Candleford Green – Flora Thompson

So I come to the end of my relationship with Flora Thompson. This third entry follows Laura’s life as assistant to the postmistress at Candleford Green. Though  Laura – now in her middle teens – is a more distinct personality, one with opinions, she’s still mostly an observer of others. In these vivid portrayals, through all three books, we learn not just about individuals, but how they fit into society. That society provided for basic human needs, such as a sense of community and pride of craftsmanship. It’s presented without sentimentality, but its virtues still emerge. Thompson ends the trilogy with a thought-provoking chapter entitled “Change in the Village.” The influence of the Industrial Revolution was reaching into rural England, altering people’s way of life. All begins to change: the way they farm, the houses they live in, the clothes they wear. And, most importantly, their values. Some of these changes are for the better, but, for me, a strong sense of loss prevailed. As, it is clear, it did for Flora. She would always be bound to the world that would vanish – it formed who she was – and when she was in her sixties she felt the need to recreate it. That she did it so well is her lasting tribute. *

In Pursuit of the English – Doris Lessing

The action begins when Doris leaves South Africa for London (the time is 1950) and rents a flat in a rundown rooming house. Three characters stand out: Flo and Dan, a married couple who own the house, and one of the tenants, Rose. All are vivid, mostly emerging through the words they speak; Lessing catches the working class vernacular exceedingly well. It’s Rose who is the most developed, and she’s a very appealing character; on one level, the book is about the friendship that develops between her and Doris. But, though the book is in the first person, Doris stays in the background; we learn little about her. She has a son – eight years old, I believe – who lives with her, but he’s mentioned, in passing, maybe a half dozen times; he’s basically non-existent. I don’t see Lessing as a negligent mother; she was just not writing about herself or her role as mother. She’s primarily a recorder of the words and actions of others. At about the halfway point the mood of the book changes. It had seemed rambunctious, often humorous, with a sense of comradery prevailing. Then it grew grim, even sordid. What was colorful became murky. The humor was still present, but it involved such human emotions as meanness and greed. Problems lurking in these lives gained dominance, and it took an effort for me to adjust. I can’t imagine that Lessing thought she was describing the English people as a whole (as the title implies); she was dealing with a strata of society. Since her bio corresponds to the events in the book (which in some versions is given the subtitle of “A Documentary”), were her characters real people she got to know? If so – since many are depicted in a highly unflattering way – what about a libel suit? She actually addresses this concern in a dialogue near the end in which an odious fellow proposes that she write a book in which he’s a thinly disguised character, and she has him doing odious things. He would then sue her publisher for libel, and, he assures her, their insurer would settle out of court. They would pay up, and he and Doris could split a hundred nicker. Hmm. Maybe Lessing thought that no one in the book was likely to read it. As was, apparently, the case with the people at Popular Library, which put out the paperback version. They managed to get everything wrong. The cover photos are wildy misleading, their description of what the book is about is way off base, and the text itself is a mess, with many typos and misspellings and wrong words substituted for the right ones. I wonder if Lessing would care. This was a phase in her writing she would turn away from, and go on to more ambitious undertakings (and a Nobel Prize). A shame, for this waywardly structured book delivers a look at life that kept me interested and involved.

The Lemur – Benjamin Black (pen name)

A crime novella that’s a dud and ends with a thud. It’s literary in style, set in New York, and full of the trappings of extreme wealth. This probably was an effort to appeal to its original audience – it was first serialized in the New York Times Magazine, whose sophisticated readers no doubt recognized the brand names of ultra expensive watches, clothes, etc. But enough about this inconsequential book – let’s talk about John Banville, the guy behind that pen name. He’s an esteemed author, the winner of numerous awards, including the Booker. I haven’t read anything by him, but apparently he’s difficult (he’s described as “the heir to Proust, via Nabokov”). So why is he slumming in the crime novel genre? Most likely for the money. Crime novels sell, literary ones don’t. And I see, in his Wiki entry, no mention of his teaching at a MFA program, where most literary writers wind up. In his back cover photo Mr. Black looks grim and tough, though it may be depression. The book was never published in hard cover, just a Picador paperback. I’m always amused by typos. Here’s a sentence: “You’ve certainly upset, Granddad.” Of course, there should be no comma; the speaker is not addressing his Granddad, he’s talking about him. But, in this book, who cares?

Death in Summer - William Trevor
A third of the way through this novel a shift in emphasis occurs. The key figure in this evolution is Albert, an apparently insignificant young man whose job is to scrub graffiti off subway walls. He first appears as he listens to Pettie, a girl he came to know when they were in the same orphanage. Albert is worried, for he sees signs of distorted thinking on Pettie’s part. She’s been turned down for a job as live-in nanny for a baby whose mother was killed in a road accident. It’s the mother-in-law’s fault, Pettie believes; Thaddeus, the father of the child, wanted her to get the job, they had a bond, Pettie could sense it. . . . Albert tries, gently, to steer her away from this line of thinking. It’s futile; much of what Albert sets out to do is futile. What matters – in the terms Trevor establishes – is that Albert’s goodness makes him someone of major importance. It’s in his nature to worry about people who are life’s lost souls and to act on their behalf. In this novel those who are compassionate take on substance; those who lack that quality are diminished. Mrs Ferry, who at first glance is using an old affair to cadge money from Thaddeus, is not to be dismissed so easily, not when we gain insight into what motivates her. There’s a long section in which we follow Pettie’s thinking; she will kidnap the baby, but she doesn’t do it with malicious intent; her life has been blasted by so much pain that she has found refuge in a world of fantasies. At the end Albert pays a visit to the father. He wants to make Thaddeus understand Pettie, for understanding will lead to forgiveness; it’s important to Albert that the she be forgiven for what she did. There are scads of books aimed at enlightening; but here, in people and situations that are real, is a moving lesson in values. *

Where There’s a Will - Rex Stout
This is the sixth Nero Wolfe mystery I’ve read, and the most disappointing. Too many characters, too complex a plot. Even Wolfe, near the end, admits that he can’t figure out who killed Mr. Hawthorne. If the genius can’t untangle things, how can I feel anything but frustration? Wolfe does wind up solving the case, but the clue that opens the door is gratuitous, flimsy and involves knowledge that only a botanist could possess. Stout also throws a major red herring into the stew pot: one side of Mrs. Hawthorne’s face has been horribly disfigured by an arrow shot by her husband – presumably an accident – and he dies from a gunshot that rips off half his face. Yet this peculiar coincidence turns out to have no significance. Lastly, due to the large cast of characters, we get little of Archie, who merely runs around a lot, and even less of Nero, who merely asks questions. The first two Wolfe novels I read were good; the next three were not so good; this one was a waste of time. I’ll give Stout one more try.

The Grass Is Singing - Doris Lessing
In this novel a marriage is the seedbed for the unfolding of a horror story. It’s not just that Mary and Dick are mismatched, and that poverty and isolation (they’re poor white farmers in South Africa during the time of apartheid) grind them down. Mary, whose mind we spend the most time in, is mentally ill. “Of course I am ill,” she says in the last chapter. “I’ve been ill ever since I can remember. I am ill here” – and she points to her heart. But this is a brief moment of clarity; on the last day of her life she’s overwhelmed by despair. We know the outcome of the story in the opening pages: Mary is dead, murdered by Moses, the houseboy, and Dick is stark raving mad. What follows is a flashback in which Lessing relates in detail the factors that led to the disintegration of these two people. It’s a serious literary work, well-written and engrossing; but the ending, instead of bringing a sense of completion, raises questions – and doubts. Mary had always felt loathing for blacks and had treated them tyrannically; but in the last chapter, as she waits for Moses to kill her, Lessing suggests that the two have been involved sexually. Since the reader hasn’t been made privy to the development of this relationship, the forces compelling these two people to feel and act as they do are inexplicable. Lessing also suggests that Mary was sexually abused as a child; but why raise that issue at the end? And why all this suggesting? The intensity level of the entire book is pitched very high; but intensity can’t serve as a substitute for perception, and immoderation is always suspect. South Africa, with its debilitating climate and morally bankrupt racial attitudes, comes across as a sort of hell. The only singing on these pages is a wail of lamentation.