This is a beguiling, and unusual novel, so unusual that it doesn’t seem very much like a novel at all — it’s a long work of fiction with no plot, not even the semblance of one. The entire books takes place over three or four days in, or in the near vicinity of, Shelllmound, a large cotton plantation in the Mississippi Delta. Shellmound is inhabited by three generations of the Fairchild family, with several other relatives living close by or visiting for the wedding that is at the novel’s center.
The Fairchilds are an impressively fertile clan, and so the cast of characters in this book seems to number in the thousands. The main family in the house — the Battle Fairchilds — have eight children (a ninth is on the way) and Battle is one of eight siblings, all of whom, if alive, are gathered round for the wedding of Danby, Battle and his wife Ellen’s second child. (Danby’s older sister Shelley is a bit overshadowed — or overshone — by her beautiful and vivacious younger sister.) There are also several great aunts hanging around the action, and the many “Negroes” that work on the plantation, both in the fields and in the house, are featured in the book to the extent that they interact with the family (which is often and and seemingly very happily).
Welty is an amazingly good descriptive writer, and brings this whole world vividly alive. And she’s as accomplished creating and describing people as she is with places. Every one of the many (many!) characters in this book is distinct and fully present. They complexly reveal themselves to the reader by their words, thoughts, and actions, not to mention their vivid physical presence.
The book begins with the arrival at Shellmound of Laura, a young cousin who lives in Jackson with her father. Her mother, Battle’s sister, has recently died and Laura and the Fairchilds are all still grieving. Laura’s exclusive point of view that opens the book, and leads the reader to believe that this will be her story, is a ruse, for very quickly it shatters and the rest of the book is told from myriad perspectives, in a somewhat chaotic fashion that matches the excitement and tension in the house as the wedding approaches.
If there is a central character in this book, it isn’t Dabney, the bride, but her mother, Ellen, who married Battle at a tender age and moved to the Delta from Virginia, which everyone agrees is a different, and lesser, world. In addition to preparing her daughter’s wedding, which is to be held in the house followed by a huge reception to which everyone in the Delta has (supposedly) been invited, Ellen must attend to the wants, needs, and fancies of her eight children and many (many!) houseguests. That she does all this with an unwavering good cheer and grace seems somewhat miraculous, and she becomes the book’s hero, although no one in the book realizes or acknowledges this, not even Ellen herself.
One very odd thing about this book is the fact that although it is set in 1923 (it was published in 1945) it seems as if the Civil lWar has effected virtually no change in the socio-economic culture. It is mentioned that there is a payroll for the plantation workers, the bills of which Great Aunt Mac laboriously irons every week, but otherwise it seems as if the plantation is functioning exactly as it did sixty years ago. If it weren’t for the mention of the payroll, one might think that all the people working for and serving the Fairchilds were slaves.
Like This Afternoon Forever by Jaime Manrique (Kaylie Jones: Akashic Books, 2019)
A novel of two Columbian priests which follows them from childhood through seminary and into their lives in the Catholic Church in the tumultuous years of the 199os and 2000s.
Juan and Ignacio become lovers in their teens and maintain a devoted relationship throughout their lives. They both end up as priests in Bogota: Lucas ministers to a conventional middle-class parish but Ignacio, whose belief in social justice is stronger than his faith, serves the poor and disenfranchised in the slums of Soacha. His life and ministry is complicated by violence, political corruption, guerrilla warfare, and the AIDS epidemic. Lucas finds himself unable to save his lover and friend from mental, physical, and spiritual self-destruction.
Jaime writes simply and engagingly about both the world and its people, especially his two main characters. A brave, honest, and appealing book.
Colette’s novel tells the story of a young Parisian woman who is reduced to working as a “mime” in musical halls after her brief and disastrous marriage to a total cad ends, leaving her alone in the world. She enjoys the independence and autonomy her new working life affords her, so when the perfect suitor appears — he’s young, handsome, kind, devoted, and rich — she balks when he proposes marriage. Is it worth it to her to lose her freedom and become a wife? She decides that it is not, and promptly departs on a tour of South American.
The Vagabond is engaging and the characters and locations are wonderfully vivid. Colette delights and excels in sensually describing the natural world, and as a result the book seems almost fragrant and lush. The character of the suitor seems somewhat rigged to facilitate our heroine’s decision — it would be more fun if he were slightly more of a contender. A fresh and engaging exploration of the evolving relationship between men and women in the early 20th century.
I Would Be Private by Rose Macaulay (Harper & Brothers, 1937)
A trifling yet somewhat charming novel by Macaulay, set mostly on a fantasy Caribbean island called Papagano. ? and ? (their names are already forgotten), a loving and sensible young couple, find themselves the parents of quintuplets, who become immediate celebrities and shatter their parents’ quiet middle-class life in London.
In order to get away from all the bother and attention their amazing progency have caused, the ?s decide to move to a small island in the Caribbean, where the wife’s father, a former sailor, is now living with his native wife. The wife’s sister and brother, and the sister’s Venezualan suitor (and later husband) accompany the ?s to the new world. [Note: note total avoidance of proper names.] Papagano is sparsely populated. A British Church of England Rector lives with his two daughters, one man-crazy and the other crazy about boats, and three rather fey young British men who are spending an extended holiday in the abandoned insane asylum, pursuing different artistic endeavors.
Macaulay’s writing is bright and wryly funny, but the sunnyness and silliness of this book is frequently spoiled by its racist and misinformed depiction of the Native population, and all non-English people and animals in the world.
The Grandmothers by Glenway Wescott (Harper & Brothers, 1927)
A Family Portrait. I had bought this book many years ago when I had first become interested in Glenway Wescott after reading Continual Lessons (his fascinating journals). I’ve read The Pilgrim Hawk (of course) and Apartment in Athens, but for some reason never read this early book — his first, I think, published in 1927 when Wescott as 26. [Note: Actually, it is his second novel, following The Apple of the Eye in 1924.]
The Grandmothers is a beautiful and moving tribute to Wescott’s forebears, particularly his great grandparents, grandparents, parents, and great- aunts and uncles . The family has been (paternally) renamed the Towers, and the book follows them through the last half of the 19th century, as they settle in the wilderness of Wisconsin. Wescott writes movingly and perceptively about his assorted relatives, and his description of the Arcadian world around them is tender and beautiful. The Grandmothers memorably recreates a way of life and a type of American that have both disappeared.
Separate Tables by Terence Rattigan(Random House, 1955)
I was traveling to Brooklyn on the subway and wanted a smaller, easily carry-able book to bring with me, so grabbed this slim volume from my bookshelf.
I believe I had seen the film version of Separate Tables many (many) years ago, but I remember nothing about it except for its poignance and that might have starred Deborah Kerr*.
The play, which is set in the dining room and lounge of a small modest sea-side hotel in Bournemouth England (I think) is comprised of two one-act plays that are cleverly linked but narratively independent. The first involves a glamorous divorcee from London who comes to the hotel for a “rest” and encounters her first husband, an abusive but sexually charismatic man who beat her. She, somewhat disturbingly, convinces him that they belong together and should make another try at a relationship that is obviously doomed to violence and heartache.
Curtain.
In the second act, Margaret Leighton, who onstage played the glam divorcee in the first act, plays the mousy, hysterical spinsterish daughter of the reigning queen of the hotel, a horribly bossy and insufferable woman named Mrs. Something-Something. It is revealed in the local newspaper that another guest, a retired and very proper General, has been arrested for interfering with women in dark movie theaters. Mrs. Something-Something organizes a campaign to have him immediately exiled, but it is revealed that in addition to having an affair with the proprietress of the hotel, he has been walking out with the mousy hysterical daughter/spinster, who defies her moth and organizes a counter-campaign to allow the molester to stay. The daughter’s campaign wins, much to her mother’s chagrin.
So a rather unsavory and disturbing evening at the theater, despite the genteelly-British trappings. One wonders how the audience was expected to react to these disturbing scenarios, and how, and if, this play could ever be successfully revived.
*In fact in the movie version the two roles that Margaret Leighton played on the stage are divided between Rita Hayworth (glam divorcee) and Deborah Kerr (mousy hysteric spinster), and the two leading male roles, which were played onstage by the same actor (Eric Portman), are divided between Burt Lancaster (charismatic abuser) and David Niven (molesting General). Which confirms that theatrical actors are more versatile than movie actors.
Brothers and Sisters by Ivy Compton-Burnett (Zero Press, 1956)
It’s been several years since I’ve read a novel by Ivy Compton-Burnett, and I forgot what an enjoyable and stimulating–and singular–experience it is.
Brothers and Sisters is one of her better books, because everything she does in a novel she does very skillfully and effectively here. There are five pairs of brothers and sisters featured in this book, and they pair off (and break up) in matrimonial units in more ways and more times than seems possible. Some of these pairings are shocking, and most of them seem to be curiously unromantic and expeditious, which makes the reader wonder what, exactly, these strange people truly desire.
The book is centered around the curious ever-loving marriage of Sophia and Christian Stace, who inhabit the manor house in the village of Moreton Edge. Christian was adopted by Sophie’s father, and the two were raised as siblings, so their marriage, which was forbidden by their father, is somewhat suspect. But they live happily together with their three adult children: Andrew, Dinah, and Robin, who pal around with (and are periodically affianced to) several local siblings pairs: Edgar and Judith Dryden, the local rector and his intellectual sister: Julian and Sarah Wake, wealthy and cosmopolitan who live between Moreton Edge and London; and Gilbert and Carrie Lang, who have recently moved to Moreton Edge with their elderly mother, who is, in fact, Christian Stace’s mother.
Although all the characters pretty much speak in the same odd, glib, highly-decorative Compton-Burnett vernacular, they manage to distinguish themselves and delight the reader in a multitude of ways. Sophia is an especially fascinating creature–her passive-aggressive methods of mothering are both comic and heartbreaking. Beneath all the farcial silliness of the plot lurks a rather dark and disturbing gloom, and a bleakness about human relationships that gives the book a scintillating, acid edge.
The Passions of Uxport by Maxine Kumin(Harper & Row, 1968)
I found this book, one of a few novels written by the Pulitzer-prize winning poet Maxine Kumin, on my bookshelf and thought I would give it a go. I’m glad I did.
The book is set in a suburb of Boston (Uxport) in 1965 and covers much of the same ground as many John Updike novels from that same period — marital relations and infidelities in the suburbs. Kumin’s novel centers on two couples. The wives are close friends (their friendship is somewhat based upon Kumin’s intense friendship with fellow poet Anne Sexton). While mainly focussed on one of these wives, a Jewish girl who marries a WASP because she gets pregnant in college, the book also moves fluidly and compellingly amongst many other characters, including the three remaining spouses and several townspeople, and the ancient Freudian psychoanalyst the main character consults when a pain in her abdomen persists but cannot be diagnosed, or cured. The other wife is an artist, a painter whose fragile mental equilibrium is devastated by the sudden death of her delightful young daughter.
Kumin is a wise, generous writer, sympathetic to all her characters, and, like many poets, a beautiful and original writer of prose. I enjoyed reading this ambitious (400 pages) and thoroughly engaging book, and felt it deserved wider acclaim and attention, as it is just as good — or better — than anything Updike wrote.
Miss Hargreaves by Frank Baker (Tom Stacey Reprints, 1973; originally published in 1940)
This is a case of a book with a delightful and original premise that fails to successfully exploit it — it goes on too long, and the reader’s delight wanes, as what seemed so clever and original begins to seem over-labored and trite.
The titular character, Miss Constance Hargreaves, is imagined — conjured, invented — by two English men on a holiday in Ireland. While visiting a nondescript country church, they are commandeered by a garrulous warden, and to escape they invent Miss Hargreaves, an eccentric English gentlewoman who plays the harp and travels with her cockatoo, dog, and bath tub. Soon she has materialized and is visiting their village, much to men’s shock and chagrin. (She’s a difficult and demanding guest.)
The narrator, one of the young men — the one most responsible for the creation of Miss Hargreaves and the one most plagued by her and most devoted to her — works as an organist and choirmaster at the cathedral in the town, and much of the life of the book centers around ecclesiastical characters and matters.
The book is often charming (although it often panders to the characters and the reader) and Miss Hargreaves is a worthy invention — one just wishes the book did a bit more with her, or more succinctly related her short preposterous life.
Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce (Penguin Classics Deluxe [!] Edition, 2016)
An unpleasant, unengaging, and frustrating book. Stephen Dedalus, the young man and artist, is shrouded by Joyce in prose that is abstract, cliched, impenetrable, and boring (often all these qualities are present simultaneously). Consequently he’s an indistinct and uncompelling character, and the reader neither cares for him or understands him. It’s a shame this book is considered a classic bildungsroman and forced upon so many young readers — it’s a book to labor and suffer through, not love, not enjoy.
