Nourishing the fantasy…reading A Song of Ice and Fire by George R. R. Martin.

**Please note, there are no spoilers in this post.**

“A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies, said Jojen. The man who never reads lives only one.” 

George R. R. Martin, A Dance with Dragons.

I know I’ve been away a while, but in all fairness I have spent my time well. I have read five books in seven volumes (a bit confusing I know, simplified that’s seven pretty big books). I am now up to date with George R. R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire books and am left waiting, like the rest of the world, as he pens the next in the series.

Like a great many others, I was inspired to read A Song of Ice and Fire after watching HBO’s television series Game of Thrones. Naturally, having loved the TV series, I had pretty high expectations. In fact, it has been said to me by other fans of the show that they were wary of reading the books in case they didn’t live up to their television twin. I can firmly say that those people’s fears are unfounded. I absolutely loved George R. R. Martin’s books and was gripped with every chapter. The characters on the page are just as compelling as those on-screen and the plot-lines are even richer and more developed.

I wasn’t sure what to expect when I began reading the books, I couldn’t imagine what narrative voice would be used to encompass so very many characters and worlds. I needn’t have been worried, Martin has an ingenious solution. Each chapter in his series of books is narrated by a different character (some characters having more chapters than others) and the events of that chapter take place from their perspective and show the events transpiring wherever they are in the story-world’s ‘seven kingdoms’. This narrative device ensures that you never feel like one character is more important than another, you also get a snapshot into the mind and thinking processes of each of the story’s principal characters. It makes for a very unbiased narration.

Blessings and disguises…a review of Nancy Mitford’s The Blessing

I guess first and foremost, I have to express no small degree of embarrassment about the length of time which has passed since my last post. Secondly, I have a further confession to make…I have, since I last posted, fallen into that ever-enchanting trap of re-reading. Whilst I have spent my time reading The Blessing, I have also luxuriated in the pages of Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings trilogy and been captivated by a less fictional offering…David Crystal’s The Story of English in 100 Words.

There you have it, confession confided.

Before I write about The Blessing, I do want to make some attempt at justifying my falling from grace and head-over-heels into the trap of re-reading. As I have already mentioned since I began blogging, I have always had a huge tendency to submit to my obsession with re-reading my favourite books…they sit there on the bookshelf like old friends calling to me across a crowded room. Old friends who I love dearly. Old friends who have comforted me during hard times. Old friends who have inspired and succoured me over many years. It is hard to resist them; and while In my good books… has helped to loosen my dependency upon re-reading, I’m not sure I ever wish to be entirely cured of it. I love re-reading, others have asked me many times what I get from it and the answer is fairly obvious…I get something different from every book each time I read it.

Take The Lord of the Rings books, for example, I must have read them every year since I was about fifteen. So (without divulging my exact year of birth), it’s safe to say I have been turning the pages of these lovely books for well over a decade. This summer, my parents made a big change in their lives – moving from the suburban house in the Midlands (centre of the UK) where I spent my childhood, to a rambling Victorian sea-front house on the Welsh coast. Naturally, I was there alongside them to enjoy the highs (and lows!) of such a big change. During the downtime from unpacking boxes, I felt my fingers itch; without thinking, I plucked their battered copy of Tolkien’s The Fellowship of the Ring from the bookcase and was instantly enthralled. Wales always makes me want to read Tolkien, you look out of the window and the landscape on the page simply continues across the vista. Craggy mountains of stone, lush green woodland, and, to the West, the waves lap against the shore…for me, Middle Earth will always be Wales. So, where was I? I think I was hoping to explain and justify this year’s dalliance with Mr Tolkien. As has happened many times in my life, his words carried me through huge change and into new possibilities. Plus, I found a new pun – I’m a sucker for a good pun – Mum and Dad’s house being situated on the extreme West coast of the UK, I figure they now live in one of the ‘last homely house[s] east of the sea’.

Well, perhaps, it’s time I returned to my pre-destined course of reading and Nancy Mitford’s The Blessing. This, as frequent visitors may recall, is the third of Mitford’s books that I have reviewed. Possessing, as I do, a compilation text of Love in a Cold Climate that also contains The Pursuit of Love and The Blessing, I thought it was about time I got around to reviewing the final book.

When I finally begun reading, I wholeheartedly enjoyed The Blessing. As I expected and hoped it is another enchanting novel about the upper echelons of British society, although, this time, it largely takes place in France. The novel centres principally around its heroine, Grace, and her relationship with her husband, the captivating Charles-Edouard. Like Mitford’s other books this novel is, ostensibly, laced with somewhat frivolous concerns in terms of the world-view, but in terms of the internal view of Grace’s relationships it does ask some weighty questions. I don’t want to give away too much of the novel’s main plot points for prospective readers, but suffice to say Mitford’s story brings to the fore the differences to be found, not only in upper class marriages, but also in French marriages compared to English ones. The story commences during the Second World War, although the bulk of the narrative takes place in later peace-time years. I think of the three Mitford novels I have read, this is perhaps the most light-hearted and (not to diminish the book in any way) trivial. However, I think it is one of my favourites. Despite Love in a Cold Climate’s being the most well-known of the books, I think, with consideration, I prefer both The Pursuit of Love and The Blessing. The characters in both of these two books are more endearing, I cared more about their journey. In some ways, this story reminded me of the plot of Madame Bovary, albeit on a slightly more moneyed level. Thankfully, though, The Blessing‘s heroine is infinity more palatable and appealing.

As for the book’s title, which refers to the nickname Grace and Charles-Edouard give their young son, well, let me say the old idiom ‘a blessing in disguise’ comes to mind – although, in his case, the disguise is sugary sweet. Siggy (as they call him) is by no means entirely worthy of his pet name.

The Blessing is engagingly written with an experienced hand. Humour and satire are penned with expert precision and Mitford’s descriptions are vivid. I have yet to be disappointed with one of Mitford’s novels, they are saturated with fleshy comical characters who you cannot help but love, despite their many faults and excessive vices. I think the message of The Blessing is one of pragmatism and acceptance. The novel is littered with disguise and deception, from the candy-clean American politician who turns out to be a Bolshevist to the evening when all of the characters attend an elaborate costume ball. However, the over-arching morality of the book seems to suggest that we should accept our loved ones for what and who they really are, warts and all. Be understanding of their faults and forgiving of their mistakes, but alongside this, do not become a doormat, forgive so that you can forget…show understanding in order to understand your loved ones better. Oh, and never spoil an already precocious child.

As I mentioned at the beginning of this post, I have also been reading David Crystal’s The Story of English in 100 Words. Having only ever studied English Literature, and not English language, at school and university I had never encountered one of Crystal’s books before. The book was recommended to me by the course director of a phonics-based reading programme I recently trained to teach. I ordered it on something of a whim and was thoroughly rewarded. Crystal, who is traditionally more of an academic writer, has penned an entertaining, easy-read. The Story of English in 100 Words is very fun to read and educational but interesting. A hard balance to strike. I haven’t finished reading the book yet, so I won’t say anything more now, but I have already bought it as a gift and recommended it to others.

Unsurprisingly then, I will (hopefully sooner than last time) shortly be reviewing David Crytal’s The Story of English in 100 Words.

Redefining bravery…reading Charlotte Gray by Sebastian Faulks.

A war hero doesn’t necessarily wear a uniform or receive a medal.

It was quite a while ago that I finished reading Charlotte Gray but, sadly, I was away and didn’t have my laptop with me and, since then, work and everyday life have somewhat taken over. So it is that I find myself, nearly three weeks later, finally sitting down to write my review.

I read this book pretty quickly (for me!) and very much enjoyed it. As I said in my last post, I tried reading Charlotte Gray once before – when I was about fifteen years old. I never finished it. I think I was, perhaps, too young and immaturely drawn into reading a book whose heroine shared my own name. Charlotte Gray is not a book for the idle reader who happens across it by coincidence. It has a very specific topic and is not what I would call a feel-good read. It’s heavy going and deals with some weighty subjects.

At eighteen, just a few years after I failed to complete Charlotte Gray, I found myself studying another of Faulks’ novels set in France: Birdsong. I studied Birdsong as part of my A level English syllabus and found it equally – if not more – harrowing a read as Charlotte Gray. Both of Faulks’ novels deal with the subject of war. In Birdsong Faulks explores life in the trenches during the First World War and in Charlotte Gray we learn more about the Second World War from the perspective of the French and English undercover resistance efforts in Vichy France.

I found Charlotte Gray unusual as it is narrated largely from the perspective of a woman. I find it interesting that Faulks chose this narrative perspective for a war story. War is largely the dominion of men, and was even more so in 1942 when Charlotte Gray begins than it is today. Charlotte is an intriguing heroine. An ordinary girl who flings herself into extraordinary circumstances. I have to say I was a little disappointed that Charlotte’s main motivation for her bravery in France was due to a man, and her, somewhat immature, ideas about love and relationships. Certainly Charlotte Gray does some amazingly brave and patriotic things, but I couldn’t help thinking, “she’s only doing it for that sap, Peter Gregory”. I do realise, however, that Faulks’ writing is probably more true-to-life, than if Charlotte had been a ballsy, go get ’em, war heroine. The reality of war was probably far less glamorous and people far less confident than our latter-day Hollywood ideals make us believe. The men and women who found themselves fighting for their cause were probably driven by much simpler and more everyday motivations than an over-arching patriotism. So perhaps I have no right to be disappointed that Charlotte went to France because of her love for Peter Gregory, maybe that’s how it would’ve been. I guess it’s more inspiring to fight for those we love than for a blurred, vague concept of King and country.

Charlotte Gray tells a story that most of us, I think, are unaware of. We all know about the fighter pilots, the strategists, the foot soldiers. I have to say
that prior to reading Charlotte Gray I didn’t know much about the occupation of France or about the French resistance. I knew even less about the brave men and women who were parachuted into France as couriers and spies – with little more than a cyanide pill and their wits to keep them from being discovered. I found the varying French reaction to the Vichy government another interesting element of the book. During her time in France, Charlotte encounters a diverse range of French citizens, some proud that their country collaborated with the Germans and some ashamed to be French because of that same collaboration.

As I mentioned earlier, Charlotte Gray is certainly not a happy-go-lucky beach read. The story deals with some very traumatic and distressing events. Faulks deals with these events in unexpected ways – always from surprising perspectives and often in a way that makes them more tangible and real. Faulks’ characters are well-drawn and his characterisation is unusual. Faulks often uses the technique of telling us about the objects that surround a character – the things on their desk, the items in their bags – and it is through these objects that we come to form our ideas about a character and what their life has been, and is, like. Faulks’ novel also allows us to glimpse how people can form unusual relationships under extreme circumstances. War certainly seems to bring out relationships that would otherwise never even begin. From Charlotte’s relationship with Levade to Peter Gregory’s relationship with Nancy, an American woman living in wartime France. The story also highlights how there are many different sorts of bravery and that a war hero doesn’t necessarily wear a uniform or receive a medal.

I would recommend Charlotte Gray to others, particularly if they are interested in the Second World War and the ordinary people who did extraordinary things in their otherwise ordinary lives. The novel contains some very sad moments and really highlights our ability to live on despite experiencing harrowing times and devastating events. It’s an eye-opening and engaging story and is well worth reading.

I move on to another modern novel, J. K. Rowling’s The Casual Vacancy, her first novel for the adult market, I have high hopes for this book.

Deception and delusion…reading My Cousin Rachel by Daphne du Maurier.

Since beginning In my good books… Daphne du Maurier has been something of a discovery for me. I’d never read anything by du Maurier until a couple of years ago. Since then I have read Rebecca, Jamaica Inn and now My Cousin Rachel. Du Maurier is certainly a master of the mystery genre and crafts suspense, fear and foreboding with an expert hand. When I chose to read My Cousin Rachel I anticipated a well-plotted narrative, with thrilling characters and chilling intrigue…I was not disappointed.

My Cousin Rachel is perhaps not as fearsome as Jamaica Inn and maybe not as chilling as Rebecca, but it does have something special. The story is certainly a mysterious one and the eponymous Rachel presents an interesting heroine-villain. Du Maurier’s story is very much a psychological mystery. It deftly explores the themes of suspicion and fear and the ways in which these emotions drive and inhibit people.

As a reader we are always kept wondering…something du Maurier is adept at. We never quite know if her characters are suffering from delusion and paranoia or whether their sinister suspicions will come to be founded. The book was published in 1951, although the story’s setting is a period one, taking place in the 19th century and (as in Jamaica Inn) the period and the rugged rural isolation of its Cornish setting provides My Cousin Rachel with a sort of eerie isolation. Du Maurier’s choice of this isolated setting perfectly complements the feelings of jealousy and resentment that her characters start to feel. Any intruders into the remote landscape are to be examined and their motives evaluated. This makes for a real psychological experiment and encourages you, the reader, to evaluate the characters motives and actions with a suspicion you may have otherwise disregarded.

My Cousin Rachel is also the first novel I have read by du Maurier which is narrated from a male perspective. Something of an Othello, her narrative voice is that of Philip Ashley, a young and somewhat naive young man who suddenly finds himself with far more power and responsibility than his life has prepared him for. Du Maurier also makes clever use of first-person narration, only allowing her readers to glimpse the world through Philip’s eyes. We are blinded by his jealousy and fears, and, as such, must judge the events transpiring with the eyes of a discerning detective – trying to piece together the truth from the somewhat distorted vision we are presented with.

Where Rachel herself is concerned she is always something of an enigma. We never quite get close enough to see her as she really is. The reader’s vision is always distorted either by Philip’s emotions, Rachel’s conflicting actions, others’ opinions of her or, indeed, her very nature which seems to be to deflect and evade. Even at the novel’s conclusion the true character of Rachel hangs over the narrative like a giant pulsing question mark, what do we actually know about the enigmatic cousin Rachel?

I enjoyed reading My Cousin Rachel, its strong elements of intrigue and mystery certainly keep your interest peaked. As is usual with du Maurier, the writing style is simple and effective and the first-person narration is delivered with skill and careful manipulation.

I know I will return to Daphne du Maurier as she has yet to disappoint me. I wholeheartedly recommend My Cousin Rachel, especially to those who have enjoyed du Maurier’s other books. A perfect mid-point between Rebecca and Jamaica Inn, My Cousin Rachel strikes that ideal balance of an engaging plot, believable characters and plausible, evenly-spread mystery.

I read My Cousin Rachel as part of the ‘Back to the Classics Challenge‘ in the category of ‘Classic Mystery/Horror/Crime Fiction‘. This is my final book which completes my entry into the Classics Challenge – just by the skin of my teeth, I’ve made the deadline. I have thoroughly enjoyed taking part in the 2012 Back to the Classics Challenge and feel it has really helped me to see my way through the year’s reading. There have been real highs and lows to my reading this year, from the highs of Love in a Cold Climate and my joyful re-reading of Pride and Prejudice  to a new-found favourite in North and South…I have also plummeted to the depths of despair in this year’s reading and teetered on the brink of defeat with If on a Winter’s Night a Traveller. I have suffered indifference where The Great Gatsby is concerned and finally have rounded off my year with an enjoyable mystery. My year certainly proves to me that no writer or book can be all things to all men and that, as a reader, it is important to keep as open a mind as possible and take some risks, even though it is inevitable that not all will pay off.

I’m going to take a break from reading challenges now and read some of those books that have been piling up as I’ve striven to meet the requirements of the Classics Challenge. My first step into the uncategorized will be a book that has inhabited my bookshelf, unread, for far too long…Audrey Niffenegger’s Her Fearful Symmetry.