Midnight in Paris

Paris. Just breathe the word and people’s eyes light up, their hands move to their chests, and they exclaim, ‘Oh, Paris!’, usually followed by a story about the time they went, or about how they’ve always wanted to go, or about someone they know who went and got engaged and oh…isn’t it just so romantic?! I don’t actually know why everyone thinks Paris is so romantic, compared to other cities…but in the popular imagination it is a place of beauty and romance and wonder and I have spent years longing to go and see the place I have heard about, read about and seen depicted on the silver screen in such glowing, rose tinted terms.

Despite my naturally cynical nature, I am a bit of an old romantic, and the reason I have never stirred myself to go to Paris as yet is that I have been holding out to be taken for the first time by the love of my life. I imagined scenes of midnight strolls along the Seine, watching the stars twinkle from the top of the Eiffel Tower, and drinking huge bowls of chocolat chaud in cosy cafes along the Champs Elysees, staring into one another’s eyes. As my life is not a chick flick, this obviously hasn’t happened, and frankly, I’m tired of waiting for a boy to show up – I just want to go to bloody Paris, romantic strolls or no. I was saying this to my friend over dinner a couple of weeks ago, and as I was saying it, I saw her eyes light up. She has never been to Paris, either, and the solution dawned on us both at the same time – why not just go together?! Therefore we are packing our bags and heading off on the Eurostar next month for three days of exploring the streets of Montmartre and the Rive Gauche, shopping in flea markets, eating our weight in croissants and watching the world go by from pavement cafes. I absolutely can’t wait!

However, I am completely clueless beyond the obvious sights and could do with your suggestions as to good places to go. I’m particularly interested in restaurant and cafe recommendations, as well as sights that are a bit off the beaten path. We’ll only have three days – I’m hoping to get to Versailles but I’m not sure if we’ll have time – but we’re both pretty intrepid and we want to see as much as is humanly possible. So please, send in your must-dos in Paris! I will be forever indebted to you!

Elizabeth Taylor Centenary

I spend a lot of time talking about under-read and underrated mid century women writers. There is a great deal of injustice in the literary world, and sadly women have borne the brunt of it. The magnificent writing of the likes of Dorothy Whipple, Dorothy Canfield, E M Delafield, Elizabeth Taylor, Enid Bagnold, Winifred Holtby, Elizabeth Bowen, Marghanita Laski and Rosamund Lehmann, just to name a few, has been largely forgotten, despite acclaim and popularity during their lifetimes. Most of them went out of print until the advent of specialist feminist publishers Virago and Persephone, who quite rightly have brought many of their novels back into the light of day. It is easy for those of us who read off the beaten path to assume that these novelists are widely known, but unfortunately the vast majority of average readers would respond with a puzzled look at the mention of their names, and their books are not exactly flying off the shelves.

Only Elizabeth Taylor would probably get a nod of recognition, followed by confusion over just what sort of books Elizabeth Taylor managed to write in between making her films. Nicola Beauman didn’t call her biography of this remarkable, stylish and rather viciously honest portrayer of ordinary humanity The Other Elizabeth Taylor for nothing; sharing a name with someone so stratospherically famous can be rather a curse. I only discovered Elizabeth Taylor through stumbling upon the world of book blogs while googling the title of an old book I had bought; otherwise, I am sure I would never have independently come across her writing and if I’d seen a book by her in the shops I’d have assumed it was by the film star. She was never mentioned in any of my English lessons at school, nor was she in any of the academic texts I read for university. I consider myself to be well and widely read, but the vast swathes of middle class women writers who were producing beautifully wrought works of art during the early to middle years of the 20th century just hadn’t ever crossed my path until I found the book blogging community. So, when I read my first Elizabeth Taylor, Angel, which I found in a charity shop, I was blown away. So much elegance, so much finesse, so much malicious, poisonous rage seething under the surface of such controlled, polished writing. Who was this woman, and why wasn’t she celebrated as the genius she most certainly was?

I’ve since read more of her books, though Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont is the only one I’ve read since starting blogging, and each has been as phenomenal as the last. This year would have been her 100th birthday, and to mark the occasion, the Virago Modern Classics group on Librarything are reading all of her books in order of publication over the course of the year. Laura of Laura’s Musings has brought this readalong into the blogosphere by asking bloggers to ‘host’ one of the books, and I am delighted to say that I shall be hosting the reading of Palladian next month. If you’ve never read any Taylor and I’ve managed to pique your interest, please do consider joining in. Palladian is in print and  it’s also available for the Kindle for those of you who have embraced the digital age. I won’t be posting about it until mid to late February so there’s plenty of time to get yourselves ready – no excuses!!

Mansfield Park: Wrap Up

Well, reading Mansfield Park opened quite the can of worms, didn’t it? I knew that Mansfield Park was a hotly debated Austen, and one a lot of die hard fans find difficult to love, but little did I know that there have been out and out “Fanny Wars” (thanks Margaret!) – and I think a mini Fanny War may have broken out in the comments section of this very blog as my dislike of this highly irritating embodiment of all character traits I abhor has increased with every page! However, now I have finished, and can look at the novel holistically, I can approach it with less emotion and more appreciation for what Austen was trying to do. In pitting the religious and morally upstanding Fanny and Edmund against the secular and frivolous Mary and Henry, she is exploring the impact and consequences of a modernising society where traditional values and behaviours were starting to be eroded.

Mary and Henry are city dwellers, into excitement, fashion and frivolity. They don’t see the value in Fanny and Edmund’s strict code of living, which considers the effect of individual decisions on others and looks to be transparent and just. This is the behaviour that is necessary to adopt when living in a small, rural community where everyone is far more reliant on one another, but it is largely unnecessary in a large city where no one knows their neighbours and feels no obligation to those living around them. Tom, Maria and Julia Bertram possess the more city-minded character traits of Henry and Mary because they have been brought up to know that there is a world outside of Mansfield that they will get to take advantage of in future. Edmund, as the second son, has always known that he must take on the clergyman’s living, and so he has grown up to be fundamentally different from his siblings. They long to be amongst fashionable society, and have no interest in serving their local community and being good examples to others, whereas Edmund has had to develop a character suitable for forming the hearts and minds of the local villagers. As Fanny’s closest ally, Edmund has naturally become her mentor and guide, forming her mind along the same lines as his. Like Edmund, Fanny cannot look forward to a life spent amongst fashionable people; she is a poor relation and will be lucky if she marries at all. Therefore, she holds on to the strongly religious, community minded values Edmund has instilled in her, hating all frivolity, as it belongs to a world she will never be enabled to join.

In the early 1800s, the world was a rapidly changing place. Industrialisation and urbanisation were swinging into action, wars were raging all over Europe, and the terror of the French Revolution had seeped fear into the hearts of the aristocracy. Information about the goings on outside of the local community was becoming much more widely available, and the decadence and frivolity of life in the upper echelons of society was starting to filter down to the lower classes. Traditional 18th century values of piety and reserve were not being adopted by a new generation, whose behaviour reflected a more uncertain world that would no longer necessarily see them tied to the same communities as their ancestors. Fanny and Edmund’s faith in these 18th century values is mocked by the more 19th century habits of their friends and relations, who seek to put themselves and their enjoyment first.

Edmund loves Mary Crawford despite what he views as being her ‘many flaws’ – namely her frivolity and lack of Christian values – and genuinely believes that he can change her and show her the error of her ways. Fanny never believes that Mary can change, and has an intense dislike of both Mary and Henry from the start of their acquaintance, considering them to be lacking in character and conscience and totally unworthy of her or Edmund’s friendship. Mary and Henry are destructive to Fanny’s peace and comfort; Mary almost steals the man she loves, Henry tries to make Fanny marry him against her will, and Mary and Henry’s frivolous, light hearted take on life consistently clashes with Fanny’s values and makes her uncomfortable and distressed. Fanny is very certain of what is right and what is wrong, and her only show of any character or independence is when these morals are challenged. At other times, her passivity is infuriating to a more modern audience; she is the sort of girl who cries at every slight and refuses to stand up for herself, though this delicacy of character is explained away by Austen as being a consequence of her subordinate position in a household where she has not quite got the status of a family member, and is treated more as an indulged servant. Unsure of herself and conscious of having to please others at all times, she has naturally developed a rather nervous disposition, and this would be forgiveable if Fanny were not such a prig.

For – and bring it on, Fanny fans, if you want to try and disagree with me! – Fanny IS a prig, and no matter of difficult home circumstances or delicate dispositions can make me sympathise with her because of it. I was beginning to warm to her until she behaved so unnecessarily nastily to Henry Crawford (who I quite fancy, actually – I love a bad boy), who genuinely loves her and was doing his best to change his ways in order to become the man he knew Fanny deserved. After her cold rudeness to him, and dismissal of his behaviour as being false without making any effort to get to know him beyond the superficial knowledge she had from watching him during the play, she was dead to me. What I so intensely dislike about Fanny’s character is that she has no time for anyone who goes against her narrow view of what is the right way to behave. She is intolerant and unaccepting of difference; she cannot see any good in Mary and Henry, despite there being plenty, because their ways of behaving are not to her taste. Fanny cannot appreciate or understand their points of view, their difference in upbringing, their take on the world, and she doesn’t try to. It is this judgemental attitude that makes Fanny so infuriating, and an heroine that it is virtually impossible to love.

This is a fascinating, complex novel that feels very different from Austen’s other novels and presents the reader with a great deal of autonomy in the interpretation of its characters. Even in Austen’s day, readers were torn over Fanny; some loved her and appreciated her moral strength; others praised Mary Crawford’s vivacity and couldn’t stand Fanny’s priggishness. There is just enough information about Fanny and her background to make us sympathise with her, but there is also plenty of rope provided to hang her on. Edmund and Fanny’s staunch belief in their own rectitude and resistance of the more open minded, fun loving attitude to life that Mary, Henry and the Bertram siblings share, brings them happiness in the end, as they marry one another and enjoy wedded bliss in the Rectory in the quiet surroundings of Mansfield. Only Maria is really punished by Austen, as she is the one who has truly sinned; banished to a cottage with only Mrs Norris for company for the rest of her days, this is an exceptionally cruel end. Tom is nearly killed off for being naughty, but he is allowed to recover and mend his ways. Julia runs off with Mr Yates but is happy regardless. Finally, Mary and Henry’s fates remain vague, their futures open-ended. While Fanny and Edmund have technically won the ‘happy ever after’ prize, their rather dull life doesn’t feel particularly triumphant. Austen seems to be saying that staunch traditionalism is not something to be rewarded, and yet neither is complete flouting of social convention, a la Maria Rushworth.

So, what does she intend for us to take away from Mansfield Park? Perhaps that a happy medium of frivolity with the heart in the right place will bring about no bad end? Mary doesn’t get an immediate happy ever after, but there’s no reason why she won’t in future. I couldn’t help but get the impression that Austen liked Mary Crawford more than any other character, and that while she makes errors of judgement, she most certainly never comes across as a truly bad person. Misguided and selfish on occasion, yes, but malicious and unkind, no, certainly not. Mary is a modern woman, and Fanny is a throwback to a former age that is no longer in existence and will never be again. Her narrowmindedness will do her no good in a rapidly changing world, and perhaps this is why her and Edmund’s marriage does not feel like an especially happy ending; two people so stuck in their ways cannot bring much benefit or joy to society. Mary, Henry and the Bertrams (perhaps except Maria) are more pliable and willing to adapt; they learn from their mistakes and have an ability to embrace, enjoy and be a part of a changing world. Fanny’s inability to understand or like people who differ from her is no way to live in 1814, and so ultimately I can’t help but come to the conclusion that Austen did not mean us to esteem Fanny, but instead to view her as a naive and misguided hanger on to a world that had already started to pass away. Mansfield Park is a ‘modern’ house, after all; its inhabitants must learn to be so too, if they are to prosper in a new century.

I look forward to hearing your opinions! My reading of Austen will continue, probably in about a month or so; I plan on tackling Sense and Sensibility next, so if you fancy joining me, watch this space!

Simple Things

Being an adult is hard sometimes, isn’t it? So many decisions to make, so many paths to navigate, so many things outside of our control, so many bills to pay. It can become all too overwhelming, and difficult to see the wood for the trees. When there is so much to hope for, and so much to dream of, and yet so little immediately achievable, it’s easy to let your spirits sink. Coming back from a year where I lived a temporary life of constant novelty, where every day was a gift, every experience – no matter how mundane – a memory to be treasured, and every sight a revelation, has been a struggle. When the everyday has been capable of becoming so remarkable, it is hard to once again find yourself living a life that feels so utterly unremarkable. That sense of constant possibility – of euphoria, even – that I used to feel in just performing the act of walking down the street is nigh on impossible to recapture now I’m back in my old routines, living my old life, in my old city.

But over the past week or so, I’ve been taken by surprise at just how exciting ordinary life can be, and I have learned to appreciate what a gift it is to have all that I do. I often become so wrapped up in what I’ve not done and what I don’t have that I forget to appreciate how miraculous it is just to be alive, to be healthy, to have a family, to have friends, to have a job, to have a home, to have disposable income, to even have the luxury of the choices I agonise over.

Today I was mulling over the last few days, and realising how much fun I have had while doing nothing particularly groundshaking; on Saturday, I had a wonderful lunch of steak frites at Cote with one of my dearest friends, rambled through the beautiful streets of Highgate and marvelled at the magnificent views across London, before heading home for a luxurious night alone on the sofa with a bottle of white wine, indulgently sobbing my way through Bridget Jones’ Diary – joy! On Sunday, as part of my new relaxed me routine, I stayed at home all day. I made peanut millionaire’s shortbread (delicious), I sang along to the radio at the top of my voice, I cooked a lemon and garlic roast chicken, I finally ironed all of my clothes that I have kept shoving to the back of the wardrobe for weeks, I had a wonderful time mentally throttling Fanny Price as I curled up on the sofa with Mansfield Park, my flatmate and I laughed so hard that we cried, several times, and we clutched each other in delight as we watched a fabulous new drama called Call the Midwife, based on this book that I must buy very soon. On Monday I met up with another dear friend for a delicious dinner at Carluccios (they do the best spinach and ricotta ravioli ever) and we walked along the Southbank in the crisp darkness, marvelling at the beauty of the lights strung through the trees and the stunning buildings lining the riverbank, whilst chatting away and just thoroughly enjoying one another’s company. And yesterday night, I went to my French class; it’s proving to be a challenge to go back to learning a language I last spoke when I was 18, but I am loving every second of it. Grappling with grammar and vocabulary is something I relish, because the sense of achievement when it all clicks and you can triumphantly end the lesson able to say a sentence you couldn’t at the beginning is absolutely marvellous. Plus I have met some fascinating people to boot, and we roll around laughing at our pathetic attempts at communicating in halting French!

It’s not a bad life, is it? So much joy comes from simple things, and those are the things I forget about when I assess how my life is going and how far from achieving my lofty ambitions I still am, causing me to fall into pits of first-world-problems despair. I used to remember the simple things – I used to thrive on them – when I lived in New York, but coming back to London – as the idea of taking steps backwards often does – had made me feel that my life was thoroughly humdrum. However, a string of magical lights along the Thames and a series of largely uneventful yet lovely days spent doing ordinary yet wonderful things has shifted my perspective. I might not be setting the world on fire while I am squished between stranger’s armpits on my morning commute, or stuffing envelopes at work, or doing yet another round of washing up, but that’s ok. My life is still pretty brilliant regardless. And so is peanut millionaire’s shortbread, by the way – you seriously have to make that stuff. I’ve been living off it for the past four days!

Mansfield Park: What’s in a Name?

I have been pondering why I am finding Mansfield Park so different to Austen’s other works, and thinking around the topic in this way rather than focusing on the likeability of the characters has helped me gain some new insights. Firstly, Mansfield Park’s title; it is a place. Northanger Abbey aside, Austen’s major novels are either eponymous – Emma – refer to emotions – Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility – or highlight an action – Persuasion. In each of these cases, the reader is directed towards something human in the very title of the novel. In Emma and in Sense and Sensibility, we witness the growth of a girl from immaturity to maturity; in Pride and Prejudice, we watch as Elizabeth and Darcy are forced to reassess their preconceptions; in Persuasion, we watch Anne blossom through the hope of love revived. Mansfield Park, however, has nothing to do with character, romance or emotion; it is a house, filled with a variety of different people, none of whom is necessarily meant to be of more consequence than any other. Why do we automatically assume that Fanny is supposed to the centre of the book, and the heroine? She gets no more page time than anyone else, and the story is not told through her eyes. We hear just as much of Mary Crawford’s feelings as we do of Fanny’s, and the wide cast of characters means that there are a variety of interesting narratives co existing at any one time. This is not a single issue or a single character novel, and focusing on Fanny and whether she needs a slap or not (answer: she definitely does) does somewhat distract from the textual complexity and daring nature of Mansfield Park, which is a significant departure from Austen’s other works and one that neatly subverts the reader’s expectations while still managing to be a satisfying reading experience.

So, back to the significance of the title; all we know of Mansfield Park is that it is a large, modern built house with well appointed rooms, set in a spacious park. It speaks of wealth but not of history; a ‘modern’ built house can surely not be more than around fifty years old, and Sir Thomas may very well be the first baronet – his money comes from plantations in Antigua, not from acres of ancient Northamptonshire land, after all. Therefore, Mansfield Park is a handsome and comfortable home, but it rests on shaky ground. Sir Thomas must be very worried about his financial situation in order to take the dangerous and lengthy trip to Antigua and remain there for the best part of two years, and let us not forget that Edmund’s reduced circumstances speak of a genuine lack of ready paternal cash. Mansfield Park gives off the appearance of wealth and success, but it hides a deeper concern about lack of status and financial security; Sir Thomas allows Maria to marry Mr Rushworth despite his clear shortcomings due to his status in the county – the alliance will do Sir Thomas good. Plus, Sir Thomas’ influence in the world outside of Mansfield Park is limited – he cannot secure William Price a rise in rank to lieutenant, as he lacks the appropriate connections. Sir Thomas, then, is in all likelihood a newly created baronet, keen to enter the ranks of the gentry and gain the respect of families with more robust lineage and a less questionable source of income than his own. His wealth and position are not secure, and Mansfield Park’s modernity and relative obscurity – no high profile visitors enter its doors – give it an air of impermanence and insignificance that cannot help but rub off on its inhabitants.

What then, does Mansfield Park as a setting tell us about the story that unfolds within its walls? Well, for Fanny, it is a far cry from the cramped and squalid home in Portsmouth where she spent her first ten years, though she does not benefit from the aforementioned spacious and well appointed rooms herself. Instead she is banished to a section of the house where the servants sleep, and it is only when she is no longer under the care of the governess that she is allowed the additional use of the old school room – and only because her bedroom is so small in the first place. Fanny is frightened and intimidated by the house and prefers her own shabby rooms to the formal downstairs spaces; this reflects Fanny’s inherent dislike of show and pretence. Mary and Henry Crawford, on the other hand, are impressed by Mansfield, and Mary can well imagine herself being mistress of such a lovely house. To them it reflects Sir Thomas’ wealth and position and is a fine place to be associated with; perhaps a reflection of their more shallow outlook on life and the pleasure they take in material things. Maria, Julia and Tom don’t seem to care much for their home; it is not a place they feel particularly sentimental about, and they don’t have a huge amount of respect for it. All are happy to knock it about in the course of putting on their play, and they are only too keen to get away from Mansfield just as soon as they get the opportunity. Brought up by a lazy and ineffectual mother and a distant father, they take their father’s wealth and their luxurious surroundings for granted. Mansfield Park doesn’t impress them, and this lack of understanding and appreciation of what they have been blessed with demonstrates their parents’ nouveau riche status. No expense has been spared on educating the Bertram children to be accomplished and fit for the society Sir Thomas has bought his way into, but their moral characters have been forgotten about, and not been developed or guided as they should be. As such the Bertram children have grown into adults who are just as lacking in firm foundations and traditional values as their modern family home.

Mansfield Park is therefore a place of contradiction and of unease; on the one hand it is an elegant and impressive display of prosperity and comfort; on the other, a shallow status symbol built from the proceeds of human slavery by a man whose aspirations outstrip his means. As such it is a reflection of the novel itself, whose appearance of being a romance novel actually conceals a fascinating and complex exploration of human nature that makes the reader wonder what exactly Austen is trying to get at. It isn’t a romance, because we can’t love Fanny and Edmund enough to feel that sense of fist pumping euphoria at their wedding, and it isn’t a tragedy, because we don’t really care that Maria ends up ruined. The ending falls rather flat; Fanny gets what she wants, but Austen marries her off to Edmund, who not only is a judgemental hypocrite, but is also rather unconvincing as a lover; he falls in love with Fanny over the course of one paragraph after having spent the previous 500 pages of the novel being in love with someone else. It’s obvious that Edmund loved Mary and that Fanny was his second choice; Fanny may have passive aggressively stood her ground and waited her turn but is her prize worth all of her sacrifices and hand wringing? I don’t think so, and I don’t think Austen did either. Mary Crawford may end up single but this is no bad fate; she is an attractive woman of fortune and will make a match eventually – I think she had a lucky escape, actually. So, is Austen playing with her readers by keeping her tongue firmly in her cheek throughout this novel, or does she genuinely mean to portray Fanny’s virtues as an ideal? Given the circumstances of Fanny’s happy ending, I think the former, but it’s a tough call to make. I’d love to hear more of your thoughts and I shall be writing more about Mansfield Park and its characters in a couple of days, so check back in then to continue the discussion!

Weekend Wanderings

Last weekend I finally got around to visiting Two Temple Place, William Astor’s mansion on the Victoria Embankment. It’s a gorgeous Victorian take on Jacobean architecture right next to Temple tube station, and I had absolutely no idea it existed until I got an email about a new William Morris exhibition being held there. The Bulldog Trust, which owns the building, has decided to use some of the space to display collections from regional museums that would normally be inaccessible to Londoners, and I’m really excited about what could be coming up next! The William Morris exhibition’s theme is ‘Story, Memory, Myth’ and explores how Morris told stories through his art. They have some exquisite embroidered panels, wallpaper and fabric samples, stained glass and books that all come together to demonstrate Morris’ profound interest in the Medieval world and his remarkable talent at creating designs that transport the viewer into this alternate reality of an idealised past.

The inside of the mansion was the real draw, though, and slightly overpowered what they had on display. The entrance hall, with its stained glass ceiling, galleried landings and ornately carved staircase, was breathtaking. I could have stared at it all day! Once you have entered the first exhibition room, you find yourself wandering through cavernous, faux Jacobean banqueting rooms complete with exquisite panelling, beautiful, incredibly detailed stained glass and painted ceilings that will have you craning your neck for a closer look. It’s an incredible building that Astor obviously spared no expense on creating exactly to his specifications. A lavish idealisation of a historic British stately home slap bang in the middle of London and with commanding views across the Thames, it’s a unique place and I can highly recommend a visit.

Once we’d finished looking around, my friend and I wandered along the river, had lunch on the Southbank and then went to see The Artist. I was sceptical about watching a silent film, but I needn’t have been – it’s absolutely marvellous. I found it really interesting how easy it is to tell a story without any dialogue; so much can be told through expressions, and the actors are mesmerising in their ability to bring their characters to life without uttering a word. The story itself is both a fascinating look at the world of early Hollywood and a heartbreaking portrayal of a man’s fall from grace, and I think I cried and laughed in equal measure. It’s an exquisite work of art and I urge you all to go and see it!!

In other news, I am still reading and highly enjoying Mansfield Park, and I have been intrigued and entertained by all the different opinions flying around in the comments. Who knew a Jane Austen novel could cause such heated controversy! If you’d like to join in, please feel free to – I will be writing more about it over the course of the following week, so there will be plenty of opportunities to air your thoughts!

Mansfield Park: First Impressions

This is a tricksy novel, is it not? I am about half way through and on so many levels I am thoroughly enjoying myself. My toes are positively curling with glee every time I immerse myself back into the world of Mansfield Park; there is so much hilarity! Austen’s wit, characterisation and always perfectly timed observations on the vagaries of human nature are, as usual, superb. The cast of characters is Austen at her best; there are so many to hate, and so few to love; just as it should be. Mrs Norris is particularly brilliantly realised; a busybody with an opinion on everything and an uncanny ability to extricate herself from any financial or other inconvenience resulting from her suggestions for improvement, she is even more odious than Mrs Elton – I never thought such a thing could be possible! Lady Bertram is another stroke of genius; she loves her dog more than her children and seems to spend most of her time dozing on the sofa, and Maria and Julia Bertram are a more grown up Kitty and Lydia Bennett, bickering constantly and jealously vying for the attention of whichever single bachelors happen to come their way.

However, amidst these lively folk live Edmund and Fanny, and you’d be hard pressed to find a drearier pair. Fanny can barely walk to the bottom of the garden without needing to sit down and gets a headache from spending half an hour cutting flowers in a bit of sunshine. Please! She meekly puts up with a garret bedroom and being used as an errand girl, and is entirely dependent on Edmund to protect her; heaven forbid that she should speak a word in defence of herself! Don’t get me wrong; Fanny is a sweet girl, who appreciates nature, is kind and thoughtful, and is naturally shy and retiring. These are all fine character traits, and shouldn’t prevent her from being endearing or interesting, especially not when created by the pen of Jane Austen. I understand that she struggles to speak up for herself because she has strong feelings of inadequacy and a lack of self confidence due to her unusual upbringing; she is, after all, a dependent in someone else’s home and is made to feel like she should be constantly grateful and obliging, which isn’t an easy position to be in. However, despite being able to rationally sympathise with Fanny, emotionally I couldn’t care less about her. She is flat, cold, and dull; she has no sense of humour, no spunk, and no backbone. Anne Elliot is a similarly quiet and put upon heroine, but Austen manages to bring Anne to life in a way that she fails to do with Fanny. I think, at this stage, Fanny is just presented as far too two-dimensional to endear her to the reader. Her inner thoughts are not much exposed, and even though there is a flash of endearability in her jealousy of Mary Crawford, it’s not enough to redeem her for me. She bores me to tears.

Edmund is a rather different kettle of fish. His relationship with Fanny is very interesting, and I hadn’t picked up on many of the complexities of this before. While Edmund’s primary aim is to make Fanny feel safe and welcome in his family’s home, there is also a rather disturbing undercurrent of control. Edmund has moulded Fanny into a ‘mini-me’, using his emotional power over her to shape her thoughts, feelings and decisions until he is sure she will always be his ally. As Austen says, Edmund has ‘formed her mind’; he manipulates Fanny’s affection and trust to the point where Fanny seeks Edmund’s approval in her every decision, and is incapable of having an independent opinion that does not tie in with his. Edmund is keen to control everyone, and is always quick to dispense his opinions on others’ behaviour when he finds it lacking in comparison to his own moral standards. However, when it suits him, his standards can very quickly alter, and no one is more gifted than he at finding mitigating circumstances to explain away his sudden change of heart.

I find Edmund sly, calculating and controlling; while he can be perceptive and caring, he can also be incredibly obtuse – he totally fails to realise that Fanny worships the ground he walks on – and I wonder how much of his behaviour is for appearances’ sake. I know that Henry and Mary Crawford are supposed to be the villains of the piece, but at the moment they are my hero and heroine; they might be up to no good, but at least they do not pretend to be anything other than what they are, and they have a lot of fun in the process. Mary Crawford actually reminds me a lot of Elizabeth Bennett; lively, witty and not afraid to give her opinion, she sparkles next to the dull Fanny.

So, what exactly is Austen doing here? We have a flat heroine, a manipulative and very flawed hero, a villainess who is actually very likeable and a villain who is dashing, good fun and hasn’t technically done anything wrong (yet). I think I need to read a little further in order to come to some concrete conclusions. What I can say at this point is that Mansfield Park is a very well written and well structured novel; the dialogue sparkles, the wit is perfectly judged, the characters are intriguing, and there is plenty of plot. However, my dislike of the two major players is souring the taste a little. Austen has created a very strange scenario in which we have two characters that charm and two that offend, and by the end of the novel we are expected to be content with the two offenders becoming our happy ever after. Subverting the traditional course of the novel is a very ambitious scheme indeed; at the moment, I’m not convinced that Jane’s going to be able to pull it off. That Edmund is nothing but a snake in the grass as far as I’m concerned, and Fanny really needs to lighten up.

Heat Lightning by Helen Hull

Making a new author discovery is both wonderful and anxiety inducing. Having adored the first book of theirs you came across, and knowing very little of their reputation or oeuvre, how can you approach their work for a second time with anything other than trepidation?! I need not have been worried about Heat Lightning, however; it is just as magnificent as Morning Shows the Day and left me once again surprised that Helen Hull has fallen into that terrible black hole entitled ‘mid century woman novelist’, where she has the excellent company of too many others who are equally undeserving to be consigned to such a dark and impenetrable fate.

I digress. Heat Lightning is set over a scorching week in a sleepy, faded Midwestern town. Amy Norton has come back to stay with her parents and take a ‘rest’ from her busy life in New York, but little do her family know that their glamorous and successful daughter is really running from a marriage that is falling apart and a life that does not make her happy. Hoping for a chance to get some peace and clarity, Amy has returned to the fold of the Westover clan, the most prominent family in this once prosperous farming community. However, times have changed since she has been gone and her sprawling family is splitting at the seams. Amy’s restful holiday becomes anything but as she finds herself drawn into the complicated affairs of her uncles, aunts and cousins, and rather than escape her own difficulties, she realises she must face them, and the flaws in her personality and approach to life that have contributed to bringing them about.

This is a novel about so many things, so perfectly expressed. It touches at the core of life, bringing flashes of illumination to the hidden questions that run, dormant but pulsing, under the surface of our existence. What is it that holds families together, when we are all such a diverse pool of different personalities with a multitude of needs and desires that are usually at odds with those of others? Can we ever really understand the people our parents are, separate from their relationship to us, and would we want to if we could? How do we learn to grow into the people we need to become in order to cope with the responsibilities of our adult lives? And how much do we really know about the people we love the most; the lives they have lived before we came into them, the secret vulnerabilities and fears that haunt them? Life, our pasts, love, and our relationships with one another are so fraught with difficulty and confusion and misunderstanding that at times we can find ourselves lost in the midst of our own existence, fighting to work out who we are, where we have come from, and where we are going. Who can we turn to, and where do we look for answers?  Amy has run home to look for hers, in the comforting surroundings of her mother’s living room and her grandmother’s porch, and over the course of what will be a tumultuous, stormy week, she will see flashes of inspiration in the words and actions of those who raised her, giving her just enough light to see the way forward.

Helen Hull’s writing is exquisite, evocative, ripe for the picking; every line is beautifully crafted, every character teeming with life. She effortlessly paints a picture of a dappled, sun bleached town filled with clapboard houses and grey dust, peopled by housewives in printed calico and sulky teenagers quivering with frustration. As her characters clash and struggle, so does the world outside of them, as the depression hits and all financial security is lost. Amy, come from the big city to shelter in this backwater, comes to realise that there is no escape from the realities of life; they are just as prominent in the rural Midwest as they are in Midtown. This sort of domestic, ‘small town’ tale is woefully underappreciated by the literary establishment; like Dorothy Whipple, Helen Hull’s perception, her clarity of expression and her ability to tease out the quiet, unspoken thoughts and fears that ripple under the surface of each of our lives is magnificent. Like it or not, most of our lives are lived out in our homes, amongst the people we are related to, and it is within this domestic arena that the real drama and struggle and flight of life reigns supreme. It takes true skill to rivet the heart and mind while remaining within the four walls of the family home, and I can’t praise Hull’s abilities enough. I’m ready for a Helen Hull revival! Who’s with me?!

Resolutions

1. Relax more. In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t really relax much. Even when I’m sitting down, my legs are jiggling away – I don’t even notice until whoever I’m sitting next to whacks me! When I’m off work sick, I see it as a great opportunity to get annoying household tasks done, like washing the bathroom floor and cleaning out the fridge, rather than lying on the sofa like normal people. I feel the need to jampack my weekends and nights after work with seeing places and people and all that results in is making me feel stressed and exhausted rather than enriched and fulfilled. So, this year I am going to force myself to relax more. If I don’t get to see that play this week, it’s ok! If I can’t manage to fit in catch ups with all my friends at least once a month, they’ll still know I love them! If I don’t get time to swing by the latest exhibition at my favourite museums, tant pis! I’ll survive! I need more tea, sit downs and biscuits in my life. I don’t want to underestimate the importance and pleasures gained from relaxtion. Even if it does have to be enforced!

2. Write more. Writing my blog brings me so much pleasure. I love the process of setting down my thoughts on whatever it is I’m writing about; crafting the words, creating the imagery, bringing to life my feelings and emotions on the page. I also love the interaction with those of you who are so kind as to enjoy reading what I write. That is such a joy. However, I want to branch out and write more. I have always wanted to write a novel, or a book of essays, or a biography, but I let my fear of failure hold me back. This year I am not going to let that happen. In all the spare time I’m going to have from relaxing more, I’m going to make a concerted effort to plan and write something that could go somewhere…and I’m not going to hit the delete button on anything I write!

3. Read more classics. I watched the wonderful BBC adaptation of Great Expectations over Christmas. I’ve known about it airing for ages as my one and only claim to fame is that my brother in law is Douglas Booth’s (Pip) personal trainer – and I found myself mesmerised by the setting, the characters and the brilliant storytelling. It reminded me of how much I love his writing, but I haven’t picked anything of his up since finishing university in 2007. Also, as you know, last year I re-read Persuasion, and that was the first Austen I’d read in quite some years too. I have let my reading of the classics slide significantly since leaving my official studies of English Literature behind and I want to put a stop to that right now. 2012 is going to be the year of Austen, of Dickens, of Bronte, of Trollope, and of Gaskell. I can’t wait! (I will be starting Mansfield Park at the weekend, by the way – get ready if you want to join in!)

4. Cook more adventurously. I always make my dinners from scratch but they’re never particularly inventive – roast potatoes, some form of vegetable, some form of meat, or sometimes I’ll go crazy and make a lasagne or a toad in the hole or a broccoli cheese or something along those lines, but it never gets more exciting than that. This is mostly because I hate faff and I’m always worried that if I try a new recipe, it’ll go horribly wrong and then dinner will end up being beans on toast. However, this week I have already branched out – I made Rachel Allen’s bacon and potato gratin on Monday night, which went down a treat, and tonight I have made mexican bean burgers, based very loosely on this recipe as I didn’t have an egg or any coriander or any salsa (I made my own) or any bread to make breadcrumbs. In case you’re interested I added red onion and garlic. They were delicious! The ease and fun of trying new things this week has given me loads more ‘kitchen confidence’ and so my Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall and my Rachel Allen cookbooks are going to get a lot of use this year!

5. Finish my quilt. I first posted about making my quilt in 2009. This was back when I still worked at the glorious V&A and was part of the team putting together the Quilts exhibition. I’m in the exhibition book – my hand, my quilt…we’re both in there, looking like we’re having fun. Little did I know that 2012 would tick around and that quilt would still be unfinished. I’ve done a lot, and it is nearly there, but I really need to push myself to get it finished. I have a sewing machine now which means I can bind and quilt it myself too, so I really have no excuse. After all, my new relaxed self should have plenty of time to stitch hexagons together this year!

Book Serendipity

Yesterday I was shopping in Tunbridge Wells, and there are two very good bookshops nestled away in the Pantiles area of town, which is essentially a pretty cobbled Victorian shopping arcade. One is an Oxfam Books, which I know is the death of the high street second hand bookseller, but they do have a very good selection and as much as my principles burden me with guilt whenever I step inside, the tradeoff of what is technically just giving to charity and receiving a gift in return does somewhat lessen the additional guilt of buying books I really don’t need.  The other bookshop is a wonderfully crowded, Dickensian labyrinth of poky shelves and piles of dusty hardcovers that usually doesn’t fail to offer up a gem or two. It has Viragos and Orange Penguins aplenty, and it’s also a goldmine of original hardcovers of my favourite mid century authors.

I was on the hunt for the next in the Palliser series of Trollopes, and I was certain one of these two would be able to offer up the goods. Sadly neither had the title I wanted at a price I was prepared to pay, but Oxfam had another little treasure up its sleeve for me. As I mentioned a few days ago, I am planning on re-reading the much maligned Mansfield Park in the New Year. I do already have a nice little hardcover copy, but it’s nothing special and I’m not overly attached to it. So, imagine my delight when I spotted an absolutely stunning turn of the century, elaborately decorated and beautifully illustrated copy of Mansfield Park sitting waiting for me on a dusty top shelf at the back of the shop! And for only £2.50! I gathered it up, paid my money and skipped off home with it.

Later that evening I was attempting to settle my baby nephew down to sleep, and I thought a bit of soothing reading would do the trick. So, I opened Mansfield Park and began to read out loud. As little Albert’s eyes began to get heavier and heavier, mine lit up. The irony! The wit! The odiousness of Mrs Norris! The Lord Grantham-esque-ness of Sir Thomas! It is all far more wonderful and brilliantly written than I remember. I am not allowing myself to go any further than I did last night, as I am in the midst of another book at the moment, but I am eager to get stuck in as soon as I can in January. Would anyone like to join me?