Having first checked all of my local second-hand bookshops and struck out, I visited Daunt Books on Marylebone (London) because I was sure they would Having first checked all of my local second-hand bookshops and struck out, I visited Daunt Books on Marylebone (London) because I was sure they would have a copy of this classic book. I made the mistake of looking for it under Australia, though, and it turns out that they file it under Malaya. I was confused because I had assumed that the book took place in Alice Springs, Australia. It's a bit misleading, for sure - as 'Alice' only appears briefly in the book. That Outback town, an oasis amongst a desert wilderness, is meant to represent potential: the possibilities in a raw, rugged land for those with grit and imagination.
Really, this is a book of three locations: England, Malaya (the former British Malaya which is now known as Malaysia) and Australia. The Malayan storyline hardly accounts for more than a third of the book, but it is by far the most compelling third. The 1956 filmmakers clearly agreed with me because they cut the other bits out and focused their film entirely on heroine Jean Paget and the Australian soldier whose path she crosses whilst leading a group of women and children prisoners on a trek across the Malaysian countryside during the Japanese occupation.
This is a gripping book - a proper adventure story - and even the modern readers who winces at the racist language (typical of its time) and undeniable British hegemony will be carried along in the swift stream of the storyline. By the last third of the book, though, the Empire-building aspect of it really started to dawn on me. Published in 1950, the book's narration begins several years after the end of the war. England, as represented by the novel's narrator - Noel Strachan, an estate lawyer in his 70s - is grey and played-out. It's not the end of the British Empire yet, but the war has changed things irrevocably. Jean Paget represents the future: someone who can navigate the language and customs of other countries, but can improve them, too, with her estimable British grit, bravery, ingenuity and vision. In the last third of the book, Jean takes on the inhospitable Australian Outback and works some (fairly improbable) miracles there.
It's not a perfect book, and it certainly bogs down a bit at the end, but it was a darn good read. The author doesn't give the main characters much interiority - and having a fairly minor character act as narrator means that there is a degree of detachment in the most emotional moments of the storyline - but it was a bold choice to make a young woman the heroine of his story. ...more
The Slightly Foxed publishers specialise in memoirs from distinguished writers, mostly British and mostly 20th century, although there are some exceptThe Slightly Foxed publishers specialise in memoirs from distinguished writers, mostly British and mostly 20th century, although there are some exceptions. Some of their books have also featured pen and ink illustrations, but this charming new offering for November 2021 is an entirely new format for them. The ‘Letters to Michael’ could certainly be described as memoir-ish, as it reveals much about a family’s life in the suburbs of Manchester in the years 1945-47. It’s also a fascinating historical document, a reading, writing and drawing primer, and most of all, a series of playful and informative love letters from a father to his young son. You could read it like a picture book to your children or grandchildren. You could read it in the spirit of nostalgia. You could read it just for the pure pleasure of admiring pictures which have personality in the same way that good writing has ‘voice’.
Each letter is neatly divided between text and illustration and the early letters also feature a ‘stamp’ - a bonus illustration usually related to the bigger picture. They start off in a prose style suited to a beginning reader, and then the subject matter and illustrations gradually become more sophisticated and detailed. Although there is a great deal of variety in the illustrations, together they form a fairly comprehensive picture of life in England during those years. There are historical events - like the VJ celebrations and the harsh winter of 1947 - but there are also all of the prosaic events which make up the world of work, family and leisure. Phillipson shares a lot of his own work routine with his son, and there are letters which feature his daily commute, the people he meets in his office, and really specific details of office life during these years. The range of subject matter also touches on sports and hobbies, musical concerts and childhood games, fantasy, whimsy and self-portraits. And of course, because this is England: plenty of weather and many cups of tea!
It’s a darling book - such a treat, both to look at and to read. ...more
While the summer lasted, the beauty was stronger than the sadness, because the sun blessed everything - the ruins, the tired faces of the people, t
While the summer lasted, the beauty was stronger than the sadness, because the sun blessed everything - the ruins, the tired faces of the people, the tall wild flowers and the dark stagnant water - and, during those months of calm, London in ruin was beautiful as a city in a dream.
"I've just an unhappy nature, I think. I take everything so seriously, and I mind it so much when things are ugly, and I worry about the mess the world's in, and the war."
Westwood is the coming-of-age story of 23 year old Margaret Steggles - rather too appropriately called 'Struggles' by one of the other characters - during the last year of World War II. When the story begins, Margaret is exploring Hampstead Heath and the village of Highgate on a romantically atmospheric summer evening before segueing to her torch-lit inspection of a small house with falling-down bits of plaster. Margaret's family is preparing to move to London after some years in a dull and provincial Bedfordshire town, and Margaret is beginning her first job as a teacher at the Anna Bonner School for Girls.
Margaret's sensitivity to natural beauty immediately impresses itself on the reader; and in a conversation with Hilda, an old school friend, we learn that Margaret is also passionately fond of poetry and music. Despite being plain, and having a rather stolid, serious nature, Margaret is seriously susceptible to beauty and this tendency towards romanticism will clash with the more sensible and pragmatic side of her nature throughout this book. Hilda proves to be an excellent foil for Margaret, both in looks and temperament. Although Hilda has the delicate and pretty blondness that makes her a favourite with men, she is remarkably down-to-earth and completely dismissive of any excess of emotion or poetic sensibility. Hilda gets nearly all of the comic lines in the book, and although I suspect that Stella Gibbons may have slightly more of the 'Margaret' in her, she is well aware that there is a fine line between being alive to the beauties of the world and a necessary pragmatism and stringent honesty about the true nature of things. The entirely unsentimental accuracy of Gibbon's characterisations makes it clear that she reserves her romanticism for the landscape.
Early in the story, through the device of a lost ration card, Margaret is drawn into the lives of an alluring and artistic family. The elder branch of the family - Gerald Challis, a distinguished playwright, and his wife Seraphina - live in a rather grand house called Westwood in the village of Highgate, very near to Margaret's new home. The younger branch - artist Alex Niland, his wife Hebe (daughter to the Challises) and their three children - are the means through which Margaret becomes attached to her fantasy crush on Gerald Challis. Margaret's own home life is unhappy, and when she falls in love with Mr. Challis she has really fallen for the whole set-up: not least, the gracious house itself.
It was interesting to read a book in which World War II is the backdrop but not really the 'story' itself. Although many aspects of the war colour the plot, and nearly all of the male characters are involved in the war in some way - whether by working in the Ministry, or being engaged in active duty, or having been invalided out - the story is really about how ordinary people are living their lives despite the war. There are many references to blackout curtains, sweet rations, and even the occasional bomb, and yet the war - after more than 5 years - has become a commonplace to the characters. Even the character of Zita - a German Jewish refugee who works in the Challis home and becomes friends with Margaret - has a life made up of concert going and boyfriends, not to mention domestic work, despite occasional hints of the tragedy she has left behind in Germany.
In many ways, this is a story of innocence and experience - a theme which always resonates with me. One of my favourite scenes in the novel takes place when Margaret and Mr. Challis are thrown together in a journey through the countryside. She admires the simple beauty of the meadows, awash in buttercups, while he has nothing but a dismissive contempt for the view. Finally, she is bold enough to challenge his beliefs and values:
'No one should accept a second-best in beauty.' "But some people have to, Mr Challis!' He only shook his head, studying her flushed cheeks and over-bright eyes. 'Never, my child.' 'Then if one cannot have the very best, shouldn't one have anything at all? she asked, in a tone so despairing that it amused him and he gave a quite good-natured laugh, but all the same he answered firmly: 'No - nothing. In beauty, in art, in love, in spiritual integrity - the highest and best - or nothing!' 'That makes it very hard for some people,' she said at last in a low tone.'
Love and romance are leitmotifs throughout the book, but if anything this story has a highly unromantic view of love - and particularly of marriage. One of my favourite descriptions of the disappointment of marriage is this sketch of the Challis union:
Mr Challis, who had been married for twenty-five years, was again silent. He was fond of his wife, though he had long ago decided that her nymph's face had led him up a garden path where the flowers were not spiritual enough for his taste, and he deplored her frivolity.
Being the 'high-minded' sort, Mr Challis creates the perfect tragic heroines for his plays and has a series of affairs with much younger women. Happily for them, the women in his life are under no illusion about the defects in his nature and only the innocent Margaret really idolises him in any way.
In a sense, there is some pressure on Margaret to think about marriage; women like Margaret's mother can see no alternative for women, even though her own marriage is lonely and disappointing. At several points in the book, Margaret thinks a man might be interested in her but it all comes to nothing. Yet even in her keenest disappointments, Margaret is self-aware enough to realise that her heart has not been truly touched.
It was only when I finished the book that I noticed it had a subtitle: The Gentle Powers. At the very end of the book, a wise older woman advises Margaret that she has a character which will always crave "the gentle powers" (defined as Beauty, and Time, and the Past and Pity. Laughter, too). So many of the incidents in the book, taken from a year in Margaret's life, emphasise one of those powers. It's a wonderful summing-up, and it also explains why I felt a particular kinship with this book. Like Margaret, and author Stella Gibbons, I am also extremely susceptible to the beauties of Hampstead and Highgate.
Each village upon its hill is marked by a church spire, and both are landmarks for miles. Both villages are romantic and charming, with narrow hilly streets and little two-hundred-year-old houses, and here and there a great mansion of William and Mary's or James the First's reign, such as Fenton House in Hampstead and Cromwell House in Highgate; but their chief charm dwells in their cold air, which seems perpetually scented with April, and in the glimpses at the end of their steep alleys of some massive elm or oak, with beyond its branches that abrupt drop into the complex smoky pattern (formed by a thousand shades of grey in winter and of delicate cream and smoke-blue in summer) of London.
Mollie Panter-Downes portrays a kind of heroism defined by and for upper-middle-class English women. Stoicism, kindliness, reliability, and humour
Mollie Panter-Downes portrays a kind of heroism defined by and for upper-middle-class English women. Stoicism, kindliness, reliability, and humour prove themselves on the fields of the domestic and personal. Responding to crisis, her characters make desperate, but quiet and steady, efforts to maintain equilibrium - and to be seen doing so.
~ from the Preface to this collection of Mollie Panter-Downes short stories, originally published in The New Yorker between the years of 1939-1944.
These are Homefront stories. In every single one of them, the war (World War II) looms large, and yet it is also the backdrop to women (and they are mostly women) getting on with their lives. The stories are strung together in chronological order, just as they were written. As Gregory Lestage points out in the Preface, they ring with the authenticity of a voice who was there, but that voice is unmistabkeably upper-middle-class English.
One of the big themes is how the war affected the traditional class structure of British society. In many cases, different classes are thrown together in a way that would have been impossible before the war: for instance, in the intimacy of huddling together in the Underground during the Blitz, or from being evacuated from the cities to the countryside. In the story 'It's The Reaction' - for me, one of the most poignant in the collection - a middle-aged Miss Birch finds herself missing the intimacy she had had with her neighbours when London was being bombed every night. As the residents in her building revert to their former habits of aloof privacy, she misses that brief period of camaraderie. But in the story 'The Danger', Mrs. Dudley feels nothing but relief when she is finally able to expel the London evacuees who had lived with her for four long years. A long period of intimacy had done nothing to make the city Rudds and the country Dudleys feel kindlier to one another.
Although Panter-Downes does show English women adapting bravely and stoically to the privations and difficulties of war, she doesn't gloss over the irritations, pettiness and rather 'small' human behaviour that punctuates daily life. In a way, the one really illuminates the other. One of the funniest stories about different types having to rub up together is 'Battle of the Greeks' - when a village sewing circle meets up at Mrs. Ramsay's house. Most of the group is disgruntled when they discover that they are sewing pyjamas for Greek soldiers. Their myriad (and mostly negative) feelings about Greeks are absurdly mixed in with British winceyette and a confusion about how, exactly, they are performing patriotic and dutiful acts. Dutiful, however, is exactly what they mean to be.
Mrs Twistle coughed gently again and remarked with implacable softness that the Greeks were very marvellous, no doubt, but in her opinion it was a pity that England had to have foreign allies monkeying about with her war.
It took me a few stories to get into Panter-Downes rhythm and to appreciate her more subtle points of insight and humour. She was describing the 'Homefront' as it gradually developed, and undoubtedly many of its constituents were far more likely to be fearful and selfish than brave and virtuous. She is realistic in the same way that her contemporary Elizabeth Taylor is realistic - sharp-eyed and not overly sentimental. Some of the stories seem superficial and others were even a bit dull, but each one builds up an increasingly more comprehensive portrait of how 'ordinary people' were carrying on during the war. She shapes specific experiences in her characters' lives, but you never get the sense that she mythologises them....more
A general conversation characterised by partial knowledge hovering on the verge of ignorance then took place, during which it was decided that no o
A general conversation characterised by partial knowledge hovering on the verge of ignorance then took place, during which it was decided that no one knew if nurses were being sent out or not, that if they were it was a shame, and it was a shame if they weren't.
I've read a handful of Angela Thirkell novels, but although I can barely recall the plot of the others, I can say with some assurance that this one was my favourite. Perhaps it's because it is set during a six month period of 1941, when the war wasn't going very well and home-front privations were really beginning to bite, but I found it had a darkness and grounding realism which served as an effective counterbalance to the frothier (and sometimes absurd) aspects of Thirkell's signature 'comedy of manners' style.
Part of the pleasure of Thirkell's 'Barsetshire' novels is in the detection of parallels to that fictional county first created by 19th century novelist Anthony Trollope. Like Trollope, Thirkell delights in characterising her chosen microcosm of society: Aristocrats, County and Servants. Borrowing both place and character names from Trollope's work gives Thirkell's novels a familiar 'in joke' quality. It's not at all necessary to have read Trollope's Barsetshire novels first, but you will undoubtedly enjoy Thirkell more for having done so. Both authors have the same sly sense of humour, usually employed through a clever turn of phrase or authorial intrusion to the story. There is much less of Church and Politics in Thirkell's novels, as opposed to Trollope's, but they are both obsessed by Society and the nuanced and minutely observed distinctions of the English class system. The robust class system of Trollope's day is a fading system in Thirkell's; whether that is to be regretted or not depends on the reader's point of view. I can completely understand if some readers find Thirkell's novels snobby and silly, but there is also a sharp awareness at work here. Most of the novels turn on a marriage plot, but really that is just the frame for having fun with the characters and their bumbling progress towards a right and proper match.
In this book, Lettice Watson (née Marling) is a young widow whose husband Roger has died at Dunkirk. Lettice is pretty, well-mannered, quiet and diffident - in contrast to the majority of her strong-willed and outspoken Marling family. Three suitors present themselves in the course of the novel - one of them being a recurring character called David Lindsey. David is a cousin of Lettice's, and he is socially impeccable, handsome, irresistibly charming to everyone who meets him, and easily bored. Lettice's two other suitors are a nice but dull Captain Barclay and an upper-middle class bohemian poet named Geoffrey Harvey. Geoffrey and his sister Frances have come to the village of Marling Melicent (seat of the Marling family) in order to do some boring (ahem, highly important) administrative work for the war. They rent a house in the village from the widow Mrs. Smith (one of the comic grotesques in the novel) and in many ways function just as Henry and Mary Crawford do in Mansfield Park. (Thirkell is obviously a keen Austen admirer, and often pays homage by imitation to that author.) Although they are well-born enough, they are also outsiders in the Barsetshire world: Town instead of Country (or even more importantly, County). They are decidedly ill-suited to being proper suitors for either Lettice or her brother Oliver.
To those with real roots in the country the intolerance of the city-dwellers who come among them is always a little surprising. (the fact that) Mrs Smith was a troublesome woman was accepted like the weather or the rates.
There are numerous characters in the novel, but Thirkell is skilled at character portraits and I had no trouble keeping them all straight. In general, the most minor characters are also the most eccentric. The least silly and most formidable character is another recurring character in Thirkell's Barsetshire world: the retired governess Miss Bunting (or 'Bunny' to her former protogées).
Generally, a Thirkell novel is a 'period piece' sort of story. During these post-Brexit, full-on pandemic times, there are some parallels to war time - if only because the government can dictate to citizens in a way that's unimaginable in 'peace-time'. Because World War II does constantly intrude on the domestic events of the novel, there were some unexpected moments of recognition and relevance in the story. I didn't expect to find that in a Thirkell story, and I was pleasantly surprised by how much I enjoyed her sharp-eyed, tart-tongued observations. ...more
Caroline and Vittoria Cottage seemed to possess the graciousness of life that he remembered. The house was not really run on pre-war lines
4.5 stars
Caroline and Vittoria Cottage seemed to possess the graciousness of life that he remembered. The house was not really run on pre-war lines, for its mistress did far more work, but the atmosphere was a survival from that other life, it was an atmosphere of peace and kindness and simple gaiety.
Caroline's daughters did not know her of course. They loved her but they had no idea what she was like. She was their mother. She had always been the same and always would be. They accepted the fact that she was interested in their affairs, but it had never occurred to them that she might be interested in herself or that they might be interested in her.
This cosy domestic saga, published in 1949, takes place in the shadows of World War II. Although the war doesn't intrude upon the story in an overt way, it remains a felt presence in all of the characters' lives. Food shortages, rules and regulations and the newly formed National Health Service all play a role in the plot, but these are secondary to the sense of emotional loss - particularly for the main characters of Caroline Dering and Robert Shepperton. Both Caroline and Robert have been widowed in the war, although the sort of wounds they carry are different in nature.
I suppose this novel would be categorised as a romance, but it's far more about village and family life and really the romantic bit just brackets the main meat of the plot. For me, the charm of the book - and I was definitely charmed by it -is in Stevenson's down-to-earth observations, her graceful and gently humorous writing style and the sympathetic character of Caroline Dering.
Caroline is described as 'humble-hearted', and I'm always attracted to that quality - both in fiction and in real-life. She is one of those generous and loving people whom you can't help but root for, or at least I can't, and I feel that she probably embodies many of the qualities that Stevenson likes best as well.
This is a 'second chance at happiness' sort of romance, just to give you a flavour. It is unapologetically aimed at those readers (probably middle-aged women) who love heartwarming stories set in English villages. 'Middlebrow', perhaps, but written by a a very knowledgable and wise mistress of the genre.
Having lost his mother, father, brother, and grandfather, the friends and foes of his youth, his beloved teacher Bernard Kornblum, his city, his hi
Having lost his mother, father, brother, and grandfather, the friends and foes of his youth, his beloved teacher Bernard Kornblum, his city, his history - his home - the usual charge levelled against comic books, that they offered merely an escape from reality, seemed to Joe actually to be a powerful argument on their behalf.
I admired many things about this novel, but Chabon’s playful and profound explorations of the theme of ‘escape’ (with its sidekick ‘escapism’) were extraordinary. On one level, he is paying homage to the golden age of comic books, (that particularly American ‘art’ form), but he takes those comic book tropes of adventure and heroism and expands on them in a way that is touching, entertaining and profound. He gives them cultural and historical weight by connecting the heyday of the superhero with World War II and the Holocaust. He gives them emotional weight by connecting them to the exploits and psychodramas of the two main characters.
Josef ‘Joe’ Kavalier and Samuel ‘Sam Clay’ Klayman are cousins, Joe being a representative of the highly educated and cultured Prague branch of the family, and Sam being an American offshoot scrabbling for purchase in the rawer, rougher streets of Brooklyn. After Joe’s ‘escape’ from Prague in 1939, as the Nazi regime closes like a trap around the Jews of Europe, the cousins unite in a creative and money-making endeavour: comic books. Sam provides the text, while Joe draws the pictures. Together the cousins build the story arcs - with none of their considerable output being more personal and symbolic than their character ‘The Escapist’.
This is a particularly American story, although it begins in ‘old world’ Prague; but then what could be more American than the immigrant scrabbling for a toehold in New York City? It’s also a Jewish story - a story of exile and a New Jerusalem. It begins with the most famous ‘golem’ of all: the golem of Prague, brought to life by the rabbi Judah Lowe ben Bezalel in the late 16th century. Josef Kavalier smuggles the famous Prague golem out of Prague; or more precisely, he is smuggled out of Prague inside the golem. It’s the perfect symbol, embodying both hope and despair, the earthy and the mystical, disguise and transfiguration. For a young boy who has been obsessed with Harry Houdini, and seemingly impossible escapes, it’s the first important escape in a biographical timeline made up of getaways, concealments and diversions.
Sam has his own escapist storyline, but in many ways he is the sidekick of Joe - a plot device and character trait explored in more than way in the novel. There are several other key characters, the most important being artist Rosa Saks - who becomes the third side in a triangle that is more scalene than equilateral. The minor characters are just as lovingly drawn, though, and in many ways are lavished with character traits and descriptions out of proportion to their importance to the plot.
Chabon’s writing style is dense and ornate; he lavishes detail on every sentence and every plot point. He builds up a setting rich with historical accuracy and peopled by real-life characters. At times, this makes for a slow read. My paperback edition was 656 pages in a tiny font which necessitated both strong light and an alert mind. This book demands a lot from the reader, in terms of focus and concentration. For me, it completely paid back the effort needed to read it.
He had escaped, in his life, from ropes, chains, boxes, bags, and crates, from handcuffs and shackles, from countries and regimes, from the arms of a woman who loved him, from crashed airplanes and an opiate addiction and from an entire frozen continent intent on causing his death. The escape from reality was, he felt - especially right after the war - a worthy challenge.
I read this novel as part of the 2020 #mypulitzerstack challenge. ...more
In the 2016 Afterword to this book - this epic, this almost unbelievable true story - author Thomas Keneally describes his attraction to the story of In the 2016 Afterword to this book - this epic, this almost unbelievable true story - author Thomas Keneally describes his attraction to the story of Oskar Schindler and his Schindlerjuden (the 1200 Jewish people he saved during the Holocaust). There is the ‘Holocaust itself’: a fantastical reductio ad adsurdum of a culture of race-hate, (that) seems as much akin to sci-fi as to actual history.. There is the the ‘Holocaust as moral template’: in other words, how would ‘I’ react in similar circumstances? Would I be brave, or cowardly? Brutal, or kind and generous? Then, there is the character of Schindler himself. As Keneally states, and shows throughout the narrative, Schindler was a ‘joyous, hectic pragmatist’ who operated at the very heart of the SS regime. Despite this, he subverted Nazi doctrine in every way possible, at enormous risk to himself, and managed to employ, take care of and even rescue more than a 1000 Jews. Although his kindness may have started out as casual, and even self-interested, it developed into a consuming passion. Through a combination of guile, charm, luck, and a fortune in bribes, Schindler managed to pull off the unlikeliest of rescues - including reclaiming 300 women who had already become trapped in the death vortex of Auschwitz. This rescue alone has no other equal or equivalent.
When I was visiting Krakow in December of 2019, I toured the former Deutsche Emailwaren Fabrik (German Enamelware Factory) which Schindler owned and operated from 1939 to 1944 with his ‘highly skilled’ Jewish work force. These days the factory is a museum describing Krakow during the days of the Second World War, but with the greatest emphasis on Oskar Schindler and the Jewish experience. When I was there, I overheard a teacher telling her teenage students that they mustn’t be quick to judge the inhabitants of WWII Krakow: whether Polish, German SS or Jew, there were ‘good’ and ‘bad’ and plenty of people somewhere in between. I thought of her words so many times as I was reading this book, because in addition to the flawed hero at the centre of the story, there are so many examples of people of every ethical gradation. There were systems, and systems within systems. There was a great deal of black marketeering. There was, above all, a desperate desire to survive. The highlight of my visit to the former Enamel Factory was watching a film in which several of the war’s survivors, Schindler’s former employees, described what it was like to be taken in to the relatively safe harbour of Schindler’s employment and care. Making it onto Schindler’s List was your best chance of survival in a country which collaborated with the destruction of 90% of its Jewish population.
It’s a fascinating, compelling book - it is a story, as Keneally says, more ‘morally complex and affecting’ than anything he could have invented. It is not without its difficulties, though, and I don’t refer only to the horrific subject matter. The enormous cast of characters, the German terminology, and the very complexity of reality (as opposed to the neater structure possible in fiction) make it a difficult story to follow at times. It’s very easy to lose the thread, and I couldn’t always keep track of all of the characters, no matter how hard I tried. Keneally’s narrative voice is not that of straightforward biographer, either. At times, the story unfolds in the present tense, almost in the form of a fly-on-the-wall ‘you are there’ perspective. Dialogue is inserted whenever Keneally could reasonably do so, and he makes clear in both the Foreword and Afterword that he has built up the story from the detailed testimony of many people who were still living in 1980, when he first began researching Schindler’s amazing and unlikely story. It’s a complicated, intricately detailed, crazy quilt of a book - unique, and unforgettable.
I purchased this book in the bookshop of the Galicia Jewish Museum in Krakow, Poland on December 17, 2019. ...more
The Exiles Return was written by Elisabeth de Waal, grandmother to Edmund de Waal - and not published until 2013, by Persephone Books, a full two decaThe Exiles Return was written by Elisabeth de Waal, grandmother to Edmund de Waal - and not published until 2013, by Persephone Books, a full two decades after the author’s death. Presumably, interest in the book was kindled by the huge success of Edmund’s The Hare with Amber Eyes, but the book had (and has) every right to be published and read on its own merits. I’ve wondered quite a bit what kept it from being published: perhaps the subject matter was considered too controversial, or perhaps editors assumed that their reading audience were tired of books dealing with the Jewish experience during World War II. There are several potentially controversial subjects in the book - a homosexual relationship, although it is merely hinted at and not the least graphic, and a suicide - but considering what the world witnessed during the years of 1938-45, I cannot imagine, even in the staid 1950s, that these events would have the power to shock or offend most adults. Perhaps the book just disturbed too much the collective desire for amnesia. Perhaps the book touched on a spot still too sore.
Set in Vienna during the 1950s, the title gives a good hint of the novel’s subject matter. The three ‘exiles’ in the book are: Professor Kuno Adler, a research scientist who is returning to the University after 15 years in New York City; Theophil Kanakis, a rich Greek tycoon whose family had helped turn Vienna into the jewel of the Austro-Hungarian Empire; and Marie-Theres ‘Resi’, the American daughter of an exiled Austrian princess and her Danish husband. All three characters have their own storylines and secondary characters, but the author also connects them together in a storyline as tragic as an opera plot. (The importance of the opera in Vienna is alluded to in more than one scene in the novel.)
The novel begins with a direct reference to an exact moment in Vienna’s history: ”it was in the middle fifties, a short while before the conclusion of the so-called State Treaty which led to the withdrawal of the Allied Occupation forces and finally restored Austria’s independence.” Vienna is still rebuilding, a full decade after the war. A long season of hunger is finally coming to an end. A partial restitution is being made to the Jewish population, from whom so much was stolen. The author, whose own family had been prominent citizens of Vienna for several generations, does not just make her book about the Jewish experience, though. Impoverished aristocrats and the ambitious sons of former servants also play a role, as do former Nazis. What the book does so well is describe a diverse society, totally ruptured, which is attempting to knit itself back together.
Elisabeth de Waal was a linguist in the highborn, well-educated European style: I know that she spoke fluent German, French, Dutch and English at the very least. During the war, she and her Dutch husband settled in Tunbridge Wells, Kent, and presumably it was there that she perfected her English. I mention this only because her writing never gives even a hint that she is not a native speaker. She has a graceful, flowing style - truly a pleasure to read - and it completely mystifies me that this book was not published in her lifetime....more
The usual last-minute bustle of activity reigned on board the large passenger steamer that was to leave New York for Buenos Aires at midnight.
The The usual last-minute bustle of activity reigned on board the large passenger steamer that was to leave New York for Buenos Aires at midnight.
The first sentence of Zweig’s suspenseful novella creates a cinematic picture in my mind. A small cast of unlikely companions of various nationalities are thrown together on a journey. Definitely shades of Agatha Christie here, with the hour of ‘midnight’ suggesting something dark and liminal. The narrator is the classic bystander who becomes a confidante to one of the central characters. He remains nameless throughout, and the reader is never given any indication of his profession or reasons for traveling to Argentina. Initially, the story seems to be about a Slovenian chess prodigy called Mirko Czentovic, but it ends up being more about his eventual opponent.
The story of psychological warfare over the chess board works well on the literal level but I felt that Zweig provided plenty of scope for more complex ‘readings’, too. Unexpectedly compelling and just the right length for a two hour plane journey. ...more
This was a reread for me - chosen because I was visiting Vienna, which is one of the important settings of the book, and also because I wanted to reacThis was a reread for me - chosen because I was visiting Vienna, which is one of the important settings of the book, and also because I wanted to reacquaint myself with the Ephrussi family story before visiting the exhibition ‘The Ephrussis: Travel in Time’ which is currently at the Jewish Museum of Vienna. I first read this book in 2010 or 2011, when it was just published, and I remember being so struck by the dramatic reversals suffered by this rich, cultured Jewish family in the 20th century. Originally from Odessa, the Ephrussi family first made their fortune by being grain dealers and then moved successfully into banking. The family retained their position in Odessa, but also established powerful branches in the cities of Vienna and Paris. In the final flourish of the Austro-Hungarian empire, (1860s to the end of World War I), Ignace Ephrussi becomes the ‘second richest’ banker in Vienna and is made a Baron by the emperor. He builds an enormous palace right off the Ringstrasse: the Palais Ephrussi. Its walls seem impregnable; the family’s wealth is immeasurable, and their social position nearly unassailable. Then Hitler’s Third Reich invades Vienna in 1938 and everything the family owns is seized. One of the few possessions to survive the war intact is a collection of Japanese netsuke which the family’s maid Anna secrets into her mattress. In 1945, when the family’s oldest daughter Elisabeth (the author’s grandmother) visits Vienna again, these are handed over to her - an odd legacy, but oddly appropriate, too, for what has become a family of exiles.
The netsuke - which travel from Japan to Paris to Vienna, back to Japan, and then to England - become an interesting metaphor and plot device for describing the vicissitudes of this storied family. Edmund de Waal, who is a ceramicist shaped by the Japanese tradition, is uniquely qualified to describe the importance and quality of objects. I gave this book to a friend who complained of its ‘pretentious’ tone, and on rereading, I did see her point. At times, de Waal - who also has a degree in English literature - does get a bit precious in his analysis. Overall, this was not a problem for me. Once again, I was completely enthralled by the story of his family against the backdrop of the best and worst excesses of the late 19th and 20th century. ...more
Why unearth the past, why drag the dusty skeletons out of the closet?
Bart van Es grew up knowing that his Dutch grandparents had been a part of the ReWhy unearth the past, why drag the dusty skeletons out of the closet?
Bart van Es grew up knowing that his Dutch grandparents had been a part of the Resistance during the war; he knew, vaguely, that they had ‘hidden’ Jewish children, and that there had been one child in particular - Lien, ‘Lientje’ - who had been more like a family member. He also knew that something had gone wrong, that there was sadness and secrecy associated with Lien, and that it was a subject that the family, particularly his grandmother, did not want to talk about. And knowing all this, van Es - who is a professor at Oxford - decided to reach out to Lien. Without knowing her story, he sensed that there was an important story buried under years and family silence, and with an eye on the ticking clock of time, he decided that it was a story worth pursuing.
This is a detective story of sorts, constructed in such a way that the reader works through the clues (pictures, letters, official documents, personal testimony) along with the author. It begins with an uneasy and cautious meeting between van Es and the woman Lien - now in her 80s - and ends with a hopefulness and healing on both sides. Even though Lien had believed that she had both raked over and come to terms with the past, there were still gaps to fill, questions to answer and old wounds that needed lancing.
It’s also an investigation into the Netherlands during World War II, and van Es does an extremely good job of giving some historical context to the personal story. Like many others, I knew something about the Resistance efforts of the Dutch, but nothing really about the collusion between the Dutch and Germans which existed in the first couple of years of occupation. Apparently the Dutch were ruthlessly efficient at ‘giving up’ their Jewish population - many of whom were longtime and totally assimilated Dutch citizens. I saw van Es give a talk on this book, and in an unforgettable moment, he showed a picture of a large group of young men and women enjoying a day at the beach in Scheveningen (just north of The Hague). Two of that group were Lien’s parents. By the end of the war, only one of those youthful, vibrant people was still alive.
One of the things I particularly valued about this investigative memoir is that doesn’t begin and end with the war. What van Es makes very clear is that Lien’s struggle does not end at the moment she is allowed to come out of hiding. Being turned into a sort of ghost, and losing all of her family, is an experience that has taken a lifetime to process and there is no such thing as total ‘recovery’. A fellow survivor described the persistence of being ‘haunted by the feeling that they did not belong in the world’. There are many interesting revelations in this book, but by far the most important aspect is Lien’s story - and the value of being patched back in (as opposed to ‘cut out’) of the van Es family story. ...more
I’ve enjoyed other of Stevenson’s books - Miss Buncle’s Book, Katherine Wentworth and Spring Magic - but th“I don’t like sugar in stories nor in tea.”
I’ve enjoyed other of Stevenson’s books - Miss Buncle’s Book, Katherine Wentworth and Spring Magic - but this one was something else. Perhaps it was the lovable perfection of its narrator/protagonist, perhaps it was the World War II setting (written in ‘real time’ as Stevenson published this book in 1941), but somehow it combined the charming qualities of Stevenson’s other writing with proper emotional depth. Stevenson has such a gift for characterisation and dialogue, and all of her characters (attractive, comic and dull) are vivid on the page. (And there are an awful lot of characters in this book. At times I definitely regretted not reading its prequel Mrs. Tim of the Regiment before this one, although it’s not strictly necessary.). There are some wonderful set pieces in this book and I have no doubt that Stevenson gives a wholly accurate glimpse into both Army and village life in 1940s Scotland.
What I really love about this book, though, is the way that Stevenson gracefully puts her finger on things: she has a real gift for the well-turned phrase and the perfectly apt analogy. Whether she is comparing the Regiment to a circus, or musing on the marriage of friends - ”they are not partners - as Tim and I are - and they pull in opposite directions” - she combines gentle humour and truthfulness to good effect.
In the second half of the book, as the war gets closer and closer to home - her husband Tim has a near-miraculous escape from France, and she experiences the London Blitz - Hester’s descriptions expand to include not just her family and the Scottish village of Dunford but all of the British citizenry. As the British hunker down for a long war, they begin to experiences themselves - and courage - in a different way. As Aunt Posy confides in Hester: ”We are all soldiers now . . . I have seen a great many soldiers in my time and they are cheerful people; they don’t trouble about the past or the future, but just do their jobs.” When Hester visits London she becomes aware of an enjoyment in being in ”the thick of things.” “I am enjoying the feeling of kinship which unites the whole population of London into one vast family, so that the Queen and the flower woman at the corner are both my sisters.”
London, and all of the UK, feels so divided and angry at this present moment. I suppose that is partly why reading this historical novel of a finer, better hour was such a touching and poignant experience. ...more
This book, set not long after the Second World War - but a world away, in the Devonshire village of Belmaray - has all of the Goudge keynotes. There iThis book, set not long after the Second World War - but a world away, in the Devonshire village of Belmaray - has all of the Goudge keynotes. There is a beautiful old house, a large ensemble of interconnected characters and an intense sense of the natural world. It is spring, and the world is coming back into flourishing life. There is a garden that needs stewardship and tending - and in this book, even more than some of her others, I feel that Goudge is reaching for a connection between the original garden (of Eden) and the earthly English gardens so glorified (and romanticised) in her novels. I’m sure she believed that the act of gardening had its own healing powers, but then it also functions as a metaphor in her stories.
There is a spiritual dimension to all of Goudge’s books, and her Christian beliefs are like a golden thread woven throughout. Love and forgiveness are at the heart of this book, but also the idea that we are all connected. The unhappiness and pain of one person cannot help but touch others - and this idea is borne out through both the primary and more secondary characters. I find it interesting that she always features older characters (more usually women) who have hard-won wisdom, children who have an innate sensitivity and then the ‘muddled middle-aged’ whose crises make up the larger portion of the plot-line. Self-knowledge, the importance of looking at oneself with a clear eye, is also central to the plot.
The novel begins with an encounter between the local vicar (and heir to Belmaray estate) John and a stranger in their small community. Michael Stone has every appearance of being ‘down and out’ and comes to Belmaray with empty pockets and a tormented mind and heart. Although he appears to be unconnected to the other inhabitants of Belmaray, he shares a troubled past with one of them. Forgiveness, understanding, acceptance and love: he needs to both give and receive them.
Perhaps the plot is not as well-constructed nor the characters quite as compelling as in other of Goudge’s novels, but for readers with a taste for her particular blend of storytelling and emotional sincerity, this is a delightful and emotionally satisfying novel. 3.5 stars ...more
I’m well-acquainted with the Mitford sister lore through other works about their extraordinary family - and I would especially recommend Mary S. LovelI’m well-acquainted with the Mitford sister lore through other works about their extraordinary family - and I would especially recommend Mary S. Lovell’s 2002 biography titled The Sisters or Charlotte Mosley’s The Mitfords: Letters Between Six Sisters for a good overview of the family and the interaction between all six sisters. This was my first biography to feature Nancy on her own, and while it was very readable, there was also something dissatisfying about it. Although the author seemed at pains to give equal time/weight to the various ‘eras’ of Nancy’s life, I felt like the book often just skimmed the surface. I did learn a bit more about Nancy’s frustrating and painful relationships with men (first Hamish Erskine, then her husband Peter Rodd, and finally her great unrequited love for Gaston Palewski), and of her friendships, her travel, her houses and finally her writing, but I felt like I got no greater insight into her character. Perhaps this is partly the fault of the subject, because Nancy was well-known for her ‘shopfront’ - the Mitford expression for concealing one’s inner feelings and putting on a brave face or a good show. Her letters were arch, teasing, comical and prone to huge exaggeration - and although they give a sense of the social personality she projected, they don’t hint much at true thoughts or feelings.
There were many things I found myself disliking about Nancy - her enormous snobbery, and inexplicable likes and dislikes, and surprisingly disloyalties - and overall, I feel like I finished this biography with less sympathy for its subject than I had previous to reading it. I think I will always be fond of The Pursuit of Love - that novel with so much of her own experience in it - but for me, Nancy is of more interest when placed within the context of her family....more
”It was odd that she had reached the age of twenty-five without having decided what sort of person she was - or wanted to be. It was because 3.5 stars
”It was odd that she had reached the age of twenty-five without having decided what sort of person she was - or wanted to be. It was because she had never had a chance to follow her own inclinations nor to develop her personality. Her nature was gentle and yielding and she had a horror of “scenes,” so her one idea had been to keep the peace, to propitiate her uncle an daunt, and to keep things smooth and pleasant. All her energies had been directed to this end, and she had scarcely been aware of her own existence until the old doctor’s words had set her thinking.”
Twenty-five year old Frances Field is the heroine of this novel, and at the beginning of the novel she is as bland and dormant as any fairy tale character who has been sleeping until the moment that her “prince” kisses her. Having been resigned to a life of dull middle-class servitude - she is housekeeper in the place of her lazy aunt, who fancies herself an invalid - Frances is shaken up by the advent of World War II. A bomb explodes near her home in London; her aunt decides to decamp to the countryside; and, after seeing a painting of a Scottish landscape in the Royal Academy, Frances decides that she needs a holiday in the village of Cairn. With one dramatic exception, the rest of the novel takes place in and around Cairn - where Frances begins to mingle with the wives and officers of an Army regiment in training.
Although Frances, and her inevitable romantic storyline, provide the frame and impetus for the narrative, most of the detail is provided by her friendship with three officers’ wives and a few of the local characters. Two of the important characters have spent their lives following the drum (so to speak) - first as children in India, and later on various postings around the world. This type of British Army colonial would have been common enough in 1942, when the book was written, but seems a more exotic creature now. Although the book has a light touch, the author does shade in some of the difficulties of that way of life.
Once I got all the characters straight - and the three officers’ wives are quite deliberately muddled at the beginning - I did enjoy this pleasant story. However, despite the usual misunderstandings, the romance itself didn’t inspire much emotional engagement. ...more
The ability to sketch a scene in only two or three pages - and not only to invest it with a universality, but also to underscore it with an elegant prThe ability to sketch a scene in only two or three pages - and not only to invest it with a universality, but also to underscore it with an elegant profundity or insight - is surely a rare gift. Jan Struther, whose fictional ‘alter-ego’ was Caroline Miniver, is remembered primarily for the popular essays she wrote for The Times in the lead-up and early years of World War II. While Mrs. Miniver never pretended to be of any other social milieu than that of the upper-middle classes, she had a tenderness of insight that enabled her to be a wonderful representative not just of Britishness, but of human society in its most ‘civilised’ form. In one of her essays, she describes her delight at meeting a charwoman who possesses “that most endearing of qualities, an abundant zest for life.” The reader feels that Mrs. Miniver, and her creator too, has that same zest - and because of it, finds a rare appreciation in not only the quotidian, even mundane, aspects of life, but also the more extraordinary ones.
This Virago edition of the Mrs. Miniver essays and ‘wartime letters’ is in some respects a dragonfly preserved in amber - describing, as it does, a family’s life in London before the war - but so many of the observations about the seasons, the weather, marriage, children growing up, holidays and rituals still give the reader all the pleasure of recogntion and shared experience. I wrote down pages and pages of favourite lines, but in isolation none of them completely catch the cleverness and magic of Struther’s writing. Still, a random selection of favourites are shared below:
”Words were the only net to catch a mood, the only sure weapon against oblivion.”
“To be entirely at leisure for one day is to be for one day an immortal.”
“Her normal life pleased her so well that she was half afraid to step out of its frame in case one day she should find herself unable to get back.”
“It seemed to her sometimes that the most important thing about marriage was not a home or children or a remedy against sin, but simply there being always an eye to catch.”
. . . “A certain degree of un-understanding (not mis-, but un-) is the only possible sanctuary which one human being can offer to another in the midst of the devastating intimacy of a happy marriage.”
“Really, it was lamentable, the unevenness of most married couples. Like those gramophone records with a superb tune on one side and a negligible fill-up. On the other which you had to take whether you wanted it or not.”
“For in order that the game of dinner-table conversation may be played to its best advantage, it is essential that every player should have a free hand. He must at liberty to assume disguises, to balance precariously in untenable positions, to sacrifice the letter of the truth to the spirit of it. And somehow the partner’s presence makes this difficult.”
“ . . . and she wondered why it had never occurred to her before that you cannot successfully navigate the future unless you keep always framed beside it a small, clear image of the past.”
“She went back into the house. It had already begun to acquire that out-at-grass, off-duty look which houses get as soon as their owners go away; it was quite obviously preparing to take off its stays and slip into something loose.”
“Enchanted, she put the incident into her pocket for Clem. It jostled, a bright pebble, against several others: she had had a rewarding day. And Clem, who had driven down to the country to lunch with a client, would be pretty certain to come back with some good stuff, too. This was the cream of marriage, the nightly turning out of th eday’s pocketful of memories, this deft habitual sharing of two pairs of eyes, two pairs of ears. It gave you, in a sense, almost a double life: though never, on the other hand, quite a single one.”...more
”Meg liked to join on to people; not in the physical sense, because she was not very fond of endearments, but in the sense of not feeling herself a se”Meg liked to join on to people; not in the physical sense, because she was not very fond of endearments, but in the sense of not feeling herself a separate and lonely island in the sea, miles away from the person she was with. She liked to feel there was a causeway between herself and other people, so that they could go backwards and forwards to each other.”
Meg is the 4 year old daughter of David Eliot and his young wife Sally, and the book begins with her joyous plunge through summer puddles as she waits for her father to arrive home from a long tour in the US. When she falls and scrapes her face, a man picks her up - but it is not her father. It’s a strange man, but Meg immediately feels at home with him. And he, too, feels “a sense almost of home coming that deepened when he saw a child running to meet him.”
The third book in the Eliot family trilogy picks up about five years after The Herb of Grace concludes. David and Sally have now been married for five years and they have two children and another on the way. David has resumed his successful acting career, but he is still haunted by the events of the war. Although he has everything, he is plagued by depression, shame and guilt. When he is in New York City, he hires a man called Sebastian Weber who he feels connected to some profound way. Weber, unlike David, has lost everything in the war. Both men are (or have been, in Weber’s case) great artists in their own spheres, and both men have struggled with egocentricity and the demands of their professions. Weber feels a sort of hatred for David, while David feels both pity and love for the older man. The “causeway” that they build between themselves is central to the plot of this book, and the idea of connectedness in a more general sense.
Lucilla, matriarch of the family, is very old now - but still emotionally consumed with the spiritual and physical well-being of her family. Death lurks in this book, and threatens several of the main characters. There is an important birth, too; but although the next Eliot generation is coming of age, the emotional centre of the book is really with the older characters who are nearing the end of their time.
Although war (and more specifically, the fall-out of war) is an aspect of all three books, it is most important in this storyline. The great human struggle between good and evil has taken place on this epic stage, and now two of the characters (one on the ‘losing’ side, and one on the ‘winning’ side) are grappling with the aftermath. This book finds Goudge at her most philosophical (and religious), and although there are some interesting and illuminating moments, the book suffers from not having enough plot-line. There are some wonderful new characters in Damerosehay, but I never felt like Goudge joined all of the dots. Although there is still that idea of the ‘restorative country home’, this book lacks the magic and cohering force of the previous two books in the trilogy. ...more
Anne Frank - whose full name was Annelies Marie Frank - is one of the most iconic voices of the 20th century. Very few accounts of the Jewish HolocausAnne Frank - whose full name was Annelies Marie Frank - is one of the most iconic voices of the 20th century. Very few accounts of the Jewish Holocaust have the name recognition of that young girl who hid in an Amsterdam attic from 1942 to 1944, before dying in Bergen-Belsen only a couple of months before the camp was liberated. I first read her famous diary when I was 12, and for me - like many others, I suspect - it was an introduction to this very sad chapter in history. It’s a gentle introduction, because despite the worries, fears and privations described in the diary, it all takes place before the horrors of the concentration camp. Anne, a young girl between the ages of 13-15, describes growing pains that most young teens can identify with; and her unusual situation creates interest, but does not alienate her from other young readers.
One of the reasons for the diary’s appeal is the optimism and hopefulness of Anne’s voice. ”It’s a wonder I haven’t abandoned all my ideals, they seem so absurd and impractical. Yet I cling to them because I still believe, in spite of everything, that people are truly good at heart.” This endorsement of humanity is probably the most-quoted bit of the diary, and its sentiment is entirely bound up with our idea of Anne Frank: always 15, always located (at least in our collective imagination) in an attic.
I don’t know if Anne Frank’s Diary of a Young Girl had a profound impact on David Gillham, or if he was just intrigued by the dramatic possibilities of the “what if”: What if Anne Frank had survived the war, instead of perishing at Bergen-Belsen in the late winter of 1945? What kind of survivor might she have been, and what would she have made out of a life cut so tragically short?
In his Author’s Note at the end of Annelies, David Gillman details the research he undertook before writing this book. He also specifies which details of the book are factual, which ones are speculations based on substantiated inferences, and which ones are entirely fictional. (I knew enough about Anne Frank’s family story to realise that he had done a most thorough research into both the pre- and post-war family history.) In his Acknowledgements, he then goes on to say that one of his most helpful sources had tried to dissuade him from writing about Anne Frank. It is implied that Andre Bakker feels that Anne’s story has been thoroughly told, and that it has been, perhaps, “overprivileged” amongst the many, many stories of similar loss.
One of the questions I kept asking myself, as I read this book, was whether or not it could stand alone as a story if the reader did not already have some knowledge and invested emotions in Anne Frank. Is it just a book for the Anne Frank enthusiasts, or does it offer something important and unique as a historical document or fictional project?
I read most of this book during the weekend of the UK’s annual Holocaust Memorial Day. On Sunday night, I took a break (about two-thirds through) to watch The Last Survivors on BBC2 and it really helped me think about this project within a specific context. The Last Survivors is a documentary that is attempting, as the title suggests, to interview the last eyewitnesses of the Holocaust before their voices (their testimonies) vanish. The project is also grounded in the reality that nationalism, intolerance and anti-semitism are all on the rise: in Europe, in the UK, and in the US. Although there are many insidious and deplorable aspects of anti-semitism, one particularly disturbing thing is the denial that the Holocaust ever happened. I cannot imagine how maddening it must be for the survivors, but it does makes their testimony all the more important.
The first third of this book shades in Anne Frank’s life as conditions worsen in Amsterdam, and it only touches on a few events in the attic (that well-known territory) before a few key scenes between Margot (Anne’s older sister) and Anne in Bergen-Belsen. Although the author includes some details that are not in the diary, it will still feel like familiar ground to the reader well-acquainted with Anne’ story. In the next two-thirds of the narrative, the author imagines what Anne’s life might have been like if she had actually survived the war. As I listened to “the last survivors”, I realised how psychologically and emotionally astute Gillham’s imaginings are. Anne’s overwhelming feelings of anger and guilt are difficult to read, but they are consistent with the emotions experienced by most survivors. Her father “Pim” (in reality the only survivor in the Frank family) is at the opposite end of the spectrum: he wants only to move on and to attempt to rebuild a life. As he tells Anne, their “motto” must be: “Work, love, courage and hope”. The differences in their emotional states, and their approaches to digesting the horrors they have lived through, leads to many painful conflicts between the two. Gillham inserts the (fictionalised) character of a stepmother into the narrative and a bookshop owner/editor who encourages Anne in her writing. The stepmother, Hadassah Zuckert-Bauer, is also a survivor, and although she shares Pim’s pragmatic approach, she is not unaware of Anne’s very different needs - including Anne’s desire to start afresh in America.
Anne’s father mourns the loss of his innocent, idealistic child - and, inevitably, the reader who loved the diary will probably feels the same about Gillham’s creation. The point is, though, that no one can live through such experiences without being permanently scarred (in more senses than one). It’s an emotionally tough book to read, but I felt like it was a worthwhile project - if only because, for so many of us, Anne Frank is a touchstone. Not just one of the anonymous six million, but a person who seems real to us. I think the book is best, though, when it tackles Anne’s anger and questions about her faith. In the last part of the book, Anne gets rather lost in the diary again.
Thanks to Fig Tree for a free copy of this book....more
I've always been partial to learning history through the pleasurable medium of a fictional storyline. When an author can make me really care about hisI've always been partial to learning history through the pleasurable medium of a fictional storyline. When an author can make me really care about his or her characters, it completely transforms my engagement with what I will describe (broadly and loosely) as 'the past'. In this multigenerational family saga, author Min Jin Lee has enlightened me - and quite a few others, I suspect - on an aspect of 20th century history that I knew little about. Her story is about the 'Zainichi Koreans': the population of ethnic Koreans who have lived in Japan, sometimes for several generations, but have still been classified as foreign nationals and treated very much like second-class citizens by the Japanese. The first line of the book sets the tone: 'History has failed us, but no matter.' This is a survival story, but there is much suffering and loss along the way.
In 1910, Japan annexed Korea and all Korean people became part of the Empire of Japan. Lee begins her story on the island of Yeongdo, in what is now South Korea. Sunja - the fourth child, the only girl, and the only surviving child of Hoonie and Yangjin - is born into a life of hard work and uncertainty. When her beloved father dies when she is 13, Sunja and her mother take over the running of a small boarding house. In 1932, 'when this thing called the Depression is found everywhere in the world', Sunja meets two men whose lives will become twined with hers. One of them, Isak, is a Christian minister from Pyongyang; the other, Hasan, is a fish broker from Jeju who lives in Osaka. All three characters end up in Osaka, and from that point onwards the geographical and cultural focus of the book is the Korean community in Japan.
The first half of the storyline centres on Sunja's life, and the difficult years during the Depression and World War II. The second half of the book skips more quickly from the post-war years to 1989 and Sunja's two sons and her grandson are the focus along with a large cast of secondary characters. Although Sunja's family achieves prosperity, the discrimination they suffer in Japan is examined from a variety of angles. Factory work, restaurant work and pachinko parlours were the most common form of employment for the disenfranchised Koreans, and all of these will play a role in the lives of Sunja and her descendants. Pachinko, an arcade game not dissimilar to slot machines (in the sense that they both yield random pay-outs), could be said to play both a metaphorical and literal role in the story.
It's a compelling story, and I found it unputdownable after the first 100 pages. It was nearly a five star book for me, but I felt dissatisfied by some of the strands of the storyline in the second half of the book. In the interest of exploring so many aspects of the Zainichi Korean history, I felt like the author introduced (and then summarily dismissed) too many characters. Overall, though, it was a moving and very educational book. ...more
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