Posts Tagged ‘Ursula Le Guin’

Emilybooks of the year

December 19, 2012

Looking back on the year, I see that I’ve developed a strange habit of reading in threes. There have been three Elizabeths, three lives, three children’s books, three of all sorts of things. Strange indeed.

So here are my favourites of the books that I’ve read over the past year, clumped, conveniently, into threes.

The Walking Book Club at Port Eliot

3 Elizabeths

I began the year reading Elizabeth Bowen’s intensely atmospheric wartime novel The Heat of the Day which set me up for a year of Elizabeths. Start as you mean to go on, I suppose. Well I went on to read Bowen’s The House in Paris, an entrancing, bewitching novel, which made a whole afternoon disappear. Best of all, it was a year in which I was given a very special edition of Bowen’s Court – EM Forster’s copy no less.

I loved Elizabeth Taylor’s Angel, a novel which every aspiring writer must read not just because it describes so brilliantly different moments of writing – the strange feverish stuffiness of writing non-stop, and the anti-climax of finishing, for instance – but because it will make you laugh hopelessly at yourself, at the sheer vanity of being a writer. We also had a splendid Walking Book Club discussing Taylor’s poignant novel about getting old, Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont, for which we enjoyed the illustrious company of Clare Balding. You’ll be able to listen to it on Radio 4’s Ramblings in February… watch this space!

The third Elizabeth of the year was Elizabeth Jenkins. The Tortoise and the Hare had me in tears, and Harriet had me in a nightmare. Both are utterly compelling, hellish portrayals of marriage – the first is a heartbreaking portrayal of its death throes, and the second is about a situation so horrific, it’s hard to believe that it was based on a true murder case.

3 houses

My novel, as those of you who read last week’s post will know, is centred on a house and the stories that lie within it. As a result, I have grown quite addicted to books with houses at their centre. I’ve already mentioned Elizabeth Bowen – her Bowen’s Court really is a great portrait of a house.

Rebecca is one of my all time favourite house novels. From that memorable first line, ‘Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again,’ the house threatens to overwhelm the new Mrs de Winter. The most memorable moments of the novel are firmly rooted in the house – when she comes down the stairs for the ball, looking like the ghost of Rebecca, or when Mrs Danvers nearly makes her throw herself out of Rebecca’s old bedroom window. This was one of the books we discussed when I took the Walking Book Club to the splendid Port Eliot festival, not so far from Menabilly – the inspiration for du Maurier’s Manderley. I’ve read this novel so many times now, and each time find it utterly gripping, thoroughly brilliant. Perhaps I should allow myself one du Maurier a year.

But my house of the year has to go to the ‘convenient little house’ in Hampstead, which is the focus of Vita Sackville West’s All Passion Spent. Lady Slane’s husband, a great statesman, has just died when we meet her. She defies her foul children, who want to parcel her off between them, and retires to a pretty Hampstead house that she last saw thirty years ago. This perfect, slim novel, a fictional counterpart to Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own, is beautifully written, and I especially enjoyed the way Sackville-West’s love of gardening – as attested to by the magnificent gardens at Sissinghurst – periodically surfaces, when she can’t resist arranging a few flowers here, or a ripened peach there.

3 lives

The best non-fiction I’ve read this year has been about the lives of people. The strongest presence has been the poet, Edward Thomas. I read Matthew Hollis’s biography of him, Now All Roads Lead To France – a fantastic book, which managed to turn his rather quiet life into a series of cliffhangers. There was also Robert Macfarlane’s majestic The Old Ways, in which this literary lover of landscapes wrote about journeying on remarkable old paths, haunted by Edward Thomas who was a great walker as well as a great writer. And there was Nick Dear’s powerful play at the Almeida. My favourite Edward Thomas moment of the year was walking with some friends around (the aptly named) Steep, where Thomas lived, and up Shoulder of Mutton hill. It was very special to feel we were walking in his footsteps. Towards the end, we sprawled across a leafy glade and read out some of his poems, accompanied only by birdsong, the wind in the trees, and our steady chomping of Percy Pigs.

I loved reading Penelope Fitzgerald’s letters – a wonderful thick collection, which was a steady and inspiring companion for many months. And now I am reading West with the Night by Beryl Markham, who became my new heroine by about page five. She tells of her childhood in what was then British East Africa, a childhood which included such instances as hunting warthogs with local tribesmen and being mauled by a lion. She grew up to breed and train racehorses, and then became a freelance pilot. This is an extraordinary memoir, bristling with the spirit of adventure, full of the romance of a lost way of life, and somehow Markham has combined a great lyricism with edge-of-your-seat thrilling tension.

3 new novels

Deborah Levy’s Swimming Home seemed to lodge in me like a shard of glass, painful, unforgettable and darkly beautiful. Susie Boyt’s The Small Hours was a peculiar and powerful novel. It is about a strange, larger-than-life woman who decides to open a nursery school. It soon transpires that her own childhood has been difficult, to say the least. I suppose it’s what you might expect from Freud’s great-granddaughter. Emily Perkins’ The Forrests follows a family over several decades. What really stood out about it was the quality of the writing, richly detailed, making every mundane moment sing like a poem.

3 children’s books

Like everyone else I read The Hunger Games, and I loved it. It was alarmingly addictive – I have friends who began reading it one evening and had to take the next day off work, as they had to stay up all night to finish it. Cynics dismiss it as a horrid teen novel about children killing each other, but I found it thick with ideas – about CCTV, celebrity culture, society and more.

I reread The Wind in the Willows, which was truly joyful, and even inspired a walk along the Thames, for which we strove to bring all the ingredients in Ratty’s notorious picnic:



And I reread A Wizard of Earthsea, an exciting quest about the battle of good versus evil, and – interestingly – the importance of language.

3 of everything else

There were of course other brilliant Emilybooks of the year, which don’t fit into these clumps of threes so neatly – Dorothy Whipple, Patti Smith, and it was certainly a year of Ali Smith, whose new book Artful – not quite a novel, not quite a collection of essays, is something entirely new and mind-poppingly impressive. It was a year of many great ladies, and, lest I forget, a few great men, (like the aforementioned Edward Thomas, Lewis Grassic Gibbon and L.P. Hartley). It has been a year of feeling terrifically happy that there are so many wonderful books to read.

Thank you for accompanying me through a wonderful year of reading. Now I have only to wish you a happy and book-filled Christmas and New Year. Emilybooks will be back in January.

A Wizard of Earthsea

December 10, 2012

On the last Friday of every month – a night that when I was a teenager could only mean Drum n Bass at Fabric – now we go round to my mother’s for dinner. It’s a welcome chance to see my granny, older brothers, little niece and nephew and to eat chicken soup and play charades.

It’s also a chance to collect my books. The shelves of my old bedroom are crammed full of books. Books from my first year of university, books from school, but most of all, books from my childhood. Swallows and Amazons, Redwall, Narnia, The Wind in the Willows, The Railway Children, The Secret Garden, Winnie the Pooh and a particularly lovely picture book about a cow called Daisy, who became a Hollywood star but got depressed and ended up returning to her farm in England. It seems ridiculous that so many of my books are where I haven’t been living for almost ten years. I long to have those books with me – and my mother longs to be rid of them – but our shelves are already groaning with books, not helped by the fact that the husband’s architecture books are so much bigger than mine.

So every month, I take home a bagful of the books that I particularly miss and cull a few old books from my new shelves to make room for them. (Incidentally, there is a nice article about culling books by Ysenda Maxtone Graham in the latest issue of Slightly Foxed.) Having already retrieved most of the classics from university, at the most recent Friday night dinner, I allowed myself to take some children’s books too.

It happened to be perfect timing, as only last week I was ill with a horrid cough and cold. And when I’m ill, I’m at my happiest reading children’s books. There’s something about the exciting storylines, the wild imaginative worlds, the deeply sympathetic characters going on vital quests and the good versus evil theme that chimes with a slightly feverish brain.

I read Ursula Le Guin’s A Wizard of Earthsea, a book which I adored when I was a nine-year-old, and many of the ideas from it lingered with me. I remember afterwards desperately wanting to learn the true names of things, convinced that I was a wizard, like the hero of the book. I’m also sure it was from this book that I learned the importance of facing your fears, rather than running from them.

Ged is born the son of a village bronzesmith on an island called Gont, but it quickly becomes clear that he is destined to be a powerful wizard. Off he goes with a wise old mage to his retreat in the mountains, but, being impatient, he decides to sail off to wizarding school (yes, this was written long before Harry Potter), where he does much better than everyone else. But Ged is a proud boy, and is easily riled by an older boy. Eventually they have a big spell off, and Ged, when summoning a spirit from the dead, accidentally unleashes a dark shadow, which nearly kills him. Once he recovers, his quest is to find this shadow and vanquish it. It is a quest that sees him encounter dragons, powerful stones and dark forces.

Really it’s a joy to read this book, to discover a whole imaginary world, with its strange island folk, dragons, magic and wizards:

In a land where sorcerers come thick, like Gont or the Enlades, you may see a raincloud blundering slowly from side to side and place to place as one spell shunts it on to the next, till at last it is buffeted out over the sea where it can rain in peace.

It really makes me grin to think of a raincloud being shunted around until it retires, exhausted, to rain over the sea. It’s these little quirks, these thought-through details which make it so convincing, and so intriguing a world.

Throughout A Wizard of Earthsea, the idea emphasised again and again is the importance of something’s true name, which is its name in Old Speech. If you are a wizard, once you can speak something’s name you can exercise power over it. I love this idea of the essence of something lying in its name – a potent way of expressing the vitality of language. Really it is a way of saying that words must be used well, with precision, with awareness of their many resonances, their echoing meanings. Interestingly, on Ursula K. Le Guin’s website, she has written the following words in a note to young writers:

A writer is a person who cares what words mean, what they say, how they say it. Writers know words are their way towards truth and freedom, and so they use them with care, with thought, with fear, with delight. By using words well they strengthen their souls. Story-tellers and poets spend their lives learning that skill and art of using words well. And their words make the souls of their readers stronger, brighter, deeper.

Magic in Earthsea – knowing the true name of something and using it with an awareness of its power – is not so different to the art of writing well. It all comes down to caring about words, and endeavouring to let them ring true. A brilliant writer weaves a spell with her words.

There is so much in A Wizard of Earthsea, so many powerful ideas, such a beautiful story. It certainly was an up-side to being poorly for a couple of days. Once again, having found the time to read a children’s book, I am left wondering why on earth we don’t all read them much more often.

I am also left feeling that while I might not have succeeded in my childhood ambition of becoming an actual wizard, writing is its own form of wizardry and one at which I am very happy to keep on beavering away.