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English literature

ImoReads… ‘Small Pleasures’ (2020) by Clare Chambers

Blog Nº 58

“A lifetime of quiet watchfulness had convinced her that the truth about people was seldom to be found in the things they freely admitted. There was always more below the surface than above.”

My mum bought me this book for Christmas after reading it herself – compelled to recommend it to several others as well as myself, I knew I was in for a good read. I found Small Pleasures to be quietly humorous as well as gut-wrenchingly sad, and thought it revealed interesting insights into everyday life in the 1950s.

The novel focuses on Jean Swinney. Approaching 40, her hopes of achieving fulfilment in life are swiftly fading. Her time is taken up with the mundane routine of everyday life – namely caring for her live-in suffocatingly dependent mother and working at the local paper on content mostly related to housekeeping. With no social, romantic or family life to speak of, Jean takes her relief from her repetitive suburban existence in small pleasures – the first cigarette of the day, a glass of sherry before Sunday lunch.

Everything changes when Jean gets a new assignment; an investigative piece on a local woman (Gretchen Tilbury) who claims to have given birth to her now ten-year-old daughter Margaret without any involvement from a man. Jean conscientiously tries to substantiate Gretchen’s story by delving into her past and having medical tests done on both mother and daughter, all the while becoming closer to Gretchen, Margaret and Gretchen’s husband Howard.

Something that struck me about this novel is that the life Jean is living is one that many people probably found themselves stuck in during the post-war period. To the twenty-first century reader, the food eaten by Jean and her mother is lamentable. Livers and hearts and things in tins that really shouldn’t be. When paired with their rather drab furnishings & clothing attire, lack of treats and unwillingness to spend any money on anything, you do get a real sense of that continuing aftereffect of the war. 

It is why you become very easily invested in the unexpected romance which blossoms between Jean and Howard as it brings both of them a new lease of life. While his marriage to Gretchen is more of a companionship anyway, you feel very pleased that these two unprepossessing individuals have found love in each other when they both previously felt that all hope was lost in that regard. As Jean becomes more and more intwined with the Tilburys – becoming friends with Gretchen, falling in love with Howard, becoming very fond of Margaret – her investigation into the so-called putative birth becomes complex and arguably, somewhat morally compromised.

Small Pleasures is a real page-turner; the plot line of the virgin birth investigation aligns seamlessly with that of Jean and Howard, both of which reach a particularly anguishing conclusion. I would highly recommend this novel – you will find yourself getting sucked in immediately and thinking about it for days afterwards.

Happy reading,

Imo x

Categories
Australian Literature World literature

ImoReads… ‘The Thorn Birds’ (1977) By Colleen McCullough

Blog Nº 43

“When we press the thorn to our chest we know, we understand, and still we do it.”

I was so glad to be able to read The Thorn Birds for a second time for the blog. It is one of those novels that stays with you a long time after you finish reading it. Australia’s best-selling novel to date, this epic story spanning five decades is a tale of family, hard work and relationships set against the intoxicating backdrop of the beautiful but unforgiving New South Wales.

The central character of The Thorn Birds is Meggie Cleary, though several characters get their own sections. We begin in 1915 on Meggie’s 4th birthday. The Clearys – parents Paddy and Fee and their children Bob, Jack, Hughie, Stu, Meggie and Frank (Fee’s son from a previous relationship) – are a poor but hard-working family living in New Zealand. In 1921, Paddy’s wealthy sister Mary Carson offers Paddy a job on her huge sheep farming station in New South Wales, Australia. Drogheda, after its namesake in Ireland, is where most of the novel takes place.

It is here that we meet the ambitious young priest, Father Ralph de Bricassart, who is described as a ‘beautiful man’. He is a frequent visitor to Mary Carson in the hope that a large financial bequest from her will see him rise up in the Catholic Church and freed from the remote parish of Gillanbone, not far from Drogheda. He immediately develops a fondness for Meggie, and their complex relationship over the years is central to the novel.

Across the fifty-year span of The Thorn Birds the Clearys encounter birth, death, marriage, heartbreak, separation and the untamed might of the Australian wilderness in this truly absorbing novel.

A standout feature of The Thorn Birds for me are the descriptions of the Australian landscape. Whether it’s tumbling hibiscus and Bougainvillea, ghost gum and bottle trees standing tall or the endlessly sprawling paddocks of Drogheda, it is hard not to be mesmerised by such a rich environment. It also becomes very apparent how much humans are at the mercy of nature. Across the novel we see how drought and heat can cripple a community, while intense torrents of rain can be relentless all wet season. During one tragic moment, one strike of lightning engulfs much of Drogheda in a blazing fire, causing loss and heartache for all the Clearys. The environmental aspect of the novel emphasises that though it is beautiful, the kind of life led by the Clearys is neither gentle nor easy.

The novel’s central storyline is the relationship between Meggie and Ralph. When they meet, Meggie is nine years old and Ralph is twenty-seven. There is an immediate chemistry between them; Meggie is instantly enchanted by Ralph, while Ralph becomes extremely infatuated with and protective of her. As Meggie grows into womanhood, their relationship grows more complex. It is quite clear that Ralph desires a sexual and romantic relationship with Meggie, but his vow of celibacy as a priest forbids him from pursuing this. Meggie has been in love with Ralph in one form or another since her childhood, and this also becomes a romantic and sexual desire in her late teens.

When I first read the novel several years ago, I think I was more taken with the common view that their love story was tragically romantic. Ralph is consistently described as a very handsome, kind man who even for the love of his life will not abandon his vow. For many years Meggie will not give any other man the time of day and has dreamed of only Ralph since her childhood.

However, upon second reading I found the relationship to be much more disturbing. What is abundantly clear to me is that Ralph de Bricassart, an adult for the entire story, manipulates Meggie Cleary from her childhood for an eventual sexual relationship once both are adults. During their first time having sex, Ralph admits to himself that he groomed or “molded” Meggie all along, albeit unconsciously. 

“Truly she was made for him, for he had made her; for sixteen years he had shaped and molded her without knowing that he did, let alone why he did. And he forgot that he had ever given her away, that another man had shown her the end of what he had begun for himself, had always intended for himself, for she was his downfall, his rose; his creation.”

Father Ralph de Bricassart

The Thorn Birds was written in the 1970s and the focus is on a romanticised struggle between Ralph’s duty to the church and his feelings towards Meggie as a mere mortal man. The repeated emphasis on Ralph’s handsomeness and his rise up the church portrays him as being alluring and forbidden – it is playing into the trope of priests being fetishized due to their celibacy. Meggie’s lifelong love and pursuance of Ralph could also be seen as enduringly romantic and something to root for.

However, through the modern lens it is difficult to see it this way, particularly given the numerous stories that have been unearthed about sexual abuse within the Catholic church. The idea of fetishising a priest these days would therefore be wholly unusual. The large age gap also raises concerns for the modern reader. Meggie’s entire misguided idea of what love is, is based on Ralph. From girlish daydreams to repeated attempts to get him to break his vow. Ralph does not instil appropriate boundaries with her when she is an impressionable child; he is overbearingly affectionate, protective and it is something that would not be acceptable in today’s society.

Despite this, The Thorn Birds remains a captivating and emotionally charged novel, with every character gaining the reader’s sympathy, pity and disdain at various points throughout the story. I would absolutely recommend this novel – it is an unputdownable epic novel.

Happy reading,

Imo x

Categories
English literature

ImoReads… ‘A Handful of Dust’ (1934) by Evelyn Waugh

Blog Nº 11

“A wonderfully congenial group who live by a unique set of social standards. According to their rules, any sin is acceptable provided it is carried off in good taste.” 

A Handful of Dust is the first book I have read by Evelyn Waugh, and it definitely won’t be the last. This novel is a bitingly funny snapshot of the perceived shallow and reckless nature of society circles in 1930s England. Waugh was a perceptive writer who often used experiences of those he met to humorous effect, so after reading this novel I can only wonder at the sort of people that he must have come across day to day. Lingering elements of Edwardian customs and norms are clear throughout, and it is always a joy to experience the eloquence of 1930s middle-class language.

The story focuses on Tony Last and his wife Lady Brenda, who reside in Tony’s pride and joy, the gothic monstrosity that is Hetton Abbey, out in the countryside. They have a young son named John Andrew. So wrapped up in living the life of a country Squire, Tony is oblivious to his wife’s boredom, so much so that he happily lets her “mug him off” by carrying on with an exceedingly shallow, dull young socialite named John Beaver in London – an aimless affair that everyone seems to know about except Tony. From here on out we witness the slow disintegration of their marriage, which reveals the superficial nature of all their friends, their wants, their attitudes and society in general.

This may sound somewhat depressing, but Waugh has interweaved subtle and not-so-subtle elements of wry, cynical humour throughout the text and this creates a satisfying level of dramatic irony for the reader. That is, we can see how shallow everything and everyone is, but the characters themselves are completely oblivious to their own superficiality. 

One example of Waugh’s humour is the names of certain characters. For example, one of Brenda’s friends is modestly named ‘Lady Cockpurse’. This makes the following exchange between Tony and his son John Andrew distinctly more amusing:

“Daddy, what does Lady Cockpurse eat?”

“Oh, nuts and things”

“Nuts and what things?”

“Oh, different kinds of nuts.”

I think Waugh has bestowed Tony and Brenda with the surname Last as they both end up rather unfortunate (finishing last if you will) by the end of the novel. Although Tony was perhaps not the most attentive husband, I found him to be a pretty harmless character. Brenda on the other hand I found to be extremely shallow, cruel and careless. However, when their son dies in a riding accident and both of them are fundamentally indifferent, their true apathetic, insincere natures are exposed.

Perhaps as karma for this, Waugh is not kind to either of them in the end. Although it is Brenda who brings down their marriage through infidelity, she is still ballsy enough to ask for an extortionate allowance per year from Tony as a condition of divorce. It is therefore extremely satisfying when he refuses her this privilege. Unsurprisingly, John Beaver loses interest in marrying or even having anything to do with Brenda when the prospect of wealth dries out, so he swans off to America leaving Brenda somewhat destitute and reliant on the “benevolent nature” of her circle of friends.

Tony on the other hand sets out on an ill-fated exploration mission to Brazil with the incompetent Dr Messinger. Abandoned by their guides in the middle of the rainforest, Tony falls ill and Dr Messinger comes to an untimely end at the hands of a waterfall. Waugh gives us some hope for Tony when he is found and nursed back to health by British Guianan gone rogue Mr Todd, but the atmosphere quickly becomes menacing when Tony is not allowed to leave and is condemned to read the complete collection of Dickens to the illiterate Mr Todd indefinitely. Presumed dead, Hetton is handed over to Tony’s cousins (known as the ‘impoverished Lasts’), and Brenda marries Tony’s friend Jock Grant-Menzies.

I am dissatisfied with this ending as I think Brenda should have received a worse fate than Tony, however I think it demonstrates Waugh’s move from bitter humour to disillusioned realism after the death of John Andrew. As Waugh muses himself in his letters, the theme of A Handful of Dust is a Gothic man in the hands of savages – first Brenda and the others in society, and then the real ones out in Brazil. Therefore, this is the only way the novel could have ended to see this theme through. 

This novel is absolutely worth the read for the level of sheer disbelief you will feel when experiencing the indifference and superficiality of Waugh’s characters, as well as for its sardonic humour. One thing that’s certain is that you will come away feeling thankful that you are not Brenda or Tony Last.

Happy reading,

Imo x

Categories
English literature French Literature nineteenth century

ImoReads… ‘Around the World in Eighty Days’ (1873) by Jules Verne

Blog Nº 10

“Everybody knows that England is the world of betting men, who are of a higher class than mere gamblers; to bet is in the English temperament”

Hooray, I’m back in the rollicking world of Victorian adventure thanks to Jules Verne’s Around the World in Eighty Days (1873). My parents bought me a lovely edition for Christmas and it took me all of a week to devour it and see if it was in fact possible to pull off such a feat. 

Of course, this book was originally written in French (and perhaps I should have read it comme ça) but I thought the English translation worked really well, in part because London is the home setting and the main character is an English gentleman, Phileas Fogg. 

Whose idea was it to take on this crazy trip I hear you cry, which brings me to the premise of the story. Our protagonist Mr Fogg has just taken on a new servant, a Frenchman named Passepartout (meaning ‘goes everywhere’ – oh the irony) who is looking for a quiet, easy life with little to do after a career in the circus. Luckily for Passepartout Mr Fogg is a very meticulous gentleman who schedules every minute of his life to a T, going nowhere else but between his house on Savile Row and the Reform Club. He takes lunch and dinner at the club and spends an awful lot of time playing a card game called Whist. This creature of habit is not someone you would suspect of undertaking a journey so foreign and full of unforeseen risk. 

And yet, it transpires that after a conversation with some fellow club members, Mr Fogg has calmly bet £20,000 (half of all the money to his name no less!) that he can indeed travel around the world in 80 days, starting from that very moment. Much to the glee of the gentlemen and the dismay of Passepartout, the adventure had begun.

What follows is a rich and exciting journey around the world using every mode of transport available – including an elephant and a sledge. The nineteenth-century world, particularly the British or ex-British colonies is of particular historical interest to me, so I especially enjoyed being able to traverse through the likes of India, Singapore and America with the characters. Not that Mr Fogg shows any interest in anywhere for the duration of the trip, much to the astonishment of Passepartout and me the reader, however this does add a consistent element of humour to the novel. Indeed, this imperturbably cool-headed gentleman is quite remarkable, and his inexplicably calm nature comes in very useful in the many crises faced en route. He is the antidote to the chaos of Passepartout, who always seems to be getting himself into scrapes.

Towards the end of the voyage, Mr Fogg has got himself quite the motley crew of fellow travellers who have become as invested in this bet as if it were their own, including the conniving police inspector Mr Fix. Together they face a multitude of exciting incidents and mishaps, not least fighting off an attack by a tribe of Sioux native Americans in the middle of a train journey.

Verne’s novel is not only thrilling but witty. Even in English, all his wry comments on the nature of colonialism, stock markets, and Mr Fogg himself for example make for a drily amusing and engaging read alongside all the adventure.

The question now on your mind is probably – but did Mr Fogg and the gang manage to do it? That one I will leave up to you to find out in what is quite frankly a nail-biting and unexpected ending.

Bon voyage and happy reading,

Imo x

Categories
English literature nineteenth century

ImoReads… ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ (1890) by Oscar Wilde

Blog Nº 9

“The horror, whatever it was, had not yet entirely spoiled that marvellous beauty”

There is and always will be a soft spot in my heart for Oscar Wilde, certainly one of the most provocative literary figures of the nineteenth century. After going to a production of the brilliantThe Importance of Being Earnest (blog coming soon) with my mum some years ago, I became infatuated and have since read all his short stories, plays, essays and this, his only novel. He was even the subject of my 5000-word Extended Project Qualification (EPQ) undertaken alongside my A-Levels, in which I tasked myself with the question, ‘to what extent was the Victorian press responsible for Oscar Wilde’s celebrity?’ Research for this took me to the National Archives, where I felt privileged to read his handwritten letters from his time in prison. Humbly then, I consider myself to be the epitome of the Wildean ‘fangirl’ if such a thing exists. 

As part of my EPQ I examined the blatant homoeroticism running through The Picture of Dorian Gray, as it was used as evidence against Wilde in his sensationalised trial for ‘gross indecency with other men’ in 1895, a proceeding which certainly elevated his celebrity. Therefore, I am going to use this blog to discuss other key themes in the text such as Gothicism and aestheticism.

This novel is an ill-fated tale of moral decline and philosophic instruction for our unfortunate protagonist, the young aristocrat Dorian Gray. Basil Hallward, Dorian’s close friend and a professional artist, paints a portrait of Dorian because he is completely infatuated by his youth and extraordinary beauty. At first Dorian is delighted with the painting; it only dawns on him that his beauty – so perfectly preserved on the canvas – will fade with age after Basil’s amoral friend, Lord Henry Wotton, informs him of the fact. So enamoured with his own radiant portrait, Dorian exchanges his soul for eternal youth and beauty in an exquisitely Faustian twist. As a result, he is drawn into a corrupt and sinful double life, indulging unspeakable desires in secret while maintaining a gentlemanly façade to polite society. Only the painting bears evidence of his decadence while he himself retains his youthful innocence and beauty.

The lurking presence of the painting that becomes harder and harder for Dorian to ignore is one of my favourite gothic elements in the novel. The physical embodiment of his deal with the devil, the painting becomes more and more hideous each time Dorian does something terrible; as well as ageing repulsively, there is a chilling cruelty in the eyes and mouth of the painted Dorian that grows increasingly and unnervingly noticeable as the novel progresses. Locked away in a dark dusty room high up in the house, the strange horror of the painting is alike to a nightmare you can’t quite shake off. 

And yet, Dorian is not too concerned with the degradation of the painting at first. He is too busy engaging in debauched delights; think opium dens and licentious behaviour in the darkest corners of London.

It is only when his manner and behaviour become too cruel for him to ignore – because indeed the soul can decay in more ways than one – that the painting and what he has done begins to weigh down upon him. In this way, the painting is a motif for an inverted magic mirror. It allows him to live for hedonistic pleasure for a time, but always reflects the ugly truth of his crimes back to him no matter how much he wishes it not to.

I find this very interesting in the context of Wilde’s ‘art for art’s sake’ aesthetic philosophy. Scathingly received by critics at the time for its homoeroticism and allusions to sins that were surely offensive to stiff Victorian moralities, Wilde fiercely defended The Picture of Dorian Gray. In a now infamous aphoristic preface to the non-censored 1891 edition, Wilde vigorously defends art for art’s sake. It is ironic that, although he was referring to the art of his writing, the idea of art for art’s sake is completely vilified in this story. That is, it turns out that the ‘work of art’ that is Dorian should have stayed on the canvas. His pursuit of eternal youth and beauty is his ruination, and it hurts many characters along the way. Wilde’s moral lesson here is that being good trumps looking good; a virtuous soul brings more happiness than beauty, which should only ever be ephemeral.

Dark though this tale is, I must laud its moments of comic relief, provided by Lord Henry ‘Harry’ Wotton. You cannot help but like this gentlemanly rogue despite his amorality due to the Wildean wit bestowed upon him. Many of Wilde’s most famous epigrams come from The Picture of Dorian Gray. An epigram is a phrase that expresses an idea in an interesting, clever, and surprisingly satirical way. Wilde always says the exact opposite of what you are expecting him to say. For example, Harry is of the opinion that ‘it is only shallow people who do not care about appearances’ which is decidedly not how that phrase is usually said. Wilde’s epigrams also turn out to be well-observed and pretty much true, such as in another golden example from Harry; ‘“It is perfectly monstrous”, he said, at last, “the way people go about nowadays saying things against one behind one’s back that are absolutely and entirely true”’. Harry’s enduring friendship with Dorian means that fortunately, readers are exposed to many a memorable epigram over the thirteen chapters.

So then, The Picture of Dorian Gray is a must-read Victorian novel, not only for its thought-provoking themes and intelligent narrative, but for its distinctly Wildean touch. An interesting question to ask yourself when reading it is, who is really to blame for the outcome of the novel? Is it Basil for painting the picture? Is it Harry for targeting Dorian with his bad influence and amoral philosophies? Or is it Dorian himself for enacting his fateful deal? It’s a moral conundrum but I’ll leave that for you to decide…

Happy reading,

Imo x

Categories
Australian Literature World literature

ImoReads… ‘The Secret River’ (2005) by Kate Grenville

Blog Nº 8

“Ain’t nothing in this world just for the taking… A man got to pay a fair price for taking… Matter of give a little, take a little” – Thomas Blackwood

As a British colonial history enthusiast, I found The Secret River deeply thought-provoking in its portrayal of the settlement of Australia by British convicts sentenced to transportation in the nineteenth century. I actually read this novel about a year ago, but I recently went to see the critically acclaimed Sydney Theatre Company’s stage adaptation of it at the National Theatre. Unlike most of the critics, I was left somewhat disappointed by the stage version, so I was inspired to write this blog in the format of ‘novel vs play’ (hence the longer post).

Sadly, the flaws in the play begin in the first scene; astoundingly, it opens with lead character William Thornhill and his family arriving at their secluded 200 acre plot of land up the Hawkesbury River in New South Wales, which he has persuaded his wife Sal that once settled and cultivated, will make them their fortune. I had to do a double take; where indeed was the journey up to this point? Arriving at ‘Thornhill’s Point’ as it comes to be known, is a landmark event in the plot and yet the exclusion of all that comes before completely lessens the impact of this moment. We are missing the whole first section of Grenville’s novel, detailing William’s Dickensian poverty-stricken upbringing in Southwark, London and his constant struggle to rise above his lowly class and status. We miss his marriage to Sal and how an icy winter bars him from working as a boatman, and how this change in fortunes forces him to turn to stealing. He is caught and sentenced to transportation along with Sal, his son Willie, and unborn child.

And then, it is not as if William could simply walk onto a 200 acre plot of land on arrival. He arrives a convict, and over 12 months works tirelessly in the colony until he can buy his freedom. Here we see a crucial change in William’s attitude; he is befriending those above his station, he is mimicking their dress and manners, and most importantly he begins to feel a personal sense of authority and superiority over his peers. The family’s move to Thornhill’s Point is not easy; Sal’s heart is set on returning to London, and agrees only on the basis that they will stay five years maximum to make their fortune before going ‘home’. William agrees, but with his newfound ‘status’ it is clear he has other ideas.

The play erases some very crucial plot and character development points here and this causes a problem for what it chooses to leave in. For example, Sal’s daily tally for how many days they have been there, her constant pining for London and singing of folk songs like ‘The Bells of St Clements’ doesn’t really make sense without the backstory. The play gives William his superior attitude over his peers, but it has not altered his dress, manner or speech from destitute London beggar so it appears confusing and inconsistent, and again nonsensical without the context. 

In the stage version, we are thrown straight into the Thornhills settling their land and the encounters they begin to have with the Aboriginal population. The portrayal of the Aboriginals is something the play should be applauded on. As the novel is told from the perspective of the Thornhills, naturally we are not given much insight into the lives or claims on the land of the Aboriginals. Onstage, we see them living their lives and interacting, lessening the idea of them being the ‘other’ to be feared in the eyes of the audience. The cast playing the Dharug tribal family are Aboriginal performers, and the music and staging was conceived in collaboration with Aboriginal artists, so the play has done well in terms of representation and diversity. Furthermore, the actors playing the Thornhills have ghoulish white paint on their bodies and faces; I thought this was a very effective way of demonstrating how strange and how freakishly white settlers must have looked to Aboriginal peoples, showing that white skin is only ‘normal’ in the eyes of those who have white skin themselves.

The interactions between the Thornhills (plus other white settlers along the river) and the Dharugs are done well; they are sometimes tense, sometimes curious, sometimes funny and always slightly cautious. The prejudice-free childhood friendship between Thornhill’s youngest son Dick and an Aboriginal boy of around the same age is heartwarming to see. This brings me to the other fatal flaw the play has made in terms of adapting the plot. In the novel, following the settlers’ massacre of the Aboriginals (more on this below), Dick cannot forgive his father for his role in this crime. He leaves his family and goes to live upriver with Blackwood, a settler who had already made a life with an Aboriginal woman. He never speaks to his family again and to me this plot point is very effective in showing the stark horror of what the settlers had done, i.e. of what much of colonial settlement was. Of course, in the book the characters age, so Dick is old enough to understand what has happened and make this choice. The actors/characters do not age in the play, which is a shame because the full impact of the massacre in terms of betrayal is not realised. That is, the settlers and Aboriginals were neighbours for years before this assault, whereas in the play their relationship appears much more brief.

However, the massacre itself was staged extremely well. It was emotional, heart-wrenching and almost too difficult to watch. Each Aboriginal was cut down in slow motion, one by one, with the white characters blowing powder from their hands to represent gunshots. Paired with the music and lighting, this was a raw and guilt-tripping depiction of colonial violence. The music and lighting were superb throughout the production in fact, and really helped bring out the setting and emotion of key scenes.

To conclude then, if I were Kate Grenville I’m not sure I would be especially happy with this production. I think her novel is excellent (so I would definitely recommend reading it), and I appreciate what the play tries to do in terms of bringing her moral messages about nineteenth-century colonial activity in Australia to light. But, the careless and almost lazy adaptation of the plot in this production takes away from the progressive steps it takes to do this. It’s an excellent story that needs to be told, but I think in this instance it could have been told much better (sorry, script-writers).

Happy reading,

Imo x

Categories
Antiquity

ImoReads… ‘Circe’ (2018) by Madeline Miller

Blog Nº 7

“Humbling women seems to me a chief pastime of poets. As if there can be no story unless we crawl and creep”

DISCLAIMER: please read my blog on The Odyssey before reading this one 🙂

Alongside Emily Wilson, Madeline Miller is another female author who must be praised for her sensationally modern twist on Homer’s The Odyssey. Her novel centres on the life of nymph and sorceress Circe, who is dealt with in but a few lines in Homer’s work.

From the start, it is clear that despite being a goddess, Circe’s life is not luxurious and languorous. Nymphs are the lowest of the gods and their function is fundamentally to be married off to strengthen the power of their family; ‘in our language, it [nymph] means not just goddess but bride’. She is deemed unattractive, uninspiring and just downright strange by her father Helios and her mother Perse, so they are cruel to her and pretty much completely dismiss her. A dalliance with a mortal fisherman, Glaucos, sets Circe’s story in motion. Her efforts to turn him into a god despite not having the divine powers of her father reveal that she is a witch; she successfully uses pharmaka (sorcery) for the first time to change him. With his newfound powers, Glaucos scorns her without a second glance in favour of beautiful sea nymph Scylla. In a fit of jealousy and hurt, Circe uses pharmaka once more to turn Scylla into a hideous sea monster (that Odysseus will later encounter), and it is for this that she is banished to the island of Aiaia for all eternity. And yet, the story does not end here; this is where it begins. Miller has brought Circe to life as the woman who will not be silenced or caged as Zeus and her father desire.

Sadly, as Homer passes over Odysseus’ encounter with Circe so briefly, there is little even Emily Wilson could do to give her character more depth. In The Odyssey, she is simply an unpredictable, lonely witch who turns all men that come to her island into swine and of course, Odysseus is the one who can seduce her and keep his crew from this fate. Miller has given their relationship the airtime it deserves, as Odysseus stays on Aiaia for months (despite being ‘desperate’ to return home to his wife and son). I enjoyed the fact that in Miller’s modern re-telling, unsurprisingly Odysseus is not the be all and end all of charm and seduction. Circe has several lovers over the course of the novel, and each time it is her choice, and often by her own initiation. Furthermore, we learn that her tradition so to speak of turning men to pigs is a defence mechanism after she was once brutally raped by the captain of a passing crew. In the patriarchal (and dare I say misogynistic) society of Ancient Greece, it is likely that the concept of rape did not exist in the eyes of most men; Circe’s experience starkly demonstrates its everyday occurrence. 

Aside from her relationship with Odysseus, Miller shows us how Circe plays a role in many famed Greek myths, so if you want a round trip of the greats, this book is for you. For example, as a child she was the only one in her father’s court to show kindness to Prometheus during his first round of punishment. When her sister Pasiphae spawns the minotaur, it is down to Circe to create a spell to temper it while Daedalus builds the labyrinth to imprison it in. Indeed, her role in Scylla-gate (which has many versions) led to the creation of one of the most legendary monsters in Greek myth. An invisible player she may sometimes be, but she is undoubtedly a very important one. Bringing her to life as Miller has done as ‘the good witch’ is revolutionary in the sense that it starts eroding the idea that all the greats of Greek myth are male. 

On a technical level, I was extremely impressed by the language of the novel. Evocations of antiquity through Miller’s tone, vocabulary and writing style are faultless; I felt like I was reading a text written in the same year as The Odyssey despite its unwaveringly modern take on Circe’s story. The level of detail and knowledge weaved seamlessly into the story (as if it was created on Daedalus’ loom no less) is a credit to Miller and her research. 

Circe is a story that will dazzle your imagination with the big guns of Greek mythology and the world of the Ancient Greek Empire. This is reason enough to give it a read, but it is Circe herself that will leave the most enduring impression upon you. Her trials and tribulations are somehow both ancient and modern, relatable and godlike, optimistic and harrowing; they undeniably show that yes, she does matter, no, she will not be kept down and that yes, she is more than what she was designated to be by men such as Homer and Ovid.

Happy reading,

Imo x

Categories
French Literature

ImoReads… ‘Maria Chapdelaine’ (1914) by Louis Hémon

Blog Nº 6

“La terre est bonne; mais il faut se battre pour l’avoir”

Upon publication, this novel – although written by a français de France – was hailed as a completely accurate representation of the idyllic rural Quebecois lifestyle centred on religion, family values, and land cultivation, that was supposedly at the heart of the French-Canadian ethos. I must admit, I was not inspired to eschew modernity and take flight for the woods after reading it. This novel is great, but not because of the apparent pastoral paradise it depicts. It is great because of the ominous and quite frankly disturbing presence of the forest, and the fact that actually, the human characters are locked in hopeless struggle with the cruel and vindictive wilderness for the land that leaves readers feeling tense and uneasy.

Maria Chapdelaine tells the story of the Chapdelaine family. We have Samuel, Laura and their children, who include eighteen-year-old Maria. They are habitants intent on faire de la terre to fulfil their French-Canadian rural destinies. In search of good land, they have pushed so far into the wilderness that the nearest town is eight miles away and they are completely surrounded by the looming forest. Three suitors vie for Maria’s hand in marriage, most notably François Paradis. François lives the coureur du bois lifestyle which exists in stark contrast to the Chapdelaines’ ideology. He lives and trades off the land and is always on the move; to him the woods are everything. Maria loves him for the freedom and adventure he would bring to her life. And yet, when he tragically perishes in the woods during a punishing winter, Maria is left devastated and disillusioned.

Despite the novel being titled Maria Chapdelaine, she is not given much air time. It is all about the battle with the wilderness. The forest is the enemy that blocks the Chapdelaines from their future prosperity. They are ‘des gens qui commencent une longue guerre’ and seem to always be at the land clearance stage of proceedings. This book is many things, but I found it impossible to escape the overwhelming sense of bleakness. Hémon scorns human attempts to dominate the land; ‘la petitesse de l’église de bois, la petitesse des quelques maisons de bois’ emphasises that they are not but insignificant specks on this vast hinterland. What really unnerved me was that at every turn, the characters are faced with ‘la lisière sombre du bois’, always gloomy, always impenetrable, always watching. It must be mentioned at least thirty times throughout. 

As I read on, I came to realise that it was not a battle between humans and the wilderness at all; the wilderness is personified as having a ‘sévérité divine’ against which the humans ‘n’avaient aucune révolte, même pas d’amertume’, in fear of worse retribution. When poor Maria’s true love François is cruelly taken away from her, we hear that ‘le froid assassin et ses acolytes se sont jetés sur lui comme sur une proie’. If this would not instil the fear of God into you as a reader about venturing into the Canadian woodland then I don’t know what would.

I realise that perhaps I am not selling this book; if you want something that will send shivers down your spine and leave a distinct impression on you, then I would strongly recommend it. And don’t forget, to be hailed as a novel representing a glorious rural idyll, there must be some evidence of this in the text.

Even I admit, Maria Chapdelaine has its moments, and all of these moments come in the short and sweet summer months. The wilderness becomes a beautiful, romantic backdrop for Maria and François’ budding romance and there is jovial sense of purity and simple living for this family in the woods. So perhaps it is the long Canadian winter rather than the wilderness itself that is the master of cruelty? I’ll leave that up to you to decide…

Happy reading,

Imo x

Categories
French Literature

ImoReads… ‘Nikolski’ (2005) by Nicolas Dickner

Blog Nº 5

“En transformant des relations familiales en relations hasardeuses, Dickner porte atteinte à l’institution familiale, la réduisant au hasard des croisements sanguins, et réduisant ceux-ci à une matérialité non signifiante”

Isabelle Boisclair

Nikolski is one of the most interesting yet frustrating novels I have ever read. Hailing from Quebec, Dickner brings age-old questions about Quebecois identity and place in the world to the fore in this humorous and thought-provoking novel. There are many themes that stand out in the text, but I am going to examine incidences of chance and coincidence because for me they are the most impacting. It is times like these when I feel privileged to have studied French, because it means I can read and understand important French-language works.

In brief, Nikolski centres on three protagonists. We have Noah, Joyce, and an unnamed narrator who are all (unbeknown to each other) related thanks to the womanising ways of one Jonas Doucet, who we never meet. This makes it very “coincidental” that for one reason or another, they all end up converging on the same neighbourhood in Montreal.

Now, like many a reader of this book I’m sure, I experienced the classic satisfaction you get from dramatic irony. Knowing about the protagonists’ relation and proximity before they did meant that I was convinced I would just keep reading until they all met by chance and experienced a glorious family reunion, and then I could think smugly, ‘I told you so’. Dickner, sly now I see he is, teases this and makes it seem a sure thing by interweaving smaller incidences of chance and coincidence into the novel. These include but are not limited to:

  • Near-misses or brief encounters between the protagonists
  • Links through secondary characters
  • Kinship of mentality through the protagonists regularly speaking in metaphors and allusions to fish, the sea, boats and all things water
  • Repeated appearances of items or characters to different characters, e.g. le livre à trois têtes, Garifuna maps and a homeless man sporting a maple leaf hat

He also builds these up to an infuriating level; for example, we go from Noah whizzing past Joyce on a bike to the two of them chatting at the airport along with Noah’s son; I was left stunned and incredulous that nothing had come of this opportunity. My reaction was such because all the little episodes of chance and coincidence, that could easily go unnoticed, make us as readers think that there is a deeper meaning to randomness and fate. Surely there must be, if it is woven so much and so easily into everyday life.

So then the awaited day was upon me, the day of reading the last chapter. Finally, the end to this tense build-up and the agonising near misses. You can imagine my horror therefore when the novel just ended; the protagonists never discover their familial links, and they all continue to lead their own lives, running parallel and only momentarily bumping into each other, but never intertwining. Dickner has cleverly constructed a world in which we believe in chance and coincidence; indeed, despite the actual ending being the more realistic outcome given the circumstances, we as readers are more suspicious of the fact that there was no grand reunion than if there had been one.

I have been thinking about this novel and its ending since I finished reading it a couple of months back. Even though I know Dickner has minutely engineered every event in his book, meaning there is no real chance and coincidence at all, I still can’t help but believe in this world he has constructed. If you fancy feeling extremely frustrated, have a read of Nikolski, either in the original French, or in the English translation.

Happy (or in this case infuriating) reading,

Imo x

Categories
English literature

ImoReads… ‘The Prisoner of Zenda’ (1894) by Anthony Hope

Blog Nº 4

“For my part, if a man must needs be a knave I would have him a debonair knave… It makes your sin no worse as I conceive, to do it à la mode and stylishly”

The Prisoner of Zenda  is without a doubt one of my favourite adventure novels. There is just something charming about this Victorian escapade; it’s got the setting, it’s got the action, it’s got the romance, it’s got the glory. 

The story centres on the English gentleman and loveable rogue Rudolf Rassendyll and his trip to the fictional central European country of Ruritania. He happens to arrive on the eve of the king’s coronation, and he just so happens to be the king’s distant cousin, namesake, and spitting image replica. When the king’s dastardly younger half-brother, the Duke Michael of Strelsau, drugs and imprisons the king in the Tower of Zenda in a bid to take the throne, the king’s trusty attendants come up with a brilliant yet risky plan. Colonel Sapt and Fritz von Tarlenheim enlist Rassendyll to play the part of the king until they can rescue the real deal. What follows are swords-drawn encounters with Michael’s henchmen, plots and counterplots from both sides, and a jolly good adventure.

Of course, the story would not be complete without a little romance; Rudolf enjoys playing the king although he is committed to the plan to free him, but what he did not expect was to fall in love with the king’s fiancé, the princess Flavia. With the help of the Duke’s mistress Antoinette de Mauban, our trio of heroes manage to outwit the Duke and his henchmen to free the king, but Rudolf and Flavia, both bound by duty, must sadly part at the end.

What is great about this plot is that apart from the small group of people who knew about the identity of the ‘false king’ (which eventually includes Flavia herself), the rest of the world remains none the wiser. It is amazing how such a gamble paid off and gives the reader a sense of satisfaction by being in on this great secret. When I imagine Hope’s country of Ruritania, I see a Germanic-inspired nation with fairy-tale castles and a black forest, which only add to the adventure. If you like a good urgent gallop through such scenery, then thanks to The Prisoner of Zenda you can eat your heart out.

Rudolf Rassendyll is undoubtedly my favourite character, and I am glad Hope made him the first-person narrator. Although he already lives a life of leisure being from an aristocratic background, even he admits being tempted to usurp the Ruritanian throne forever. Indeed, when offered a kingdom who wouldn’t say yes? It is this honesty plus his frank humour and in the end stronger sense of morality and bravery that make Rudolf a king by nature, if not truly by right. You can’t help but root for him, so whenever there is a showdown between him and one of the Duke’s henchmen – Rupert of Hentzau in particular – you can’t put the book down until you know the outcome. (This explains why I read the book in two days). He risks his life, gives up his crown and his true love for his distant cousin, and this is the truest picture of Victorian heroism.

Are you thinking that ‘Ruritania’ sounds familiar? Hope’s novel had such an impact that it kickstarted the genre of ‘Ruritanian romance’ in literature, theatre and film. That is, stories set in a fictional central or eastern European country that are, like The Prisoner of Zenda, swashbuckling tales of adventure and intrigue, with the themes of romance and honour being the most prominent and focusing exclusively on the ruling classes. In general usage, Ruritania is a placeholder country name used to make points in academic or political discussion. The impact of Hope’s novel is undeniably far-reaching.

I enjoyed my trip to Ruritania so much that I will shortly be returning via the sequel, Rupert of Hentzau (1898). If you want to be taken on an exciting adventure that you just can’t find in today’s world, take a leap back in time to the nineteenth century yourself and be dazzled by Rudolf, Ruritania and romance.

Happy reading,

Imo x