The Collected Dorothy Parker

The Collected Dorothy Parker
Dorothy Parker
London, Penguin, 2001, 610p

I first came across Dorothy Parker a few years ago at a Dead Poet's Slam, in which people performed the poems of their favourite deceased writers. Her poems were sharp and witty, full of cynicism and anger, but not ranting-and-raving anger, but a more poignant and observational social critique.

This collection includes Parker's poems, short stories, and journalistic writings. Her style is singular and her tone is unique. In the introduction to this collection, one particular phrase stood out: "the imagination of disaster". By this, it is implied that she always manages to see the worst in things, as all her stories end badly. It is suggested that Parker did not think she would live as long as she did: in an age when all young female writers seemed to die prematurely, Parker lived to the ripe old age of 73. The theme of death, particularly suicide, is prominent throughout her poems ans stories, in which many of her characters are angry, lonely or depressed. 

Most of these works were written in the 1920s, a time in which anything seemed possible. There were riches, sex and parties: the American Dream. But nothing was ever enough, and Parker highlights people's dissatisfaction with this world, anticipating the crash of the 30s. Her stories are about people who are lonely and confused, always wanting: wanting for their absent lover, wanting for a fur coat like the one the neighbour has, wanting for more of this or less of that. These characters turn to gossip, alcohol or extra-marital sex. They crave meaning and purpose, but always seem to be unable to find that fulfillment.

And yet, her language and descriptions are so captivating and addictive that I found myself in love with the beauty in the world, rather than lamenting the problems in it. Her stories are magnificently visual, and in just a few pages, you become engrossed in these worlds, intrigued by these people. For example, in one story, she describes a women as such:

"She was tall, and her body streamed like a sonnet. Her face was formed all of triangles, like a cat's is, and her eyes and her hair were blue-grey."

There is a beauty to this language that is unprecedented. Parker's humour is sharp and observational, drawing your attention to some of the most common-place things and making them entertaining:

"Men seldom make passes / At girls who wear glasses."

And that is the whole poem. Two lines: just brilliant. Though I think my favourite poem is Observation, because it perfectly encapsulates a thought I have almost every day.

 Her tone and wit continue into her journalistic writing: reviews, commentaries, columns. It is like she is sat across the table from you in a coffee shop, telling you about the play she saw last night, laughing at the unconvincing acting or praising the audience's reaction. 

I really enjoyed reading these stories and poems over the last few weeks, and I am ashamed I knew so little of her before now. Parker's stories end in tears or death - none of them offer the that fairytale happy ending - but they are real and honest, a criticism of the time in which she lived. She was a rare literary beauty, and I am glad she was an exception of her generation and lived long enough to give us such a vast and entertaining collection of writing.  

Death Cloud

Young Sherlock Holmes: Death Cloud
Andrew Lane
London, Macmillan, 2010, 306p

The 2013 Bookbuzz list was published recently, so I am making an early start on getting myself acquainted with them, so that I can make suitable recommendations to our new intake of Year 7s. 

Death Cloud was one of the selection that I already had on the shelves. We meet a young Sherlock Holmes, on summer break from school. Mycroft has sent him to his uncle's house in Farnham, where he initially finds himself bored and lonely; until he meets Matty, a street child who shows Sherlock what fun can be had. Then, Sherlock and Matty stumble across a strange mystery: two unconnected men are found dead, covered in warts and boils, with plague-like symptoms. The locals assume a new epidemic upon them, but Matty thinks it might have something to do with a strange black cloud he sees near one of the incidents. Convinced that no adult will believe them, they set out alone to work out how these deaths occurred. 

The story is face-paced and exciting, full of unexpected twists, life-endangering fights, and moments of comic relief. Sherlock comes up against an evil genuis, a Gothic, Bond-like villain who is seemingly unstoppable. But this Sherlock is still young and willing to learn, and has a brilliant supporting cast of friends to aid him. 

I am an ardent admirer of all thing Sherlock Holmes, though my true preferences have always been with Conan Doyle's originals (I have mentioned in the past that I think this is because I love the fact that Conan Doyle actually despised his infamous protagonist). I like Sherlock's confidence and style, his logic and skills of deduction. The villains are always classically maniacal and the mystery always has a strangely obvious solution. I also love the setting: late Victorian London, amongst all the grime and dirt of the alley ways. 

This had all that and more. The Young Sherlock Holmes novels give the reader some sort of understanding of how the mature Sherlock came to be. He is a little bit socially awkward, having few friends at school. He is intelligent and deductive, under the leadership of his tutor Amyus Crowe, who teaches him about observation and the value and power of having knowledge. The Sherlock we meet through Andrew Lane's novel is not fully-formed, and is willing to learn, but already has that cocky self-assurance that tends to get him into trouble. But he is recognisable, and that is invaluable.

The Taming of the Shrew

The Taming of the Shrew
William Shakespeare
London, Penguin, 1974


Yesterday evening, I was lucky to get to see the Globe Theatre on tour at the Bodleian Library Quad, performing The Taming of the Shrew.

The Taming of the Shrew is controversially my favourite Shakespeare play. I say it is controversial because, in theory, it goes against all my feminist beliefs. It is a story about two sisters, Katherina and Bianca. Thier father insists that the eldest must be married before the youngest; but Katherina is a shrew: angry, stubborn and difficult. Bianca's suitors are relieved when they stumble upon Petruchio, an eccentric gentleman who is determined he can take her.

In theory, I have a real problem with this play: i.e. the idea that a woman can be tamed. We cannot. And yet, I find this to be an intelligent, witty, moving story about relationships between the sexes. Katherina is a headstrong heroine, loud and feisty, and Petrichio is a ridiculous pedant. In my humble opinion, both are tamed: they come fo realise they must manage their behaviour and inhibitions in the company of others. As such, Katherina appears "tamed", but I consider Petruchio to also be somewhat more sedate.

I found it a strange contrast to read a play with so little stage direction. Other than telling the characters when to enter and exeunt, Shakespeare leaves the play in the hands of the director. This means every performance is different and adaptation is flexible. I think this is why there have been so many interpretations and modernisations of his plays.

Before seeing the play last night, I went to a pre-show talk, in which I found two subjects discussed to be of particular interest. First, the repeated references to possessions throughout the story. Money is key: it breeds friendships, supports marriages, and defines relationships. On several occasions, Bianca's suitors debate who has the most right to her hand, arguing over their wealth and land. Elsewhere, Petruchio calls Katherina his possession, and Katherina later declares one's husband is "thy lord, thy king, thy governor". Yet, given the contemporary society, this is understandable. This is a story about bourgeois families vying to out-bid each other for the "love" of a beautiful woman. And this is why Petruchio and Katherina's love seems so much more valid: they are both rich and crazy but they don't need anything from each other. They are whole as individuals, and their union makes them a strong team. (Or maybe I'm just a hopeless romantic.)

The other thing I was particularly interested in was the concept of performance. The Taming of the Shrew is a play within a play. At the beginning, a lord plays a trick on a drunk, dressing him in finery and pretending he is a lord. He employs a passing troupe to put on a play, and hence the well-known story begins. As such, it has been argued that the play can be seen as a farce, a comic commentary on gender roles and a criticism of the bourgeois values that dictate society (and hence, a misogynist tale it is not. Hurrah!).

And so, I hope I have been able to justify my love of The Taming of the Shrew. And if not, no one can deny the appeal of Shakespeare performed outside on a warm summer's evening.

Agnes Grey

Agnes Grey
Anna Bronte
London, Penguin, 1994, 302p

When it has been some time since I last read a book, I often find I cannot fully remember the plot, but I remember the impression it left upon me. This is the case with The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte, which I must have enjoyed as I think of so fondly. However, this is my first reading of Agnes Grey. 

This novel, Anne's first, is based on her experiences as a governess. As her family has so little money, Agnes volunteers to leave home and take a position tutoring two young children in a stately home. Although doted upon by their mother, the children are unruly and tempestuous, causing mayhem in their classroom and nursery, refusing to listen to her lessons. In her next position, she is governess to two slightly older girls, who are spoilt and thoughtless. 

The novel explores class conflict, explored through the way in which Agnes is neglected and mistreated by her employers. In the first instance, the young children manipulate and terrorise, which reminded me of The Turn of the Screw by Henry James. The parents look down upon Agnes as their inferior. She is a well-educated young lady, but her poverty and dependence sets her in a difficult position. 

I found myself unable to really like Agnes. I sympathised with her situation, becoming angry at the way she was treated, but I also found her too pious and miserable. Of course, her position renders her unable to dispute her employers, but I found her continuing complaints infuriating. And later, when a love interest was introduced, her pining and longing engendered her insipid. She is a very religious character - a product of her time - and tends to depend upon God for justification and validation. 

Having read a good deal of nineteenth century literature, she is one of the weakest protagonists I have met. I had longed for a strong and hardy woman, who remains self-assured in the face of poverty, like Margaret Hale (North & South), Elinor Dashwood (Sense and Sensibility) or Helen Graham (Wildfell Hall). 

Arcadia

Arcadia
Tom Stoppard
London, Faber, 1993, 97p


On leaving work yesterday, I was overwhelmed by the desire to read a play. I don't read plays often, preferring prose, but I have read some weight novels recently and was in need for something light and clever. So inevitably, I ended up with Stoppard.

Arcadia is a perfect demonstration of why I love Tom Stoppard. It is a story that spans two hundred years, with a small cast and perfectly formed dialogue. In 1809, Thomasina sits at her desk with her tutor, Septimus. She is an intelligent girl, quick witted and curious, and Septimus treats her much older than her thirteen years. They are discussing complex algebra, when they are interrupted by Mr Chater, challenging Septimus to a fight.

Meanwhile, in the modern day, Bernard Nightingale arrives at the same house, eager to learn more about it's history, believing Lord Byron once visited. Bernard finds himself up against Hannah, a feisty scholar of botany who is reluctant to help the arrogant Nightingale.

It is an intelligent comedy for intellectuals. Stoppard's characters discuss classical philosophy, Newtonian theory, and Romantic poetry like it is general knowledge. Sometimes it is hard to keep up, but Stoppard has a brilliant way of explaining complicated subjects through his characters discussions. He is brilliant at producing these fully-formed beings, with no need to provide background information through contrived conversation. They just appear on the page (or on the stage) as everyday people, and we are lucky to observe their interactions.

Arcadia is set in Derbyshire, in a stately home. The house becomes a significant part of the story, bringing the two stories together. The contemporary characters are researching the earlier characters, using materials such as diaries and hunting records. They create their own stories about 1809, piecing together snippets of history to make their own truths. Only we, the audience, really know what happened, and it is equally comic and fascinating to see where the historians go wrong. 

I massively regret missing the opportunity to see this play in London a few years ago, but I am so excited it is coming to Oxford in October (see link here). Anyone fancy joining me?

Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit

Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit
Jeanette Winterson
London, Vintage, 1990, 171p

Oranges are not the only Fruit was a novel my friend chose to write on during A-Level. (I chose The Bell Jar.) I remember promising her I would read it after our exams, once life settled down; but things happened and I forgot. For years, I have seen it in bookshops, libraries, charity shops, and sworn I will get around to it, and finally, now, I have fulfilled that promise.

Jeanette Winterson's novel professes to be a love story. For me, it was more of a journey. It is a sort-of-autobiographical account of growing up in a Pentecostal Christian household, whilst coming to the realisation that she is a lesbian. It is about self-discovery, happiness, and the importance of family. It is about being okay with being undefinable - no one can be wholly good or wholly evil. Sometimes, we are who we are.

Her loneliness is touching and reassuring. Jeanette feels like an outsider in a world of religious rules and oppositions. She cannot comprehend how her sexuality makes her a bad person, when her destiny is tied up in missionary work. Her journey is about understanding herself, breaking down the false barriers represented by binary labels of good / bad or right / wrong. It is not an everyday story, but the feelings are shared by many. 

Winterson walks a delicate line between criticising the narrow-mindedness of religious obsession and preaching about the love of God - I was so impressed that she managed to not take a side. She draws on her knowledge of Christianity, using Biblical language and religious themes to tell her story, but also brings in other folk tales and legends. As such, the line between fiction and non-fiction is blurred (like I said, sort-of-autobiographical!). 

It was this questioning of "truth" that I particularly adore about Jeanette Winterson. There is a chapter in the middle of the novel (a chapter I loved so much I read it twice) in which she explores the idea that history is determined by the story-teller. Reality is therefore malleable and subjective, and as readers, we must be contentious. We listen and we learn, and we weave our own ideas about what is the truth. 

Love That Dog

Love That Dog
Sharon Creech
London, Harper Collins, 2001, 86p

So I might have slightly shown my ignorance by raving about the originality of Sarah Crossan's The Weight of Water. It was a novel that defied categorisation, being both a novel and a series of poems. Poems are sometimes used to tell a story, but not in the way that novels tell stories. These books, however, succeed in both.

Love That Dog is about a school boy who refuses to believe he can write poems. Jack thinks boys can't write poems. His teacher introduces him to a variety of styles, and he attempts to mimic them. He talks about what he likes and what he doesn't like about the poems, slowly coming to the realisation that poetry can be whatever you want it to be. 

I can't really recall first learning about poetry, but I imagine I felt a similar way to Jack. I remember always thinking that poetry was incredibly structured - it has to have rhyme and rhythm. Jack refers to William Blake's 'Tyger', noting the powerful and memorable sound of the beat. I remember knowing that certain types of poems had different rules, like sonnets were longer that limerick, but both needed a set number of beats per line.

But soon Jack comes across different types of poems. Poems without rhyme, with no structure. Poems about street music and real life experiences. Poems he can understand. He becomes inspired, and is entranced by the power of certain poets. It is a delight to read as he comes alive. 

This is a sweet, uplifting story about the magic of the written word. Poetry is an incredible means of story-telling - I am stunned by how much can be expressed in just a few lines. In the same way that Jack was inspired through reading a range of poetry, I hope this novel sparks the writing bug in some budding young authors.