Posts Tagged ‘Penguin’

The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie

June 27, 2016

The Prime of Miss Jean BrodieI have an extremely clear memory of reading this book, one school summer holiday, sitting on a train and looking out of the window as we passed through Dawlish in Devon, where the train tracks seem almost to run over the sea itself. I remember enjoying the book, feeling a kindred spirit with the six schoolgirls of Miss Brodie’s ‘set’, all madly obsessed with finding out about sex, and under the spell of their teacher, Jean Brodie, who is forever telling them that she is in her prime.

Reading it again, in my thirties, it is a completely different book, and even better than I remembered.

This time round there seems to be a horrible poignancy to Spark’s portrayal of the schoolgirls. The narrative is extremely sophisticated, moving about in time (but she does this easily, not joltingly) so that we get little flashes of what will happen to the girls when they grow up. Mary’s innocent vagueness and clumsiness, we soon learn, will one day get her killed in a hotel fire:

Back and forth along the corridors ran Mary Macgregor, through the thickening smoke. She ran one way; then, turning, the other way; and at either end the blast furnace of the fire met her. She heard no screams, for the roar of the fire drowned the screams; she gave no scream, for the smoke was choking her. She ran into somebody on her third turn, stumbled and died. But at the beginning of the nineteen-thirties, when Mary Macgregor was ten, there she was sitting blankly among Miss Brodie’s pupils. ‘Who has spilled ink on the floor – was it you, Mary?’

‘I don’t know, Miss Brodie.’

‘I dare say it was you. I’ve never come across such a clumsy girl. And if you can’t take an interest in what I am saying, please try to look as if you do.’

These were the days that Mary Macgregor, on looking back, found to be the happiest days of her life.

The year is 1936; Miss Brodie tells us: ‘The age of chivalry is dead’. Chivalry is dead, and so are all the young men killed by the First World War, including Miss Brodie’s fiancé. And, of course we know that many more will die in the Second World War, which isn’t far off. But Spark shows us this little glinting corner of life – the six girls of Miss Brodie’s set, at this moment of their unconventional education, before their innocence is extinguished, and in the case of poor Mary Macgregor, her life too.

And yet what exactly does Miss Brodie, in her prime, achieve with her girls?

In her lessons, Miss Brodie tells the girls to hold up their school books, ‘in case of intruders’ before regaling them with stories about her lovers and her holidays, which are usually in Italy:

‘Who is the greatest Italian painter?’

‘Leonardo da Vinci, Miss Brodie.’

‘That is incorrect. The answer is Giotto, he is my favourite.’

I read this last week, pre-Brexit, and kept on trying to reassure myself that good old Miss Jean Brodie would have voted Remain, as she is forever proudly telling her girls that they are Europeans. But whatever comfort this provided was rather undermined as Miss Brodie is also a great admirer of Mussolini, telling her girls that he:

put an end to unemployment with his fascisti and there was no litter in the streets.

Miss Brodie is perenially at odds with the rest of the school, claiming that this is due to her differing ideas about education, which she sees as nurturing individuals rather than forging clone-like teams – though in fact the school’s disapproval of her is largely due to her inappropriate sexual liaisons. Moreover, it becomes clear that in actual fact Miss Brodie is just trying to create clones of herself in her ‘crème de la crème’. She succeeds to some extent, when the art teacher, after kissing her, paints portraits of her girls – all of which bear an uncanny resemblance to Miss Brodie.

There is a lovely review of the book on Book Snob’s blog (here), in which she questions why Miss Brodie is so driven to make the girls in her image:

I do think there is something more than just a criticism of Fascism in Miss Brodie’s methods of creating clones of herself; I think Spark was also creating the idea of Miss Brodie wanting to build a legacy, leaving a part of her personality and world view behind through the children she taught. They became the offspring she never had the opportunity to have. It is, after all, rather symbolic that Miss Brodie dies of a ‘growth inside her’ – but not a child; instead, a malignant cancer, destroying her from the inside.

It’s a nice point and makes the book all the sadder. For this is the clever, weird, slippery thing about this brilliant slim book: I read it and found myself laughing and laughing all the way through – at the brilliant observations, the sharp turn of phrase, Spark’s ingenious wit and skilful brevity – but all the while, it also made me extremely sad.

Miss Brodie, for all the force of being in her prime, achieves very little. Her girls go off in the directions they would have taken anyway, and the one she thinks is the most loyal is the one who eventually betrays her. Her love affairs are unsatisfactory and she remains essentially alone, and all the more so for being so misguided in her fervent political beliefs.

I suppose Spark is asking: what can a woman in her prime do? And when is a woman in her prime? What about poor Mary Macgregor and her all-too-brief life, did she ever reach her prime? It’s a question which is ever relevant – as we battle our way through the exhausting minefield of balancing children and careers, surely we’re thinking: here we are, in our prime, and what on earth are we actually achieving? (Please tell me it’s not just me who is always worrying about this!)

Anyway, thank God, Miss Brodie did achieve something in her prime. Even if it wasn’t especially tangible, she made an unforgettable impression on her students – and on her readers. Sandy speaks for everyone when, in later life, she is asked about her main influence. She says, in the closing sentence of the book:

There was a Miss Jean Brodie in her prime.

How I hope that in however many years’ time we won’t be doomed to looking back on the main influence on our lives and reflect, ‘There was a Mr David Cameron, in his prime… ‘ I suppose we just have to hope that the future holds something brighter than that faced by Miss Brodie’s girls in 1936.

220px-Muriel_Spark_1960

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Would you like a T-shirt, poster, toy, mug or malaria pill with that?

June 4, 2010

I was talking to someone the other day who used to work at a very large, very beautiful, very well-respected independent bookshop, which was taken over in the not-so-distant-past by a rather well-known chain. He quit a couple of weeks ago.

‘Why did you leave?’ I asked, risking a question that I always hate being asked about my old job in publishing.

He explained that when the chain took over it became increasingly hard for their shop to have any say about which books were ordered in. And when one can’t get a book that one wants to sell into the shop then one begins to feel somewhat worthless as a bookseller.

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘But that all happened a couple of years ago. What finally made you crack? What was the last straw?’

His voice dropped to somewhere just above a whisper. ‘Merchandising. They wanted to sell book-related products, not just books.’

Every other bookseller who I’ve mentioned this too has had exactly the same reaction as me.

<Gasp> ‘No. Merchandising? For books?’ <Gasp, again> ‘No. That’s just not right.’

Why do we all feel so strongly about it? What’s wrong with merchandising?

I actually feel rather positive about film merchandising. I used to decorate my bedroom walls with film posters. It was the perfect teenage way to convey to parents that, ‘It’s not fair and you don’t understand me and I like watching films in French not the middle-class rubbish on the telly that you watch.’

But books … it just feels wrong. They seem too old-fashioned to be commercially exploited like that.

I think good book merchandising works precisely because it chimes with that old-fashioned, rather insular image that goes with books. Who can possibly not feel fond of the Penguin Classics mugs? Perfect for making a cup of tea … to enjoy whilst reading one’s book. And the other items that come trussed up in Penguin Classic livery are just as appropriate: tea towels, deckchairs, pencils, bookbags, espresso cups.

With the exception of the espresso cups (and I bet those haven’t been as successful as the others), these are all perfect classic English accessories. ‘I shall just set a deckchair out on the lawn to read on, with a splendid cup of tea.’ I’m sure that Wodehouse has written something similar. Note that they do pencils, not biros; bookbags, not ipod/ebook covers; tea towels not dishwasher tablets. It’s all very quaint, very old-fashioned. It hardly feels as vulgar as merchandising.

I suppose the most obvious place for book merchandising is in the children’s section. The child likes the Gruffalo, so why not get him the soft toy? Because soft toys are invariably not as beautiful, subtle, lifelike as the character on the page. Compare the two:

Or what about Beatrix Potter?

Frankly if I had a child, I’d rather it just read the books. Books are beautiful objects. They’re not just vehicles for information, packaging for stories. Children’s books in particular are a pleasure to look at, to pick out the details, to note the expressions of a favourite character. A talented illustrator should not be equated with a gauche grinning thing sowed together in a sweatshop in China.

And then there are the more grown-up books. I suppose a poster of a beautiful old iconic book cover wouldn’t be such a bad thing. This one of Mrs Dalloway, for instance, is quite smart.

Merchandising for commercial fiction is just about conceivable, although rather vile. Perhaps they could sell Carrie necklaces or clutch bags alongside The Carrie Diaries – the new book from Candace Bushnell, who invented Sex and the City. I’m sure that a table of chocolate treats next to a table of chick lit – perhaps the wrappers could mimic the book covers – would do well. But really, it’s a bookshop, not a newsagent. And when one can buy books in places like Tesco’s and HMV, surely it’s doubly important to have places that resist this supermarketing homogenisation, shops that are just for books.

And then merchandising swiftly reaches the realm of the ridiculous. Imagine trying to do it for travel books. Would you sell malaria pills and mosquito nets? Torches and penknifes? What about passport covers and moneybelts?

For history books, you could have fake swords, paste jewellery, tins of spam … for gardening, trowels and pots and bags of seeds … photography, well why not sell cameras?

Soon a once-glorious bookshop would be reduced to some kind of kooky department store. It would be hard to find the books amongst all the other paraphernalia.

So perhaps that’s the fear. Books cover such an incredibly wide range of subjects that if you were to open the Pandora’s merchandising box, a swarm of monsters much larger, uglier and more various than you could possibly have imagined would jump out. So please, let’s stick to books in bookshops. And perhaps the occasional bookish mug.