British Literature

Bright Young Things Satirized

My copy of Evelyn Waugh’s Vile Bodies (I read the one in the picture) had an intro by Waugh that stated that, at one point in the writing of the book, he’d gone from gleeful to bitter–although he doesn’t say so, I assume it’s because of his divorce from his wife (it’s his own fault. When A dude named Evelyn marries a girl named Evelyn, it can’t end well).

That comment began to worry me about halfway through the book. You see, the first part of Brideshead Revisited is one of my favorite pieces of writing ever. The description of aristocratic college life in the 1920s has always seemed to me to represent a perfect idyll (and if you want more of it, but from the academic side, I strongly recommend The Inklings of Oxford), while the second half, the “serious” half, dropped off sharply. I was enjoying the pell-mell anarchy of Vile Bodies, and I didn’t want that to happen in this one.

Luckily, it wasn’t possible–at least not for me–to easily separate Waugh’s biting satire of the “gleeful” part from the bitterness he says happened in the second section. Not on a first reading, anyway.

The book continues as it started, with the nuttiness of young people discovering their independence in a time just coming off the repressive age. While it can’t rival Gatsby as the ultimate expression of the Roaring Twenties, it does give you just enough reality beneath the exaggeration to give one a sense of what the London scene looked like.

As with Gatsby, it was a great time to be alive (as long as you were in the right set, of course).

The temptation here is to compare this one with Scoop, as they are both similar in conception: take an institution (journalism in Scoop, the Bright Young Things in Vile Bodies) and go to town on the satire. It’s a valid comparison, but Scoop is both funnier (unless you’re easily offended, in which case we pity you) and more chaotic, while Vile Bodies, though good, does fall a little flat at the end. It’s probably very symbolic, but I’m reading this one as a regular reader, for the fun of it, and have little interest in social commentary about stuff that happened almost a hundred years ago.

As such, it’s a good book, and I have yet to find a Waugh that I didn’t like, but it isn’t quite up to the wonderfulness (I was sure the autocorrector would clobber wonderfulness, but apparently it’s a real word. Who knew?) of the first half of Brideshead and the entirety of Scoop. Still better than most everything else, of course.

Read Waugh. Don’t let his books go out of print. If not for you, do it for future generations.

Gustavo Bondoni is a novelist and short story writer. His literary fiction is collected in the linked story Love and Death. You can check it out here.

Only the CIA Would Have Made a Film Out of Animal Farm

Animal Farm is yet another of those books you love to have read as opposed to loved reading. Orwell, as we all know, was a socialist, but what few people realize is that he was, first and foremost, a humanist. He refused to accept that any ideology, not even his beloved collectivism, was more important than the individuals it was to guide.

So when Stalinism took root in the Soviet Union, complete with all its excesses and de-personing of opposition, this avowed socialist became, ironically, the perfect spokesperson for the CIA. Both 1984 and Animal Farm are, essentially anti-communist books that warn of the dangers of totalitarian collectivism. They have since been used to attack the left and other populist demagogues by anyone with half a brain (those without brains sometime think it can be used to attack capitalist ideals, unaware that they are talking about two different things).

So the CIA commissioned a film of Animal Farm

While I’m not the right person to ask whether this is good propaganda or bad, I am eminently qualified to talk about the story and how it makes a viewer (or reader) feel. In this case, you feel like crap, because you just know how things will end as soon as a socialist utopia is mooted (utopias of any kind always end the same way, of course). You read the book because you want to understand the arguments and understand the Twentieth Century… but why watch a cartoon of this depressing stuff. Hell, if you want to be unhappy watch this one.

I can just imagine some poor parent, delighted with Disney’s offerings, taking their kids to see this little gem. It’s a wonder movie houses weren’t burned down by irate fathers (or their bawling children).

Of course, literate audiences will notice the major change in the film, which turns this into extremely obvious propaganda: in the end, the animals rise up against the rule of the pigs… which is very much NOT the message that Orwell delivered in his own book.

Taking the film by itself, it’s an unfortunate thing that would never have been made if not for political expediencies of the age. We should put it in the same category as things like Trimph des Willens (although this one is a masterpiece of filmmaking, Animal Farm is not), which is probably why it made the 1001 films list.

Gustavo Bondoni is a novelist and short story writer whose passion is to extrapolate current trends and see which paths, hopeful and dangerous, they will eventually lead us down. A sterling example of this is his science fiction novel Outside, which will disturb anyone who lives in modern society. You can check it out here.

The Prefect and Reynolds’ Depth of Character

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Alastair Reynolds is one of my favorite writers working in science fiction today. A little of this has to do with the fact that he writes deep-space tech/idea/adventure-based books that have zero message about utterly trite current politics (see here for more on that). I can read a thick Reynolds book–despite the fact that these are dense, idea and tech-heavy works–in a few days, while most other SF books (and seemingly everything on the last few Hugo ballots) leave me scratching my head and asking myself what kind of reader would enjoy this.

To me, the genre in recent years seems more about showing off political credentials and virtue signaling than any attempt to engage the reader or entertain (which seems weird for a genre like science fiction). Of course, I assume that there are people out there with very different taste from mine, and I further assume that they have to be selling this stuff to someone, or they’ll soon go out of business.

Fortunately Reynolds hasn’t fallen victim to the trend, which is probably why he sells so many books.

The Prefect is a typical Reynolds offering, which is a good thing. This one follows the adventures of two members of the Glitter Band’s police and compliance arm, called Prefects. One is an experienced member of the corps, while the other is a rookie attempting to live down her father’s disgrace.

By focusing so closely on two specific characters in such a large book, Reynolds moves away from the more sprawling style of Revelation Space. Those who criticized his early work as not sufficiently character-based will like this direction while those who enjoyed the mighty Revelation Space books won’t be too annoyed, as it still works.

As always with Reynolds there is a dark edge underlying the marvels he describes, and while most of society is living the dream, we never really get to see it because his characters run head first into that darkness. In that sense it has seriously developed noir sensibilities. Only a tiny fraction of LA in the 1940s was committing murders and blackmail… but that’s the only side you see in noir. Likewise, Reynolds’ universe is one of endless wonders… but you only get to look at the seedy underbelly and the gritty working-class tech people that make it function.

It definitely works. Reynolds’ fiction is worth reading every single time… even if you need to read something light (Wodehouse is ideal) afterwards.

Gustavo Bondoni is a novelist and short story writer who often works with space opera. The well-received Siege is an example on a massive scale, with a galactic war between the tribes of humanity as the backdrop. He follows a doomed group of baseline humans as they prepare for their last stand. You can check it out here.

The Opposite of a Spy Novel

We’ve discussed spy novels here before, and we’ve professed a preference for the books on one end of the spectrum: the unrealistic spy-as-a-superhero genre, as exemplified by stuff like this or like thisJames Bond is probably the perfect example of this kind of reading; suspension of disbelief is a must, but the rewards are a truly fun read and a welcome piece of escapism.

But there’s another side to the spy book business.  Some writers go the literary routs and, instead of making their agents superhuman, they settle for making them all-too-human.  Graham Greene, of course, showed us part of this with his The Third Man, and Conrad failed, but the master is John le Carré.

The Russia House - John le Carré.jpg

The Russia House isn’t his best known book.  That would be The Spy Who Came in from the Cold.  I haven’t read enough of his books to say with any confidence that it’s his best… but I can say it’s typical.

In le Carré’s world, spies are tired, worn workers in a trade that takes a toll.  Some suffer the anxiety of being captured and tortured, and shot, but most, the ones not on the front lines simply feel the stress of being responsible for an unheralded part of national security while, at the same time, having to worry about wives and lovers, pushy coworkers and office politics.

These are the characters that populate this novel, and they play against the ones that truly are at risk, the men and women on the front lines whose very lives depend on the aforementioned handlers.

The tension in his books is of the slow-burn type.  You don’t have a gigantic guard running after the protagonist with an AK-47.  The KGB is around every corner, but they’re probably just as bored as you are.

It’s certainly not the escapist rush of a quick 1970s secret agent novels from supermarket racks… but it does draw you in to the Cold War and build a world that means the last page of the novel is turned with regret because you have to return to the real world.  The characters are well-rounded.  They are people, not cardboard cutouts.

The espionage?  It’s secondary.  Like the sex in Lolita or the car trip in The Remains of the Day, it’s a framing device to tel us about lives that might not be so different from our own, and values that are, perhaps, lost.

A worthwhile alternative look at the genre.

 

Gustavo Bondoni is a novelist and short story writer whose novel Ice Station Death takes international politics and crosses them with Jurassic Park to create a tense adventure with modern sensibilities.  You can check it out here.

A Reasonable Voice from the Past

As someone who already has way too many hobbies, I avoid politics like the plague.  My main exposure to politics in those times when Argentina is not close to a national election (one month every couple of years where you can’t listen to the radio in the car without being bombarded) is on social media.

I watch in amusement and horror as lunatics on the left and right register their unworkable, extremist views for all to see.  The arguments between left and right are always fun, but those between left and left are usually the best of all.  Since history tends to argue hard against the more extreme forms of socialism, these tend togo down some spectacular theoretic rabbit holes.  Anyone caught arguing for common sense, moderation or even a slightly less fantastic dogma is vilified and is subjected to one of those famous internet pile-ons.

All of this has led me to believe one of the old jokes from the right, the one that states that the preferred battle formation of the far left is the circular firing squad.

And it’s always been that way.  It’s popular among the ignorant (or the unscrupulous with a political axe to grind) to speak of George Orwell‘s Animal Farm or 1984 as allegories against capitalism, but the truth is they are both direct strikes at the heart of the Soviet Communism in the 1940s written by the most famous overtly socialist writer of the 20th century.

No one would say these were measured strikes.  But Orwell was capable of subtlety, too.

Down and Out in Paris And London - George Orwell

Which neatly brings us to this.  Down and Out in Paris and London is also by George Orwell, and it is also a book which looks to further his socialist agenda.  But instead of attacking his enemies within the party using bitter satire, he uses the one tool that is always effective, even with people who don’t share his views: promoting understanding.

He, the gentleman writer of impeccable breeding, credentials and education, takes us on a guided, first-person tour of life in the lowest slums of Paris, displays how to get work as a kitchen helper and then joins the tramps of the London environs.  The difficult nature of these lives is brought to life in his words–it’s not a coincidence that Orwell is a celebrated novelist; regardless of subject matter, his writing brings the action to life.

There isn’t much plot to speak of, of course, as this is mainly a descriptive exercise, but it is still packed with incident.  Even better, it is a mix of nostalgia in the vein of In Search of England with a reveal of a social class the book’s readers will be unfamiliar with (as will all modern readers, since the life depicted therein no longer exists).

In a world where it seems that the accepted way for politics or activism to be discussed is with anger and the utter denial that an opponent might have any good qualities, books like these (see also  remind us that public discourse was once the province of people with intelligent arguments.  Remember those days?  Now it seems to be the place for people who only read things that agree with their point of view and let their little, inconsequential echo chambers and their confirmation bias do the rest. (and end up with conclusions like Trump wants to be dictator for life and Bernie is a communist who wants to put everyone on collective farms).

Social conditions have changed for the much better since this book was released.  There is no post-war scarcity, and the world is mostly democratic today, but the book still resonates.  Apparently, unlike social media controversies, good writing and clear thinking are timeless.

The edition I read was–ironically–a Folio Society book (ironically because reading socialist books in luxury editions seems somehow wrong).  I can’t post a link here because it’s no longer available from Folio, but I do recommend tracking down a copy as the reading experience is certainly better than what you’d get from cramped text and yellowed paper.  Besides, buying this one second hand seems perfect, considering the subject matter.

Highly recommended, even–perhaps especially–if the online screaming has turned you off politics forever.

 

Gustavo Bondoni is a novelist and short story writer whose book Love and Death intertwines stories to form a novel spanning generations and crossing social barriers.  You can buy it here.

Greatness that Smacks You Right Between the Eyes

Greatness often isn’t recognized in its own time.  Think of all the memorable films that didn’t even garner an Oscar nomination while the Best Picture winner languished in obscurity after a couple of years*.

Other films (the same can be said of books, of course) are slow-burning, becoming classics long after their first run bombed or otherwise made little impact.  A literary example illustrates this beautifully: HP Lovecraft.  He was a minor writer in the literary landscape of the 1920s and 30s, who was recognized after his death as the unrivalled master of a particular brand of fiction.  Hell, as a writer, I’m not entirely certain if we’re allowed to write the word “eldritch” unless we’re doing a Lovecraft pastiche.

But some just hit you between the eyes and you have no question that it’s a great one.  In the Noir Era, The Big Sleep is one that stands out.  There is no doubt that, perhaps without breaking any new ground, it brings a certain type of film to a supremely high level.  I have yet to watch one that I think is better.

Today’s subject is one of those.

The Third Man Movie Poster.jpg

Brilliant from the outset, The Third Man is an atmospheric study of postwar morality and the awful realities of a terrible time but, unlike The Bicycle Thief, it treats the subject matter as a way to tell a great story as opposed to using it as a political canvas.

And the story holds up its side of the film.  This isn’t just an atmospheric crime movie–and it most definitely isn’t noir–but a well-blended mix of high-quality ingredients.  Acting, setting, story and darkness combine to put you in Vienna in 1947.  It is utterly perfect, and quite possibly the film that best uses the fact that it’s black and white… ever–I still have a few of the greats to watch, but color was making strong inroads by the time this one was released in 1949–because it is one of those movies which would have lost a lot if they’d been in color.

So everything comes together beautifully, and the semi-twist ending (I won’t give any spoilers here, even though both film and book are well known, as many people will have forgotten how it ends), as well as Orson Welles’ few onscreen minutes, almost, if not quite, a cameo, make it about as close to the perfect movie as I’ve ever seen.

Also, the book is quite good as well, if I remember correctly (it was assigned reading in the eighth grade, so it’s probably high time I reread that one).  A Graham Greene Classic.

If I had to watch one movie from the forties, and one movie dealing with the effects of WW2, I admit I’d probably go with Casablanca over and over again.

But this one comes dangerously close.

 

Gustavo Bondoni is a novelist and short story writer whose latest book is Jungle Lab Terror (just released–you could be one of the first readers!).  You can buy it here.

 

 

*Which, in the current “politics matter more than quality” climate, will actually happen more often.  I shudder to think of how future generations will laugh at the current Oscar dynamics.

The Origin of the Wonder

Readers of this blog know that I have a serious soft spot for the writing of Gerard Durrell, a man I’ve always considered the ultimate eccentric, as well as the ultimate civilized human.  Reading one of his books is to leave angry political discourse on Twitter–what I consider to be the ultimate lack of civilization–far behind.

My Family and Other Animals - Gerald Durrell.jpg

My family and Other Animals, part of Durrell’s Corfu Trilogy is a particularly lovely read because it tells the story of a period of years which he spent on Corfu as a boy of ten to about fourteen years old.  It shows how his already-present love of animals and the natural world flourished in this formative age.

Better still, the tale is told by Durrell who has one of the greatest eyes for the odd and not-quite-sane that I’ve ever encountered.  despite his obvious affection for his family and friends on the island, he leaves no doubt in the reader’s mind that they are all at least slightly nuts.

As I was reading (locked in coronavirus quarantine), I looked at the children around us, obsessed with their devices and wondered, not for the first time, if modern idiocy is the fault of kids who who lost their way before becoming adults or helicopter parents who didn’t let them collect scorpions when they were eleven.  Or row out to sea in a homemade boat as a pre-teen.

I blame the parents but, that aside, it’s wonderful to see how independent children used to be before he world went stupid, and this book illustrates it gloriously.  From one anecdote to the next, a sense of the slightly unreal, despite the fact that every single one of these events happened, probably exactly as described, permeates the book.

If, like me, you’re stuck inside during these strange days, I recommend giving this one–or any Durrell–a go.  He has the rare ability to completely remove your surroundings and take you outdoors.

And this one takes you to a Greek island for the cost of a paperback and without coronavirus risk.

 

Gustavo Bondoni is a novelist whose book set in Greece is very different from the one described above.  It’s a fast-paced sexy thriller called timeless, and you can buy it here.

A Book about England by the Man Who Scooped the King Tut Tomb Opening

I bought a bunch of used books at my local Anglican church about a year and a half ago, and I’ve been working my way through the ones I decided to keep.  The nice part about doing this kind of thing is that I invariably end up with loads of books I would never have bought anywhere else.  Lesser work by authors I’m already familiar with (such as Barnaby Rudge or Silas Marner) and books by writers I’d never heard of before lead the list.

Today’s entry is of the second kind.  When I picked up In Search of England, by H.V. (Henry Volland) Morton, I had never heard of book or author.  But I can’t resist a book which promised a tour of the English countryside, so I saved it as a keeper.

In Search of England - HV Morton.jpg

It was a good choice.  The first thing I noticed is that, unlike Laurens van der Post, who was a workmanlike writer with an emotional bent that makes his work special, Morton is a virtuoso of the pen whose broad historical background made me (as a writer), shake my head in admiration.

But even if he’d been a lesser mortal, the subject is so charming that it would have warranted a place on my shelves.

The story is an account of an automobile journey that Morton undertook around 1926 (the book itself was published in 1927) which started in London and followed, roughly, the contour of England (it ventured into Scotland only following an interesting historical anomaly and only for a few miles).

In search of England Interior.jpg

Avoiding many of today’s tourist traps, the narrative focuses on the villages and unique quirks that make England so special.  The Furry Dance in Helston (there are no people dressed as animals, strangely), and the Chester Rows are prime examples, as are churches large and small and the Bristol Camera Obscura, which I need to write a detective story about.

Of course, he also covers the larger stuff such as Bath or Hadrian’s wall, but he does so with a historian’s eye to minutiae that others would simply pass by.  In each place, he endeavors to tell us something that the average tourist would never learn… and it’s wonderful.

The most poignant part of it all is when he stands on Hadrian’s wall and looks out over Scotland.  You can almost feel the weight of the Roman Empire pushing on your back, and the darkness of the unknown ahead.  Immensely good writing.

As a travel journal, it still holds up today.  By concentrating on things with roots deep in history, Morton manages to avoid the problems of old guide books.  He almost doesn’t mention hotels, gas stations or other stuff that have been superseded by modern life.

It was only after I finished reading and went onto the internet to investigate his life did I learn that both Morton and his “In search of…” series were (or are, depending on your interests) very famous.

Morton, it turns out, was the journalist on the scene when King Tut’s tomb was first opened, and managed to scoop the Times.  In 1923 scooping The Times was a big deal… and Morton became an instant celebrity.  That’s the kind of serendipitous discovery you never make when buying on Amazon or B&N… and it means I’ll continue to peruse the shelves of unlikely places for overlooked gems.

And the series? It was a bestseller in its day and is still in print today.

Well-deserved.

 

Gustavo Bondoni is a novelist and short story writer with hundreds of published stories to his name, as well as several books.  His latest book is perfect for anyone who loves to discover relatively unknown quirks of distant cultures. It’s called Pale Reflection, and Morton would have loved it.  We think you will, too, so check it out here.

 

 

A Reasonable Ending After a Terribly Weak Start

It’s no secret that, unlike Virginia Woolf, I’m not a fan of George Eliot.  Hell, I often think she hid behind a pseudonym not because of the rampant sexism of the time (although that undoubtedly existed), but because she wanted to avoid destroying the cause of female writing forever.  Also, if she proved that women are capable of writing the worst drivel, she would have had to spend the rest of her life avoiding the vengeful ghost of Jane Austen.

Silas Marner - George Eliot

Having said that, I’m happy to report that Silas Marner isn’t as bad as Middlemarch.  Much of that has to do with the fact that it’s a much shorter book, of course–I’ve found that Eliot improves with brevity–but it’s also slightly better.

Basically, this one follows the lives of a few country characters in stultifying detail, and reminds one that detail, when not wielded by an expert (such as Austen or Dickens) can easily go from delightful to boring, and yeah, the first two-thirds of this one were a bit slow.  Also, the “tension” that Eliot creates is not of the delightful kind but of the kind you just want to stop.  Like Dickens at his worst, it’s just piling suffering upon suffering on someone who was already miserable to begin with.  I’m pretty sure no one reads the Book of Job for pleasure, so why read Eliot?

Aside from the style problems, this one shares another issue with Barnaby Rudge, my least favorite Dickens so far, and that is the first part of the book is essentially table-setting and all the action happens at the end… years later.  Essentially, they both bore you explaining who is who and then say: “a few years later we find…”

In both cases, the second pat is where all the interesting stuff happens (except for two incidents in Silas Marner which I won’t spoil for you).

Anyway, focusing on the good side, the end of this book is satisfying.  It isn’t the riotous insanity that actually saves Barnaby Rudge from the scrap heap, but it’s fine.  Had this one not had a decent ending, I would probably have had some sort of apoplectic fit.  As it was, I was merely disappointed to confirm that my impression of Middlemarch was correct.

Not one I’d recommend to people who prefer books to be interesting or entertaining.  If you read the book of Job for fun, though, you might like this one…

 

Gustavo Bondoni is a novelist and short story writer whose book Love and Death is available here.  He believes it will entertain you more than Silas Marner, but then, he wrote it so it’s not a surprise that he’s saying that.

 

 

A Mystical Journey to Find the Lost Bushman

Let me ask you a question–if I told you that I’ve read a book written by a British South African of Afrikaner descent born in 1906 about the indigenous race of the southern tip of Africa, what would you think?

If you think it would be some kind of racist, supremacist screed, you need to check your prejudices at the door.

It turns out that Laurens Van der Post is a very different kind of man, and the book, The Lost World of the Kalahari, is a very different kind of book.

Lost World of the Kalahari - Laurens Van der Post

But that’s not what I was thinking when I picked up my copy.  I actually was thinking it would be a typical “white man enters the savage wastes and tells people about it” story.  I like those stories because they not only evoke simpler times that I never experienced, but also because, despite ignorance, the actual descriptions of places and people that no longer exist are usually very well done.  A good case in point is the book on the White Nile I read a while back.

This one, as I said, is different.  Mainly because the author is different.  Van der Post was, apparently, a hippie before hippies were a thing (the book is from 1958, and he was 52 at the time).  The trip into the heart of the Kalahari is a mystical experience as much as it is a geographical and anthropological one.

It makes for a weird read.  He does the basic job of telling us about the Bushmen (a nearly-extinct race of lighter-skinned Africans who were the original inhabitants of the southern part of Africa before darker-skinned people immigrating from the north and Europeans settling in the south squeezed them nearly to extinction.  About 100,000 of them still survive today), but he also goes mystical on you every couple of chapters, giving great significance to omens and spirits.

Normally, this would be a huge turnoff for me, but, for this book, it works.  The primal nature of the African wilderness suits itself to magical thinking in ways that few other places do, and this unexpected mystical side makes Van der Post himself appear more human than just another macho explorer trekking through the veldt and hunting to eat.

Most of all, though, the author comes across as a man who utterly loves his subject, especially the Bushmen themselves, of whom he’s heard since childhood but never actually seen until the expedition.  For those who might be curious, the expedition also filmed a documentary for the BBC, parts of which are on YouTube, here.

It’s a touching book, and one that is a strange departure from that genre’s more usual fare.  I certainly wouldn’t want every exploration book to be like this one, but it was an interesting change of pace.  The spice of life and all that.

Recommended, and I don’t even have to apply my usual disclaimer that anyone who is offended because people in the past had a different attitude about indigenous people than we do should avoid it.  Anyone can read this one without being offended by it.  So go ahead!

 

Gustavo Bondoni is a novelist and short story writer from Argentina who, like Van der Post, is fascinated by cultures other than the usual Western fare.  His book Off the Beaten Path is a collection of short science fiction and fantasy stories set in non-typical places and cultures.  He thingks you’ll love it, and urges you to buy it here.