Posts Tagged ‘vintage classics’

Rubyfruit Jungle

September 21, 2015

Does anyone else think of September as being an enormous Sunday night? There’s that scary back-to-school feeling, and the need for new shoes and perhaps some snazzy new stationery. At least Vita seems incredibly pleased with the addition of a pair of shoes to her wardrobe. She has taken to trying to walk, very excitedly and proudly, hanging on to my hands while practising her peculiarly straight-legged stomp as far as she can (or my back permits) before sitting down and clapping her hands.

Vita is now at nursery two days a week, which is a change. This is so that on Fridays I can be back at work in the bookshop, and on Thursdays I can get some writing done. Last Friday was my first day back and it was wonderful. There were all these things I could do, like read a book, talk to people about books, rearrange books on tables … and I realised how much stronger I’ve got – books, even huge towers of them, are so much lighter and easier to manoeuvre than a wriggling baby desperate to show off her idiosyncratic goosestep!

Who knows how the writing will go, and whether I’ll return to the novel-in-progress, or start afresh, or spend the extra time pursuing journalism. Help, it feels far too scary to think about!, so instead let me point you towards my latest two articles: a piece I wrote for The Guardian about Odd Mondays … and another for The Spectator about the library in The Jungle migrant camp in Calais. I’d love to know what you think of them.

Anyway, all this September chat is to make the point that there are times in one’s life which can feel well maybe not quite like ‘turning points’, as that sounds so naf, but certainly like a change, as though you’re climbing up to the next step, with all its accompanying challenges. And for me, for some reason, this usually happens in September.

Rubyfruit Jungle by Rita Mae BrownSo it was very lucky that while Vita was settling in to nursery and I was sent off to sit downstairs or in a nearby café while she got used to it, ready to be summoned if she bawled, when I wasn’t biting my fingernails and suffering a horrid anxious sinking feeling , I read the perfect September book: Rubyfruit Jungle by Rita Mae Brown.

This is a novel with a brilliant, clever, ballsy, brave heroine, who is determined to succeed in spite of terrible circumstances and several knockbacks. And it’s very funny, right from the start:

No one remembers her beginnings. Mothers and aunts tell us about infancy and early childhood, hoping we won’t forget the past when they had total control over our lives and secretly praying that because of it, we’ll include them in our future.

I loved it from the first sentence, the way that ‘no one’ is given the possessive ‘her’ rather than the more common ‘his’ or the fence-sitting plural ‘their’. Obviously this is going to be a feminist book, I thought, and full of insight – although I fear it may be Vita who has total control over my life rather than the other way round – told in a chatty, conspiratorial way that made me instantly warm to Molly Bolt, our heroine. By the end of the first page, we learn that Molly is ‘a bastard’ and see her friend Broccoli’s notably uncircumcised ‘dick’. It sets the tone for the rest of the novel, in which there is a lot of bad language, and a lot of talk about sex, especially lesbian sex – so those of you who blush easily, you have been warned.

Molly Bolt tells her story, beginning in ‘a rural dot’ in Pennsylvania, where she is an illegitimate child, very poor, very bright and a vociferous tomboy. She falls in love with her classmate Leota B, and asks her to marry her. When Leota points out that girls can’t marry each other, Molly responds:

‘Look, if we want to get married, we can get married. It don’t matter what anybody says. Besides Leroy and I are running away to be famous actors. We’ll have lots of money and clothes and we can do what we want. Nobody dares tell you what to do if you’re famous. Now ain’t that a lot better than sitting around here with an apron on?’

From the start, Molly is determined to do what she wants and won’t let anyone get in her way. If what she wants is against the rules, then the rules are stupid and she’ll change them. She is quick to point out the hypocrisy of the adult world. If she and Leota love each other then why shouldn’t they get married? When her family move to Florida, her parents tell her off for using the ‘Colored Only’ toilets. Her father explains that here, ‘down South’, things are different from the North and ‘the whites and the coloreds don’t mix’. Molly says:

‘Daddy, that’s no different than up home in York. They just don’t put “Colored” over the bathroom doors, that’s all.’

Defiantly, she continues:

‘I ain’t staying away from people because they look different.’

Molly’s forever being called a ‘smart-mouth’ and told to shut up, but she refuses. She will speak her mind and certainly this reader is grateful for her persistence.

After High School, which Molly negotiates with aplomb, she gets a full scholarship to the University of Florida in Gainesville, ‘the bedpan of the South’. (She has to go there rather than to the better universities because they don’t offer her such generous scholarships.) Molly’s successful career there falls apart when her lesbian affair with her room mate is discovered, and the committee informs her that her scholarship ‘could not be renewed for “moral reasons” although my academic record was superb.’

It’s a kick in the teeth and Molly does what many of us would do, gets a bus home. Only, when she gets there her mother greets her with:

‘You just turn your ass around and get out … You never obeyed nobody’s rules – mine, the school’s, and now you go defying God’s rules. Go on and get outa here. I don’t want you. Why the hell you even bother to come back here?’

Molly, unfazed, leaves and determines to hitchhike to New York City, in spite of having only $14.61 in the world, reasoning ‘there are so many queers in New York that one more wouldn’t rock the boat’.

Even in New York, Molly won’t stick to the rules. Firstly she refuses to slot into the ‘butch and femme’ scene that dominates the lesbian scene, saying:

‘That’s the craziest, dumbass thing I ever heard tell of. What’s the point of being a lesbian if a woman is going to look and act like an imitation man?’

She refuses to be a wealthy older lesbian’s kept woman even though she is broke, and instead gets a partial scholarship to NYU film school, working nights at ‘The Flick serving ice cream and hamburgers in a bunnyesque costume.’ When she gets fired, she finds another job as a secretary:

I roared into the office in complete female rig – skirt, stockings, slip. I couldn’t cross my legs because some of the more obvious sperm producers would try to look up my leg, couldn’t put my feet on the desk because that wasn’t ladylike, and if I didn’t wear makeup everyone, including the boss, would ask me if I was ‘under the weather’ that day.

I love the thought of ‘roaring into the office’. From now on, I am going to roar everywhere and not worry about permanently looking ‘under the weather’.

Molly graduates from film school, in spite of everything, including the fact that all the equipment gets given to the men, only to find that none of the film companies will give her a job unless it’s as a secretary. It’s another setback, but, she says, ‘what the hell’, it’ll take more than this to stop her:

One way or another I’ll make those movies and I don’t feel like having to fight until I’m fifty. But if it does take that long then watch out world because I’m going to be the hottest fifty-year-old this side of the Mississippi.

Rubyfruit Jungle is a terrific novel about not giving up, and never compromising on what you stand for. It’s hard to succeed, and perhaps it’s harder for Molly than for most, but she keeps fighting. It’s an inspiration and exactly what you need to read in September – I can’t recommend it highly enough if you, like me, are in need of a little pepping up. Now, if I feel a little feeble, I think of roaring around like Molly and I think ‘Watch out world!’

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The Bell

July 20, 2015

What a lot has happened over the past few weeks!

We all went on holiday to Italy, which ought to have been heavenly – I was envisioning a kind of Enchanted April situation, with the addition of a rather squidgy Vita sitting in the shade making sweet gurgling noises – but alas it was broilingly hot, we had a laughably terrible journey, a scorpion took to sauntering around Vita’s cot, she got horribly, worryingly ill with tonsillitis so none of us slept for days as she cried rather heartbreakingly pathetically all night, and, the last straw, I trod on a wasp.

We came home early, all absolute wrecks, and were put back together again by a combination of mothers, doctors, and antibiotics. Emilybooks has resolved that from 2016, we will adopt a strict policy of staycationing during the summer months.

On the up side, as we came home early, I was around and able to write this big feature about the controversial new Harper Lee book, Go Set a Watchman for the Daily Mail.

From one Murdoch to another …

The Bell by Iris MurdochThe Bell by Iris Murdoch was mostly read while I was covered in Vita-vom, with eyes propped open with matchsticks, yet, still, it was a triumph.

It is a shame that Iris Murdoch has fallen so out of fashion. She tends to be dismissed as someone who created ‘novels of ideas’. Such an idiotic phrase! Aren’t all novels filled with ideas? And, surely, it ought to be a compliment in any case?

Well The Bell is bursting with ideas, and, the conclusion from yesterday’s walking book club is that we could have done with another few hours to discuss them all – so much was there to say.

Dora Greenfield, of whom I am rather fond, is a young Bohemian and errant wife. We meet her as she is returning to her (awful) husband, who is staying and working in the archives of an eccentric lay community set up beside Imber Abbey. Here, a collection of misfits is gathered to try to pursue a spiritual life in a beautiful house adjoining the abbey. They do things like cultivate a market garden, listen to a Bach gramophone recital, and sermonise. There is a lake in the grounds, and vigorous, idealistic young Toby, come to stay at Imber before going up to Oxford, shares Iris Murdoch’s love of swimming. When diving in the lake he discovers a medieval bell, which used to belong to the Abbey. So Dora and Toby hatch a plan to swap the new bell which is due to arrive at the Abbey with the old …

Murdoch gives us a rich assortment of characters in her community. Different chapters are focalised through the viewpoints of Dora, Toby and Michael. Michael is one of the leaders of the community and is struggling to come to terms with his homosexuality. There are also several others – including the mysterious Catherine, who is to become a nun; her brother Nick, a depressive drunk who Michael used to teach and with whom he was – perhaps still is – in love; busybody Mrs Mark, naturalist Peter, charismatic James Tayper Pace … and a few more. Very cleverly, Murdoch never gives us the perspective of these characters: they are closed, seen only through the eyes of Dora, Toby or Michael. This means that when dramatic things happen late in the book to Nick and to Catherine (I won’t spoil it for you), they come as a complete shock and cast a new light on what has come before. It is perhaps a warning about the subjectivity of experience. It is certainly a means of showing us how very separate and enclosed are her characters’ different perspectives on the world.

Middlemarch by George EliotIt reminds me of a great bit of Middlemarch – a ‘pregnant fact’ to which Eliot draws our attention:

Your pier-glass or extensive surface of polished steel made to be rubbed by a housemaid, will be minutely and multitudinously scratched in all directions; but place now against it a lighted candle as a centre of illumination, and lo! the scratches will seem to arrange themselves in a fine series of concentric circles round that little sun. It is demonstrable that the scratches are going everywhere impartially, and it is only your candle which produces the flattering illusion of a concentric arrangement, its light falling with an exclusive optical selection. These things are a parable. The scratches are events, and the candle is the egoism of any person…

Eliot essentially suggests that each character in a novel is like the ‘little sun’ of a candle flame, making the chaos of scratches appear to align concentrically around it – as events can seem to align around one character; but if seen from another character’s point of view, the events all line up completely differently. The Bell is, to my mind, a novel which shows this phenomenon better than any other – each character has such a particular, different take on events, and Murdoch’s clever way of showing us into the minds of three of them, and not into the minds of the others, allows her to pull it off with great panache.

This idea of lots of little separate worlds all coexisting, as seen in the characters’ viewpoints, can be extended in the novel. There is the closed world of Imber, and within that the world of the Abbey. There is also this rather beautiful description of Toby’s swimming in the lake:

He stood, poised on the brink, looking down. The centre of the lake was glittering, colourlessly brilliant, but along the edge the green banks could be seen reflected and the blue sky, the colours clear yet strangely altered into the colours of a dimmer and more obscure world: the charm of swimming in still waters, that sense of passing through the looking-glass, of disturbing and yet entering that other scene that grows out of the roots of this one. Toby took a step or two and hurled himself in.

Toby seems to keep on hurling himself through barriers into enclosed spaces, other worlds. There is another moment when he climbs over the Abbey wall; there are his forays into the different worlds of homosexuality and heterosexuality, and the latter even takes him into the cavernous bell itself (you have to read the book really for that to make sense).

All these little worlds alongside each other is perhaps why sound plays such a strong part in The Bell. Birdsong, the Bach gramophone recital, singing the madrigals, the dreadful portentous bark of a dog at the end, and the great tolling of the bell – Murdoch conjures Imber as much through its sounds as anything else. Not only does this appeal to our aural sense make Imber all the more vivid, but Murdoch’s use of sound is pertinent because sound is something that can surmount barriers, can cross between the worlds: you can’t see what’s behind a wall, but you can hear what’s behind it. When Dora rings the bell, everyone is summoned, from all their different enclosures, and the following day hundreds of people are there to witness the bell ceremony. Sound is a great unifier in this novel of so many separations.

There is much more, but I think I must leave it there or risk droning on for too long. Suffice to say The Bell is just brilliant. It may feel quite dated, but it also is funny, clever, thoughtful and eccentric. I can see why many people say this is their favourite of Iris Murdoch’s books. Though if I were to be completely honest, love it though I did, my all time favourite has got to be Iris Murdoch’s first novel – also funny, clever, thoughtful and eccentric, but more picaresque and very Londony – Under the Net.

As ever, I’d love to know any of your own Murdochian thoughts in the comments below…

Iris Murdoch photographed by Mark Gerson in 1958 - the year The Bell was published (National Portrait Gallery)

Iris Murdoch photographed by Mark Gerson in 1958 – the year The Bell was published