Tag: book review

Categories
American Literature

ImoReads… ‘Gone with the Wind’ (1936) by Margaret Mitchell

Blog Nº 13

“Dear Scarlett! You aren’t helpless. Anyone as selfish and determined as you are is never helpless. God help the Yankees if they should get you.” – Rhett Butler

Introduction

Without a doubt, Gone with the Wind (GWTW) has earned its place firmly within my top five novels of all time. I can see why it took Margaret Mitchell ten years to write it, because it truly is a masterpiece of literature and joins other heavyweights on the roster of Great American Novels. Hopefully after reading this blog, you will want to lose yourself in the US Civil War era and gorge on this story of love, loss, war, survival, coming of age and so much more.

Disclaimer: there was a lot to say so this is an essay-length blog (sorry!)

Structure & Background

GWTW is the crème de la crème of epic novels, structured into five parts spanning the twelve years between 1861 and 1873. In other words, the novel opens on the eve of the American Civil War (1861-1865) and ends during the post-war Reconstruction era (1863-1877). This is a time period that I have studied in some depth and I find it fascinating. In fact, GWTW has become a crucial reference point for any historian researching this era. 

The novel follows the life of protagonist Scarlett O’Hara, a typical southern belle, through these turbulent times. The daughter of a rich planter, Scarlett’s home and one of the two main settings of the novel is the family cotton plantation, Tara, located in Clayton County, Georgia. Mitchell evokes a vivid and romantic vision of the Southern plantation lifestyle with her vibrant descriptive passages of Tara. The other key setting, and where Scarlett mostly resides after the war has begun is Atlanta, Georgia, which at that time was the up-and-coming city of the Deep South. 

Fundamentally, at the novel’s opening, Scarlett is a rather superficial 16-year-old whose only real concerns are maintaining her eighteen-inch waist, stealing the beaux of her friends for fun, and trying to ensnare the one man she thinks she loves, Ashley Wilkes. Scarlett could not care less when, two weeks into the war, her first husband Charles is killed in battle. This marks a crucial turning point in the novel as it is when Melanie Wilkes, the sister of Charles and wife of Ashley, invites Scarlett to come and stay with her and her Aunt Pittypat in Atlanta.

Though she secretly hates Melanie, Scarlett loves society life in Atlanta. The war only really starts to impress on her mind as something of relevance when the Confederates begin to lose. The Yankee General Sherman’s destructive ‘March to the Sea’ through Georgia was the event that really put the nail in the coffin for the antebellum South; it is from this point onwards that we see Scarlett’s remarkable coming of age story begin as she fights to claw her way out of the poverty she has suddenly been plunged into.

History

Mitchell was born in Atlanta in 1900 and grew up on stories of the Civil War and Reconstruction from relatives that had lived through it all, making her extremely well-disposed to write such a novel. I was very impressed throughout by her level of historical detail and accuracy, all while maintaining a superb level of readability and shrewd commentary as the omniscient narrator.

Mitchell has been criticised for her portrayal of certain groups in GWTW, but in my opinion she doesn’t let anybody off the hook. For example, sexist comments made about the lesser mental capabilities of women often come from the female characters as well as the men, and is simply representative of what Scarlett’s generation would have been brought up to believe. Men don’t get an easy ride either – on the whole they are portrayed as impetuous and overly proud beings who secretly need the quiet sense of a woman to maintain them. 

However, it is the portrayal of various racial groups that has come under the most scrutiny since the novel’s publication. Evidently, the issue of slavery was inextricably tied up in the American Civil War. It’s not key to the plot of the novel, but it’s an important backdrop. The motif of the faithful and devoted slave permeates GWTW via house slave characters like Mammy, Pork and Uncle Peter. GWTW is typical of southern plantation fiction in that it is written according to the viewpoint and values of the slaveholder, and so mostly depicts slaves as docile and happy. You may criticise this, but in many ways, it is a realistic depiction of white slaveholder mentality of the time. Furthermore, within the caste system that existed in the South, topped by the white planter class, house slaves were seen as an integral part of the wealthy white family and were almost respected more than groups like the poor whites. Scarlett and other characters frequently use the term ‘darky’ to refer to both familiar and unfamiliar slaves in GWTW. This is undeniably racist, but it often used as a term of endearment, revealing the interestingly paradoxical nature of racial intricacies in the South.

Mitchell stays true to this Southern racial hierarchy in emphasising that poor whites, field slaves and perceived insolent freedmen were together at the very bottom. Any racist comments made about slaves concerning a thieving, childlike or brutish nature are really only applied to this group. As a modern reader it can be quite shocking to read some of the offhand comments made about African-Americans and many have condemned their portrayal as perpetuating racist myths. Whether Mitchell wrote this way because she held those opinions or whether she was simply trying to be true to the time I do not know. Whatever the reason, I think it’s important that she wrote how she did because it means that irrefutable elements of American racial history have not been erased.

Protagonists / Coming of age

Of course, the main element of the story that captivates the reader is the intertwining journeys of Scarlett O’Hara and the dashing rogue Captain Rhett Butler. When they first meet at a society barbecue Scarlett is 16 and Rhett is 28. However, it is not until Scarlett moves to Atlanta that Rhett becomes of any importance to her and even then, she still believes herself in love with Ashley. Both protagonists are refreshingly different in the sense that they are unapologetically selfish, judgemental, arrogant, bitingly sarcastic and indifferent to the Confederate cause. Evidently these are not qualities revered by the South, so it is only with each other that Scarlett and Rhett can truly be themselves. In spite of myself, I liked them both a lot. 

When the Civil War hardships begin, Scarlett is as ruthless as ever but this time for her own and her family’s survival, hinting at a change in her moral psyche no matter how much she begrudges herself for it. It is at this stage of the novel that we see Scarlett develop from a superficial teen to a strong, imperturbable woman. The immediate aftermath of the war is a harrowing part of GWTW to read as we see all the familiar characters plunged into uncertainty and desolation in a Georgia that has been decimated by the Union. Scarlett almost buckles under the weight of her newfound responsibilities more than once, but it is her aforementioned qualities that give her the gumption to eventually rise up again.

Even Rhett, who believed the Confederacy was a lost cause from the start, feels morally bound to enlist eight months before the end of the war meaning he is pretty absent from this part of the book.

Love

Saving the best until last – GWTW is known as ‘the classic love story’. It is one of the best and most emotional love stories I have read, but it is in no way classic. It is extremely frustrating as the reader to see the Scarlett and Rhett romance continue to not happen throughout the novel. It is clear that he is in love with her for years – among other things, he continues to put himself at risk coming to see her while working as a blockade runner and quietly making sure she is alright, despite the laddish bravado he keeps up. Scarlett often finds herself thinking about Rhett, but she doesn’t know why – it is at this point that you want to shake her and shout ‘because you love him of course!’

Eventually, Rhett asks her to marry him. Yes, I thought, this is the moment we’ve all been waiting for. Undoubtedly, their marriage is fun for a while. Scarlett finds him an interesting and devilish companion who is as wilful as herself, and he spoils her with whatever she likes. This is a screamingly obvious sign to the reader that he is attempting to make her realise her true feelings by indulging her every whim, but still her lingering teenage fantasy of Ashley clouds her vision. 

They even have a child together, Bonnie, and there are so many moments where one of them is on the brink of expressing their true feelings before their Southern pride forces them to keep their mouths shut. It is not until a series of tragedies strike at the end of the novel that Scarlett realises how blind she has been. It is a great moment indeed when, aged 28, she can finally relinquish her fantasy of Ashley, which had been the albatross around her neck since she was 16. 

I can say with confidence that I have never finished a book so feverishly as I did GWTW. Scarlett’s run home to tell Rhett how she feels seems to go on forever and I remember literally praying that he would still feel the same, despite all their recent struggles. When he eventually rejects her after a long and emotionally charged conversation, I felt as heart-broken and bereft as Scarlett. This is a tragedy on par with Shakespeare’s star-crossed lovers – if only she had only realised her feelings all those years ago, or if only Rhett’s intensely passionate true love could have held a bit longer before burning out completely, the climax of this 12-year tale would not have been so awfully sad. As the reader who could see it all along and was willing it to happen all throughout, the feeling of frustrated helplessness is almost too much to bear – and I’m not ashamed to say that I cried for a full hour after finishing it, and was thinking about it for much longer still.

Closing thoughts

Mitchell took the title Gone with the Wind from the poem Non Sum Qualis Eram Bonae sub Regno Cynarae by British poet Ernest Dowson.

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind …

Scarlett uses the phrase to wonder if Tara was still standing after Sherman’s March to the Sea, or if it had ‘gone with the wind that had swept through Georgia’. In this way, the title is a metaphor for the demise of the pre-Civil War way of life in the South. 

In the poem, Dobson uses the phrase to indicate an erotic loss. He is expressing the regrets of someone who has lost their feelings for their old passion, Cynara, who in this context therefore represents a lost love. Undoubtedly, this is an allusion to Rhett’s love for Scarlett finally exhausting itself; so really Mitchell tells us the ending before we even begin reading. In fact, I was taken aback to discover that she wrote the ending first and then spent all those years writing the novel to build up to this heart-wrenching moment.

There is a slight glimmer of hope at the end in Scarlett vowing to win back Rhett’s heart, as she had won it before and held it for many years and the art of captivating men in general is something she mastered a long time ago. Her steely determination got her everything else she wanted in GWTW, and she believes it can do the same with Rhett.

Based on their enduring relationship, I don’t doubt that Scarlett and Rhett would reunite and finally have their happily ever after. This is what I am choosing to believe happens after the end of the novel, but Mitchell choosing to end it so ambiguously will always play on my mind. 

This novel is one of those life-changing reads that will stay with me forever. It is thoroughly enjoyable despite the sadness of the ending and will consistently stir up every emotion within you. It is the sign of a great work of literature to be able to make a reader cry and think about the words long after finishing reading them, while also transporting you so easily back to an era long past with the vibrancy and accuracy of historical detail. 

Gone with the Wind – 10/10!

Happy reading,

Imo x 

Categories
American Literature

ImoReads… ‘The Testaments’ (2019) by Margaret Atwood

Blog Nº 12

“As they say, history does not repeat itself, but it rhymes”

Like many female readers, I was profoundly affected by Margaret Atwood’s seminal work The Handmaid’s Tale (1985). A dystopian novel set in a near-future New England, an uprising sees the imposition of a totalitarian and theocratic state called Gilead, in which any and all women endure some form of extreme subjugation. Anyone who has read The Handmaid’s Tale will know that the protagonist Offred’s fate at the end of the book is ambiguous. Therefore, when I heard that Atwood was writing the next chapter, I was very excited to find out what became of both her and Gilead itself.

However, when I came to read The Testaments, I quickly realised that a straightforward sequel it was not. I admit I was disappointed at first, but after the first chapter I was completely hooked. In fact, Atwood has undoubtedly crafted the most fitting, satisfying and simply sublime second instalment of the saga of Gilead, set 15 years after The Handmaid’s Tale.

The novel sees us alternate between three ‘witness testimonies’ who narrate the novel. We have the infamous Aunt Lydia from the first novel, Agnes, a young woman growing up in a privileged Gilead family, and Daisy, a young woman on the outside looking in from Canada. This certainly provides a range of perspectives, particularly when comparing the two young women with the old and ever-cunning Aunt Lydia. Each is told retrospectively, but as the novel goes on the reader begins to see them intertwining in unexpected and clever ways, for an ending that is as gloriously satisfying as it is compelling.

Although completely different in their outlook, Daisy and Agnes are both recognisable and comparable throughout the novel as idealistic teenage girls who unlike Lydia, do not live for the game of plotting, betrayal and power. From Atwood’s previous novel, we are naturally predisposed to dislike Lydia, so it is certainly interesting, albeit chilling, to learn about her experience of Gilead’s foundation; she tells of her role in creating and leading the order of Aunts with a disturbing vigour.

As with the first novel, the hypocrisy and dog-eat-dog attitude of this supposedly God-fearing state is undeniable. The author uses the character of Agnes extremely effectively to demonstrate this. Agnes, like all the young girls in Gilead, feels real terror and guilt about accidentally enticing any man to succumb to his apparent overwhelming sexual urges simply by existing in a female body. When Dr Grove assaults Agnes in his office, she doesn’t know that a woman cannot and should not be blamed for any such irrepressible urges a man may have that could lead to sexual assault and rape. This is dramatic irony, and as the reader you are shocked that Agnes feels so surely that she is in the wrong.

Indeed, Atwood felt compelled to write a second instalment of the Gilead saga as a reaction to events concerning for women in modern America, namely the misogyny of Trump and the rise of the Christian right wing. It is worrying that in the 35 years since The Handmaid’s Tale was published, any progress made across the pond has somewhat regressed.

Overall though, this novel IS about female solidarity and overcoming estrictions put upon women by the men. I won’t ruin the ending but what I will say is this – you will feel that sweet elation of revenge, karma and vengeance all at once when you come to understand the fall of Gilead. Although by no means an innocent party, only this person could be the one to bring Gilead down in a way to give you such a level of satisfaction and expose it for the sham it really is.

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
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

Categories
Antiquity

ImoReads… ‘The Odyssey’ (c.700BC) by Homer, translated by Emily Wilson

Blog Nº 3

“The gods sat down for council, with the great

Thunderlord Zeus. Athena was concerned

about Odysseus’ many troubles,

trapped by the nymph Calypso in her house.”

The Guardian  culture writer Charlotte Higgins calls Emily Wilson’s translation of Homer’s The Odyssey ‘a cultural landmark’ and believes it will ‘change the way the poem is read in English’. I have to agree with her wholeheartedly on this point.

This epic poem, one of the longest in recorded history, has been translated many times including over 60 attempts into English. And yet, Wilson’s version is the first to be done by a woman. I feel privileged that this is the first version I got to read; I thoroughly enjoyed it and found it enchanting on so many levels. 

The Odyssey tells the story of Odysseus’ decade-long struggle to return home to Ithaca after the Trojan War. En route he faces the wrath of many gods and faces off against mythical creatures such as sirens and cyclops. All the while his wife Penelope and son Telemachus are in a constant state of anxiety trying to ward off the mass of suitors vying for Odysseus’ title, home, riches and wife. The poem ends with Odysseus’ return and glorious fight to take back Ithaca from the suitors.

Wilson somehow manages to style the language as crisp and comprehensible whilst also still evoking a captivating sense of antiquity. I think one of the key earmarks of this is the use of epithets. Some of my favourite character examples are ‘sharp-eyed Athena’ and ‘crafty Odysseus’. These would not be common terms to describe someone today, and yet they are still perfectly understandable. Furthermore, the island of Pylos is always described as ‘sandy Pylos’, and the goddess Athena is always pouring ‘sweet sleep’ onto the eyes of the mortal characters. There is no opulence in Wilson’s epic voice; these are just simple adjectives, and yet they accentuate that memorable, rhythmic quality of the ancient bardic tradition of oral poetry that Homer used as inspiration for The Odyssey.

I love also that Wilson has chosen to write in the English epic metre of iambic pentameter. Immediately I was drawn in by the enchanting, methodical rhythm of the poem; it somehow makes you feel as if you are watching the events unfold first-hand but also like you are hearing a song about a tale that happened a long time ago.

Although I am glad this is the first version I have read, I feel I do it a slight disservice by having not read any of the previous male-translated versions, because it is harder for me to appreciate how Wilson overcomes certain masculine conventions. For example, as I read it, one of Odysseus’ key characteristics that I picked up on was his duplicity. He is a hero nonetheless, but he has a talent for cunning and self-preservation. He is the only member of his crew to return to Ithaca alive and according to Higgins, Wilson’s translation that ‘he failed to keep them safe’ is the truest translation of the ancient Greek. She compares this to two male versions which translate this line as ‘he could not save them from disaster’ and ‘but so their fates he could not overcome’. Wilson does not let Odysseus off the hook quite so easily and reveals him for what he is.

So, one of my upcoming assignments will be to read a different version of The Odyssey to compare it to this one. However, I know I will be hard-pressed to find one better than Wilson’s. I would absolutely recommend this work if you want an enchanting introduction to the myths and legends of Ancient Greece; it is as riveting as it is prestigious. Next on my list of ancient classics? Homer’s The Iliad and Ovid’s Metamorphoses (Emily Wilson if you’re reading, please gift us with translations of these too…)

Happy reading,

Imo x

Categories
English literature

ImoReads… ‘Three Men in a Boat’ (1889) by Jerome K. Jerome

Blog Nº 2

“What the eye does not see, the stomach does not get upset over”

I thought I would kick-start my blog by discussing one of English literature’s most enduringly funny novels. Written in 1889, Jerome K. Jerome concocted the perfect comic tale to match the trend for recreational boating in the late Victorian era. I for one am very glad that this work, originally meant to be a travel piece for Home Chimes magazine, morphed into the hilarious escapades of three men holidaying in a boat. In the words of Jerome himself, ‘nothing else seemed right’.

The general premise of the novel is three City clerks – J. (the narrator), George and Harris – taking a two-week boating trip along the Thames from Kingston to Oxford and back again (which is particularly enjoyable for me to read as a Kingston-dweller). We cannot, of course, forget their canine companion Montmorency, not least because the subtitle of the book commands us not to (to say nothing of the Dog!). What follows is a humorous voyage of mishaps, both on this trip and through anecdotes that spring to the narrator’s mind along the way. 

What I enjoy the most about Jerome’s novel is its refreshing triviality. Unlike a lot of Victorian novels, there are no devastating plot twists or stories of unrequited love; like the boat, the novel trundles along, and is at once about lots of things and about nothing at all, and that’s where its charm derives. The most dramatic things to happen are perhaps one of the party falling into the river, or getting lost in Hampton Court Maze, or even that (shock horror!) there are no inns to stay in at a certain point of the trip. Such novels are sometimes overlooked in the rankings of great literature, but I think they are uniquely brilliant when they can still make us laugh over 100 years after publication.

Indeed, Jerome’s use of quintessentially English humour is such that an English audience can still very much relate and laugh along. For example, in one sentence he manages to sum up the immortal English outlook on the weather. That is, ‘but who wants to be foretold the weather? It is bad enough when it comes, without our having the misery of knowing about it beforehand’. If this does not define Englishness I don’t know what does. 

However, for me, one particularly funny incident stands out. After a long hard day on the river, our three “hangry” gentlemen despair that there is no mustard to go with their beef. However it is deemed that ‘life was worth living after all’ when they discover a tin of pineapple. Sadly for them (although happily for us), there is no tin-opener to be found, so what ensues is ‘a fearful battle’ between the men and the tin. A hilarious sequence of imaginative attempts to open the tin to no avail complete with extreme frustration from the protagonists provides an overwhelmingly relatable comic thread inspired by ordinary everyday inconveniences. 

Contributed to by the chuckle-worthy bumbling about of our three men in a boat and their beautifully eloquent nineteenth-century language, Jerome paints quite the picture of nonchalant, carefree joy and timeless Victorian farce. The fact that Three Men in a Boat sold staggeringly well at the time and has never gone out of print since it first appeared in 1889 suggests that the British reading public wholeheartedly agrees with my assessment.

If you’re looking for a light-hearted summer read to enjoy while sunbathing in your back garden (or, indeed, Thames-side) then Three Men in a Boat is the one for you. To really get into the spirit I would advise snacking on beef and mustard and/or tinned pineapple while reading… 

Happy reading!

Imo x

Categories
Uncategorized

What will you read on ImoReads?

Blog Nº1

Be yourself; Everyone else is already taken.

— Oscar Wilde.

Hello and welcome to my blog, ImoReads! My name is Imogen, I am 23 years old and as is hopefully apparent, I love to read.

My love of reading developed in my early childhood and without a doubt I have my parents to thank for it; I am forever indebted to them for reading me books every night before bed and encouraging me to read works of literature myself.

As a result of this, I have developed quite the repertoire of literature read over the years and I want to use this blog to share my thoughts and opinions on those works that have stood out to me particularly.

If you’re interested in the great literary classics, both of England and the world respectively, then this is the blog for you (hooray!). It is not limited to any century in particular – I welcome great works from any time period. However, I would say that there will be particular emphasis on the nineteenth century (think Dickens, Wilde and Twain) because I have a distinct historical interest in this era. Fundamentally though, you can expect analyses of works stretching from Ancient Greece all the way through to the twenty-first century. 🙂

To any French-speakers or Francophiles out there – enchanté because as a recent graduate of history and French, I will also be sharing my thoughts on works of francophone literature that I have enjoyed over the years.

I want to spread the message that actually, reading is COOL and everyone should do it! It is possible to strike a happy medium between a love of classic literature and the tech-savvy world we now live in, even for the apparently ‘disinterested’ youth of today. If you love to read, be proud of it! It’s an educational, thought-provoking, immersive activity that can teach us so much about society, history, and ourselves.

So that’s it, that is the premise of ImoReads. Expect a mixture of analysis, reviews, personal reflections and recommendations. Expect threads by author, genre, and time period. And finally, expect an honest, enthusiastic and creative response to some of the world’s finest literature. 🙂

Happy reading,

Imo x