The Mistress of Nothing by Kate Pullinger

Winner of the 2009 Governor General's Literary Award for Fiction, The Mistress of Nothing is a fictionalized first person account of the real-life Miss Sally Naldrett, lady's maid to the actual Lady Lucie Duff Gordon.  It is 1862, and Sally is in England, and preparing to travel to Egypt in search of relief or cure for her ladyship's lung disease:

I work hard but my Lady is a most rewarding employer; everything I do for her is exactly right, or so she would have me believe.  On my day off - one per month, when we're at home, unless my Lady is too unwell for me to leave her - I put on my bonnet and take the train up to London: my Lady always says that a woman my age has a right to travel up to London by herself and I couldn't agree more.  The train up to London, a walk through the city - just saying those words makes me smile with pleasure - the noise, the smells, the people.  Up the steps of the Museum in Bloomsbury, through the exhibition rooms, the corridors lined with glass cases, past the giraffe whose neck is so long you injure your own neck looking up at it, past the knives and coins and cups and urns in their crowded display cases, until I reach the room that is my destination: the Egyptian Sculpture Gallery.  I take a seat and close my eyes before I've seen too much - I don't want to spoil my anticipation by seeing it all too quickly.  I've come all this way to look and yet, once I'm there, I can hardly bear to see.  I open my eyes and there they are: the Pharaohs, their gods, and the hieroglyphs - the secrets of that ancient land encrypted in stone.

I have my favourite.  The first time I saw his shapely long face I thought he was a woman.  But no, he's a man, a colossal Pharaoh.  Almond eyes, kohl-rimmed like a cat's; I would run my hand along his cheek if I could reach that high, over his lips, down to his great chin, feeling the stone bones beneath the smooth cool stone skin.  I stare at him, and he stares back at me.  I laugh at myself: he's the man of my dreams.

Lady Duffy Gordon and Sally arrive at the Alexandrian home of Mrs. Ross, the grown daughter of her ladyship.  The extroverted lady becomes subdued and melancholic with lack of society.  The women have trouble adapting to life in a foreign city.

 There was no real sightseeing to be done, as Alexandria's historical monuments consist of mere rumour and conjecture - phantom monuments, as my Lady said, no more, no less - this might have been where Alexander the Great's tomb lay; Pharos lighthouse, one of the Wonders of the Ancient World, probably stood here; but there was nothing to see.  Instead there was the wildest mix of cultures imaginable, all attempting to see something - a slick Italian barber next door to a Syrian baker with a mud oven, a gorgeous French patisserie with a gaggle of peasant women buying and selling oranges right outside its polished glass doors.

Their transition is eased with the help of two gentlemen who suggest to them a dragoman, or guide, who reminds Sally of the sculpture in the Egyptian gallery in London.  Mr. Omar Abu Halaweh, the Father of the Sweets teaches Sally to speak Egyptian, makes their food purchases and takes care of both of the women.  Sally, Omar and her ladyship form a trio - a pyramid of sorts with the Lady Duff Gordon at the peak.

Initially I saw a great number of similarities to E. M. Forster's A Passage to India, and even A Room with a View, but this is in no way derivative.  A period novel about two women, of different age and wealth, travelling in a foreign land, and an ensuing entanglement is bound to provoke this literary connection.  The theme of travel as self-revelation is explored in each of these novels as well:

What happens when you leave everything behind?  When you leave everything familiar, not just houses and streets and wet windy winter-time, but husbands, children, friends?  For me: the train into London on my day off; the arriving back home again.  The branch of the oak tree that knocks against the roof of the stable.  The postman who comes down the lane.  None of these things have followed me to Egypt.  Does this mean I am no longer the same person?  Does this mean that I too have changed?

Lady Duff Gordon is also transformed by her life in Egypt; her acceptance and rejection of the European mores and conventions set the tone for what is acceptable in her household.  She discards the outerwear of the European lady of status and adopts the more practical and comfortable attire of the Egyptian man, yet she rigidly holds firm to the code of conduct she uses to define an acceptable woman.  Omar becomes a study in contrasts: a virile, yet emasculated man, and a further exploration of gender, status and ambition. And watching Sally transform through the novel is exciting.  She develops from a model of servitude to a fully-realized woman.

Although the book retained my attention right to the end, I did have some issues with the author being too oblique with some of the actions and motivations of the characters.  There were many elements that felt unresolved and missed opportunities for more cohesion.  I am somewhat surprised that it won the GG, but it was still a very enjoyable read.

Here is a link to an excerpt from Kate Pullinger's website.

Kate Pullinger

 author image from here

Behind a Mask; or, A Woman's Power by Louisa May Alcott

Behind a Mask; or, A Woman's Power

Into the peaceful and affluent household of the Coventry family comes a nineteen-year old governess to oversee the education of the sixteen-year old daughter Bella.  Jean Muir is a poor, pale, black-cloaked little Jane Eyre without friend or family.  She ingratiates herself into the family by her gentle manner, her kindness, her gift for entertaining and performing with music and story, and through her humble servitude.  Although there are some hints that all may not be exactly as it seems, it is not until she retires to the privacy of her own room that we see the full extent of her deception.

Still sitting on the floor she unbound and removed the long abundant braids from her head, wiped the pink from her face, took out several pearly teeth, and slipping off her dress appeared herself indeed, a haggard, worn, and moody woman of thirty at least.  The metamorphosis was wonderful, but the disguise was more in the expression she assumed than in any art of costume or false adornment.  Now she was alone, and her mobile features settled into their natural expression, weary, hard, bitter.  She had been lovely once, happy, innocent, and tender; but nothing of all this remained to the gloomy woman who leaned there brooding over some wrong, or loss, or disappointment which had darkened all her life.  For an hour she sat so, sometimes playing absently with the scanty locks that hung about her face, sometimes lifting the glass to her lips as if the fiery draught warmed her cold blood; and once she half uncovered her breast to eye with a terrible glance the scar of a newly healed wound. 1.

The comparisons with Charlotte Bronte's creation are striking, and go far beyond the protagonists themselves.  Jean Muir is adept at playing the part of Jane Eyre, for she is a consummate actress with an eye on the prize... Mr. Rochester!  While Jane Eyre ("air") is ethereal and spiritual, Jean Muir ("moor") is earthy and practical in her worldliness.  Jean Muir has both feet firmly planted in the here and now, and unlike Jane Eyre who strives only to do the right thing without thought of personal gain, Jean Muir is the living embodiment of ruthless ambition.

Louisa May Alcott, as the author, never judges Jean Muir's actions and the conclusion of the story lends support to the argument that her actions were justified because society offered so few solutions to women to live independently.  The choices available to Jean Muir were marriage, servitude and poverty, or death.  She uses all her powers, and embraces her inner "Madwoman in the Attic," clothes her in the appearance of an "Angel in the House" and serves tea with humility and grace, soothes the agitation of each family member, entertains and knows her place as governess while at the same time scheming a diabolical plan to capture status and wealth using only her quick wit and cunning.  As the madwoman, she goes after what she wants with a single-minded passion.  She is a witch who casts her spell on all the men she encounters.

The full text of the novella can be found at the University of Virginia's site here.
A full guide to Louisa May Alcott research can be found here.

I found "Behind a Mask; or, A Woman's Power" in these editions from my shelves:

1.  I remember my father singing a little ditty when I was a girl - a parody of an old song called "After the Ball" in which Katie (here, Jenny) is déshabillé in the same manner as the protagonist of the story.

After the Ball (Dismantled Bride)

After the ball was over
Jenny took out her glass eye.
Stood her false leg in the corner,
Corked up her bottle of dye.
Put her false teeth in the tumbler;
Hung her false hair on the wall.
All the rest went to the bye-bye,
After the ball.

This is the original version of the song "After the Ball," sung by the writer, Charles K. Harris, here.
and the parody here.

Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen

I know that, along with Mansfield Park, it is probably the least appreciated of Jane Austen's novels, but Northanger Abbey is so charming and funny that I love it.  It seems that whichever Austen novel I am reading is my favourite.

As much as I aspire to Elizabeth Bennet's quick wit and vivaciousness, and Elinor Dashwood's steady, practical stoicism, I have to admit that Catherine Morland is probably the Austen heroine I most resemble.  Or, did resemble when I was a teenager.  Jane Austen perfectly captures the wide-eyed wonder of a girl of seventeen who has lived her life in the comfortable confines of an intimate village, and is now introduced to the fast-paced life in society.

On one level, the story is a few months in the life of Catherine Morland, the fourth of ten children of a country clergyman and his wife, and the eldest daughter of the family, who is invited to Bath by a neighbouring, childless couple, the Allens.  In Bath she is exposed to more fashionable society than has been usual for her.  There she meets a young man and his sister who, along with their father invite Catherine to spend time with them at their home, Northanger Abbey.

But on another level, this is an exploration of novel reading.  Several of the main characters in Northanger Abbey, including Catherine, are fascinated by the thrilling novels of the period, especially those by Ann Radcliffe such as The Mysteries of Udolpho.

Jane Austen defends the reading of novels and asserts that in them you will find that "the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour are conveyed to the world in the best chosen language."  Yet, while defending novel-reading as a means of understanding human nature, she presents us with a heroine who appears not to have absorbed any of the lessons therein.  For Catherine is blind in her naïveté to the foibles and faults of others. She continues to interpret the behaviour of everyone else through the lens of her own good nature, attributing to their bad behaviour invented redeeming justifications.

And now I feel that I really must read some Ann Radcliffe and Horace Walpole!

The Unknown Thrillers of Louisa May Alcott

I was introduced to the "unknown thrillers" of Louisa May Alcott during a women writers course in university, and was captivated by the "blood and thunder tales" written by this author who was revered for her gentle, moral tales such as Little Women and Eight Cousins, and was known as "The Children's Friend."  She produced these "potboilers" anonymously, and pseudonymously as A. M. Barnard, out of economic necessity: at times her family struggled with poverty, and like Jo Marsh wrote to sustain her family. She wrote these dark, lurid Gothic tales of deceit, violence and revenge with a subtle feminist twist, and although less likely than her sweet tales to engender devoted fans, these thrillers have shed light on the complex life of the writer.

~

I found this quote from the Introduction of Behind a Mask: The Unknown Thrillers of Louisa May Alcott (Madeleine Stern, editor) fascinating:

I think my natural ambition is for the lurid style.  I indulge in gorgeous fancies and wish that I dared inscribe them upon my pages and set them before the public... How should I dare to interfere with the proper grayness of old Concord?  The dear old town has never known a startling hue since the redcoats were there.  Far be it from me to inject an inharmonious color into the neutral tint.  And my favourite characters!  Suppose they went to cavorting at their own sweet will, to the infinite horror of dear Mr. Emerson, who never imagined a Concord person as walking off a plumb line stretched between two pearly clouds in the empyrean.  To have had Mr. Emerson for an intellectual god all one's life is to be invested with a chain armour of propriety...  And what would my own good father think of me...  if I set folks to doing the things that I have a longing to see my people do?  No, my dear, I shall always be a wretched victim to the respectable traditions of Concord.

~

The introductory segment of the documentary "Louisa May Alcott: the Woman Behind Little Women" can be found here.  (Did you know that Louisa May Alcott was a runner?  She ran up to 20 miles at a time!  Without wicking fibres and seamless socks).

~

I have decided to work my way through the three volumes of stories I have on my shelf; I plan to read a new story every couple of weeks.  I believe there have been at least thirty stories now discovered to have been anonymously or pseudonymously published.  I have access to twelve of these, some more aptly described as novellas.  I would love to have some company reading these if you are interested to see this darker side of Louisa May Alcott's writing.

The collections I have are:

Behind a Mask: The Unknown Thrillers of Louisa May Alcott, edited by Madeleine Stern, Morrow, 1975.

• Behind a Mask; or, A Woman's Power e-text
• Pauline's Passion and Punishment e-text
• The Mysterious Key and What It Opened e-text
• The Abbot's Ghost, or Maurice Treherne's Temptation e-text
  

Modern Magic: Five Stories by Louisa May Alcott, edited by Madeleine Stern, Modern Library, 1995.

• A Pair of Eyes; or, Modern Magic
• The Fate of the Forrests
• Behind a Mask; or, A Woman's Power
• Perilous Play
• My Mysterious Mademoiselle

A Marble Woman: Unknown Thrillers of Louisa May Alcott, edited by Madeleine Stern, Avon, 1976

• V. V.: or, Plots and Counterplots
• A Marble Woman: or, The Mysterious Model
• The Skeleton in the Closet
• A Whisper in the Dark
• Perilous Play

Earth and Ashes by Atiq Rahimi

The first thing you notice about Earth and Ashes is that it is written in the second person present and you say to yourself, "It is a clever writer who can make this point of view work well!"  You see that the book is only eighty-one pages so you tell yourself that even if it fails it's a short book.

But you are very quickly drawn into the story: you become an old man sitting by a bridge in Afganistan with your deaf grandson trying to keep the dust from the apple he eats.  You wait for a car to take you and your grandson to the Karkar coal mine where your son Murad works.  You confirm with the guard in the hut that there have been no cars past but he is iritable and does not ease your loneliness.

So far, you think, this book is promising.  It has a clearly imagined setting.  You can see the dust on that apple, feel the heat from the sun, and see the greyness of the dry landscape.  You are curious to learn more about the old man and the boy.

You keep reading.

Then you begin to wonder, "Where is this going?"  Oh, no!  The book has suddenly gone all surreal with erupting mountains and rivers of flowing fire.  And then with a sigh of relief you see that the old man has just dozed off from exhaustion and had a nightmare.  You can see that he has a challenging life, that he struggles with loneliness, but is reluctant to discuss his experiences, and the destruction he has seen as a result of the war with the Russians.

You notice there are no women in this story.

You read this sentence:

You know, father, sorrow can turn to water and spill from your eyes, or it can sharpen your tongue into a sword, or it can become a time bomb that, one day, will explode and destroy you,

and you think, "Oh, that poor, sad man!"

You wonder what a jujube is, and you google it.  (Turns out it's not just a candy, but an apple-like fruit that when mature resembles a date, and has a stone like an olive, and the wonderful botanical name of Ziziphus zizyphus).  You marvel at the ability of children to make toys out of what surrounds them, even jujube fruit stones.

You wonder if Atiq Rahimi has ever read Waiting for Godot because the old man and his grandson sure are having to wait a long time at the side of that road.

But you learn more about the old man (including hat his name is Dastaguir) and you feel that he has indeed suffered great loss in this war.  You see that he is on a quest to find his son, and you worry about what he will find when he arrives at the mine.

You have to come care for this dusty old man from Afganistan and you can hardly believe the sorrow that he has had to bear.  But you wonder, "Will this sorrow turn to tears, a sword, or a bomb?"  You come to the end of the book and you breath out.  So much heart-break so skilfully rendered.  You think, "Atiq Rahimi, you rock the second person present."

Atiq Rahimi
On location filming "Earth and Ashes"
Fall 2003, Afghanistan

Author image from here (along with an interview with Atiqu Rahimi)

From the book jacket:

[Born in Kabul in 1962 Atiq Rahimi was 17 years old when the Soviet Union invaded Afganistan.  He left the country during the war, eventually obtaining political asylum in France.  Rahimi now lives in Paris where he makes documentary films.]

February 2013

Mad Shadows by Marie-Claire Blais

The 

train 

was 

leaving 

town.

     Lying back with his head against his mother's shoulder, Patrice followed the dappled countryside with a melancholy expression.  Behind his forehead everything grew confused, like a billowing stormcloud on a screen.  He watched in silence and did not understand, but his idiot face was so dazzling that it made one think of genius.  His mother caressed the nape of his neck with the palm of her hand.  With a gentle slip of her all-too-supple wrist she could lower Patrice's head to her bosom and hear his breathing more easily.
     On the other side, aloof and motionless, her daughter Isabelle-Marie sat pressing her sharp features against the window.  Louise often said to herself, "Isabelle-Marie never really had the face of a child... But Patrice... Oh, Patrice!"
     Isabelle-Marie was thirteen.  She was tall and emaciated; her alarming eyes, so often full of anger, seemed glued to black bone.  When she scowled, the lower part of her face twisted into a look of fierce contempt.  It was almost frightening.

 So begins the first novel of Marie-Claire Blais (translated from the French by Merloyd Lawrence), written when she was just twenty years old and entitled, in the original French, La Belle Bête.  Isabelle-Marie, the neglected, unattractive daughter represses a ferocious and anguished desire to repay her mother for emotionally abandonning her.  Patrice is her ten-year old brother, the "beautiful beast" to whom their mother Louise is devoted.  He is is so beautiful that strangers cannot help but stare, but he is intellectually vois with "large green eyes as empty as the night."  Marie-Claire Blais creates this family full of real psychological pathology but sets it in a fairy tale-like setting full of symbolic meaning.

While evidently a social commentary on parochial Quebec society, an important theme in Mad Shadows for me is the soul-destroying indulgence in superficial attributes such as beauty and riches.  This is a cautionary tale of what happens when the dark side takes over and revenge overshadows forgiveness, kindness to others is overwhelmed by self-interest, and the pursuit and adoration of beauty and money come before the nurturing and loving of children.  Each character is lacking a crucial element to their personality; Patrice has no conscience, no intelligence, no memory; Louise has no compassion and no feelings for others beyond their use in fulfilling her own desires; Isabelle-Marie lacks the ability to control her rage.  Rather than acknowledging their failings and reaching out to one another for support, each character is ruled by them and remains isolated and ultimately destructive to themselves and everyone else.

This is a dark and at times disturbing story, a gothic tale of festering, diseased souls eating away from within and, finally, bursting forth in all-encompassing destruction.  I enjoyed the skill of the writer and the depth of her character-building.  This is an astounding first novel, and I am looking forward to reading Tête Blanche which was her second novel, published in 1960 which is sitting on my shelf.

Marie-Claire Blais

author image from here

Marie-Claire Blais in the Canadian Encyclopedia

The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood

The Handmaid's Tale begins in Margaret Atwood's typically understated style.  We begin in the middle, and slowly the past and the present unfold like the drawing back of curtain to reveal the complete diarama.

This is the story of one woman in a society that has recently transitioned very quickly from the contemporary American reality of 1985 (the publication year of the text) into a totalitarian regime now called Gilead.  The narrator, unnamed at the beginning of the story, has been forced into the role of handmaid, or surrogate child-bearer, for a high-ranking Commander and his wife.  The position of a handmaid in a household in Gilead is ambiguous.  For, although these women fill an essential role because of the declining fertility rates, they are scorned members of society.  The narrator cautiously makes her way through each day, attempting to remain below the radar, for there are spies everywhere in Gilead.  Fear is the method of ensuring complete obedience, and death or exile is the punishment.

The narrator's behaviour is guided by the dictates of the dystopian society, but her inner voice has a morality that fights everything she sees and does.  In her first person narration, she records her attempt to walk a fine line between staying out of trouble and following her conscience.  The repressive message of Gilead is to "blame the victim" and the indoctrination, isolation and lack of human connection allows the narrator to doubt herself even while feeling unsettled about what surrounds her. It is through her thoughts that she keeps alive her connection with the past, recalling the life she had before Gilead.

Gilead is a theocracy, but the religious dogma is hollow.  When religious rhetoric is used solely for political means, it loses its spiritual dimension and is just another empty tool of the powerful to gain more power.  The religious observances in The Handmaid's Tale are hollow words, spoken only out of fear and conformity, never reflecting any true Christian teaching of compassion and forgiveness.  So, Margaret Atwood is not condemning religion in this novel, but exploring how the rhetoric of religion can be used for the purpose of mass conformity.  She is making a distinction between, for instance, the Quakers and the Baptists and the others who do not identify themselves as Christian who risk their own lives to save others, and go to great lengths to sacrifice themselves for others.

The power in The Handmaid's Tale for me is in the exploration of the effects of the removal of all human interaction in a society.  Individuals in Gilead are forbidden to look one another in the eye, to touch one other (except in specially sanctioned impersonal "ceremonies"), or to interact with anyone else on a personal level.  What happens when this basic human need is denied?  In small ways, the narrator sees evidence of the break down of the society, of cracks in the very foundation because of this inhuman condition.  People are willing to take great risks to have these needs met.

I loved this book.  Every single time I read a book by Margaret Atwood I remember once again how much I enjoy her view of the world. Even when it is this dark and horrifying.

Margaret Atwood

Margaret Atwood at the Canadian Encyclopedia (including video of her interview with Alan Gregg on the topic of her 2008 Massey Lecture entitled Payback: Debt and the Shadow Side of Wealth)

The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway

He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish.  In the first forty days a boy had been with him.  But after forty days without a fish the boy's parents had told him that the old man was now definitely and finally salao, which is the worst form of unlucky, and the boy had gone at their orders in another boat which caught three good fish the first week.  It made the boy sad to see the old man come in each day with his skiff empty and he always went down to help him carry either the coiled lines or the gaff and harpoon and the sail that was furled around the mast.  The sail was patched with flour sacks and, furled, it looked like the flag of permanent defeat.

The old man was thin and gaunt with deep wrinkles in the back of his neck.  The brown blotches of the benevolent skin cancer the sun brings from its reflection on the tropic sea were on his cheeks.  The blotches ran well down the sides of his face and his hands had the deep-creased scars from handling heavy fish on the cords.  But none of these scars were fresh.  They were as old as erosions in a fishless desert.

Everything about him was old except his eyes and they were the same color as the sea and were cheerful and undefeated.

So begins Ernest Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea, a work of brilliant contrasts; a novel of staggering complexity hidden in simple prose, of a poverty-stricken old man who is rich in love and confidence in the future.  He has faith in the Yankees, and in Joe DiMaggio, and even after a string of fishless days, "his hope and his confidence had never gone."  On the eighty-fifth day Santiago sets out diligently determined to try his luck again because, he says, "eighty-five is a lucky number." 

The Old Man and the Sea is an allegorical tale of suffering and redemption.  Santiago is marked as a Christ-like figure by his occupation as fisherman, by his scarred and bleeding hands - his stigmata, by his disciple Manolin who has faith in him, serves him, and ministers his wounds, by his call to God for help, and by the images depicted in the scenes of him carrying his mast on his shoulders.  I was most intrigued by the behaviour of the Old Man.  He is humble, well-mannered, lives in harmony with nature and he is full of encouragement for himself when things are not going well despite his poverty.  He never falters in his positive self-talk.  He never complains about his situation, no matter how dire, but is appreciative for every small favour given to him.  He has a beautiful attitude toward life, work, and friendship.

The Old Man has an empathetic understanding of the suffering of all the creatures in the ocean, and the air.  The challenges of the small birds to capture fish to eat excites his compassion, as does the hook in the mouth of a fish.  The Old Man pits his wits and endurance against the fish he catches.  He considers fish his worthy opponents because "man is not much beside the great birds and beasts."  His victory comes not in the way one might expect - with riches and fanfare - but quietly and subtly and his victory is a redemption.

Ernest Hemingway by Yousuf Karsh [1957]

Goodnight Desdemona (Good Morning Juliet) by Ann-Marie MacDonald

You've heard of fractured fairy tales?  Well, Goodnight Desdemona (Good Morning Juliet) is like that - except with Shakespeare's plays.  Ann-Marie MacDonald has created a witty and clever and hilarious exploration of the characters and themes in Romeo and Juliet and Othello.  I really, really wish a theatre company would stage it right now so I could see this live.

The play begins in the office of Assistant Professor Constance Ledbelly at Queen's University in Kingston, Ontario (my alma mater!) where Constance is working on her Ph.D. dissertation.  She is working to analyze an old manuscript which, she believes, contains the two source comedies that Shakespeare used to write his tragedies. Constance is warped into the Shakespearean world where she needs to find the author of the manuscript.  In the process, she must also find her own true identity, in a Jungian voyage of re-birth.

In an interview with Melanie Lynn Lockhart in 2005, Ann-Marie MacDonald stated:

I think [Goodnight Desdemona (Good Morning Juliet)] ended up as a tribute to Shakespeare. It’s a testimonial. Because it was done in the spirit of ransacking –and that’s what Shakespeare did. And I think the greatest thing you can do for an author is to make free with them, ultimately, or they won’t survive. If they’re going to survive, they have to survive all kinds of things.

Drawing not just from Romeo and Juliet and Othello, Ann-Marie MacDonald uses characters and lines from other works by Shakespeare often for comedic purposes.  Here is an example of how she plays with the original Romeo and Juliet:

SAMPSON. Nay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them; which is a disgrace to them, if they bear it.
ABRAHAM. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir? 
SAMPSON. I do bite my thumb, sir. 
ABRAHAM. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir? 
SAMPSON. [Aside]  Is the law of our side, if I say ay? 
GREGORY. No. 
SAMPSON. No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir, but I bite my thumb, sir. (1.1. 33-40)

And here is the corresponding section from Goodnight Desdemona (Good Morning Juliet):

TYBALT. [laughter – CONSTANCE nervously bites her thumbnail] Do you bite your thumb at me sir?!
CONSTANCE. No! I just bite my nails, that’s all. 
TYBALT. Do you bite your nails at me sir? 
CONSTANCE. No I swear! Look, I’ll never bite them again. This’ll be a great chance for me to quit once and for all. Thanks.
[Pause. The boys tense. Will there be a fight?]
TYBALT. You’re welcome. (51-52)

Ann-Marie MacDonald uses not just Shakespeare's words, but his themes and symbols and his love of gender-bending and mistaken identities to great comedic effect.

Goodnight Desdemona (Good Morning Juliet) is full of intelligent fun.  I would highly recommend this play as a wonderful read.  Now... does anyone know if there is a dvd available of a stage performance?

Ann-Marie MacDonald

author image from here

Recipient of the Governor General's Award for English Language Drama, the Floyd S. Chalmer's Canadian Play Award and the Canadian Author's Association Award, Goodnight Desdemona (Good Morning Juliet) is the much lauded play by the much lauded over-achiever, Ann-Marie MacDonald. 

Ann-Marie MacDonald is an actor, a playwright, a novelist (Fall On Your Knees, and The Way The Crow Flies), television host of Life & Times for seven years, and currently for The Doc Zone on the CBC.  She's written an opera libretto based on Jungian theories (Nigredo Hotel), and won both Genie and Gemini Awards and a Dora Award, and her novel Fall On Your Knees was chosen by Oprah's Book Club.

Ysabel by Guy Gavriel Kay

Many years ago I read the first book in Guy Gavriel Kay's Fionavar Tapestry trilogy entitled The Summer Tree (1984).  What I remember most clearly about that book was how much I enjoyed the introduction.  Five students at the University of Toronto attend a lecture and find out that the guest lecturer is actually a magical person from the land of Fionavar.  He invites them to travel with him back to his country.  The U of T setting being so familiar to me I was really excited by the book.  However, when they left Toronto and arrived in the magical kingdom I was reminded why I never read fantasy.  This is the same reason I've never been able to get through more than 30 pages of Lord of the Rings (and I am determined to give it my best shot this year!).  I appear unable to concentrate as soon as the characters start wearing cloaks or sprout horns.  Suddenly, the laundry needs doing, my in-box needs sorting, some string needs winding...  So, I'm really not sure why I picked up Guy Gavriel Kay's Ysabel.  Perhaps it was the compelling and gorgeous cover.  Yes.  I'll admit it.  It was the cover that did it.

The setting of the novel is Aix-en-Provence, France, and fifteen-year-old Canadian Ned Marriner is accompanying his famous photographer father, Edward, while he captures images of the area for his latest book.  Ned enters the Saint-Sauveur Cathedral in Aix while his father is attempting to capture the facade, and there meets an American exchange student named Kate Wenger.  Together they have a strange encounter with a bald, scarred man who rises up through a grate in the floor.  Ned and his family and friends appear to be at the vortex of a dangerous upheaval when the past and present begin to collide and old animosities spill over into the present.

I enjoyed the book for the first 150 pages, and then came the supernatural spirit wolves and the cloaked druids and the horned man-beast and I had to fight to keep my focus. I was determined to forge on to the end, and luckily it did pick up again after another 200 pages.  That still left another 150 pages to go (and trust me, I was counting!).

I wasn't expecting this to be a Young Adult book which it most definitely is.  I have nothing against Young Adult books if they are well written, but this fell into the trap of starting with the smart alecky, angsty teenager with an iPod and a bad attitude in predictable and uninspired prose.  I never came to care for any of the characters in the novel and continued to be confused about the objective, other than placing Ned in a situation where his coming-of-age is accelerated by pitting him against mythological bad guys with horns.  I would have liked to have spent more time with the exchange student, but she seemed to disappear when the action heated up, along with Melanie who had a lot of promise as a character that was never realized.

Clearly, I was not the intended audience.  Sorry GGK.

Guy Gavriel Kay

author image from here

The Double Hook by Sheila Watson

The Double Hook is a book that requires a lot from its readers.  It's not the kind of book one can read casually, and it's not the kind of book you can read whilst doing anything else.  There must be no holding it in one hand whilst making a sandwich.  There can be no letting the mind wander for even a sentence or two, for it requires total dedication.  It is the kind of book that ensures the security of tenured professors of Canadian Literature.  While I disagree with Earle Birney calling it  “monotonous, self-conscious, artificial, and lacking in real fictional interest, ” I do concur with his confession: “I just don’t know what the damned novel is about.”

The publication history of The Double Hook is epic and obstacle-strewn!  Rejected by a Who's Who of the 1950s publishing world: Cecil Day-Lewis, T. S. Eliot and Rupert Hart-Davis all turned it away, along with American publishers Random House, Harcourt-Brace, Knopf, New Directions and Atheneum.  The consensus seems to have been that although not without merit, The Double Hook would be virtually unsaleable.  Canadian Jack McClelland took a chance and against the odds The Double Hook has never been out of print since its 1959 publication.

Written in a poetic prose style in short sentences and phrases, this novel is stylistically experimental and unique.  Disregarding the literary conventions of quotation marks, identifying new characters with name or motif, and establishing new settings, the reader must infer from subtle clues the details in the story.  This is the first page of the novel - the first section in Part One:

In the folds of the hills

under Coyote's eye

lived

the old lady, mother of William

of James and of Greta

lived James and Greta

lived William and Ara his wife

lived the Widow Wagner

the Widow's girl Lenchen

the Widow's boy

lived Felix Prosper and Angel

lived Theophil

and Kip

until one morning in July

Greta was at the stove.  Turning hotcakes.  Reaching for the coffee beans.  Grinding away James's voice.

James was at the top of the stairs.  His hand half-raised.  His voice in the rafters.

James walking away.  The old lady falling.  There under the jaw of the roof.  In the vault of the bed loft.  Into the shadow of death.  Pushed by James's will.  By James's hand.  By James's words:  This is my day.  You will not fish today.

The Double Hook begins with the murder of "the old lady, mother of William of James and of Greta," after which various neighbours see her in the river during the day.  A large cast of characters people the novel, each with a story - a true ensemble cast - and they move in and out of the scenes interwoven and entwined with each of the other characters. At times, the writing seems to be depicting life in a dream in which only certain scenes and symbols are evident, and we have to piece together the characters' motivations, and sometimes even the plot, like a puzzle.

I have to admit that for me, this novel would require more attention than I feel compelled to give it right at this moment.  It is not that I didn't like it.  It is just that, for me right now, it is less a story to enjoy reading, and more a novel to study with a notepad and highlighters (perhaps multi-coloured) to fully appreciate its complexity and weight.  When the mood is right and I do feel in the mood for digging deeper, this will be the book I pull off the shelf.  

image from here

I very much enjoyed this description of the author by John Grube in his introduction to The Double Hook:

Mrs. Watson is a small, bird-like creature who lives on coffee and cigarettes.  Charming, sly, humorous, she deals like Eliot's Madame Sosostris "a wicked pack of cards."  The reader must pick up his hand and play it with intelligence and perception, and if he does will find her writing among the most rewarding ever produced in this country.  With The Double Hook she indubitably takes her place in the forefront of Canadian literature.

Here is an article about the publication history of The Double Hook; Sheila Watson's bibliography; and a fascinating glimpse at a contemporary review here.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

My Dad at the cottage

In memory of my dad who would have been 73 today, and who loved the poetry of Robert W. Service, I found a LibriVox recording of a poem I remember him reciting when I was a girl:

The Shooting of Dan McGrew by Robert W. Service (read by Glen Hallstrom)

The Shooting of Dan McGrew

A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon;
The kid that handles the music-box was hitting a jag-time tune;
Back of the bar, in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,
And watching his luck was his light-o'-love, the lady that's known as Lou.

When out of the night, which was fifty below, and into the din and the glare,
There stumbled a miner fresh from the creeks, dog-dirty, and loaded for bear.
He looked like a man with a foot in the grave and scarcely the strength of a louse,
Yet he tilted a poke of dust on the bar, and he called for drinks for the house.
There was none could place the stranger's face, though we searched ourselves for a clue;
But we drank his health, and the last to drink was Dangerous Dan McGrew.

There's men that somehow just grip your eyes, and hold them hard like a spell;
And such was he, and he looked to me like a man who had lived in hell;
With a face most hair, and the dreary stare of a dog whose day is done,
As he watered the green stuff in his glass, and the drops fell one by one.
Then I got to figgering who he was, and wondering what he'd do,
And I turned my head — and there watching him was the lady that's known as Lou.

His eyes went rubbering round the room, and he seemed in a kind of daze,
Till at last that old piano fell in the way of his wandering gaze.
The rag-time kid was having a drink; there was no one else on the stool,
So the stranger stumbles across the room, and flops down there like a fool.
In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway;
Then he clutched the keys with his talon hands — my God! but that man could play.

Were you ever out in the Great Alone, when the moon was awful clear,
And the icy mountains hemmed you in with a silence you most could hear;
With only the howl of a timber wolf, and you camped there in the cold,
A half-dead thing in a stark, dead world, clean mad for the muck called gold;
While high overhead, green, yellow and red, the North Lights swept in bars? —
Then you've a hunch what the music meant. . . hunger and night and the stars.

And hunger not of the belly kind, that's banished with bacon and beans,
But the gnawing hunger of lonely men for a home and all that it means;
For a fireside far from the cares that are, four walls and a roof above;
But oh! so cramful of cosy joy, and crowned with a woman's love —
A woman dearer than all the world, and true as Heaven is true —
(God! how ghastly she looks through her rouge, — the lady that's known as Lou).

Then on a sudden the music changed, so soft that you scarce could hear;
But you felt that your life had been looted clean of all that it once held dear;
That someone had stolen the woman you loved; that her love was a devil's lie;
That your guts were gone, and the best for you was to crawl away and die.
'Twas the crowning cry of a heart's despair, and it thrilled you through and through —
"I guess I'll make it a spread misere", said Dangerous Dan McGrew.

The music almost died away. . .then it burst like a pent-up flood;
And it seemed to say, "Repay, repay", and my eyes were blind with blood.
The thought came back of an ancient wrong, and it stung like a frozen lash,
And the lust awoke to kill, to kill. . . then the music stopped with a crash,
And the stranger turned, and his eyes they burned in a most peculiar way;
In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway;
Then his lips went in in a kind of grin, and he spoke, and his voice was calm,
And "Boys," says he, "you don't know me, and none of you care a damn;
But I want to state, and my words are straight, and I'll bet my poke they're true,
That one of you is a hound of hell. . .and that one is Dan McGrew."

Then I ducked my head, and the lights went out, and two guns blazed in the dark,
And a woman screamed, and the lights went up, and two men lay stiff and stark.
Pitched on his head, and pumped full of lead, was Dangerous Dan McGrew,
While the man from the creeks lay clutched to the breast of the lady that's known as Lou.

These are the simple facts of the case, and I guess I ought to know.
They say the stranger was crazed with "hooch", and I'm not denying it's so.
I'm not so wise as the lawyer guys, but strictly between us two —
The woman that kissed him and — pinched his poke — was the lady that's known as Lou.

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

Happy 200th Birthday, Pride and Prejudice!  First published in January of 1813, and still just as relevant as ever, minus a frilled bonnet or two.

The first time I read Pride and Prejudice was the March Break when I was 15 and Lisa and I went to spend a few days with Carmen in Cornwall where she had started her first job as a speech therapist after graduation.  I think I had read Emma the year before, and although I enjoyed the story, did NOT like Emma herself.  She reminded me a little too much of a pretentious girl I knew and I'm afraid Emma's good qualities were overlooked as I melded the two in my mind.  Emma has never been a favourite, and I suspect that early association is the cause.

Elizabeth Bennet is something else, however.  Never had I read a book about a character so quick-witted and playful, so adaptable and socially at ease that inspired me to better myself.  Elizabeth Bennet was everything I wanted to be and felt I was not.  She was my mentor and my guiding light, my model for unattainable ideal of womanhood for which to strive.  If only I could think of such snappy come-backs, and craft my speech in such a polished and elevated manner!

Melodramatic?  Why yes!  I was 15.

But there remains an aspect of my own desire for self-improvement to Pride and Prejudice that for me is so often a part of characters I love.  If only I had the patience of Margaret Hale in North and South, or the self-assurance in her own quirkiness of Muriel Pritchett in The Accidental Tourist, or the bravery and selflessness of Nancy in Oliver Twist.  Self-improvement is not the only reason I loved books then, or now, but especially in the years between childhood and young adulthood these models of womanhood were something to hold on to.

Of course, Mr. Darcy was also a big draw.  While Elizabeth learns not to jump to conclusions about new acquaintances quite so quickly, it is Mr. Darcy's transformation that fascinates me the most.  He learns through his interactions with Elizabeth how to overcome his extreme shyness and more honestly reflect through his physical actions what he is feeling and thinking.  Shyness can often be interpreted as arrogance when we first meet an unfamiliar person; reticence in groups, holding oneself apart, social anxiety are all traits that Darcy exhibits when he is first introduced into the society surrounding Netherfield.   Mr. Darcy overcompensates for his discomfort with emotional distance and erects his personal shield which is universally interpreted as arrogance.

Not to say he isn't rude... but I think that after his initial snub of Elizabeth Bennet, Mr. Darcy has an opportunity to see more of her and regrets his rash words to Mr. Bingley.  He is drawn to her (just as we all are!) because of her social ease, her playfulness, her lively nature and her beauty.  He hovers on the edge of conversations, anxious to take part but not able to overcome his reticence enough to step outside his comfort zone.  It is the Bingley sisters who are the real snobs in the Netherfield crowd yet when they are being their most cruelly snobbish, Darcy does not join in with their favourite hobby of Bennet-bashing.

For Elizabeth and all of the members of the neighbourhood, Darcy's every behaviour is seen through the lens of that first impression regardless of his true intentions.  When Mrs. Bennet is visiting Netherfield to check on the ailing Jane, Mr Darcy, in conversation with Elizabeth is misunderstood by Mrs. Bennet:

     "I did not know before," continued Bingley immediately, "that you were a studier of character.  It must be an amusing study."
     "Yes; but intricate characters are the most amusing.  They have at least that advantage."
     "The country," said Darcy, "can in general supply but few subjects for such a study.  In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and unvarying society."
     "But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be observed in them for ever."
     "Yes, indeed," cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning a country neighbourhood.  "I assure you there is quite as much of that going on in the country as in town."
     Every body was surprised; and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment, turned silently away.
     [...] "Indeed, Mamma, you are mistaken," said Elizabeth, blushing for her mother.  "You quite mistook Mr. Darcy.  He only meant that there were not such a variety of people to be met with in the country as in town, which you must acknowledge to be true."

Actors playing Mr. Darcy always seem to make this a moment where he is being intentionally unpleasant regarding the deficiencies of the country lifestyle, and snobbishly turn away from Mrs. Bennet as an unworthy conversation partner.  I've always felt sorry for Mr. Darcy here, and feel that he is merely attempting to join the conversation by acknowledging a simple fact, only to be misinterpreted by the defensive Mrs. Bennet.  The "after looking at her for a moment, [he] turned silently away" breaks my heart a little, for I think he turns away not out of pomposity, but of utter embarrassment.

Of course, Elizabeth does not always give Mr. Darcy the benefit of the doubt either, and is just as quick to take offence when none is intended when she perceives that her own pride is at stake.  During one of the evenings of Jane's illness Elizabeth immediately assumes the worst of Mr. Darcy's motivations:

     After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the charm by a lively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy, drawing near Elizabeth, said to her -
     "Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an opportunity of dancing a reel?"
     She smiled, but made no answer.  He repeated the question, with some surprise at her silence.
     "Oh!" said she, "I heard you before; but I could not immediately determine what to say in reply.  You wanted me, I know, to say 'Yes,' that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and cheating a person of their premeditated contempt.  I have therefore made up my mind to tell you, that I do not want to dance a reel at all - and now despise me if you dare."
     "Indeed I do not dare."

Poor Mr. Darcy.  Shot down!  During those evenings at Netherfield while he is circling around Elizabeth at a safely discreet distance, he makes little forays of interaction by trying to include her in conversations, by paying subtle compliments ("and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading") but she only sees these in the light with which she first viewed him.

But Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet are not the only people who misinterpret Mr. Darcy's shyness for arrogance.  It is generally stated a number of times that he was generally thought to be a proud and disdainful young man by the general population of Hertfordshire.  His stand-offish manners are compared to the easy amiability of Mr. Bingley and he falls short.  Because the general population is in awe of him because of his status as rich and powerful, they are disappointed that he does not take pains to put them at ease in his presence.  This is too much to expect from such a painfully shy man, rich or not!  With the responsibility of making acquaintances and conversation all on his side, poor Mrs. Long, and everyone else, felt snubbed when he did not "chatter on" to set her at ease.  But, with the introduction of Miss Georgiana Darcy, about whom much the same opinion is held amongst the locals around Pemberley, we are given a clue as to how to read her brother's character.

Miss Darcy and her brother appeared, and this formidable introduction took place.  With astonishment did Elizabeth see, that her new acquaintance was at least as much embarrassed as herself.  Since her being at Lambton, she had heard that Miss Darcy was exceedingly proud; but the observation of a very few minutes convinced her, that she was only exceedingly shy.  She found it difficult to obtain even a word from her beyond a monosyllable.

But Mr. Darcy begins to find his voice half way through the novel when, Elizabeth Bennet plays the piano at Rosings Park and he is able to respond to her more than a few words at a time.

     When coffee was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded Elizabeth of having promised to play to him; and she sat down directly to the instrument.  He drew a chair near her.  Lady Catherine listened to half a song, and then talked, as before, to her other nephew; till the latter walked away from her, and moving with his usual deliberation towards the piano-forte, stationed himself so as to command a full view of the fair performer's countenance.  Elizabeth saw what he was doing, and at the first convenient pause, turned to him with an arch smile, and said,
     "You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear me?  But I will not be alarmed though your sister does play so well.  There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others.  My courage always rises with every attempt to intimidate me."
     "I shall not say that you are mistaken," he replied, "because you could not really believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; and I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know, that you find great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact are not your own."

Luckily for our reading enjoyment, Elizabeth Bennet becomes a little more reticent like Mr. Darcy, and Mr. Darcy in his turn gains some of Elizabeth Bennet's liveliness through their interaction and continued acquaintanceship.  Like all the best marriages, they begin to understand each others true nature and motivations and value them.  The real wonder is that after such a disastrous first impression they have enough opportunity in such a society to finally work out their misunderstandings and appreciate each other fully.

Although the main obstacle Mr. Darcy is trying to overlook when he initially falls in love with Elizabeth Bennet is the behaviour of her family, he is given time as a result of her rejection to examine the behaviour of his own friends and family a little more closely.  He blushes when he thinks of how Lady Catherine's arrogance and bossiness must be interpreted by Elizabeth.  While Elizabeth is eventually able to recognize the truth of his intentions in retrospect by her own self-examination, Mr. Darcy is able to see what part of the misunderstandings have been a result of his own behaviour.  Because they are both willing to adapt and adjust to their new perceptions they come together in harmony at last.



{Update: It appears this topic is in the ether for there is quite a conversation raging over at Simon's blog post "Rethinking Darcy" on this very topic!  Check it out!  And also have a look at the list of Mr. Darcy links on Claire's blog post "In Lieu of a Review" which led me to Simon's in the first place.}

Generals Die in Bed by Charles Yale Harrison

First published in 1930, Generals Die in Bed by Charles Yale Harrison is a powerful and harrowing anti-war novel based on Harrison's own experiences serving as a machine gunner in France and Belgium with the Royal Montreal Regiment in the First World War.  Narrated in the first person, present tense (a tricky one to get right!) by an unnamed young Canadian soldier who, by the time he is wounded at Amiens, is the sole surviving member of his section, General Die in Bed is a story that will stick with you long after you put the book down.

In the introduction of my edition (the one pictured above), Robert F. Nielson quotes the English novelist Ford Madox Ford: 

I think this is a hell of a good book.  It is a plain unvarnished account of things without any literary frills - it ought to be a good antidote for all the gush of ain't-it-awful literature which romanticizes war in a subtle sort of way.  Generals Die in Bed has a sort of flat-footed straightness about it that gets down the torture of the front line about as accurately as one can ever get it, I think.

That "flat-footed straightness" is reminiscent of Ernest Hemingway's writing style with it's short sentences and lack of emotion.  For example:

We are filthy, our bodies are the colour of the earth we have been living in these past months.  We are alive with vermin and sit picking at ourselves like baboons.  It is months since we have been out of our clothes.  We begin to talk of the last time we slept between sheets.  A flood of reminiscences begins. (39)

and, 

     I stumble along the trench looking for my section.  It is quite dark, there are no lights in the sky.  No moon, no stars.

      I reach the front line.  I recognize faces.  My name is called.  It is Fry.  He grasps my hand and shakes it heartily.  His face is serious.

      "You did fine, I hear," he says.  "They're all talking about it.  You're going to get he M.M."
      "Where's Cleary?" I ask.
      "He got it," Fry replies.
      "Where? How?" I ask.
      "Right over here."  He points a finger.  "As soon as the barrage started they sent over a couple of heavies.  A hunk of shell caved his helmet in.  He's down at the M.O.'s dugout."
      I dash off down the trench.  I begin to cry.  Tears stream down my face.
      It begins to rain.
      The drops fall on my tin helmet, making a ping-pong noise.  The water splashes my face.  It trickles down the gaping collar of my tunic. (126-127)

Events that are too horrifying to contemplate are related in this factual manner, which offers the appearance of them being less horrifying than they really are, and replicates the coping mechanisms used by the soldier.  Yet, at the same time, this emotional detachment increases the horror we, the readers, feel at the brutalizing effects of the trench conditions, and the effects of warfare on the soldiers.  Harrison repeatedly uses imagery to reveal through contrast or irony such as the rain concealing his tears, and gently pinging his helmet in contrast to what has just happened to Cleary's helmet.

Harrison explores many themes in his short novel.  The soldiers experience animorphism as they burrow into the sides of trenches for protection from the rain of shrapnel, and as they wolf their rations and scramble for the food of the recently deceased.  The demeaning effects of living with the dirt and vermin is detailed in this factual manner.  The most anti-war aspect of the novel is the repudiation of the propaganda that this was a "gentleman's war."  The uninformed and brutalized foot soldiers were not fighting the same enemy as the public at home.  At home, the newspapers were casting the Germans in the roll of the enemy, but for the soldiers in the trenches it was a different focus altogether:

     We have learned who our enemies are - the lice, some of our officers and Death.  Of the first two we speak continually, the last we rarely refer to.
     Strangely, we never refer to the Germans as our enemy.  In the week-old newspaper which comes up from the base we read of the enemy and the Hun, but this is newspaper talk and we place no stock in it.  Instead we call him Heinie and Fritz.  The nearest we get to unfriendliness is when we call him "square-head."  But our persistent and ever-present foe is the louse.

But this blase attitude toward the enemy does not stop them from the terrible acts they were forced to commit against the boys in the other trench just as innocent and pathetic as themselves.  The real enemy are the voices that propagate the need for war, such as businessmen who are getting rich from the manufacture of wartime necessities.

When the narrator is granted a ten-day leave in London he indulges in all the commonplace activities about which he has fantasized whilst in the trenches.  He sleeps between clean sheets, fills his belly with food and drink, and visits the entertainment halls with a girl named Gladys.  He is appalled by the comedy routines in the music halls:

     I buy the tickets for the theatre.  Inside the performance has started.
     On the stage a vulgar-faced comic is prancing up and down the apron of the stage singing.  Behind him about fifty girls dressed in gauzy khaki stage uniforms, who look like lewd female Tommies, dance to the tune of the music.  Their breasts bob up and down as they dance and sing:

Oh, it's a lovely war.
What do we care for eggs and ham
When we have plum and apple jam?
Quick march, right turn.
What do we do with the money we earn?
Oh, oh, oh, it's a lovely war.

     The tempo is quick, the orchestra crashes, the trombones slide, the comic pulls impossible faces.
     The audience shrieks with laughter.  Gladys laughs until tears roll down her face.
     The chorus marches into the wings.  A Union Jack comes down at the back of the stage.  The audience applauds and cheers.
     I feel miserable.
     The fat comic - the half undressed actresses - somehow make me think of the line.  I look about me.  There are very few men on leave in the theater.  The place is full of smooth-faced civilians.  I feel they have no right to laugh at jokes about the war.
     I hear Gladys' voice.
     "Don't you like it, boy?"
     "No, these people have no right to laugh."
     "But, silly, they are trying to forget."
     "They have no business to forget.  They should be made to remember."
     [...] I cannot formulate my hatred of these people.  My head is fuzzy but I feel that people should not be sitting laughing at jokes about plum and apple jam when boys are dying out in France.  They sit here in stiff shirts, their faces and jowls are smooth with daily shaving and dainty cosmetics, their bellies are full, and out there were are being eaten by lice, we are sitting trembling in shivering dugouts...

The narrator expresses more outrage at the behaviour of the Londoner's in the music hall than he ever does at the Germans he is fighting.

I highly recommend this novel!  Anyone who enjoys novels about the First World War, or books written with a sparse, reportorial style similar to Ernest Hemingway's will find Generals Die in Bed a stunning achievement.  The imagery will stay with you long after you put the book down.  This moving anti-war novel is most impressive when he allows us to experience the real trauma and sacrifice as well as sharing the narrator's realization of the futility to all the suffering.  The truth of his perspective lies in the authenticity of his words.  He is not there to prove or disprove any philosophical arguments about war - he records his experiences and allows the reader to draw his/her own conclusions.


Recommended Reading:

All Our Yesterdays by H. M. Tomlinson
God's Sparrows by Philip Child
Her Privates We by Frederick Manning
A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway
All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque
Goodbye to All That by Robert Graves
Memoirs of an Infantry Officer by Siegfried Sassoon