Lark Rise – Flora Thompson

What is this book – besides wonderful? It’s not a novel, not a memoir, not a sociological study, though all these elements exist. What seems predominant is the latter – its recreation of an English farming hamlet in the mid 1800s. I believe that Thompson’s intent was to bring to life a world that had passed away. But it was her world, the one she grew up in, so there’s a personal aspect. And the way she presents it to us – its homes, the work of men and women, the games children play (and much more) – flows like fiction. I found this to be a unique and wholly successful venture by an author who left school at age twelve. What interest do I have in her subject? Well, it turns out that I have great interest, for Thompson’s focus is always on human beings; there are no facts that aren’t linked with people. Her main character, Laura, is rarely an active participant in an event, and doesn’t often express an emotion or give an opinion. Probably, in these 230 pages, you could gather the times she emerges as a personality and it would amount to maybe a dozen pages. Yet – and this is remarkable – she exists, I knew her. Her brother Edmund (which was the real name of Thompson’s brother) appears even less frequently, yet we develop feelings for him because we get to know Laura’s feelings for him. She doesn’t present Lark Rise in an idyllic light, nor with rancor – there’s good and bad. It’s a place where poverty is a fact of life, but the underlying message may be that people make the best of the world they find themselves in. This first book was written when the author was sixty-three, so there’s the perspective of time (and some nostalgia). She died eight years later, after writing two shorter sequels that continue the story. I need to touch on the ending of Lark Rise, which shows Thompson’s ability to quietly produce an effect. The last sentence is stunning, in the sense that it stuns – or moves – the reader. At least it did this one. I should also note that this book was a “browsing the stacks” discovery (which is something I’ve been doing all my reading life). I pull from the stacks a book by an author I’ve never heard of, and read the first few sentences, then a few sentences from a random page. Good, inviting prose? What does the summary say? Is it a subject I have some interest in? If so, I take it home and give it a chance. I’ve found some real gems this way. *

At Bertram’s Hotel – Agatha Christie

The “About the Author” page states that only Shakespeare and the Bible have outsold Christie. I won’t be adding to the billions. This is my third go at her work, and it’s the last; for a diversion I’ll have to look elsewhere. Christie writes smooth, clear prose, and she’s good with dialogue, but in Hotel her plot is weak. And scattered. The ending – the solution – is long, unconvincing (the hotel a den of master criminals?) and foolish (there are too many “Ah ha!”moments). It’s deemed a Miss Marple Mystery, but she plays a minor role; a Chief-Inspector Davy does the heavy lifting. His persistence was the only interesting thing in the book.

Crazy Horse – Larry McMurtry

This is one of those short Penguin Lives biographies. They all have a portrait of the subject on the cover, but in this instance it’s a barely distinguishable face. Which is fitting, for no image of Crazy Horse exists. And there are few verifiable facts about his character or deeds. McMurtry states at the outset that “any study of Crazy Horse will be, of necessity, an exercise in assumption, conjecture and surmise.” The approach he takes is to offer claims while identifying them as being unsubstantiated; many he dismisses as outright false. Even Crazy Horse’s death, which was a public event at Fort Robinson, contains so many conflicting accounts that it’s impossible to get at the truth (beyond the fact that he died from a bayonet wound). The role he played in the Battle of Little Bighorn is unknown. His status among the Indians is not clear; Crazy Horse was no head chief whose word was obeyed (a role he most likely, given his solitary nature, would have rejected). I finished this book not having any clear idea of the man or his accomplishments. Yet an overview of the tortured relationship between the white settlers and the Indians emerges. Many whites wanted them exterminated. Actually, the life of the Plains Indians did end with what was close to an extermination: the vast herds of buffalo they depended on were nearly wiped out by “sportsmen.” The Indians were no dupes, nor were they noble. And they could be a formidable war force. But many recognized the inevitable – the whites were too strong, too numerous – and tried to bargain for terms that were at least acceptable. Promises were made by the whites, sincere ones, but the higher-ups in Washington revoked them. I’m quite sure, from what I gather about Crazy Horse, that he would not have adapted to reservation life, so maybe his death was a blessing. I have respect for what McMurtry has done here, and I also appreciate his giving credit on several occasions to Evan Connell’s excellent nonfiction account of the struggle for the Great Plains, Son of the Morning Star.

The House by the Medlar Tree - Giovanni Verga (Italian)
The reader is transported to a Sicilian fishing village in the late 1800s. In his Introduction William Dean Howells writes of Verga, “He seems to have no more sense of authority or supremacy concerning the personages than any one of them would have in telling the story.” This approach attains a universality because the personages, despite their primitive circumstances, are not unlike people today. It seems as if all the villagers try to elbow their way into the frame of Verga’s canvas, but the main focus is the Malavoglia family. In the beginning they’re doing well; Padron ’Ntoni has his own boat, and his son and daughter-in-law and five grandchildren live contentedly in the house by the medlar tree. But a business deal gone wrong precipitates a series of disasters. At the end a broken, sickly Padron ’Ntoni asks, “But will Death never come?” Some respond to his words with laughter, asking him where he thought Death had gone. Trezza is not a benevolent place. Many villagers live together as rivals, traitors, enemies. Most manifest their ill will in gossip, while others (Howells describes them as “the children of disorder”) are ruled by a predatory greediness; money plays as large a role in Trezza as it does on Wall Street. Padron ’Ntoni leads his life by old sayings and proverbs (“his own nest every bird likes best”); but his nest is snatched away in payment for a debt. His son dies, as do two of his grandsons; another grandson takes the wrong path in life. The good – and there are good people – make simple choices: they choose to do the honorable thing. But their simplicity makes them ready victims. It would be too easy to say that virtue is its own reward, and Verga, with his tragic view of life, never takes the easy path; he even lets the love two people have for one another wither away, unconsummated. Though I have great respect for this novel, I felt close to only one character: the wayward grandson. Others, despite their vigor, are archetypes, but with young ’Ntoni we’re given access to his intimate thoughts and emotions. On the last page he takes a farewell look at the awakening village. It could have been a sentimental scene, but Verga emphatically rejects that ending. Instead, the last person ’Ntoni sees is a spitting Rocco Spatu.

The Hard Life - Flann O’Brien
O’Brien was probably an entertaining fellow to have a few (or more than a few) drinks with. I spun my way through this short novel, even though it wasn’t a novel but a series of set pieces. The majority of pages have Mr. Collopy and the Jesuit priest, Father Fahrt, discussing theology and politics; though neither subject holds any interest for me, O’Brien’s ability to write rambunctious dialogue kept me engaged and amused. The narrator – a boy/young man with the fine Irish name of Finbarr – is passive, though his older brother (referred to as The Brother) is a go-getter, and what he goes and gets is money. He moves to London where he starts a correspondence academy that offers courses in everything under the sun (tightrope walking, elocution, care of the teeth, Egyptology, etcetera); he also sells medicinal cures. When Mr. Collopy becomes ill, The Brother has Finbarr give him Gravid Water; but, instead of teaspoons, Finbarr doles out tablespoons, which causes the old fellow to become extraordinarily heavy (well over four hundred pounds, though his slight frame doesn’t change). Preposterous? Yes. But O’Brien is having fun, wandering wherever his imagination takes him. There are various other characters, various lines of plot; none add up to much or go anywhere special. Which brings me to a problem, one I think O’Brien recognized and which may explain the book’s odd ending. Over drinks at a pub The Brother suggests that Finbarr marry Collopy’s daughter (who has inherited a large portion of the old man’s estate). When The Brother takes his leave, Finbarr drains his glass. “Then I walked quickly but did not run to the lavatory. There, everything inside me came up in a tidal surge of vomit.” Since there’s no reason for such a response, those last four words are puzzling. Could the author have found a way to express disgust for his own enterprise? O’Brien knew he was capable of more than idle frivolity. For a writer with his talents, The Hard Life was far too easy.

Elephants Can Remember - Agatha Christie
I decided I should read something by an author whose books have sold in the billions. This Hercule Poirot mystery was published four years before Christie’s death (at age eighty-six), but it doesn’t show any signs of fatigue. The no-frills prose achieves its utilitarian purpose of moving things along at a nice pace. There’s not much to Poirot – he’s courtly and a good questioner (which is pretty much all he does). Another character – Mrs. Oliver, an elderly lady who writes detective stories – is more lively. The plot gets a bit muddled in the middle – too many facts, too many leads – but things sort themselves out, and I was able to figure out who did what to whom before Poirot explains it all at the end. As for logic (where most mysteries flounder), we never learn where the bullet wounds were located. Head, heart? This matters, and so is a glaring omission. Also, we’re asked to believe that two sane people would allow a homicidal maniac (someone who kills children!) to carry on for a lifetime. Despite such missteps, this was a pleasant diversion. Pleasant? Though death by violence is the subject, it happens well offstage (a type of mystery deemed a “cozy,” probably linking it to the knitted covering put over teapots). Dame Christie may be summarizing her own career when she has Mrs. Oliver think: “She was a lucky woman who had established a happy knack of writing what quite a lot of people wanted to read.” After I finished this book I tried a Miss Marple (The 4:50 from Paddington); I hoped it would be better than Elephants, but it was worse. So I won’t be one of the billions.