’s called Moby-Dick: or, the White Whale so you’d kinda think the whale would actually be in it, wouldn’t you?” FF waved her Kindle at the infuriated captain. “But no. We’ve sailed every sea in the entire world and not a blessed sign of him yet. A cheat, I call it! Plenty of other whales though – big ones, little ones, lots and lots of dead ones. And as for gory! Well, let’s just say I know more than I ever wanted to about how to skin them and squeeze the oil out of their blubber.” She shuddered, and sipped her margarita. “Sir.”

moby-dick-the_voyage_of_the_pequod

Ahab shook his fist at the cloudless sky. “Thou wasteth time reading stupid books on thy infernal device when thou shouldst be aloft the main mast searching for the monster whom thou hast sworn a great oath to destroyeth!”

“To be fair, though, sir, that was during the first night party and you’d been pretty generous with the old gin before you asked. I’m not sure that really counts as a proper oath.”

“Thy honour grovels on its lowly belly acrost the mud in the deeps where lie littered the bodies of great heroes and the monsters they pursued to their doom! Queequeg the cannibal shalt not fail me, he with his skin tattooed with marks that would scare the devils themselves. Nor even the poor, crazed savage, Pip, whose little black hand is nearly as soft as that of a decent white boy!”

“That reminds me, sir, an e-mail came in from Head Office. They want you to confirm you’ve completed the online training course in cultural sensitivity.”

“Aarghh! Get thee up to the lookout afore I call on the Heavens to strike thee with the unnatural fire of the corpusants!”

“No can do, I’m afraid, sir. Health and safety. You’ll just have to rely on the sonar equipment.”

“Gah! Art thou a yellow-bellied poltroon?? Thou wilt know real danger when Ahab sends thee in the little boat to stick harpoons in the monstrous Leviathan!”

FF shuddered. “I fear that won’t be possible, sir. Whaling has been outlawed by international convention. These days we use electricity to light our lamps.”

Ahab leapt up and down so hard his bone leg began to splinter. “Outlawed?! Never! For here, on the great ocean, Ahab is all – the captain, the King, the God! And the great white whale shall die, die horribly, because Ahab sayeth so! Look! What ist that strange vessel that approacheth?”

“It’s Greenpeace, sir. They’re here to protect the whale. I Skyped them when I realised you were insane, sir.”

Ahab turned purple with rage, and shook both fists at FF. “Thou hast ruined my revenge! Truly, verily, and yea, ’tis true what they say! To allow a woman aboardeth a ship is folly, for they are cursed, and curseth those who saileth with them!” Tap-thump! Tap-thump! Tap-thump!

“Silly old misogynist!” murmured FF, as she lay back on her lounger and opened the new Ian Rankin.

moby-dick-cartoon

HAVE A GREAT FRIDAY! 😉

Jane Steele by Lyndsay Faye

Dear reader, she murders the English language…

😦

jane steele 2Young Jane Steele’s favourite book is Jane Eyre and she sees some parallels between her own life and her heroine’s. Not yet an orphan when we first meet her, the suicide of her drug-addled mother soon allows her to achieve that status. Jane has been led to believe that Highgate House should be hers, left to her by her father. But her aunt is living there now and shows no intention of giving it up. And her cousin Edwin is a nasty piece of work who is sexually harassing her. So she kills him. Then she goes off to a school chosen by her wicked and now grieving aunt – a school much like Dickens’ Dotheboys Hall, but with added sexual harassment. While there, she kills a man, but he deserves it, so that’s okay. Then she goes off to London, where she meets with all kinds of men practising different forms of abuse or sexual harassment, so she kills them.

I’m afraid I just don’t get what it is that other people are liking about this book. It’s a simple stream of man-hate – if the genders were reversed I’m pretty sure there would be howls of outrage from some of the same people who are praising it. Every man who appears (up to the 44% mark when I abandoned it with huge relief) is some kind of sexual predator, paedophile or wife-beater, and it is therefore shown as amusing, even admirable, that they should be murdered. It’s supposed to be funny, I think, but the humour wears very thin after the same premise is used several times – man appears, man abuses girl/woman, man is murdered.

But assuming that for some reason our society is okay with denigrating men on a wholesale basis, that still wouldn’t excuse the writing. If pastiching or referencing a great writer, then one has to be able to reproduce or equal that writer’s style – comparisons should and will be drawn, especially if large extracts of the original, skilled writer’s work are used to head up each chapter. The language in this has no feeling of authenticity, no elegance of style, is sprinkled with anachronistic phraseology and occasional Americanisms, and frequently contains words that are incorrect in the context or, indeed, just plain wrong. Would people put up with a professional pianist who kept hitting the wrong notes? Or a surgeon who removed the wrong organs? Then I simply don’t understand why readers are willing to put up with professional authors who use the wrong words.

Playing all the right notes, but not necessarily in the right order...
Playing all the right notes, but not necessarily in the right order…

A couple of examples…

On the subject of her cousin Edwin, Jane muses: “Kin, kin, kin was ever his anthem: as if we were more than related, as if we were kindred.” I remain baffled as to what Faye thinks kindred means.

“Never having studied Latin previous, I congratulated myself when at the end of the hour, I was explaining the lesson to the perplexed circumference, and Miss Werwick forgot herself far enough to frown at this development.” I’m going to ignore “previous” because I think Faye’s using this incorrectly deliberately to try to give some kind of sense of outdated language. But perplexed circumference? I assume she means circle. Perhaps she thinks that because circles have circumferences then the words can be used interchangeably. Like milk and carton, perhaps, or chocolate and box.

Lyndsay Faye
Lyndsay Faye

I did think there was a certain irony to Faye introducing a character (an abusive male, obviously) whose major characteristic was his supposedly humorous incorrect use of words. Dickens can do that, because he is skilled with language. Unfortunately, here, it became difficult to differentiate between the character’s errors and the author’s. It’s odd, because in the only other book of Faye’s that I’ve read, her début in fact, I thought her writing was much better than in this. Perhaps it’s because she’s trying to emulate an outdated style of English English that doesn’t come naturally to her and is just not getting it quite right. I’m sure I wouldn’t get 19th century New York English right either (but then I wouldn’t publish a book written in it if I couldn’t).

However, given that the book has accumulated an astonishing number of 5-star reviews, it appears that the reading world doesn’t share my dislike for either misandry or poor writing. But I fear I can only recommend it to people who hate men and don’t mind having to guess what words the author meant to use…

NB This book was provided for review by the publisher, Headline.

Amazon UK Link
Amazon US Link

Book 13
Book 13

Friday Frippery! Abandonment issues…

The ones that got away…

It is a truth universally acknowledged that, when I find a book a tad on the disappointing side, my reviews have a tendency to become, shall we say, a little grumpy. You should know, however, that the review you see is normally about the eighth draft, after I’ve worked hard to insert some kind of objective balance into the whole thing.

tom cruise judging gif

Occasionally, though, a book annoys me so much, I abandon it at too early a stage to justify a full review. But to get my blood pressure back down, I usually leave an instantaneous, unconsidered reaction on Goodreads to remind myself of what heinous crime against literature the author committed to cause my outrage. Much to my surprise, these blunt and brutal notes tend to attract ‘likes’ and comments – suggesting bookish disgruntlement may be more widespread than we think.

So I thought it might be fun to share a couple of them with you. No prizes, I’m afraid, for guessing the books or the authors… but I’m betting you might be able to work out one or two…

pooh book gif

* * * * *

Abandoned at 30% on the grounds of trying not to die from boredom. Another case of an author doing a ton of research, bunging it all down on paper and thinking that’s enough to make a novel. It isn’t. Let me save you reading the whole 700+ pages – spoiler alert! White man bad – destroys land, forest and indigenous way of life! There! Bet you’re as astonished at that major revelation as I am…

In fairness, other reviews suggest that eventually she widens it out to clarify that ALL men are bad…

* * * * *

Well enough written, but not for me. Turns out it’s some kind of YA fantasy – ‘cos, like, there’s just not enough of them in the world already…

* * * * *

peanuts writing 2

* * * * *

Anti-religious drivel combined with excessive foul language, sexual fantasising and filth – not for me. Abandoned at 44% – just at the point where the author gives us some profound insights into the toilet habits of our main character…

“Afterwards, he hoses down the inside of the toilet bowl with his urine to dislodge any skid marks.”

Almost poetry, isn’t it? I wonder how the great authors of the past ever managed to tell a story without letting us know about these crucial (despite being entirely irrelevant) details.

* * * * *

Utterly dreadful – a longwinded racist, bigoted diatribe by a man with neither the intelligence nor the culture to appreciate the opportunity his wealth brought him to broaden his narrow mind. And not even funny. Done with Twain now.

* * * * *

peanuts writing 1

* * * * *

Abandoned. I was already finding the book repetitive and a bit silly, but was willing to persevere till I hit the extended graphic oral sex scene at the 18% mark, which other reviews lead me to believe is the first of many. Not good enough otherwise to tempt me to read hundreds more pages of an elderly man’s sex fantasies. Note to self: Remember to stop getting books written by men over the age of 60 – it must be hormonal…

* * * * *

Now aren’t you glad you’re normally only subjected to the revised version?

Have a great Friday! 😉

 

Oliver Twisted (Ivy Meadows 3) by Cindy Brown

Please, sir, I want some more…

😀 😀 😀 😀

oliver twistedIvy Meadows is an actress part of the time and a private detective the rest of it. So when her PI boss, her Uncle Bob, is hired to investigate a series of thefts aboard a cruise ship, Ivy puts both her talents to use – detecting when she’s not playing Nancy in the Dickens-themed cruise’s production of Oliver! At Sea! But things take a serious turn almost as soon as she steps on board, when she finds the body of the girl she was due to share a cabin with stuffed into the wardrobe. It’s not clear how she died, but Ivy and Bob suspect murder and that in some way her death may be tied in to the thefts.

This is a fun romp, with a very likeable lead character in the shape of Ivy. Her career as a detective is just beginning, so she’s not what you’d think of as slick at it. Her technique is mainly to blurt out questions at people and hope they don’t wonder why she’s asking! But she’s intelligent and perceptive, curious about people in general, and endearingly aware of her own deficiencies. Fortunately she’s also attractive, both physically and personality-wise, so she soon builds up some on-board friendships that help her with her enquiries, while adding to the general fun.

The Dickens theme is done well, without taking itself too seriously. The cruise ship sounds frighteningly realistic with Boz’s Buffet, the Drood Deck, and fancy-dress parties where everyone dresses up as Dickens characters. The actors double as ‘ambient’ characters when they’re not on stage, so that Oliver wanders around picking the pockets of guests, while Madame Defarge knits scarves and an Eastern European Bill Sykes is mean to our Nancy (when he’s not flirting with her).

I must admit that, as has become one of my regular whines, I felt the book was a bit too long for its content, especially in the first half. It seemed to take forever for the investigation element to get underway, and I had to suspend an awful lot of disbelief that no formal investigation of the death seemed to be taking place. But when a second death happens about halfway through, things hot up, and the plot is actually rather darker than it seems as if it’s going to be. However, the general feeling is one of a well-written cosy.

Cindy Brown
Cindy Brown

There’s lots of humour in the book, and I appreciated this more as the book progressed and I found Ivy had won me over. If murder and theft aren’t enough, she also has to contend with the fact that her Uncle Bob seems to have fallen for a woman whom Ivy suspects of being a fortune hunter or worse. Oh, and then there’s the little matter that no-one thought to warn her of when she took the job as Nancy – that part of her task would be to perform aerial acrobatics 40 feet above the stage! The production of Oliver! At Sea! is largely ‘borrowed’ from the musical Oliver, with some strategic changes – songs such as Gruel, Glorious Gruel have an eerie familiarity! There’s also a touch of romance, but this isn’t allowed to overwhelm the book.

A very enjoyable cosy, better written than many in that genre, with a decent plot and some great characters. I can only echo Oliver himself… “Please, sir, I want some more!” It’s apparently the third in the series, each of which has a theatre theme, and I’ll be adding the other two to my list for those days when only something light-hearted and fun will do.

NB This book was provided for review by the publisher, Henery Press.

Amazon UK Link
Amazon US Link

Book 7
Book 8

Travels with My Aunt by Graham Greene

‘Tis better to travel hopefully…

😀 😀 😀 😀

Travels with my AuntWhen middle-aged Henry Pulling attends the cremation of his mother, he meets his mother’s sister, Aunt Augusta, a woman he knows only from old family photographs. It seems Aunt Augusta was something of the black sheep of the family, her distinctly racy and unconventional lifestyle making her unwelcome. But Henry finds himself drawn towards her, her frank stories of a life full of incident providing a contrast to his own rather dull and lonely existence as a retired bank manager in the respectable little community of Southwood. And soon Augusta entices Henry to join her on some of her journeys, first on the Orient Express to Istanbul and later to South America.

This is a gentle little comedy without any of the profundity of Greene’s major works but still with a certain amount of charm. Published in 1969, at a time when Greene was in his mid-60s, it does rather read like a tolerant older man’s view of the ‘permissive’ society of the ’60s, with its focus on ‘free love’ and incessant pot-smoking. However, through Aunt Augusta’s stories, we are also taken on a light trip back through the century, though her storytelling technique makes it hard to pin down the truth of any event she is describing. From running a church for dogs in Brighton to her rather seedy career in France, from possibly having something to do with the Resistance to consorting with Nazi war criminals, Augusta’s exuberant zest for life manages somehow to overcome Henry’s normal repugnance for anything not quite respectable. The lesson he must learn from Augusta is the simple one that there is a difference between the tedium of merely existing and the joy of experiencing life.

I went restlessly out and crossed the little garden where an American couple (from the St James or the Albany) were having tea. One of them was raising a little bag, like a drowned animal, from his cup at the end of a cord. At that distressing sight I felt very far away from England, and it was with a pang that I realized how much I was likely to miss Southwood and the dahlias in the company of Aunt Augusta.

The writing is, of course, excellent, especially the stories of their travels and the various places they pass through. It’s not a travelogue, so there are no tourist brochure style descriptions – instead, it’s a vague, impressionistic picture of the process of travelling and the places passed by as seen through Henry’s untutored, and often uninterested, eye. The reader is more likely to be told about the availability of ham sandwiches than the great architecture of a given town. This changes a little when they head off to South America – in this section, we begin to get a much clearer picture both of the natural world and the strange and rather corrupt society Henry finds himself sucked into.

orient express poster

When a train pulls into a great city I am reminded of the closing moments of an overture. All the rural and urban themes of our long journey were picked up again: a factory was followed by a meadow, a patch of autostrada by a country road, a gas-works by a modern church: the houses began to tread on each other’s heels, advertisements for Fiat cars swarmed closer together, the conductor who had brought breakfast passed, working intensely down the corridor to rouse some important passenger, the last fields were squeezed out and at last there were only houses, houses, houses, and Milano, flashed the signs, Milano.

The humour runs at a consistently gentle level throughout, never becoming riotously funny, but never getting lost either. Unfortunately a good deal of the humour is centred on Aunt Augusta’s younger lover, Wordsworth, a man from Sierra Leone, and to modern eyes his portrayal feels horribly stereotyped at best and somewhat racist at worst. In fact, given Greene’s age and the time of writing, Wordsworth is actually rather affectionately portrayed – indeed, he’s about the only likeable character, the only one with a true, warm and generous heart. But still, I found some of the dialect and his rather childish naivety made for pretty uncomfortable reading in places. Otherwise, however, the contrast between Henry’s buttoned-up mentality and Augusta’s free-wheeling acceptance of all life has to offer gives plenty of opportunity for Greene to quietly mock the society of the time.

The vicar was saying clearly, while the congregation buzzed ambiguously to disguise the fact that they had forgotten the words: “We acknowledge and bewail our manifold sins and wickedness, which we, from time to time, have committed…” I noticed that the detective-sergeant, perhaps from professional prudence, did not join in this plea of guilty. “We do earnestly repent, and are heartily sorry for these our misdoings…” I had never before noticed how the prayer sounded like the words of an old lag addressing the Bench with a plea for mercy. The presence of Detective Sergeant Sparrow seemed to alter the whole tone of the service.

Graham Greene
Graham Greene

This would not be the book I would recommend to people wanting to sample Greene for the first time. Much better to try one of his more serious novels where the depth of the subject matter tends to withstand dating a little better. In truth, I think profundity suits his style better than humour. But, overall, I found this a pleasurable if rather light read – one where the journey is more enjoyable perhaps than the destination.

Amazon UK Link
Amazon US Link

(Ticking off the “Orient Express” category for the Around the World in 80 Books challenge.)

Friday Frippery (on a Thursday)! Ooh, I say!!!

Gobsmacked and giggling…

 

Well, dear friends, I can honestly say it’s been many a long year since my gast was last so flabbered!! Imagine my surprise, on clicking through from the lovely Jo’s post to the voting page for the 2nd Annual Bloggers Bash Award, to read the following…

* * * * *

funniest bloggerFirst is Funniest Blogger. The nominees are as follows:

Barb Taub, Lucy Mitchell (Blonde Write More), Tara Sparling, Linda (nutsrok), Ned Hickson, Meghan Sara, Seumas Gallacher, Bun Karyado, Ross Murray, Beth Haslam, Al the Author, Ronnie, Marcia Meara, Donna, Christian Touchet, Tim- things as they are, Tamzen Temple, Tabby, FictionFan, Paul Lander, Melinda,

The criteria, in case you forgot is: Which blogger continually makes you laugh out loud? Has someone made you laugh so hard you cried? Maybe you snorted drink through your nose at one of their jokes. Who’s the funniest blogger of them all?

* * * * *

Yes!!! That’s me in there!!! Ooooooooh!!!! *performs double back-flip with a half-twist and phones osteopath*

I have absolutely no idea who nominated me, and in fact wasn’t aware of the Bloggers Bash before today, but whoever you are, here’s a great big hug and possibly a soppy, sloppy kiss too (depending on how closely you resemble Rafa).

rafa looking pretty

I’m genuinely thrilled to bits! Not just because I got nominated, but because I’m so glad you guys enjoy my occasional detours away from serious book talk towards the sillier end of life! Though I do sincerely apologise if I’ve ever made you snort your drink through your nose…

 

happy gif

 

I’m also thrilled to see several of my besties nominated in other categories…

best book review

In Best Book Review, take a bow Cleo at Cleopatra Loves Books, Jacqui at JacquiWine’s Journal and Jo at mychestnutreadingtree – three excellent blogs whose posts I always enjoy! I can only vote for one though apparently… would this be a good time to mention my love of chocolate?

hidden gem

In Hidden Gem, the lovely and talented MarinaSofia at Finding Time to Write, book reviewer and poet extraordinaire! Hmm… a bright and sparkling gem, for sure, but hidden? She’s part of the glue that holds the bookish blogosphere together…

best pal

The Best Pal award seems custom made for the wonderful Margot Kinberg at Confessions of a Mystery Novelist! Generous to bloggers and crime authors new and old, Margot is always there with the encouraging comment just when it’s needed – I’m sure many bloggers, including myself, only stuck it out through those early days of talking to a seeming void because Margot took the time to pop in, comment and introduce them to the wider book blogging community.

So get on over there and get voting for these amazing people or for some of the many others on the nomination lists whom I don’t yet know, but whose blogs I’m looking forward to snooping round in the near future.

But think carefully before you decide whether to vote for me… remember those sloppy wet kisses!!!

 

big kisses

HAVE A GREAT WEEKEND! 😀

Friday Frippery! Book spine poetry…

Poetry by any other name…

 

I have shamelessly stolen this idea from Naomi at the wonderful Consumed by Ink , who was in turn inspired by Valerie at Books Can Save A Life. My book spines are virtual since so many of my books are.

Their poems turned out beautiful. Mine, on the other hand, turned out a bit… well… bitter and twisted! I’m really hoping that says more about the books I read than my personality… 😉

* * * * * * *

 

 

After the fire

Smoke and mirrors

Her…

The girl who wasn’t there.

Little black lies

And lamentation.

The way things were.

.

Photo by Hana al Sayed
Photo by Hana al Sayed

* * * * * * *

 

Testament of a witch

Blossom

The tender herb

Bitter fruits

Original skin

Want you dead

The burning

.

burning-witch

.

* * * * * * *

 

I am no one

The undesired

You…

Beloved,

Stay up with me.

Their eyes were watching God

Waiting for sunrise.

.

Sunrise-North

* * * * * * *

Goodness! I think I need extra chocolate to cheer myself up now!

.

HAVE A GREAT FRIDAY! 😀

Friday Frippery! Interim Book Report…

absalom absalomSo,

 

she (Miss Rosa Coldfield) rattles on circuitously, circling round and round, in a circle; and yet, not round always, but in memory, sometimes backward, before the enemy thrashed her father and destroyed the Old South, destroying it in a destructive manner, while he watched the dust motes and wondered why she repeated herself endlessly without ever actually saying anything to the point, endlessly repeating the story of her sister, long dead, and Sutpen, repeatedly telling him (Quentin) about his (Sutpen’s) beard that was the only thing that differentiated him from the wild black men he brought with him when he came to destroy the honour of his or possibly her family, or possibly their families, or possibly not, for as she would undoubtedly come to say “It is important that this story never dies, so I’m going to reveal it to you in a code so obscure it will take, not just the rest of your life, but the lives of many academics, paid for by the taxes not just of ourselves but of those who conquered us and tamed the wild men, destroying something precious but perhaps a little immoral along the way, for some strange people in the North, you know, think that to chain wild men to a post is nearly as wicked as to beat horses for no reason other than to show how wicked the beater is, to decipher it or at least to convince themselves that they had deciphered it because otherwise would be to admit that yet again the Nobel Prize had been given to someone who fundamentally can’t write intelligibly, though of course in the wondrous worlds of academe and literary prizes intelligibility ranks low on the list of things a writer should achieve, which is not how it was…” and she broke off as her voice retreated not into silence exactly, but into silence nevertheless, a silence forced upon her and all her race by the men who conquered her or them or him and his family and their honour, and he said “Yessum” which was, one has to admit, as good an answer as any from one of the broken ghosts that inhabit this broken land, broken by conquerors who destroyed the honour of those whose only fault, if indeed fault it were, and who is to decide that question is still to be decided, was to tie wild men to posts and impregnate wild women, hardly a fault at all; though some may say that then naming the offspring with silly names like Clytemnestra may have been the most wicked thing of all and may even have been some small justification for the destruction of these once proud people, now wandering ghost-like through the past and present…

William Faulkner

…with no calendar, dammit, to tell them where they might be supposed to be, which is to assume anyone cares, which brings me back to the point which I have unfortunately forgotten since my braincells began deteriorating at page 5 and the deterioration deteriorated so rapidly that by page 48 I had turned into a brainless mumbling mono-celled organism condemned to spend eternity going round in an endless circle of rambling, barely punctuated, incomprehensibly-structured prose, an endless circle of destruction, leaving me feeling like a ghost inhabiting a land which unfortunately the destroyers didn’t destroy thoroughly enough or they would have wiped out Miss Coldfield, Mr Compson, Mr Sutpen and all their pesky descendants and left Mr Faulkner with nothing to go round in endless circles about, so that when at some time in the future or perhaps the past FF asked for recommendations for the Great American Novel Quest, no-one, not one person, not even a ghost, would have suggested torturing herself half to death reading a pretentious, repetitive, repetitive book, which is to literature much as WWE is to sport, with its major claim to fame being that it contains the longest grammatically correct sentence in the English language, thus getting into the Guinness Book of Records, surely more illustrious than the broken Nobel, though that record doesn’t specify intelligible, nor does it take account of the fact that Michael Chabon created a much longer, better constructed, and rather beautiful one in Telegraph Avenue, thus making this work even more redundant than it once was, this being the problem with all records, for who now remembers who held the record for the fastest mile before Roger Bannister broke the four-minute mark, itself a record now broken, but one that was at least exciting at the time, which I suggest this one wasn’t; and if they did, if some ghost drifting in the motes of dust circling round the room of the woman who is doing a particularly bad Miss ‘Avisham impersonation, in her room where she lives with the blinds drawn, angsting about a 50-year-old jilting, had whispered “Read Absalom! Absalom!”, then FF would have known to say “No’m!” – but too late, alas, too late!

* * * * * *

I’m at page 72. 240 to go.

 

alphabetti help

 

Tuesday Terror! The Secret of the Growing Gold by Bram Stoker

Wages of sin…

 

Having been kept awake all winter, the fretful porpentine is now off for a relaxing summer break in a spa hole-in-a-tree.

sleepy porpentine

But before he goes, one last chance for his quills to stand on end, with another Irish entry for this week’s…

Tuesday Terror

The Secret of the Growing Gold

 

by Bram Stoker

.

Bram Stoker
Bram Stoker

.

Two families live side by side, each once proud but now fallen, both in wealth and honour. The Brents are of high stock, while the Delandres are of yeoman class. When Margaret Delandre suddenly goes to live at Brent’s Rock, now home to Geoffrey, the last direct descendant of the family line, the scandal is great, for it is unclear if they have married. Margaret is a wild, evil woman and frankly Geoffrey is no great prize either.

He was almost a type of a worn-out race, manifesting in some ways its most brilliant qualities, and in others its utter degradation. He might be fairly compared with some of those antique Italian nobles whom the painters have preserved to us with their courage, their unscrupulousness, their refinement of lust and cruelty – the voluptuary actual with the fiend potential. He was certainly handsome, with that dark, aquiline, commanding beauty which women so generally recognise as dominant.

We do?? I mean, yes, of course, we do!

 

Well, such a combination is always likely to lead to the occasional tiff…

One thing would lead to another, and wine flowed freely at Brent’s Rock. Now and again the quarrels would assume a bitter aspect, and threats would be exchanged in uncompromising language that fairly awed the listening servants.

But during a trip abroad, Margaret meets with an accident when her carriage, conveniently being led by the exceedingly trustworthy Geoffrey, falls over a cliff. Her body is never recovered.

Some time later, Geoffrey meets a nice young Spanish lady and this time falls genuinely in love. They marry and he brings her to Brent’s Rock, and for a time all seems well. Until one day, Margaret’s brother Wykham Delandre…

…suddenly awoke to see standing before him some one or something like a battered, ghostly edition of his sister. For a few moments there came upon him a sort of fear. The woman before him, with distorted features and burning eyes seemed hardly human, and the only thing that seemed a reality of his sister, as she had been, was her wealth of golden hair…

begorrathon 2016

This vision tells him that she has come for revenge, not against Wykham (even though they had a severe case of sibling rivalry taken to extremes) but against ANOTHER! Later that night, Geoffrey’s bride is awakened as if by the sound of a latch opening. She does what any sensible woman would do in such circumstances – sends her husband down to investigate while she stays in bed…

…trembling, too frightened to cry, and listened to every sound. There was a long pause of silence, and then the sound of some iron implement striking muffled blows! Then there came a clang of a heavy stone falling, followed by a muffled curse.

Suffice to say, things are never quite the same again in the happy household…

* * * * *

This is a good little story, full of nasty people who deserve all they get – well, except for the new bride, who should probably have resisted feeling dominated by those dark, aquiline good looks. (Let that be a warning to us all, ladies! From now on, we should only go for blonds).

It’s in the gothic tradition of walled-up bodies and corpses that simply will not stay dead! But it has an original scare factor, which I must admit I found genuinely creepy. The moral of the story is that you should never argue with a man while he’s guiding your carriage along a cliff-path – or possibly that you should never go down to investigate strange noises in the middle of the night – or maybe that, when burying a body, you should take special care to do it thoroughly…

If you’d like to read it, here’s a link…

Fretful Porpentine rating: 😯 😯 😯 😯

Overall story rating:          😀 😀 😀 😀

* * * * *

Wondering who the gorgeous mystery man is in the top gallery? Prepare to be even more scared…

Tuesday Terror! Not for the faint of heart…

The stuff of nightmares…

 

Normally I stick to short stories for the horror slot, but many of our greatest poets have also turned their hand to curdling the blood from time to time. So here, from the pen of one of the most prolific poets of all time, Mr Anonymous, comes a tale so dreadful it’s not surprising cruel parents use it to torture their children into fits. If you’re brave enough, read on for this week’s…

 

Tuesday Terror

A tale of horror by Anonymous

.

Mr Anonymous's nicer brother...
Mr Anonymous’s nicer brother…

.

Three blind mice! Three blind mice!

Already Anonymous tears at the reader’s gentle heart with this pathetic depiction of our main protagonists. What happened to them, we wonder? What dreadful event left them in this sorry condition? Anonymous leaves the backstory unfilled, leaving the reader palpitating with dread…

three mice

See how they run! See how they run!

Poor little things! What are they running from? What terrible pursuer do they fear? The repetition acts to drum home to us the dire awfulness of their situation…

tom chasing jerry

They all ran after the farmer’s wife

Ah! The reader is overwhelmed by a sense of relief! Thank goodness there’s someone there who can save them, protect them, nurture them! But Anonymous is playing dark, disturbing tricks with the poor reader’s sensibilities. (You may want to get out a tissue before you read on…)

three blind mice 3

She cut off their tails with a carving knife

Whaaaaaaaaaattttttttt?!? She did what?!? What is she, some kind of monster?? Now the poor little things are not only blind but tail-less!

three blind mice

Did ever you see such a thing in your life?

No, Anonymous, I did not! Not until you put the horrible idea into the middle of my nightmares anyway. You sick person, you! I hope someone chops your tail off!!!

three blind mice 2

As three blind mice!

Oh, that’s right, you sadistic creep! Rub it in, why don’t you? I hope the Pied Piper of Hamelin brings the rats round your way…

Rat 4

* * * * * * *

Oh, I’m ever so sorry! I don’t know what came over me there! Do forgive me!

* * * * * * *

Certainly the poem wins on rhythm and rhyming structure, but it’s far too graphic and gruesome for my taste, and Anonymous fails to give adequate insight into the motivation of the farmer’s wife. While it would be hard to forgive her under any circumstances, perhaps she had some terrible childhood experience that would go some way towards at least explaining her actions…

mickey mouse

Anonymous, too, one feels, must have had a traumatic childhood, when one considers some of his other works…

Humpty Dumpty – the tragic, gruesome death of an egg.

humpty dumpty

Sing a Song of Sixpence – four and twenty blackbirds are thrust live into a baking oven. One feels that when the maid’s nose was pecked off it was a form of just revenge.

pecked off her nose

Rock-A-Bye Baby – a child is first abandoned and then hurled to its almost certain death.

rock a bye baby

Now I think about, the mice got off fairly lightly…

* * * * * * *

Fretful Porpentine rating: 😯 😯 😯 😯 😯

Overall story rating:          😀

* * * * * * *

(Some people think that the farmer’s wife represents Mary Tudor – Bloody Mary – and the mice are three Protestant bishops she burned at the stake. Somehow I don’t find this explanation much more comforting than the mouse version…)

three blind mice bishops

.

The Case of the Tottering TBR by Sir Arthur Donan Coyle – Part 3

Chapter 3

 

(If you missed Part 1 and want to catch up, click here. And for Part 2, click here.)

 

The Dancing Men (1984)

Lady McFan looked a little surprised at Houses’ request for chocolate cake but, with true Highland hospitality, she bustled off to the kitchen to speak to the cook.

“Chocolate cake, Houses?” I was baffled. “Are you peckish? Personally, after that meal of cullen skink, venison served with clapshot, and cranachan to finish, I can’t imagine being hungry again for a week!”

Houses merely smiled wolfishly and shook his head.

“You have all the same information as I, Witless. Surely you can see what’s happening here?”

“Well, Houses, applying your own famous precept that having eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth, I do have a theory,” I said, rather proudly. “I suspect the culprits are the fairies at the bottom of the garden!”

cottingley fairies(The Cottingley Fairies)

Houses gazed at me for a long moment with what I could almost have mistaken for pity, and squeezed my shoulder gently.

“Well, you shall know all in time, my dear fellow. Meantime why not take a seat and write a description of the brilliance of my methods?”

I muttered indistinctly, fighting a sudden urge to use some improper language. Thank heavens my fine old English breeding stood me in good stead and enabled me to resist! I removed some books and a cat from an armchair and sat down. Not sharing my delicacy, the cat swore profusely.

Lady McFan returned bearing a huge chocolate cake on a silver salver. “Will this do, Mr Houses?” she inquired.

“Admirably, madam!”

Houses suddenly began to behave as if in the grip of madness. Had I not known he’d been staying clear of the opium dens for some weeks, I might even have suspected an onslaught of the midnight munchies. He took a slice of cake and began to chomp at it, while pacing furiously to and fro in front of the bookshelves. Back and forth he went, taking slice after slice and devouring them as if he were a fashion-plate model with bulimia! Crumbs sprayed disgustingly from his mouth and from the crumbling cake in his hands, leaving a trail over the room’s ancient tartan carpet. I was heartily ashamed of my friend and remonstrated severely, but he brushed me off with an incomprehensible and messy mumble. Lady McFan meantime contemplated the swift disappearance of her chocolate cake with a dismay that bordered on hysteria.

last slice

Finally, when the cake was almost gone, Houses ceased his restless pacing.

“Now, Effie, there is no more we can do this evening, so I suggest we lock this room and retire to our chambers for the night.”

“Don’t you want me to sit up with my trusty service revolver?” I asked, somewhat disappointedly.

“Would you really be willing to shoot a fairy?” responded Houses, with unanswerable logic and what I could almost have mistaken for a touch of sarcasm. We did as he said, checking that all three doors were securely fastened, and retired to bed.

We passed a quiet night, except for a brief period when the ghost of the Headless Lady began shrieking for her lost lover in the hallway. However, Tommy and Tuppence, the ferocious house cats, swiftly rounded her up and chased her into a corner, where they took turns in rolling her severed head around the floor until she promised to remain silent for the rest of the night.

The next morning, the three of us met in the hallway. Lady McFan unlocked the door of the drawing room and we entered. Her face paling, the Lady Laird gave a little scream and pointed to the side table. A brand new set of The Complete Works of Mark Twain lay there – surely the perpetrator of this madness had a streak of inhuman cruelty!

twain

Houses however paid no attention – he was busily peering at the carpet in front of the bookshelves. With a sudden cry, he leapt forward and pulled at a section of the shelving! It swung open, revealing a set of winding stairs leading up the floor above. He sprang up the steps, with Lady McFan and myself in swift pursuit. At the top of the stairs, there was a door. Houses flung it open and we entered the room. There was Wullie the Piper, with a pile of new books in his hand, about to head down the stairs to carry on with his nefarious scheme!

Houses and I wrestled with the bounder and felled him like a tree trunk being prepared for the caber-tossing competition.

Highland_Games_Caber_Toss

“You see, Effie,” Houses explained, once we had Wullie securely tied up and had set the cats to guard him, “I knew there must be another entrance to the room, so I spread some crumbs on the floor. As Wullie entered the room, the secret door in the bookshelves pushed the crumbs away, showing me where the door must be. As the illegitimate son of your father, Wullie hoped that he could drive you into an asylum or worse, and then come forward to claim the title and castle as his inheritance.”

Lady McFan looked shocked, so Houses suggested we return to the drawing room for a nice cup of tea. As we passed Wullie on the way to the stairs, Lady McFan accidentally kicked him hard on the shins, twice.

We arrived in the drawing room to find it occupied by a tall woman, whose general appearance of ethereal beauty was only a little marred by the chocolate cake crumbs on her chin. Lady McFan hastily introduced her to us as her dear cousin, Lady Fancyboots.

Lady Fancyboots walked over and embraced her cousin, saying “Happy Birthday, dear Effie! Had you forgotten?”

She handed over a parcel, which Lady McFan hastened to open. The Complete Works of Tolstoy! Poor Lady McFan was so overcome with gratitude she swooned quite away…

swooning

The End!

The Case of the Tottering TBR by Sir Arthur Donan Coyle – Part 2

Chapter 2

 

(If you missed part 1 and want to catch up click here.)

Sherlock Holmes The Dancing Men 3

“Welcome to my ancestral home, Mr Houses, and you, Dr Witless! I cannot tell you how relieved I am that you are finally here. Things have got worse since I wrote you – I’m at my wit’s end!”

We didn’t mention that we were equally relieved to discover that the Lady Laird spoke perfect English, but with a pleasant lilt that revealed her Highland origins. Ah, the benefits of a fine English education – even the most savage of peoples can be given a veneer of civilisation!

Having had supper, we were now settled in the grand drawing room of the castle, a large room with doors on three sides. Despite the generous size of the room, it was crowded – books covered every shelf and lay in tottering piles on every surface, and in heaps around the floor. It looked as if some effort had been made at an earlier period to organise them, but it was clear that the attempt had now been abandoned. Big books, little books, old books, new books, even some strange device that, on pressing a button, sprang to life and showed the page of a book on a glass slide! Some mysterious kind of telescopic instrument, I surmised.

Piles-of-books

Houses said “I deduce you are an avid reader, Lady McFan.”

“Please call me Effie, Mr Houses. Yes, indeed, I always have been since a young child.”

“Good Lord, Houses!” I cried in astonishment. “How in heaven’s name did you deduce that?”

Houses preened a little. “Oh, Witless, surely by now you know my methods. Effie here has the refined, glowing complexion and shining, intelligent eyes that only the true reader ever possesses. That, plus the piles of books.”

“How absurdly simple!” I cried, and for some reason a grimace crossed my friend’s face.

“Quite.” He turned to our client. “Now, Effie, please explain why you have asked us to come here. Very simply, if you don’t mind, since Dr Witless will be listening.”

“It’s the books, Mr Houses! The books!” And she proceeded to tell us her story. For many years, Lady McFan had been adding gradually to the collection of books she had inherited from her ancestors. She would acquire half a dozen or so, read them and add them to her shelves. But suddenly, several months ago, she noticed that the little pile of unread books seemed to be growing larger. And larger. And larger. It soon became impossible for her to read them quickly enough to shelve them before another pile would appear. Every night, she would count the books and every morning she would discover there were three or four more than the night before.

piles of books

“I don’t order them, Mr Houses, I’m sure I don’t! They just… appear! Oh, please help me! Every cupboard is full of books; I’ve had to put the horses up in a hotel so I could turn the stables into extra library space; the ghost of the Headless Lady has had to move out of the attic to make room for books, and is now wandering the Castle moaning and groaning day and night, and being downright depressing! I’ve even taken to locking all three doors to this room overnight, but still they arrive, always placed just here, on this side table. Am I mad, Mr Houses? Or can you find an explanation and put a stop to this horror?”

She sent a glance of such piteous pleading from her fine blue eyes that even the hardened heart of Houses must surely have been touched. If I weren’t a happily married man, I may well have proposed on the spot.

Houses sat back, closed his eyes and steepled his fingers. Lady McFan and I sat in breathless silence, waiting for that great brain to work its magic. Houses snored gently. I tactfully kicked his ankle. His gimlet eyes opened and pierced me like… well, like a gimlet.

Holmes

“Is there anyone else in the house overnight, Effie?” he inquired incisively.

“Only the servants, but they’ve all been with my family for generations and are members of the Clan. I trust them with my life. And Lady Fancyboots, my cousin and oldest friend, has been staying here for some months, having spent all her little inheritance on fine chocolate, and being now quite destitute, were it not for my exceeding generosity.”

“Your cousin, you say?”

“Yes, we’re the two last remaining members of the family, so have always been close, even though I inherited fabulous wealth and she only got £100 and Grannie McFan’s recipe for black bun. Some people may have been resentful, but not Lady Fancyboots! She has remained a staunch friend.”

“That portrait,” Houses indicated a full-length picture that hung above the mantel, of a fine-looking old gentleman in what I was beginning to realise must be the traditional dress for the savage natives of these wild regions.

Sean-Connery

“He is your father?”

Lady McFan assented.

“He bears a striking resemblance to Wullie the Piper, wouldn’t you agree, Witless?” remarked Houses.

Lady McFan blushed gently.

“All the clan are related to one another, Mr House. Furthermore, my father was…,” she cleared her throat delicately, “fond of Wullie’s mother, a maidservant here for many years before her death.”

A gleam had come into Houses’ eyes during this conversation, and he now rubbed his hands, chuckling. “Well, I have high hopes that we may be able to get to the root of your little trouble,” he said. “And now, could I trouble you for some chocolate cake?”

* * * * * * *

To be continued… (only one more, I promise!)

Meantime…

The Case of the Tottering TBR by Sir Arthur Donan Coyle

Chapter 1

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Basil_rathbone_nigel_bruce

Dense, black, billowing fog was swirling around Baker Street when I arrived in response to an urgent request from my old friend, Sherlock Houses. The great detective had clearly had considerably more than his customary three pipes. I hastily opened a window and inquired as to the cause of my summons.

“Elementary, my dear Witless. The game’s afoot! Kindly reach down the Bradshaw and look up the time of the next train to Kirkintilloch.”

“I’m afraid there is no train to Kirkintilloch. However, there’s a canal boat service. If we leave now, we should get there by next Thursday or thereabouts.”

“Then make haste, Witless! There’s not a moment to be lost!”

Forth and Clyde Canal at Kirkintilloch (the official Canal Capital of Scotland!)
Forth and Clyde Canal at Kirkintilloch (the official Canal Capital of Scotland!)

Houses refused to say another word about the reason for our journey, declaring we should have the full story on our arrival from our client herself. Stopping only to send a brief telegram to my long-suffering wife, (a gentle, understanding woman who always did her best to appear as if she thoroughly enjoyed my frequent absences, often going so far as to telegraph Houses to ask if he needed me for anything), I packed my trusty service revolver, rubbed some embrocation into the old war wound in my leg – or was it my shoulder? Strange how I could never remember – and we hastily set off on our journey to the wilds of North England, which some of the natives still insisted on calling Scotland.

* * * * * * *

A week later, we stumbled weakly off the canal boat at our destination. It had been a long and tiring journey, during which Houses had enlivened the atmosphere with impromptu, unsolicited violin concerts, fascinating monologues on how to identify 600 different kinds of tobacco ash (which unfortunately, since the canal boat was a No Smoking zone, sent several of the passengers into a tooth-gnashing frenzy) and a little target practice with his revolver, inadvertently causing the boat to leak heavily and list to starboard. As always, Houses had made himself extremely popular, and the passengers and crew raised a hearty and prolonged cheer as we disembarked.

Kirkintilloch was a quaint old town built near the site of a Roman fort and looking as if it hadn’t changed much over the intervening centuries. The street names had a poetic ring that conjured up visions of rural loveliness – Cowgate, Industry Street, Gallowhill Road.

Cowgate, Kirkintilloch
Cowgate, Kirkintilloch

Our client lived outside the town, so we hailed a cab and Houses told the driver to make all speed to Culcreuch Castle, the home of our client.

“Lives may depend on it, man! Don’t spare the horse!”

“Och, hoots, dinna ye fash yersel’, sir! The castle’s been there sin’ the days that the auld chieftain o’ the Clan McFan caught the first haggis, an’ it’ll still be staunin’ when we’re a’ deid! Ay, it’s a sorry place noo, tho’, ye ken. They say that strange things happen there in the nicht – gey strange! An’ the puir Lady Laird is at her wit’s end wi’ it a’. Happen ye’ll be the gents she’s sent for frae doon Lunnon way?”

“I have no idea what you’re attempting to say, my good fellow. Drive on!”

We had a long winding journey of it, uphill most of the way, and dusk was falling over the rolling Campsie hills when we finally caught sight of the castle, nestling amongst the trees by the side of a picturesque lake. It was a beautiful setting, its air of peace and tranquillity belying the horror that was beginning to clutch at my heart.

Culcreuch Castle - once upon a time home to the Chief of my own clan...
Culcreuch Castle – once upon a time home to the Chief of my own clan…

We came to a halt at the massive oaken doors, held open by an elderly man in a rather strange looking multi-coloured skirt. Perhaps there was to be a fancy dress-ball that evening, I speculated.

A horrible wailing, screeching sound suddenly caused us to clutch each other in momentary terror. Quickly recovering our stiff upper lips and manly demeanours, Houses and I pulled out our revolvers and prepared to deal with supernatural hounds, or possibly ghoulies and ghosties and lang-leggedy beasties, which the indispensable Bradshaw had informed us frequented these heathen parts.

“’Tis only Wullie the Piper, sir, tae let us ken that supper is ready,” the elderly man cried incomprehensibly.

wullie the piper

Another skirted man appeared round the side of the castle, wrestling with a horrible 5-legged beast, from which the ghastly sounds were emanating. At that moment, with a final scream of mournful agony, the creature seemed to breathe its last. It was a chilling start to our adventure…

 

* * * * * * *

To be continued… maybe…

(This story was suggested by my old mate, Lady Fancifull. So blame her!)

Wednesday Witterings – A triumph of hope over experience…

New Year’s Bookish Resolutions

 

darcy overcome

The purpose of resolutions is not to achieve them, but to ensure we remain humble through contemplation of our failures each year. And yet still to show the resilience of the human spirit by going on to set ourselves up for the self-same failure in the next year…

In January I made the foolish move of posting some reading resolutions for the coming year. Join me in contemplating my failure…

 

1) Cut back on taking freebies for review.

Last year I had 17 unread review copies as the year ended. This year I have 25. In total, I have reviewed 76 freebies this year as opposed to 66 in 2014. Hmm…

Failed!

 

2) Make time for re-reads.

9 re-reads in 2015, which is better than the 5 I re-read in 2014, but still not good. Hmm…

Qualified success!

 

3) Reduce the TBR to no more than 70 by the end of the year.

HahahahahahahaHAHAHA! Was I drunk when I made that one? TBR at end of 2014 – 133. TBR at end of 2015 – 160!

rafa federer laughing

Failed!

 

4) Stop reading so many new-to-me authors and catch up on the back catalogues of authors I know I enjoy. (NB Fiction only, since nearly all factual books I read are by authors new to me.)

In 2014, 44 of the books I read were by new-to-me authors. In 2015, the total was 41. Hmm!

OK, catching up on back catalogues. 2014 – a miserable 6. 2015 – a slight improvement – 9!

Minor success!

 

5) Read more classics, including some Dickens and a book a month for the Great American Novel Quest.

Oh, dear! Only 6 books read for the GAN Quest, I fear. But yay! I also read 6 British classics, including Dickens, Austen, Scott and Stevenson. So 12 classics in total. (More, depending on how you define classics – I read a fair amount of classic crime this year which I haven’t included in the count.)

Better than 2014, when I only read 5 GAN Quest novels and 5 other classics. (And very little classic crime.)

Better but still…

Failed!

6) Read more sci-fi/fantasy.

Well, since I only read 3 sci-fi/fantasy books in 2014, this wasn’t a hard target to beat. And in 2015, I read 13!!

WOOHOO! MAJOR SUCCESS!!!

 

Total – 3 failures, 1 qualified success, 1 minor success and 1 major success! I call that a good year… 😉

 

joey

* * * * * * *

So with the enthusiasm inspired in me by not being a total and complete failure, here are my resolutions for 2016…

1) Cut back on taking freebies for review.

(Read the 25 outstanding which will take until March/April and then no more than 2 a month on average. And have no more than 12 outstanding at the end of the year.) Achievement of this one is crucial in giving me time to achieve any of the rest, so this year I mean it!! Really!!

2) A minimum of 12 re-reads.

One a month shouldn’t be hard, should it?

3) Reduce the TBR!

OK, let’s be a bit more realistic this year!

a) Reduce the overall total to 130.

b) There are currently 65 books on it dating back to 2014 or earlier. Target – reduce this to 30.

c) That leaves 95 books added to it during 2015. Target – reduce this to 50.

 

tom cruise

 

4) New-to-me authors.

Well, looking at the existing TBR, there are zillions of them, so setting a limit of a number to read this year seems futile. But why should that stop me? I’ll go with… 25!

And… no more than 20 books by new-to-me authors to be added to the TBR during 2016. *gulps*

Increase the number of catching-up-on-existing-authors to a minimum of 20 books (should be easy – they make up the bulk of the TBR and it’s only because of the constant freebies of new releases that they linger there unread.)

5) Classics

Read at least 10 GAN Quest novels and at least 5 other classics, including Dickens. (Classic lit-fic, that is.)

6) Keep going with sci-fi/fantasy, which has dropped back again over the last few months.

Target – 12 minimum, mixed between classic and new.

* * * * * * *

Given that I read on average 120/130 books a year, about 100 of which are fiction, these targets should be achievable and mean that I have room to be as eclectic in my reading habits as usual.

Wish me luck! And stop laughing!!

 

laughing 1

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HAPPY NEW YEAR TO YOU ALL!

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LANG MAY YER LUM REEK!

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edinburgh fireworks

 

The Ghosts of Christmas Presents…

“Santa’s been!! Santa’s been!!”

 

santa's sleigh

As I wrote my note for Santa this year, my mind drifted back to those happy far-off days of childhood, when gifts mysteriously arrived in the middle of the night, closely followed by a manic Dad running up and down the hall shouting “Get up! Get up! Santa’s been!!”. We knew to get up quickly, because otherwise Dad would have the toys unwrapped and be playing with them before we got to them…

Most of my Christmas pressies are long forgotten, I fear, but here are a few that stood out… for one reason or another…

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003 (2)

Edward came into my life on my first ever Christmas and has been a true and steadfast friend ever since. He’s had a hard life. My brother threw him into the fire one day, because that’s what brothers do, resulting in some brutal scorch marks and a melted paw. Then my childhood poodle, in a fit of insane jealous rage, savagely attacked him, eating his stomach and detaching an ear. BigSister carried out emergency surgery, which lasted until Trix the Tomcat savaged him again several decades later. But as you can see he has again been patched up and battles bravely on, though he has been known to look askance at Tuppence from time to time…

310110 004 - Copy

* * * * * * *

The first record I was ever given was made of red plastic and played only on a special wind-up toy record player… another gift. But the wonders of youtube mean that you too can now share in the unique joy that is…

PINKY AND PERKY!

(*tries so hard not to think of the Professor and Nick… but fails*)

* * * * * * *

spacehopper

Ah, how I loved my Spacehopper! It arrived on one of our fairly rare White Christmases when the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even. So I had to wait for two whole days before I was allowed out to play on it – a looooong two days, since my Mum for some reason wasn’t keen on me bouncing around the house on it. Mothers, eh? Let me tell you, there is nothing in this life quite like bouncing around on a giant orange rubber ball with a face! And it was tough! It even survived bouncing into the middle of the neighbour’s prized rose bush! Though when my neighbour saw it, there was some doubt for a moment as to whether I would survive…

* * * * * * *

The first record I ever specifically requested was this one. Don’t judge me! I don’t know whether it was his voice or his jumpers I loved most…

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* * * * * * *

But with age comes sophistication. And gonks. Really, if you didn’t have several gonks to call your own it was pretty much grounds for the Social Services to take you away and do your parents for child cruelty. Small gonks, large gonks, gonks on keyrings, gonks stuck on the ends of pencils.

Where are all those gonks now? They’ve probably formed an underground movement and are plotting revenge for our adult forgetfulness. My favourite gonk was much like these, only white…

gonks

* * * * * * *

At least my musical taste was continuing to develop…

(Ooh, I want a hat like that!)
* * * * * * *

 

Probably in a desperate bid to wean me off gonks, my Mum and Dad Santa gave me a gift that I have treasured ever since. Enid Blyton had already directed me towards crime fiction, but Sherlock Holmes became my ultimate hero and has remained so ever since.

Though these days I actually prefer dear old Watson – loyal and true, and with a romantic heart! In the many years since, I have received various Holmes editions and collections, Holmes pastiches, books about Holmes, but this original book has outlasted them all. It rarely sits on a bookshelf – it lives beneath my bedside table to be dipped into any time I need something comfortingly familiar…

* * * * * * *

But finally childhood must give way to those angst-ridden, rebellious, pimply teen years. I think my Dad was lulled into a false sense of security when his Val Doonican loving daughter asked for an innocuously entitled album by a singer with the pretty name of Alice. However, as we followed our usual Christmas Day tradition of playing all our musical gifts while Mum cooked the dinner, I fear his complacency was shattered forever…

.

It was round about that time that he began to sound nervous as he yelled… “Santa’s been!! Santa’s been!!”

* * * * * * *

Last year Santa gave me Dickens and Rachmaninov – loved and appreciated both. But you know… well… they’re just not a Spacehopper, are they?

* * * * * * *

Whatever Christmas brings you this year, may it make you want to bounce!

tigger and pooh christmas

MERRY CHRISTMAS! 😀

Friday Frippery…

The Six Questions Tag…

 

Lovely Sindhuja over at The Random Book Review has tagged me to take part in the Six Questions Tag. If you haven’t met Sindhuja, pop on over – great reviews, often of Indian authors and books I wouldn’t normally hear about, plus the occasional sneak peek into her life – one of my favourite blog stops!

So… here goes…

* * * * * * *

One beauty product you would recommend to your girlfriends

Wrinkle cream! I don’t need it myself, obviously, but I like to be helpful when I can…

(But seriously, all my friends are naturally gorgeous, especially Lady Fancifull who regularly bathes in the morning dew collected by fairies from the prettiest flowers of May…)

dew

* * * * * * *

Three books everyone must read

 

‘Tis the season to be jolly, so I’m going for…

Right Ho, Jeeves by PG Wodehouse – not just Jeeves and Bertie, but also sundered hearts and star-crossed lovers galore! Newt-fancier and orange-juice addict Gussie Finknottle getting sozzled and handing out the prizes at Market Snodsbury Grammar School for Boys. Soupy Madeleine Bassett – she who thinks the stars are God’s daisychain and that every time a fairy sheds a tear, a wee bit star is born. Poor Angela, devastated by Tuppy implying that her new hat makes her look like a Pekinese. And Tuppy pining for his own true love – Anatole’s steak-and-kidney pie…

DSCN0521

Three Men in a Boat… to say Nothing of the Dog by Jerome K Jerome. I shall merely mention Uncle Podger and the picture-hanging, Montmorency and the kettle, the singing of the German comic song, George and the banjo-playing and the sad tale of Harris and the swan. If you’ve read it, you’ll know what I mean, and if you haven’t, well, do get on with it!

montmorency and the kettle

A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens– everyone should be forced by law to read this every Christmas Eve to make sure they understand what Christmas is all about. And then they should be made to listen to Patrick Stewart’s reading, so they understand the meaning of joyousness! And when I rule the world, they will be…

patrick stewart as scrooge

And if you’re not jolly by the end of that little lot, I give up!

ho ho ho

* * * * * * *

Favourite online shopping site

 

Oh dear! I know we’re supposed to hate them but I couldn’t survive without Amazon! Not just for books – music, films, cat toys – all the essentials of life! I’m deeply ashamed…

* * * * * * *

Favourite phone app

 

Ahem – I don’t have a phone. Well, I do – one of those ones that plugs into the wall and you use it for speaking to people on – remember them? No txt spch in my life – isn’t that gr8? But needless to say my favourite app on my tablet is the Kindle app…

phone

* * * * * * *

One dish you are really good at making and its recipe

 

See, at this point I could tell you about my world-renowned boeuf bourguignon or my secret recipe, passed down through the generations, for hand-made haggis. I could – but I’m in the unfortunate position that my BigSister reads the blog and might laugh till she choked! And then who’d cook Christmas dinner…?

So I am forced to stick with the truth, however embarrassing…

* * * * *

Now pay attention, ‘cos this is quite complicated.

Take 1 box of Ricicles (which, as you may or may not remember, are twicicles as nicicles)

ricicles

Pour generously into a bowl.

Add milk – but be careful – this is the tricky bit! Too little and your Ricicles will be dry – too much and you might set off a tsunami in your kitchen.

Listen to them snap, crackle and pop.

Eat, while holding well away from passing felines.

Mmm... doesn't that look good! Enjoy! (Who actually takes a pic of a plate of Riciles and posts it on the internet? people are weird...)
Mmm… doesn’t that look good! Enjoy!
(Who actually takes a pic of a plate of Ricicles and posts it on the internet? Aren’t people weird…?)
* * * * * * *

Five movies that I can watch over and over again

 

Only 5?? Well…

The Lord of the Rings trilogy – but that only counts as one, right? And I like other things about it apart from Aragorn, you know. Boromir, for example…

Aragorn6

A Few Good Men – partly because Tom is so delicious in his dinky little white uniform, but mainly for Jack and his “You WANT me on that wall! You NEED me on that wall!” speech. ‘Cos secretly, in my heart, I do…

a few good men

Twelve Angry Men – it’s a real regret that I’ve only been allowed to serve on a jury once and the rotten so-and-so changed his plea to guilty just as I was gearing up to do my Henry Fonda act. The bit I love most is when they all get up one by one and turn their backs on the man who’s doing a Donald Trump impersonation…

twelve angry men

Rear Window – love the story, think it’s filmed gorgeously – great colour – Jimmy Stewart is fab (and kinda lovely – it’s his voice, I think), Thelma Ritter adds a lot of fun, but most of all it’s those fabulous dresses that Grace Kelly gets to wear! Oh how I wish I lived in a time when we dressed like that!

rear window

Casablanca – well, obviously! Fortunately I’m usually alone when I watch it, which makes it less embarrassing when I get up and join in with the singing of the Marseillaise – not easy, since I don’t know the words, but somehow that little detail never stands in my way…

.

* * * * * * *

But ask me again tomorrow and it’ll be a different five…

* * * * * * *

Thanks again, Sindhuja – I enjoyed this! And I tag… everybody!! Especially you!

HAVE A GREAT FRIDAY! 😀

The trials of a book-blogger…

…or How Not to Write a Review of Lolita

 

lolita 3She sits at the screen, fingers drumming lightly on the keyboard.

“Lo-li-ta,” she murmurs, checking if the tip of her tongue takes a trip of three steps down her palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. No – her tongue remains firmly behind her teeth at every step. Having mastered counting to ten in Russian at school, she tries it in a Russian accent. “Lo-LI-ta!” Hmm…better, but still not quite there. In the background, the News Channel is discussing whether the UK has managed to blow up anything useful in Syria. “Lo-li-ta!” She becomes aware of the ticking of the clock – a surprise, since all the various clocks in the room are digital. And each tells her that 30 minutes have passed since she opened the document that stares blankly and somewhat accusingly from the screen. Quickly she types:

Middle-aged paedophile Humbert Humbert narrates the story of how he repeatedly abuses and rapes a child.

Hmm… accurate, but perhaps a bit harsh? She shudders as she is assaulted by a sudden vision of hordes of angry Lolita fans waving placards. Reaching for a piece of chocolate, she mumbles “Lo-li-ta”, then presses delete. The News Channel reports that it’s raining today, will be raining tomorrow and that the medium term forecast is for rain. The damp cat drying its paws on her sweater confirms the report’s accuracy. She makes coffee.

Humbert Humbert falls in love with the twelve-year-old golden-tanned, lentigo-bespeckled daughter of his landlady – little Lo-li-ta…

She ponders, then deletes the hyphens. Then deletes the sentence.

This beautifully written – no, scratch that – This pretentious – no, no, definitely scratch that!

James Mason as Humbert with 18-year-old Sue Lyon as Lolita
James Mason as Humbert with 18-year-old Sue Lyon as Lolita

The News Channel is now discussing the ethics of gene-editing. She finds herself wondering if they could edit her genes to turn her into a natural red-head. Or perhaps they could give her a golden tan and lentigo.

Humbert Humbert is genetically programmed to be obsessed by nymphets, and little Lolita is genetically designed to be one…

She sighs, deletes and switches off the TV. The ticking of the clock sounds louder now. She reads a few blog posts, all of which depress her with the conviction that everyone else can always find plenty to say even about books that are basically pulp. Lolita is an acknowledged classic so she should be able to write something deeply insightful and possibly poetic about it, shouldn’t she? A small part of her brain knows exactly what the problem is – that what she wants to write is…

* * * * * * *

Middle-aged paedophile Humbert Humbert narrates the story of how he repeatedly abuses and rapes a child.

Despite the fact that I knew going in that this was what the book was fundamentally about, I had hoped that it might have some merits that would outweigh the unpleasantness of the subject matter. For example, I’ve read a million reviews saying how wonderfully written it is. At the point where I was dying of tedium around the 40% mark, praying that he would stop repeating himself and just for once say ‘freckles’ rather than consulting his thesaurus and coming up with ‘lentigo’ instead, I rechecked some of the reviews and noted the little rider that 90% of them add – I paraphrase: “the prose is wonderful, considering he wasn’t writing in his first language”. Aha! If only I’d paid more attention – ‘cos, in general, anytime anyone follows the word “wonderful” with the word “considering” that usually equates to “not really wonderful at all”. Certainly his love of words shines through, and I grant his mastery of English is considerably greater than many native speakers’. But the purpose of a wide vocabulary is surely to enable one to communicate more effectively – not to spend one’s time replacing perfectly functional commonplace words with others that are never used. Unless one is compiling a cryptic crossword…

English-Dictionaries

Of course, had I been swept up in the masterful story-telling, I wouldn’t have had time to get picky about the pretentiousness of the language. But I fear I didn’t find the storytelling masterful at all. Surprising, since Nabokov tells us in his foreword (written tongue-in-cheek as if by a fictional character but still managing to sound rather nauseatingly self-complimentary) that Humbert has written a great work of art, and goes on to say…

“…how magically his singing violin can conjure up a tendresse, a compassion for Lolita that makes us entranced with the book while abhorring its author.”

Hmm! Well… anyway…

Perhaps at the time of writing the whole concept of grooming a child would have been shocking, but frankly it’s a story we hear time and again now, both in reality and in fiction, so its shock value is considerably lessened. Its unpleasantness, however, remains. I think the thing I liked least about it was the attempt to make the story humorous. While Nabokov does often remind us of the real cruelty at the heart of the story – for instance, when he mentions Lolita crying herself to sleep each night – I felt that he was painting Humbert in too sympathetic a light, though I wasn’t sure that this was his intention. And conversely, showing Lolita as too well able to cope with the abuse both as it happened and afterwards. In fact, Lolita’s strength is in a sense a get out of jail free card for Humbert (or Nabokov), because Nabokov would have found it much more difficult to put in his little “jokes”, surely, had Lolita been portrayed more truthfully. I spent much of my time debating whether the falseness of Lolita’s character was a deliberate effect of Humbert’s unreliability as a narrator, but actually I couldn’t convince myself that he is unreliable. I think we are supposed to accept that events happened as he describes them, which left me with real credibility problems.

Jeremy Irons as Humbert with 17-year-old Dominique Swain as Lolita. One understands why they don't use a child but these fully grown women make the thing seem more like a love affair than child abuse... a bit like the book tries to do... but fails.
Jeremy Irons as Humbert with 17-year-old Dominique Swain as Lolita. One understands why they don’t use a child but these fully grown women make the thing seem more like a love affair than child abuse… a bit like the book tries to do… but fails.

Certainly we are not supposed to assume that the book has any meaning deeper than the story it tells – Nabokov himself makes this clear, in his afterword…

“There are gentle souls who would pronounce Lolita meaningless because it does not teach them anything. I am neither a reader nor a writer of didactic fiction, and, despite John Ray’s assertion, Lolita has no moral in tow. For me a work of fiction exists only insofar as it affords me what I shall bluntly call aesthetic bliss, that is a sense of being somehow, somewhere, connected with other states of being where art (curiosity, tenderness, kindness, ecstasy) is the norm.”

Vladimir Nabokov Photo by Keystone/Getty Images
Vladimir Nabokov
Photo by Keystone/Getty Images

I agree – it is meaningless and it has no moral in tow. Sadly it did not provoke in me any feelings of bliss, aesthetic or otherwise – though it does have the distinction of being the only book I remember reading that both bored me and made me want to vomit simultaneously. Screeds of it are tediously repetitive – the pages and pages where he describes all the different kinds of hotels they stay in read like some kind of holiday brochure written by an aspiring poet doing a summer job, or perhaps more like the reviews on TripAdvisor, only with better spelling. I would have skipped through to the good bits only I couldn’t find out where they were. One more lingering description of Lolita’s golden tan would have provoked me to start campaigning for compulsory sunscreen. And just when I could see the light at the end of the tunnel, I was forced to live through the most ridiculous climax (an unfortunate choice of words, perhaps, in the circumstances) with some of the least convincing dialogue I have ever read.

“Ah, that hurts, sir, enough! Ah, that hurts atrociously, my dear fellow. I pray you, desist.”

My feelings exactly. So, it’s very well written, considering English isn’t his first language. And that’s pretty much the best I can find to say about it.

* * * * * * *

…but she knows that would be an ill-tempered rant rather than a review. Exasperated, she presses delete and switches off the laptop. Maybe tomorrow…

Have a great Friday! 😉

Wednesday Witterings…

You plus guest are hereby cordially invited to

 

Thanksgiving Dinner

 

So, the invites have gone out for Thanksgiving Dinner at my place and I’m hopeful all my guests will turn up and that some of them might even be sober! That was the easy bit though – the hard bit has been deciding on the seating arrangements. But I think I’ve finally got it worked out…

table

On my right, I shall have Rebus, because despite his grumpiness and his liking for a wee dram or two, he’s still got a weirdly cute vibe going on…

rebus

Next to him, Jane Tennison. I reckon that way she’ll drink most of the wine at this end of the table, meaning Rebus might still be sober enough for the post-prandial dancing…

jane_tennison1

On Jane’s right will be Lord Peter Wimsey – I’m intrigued to see whether his monocle will fall out when Jane propositions him, as she’s almost certain to before we get to dessert…

Lord-Peter-Wimsey

On Lord Peter’s other side will be Jessica Fletcher – don’t you think they’d make a wonderful match? He can quote poetry to her and she can explain the plot of Bedknobs and Broomsticks

Bedknobs-and-Broomsticks-Angela-Lansbury1

Next along will be Nero Wolfe – I weighed up the disadvantage that he will eat most of the food against the advantage that he can bring along his cook Fritz to prepare the meal for us all…

Nero_Wolfe_Gordon800_fs

And I thought I’d put Ruth Galloway beside Nero – next to him, even Ruth will be able to have an evening off from worrying about her dress size…

Elly Griffiths standing in for Ruth Galloway. Photo: Jerry Bauer
Elly Griffiths standing in for Ruth Galloway. Photo: Jerry Bauer

The bottom of the table is reserved for you, with your guest on your right – though the table can be extended if you’d like to bring more than one…

question mark

Next to your guest will be Archie Goodwin – well, you didn’t think I’d invite Nero without him, did you? Who’d do the driving? Plus he’s gorgeous and he dances divinely…

archie goodwin

And it will be nice for sweet young Maeve Kerrigan to have at least one attractive man next to her…

Jane Casey standing in for Maeve Kerrigan.
Jane Casey standing in for Maeve Kerrigan.

…since on her other side will be Andy Dalziel! Can’t wait to see how those two get along – they’ve got so much in common… er…

andy dalziel

But just in case Andy gets out of hand, I’ve placed Miss Marple on his other side. She’ll soon sort him out, and I doubt she’ll even need to use her knitting needles.

Miss Marple

The other advantage of having Miss Marple there is that she won’t be much competition in the romance stakes – since between her and me will be seated…

fitzwilliam-darcy
Oh come on! You knew it would be him! You girls can fight over Archie – Darcy is there just for me!!

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RSVP – I do hope you’ll be able to come!

 

Happy Thanksgiving!