So, lacking in experience and having no desire to work in recruitment, I took advantage of my knowledge of independent bookshops gathered from my current position as an intern with online magazine Untitled Books and trawled the web for their sites. Today I have sent a stupid amount of emails to those based in London that looked appealing, with desperate pleas to let me know if vacancies come up. All job applications  - especially the introductory and cover letters – always sound desperate and pleading, as if it is the jobseeker’s natural way to just grovel and try to ingratiate themselves. This is unpleasant for all involved. It strips dignity and any chance of being taken seriously. The only hope is to meet potential employers face-to-face and try to charm them with compliments and smiles. God help us.

I need and want a job, and I would LOVE to work in a cool indy bookshop that will challenge and excite me (hint hint). Hopefully this little dream will come true. Please?

FINALLY I have finished reading Alone in Berlin (1947, Hans Fallada) – I don’t know why it took me so long. It may partly be because the book itself is so intense that one needs to have a little break between each stretch. This somewhat overwhelming nature of the book is quite astonishing, given that the only other books really to have had that effect on me were those that were real-life accounts of experiences of the concentration camps, and the trial of Adolf Eichmann. Perhaps the novel had this effect on me because I knew that its plot is based on real events that occurred during World War Two; but really I think it is the utter skill of the writer. This book was written in only 24 days by a man who was, as we say, troubled, and who would not live to see its publication, devoured by his own various substance addictions. The novel builds slowly, bringing together the strands that knit together to form one complete story. Some of the characters only know each other by sight or reputation, but all their stories interconnect and are equally important as each other. As one quickly garners from reading the blurb, there is an intense feeling of real fear running through the centre of the book – even those supposedly in power are not safe. Everyone is subject to the irrational whims of their superior – either in rank or intelligence.

The slowness of the book can at moments seem a little frustrating, but once the end is reached and the whole is reflected upon, the slowness seems entirely appropriate and necessary. The events of the novel take place over a handful of years, throughout which almost every character is living in fear, waiting to be caught or for that moment when they will know they are free. The length and intensity of the book seems to signify the length and intensity of their suffering, whether they may be deemed ‘good’ or ‘bad’ by the end of it. For each character the entire experience (of the plot) is a struggle and it is through this struggle that the raw elements of their humanity are presented to the reader from the deft hands of the writer.

Though not exactly easy, this is a brilliant, brilliant book that anyone interested the in human experience of the war should most definitely read. It is a side of the story that we have not all heard, but that most certainly needs to be heard. Primo Levi called it ‘the greatest book ever written about German resistance to the Nazis’ and it is easy to see why.

( Image: the Gestapo mugshots of Otto and Elise Hampel)

‘Alone in Berlin’ works in a very different way. We have all heard and read stories from the war, of the atrocities that took place and the unutterable suffering that so many people endured at the hands of the Nazis; but we have not heard so much of the plight of German citizens that did not support the aggressive Party ruling their country. This is the story of a small corner of that resistance, written by a German about Germans. Of course we must never forget the war and we must be respectful of those that suffered; but we have heard many stories that, although all individually important and different, do have something in common. It is a fact that most of the stories published about wartime experience are those of the Allies and the persecuted European Jews. We have not heard so much from ordinary Germans. Though this is a fictional novel it is based on real events and it is not like the many other stories we have heard. There always seems to be something new to hear or learn about the Second World War and this is a brilliant example. Time has lessened the wound, but we still remember and we still need to hear about what happened.

I haven’t yet finished ‘Alone in Berlin’ but I am sure it will live up to its reputation.

[Must inform: PLOT SPOILERS]

By the end of the novel the reader has fully realised just how disturbed Humbert really is – his obsession with Lo has progressed to a point where he does not seem to care about the happiness of either of them. He knows she cries at night and that she does not love him, but does nothing about it. Lolita’s reaction to the situation, especially when they settle temporarily in Beardsley, is a growing sense of her power over the man who was her stepfather. She begins to manipulate him to get what she wants, which is largely money. As with her ‘drama practice’ she also begins to lie to him, slowly developing her plan of eventual escape. This element of the story is a strange one. Lo is in cahoots with Clare Quilty and he ‘rescues’ her from Humbert when she is briefly in hospital – but he cannot be seen as her saviour, for he is as corrupted a man as Humbert Humbert. She is never really ‘safe’, from the moment she meets Humbert, and especially after her mother dies.

This sense of danger, or at least risk, is inherent in the film version. Irons is unnervingly calm and composed, and Dominique Swain portrays Lo with a strange though accurate combination of naivety, desperation, and hopefulness. These seem to be the things that really drive Lolita to take the risks she does and extricate herself from one unhealthy relationship by entering into another. Of course, the main thing to remember is how ridiculously young she is. Even at the end of the novel, when she has been separated from Humbert for three years and is married and pregnant, she is still just seventeen. One might question why she writes to him at this point, and the answer is that it may be, partly, due to her inherent immaturity as a teenager. Really, she is still a child. This is illustrated by the film version really rather well in the edited scene in which Humbert visits her in her new home. She is huge with pregnancy, but is otherwise like a child trying to make her way in an adult world – which of course is essentially what she is. Though she and her mother argued constantly, one suspects that Mrs Humbert would have been able to steer her daughter towards a more fulfilling and happy path. Knowing from the start that she dies in childbirth is bad enough, but when, at the end of the book, the reader reflects on the entirety of her life, her story is painfully sad.

As is common with adaptations, the film version of Lolita has a more immediate and in some ways shocking impact than the novel. Seeing all the events play out one after the other in less that two hours is rather intense and the viewer does not turn off the DVD player feeling positive. In book format the beauty of Nabokov’s writing saves the story from being entirely depressing – through the intricacies of the work we are reminded of the beauty of the world; but the film is rather more bleak. It still has its own beauty, but as a whole the experience is frankly rather draining and more than a little upsetting. The stark reality of the situation hits one full in the face at certain points and although this does in no way rob the film of merit, it makes it in some way much less enjoyable. Well, that’s what I thought anyway.

I have since been reading and watching other things, but that’s another story…

I’ve read a stupid amount of books this academic year, many of which I would never had read of my own volition. Since September I don’t think I’ve read a single book that wasn’t for uni. And if I did, I’ve forgotten it. HOWEVER now that I am mired in writing a fucking ridiculous amount of words for my final essays, I have decided to start reading a book purely for pleasure. Yes indeedy. Not really sure why. Probably desperation for escape? Either way, it’s fun, so whatever.

That book (drumroll) is LOLITA by Vladimir Nabokov. The 1997 film was on Film 4 the other week, but I had missed loads so I didn’t watch it properly, but I watched a bit of it. And it was good! Never seen Jeremy Irons look so sort of odd and suspicious. My sister has read the book and told it was actually really good, so, intrigued, I decided to give it a go. Now of all times.

Lolita is one of those books you’ve always heard of (pretty much purely because of its controversy, should be because it’s really bloody good) but never actually read. I didn’t even know much about it other than the fact that a middle aged man gets the hots for a twelve year old girl. Had no idea of actual plot or anything like that. So, like I said, intrigued. Also it’s been made into a film twice, once by Kubrick, so it can’t just be about the ‘ooh it’s naughty’ side of it. Bit more psychological and interesting that that. Although the ‘ooh it’s naughty’ side does feature throughout; but not in a lewd way, don’t worry dear reader.

First of all, Humbert Humbert (Nabokov should have got an award for Most Frumpy and Odd Character Name Ever) is a brilliant character. He is engaging and actually sort of charming, and makes you laugh rather than make you wonder whether he’s normal. Well, he does actually more or less tell you that he’s not normal – he knows it is not socially acceptable for him to be so excited by and drawn to his ‘nymphets’ ie girls between nine and thirteen (ish). My point being that you don’t read the book going ‘oh my god he’s a massive pervy sex offender’, you sort of go ‘how sad that he’s a perv, he’ll never be happy’; that said, there is often a slight air of malice in his narration, but a malice that he seems to enjoy and expects the reader to enjoy too. It’s almost S&M-y, like ‘muah ha ha she’s my little prey, I’m going to have her and she’s going to enjoy it’. If that makes sense. Plus he is actually funny, in a rather dark, ironic, knowing way. Which is undoubtedly amusing.

I’m only halfway through the book so I can’t provide a fully rounded picture yet, but thus far I’m willing to recommend it. The story is dramatic enough that you want to keep turning the pages, but the strangeness of the story and its narrator means that there is plenty of psychological/ethical material to play with in between the action. Lolita herself is painted as well as Humbert wishes to paint her, but as an actual person she is a bit of a mystery to us, as she is to him. Perhaps it is because I am not yet at the end of the book, or purely because she is so coy with him, but one never really knows what she’s thinking or what she wants, and perhaps more importantly, how she sees and feels about Humbert. Time may tell. I am willing to listen.

By the by I’ve ordered the film from Amazon, so when I’ve read the book and watched that I can do a nice little comparison review. Ooh, something to look forward to! Probably.

I have just returned to university for my third year and have thus completed my LAST EVER summer holidays (in the conventional sense) – this makes me sad. And so I sit and pine and reflect on these holidays and I am compelled to relate to you the last Big Event that occurred during them – I left my house and travelled as far north as I have ever travelled in the UK. Scary, huh? We travelled first directly to the lovely Newstead Abbey, which was, for about five or so  years, the home (or rather, seat) of our dearly departed George Gordon, Lord Byron – poet, manwhore and many other things besides. This was rather exciting. You see, like many a female English student, I love old George, just love him. He was imperfect and depressive, insecure and unsatisfied, but also deeply intelligent and emotional, with great talent and passions. Passions that, yes, okay, involved all sorts of naughty fun with anyone who’d have him. Well, not anyone, he famously turned down big fat scary Ali Pasha in Albania when he gave him the eye. Wouldn’t you? Not a pretty man. I digress.

Just driving down the very very long drive was exciting, seeing the man made (I think) lake was thrilling, and then walking up and seeing THE ACTUAL HOUSE was, like, OMG. In all seriousness it was bloody fantastic, I was just losing myself in images of George walking around with Boatswain and flirting with the housemaids. When we entered the house I walked slowly and examined everything, trying to picture what daily life might have been like there. Of course things were different, a lot was changed by the Victorian owners, but there were elements from the Regency period and of course several things that George actually owned or used. The Great Hall is now decked out in a mock Medieval style (complete with antlers) but George ripped everything out, then didn’t have the money to restore it so, like the big Drawing Room, the Hall was used for pistol practice, as well as fencing and boxing. The floor was covered in straw (mmm, classy) and there would no doubt have been a small menagerie filling up the place. How Romantic and sort of broken… just like George. Funny that.

As you will expect the Great Manwhore’s bedroom was interesting too. Since his death it has been altered to include a small page’s room, but everything else has been faithfully reproduced, right down to the rather showy yellow and green bed hangings and curtains patterned with Chinese pagodas. Most of the room is green and the bed is of course high and also short, as everyone was back then. There is also a characteristic pistol resting on the bed steps, to fend off night terrors and laudanum-induced hallucinations (probably). Jokes aside, it is truly wonderful to experience a space, however briefly, that someone you connect with on a such a high Platonic level once inhabited and filled with their own experiences. It does not matter if they have been gone for 186 years and the space has been altered since. Their spirit and essence and experience is still embedded in the room, in the walls, ceilings, floors and windows. They were here, they walked along this corridor and through this door, they looked out of this window and saw this view. Buildings hold onto the experiences and people they have housed, a part of the person becomes part of the building, it animates and deepens the life of a house.

Later in the short trip this experience was, to some degree, repeated when we entered Yorkshire (that’s really, really North, like properly THE NORTH) and visited The Bronte Parsonage Museum. I was denied a visit to this lovely little place in Sixth Form because I only studied English Lit, while the Lit and Lang group got carted up there is have a nose around. Just because they did Wuthering Heights in the exam and we only did it for coursework. Unfair. Anyway, I was glad to finally be able to visit the place. It is most definitely unassuming, with no big sign and the entrance essentially at the back of the car park; but it is lovely. The house itself is pretty and modest, but still with plenty of space and things to admire. There is plenty of history about the town of Haworth and the connection with the church, and a great deal about the girls’ father, Revered Patrick Bronte, whose tragedy was that he outlived his wife and all six of his children. It was when I entered the dining room, in which Charlotte had composed Jane Eyre and Emily Wuthering Heights that similar feelings to those experienced at Newstead arose once more. I have read only Wuthering Heights, and not for some years, so I do not feel the same depth of connection with the Brontes that I do with Byron. However, standing in that room still generated a high Platonic connection to these women, deep thinkers beyond their years with an incredible wealth of vision.

Later the same day we walked over Haworth moor (in the rain and wind…) to the Bronte Bridge and Waterfall. This was a beautiful walk through dramatic and unspoiled landscape, and the destination did not disappoint. The Waterfall is set in a hill so you cannot easily access it, especially in the rain, but the Bridge is a simple one of stone, arching over a quick, rocky stream. It is small, simple, and beautiful. Find a picture if you can. Again I stood and imagined the sisters walking here on a summer day (less wet and cold, more forgiving of Victorian dresses), thinking about and discussing their latest ideas and fantasies, a vision the atmosphere easily prompts. The path continues up a hill towards Top Withens, supposedly the inspiration for Wuthering Heights, but it was too wet, windy and late in the day for us to continue that far, though I of course wish I could have.

As we left I wished that I had brought along my volume of Plath that contains her beautiful poem about her visit to Wuthering Heights with Ted Hughes. It vividly conjures her experience of the place and I have just reread this verse which I think captures the dark and wonderful atmosphere of this place filled with fantasy:

“There is no life higher than the grasstops

Or the hearts of sheep, and the wind

Pours by like destiny, bending

Everything in one direction.

I can feel it trying

To funnel my heat away.

If I pay the roots of the heather

Too close attention, they will invite me

To whiten my bones among them.”

Batgirl.xx.

I recently read The Go-Between by LP Hartley. It is one on-going story but there are many small things that unfold along the way. To an extent it feels like Virginia [Woolf]‘s haze but with some gig lamps slowly coming into focus – more and more as the novel progresses. Though it is told in retrospect by Leo when he is an adult, he narrates from the point of view he had at the time, that of a twelve year old boy. So, as certain things do not make complete sense to him because he is not able to see all facets of the situation, we cannot either, and so we only see and understand what he sees and understands. We may understand some things earlier than he does but thru his eyes we still cannot know the whole situation, and that is why the story unfolds so slowly. This is of course the case with the central events of the messages passed between Marian and Ted – we realise they are love notes long before he finds out. We may also guess that the only reason Lord Trimingham comes to stay is to become engaged to Marian – and that the reason for this is that Marian’s family may continue to live in the house (thru the generations) while the Trimighams retain ownership. It is to bring the two families together, rather than anything to do with love, though it appears Lord T has some affection for Marian, though she appears to love Ted.

The whole point of the story is really Leo’s awakening to the adult world as he begins to understand how and why adults really behave as they do. Reading from an adult perspective, it is strange and interesting to see how limited and at the same time how perfectly sensible a child’s perspective is of things, in keeping with those limitations.

Warning – PLOT SPOILERS!

Once I finished The Go-Between (after two weeks-ish) I was grateful for it. The ending was not as shocking as it was intended to be – the story had begun to drag on so much that it was obvious that Marian and Ted’s affair was to be discovered in some way and that Leo would most likely blame himself. Ted’s suicide was not expected but there was no way that he and Marian could have stayed together so whatever the outcome it was bound to be tragic. The epilogue was fitting but not especially revealing or unexpected. Obviously it would not have necessarily been the case in 1953 (the date of publication), but I feel I have read many of the components of the story in many other forms. Also the book did not come together as I expected it to from the opening. The revelation of memory seemed to promise a much more exciting story, something more like a thriller – perhaps that is why it seemed somewhat anticlimactic. If the intention had been clearer then the events, completion and execution of the novel would have been more satisfying.

So… read it if you want to. There’s a film adaptation from the 70s that, according to my mother, is really good. Well, I hope it’s at least better than the book!

I have since read a few short stories by Daphne du Maurier (whom I adore adore ADORE), and that really was a welcome change. I read Don’t Look Now, Not After Midnight and A Borderline Case. They were all fantastic, though I’m not sure I have completely unravelled Not After Midnight. Now I just need to watch the film version of Don’t Look Now – in daylight and not alone…

Happy reading!

Batgirl.xx.

The thing with John is, that after reading his work and comparing it to Shelley and Byron, he rather puts them in the shade for me. This is no mean feat, seeing as I had sworn my allegiance to George a long time ago… and I do still adore Byron, it’s just that my new-found love and respect for Keats has brought my love and respect for Byron a little closer to the ground; and his flaws are all the more visible for it.

One thing I particularly love about Keats is that he goes against the egotistical sublime of Byron, Shelley & Wordsworth and instead involves the reader, goes outside of himself to create a work that is engaging and moving, profound and spirited. The egotistical sublime is a wonderful thing to study but it does what it says on the tin – it is egotistical, to a sometimes maniacal degree. The focus is entirely on the poet’s own mind, on his own sense of self and of his own genius… it is much too interior, it does not fully connect with the outside world; rather it seeks to elevate the poet and the reader above our lowly empirical, temporal existence and for the mind to inhabit the higher, sublime, frankly rather elitist plane that Shelley (to me, at least, not really in fact) is the Lord of. Sublime, idealistic, genius, poetic – yes; relatable, likeable, tangible, attainable – no. I do not mean to reject the Sublime entirely as a concept, rather to say that love it as I do, I prefer John’s way of things. He often went outside to write, weather permitting, and the influence of nature and what he physically experienced in the temporal world is often evident in his work. This is what I adhere to, that we should engage with our world and feel its beauty and power, not reject it and just sit and stare at mountains. We should feel, experience, know, love and appreciate the beauty that exists around us. This all sounds a bit hippy-dippy, but read a bit of Keats and you’ll see what I mean; especially “Ode to a Nightingale”, I’m a bit nuts about that one at the moment.

Essentials for any decent Keats obsession: Penguin Classics Complete Poems; Andrew Motion’s wonderful biography, “Keats”; good pencils (and a sharpener) for marginalia; and a copy of “Bright Star” on DVD (with tissues, weeping guaranteed).

Batgirl.xx.

Old George was miserable, and frequently ill, but he was a clever one, no doubt about that. Though I don’t think he was the type to use his intelligence to see the higher beauty in our world and appreciate the finer things and all that; I think he used his intelligence to see how awful some things were and how difficult it was to fix them. This lead him to create brilliant but not very hopeful dystopian futures in his work. 1984 paints a vividly grey image (ooh, oxymoron, must be really be an English student then) of a cruel future world which none us would want to inhabit at any time, and it does not, let’s say, end well. Oh no. It all goes down the drain and The Man and His Evil Machines wins. Sort of like The Terminator but not nearly as fun and with no Christian Bale to try and save us once Arnie is ensconced in his mansion in California. One can appreciate bleak little images like this and look at the paper and go, yes, well, George may turn out to be right you know, but really it doesn’t make for an enjoyable afternoon on the sofa. One could be doing so much more enjoyable things… Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is that when I read 1984, and reached the miserable end, I was left wondering, what was I supposed to learn? Was it supposed to instill fear to make me fight The Man Gordon Brown? Or make me run away from society and blend his vision with that of Aldous and go create a community of Shakespeare-reading Savages in a field? Not sure. I think it’s mainly supposed to shock us into rebelling against unnecessary government control and invasions of privacy (have you seen how shoddy changing room curtains are in underwear departments these days?), and we’re supposed to rally behind Miserable Old George and not let his dystopian visions come true. Here’s hoping. SO, I must trawl through library books and articles and the like to find a theme or something I want to talk about to my fellow students of EN2301: Modernity and the 20th Century British Novel. Maybe I’ll include that Terminator comparison and maybe even throw in some Matrix; and of course compare him (unfavourably, I have to say) to his former teacher Mr Huxley, whose view was rather more rounded and not quite so bloody miserable. Should be fun!! Wish me luck…

Batgirl.xx.