Miss Peabody’s Inheritance – Elizabeth Jolley
In all of Jolley’s work the characters, plot, structure, and grammar are idiosyncratic. In this novel she blurs the line separating reality from fiction. In the domain of reality we have Dorothy Peabody reading parts of a novel by an author to whom she wrote a fan letter. Miss Peabody is a spinster caring for a bedridden, demanding mother; she works as a clerk in an office in London. Actually, she has no life, whereas the fictional characters she reads about – Arabella Thorne, the headmistress of a girls’ school, and her assorted companions and students – are quite lively. Diana Hopewell, the creator of Arabella, sends letters with installments of the novel to her fan, but she remains in the shadows. Dorothy, in her letters to Hopewell, tries to establish some sort of relationship; but this won’t happen. Sadly (and I did feel the sadness) Miss Peabody is unable to make contact with others; when she tries (with the help of too many drinks) she makes a fool of herself. As a reader, she’s limited by her inexperience; she doesn’t understand that Miss Thorne is a lesbian. A confident, unabashed lesbian; the matter-of-fact way this is presented is refreshing. The book’s opening line is “The night belongs to the novelist.” Not only does Miss Peabody need to enter the life of Arabella each night, but the author must (it’s also clearly a need) create this life. Lastly, in order to exist, Arabella must be created. On the first page Jolley offers a quote from Samuel Johnson (via Boswell): “The flesh of animals who feed excursively is allowed to have a higher flavour than that who are cooped up. May there not be the same difference between men who read as their taste prompts, and men who are confined in cells and colleges to stated tasks . . .” My spell checker is claiming that Johnson meant “exclusively” rather than “excursively.” No – Johnson is referring to wandering far and wide in one’s reading. Jolley must believe this to be true, and so do I. If you read excursively, every so often you come across unique books like this one.

Lost Horizon – James Hilton
Shangri-La. That evocative name first appeared in this novel, which was published in 1933. The date may be significant. England was in the throes of the Great Depression and another war loomed on the horizon; people (including the author) may have felt the need to escape to a place of peace and serenity. Such a place – which is really a state of mind – can be reached (according the book’s message) only when one gives up all passions. This is something that the main character is quite ready to do. Conway has experienced the peaks and abysses of life, and when he arrives at Shangri-La he’s a depleted man. He finds an enclave where culture is preserved (against the threat of an imminent holocaust) and where people live for over a century (enabling them to engage in intellectual or artistic pursuits at their leisure). Unfortunately, Hilton didn’t get me to believe in or accept his utopia. One problem involves logic and logistics. We never know why Conway and three others are selected to be additions to Shangri-La, and the manner in which they arrive (a wild plane ride ending in a crash-landing) is preposterous. The lamasery is extremely inaccessible, yet it has bathtubs (made in Akron), a piano, central heating, etcetera. We get the vaguest of explanations as to how these items were transported there; the same could be said for why people are able to live long lives. A vagueness – or call it skimpiness – runs throughout the novel. No character has much presence, and Hilton doesn’t go into basics, such as what the sleeping arrangements are or what foods are eaten. From the little I did get, the prospect of living a century in this passionless place seemed like a colossal bore; when Conway isn’t dealing with his three companions he spends his time conversing with wise old llamas or gazing at the scenery. Last niggling complaint: the portrayal of the one American is farcical; the man is supposed to be a financier, yet he talks like a yokel (“figgered, “gotter”). All in all, this is a tepid work written by a man who seems not inspired but resigned and tired.

Bob the Gambler – Frederick Barthelme
Bob and his wife Jewel are people I came to know and like. RV, Jewel’s daughter, manages to avoid being a stereotype (no easy accomplishment for a fourteen-year-old who’s testing limits), and Bob’s mother is a plucky old gal. I stayed unflaggingly involved in and concerned about their problems – the main one being an addiction to gambling. From what I (a non-gambler) could see, Bob and Jewel lead lives that offer little stimulation (they have no interest in their jobs, they watch a lot of TV and videos). So losing huge sums of money (and they do, in every case, come out losers) provides a kind of thrill. Also, the casinos are worlds unto themselves, with a peculiar sense of comradery. Jewel starts gambling first, then Bob joins in with a vengeance. Their marriage is a good one; they’re a companionable pair who talk the same quirky language. When Bob begins to squander their life savings, Jewel remains calm, understanding and forgiving. I thought she should have thrown a fit, but she’s not me. At heart they seem to be irresponsible, devil-may-care souls. When they wind up moving into Bob’s mother’s house, they don’t get bent out of shape. Barthelme ends the novel on a prolonged upbeat note; Bob stops gambling, he starts doing some architecturally-related work, he grows closer to RV (who’s evolving into a human being). Not much going on, but I had no complaints. Jewel does, at the end, produce a big wad of cash and makes this proposal: “Ka-boom! We are back in the danger zone, on the red-hot wire high above the city of Biloxi, Mississippi, swaying in the wind. I say we stop at the Paradise and go for the big one.” She wants to play one hand for all they’ve got and then, win or lose, walk. Do they win or lose? The scene in the casino is skipped over. Afterwards Jewel says, “We won. They didn’t lay a glove on us. We just had to clean out that little bit that was left over, and now we’re set.” She may mean that they lost it all but they don’t care. The uncertainty as to what happened works, as does so much in this well-written, fast-moving book. Even the dog, Frank, is given his rightful place in an oddly endearing family.

The Fire-Dwellers - Margaret Laurence
Laurence immerses us in Stacey MacAindra. In addition to what she does, says, thinks and fantasizes, we also get scenes from her past. She’s thirty-nine years old, married with four children (oldest fourteen, youngest three). Emotionally, she’s conflicted; almost every feeling she has coexists with one in direct opposition. Though she loves her children, they’re a drain on her. Though she loves her husband, she wishes he would communicate with her. But when Mac says, “Just leave me alone,” both the reader and Stacey understand why: she’s exhausting to deal with. She even exhausts herself, and only her sense of humor saves her. Adding to her discontent is the fact that age is taking its toll – Stacey doesn’t like what she sees in the mirror. To say that she’s going through a midlife crisis wouldn’t do justice to this lively and ambitious psychological study. Unfortunately, Laurence goes astray near the end. Possibly she felt (with some justification; the book is too long) that she was getting repetitive and that she needed to add some dramatic events. But the ones she comes up with are poor choices. The novel is like a print on “Antiques Roadshow” whose value is diminished significantly by a tear along one side. The tear in Fire-Dwellers has to do with two male characters. The Stacey I know would have nothing to do with the aggressively vulgar Buckle. As for Luke Venturi, this young man should have been relegated to one of Stacey’s more sappy fantasies (from which she would recover with a laugh: “Get a grip, doll”). Luke’s name for her is “merwoman” – and I cringed. As for the sex scenes – more cringing. The novel recovers when it returns to the trivialities and turmoil of daily life, and Laurence closes on the right note. Lying in bed next to Mac, Stacey makes a inventory of the house and finds that everyone is asleep and all is quiet. She thinks, “Temporarily, they are all more or less okay.”

Theresa - Arthur Schnitzler (German)
In this novel, which is subtitled “The Chronicle of a Woman’s Life,” Schnitzler gives us a portrayal that begins when Theresa is sixteen and ends in her early death. Though attractive and intelligent, her life becomes a series of unsatisfying governess/tutoring jobs, financial difficulties, and love affairs that turn out badly. Theresa will never marry, but she will have one child. With the onset of middle age hope fades and disillusionment sets in; she prays that “passion might never again disturb the quiet current of her life and torment her innermost being.” Yet, except for brief interludes, the current of her life is never quiet, nor is her innermost being at peace. What begins to dominate her thoughts is the world’s indifference; she feels acutely that she is of no importance to anyone. And this is true – she doesn’t matter. As a key event in this chronicle, she shouldn’t have had the illegitimate child. But what she lacked was foresight and calculation, and that is no crime. Though not a paragon of virtue, Theresa isn’t a bad person, nor does she ever act maliciously. I began to ask myself what was lacking in her. Why is her life such a struggle? Did it all unfold from the fact that she was born to parents who were unable to love her (as she would be unable to love her own son)? At one point Theresa considers herself of another species from those to whom happiness is granted. Others seem to instinctively know how to preserve themselves and take what they desire, while her efforts to be coldly resourceful are destined to fail. Of her entire existence she decides that “she had not come into this world to be happy.” Perhaps that’s the final summing up. Though this book is a grueling experience, Schnitzler’s unique achievement is to make Theresa matter to the reader; on these pages she is of importance. Her last dreams, from which she awakens feeling an “unfulfillable tenderness and the apprehension of endless solitude,” are moving. What more can an author do?

Time and Time Again - James Hilton
The dominant figure in Charles Anderson’s life – and in the book – is his father. Havelock’s eccentricities are a manifestation of his disregard for others – he will do what he damn well pleases – and his charm is merely a vain display of his brilliant tail feathers. Charles sees the truth about this selfish and destructive man, but it’s not in his nature to condemn him. The son is the opposite of the father; his reserve and sense of propriety earn him the nickname of “Stuffy.” But he’s not reserved in his romance with Lily; Hilton captures the passion of first love beautifully. Since Lily is working class and so beneath the Anderson level in British society, Havelock swoops down to end the affair. This is a life-changing event, for Charles and Lily had planned to move to France, where he would pursue his painting. (Hmm . . . A youthful pipe dream?) Instead Charles becomes a diplomat, and the woman he eventually marries is eminently suited to aid him in that role. Though it’s a happy union, it seems that they are mainly a compatible team. Except for the drama of the bombing of London, the book begins to slow down in the post-Lily second half. It unravels in the concluding section, in which Charles, at age fifty-two, tries to connect with his son. Charles comes across as fussy and foolish, the son is nondescript, and the defection of a Russian spy is a dull sideshow. Hilton has Charles start up a relationship with a much younger woman, but there’s not enough going on between the two to make it credible. The prose never weakens – it’s exceptionally smooth and inviting – but what does weaken is Hilton’s resolve to explore Charles’s dilemma. Feelings of loneliness and regret are hinted at, but then are sidestepped. In trying to account for this evasiveness, some facts stand out. Hilton died at age fifty-four, a year before the novel was published; the cause of death was liver cancer, so he must have been aware of his imminent mortality. That he has Charles being born in 1900, the same year he was, may indicate that he put something of himself in a character whose nature it was to always keep a stiff upper lip. As for the hopeful ending, Hilton may have chosen to open the door to life and love for his fictional self as it was closing for him.

Serenade - James M. Cain
A mess. Cain even changes the terms he establishes with the reader. The story begins in Mexico; a typical Cain tough guy on the skids gets involved with a prostitute with a plan. Next thing we know the tough guy turns out to be a world famous opera star; he regains his voice and the book switches to the classical music scene in New York, with the prostitute relegated to the background. Next thing we know – and this is the most startling aspect for a Cain novel – the tough guy turns out to have a homosexual side. When the prostitute reemerges with a vengeance things get melodramatic, even ridiculous. So why did I read to the end? Cain’s writing has energy and conviction; he entertains. And it’s fascinating to watch the conventions of storytelling being tossed out the window of a speeding car.

Goodbye, Mr. Chips - James Hilton
Sometimes an author’s ambitions are modest, but he executes his plan perfectly. This is a small novel – small in size, small in subject (the life of a British schoolmaster). I had little interest in reading it, but it won me over, as it did millions of others. Hilton was wise in not elevating Mr. Chipping above his rightful place; he’s notable only for the highly-valued British trait of steadfastness. Hilton is skillful in the way he handles Chips’ short marriage (his wife and baby die in childbirth); though Kathie is sketched in, I felt her vibrancy. This is a sentimental novel, but it’s not maudlin. What Hilton gives us is a quiet but moving account of a quiet life. And how often – if it’s easy to do – is a reader moved? A last point of interest: Chips is never an object of pity; he is, despite the loss of Kathie, despite the unremarkable march of his days, a happy man.

Middlesex - Jeffrey Eugenides
This book has many strengths, but they’re mostly found in its first third, where the prose is inventive and engrossing and the characters – Desdemona and Lefty – appealing. There are flaws in this section: Eugenides doesn’t satisfactorily resolve dilemmas he creates (most notably the too-easy escape from a burning Smyrna); some of the plot twists are far-fetched, scenes run too long. Still, the strengths held up in the second third of the book, about the young Callie – another appealing character. I also liked the social history of Detroit that was woven into the narrative. But when Callie turns fourteen sex becomes the focus. In her relationship with the Obscure Object flaws became fissures that widened into cracks. With Cal on the run the novel crumbled. The plot twists turned preposterous, the prose overwrought and ragged. The emotional quandary of Callie/Cal was belabored to the point where it seemed forced and false. As for the issue of hermaphroditism, Eugenides provides a lot of clinical research, but he never makes it clear how the male and female sexual organs coexist and function. I’m not asking for sensationalism – just honesty. The story is narrated by 41-year-old Cal, and his budding romance is unconvincing and superfluous. Too bad – because Eugenides has talent.