Happy 10th Birthday to JacquiWine’s Journal!

I don’t usually mark my blog’s birthdays, but as JacquiWine’s Journal is 10 years old today, I couldn’t resist this post as a celebration of sorts! It seems such a long time since I first dipped my toe in the blogging world with some reviews of books longlisted for the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize in 2014. I was part of a Shadow Panel back then, and initially, the other shadowers kindly posted my reviews on their blogs as I didn’t have one of my own – not until I set up the Journal in May 2014, and the rest as they say is history.

Much has changed since I started blogging, but the bookish community on various sites and social media platforms continues to be a joy. I’ve had so many lovely conversations with readers over the years, so thank you for reading, engaging with and commenting on my reviews – I really do appreciate it.

To mark this milestone, I’ve selected a favourite book reviewed during each year of my blog, up to and including 2023. (My favourite reads of 2024 will have to wait till later this year!) Happy reading – as ever, you can read the full reviews by clicking on the appropriate links.

Cassandra at the Wedding by Dorothy Baker (reviewed in 2014)

Cassandra, a graduate student at Berkeley, drives home to her family’s ranch for the wedding of her identical twin sister, Judith, where she seems all set to derail the proceedings. This is a brilliant novel featuring one of my favourite women in literature. Cassandra is intelligent, precise and at times witty, charming and loving. But she can also be manipulative, reckless, domineering, self-absorbed and cruel.  She’s a mass of contradictions and behaves abominably at times, and yet it’s very hard not to feel for her. If you like complex characters with plenty of light and shade, this is the novel for you!

Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont by Elizabeth Taylor (reviewed in 2015)

Taylor’s 1971 novel follows a recently widowed elderly lady, Mrs Palfrey, as she moves into the Claremont Hotel, joining a group of residents in similar positions – each one is likely to remain there until a move to a nursing home or hospital can no longer be avoided. This beautiful, bittersweet, thought-provoking novel prompts readers to consider the emotional and physical challenges of old age: the need to participate in life, the importance of small acts of kindness and the desire to feel valued, to name just a few. Taylor’s observations of social situations are spot-on – there are some very funny moments here alongside the undoubted poignancy. Probably my favourite book by Elizabeth Taylor in a remarkably strong field!

In a Lonely Place by Dorothy B. Hughes (reviewed in 2016)

A superb noir which excels in the creation of atmosphere and mood. As a reader, you really feel as though you are walking the Los Angeles streets at night, moving through the fog with only the dim and distant city lights to guide you. Hughes’ focus is on the mindset of her central character, the washed-up ex-pilot Dix Steele, a deeply damaged and vulnerable man who finds himself tormented by events from his past. The storyline is too complex to summarise here, but Hughes maintains the suspense throughout. (This was a big hit with my book group, and we went on to read The Expendable Man, too!)

The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton (reviewed in 2017)

A beautiful and compelling portrayal of forbidden love, characterised by Wharton’s trademark ability to expose the underhand workings of a repressive world. Set within the upper echelons of New York society in the 1870s, the novel exposes a culture that seems so refined on the surface, and yet, once the protective veneer of respectability is stripped away, the reality is brutal, intolerant and hypocritical. There is a real sense of depth and subtlety in the characterisation here. A novel to read and revisit at different stages in life.

The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne by Brian Moore (reviewed in 2018)

This achingly sad novel is a tragic tale of grief, delusion and eternal loneliness set amidst the shabby surroundings of a tawdry boarding house in 1950s Belfast. Moore’s focus is Judith Hearne, a plain, unmarried woman in her early forties who finds herself shuttling from one dismal bedsit to another in an effort to find a suitable place to live. When Judith’s dreams of a hopeful future start to unravel, the true nature of her troubled inner life is revealed, characterised as it is by a shameful secret. The humiliation that follows is swift, unambiguous and utterly devastating, but to say any more would spoil the story. An outstanding, beautifully written novel – a heartbreaking paean to a life without love.

A Dance to the Music of Time by Anthony Powell (reviewed in 2019)

I’m cheating a little by including this twelve-novel sequence exploring the political and cultural milieu of the English upper classes, but it’s too good to leave out. Impossible to summarise in just a few sentences, Powell’s masterpiece features one of literature’s finest creations, the odious Kenneth Widmerpool. It’s fascinating to follow Widmerpool, Jenkins and many other individuals over several years in the early-mid 20^th century, observing their development as they flit in and out of one another’s lives. The author’s ability to convey a clear picture of a character – their appearance, their disposition, even their way of moving around a room – is second to none. Quite simply one of the highlights of my reading life!

The Children of Dynmouth by William Trevor (reviewed in 2020)

Probably my favourite William Trevor to date, The Children of Dynmouth tells the story of a malevolent teenager and the havoc he wreaks on the residents of a sleepy seaside town in the mid-1970s. It’s an excellent book, veering between the darkly comic, the deeply tragic and the downright unnerving. What Trevor does so well here is to expose the darkness and sadness that lurks beneath the veneer of respectable society. The rhythms and preoccupations of small-town life are beautifully captured too, from the desolate views of the windswept promenade, to the sleepy matinees at the down-at-heel cinema, to the much-anticipated return of the travelling fair for the summer season. One for Muriel Spark fans, particularly those with a fondness for The Ballad of Peckham Rye.  

The Fortnight in September by R. C. Sherriff (reviewed in 2021)

During a trip to Bognor in the early 1930s, R. C. Sherriff was inspired to create a story centred on a fictional family by imagining their lives and, most importantly, their annual September holiday at the seaside resort. While this premise seems simple on the surface, the novel’s apparent simplicity is a key part of its magical charm. Here we have a story of small pleasures and triumphs, quiet hopes and ambitions, secret worries and fears – the illuminating moments in day-to-day life. By focusing on the minutiae of the everyday, Sheriff has crafted something remarkable – a novel that feels humane, compassionate and deeply affecting, where the reader can fully invest in the characters’ inner lives. This is a gem of a book, as charming and unassuming as one could hope for, a throwback perhaps to simpler, more modest times.

Quartet in Autumn by Barbara Pym (reviewed in 2022)

First published in 1977, at the height of Pym’s well-documented renaissance, Quartet in Autumn is a quietly poignant novel of loneliness, ageing and the passing of time – how sometimes we can feel left behind as the world changes around us. Now that I’ve read it twice, I think it might be my favourite Pym! The story follows four work colleagues in their sixties as they deal with retirement from their roles as clerical workers in a London office. While that might not sound terribly exciting as a premise, Pym brings some lovely touches of gentle humour to this bittersweet gem, showing us that life can still offer new possibilities in the autumn of our years.

Forbidden Notebook by Alba de Céspedes, tr. Ann Goldstein (reviewed in 2023)

A remarkable rediscovered gem of Italian literature, I adored this candid, exquisitely-written confessional from an evocative feminist voice. The novel is narrated by forty-three-year-old Valeria, who documents her inner thoughts in a secret notebook with great candour and clarity, laying bare her world with all its demands and preoccupations. For Valeria, the act of writing becomes a disclosure, an outlet for her frustrations with the family – her husband Michele, a somewhat remote but dedicated man, largely wrapped up in his own interests, which Valeria doesn’t share, and their two grown-up children who live at home. As the diary entries build up, we see how Valeria has been defined by the familial roles assigned to her; nevertheless, the very act of keeping the notebook leads to a gradual reawakening of her desires as she finds her voice, challenging the founding principles of her life with Michele.

If you’ve read any of these books, do let me know your thoughts!

Monstrous women in fiction – a few favourites from the shelves

This is a post I’ve been meaning to put together for a while, but there never seems to be enough time to do everything! (A common complaint, I’m sure.) Anyway, a few years ago, I talked about setting up some hashtags on the blog for literary monsters – more specifically, ‘monstrous women’ and ‘pompous/insufferable men’. You know the types – the sorts of characters we love to read about in fiction but dread encountering in real life.

So, with this in mind, here’s the first of a couple of themed posts I’ve put together on these formidable characters. First up are some of my favourite books featuring monstrous women, with insufferable men to follow in the next few weeks.

School for Love by Olivia Manning (1951)

A highly compelling coming-of-age story set in Jerusalem during the closing stages of the Second World War. This brilliant novel features a most distinctive character quite unlike any other I’ve encountered in literature or life itself. In Miss Bohun, Manning has created a fascinating literary monster, sure to generate strong opinions either way. Is she a manipulative hypocrite, determined to seize any opportunity and exploit it for her own personal gain? Or is she simply deluded, predominately acting on the belief that she is doing the morally upstanding thing in an unstable, rapidly developing world? You’ll have to read the book yourself to take a view! (PS, for the cat lovers among you, there’s a rather adorable Siamese named Faro in this book – another potential reason to add it to your list.)

The Soul of Kindness by Elizabeth Taylor (1964)

Elizabeth Taylor immediately springs to mind when I think of writers who can create distinctive monstrous women. There’s the narcissistic Angelica Deverell (inspired by the romance writer Marie Corelli) from Taylor’s 1957 novel Angel. But the character I’d really like to highlight here is the deluded Flora Quartermaine from The Soul of Kindness, a beautiful young woman who seems to have the perfect life. While Flora considers herself to be the very soul of kindness, this is far from the truth, as her best intentions often cause more harm than good. Slowly but surely, over the course of the novel, Taylor reveals the true extent of Flora’s lack of self-awareness and her rather blinkered view of the lives of those around her. In short, Flora is a very dangerous kind of literary monster as she has very little understanding of her impact on others.

Tension by E. M. Delafield (1920)

The English writer E. M. Delafield is probably best known for her Diary of a Provincial Lady, a largely autobiographical account of middle-class life in the early 1930s. Tension is an earlier book, first published in 1920 when Britain was still recovering from the impact of WW1. It’s an interesting story about the damaging effects of gossip – how hard-won reputations can be destroyed by malicious rumours, especially when a manipulative person is involved. On another level, the novel also highlights the limited options available to single women with no husband or family to support them in financing their day-to-day existence. The monstrous creature in this book is Lady Rossiter, a hypocritical, insensitive woman who lacks even the slightest hint of self-awareness. In short, she sets out to ruin another woman’s reputation by spreading poisonous rumours through carefully worded hints here and there. By living her life according to the mantra “Is it kind, is it wise, is it true?”, Lady R is convinced that her actions are for the moral good, misguided in the belief that she is a shining light to others…

Sheep’s Clothing by Celia Dale (1988)

There is something particularly chilling about a crime novel featuring an ordinary domestic setting – the type of story where sinister activities take place behind the veil of net curtains in the privacy of the victim’s home. The English writer Celia Dale excelled in this area, certainly if Sheep’s Clothing and A Helping Hand are anything to go by. Both novels show how vulnerable individuals – especially the elderly and trusting – can be preyed upon by malicious confidence tricksters. The central protagonist in Sheep’s Clothing is Grace, a merciless, well-organised con woman in her early sixties with a track record of larceny. As a trained nurse with experience in care homes, Grace is well versed in the habits and behaviours of the elderly – qualities that have enabled her to develop a seemingly watertight plan for fleecing some of society’s most vulnerable individuals, typically frail older women living on their own. It’s an icily compelling tale of greed and deception, stealthily executed amidst carefully orchestrated conversations and kindly cups of tea.

A Dance to the Music of Time by Anthony Powell (1951-1975)

A magnificent twelve-novel sequence exploring the political and cultural milieu of the English upper classes in the early-mid 20^th century. Impossible to summarise in just a few sentences, Powell’s masterpiece features one of literature’s finest creations, the infamous Pamela Flitton. With her trademark air of rage and despair, Pamela proceeds to create merry hell through all manner of romantic entanglements in the last four volumes of the series. There books contain some classic ‘Pamela’ moments, powered by this character’s unpredictable, fiery nature – a veritable tour-de-force of hostility and disdain. She is a marvellous literary monster. In fact, this series may also feature in my companion piece on insufferable men, courtesy of the odious Kenneth Widmerpool, as he’s also tremendous value on the page. It’s fascinating to follow Pamela, Widmerpool, Powell’s narrator, Nicholas Jenkins, and many other individuals over time, observing their development as they flit in and out of one another’s lives.

The Feast by Margaret Kennedy (1950)

Part morality tale, part mystery, part family saga/social comedy, Margaret Kennedy’s The Feast is a delightful novel. This very cleverly constructed story – which takes place at The Pendizack cliffside hotel, Cornwall, in the summer of 1947 – unfolds over the course of a week, culminating in a dramatic picnic ‘feast’. Kennedy draws on an inverted structure, revealing part of her denouement upfront while omitting crucial details about a fatal disaster. Consequently, the reader is in the dark about who dies and who survives the tragedy until the novel’s end. What Kennedy does so well here is to weave an immersive story around the perils of the seven deadly sins, into which she skilfully incorporates the loathsome behaviours of her characters – both guests and members of staff alike. There are some marvellous monstrous women in this one, from the loathsome housekeeper, Dorothy Ellis, a lazy, spiteful woman who cannot resist poking her nose into everyone else’s business, to the desperately mean Mrs Cove, a seemingly impoverished widow with a heart of stone. A wonderfully engaging book with some serious messages at its heart.

Who Was Changed and Who Was Dead by Barbara Comyns (1987)

There is something distinctly English about the world that Barbara Comyns portrays here, a surreal eccentricity that could only be found within the England of old. Set in 1911, three years before the advent of the First World War, Who Was Changed and Who Was Dead has all the hallmarks of a classic Comyns novel: enchanting, innocent children caught up in a dysfunctional family; memorable, vivid imagery, typically with an off-kilter edge; and a simple, matter-of-fact delivery that belies the horrors within. The monstrous woman in this one is a secondary character, Mrs Willoweed, a tyrannical grandmother whose views on those around her are harsh and uncompromising. She is permanently in a rage over something or other – often incidents involving her ineffectual son, Ebin, or the household maids, Eustice and Norah. Much of the novel’s sly humour stems from this difficult woman who seems to delight in making Ebin’s life a misery with her stark outbursts and childish desire for attention. Another strikingly creative work from one of Britain’s most singular writers – a darkly humorous novel of great brilliance and originality with an allegorical nod to WW1.

I also have a new review featuring another monstrous woman coming up in future, probably in mid-October as I may take a short break earlier in the month. 

Do let me know what you think of these books if you’ve read some of them or are considering reading any in the future. Perhaps you have a favourite book or two featuring a monstrous woman? Please feel free to mention them in the comments below. I’m always interested in good recommendations!

A Dance to the Music of Time by Anthony Powell, books 10-12

Those of you who follow me on Twitter may know that I’ve reached the end of my little project to read Anthony Powell’s A Dance to the Music of Time, a wonderful twelve-part series which explores the political and cultural milieu of the English upper classes in the early-mid 20^th century. It’s been a hugely enjoyable and satisfying experience, easily one of my bookish highlights in recent years. Having ‘lived’ with these characters for the best part of six months, I’m not quite sure what to do with myself now that the cycle is complete. The idea of revisiting it at some point in the future is very tempting indeed.

As with my previous Powell posts, I’m going to touch on some of the highlights from the final volumes in the series – hopefully relatively spoiler-free, although there may be the occasional mention of a key development here or there.

Books Do Furnish a Room (book 10 in the sequence), sees Jenkins in a contemplative, melancholic mood as he returns to his old University to gather material for a forthcoming book on Robert Burton, author of The Anatomy of Melancholy. It’s a tone reflected in the bleak and wistful atmosphere of post-war British life, replete with its deficiencies and uncertainties.

This is a very ‘literary’ instalment in the series, one that revolves around books, writers, critics and publishers – in particular, those connected to the newly-established publishing house Quiggin & Craggs. Jenkins is engaged by Q&C to commission and manage literary reviews, a role which brings him into contact with the author X Trapnel, an idiosyncratic character who enjoys perpetuating his own somewhat legendary urban myth. (For the interested, it is well-documented that Powell drew on the figure of the talented but troubled writer Julian Maclaran-Ross, author of the excellent novel Of Love and Hunger, as inspiration for this character.)

X Trapnel – or ‘Trappy’ as he is affectionately known – is a marvellous creation, undoubtedly one of Powell’s finest across the series. In spite of his hand-to-mouth existence and frequent shuttling from one down-at-heel Bloomsbury hotel to another, Trappy gives the impression of being something of a dandy with his tropical suit, grey suede brothel-creepers and flamboyant, skull-topped walking stick.

The walking stick struck a completely different note. Its wood unremarkable, but the knob, ivory, more likely bone, crudely carved in the shape of a skull, was rather like old Skerrett’s head at Erridge’s funeral. This stick clearly bulked large in Trapnel equipment. It set the tone far more than the RAF greatcoat or tropical suit. For the rest he was hatless, wore a dark blue sports shirt frayed at the collar, an emerald green tie patterned with naked women, was shod in grey suede brothel-creepers. These last, then relatively new, were destined to survive a long time, indeed until their rubber soles, worn to the thinness of paper, had become all but attached from fibreless uppers, sounding a kind of dismal applause as they flapped rhythmically against the weary pavement trodden beneath. (p. 106, book 10)

Naturally, Trappy’s preferred mode of transport is the taxi – not only to avoid descending to the undesirable level of the bus or tube but to provide some protection from loitering bailiffs hoping to serve writs for outstanding debts. Irrespective of his precarious financial position, Trappy never hesitates in spending his last few shillings on a taxi, a touch that adds to the air of panache he chooses to adopt when facing the outside world. As a character, he is continually playing a role, always performing to the gallery in one form or another.

Once again, Jenkins’ (or Powell’s) astute powers of observation come to the fore in capturing this individual’s trademark characteristics, complete with all their various tensions and contradictions.

Trapnel wanted, among other things, to be a writer, a dandy, a lover, a comrade, an eccentric, a sage, a virtuoso, a good chap, a man of honour, a hard case, a spendthrift, and opportunist, a raisonneur; to be very rich, to be very poor, to possess a thousand mistresses, to win the heart of one love to whom he was ever faithful, to be on the best of terms with all men, to avenge savagely the lightest affront, to live to a hundred full of years and honour, to die young and unknown but recognized the following day as the most neglected genius of the age. Each of these ambitions had something to recommend it from one angle or another, with the possible exception of being poor – the only aim Trapnel now achieved with an unqualified mastery. (pp. 144-145, book 10)

As with previous volumes, humour plays a vital role in these books, balancing the poignant developments with some lighter moments here and there. Nevertheless, there is an undercurrent of sadness running through the twilight of the series, a sense of loneliness and disenchantment in an uncertain, shifting world. Allusions to classical Greek myths also play their part, particularly in books 11 and 12, Temporary Kings and Hearing Secret Harmonies respectively.

Several familiar faces make welcome reappearances here, most notably Quiggin, Sillery, Widmerpool and Pamela Flitton. There are some classic ‘Pamela’ moments in these books, powered by this character’s unpredictable, fiery nature – a veritable tour-de-force of hostility and disdain. In this scene, Widmerpool (now a member of the House of Lords) tries to capture Pamela’s attention following his arrival in Venice, albeit rather unsuccessfully.

Pamela threw him a glance. Her manners suggested that a man – a very unprepossessing man at that – was trying to pick her up in a public place; some uncouth sightseer, not even a member of the Conference, having gained access to the Palazzo because the door was open, was now going round accosting ladies encountered there. Widmerpool persisted. (p. 105, book 11)

The spectral Mrs Erdleigh – first glimpsed in book 3, The Acceptance World – also pops up again, just when you least expect it.

Age – goodness knows how old she was – had exalted Mrs Erdleigh’s unsubstantiality. She looked very old indeed, yet old in an intangible, rather than corporeal sense. Lighter than air, disembodied from a material world, the swirl of capes, hoods, stoles, scarves, veils, as usual encompassed her from head to foot, all seeming of so light a texture that, far from bringing an impression of accretion, their blurring of hard outlines produced a positively spectrum effect, a Whistlerian nocturne in portraiture, sage greens, sombre blues, almost frivolous grays, sprinkled with gold. (pp. 241-242)

Alongside these regulars, Powell adds some new characters to the mix – most notably two Americans, the biographer Gwinnett and the film producer Glober, both of whom share an interest in X Trapnel’s work. Oddly enough, these two men also become entangled with the infamous Pamela, albeit in their rather different ways.

Another memorable character making his mark is Scorpio Murtlock, the enigmatic leader of a strange cult with a penchant for night-time rituals and various risqué practices. The battles for power, which have always formed an important thematic strand within the series, are in evidence once again, this time with Murtlock’s cult playing a crucial role.

With the final two volumes in particular, there is a sense of the series drawing to a close, of the old guard moving on in mind, body and spirit. The twin spectres of ageing and impending mortality haunt these books with funeral services offering the main opportunities to catch up with old acquaintances and to reminisce about the past.

Widmerpool continues to loom large in the proceedings, although his standing and reputation in society are now very much in decline. The final chapters of the sequence bring a strong sense of closure to his story, culminating in a remarkable denouement that feels at once both shocking and strangely fitting, particularly given this character’s rather idiosyncratic personality. Without wishing to give too much away, there is an element of the narrative coming full circle, harking back to our very first image of Widmerpool emerging out of the mist during an afternoon run at school. A truly memorable end to this richly rewarding series.

A Dance to the Music of Time by Anthony Powell, books 5-9

Regular readers of this blog will be aware that I’ve been working my way through Anthony Powell’s marvellous twelve-part sequence, A Dance to the Music of Time, reading the individual novels between other books in my TBR. So far, I’ve posted a detailed piece on book one, A Question of Upbringing, and a summary of some of highlights from books 2-4 – more specifically Powell’s skills with character, attention to detail and meditations on the nature of life.

Continuing in the latter vein, here are a few more things I’ve been enjoying in this series, particularly in books 5-9.

It’s been interesting to revisit some of the main characters in the story at various points, just to see how they’ve changed and developed over time. While the clumsy, pretentious Widmerpool pops up relatively frequently (much to my delight), other acquaintances from Jenkins’ schooldays – friends such as Charles Stringham and Peter Templer – make more occasional appearances.

In this scene from book 6, The Kindly Ones, Jenkins meets Templer again after a gap of some years. From a distance, Templer appears to have changed very little; however, on closer inspection, the difference in his appearance is more marked, not only in build but in demeanour too. (As ever, these reflections are relayed by Jenkins, the narrator throughout.)

It was a warm autumnal evening, so that we were all in the garden when Templer’s car drew up at the gate. The vehicle was of just the kind I had predicted. Templer, too, as he jumped out, seemed scarcely to have changed at all. The car was shaped like a torpedo; Templer’s clothes gave the familiar impression – as Stringham used to say – that he was ‘about to dance backwards and forwards in front of a chorus of naked ladies’. That outward appearance was the old Templer, just as he had looked at Dicky Umfraville’s nightclub four or five years before. Now, as he strode up the path with the same swagger, I saw there was a change in him. This was more than the fact that he was distinctly fatter. A coarseness of texture had always coloured his elegance. Now, that coarseness had become more than ever marked. He looked hard, even rather savage, as if he had made up his mind to endure life rather than, as formerly, to enjoy it. From the first impression that he changed hardly at all, I reversed judgement, deciding he had changed a great deal. (p. 101, book 6)

I love the way Powell blends humour with more thoughtful tones in this passage – the comic image of Templer dancing followed by the wistful observation on the endurance of life, highlighting a sense of sufferance over enjoyment. It’s Powell’s undoubted ability to transition from one emotion to another, seamlessly moving from humour to contemplation, that makes the passage so effective.

As with the previous volumes, Jenkins’ reflections on the nature of life are dotted through the novels, adding a few meditative touches to the narrative here and there – always interesting and nicely judged. The following quote comes from book 5, Casanova’s Chinese Restaurant – a passage that captures the mix of emotions triggered by thoughts of love, especially amongst friends and acquaintances.

That old feeling of excitement began to stir within me always provoked by news of other people’s adventures in love; accompanied as ever by a sense of sadness, of regret, almost jealousy, inward emotions that express, like nothing else in life, life’s irrational dissatisfactions. (p. 155, book 5)

There are some gloriously comic scenes throughout the series, perhaps none more so than the incident in which Barbara Goring – a one-time love interest of Jenkins’ – pours a dispenser of sugar over Widmerpool’s head during a party (an episode from book 2, if I recall correctly).

Humour also plays a key role in book 7, The Valley of Bones, when Jenkins is called up for service in the Second World War. (This is the first book in the sequence to focus on the War – a shift from the earlier volumes where the ‘meat’ of the narrative is concerned with Jenkins’ education, various relationships and the ongoing whirl of social activities.)

As a second lieutenant in the Welsh regiment, Jenkins finds himself surrounded by a plethora of flawed and ineffectual characters, particularly where essential duties are concerned. There is Gwatkin, the rather foolish and inept commanding officer whose head is turned by a friendly barmaid; Deafy Morgan, a well-intentioned infantryman whose impaired hearing proves a liability in vulnerable situations; not to mention the infamous Sayce,  a near-criminal and ‘Company bad character’ who manages to make a complete hash of everything he touches.

In one of the funniest scenes from this novel, the regiment receives a visit from the Divisional Commander, General Liddament, who is horrified to discover that the men have not been given porridge for breakfast – possibly the fault of Gwatkin as far as Liddament is concerned. The suggestion that some members of the human race may not even like porridge appears to be anathema to the General.

[General Liddament] ‘No porridge?’

[Gwatkin] ‘No porridge, sir.’

General Liddament pondered this assertion for some seconds in resentful silence. He seemed to be considering porridge in all its aspects, bad as well as good. At last he came out with an unequivocal moral judgement.

‘There ought to be porridge,’ he said.

He glared round at the platoon, hard at work with their polishing, oiling, pulling-through, whatever they were doing. Suddenly he pointed his stick at Williams, W. H., the platoon runner.

‘Would you have liked porridge?’

Williams, W. H., came to attention. As I have said, Williams, W. H., was good on his feet and sang well. Otherwise, he was not particularly bright.

‘No, sir,’ he said instantly, as if that might be the right answer.

The General was taken aback. It would not be too much to say he was absolutely staggered.

‘Why not?’

General Liddament spoke sharply, but seriously, as if some excuse like religious scruple about eating porridge would certainly be accepted as valid.

‘Don’t like it, sir.’

‘You don’t like porridge?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then you’re a foolish fellow – a very foolish fellow.’ (pp. 95-96, book 7)

Alongside the dry humour, this book is tinged with notes of tragedy, the challenges of living through the war juxtaposed with the absurdity and horror of the situation – a theme that is continued into book 8, The Soldier’s Art.

The fire-engines had driven away. The street was empty. I thought how good Eleanor was in a situation like this. Molly had been good too, when it came to disaster. I wondered what would happen to Ted. The extraordinary thing about the outside of the house was that everything looked absolutely normal. Some sort of a notice about bomb damage had been stuck on the front-door by the wardens; otherwise there was nothing to indicate the place had been subjected to an attack from the air, which had killed several persons. (p. 165, book 8)

And then, just when you least expect it, Widmerpool appears again at the end of book 7, much to Jenkins’ (and the reader’s) surprise. There are some classic Widmerpool moments, particularly in book 8, where he is confirmed as an unfeeling, self-centred individual of the highest order.

By book 9, Jenkins – now a Major – has secured a role in the War Office, acting a point of liaison with those in charge of various Allied forces. This volume also sees the proper introduction of the infamous Pamela Flitton, briefly glimpsed at Stringham’s wedding in an earlier novel. With her trademark air of rage and despair, Miss Flitton proceeds to create merry hell in all manner of romantic entanglements, a characteristic typified by the following passage.

‘Giving men hell is what Miss Flitton likes,’ he said. ‘I know the sort. Met plenty of them.’

There was something to be said for accepting that diagnosis, because two discernible features seemed to emerge from a large, often widely diversified, canon of evidence chronicling Pamela Flitton’s goings-on: the first, her indifference to the age and status of the men she decided to fascinate: the second, the unvarying technique of silence, followed by violence, with which she persecuted her lovers, or those who hoped to be numbered in that category. She appeared, for example, scarcely at all interested in looks or money, rank or youth, as such; just as happy deranging the modest home life of a middle-aged air-raid warden, as compromising the commission of a rich and handsome Guards ensign recently left school. In fact, she seemed to prefer ‘older men’ on the whole, possibly because of their potentiality for deeper suffering. (p. 74, book 9)

By the end of book 9, even Widmerpool – now a Colonel and hungry for power – has fallen under Pamela Flitton’s spell. I am very much looking forward to seeing how this situation develops in the post-war instalments, books 10-12. What a remarkable series this is turning out to be.

Recent Reads – Evelyn Waugh and Anthony Powell

Those of you who follow me on Twitter may know that I’ve been getting through a lot of books lately, more than I’ve had time to write about in detail. So, here are a few thoughts about some of them – a sparkling Evelyn Waugh, and books 2-4 of Anthony Powell’s marvellous series, A Dance to the Music of Time.

A Handful of Dust by Evelyn Waugh (1934)

I thoroughly enjoyed this sharply executed satire on the debauched society set of the early 1930s, complete with its blend of acerbic humour, unexpected tragedy and undercurrent of savagery. As a novel, it seems to perfectly capture that ‘live for the moment, hang tomorrow’ attitude that existed during the interwar years.

In essence, A Handful of Dust charts the falling apart of a marriage – that between the bored socialite, Brenda Last, and her somewhat less gregarious husband, Tony. The Lasts live at Hetton Abbey, a faded Gothic mansion in need of refurbishment and repair. Unfortunately, the Lasts are rather short of money, and what little they do appear to have goes on various servants, consumables and Brenda’s regular trips to London to see friends.

The rot sets in when Brenda slips into an affair with John Beaver, a somewhat depthless chap who proves an appealing distraction, at least for a time. While Brenda’s sister and friends know of the situation with Beaver, Tony remains ignorant of the relationship, naively believing Brenda’s ridiculous cover story of her enrolment in a London-based economics course – hence the need for a little flat in the city where Brenda can stay during the week. However, things come to a head in the form of an unexpected tragedy, a terrible accident which cleaves the Last family apart.

Waugh uses dialogue to great effect in this novel, frequently moving the narrative along through a series of conversations – sometimes face-face, other times on the phone. The style is pin-sharp and pithy, qualities illustrated by the passage below. In this scene from an early stage in the novel, Tony has just learned that Beaver is coming to Hetton, a discovery that annoys him greatly.

[Tony] ‘What’s he coming here for? Did you ask him to stay?’

[Brenda] ‘I suppose I did in a vague kind of way. I went to Brat’s one evening and he was the only chap there so we had some drinks and he said something about wanting to see the house…’

‘I suppose you were tight.’

‘Not really, but I never thought he’d hold it against me.’

‘Well, it jolly well serves you right. That’s what comes of going up to London on business and leaving me alone here…Who is he anyway?’

‘Just a young man. His mother keeps that shop.’

‘I used to know her. She’s hell. Come to think of it we owe her some money.’

‘Look here, we must put a call through and say we’re ill.’

‘Too late, he’s in the train now, recklessly mixing starch and protein in the Great Western three and sixpenny lunch…Anyway he can go into Galahad. No one who sleeps there ever comes again – the bed’s agony I believe.’ (pp. 27-28)

Basically, if you like that passage, you’ll almost certainly enjoy this book; if you don’t, then it’s probably not for you!

A Handful of Dust is an entertaining yet bittersweet romp, a story shot through with Waugh’s characteristically caustic wit. And yet there is an undercurrent of despair here too, a sense of hopelessness that becomes apparent, particularly towards the end as Tony ventures off into the Amazonian jungle in search of a secluded city. His adventures with a maverick explorer are artfully portrayed.

Reputedly inspired by the disintegration of Waugh’s own marriage coupled with his experiences in South America, this is a tonally sophisticated novel with more to say than might appear at first sight.

A Dance to the Music of Time by Anthony Powell, books 2-4

I’ve been making good progress with this series, working my way through the books in between other reads. Rather than commenting on the plot, which would be virtually impossible to do without revealing spoilers, I’m going to highlight a few aspects that have struck me so far.

Firstly, Powell’s undoubted ability to convey a clear picture of a character – their appearance, their disposition, even their way of moving around a room – in just a few carefully judged sentences. He does this time and time again, enabling the reader to anchor each character firmly in their mind.

There are numerous passages I could have chosen to illustrate this, but here’s one from the third book in the series, The Acceptance World. The individual in question is Mrs Myra Erdleigh, an acquaintance of Uncle Giles’ whom Jenkins meets during a trip to the Ufford, Giles’ favoured haunt for discussions on his money troubles.

He [Giles] had blown his nose once or twice as a preliminary to financial discussion, when the door of the lounge quietly opened and a lady wearing a large hat and purple dress came silently into the room.

She was between forty and fifty, perhaps nearer fifty, though possibly her full bosom and style of dress, at a period when it was fashionable to be thin, made her seem a year or two older than her age. Dark red hair piled on her head in what seemed to me an outmoded style, and good, curiously blurred features from which looked out immense, misty, hazel eyes, made her appearance striking. Her movements, too, where unusual. She seemed to glide rather than walk across the carpet, giving the impression almost of a phantom, a being from another world; this illusion no doubt heightened by the mysterious, sombre ambience of the Ufford, and the fact that I had scarcely ever before seen anybody but Uncle Giles himself, or an occasional member of the hotel’s staff, inhabit its rooms. (pp. 5-6, book 3)

It is Mrs Erdleigh’s movements that make all the difference here, her way of gliding across the carpet like a ghostly apparition or a creature from another world.

Powell’s attention to detail is pretty impressive too, often revealing little insights into an individual’s persona. At an earlier moment in the same scene, Nick offers the following reflection on Uncle Giles, an observation which discloses something of the latter’s fastidious manner in spite of his lack of funds.

On that particular occasion, the three fish-paste sandwiches and slice of seed cake finished, talk about money was about to begin. Uncle Giles himself never ate tea, though he would usually remove the lid of the teapot on arrival and comment: ‘A good sergeant-major’s brew you’ve got there,’ sometimes sending the tea back to the kitchen if something about the surface of the liquid specially displeased him. (p. 5, book 3)

Finally (for now), I’m also enjoying Powell’s meditations on life itself, his somewhat wistful observations on the nature of the game. Here’s how book two, A Buyer’s Market, draws to a close.

Certain stages of experience might be compared with the game of Russian billiards, played (as I used to play with Jean, when the time came) on those small green tables, within the secret recesses of which, at the termination of a given passage of time–a quarter of an hour, I think–the hidden gate goes down; after the descent of which, the white balls and the red return no longer to the slot to be replayed; and all scoring is doubled. This is perhaps an image of how we live. For reasons not always at the time explicable, there are specific occasions when events begin suddenly to take on a significance previously unsuspected, so that, before we really know where we are, life seems to have begun in earnest at last, and we ourselves, scarcely aware that any change has taken place, are careering uncontrollably down the slippery avenues of eternity. (p. 274, book 2)

How very apt…

You can read my piece on the first book in the series here: A Question of Upbringing.

A Handful of Dust is published by Penguin Books, A Dance to the Music of Time by Arrow Books; personal copies. (For more info on Stu’s Penguin Classics event, click here.)

A Dance to the Music of Time, book 1 – A Question of Upbringing by Anthony Powell

First published in 1951, A Question of Upbringing is the first novel in Anthony Powell’s masterly twelve-part cycle, A Dance to the Music of Time, a series which explores the political and cultural milieu of the English upper classes in the early-mid-20^th century. It’s been on my radar for quite a while, mostly due to conversations with Max, Jonathan and Ali who have written about the books in some detail. The final push came towards the end of last year when the Backlisted team covered book ten in the series, Books Do Furnish a Room, on their Christmas podcast.

Having drawn a line under my three-year Classics Club project, I now have the headspace to read a long sequence of novels – hence my decision to begin the Dance. While I can’t promise to write about every book in the series, I will try to post some thoughts every now and again, just to capture a few observations. In the meantime, here are a few reflections on the first instalment, A Question of Upbringing.

As the novel opens, the narrator – a man named Jenkins – is observing the movements of some workmen in his street when he is reminded of Poussin’s great painting, A Dance to the Music of Time, in which the Seasons move in rhythm to the notes of the lyre.

The image of Time brought thoughts of mortality: of human beings, facing outward like the Seasons, moving hand in hand in intricate measure: stepping slowly, methodically, sometimes a trifle awkwardly, in evolutions that take recognisable shape: or breaking into seemingly meaningless gyrations, while partners disappear only to reappear again, once more giving pattern to the spectacle: unable to control the melody, unable, perhaps, to control the steps of the dance. (p. 2)

It’s a striking image, one that prompts Jenkins to think back to his youth, a time when so many things, hitherto unfathomable to him, were starting to become a little clearer.

Immediately we find ourselves back in the 1920s where Jenkins is in his final year of public school, destined to progress to a notable University, almost certainly Oxford. Most of his spare time is spent messing around with two companions, Stringham and Templer, whose temperaments, Jenkins observes, appear to represent two different facets of life in spite of their outward similarities. Stringham is something of a romantic and an eccentric, perhaps destined to play a somewhat different role from the one he truly desires. Templer, on the other hand, is more practical, valuing the tangible things in life, though he is not particularly ambitious.

The boys enjoy a feisty relationship with their punctilious housemaster, Le Bas, a situation which prompts Stringham to devise a devious joke at the tutor’s expense. The incident culminates in Le Bas being mistaken for a petty fraudster who is wanted by the police. Rather amusingly, Le Bas believes Templer to be the orchestrator of the prank, especially once the boy’s tobacco pouch is found near the scene of his arrest. It’s a very funny story, one that soon spreads around the network of boys as the episode becomes public.

While at school, Jenkins also encounters Widmerpool, a rather isolated, awkward boy who cuts a lonely figure marked by an air of greyness. A year or two older than the other boys, Widmerpool is destined to reappear in Jenkins’ orbit in the years to come.

Following these reflections on the boys’ schooldays, the novel then goes on to shadow Jenkins as he pays visits to Stringham’s home in London and the Templers’ residence near the sea. While staying with the Templers, Jenkins comes into contact with Sunny Farebrother, an amicable business associate of Templer senior. Farebrother also finds himself the butt of a joke when Templer’s brother-in-law, the rather objectionable Stripling, attempts to place a chamber pot in Farebrother’s hat box before the businessman’s departure. However, the plot is foiled when Farebrother surprises Stripling in the midst of enacting the trick.

When reading the novel, we view everything through Jenkins’ perspective, observing the movements of the other characters in relation to each another. It soon becomes clear that Jenkins is a little naïve, certainly more so than many of his peers. Nevertheless, there is a sense of him maturing as the novel progresses, a feeling that he is beginning to understand a little more about the business of life.

Clearly some complicated process of sorting-out was in progress among those who surrounded me: though only years later did I become aware how early such voluntary segregations begin to develop; and of how they continue throughout life. (p.69)

It is during his stay at the Templers that Jenkins first becomes aware of the possibilities that love might offer in the course of one’s existence – not just in terms of a physical attraction to someone, but a deeper, more emotional force too. This realisation is sparked by his observation of another of the Templers’ guests, the intoxicating Lady Reith. Although Jenkins is not seriously tempted by the prospect of Lady Reith, he does recognise her magnetism and power over the opposite sex. Instead, Jenkins considers himself to be in love with his schoolfriend’s sister, the somewhat remote Jean Templer.

Before heading off to university, Jenkins spends the summer in France, staying with a wartime friend of his father’s, Commandant Leroy. Also visiting the Leroys that summer is Widmerpool, who in spite of a little window dressing still retains much of the aura of the odd-boy-out from school.

Widmerpool had tidied himself up a little since leaving school, though there was still a kind of exotic drabness about his appearance that seemed to mark him out from the rest of mankind. […] His familiar air of uneasiness remained with him, and he still spoke as if holding a piece of india-rubber against the roof of his mouth. He also retained his accusing manner, which seemed to suggest that he suspected people of trying to worm out of him important information which he was not, on the whole, prepared to divulge at so cheap a price as that offered. (p. 118)

There is something rather secretive and unpleasant about Widmerpool at this stage, a feeling that leaves me interested to see how his character evolves over time. Currently articled to a firm of solicitors, it is clear than Widmerpool believes himself to be destined for greater things – either in the way of business or politics or both.

Once again, there are some beautifully observed scenes in this section of the story, particularly the amusing tennis matches involving two somewhat idiosyncratic Scandinavians – one from Norway, the other from Sweden – who clearly dislike one another.

The final chapter of this novel sees Jenkins in his first year at University, attending Sunday afternoon tea parties hosted by the wily Sillery, an influential don whose primary aim is to uncover and exploit any connections that might be of use to him. Stringham is also studying at the same University, although his arrival is delayed by an accident which puts him out of circulation for several months. Unlike Jenkins, Stringham is unhappy at the college, and it is not long before he convinces his mother and stepfather to allow him to depart. Other young undergraduates float in and out of Jenkins’ orbit during this period, although the significance of these figures remains to be seen.

As the novel draws to a close, Jenkins parts company with Stringham, and there is a sense that a particular chapter in his life is coming to an end.

I knew now that this parting was one of those final things that happen, recurrently, as time passes: until at last they may be recognised fairly easily as the close of a period. This was the last I should see of Stringham for a long time. The path had suddenly forked. With regret, I accepted the inevitability of circumstance. Human relationships flourish and decay, quickly and silently, so that those concerned scarcely know how brittle, or how inflexible, the ties that bind them have become. (p. 229)

It is observations like this that really stand out for me – Jenkins’ (or Powell’s) reflections on the nature of life alongside his wry asides. How relationships develop and then dissipate over time; how complex and powerful the business of love can be; how our personalities are often formed in the years of our youth, thereby setting the pattern for much of our lives. These are just some of the points that strike me on reading this book, but there are many more. Above all, it is not what you know, but who you know that seems most important here: a person’s social class and background; which school and college they went to; their network of influencers. These are the things that appear to matter most.

I’m looking forward to seeing how these individuals develop over time as they move in and out of one another’s lives. No doubt several new characters will be introduced as the Dance takes shape. I do hope we see Jenkins’ Uncle Giles again, a man whose liaisons with various members of the opposite sex are as dodgy and indiscriminate as his business dealings. I’ve run out of space to say any more about Giles in this piece, but maybe another time; he is a marvellous creation.

A Question of Upbringing is published by Arrow Books; personal copy.