For one thing, this affirms my feeling that my sweet-spot for literature is that produced around 1930-1935.
Look. Either you are interested in the unjFor one thing, this affirms my feeling that my sweet-spot for literature is that produced around 1930-1935.
Look. Either you are interested in the unjustly buried and the forgotten or you are not. Either you care about finding those voices that were unfairly silenced by The Market and Time and Misogyny and all that Jazz or you don't. If you do, this book (and this press more generally) should be on your radar.
This is an extraordinary text that belongs firmly on that line running from Dorothy Richardson to Beckett. If you are comfortable dancing along that line, then this will hopefully get those feet twitching. It is beautifully written- angry and sad and frustrated. Peeling off layers and layers down to a terrifying and heartbreaking final 30 pages. But nothing special about that sorrow. Just the normal horror of it all.
The fact she was doing these kinds of things in 1934, and particularly both stylistically and the way it deals with things like the female body, age, the patriarchal cage, puberty etc blew me away.
I wish I had more time to write something worthy of it, as I used to do on this site years ago, but work and life and all the rest just mean I dont have the time or the mental space.
Just one point (and I don't want to criticize the press at all, as what they are doing is incredible) but I do wish the intro and afterword both hadn't gone on about how difficult the text is. It really is not when you put it in context. And not if you are used to that sort of thing.
Regardless, I adored this. It is the 4th of hers I have read, and each one has been deeply impressive in its own way. So glad she is being unburied, and so glad we get to read her....more
Fantastic stuff, and one of her best. I won’t write much of a review as I have no time and, in any event, part of the enjoyment came from knowing nothFantastic stuff, and one of her best. I won’t write much of a review as I have no time and, in any event, part of the enjoyment came from knowing nothing about where it was going.
In many ways, in my reading of her so far, I think her best work comes when she hits the sweet spot of balancing her wry humour, her cynicism, her kindness, her intelligence, her psychological understanding and her love of the melodramatic page-turner. This one does that perfectly.
There is some psychological work here in particular which is significantly ahead of its time and deeply impressive in its complexity.
Masterful. As i have said before, it is not just the quality of these books, or the quick, wry, daring intelligence on display, but the fact that she Masterful. As i have said before, it is not just the quality of these books, or the quick, wry, daring intelligence on display, but the fact that she wrote over 100 books whilst dealing with:
By 1857, Oliphant married her cousin Frank Wilson Oliphant, an artist, but he was to die seven years later from tuberculosis. This left Oliphant as the breadwinner with three young children and a pile of debts. In addition to these burdens, she later supported her alcoholic brother, Willie, and the three children of her other brother, Frank.
And, of course, her children all died before her death at 69.
So much loss and pain and struggle.
And to produce books like this through all that? Breathtaking.
Of course, the snobbish Bloomsbury set and all the rest put us all off her for so long, as she failed to fit the mould of the “artist” devoted to her art. Woolf said she:
“sold her brain, her very admirable brain, prostituted her culture and enslaved her intellectual liberty in order that she might earn her living and educate her children…’ (Three Guineas). “
Which just sums up the problems with Woolf et al (much as I love her)
Yes she may not have written something quite to the heights of, say, Middlemarch, but there are most definitely elements in all her books I have read to date which reach those levels at times. And is it not more impressive to achieve that over and over again in countless novels somehow written in the breathless gaps between all that messy, demanding, brutal life?
Anyway. She is great. More of her should be in print. You should read her....more
An absolute masterpiece. Reminded me of Beckett towards the end (Rockaby?) which is just extraordinary for its time. A page-turner too, despite the suAn absolute masterpiece. Reminded me of Beckett towards the end (Rockaby?) which is just extraordinary for its time. A page-turner too, despite the subject matter. Something about the building tension, and the mental falling apart just pulls you along. Not happy reading (coercive control, depression, paranoia, mental decline, aging...) but never depressing. The narrative voice is just exquisitely judged. I read it in a state of breathless admiration.
God bless Boiler House Books and particularly Brad Bigelow and long running unburying work.
Because you are unlikely to have heard of this unjustly neglected author:
" Gertrude Eileen Trevelyan was born in Bath in 1903. She came to fame as the first woman to win the Newdigate Prize for best undergraduate poem at Oxford in 1927. Starting with Appius and Virginia in 1932, she published eight novels, her last being Trance by Appointment in 1939. She was injured when a German bomb struck her flat in October 1940 and she died at her parents' home in Bath in March 1941." ...more
My wife called this “an ode to silence and non-toxic male friendship” and I thought that a pretty prefect description. It is also a joy to read, funnyMy wife called this “an ode to silence and non-toxic male friendship” and I thought that a pretty prefect description. It is also a joy to read, funny, kind and profound. I loved it. ...more
Phenomenal. Beautiful and laceratingly powerful. A text which blurs the genre boundaries in wonderfully inspiring and illuminating ways, allowing a glPhenomenal. Beautiful and laceratingly powerful. A text which blurs the genre boundaries in wonderfully inspiring and illuminating ways, allowing a glimpse of lives long lost but still whispering, singing from the gaps between the words of their oppressors. Reading sources against the grain, using empathetic imagination to suggest possible truths where no record remains. Highly recommended. ...more
Two novels from her so far, and both have knocked me sideways wonderfully. Without doubt one of the greats, and her textual control on both the level Two novels from her so far, and both have knocked me sideways wonderfully. Without doubt one of the greats, and her textual control on both the level of the prose and more structurally is deeply impressive. ...more
No other version of this will suffice. Not only is the translation simply extraordinary, but the wealth of supplementary material and commentary takesNo other version of this will suffice. Not only is the translation simply extraordinary, but the wealth of supplementary material and commentary takes up almost double the space of the text itself, meaning there is more than enough for the amateur. My first reading of this in a prose translation many years ago left me completely cold, this version enthralled, inspired and entertained. Highly recommended. ...more
Exceptionally good writing, treading a thin and delicate line without falling into trite cliche or pat romanticism. At the sentence level, her craft iExceptionally good writing, treading a thin and delicate line without falling into trite cliche or pat romanticism. At the sentence level, her craft is just phenomenal. Certainly the best of hers I have read so far. Highly recommended. ...more
SONNET 73 That time of year thou may'st in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare r SONNET 73 That time of year thou may'st in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou see'st the twilight of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by-and-by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed whereon it must expire Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by. This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
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The Old Fools - Larkin
What do they think has happened, the old fools, To make them like this? Do they somehow suppose It's more grown-up when your mouth hangs open and drools, And you keep on pissing yourself, and can't remember Who called this morning? Or that, if they only chose, They could alter things back to when they danced all night, Or went to their wedding, or sloped arms some September? Or do they fancy there's really been no change, And they've always behaved as if they were crippled or tight, Or sat through days of thin continuous dreaming Watching the light move? If they don't (and they can't), it's strange; Why aren't they screaming?
At death you break up: the bits that were you Start speeding away from each other for ever With no one to see. It's only oblivion, true: We had it before, but then it was going to end, And was all the time merging with a unique endeavour To bring to bloom the million-petalled flower Of being here. Next time you can't pretend There'll be anything else. And these are the first signs: Not knowing how, not hearing who, the power Of choosing gone. Their looks show that they're for it: Ash hair, toad hands, prune face dried into lines - How can they ignore it?
Perhaps being old is having lighted rooms Inside you head, and people in them, acting People you know, yet can't quite name; each looms Like a deep loss restored, from known doors turning, Setting down a lamp, smiling from a stair, extracting A known book from the shelves; or sometimes only The rooms themselves, chairs and a fire burning, The blown bush at the window, or the sun's Faint friendliness on the wall some lonely Rain-ceased midsummer evening. That is where they live: Not here and now, but where all happened once. This is why they give
An air of baffled absence, trying to be there Yet being here. For the rooms grow farther, leaving Incompetent cold, the constant wear and tear Of taken breath, and them crouching below Extinction's alp, the old fools, never perceiving How near it is. This must be what keeps them quiet: The peak that stays in view wherever we go For them is rising ground. Can they never tell What is dragging them back, and how it will end? Not at night? Not when the strangers come? Never, throughout The whole hideous inverted childhood? Well, We shall find out....more
Without a shadow of a doubt one of the great Victorian novels. Absolutely should be widely read. Adored it, and can’t believe she actually stuck the lWithout a shadow of a doubt one of the great Victorian novels. Absolutely should be widely read. Adored it, and can’t believe she actually stuck the landing (I was on tenterhooks throughout that she would not)
Was it natural, then, a thing she could accept as just, that it was enough for her to sympathise, to share the consequences, to stand by the chief actor whatever happened, but never to share in the initiative or have any moral concern in the motive or the means of what was done? A sense of helplessness began to take the place of indignation in her mind. Was that what they called the natural lot of women? to suffer perhaps, to share the blame, but have no share in the plan, to sympathise, but not to know; to move on blindly according to some rule of loyalty and obedience, which to any other creature in the world would be folly and guilt? But her mother knew nothing of such hard words. To her this was not only the right state of affairs, but to suggest any better rule was to fail in respect to the lady whose right it was to be left ignorant. Hester tried to smile when she recalled this, but could not, her heart being too sore, her whole being shaken. He thought so too perhaps, everybody thought so, and she alone, an involuntary rebel, would be compelled to accept the yoke which, to other women, was a simple matter, and their natural law. Why, then, was she made unlike others, or why was it so?...more
Wonderfully written, and an extremely important bringing-to-light of a gay, black genius who was shamefully uncredited, unappreciated and largely unknWonderfully written, and an extremely important bringing-to-light of a gay, black genius who was shamefully uncredited, unappreciated and largely unknown by the public. Essential reading, even if jazz is not your bag. It succeeded in making me completely fall in love with the guy, and he has taken his place in my pantheon of personal heroes. ...more
Absolutely fantastic stuff. Contains some of the best short stories I have read in a long long time, made even more interesting by the links between tAbsolutely fantastic stuff. Contains some of the best short stories I have read in a long long time, made even more interesting by the links between them ( one could group two sets together, for example, and form a couple of very good episodic novellas about the two families) and the fact that the subject matter sadly remains as relevant as ever. ...more
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