A Tale of Two Covers
April 9th, 2012
In the course of unpacking — a slow and reflective process in our house — I have come across a number of books I forgot I had. Some are mementos of childhood, my own and others’; some have been carefully saved up in hopes I’d eventually find time to read them. But my favorites by far are those old friends whose scarred spines and tattered covers, the results of being carried around in pockets and bags to be enjoyed in odd moments, bespeak many happy re-readings.
Some in fact are so battered as to be unfit for further use. The pair of paperbacks pictured here were in such terrible condition that keeping them at all seemed futile. But still I couldn’t quite bear to part with them completely. So I removed the crumbling pages and kept their covers (I do so love pulp cover art).
The Night of the Hunter, published in 1953, is perhaps even better known as a film — the only one Sir Charles Laughton ever directed — starring Robert Mitchum, Shelley Winters, and the divine Lillian Gish. This copy belonged to my husband, who also used to own the soundtrack record.
Lady Chatterley’s Lover is in a different class altogether (sorry Mr. Grubb). It was banned in the US for many years on grounds of obscenity. Ha! Today Connie’s exploits would be considered tame by comparison with your average family-oriented television sit-com script. But at the time it was shocking.
Barney Rosset’s Grove Press, crusader against literary censorship, eventually won the right to publish Lawrence’s 1928 novel in its original form. This gorgeous edition was a gift from my husband before we were even engaged. I drove my mother crazy by carrying it around in my purse and reading it conspicuously in public. I’ve always been something of a literary exhibitionist…
Me & Emily
November 18th, 2011
Last year, someone pointed out that I bear a passing resemblance to the great American poetess, Emily Dickinson.
What do you think? Could I play her in the biopic? I think my mouth is too wide and my face is differently shaped…but I can definitely see some similarities as well. Of course, given the choice, I’d rather be able to write like Emily Dickinson than look a little bit like her, but I will take what I can get.
“Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me.”
Rare Disappointment from BBC
October 30th, 2011
Yes, I’ll own it publicly. I am, like many women interested in historic fashion, generally a sucker for BBC literary miniseries. I loved North and South, Bleak House, and Daniel Deronda. And I even went so far as to purchase my own copy of Pride and Prejudice. So you can imagine my excitement when the DVD of Barchester Chronicles arrived last week. Filmed in the 1980s, it’s chock-a-block with BBC stock players, exquisite (and mostly accurate) costumes, and more lace curtains than you can shake a stick at. Alan Rickman steals the show as Rev. Slope, revealing many of the mannerisms that he would later use for the slightly-less-slimy Professor Snape of Harry Potter fame.
But for all that, I couldn’t seem to enjoy the film. Perhaps it was too long (nearly five hours). Or perhaps it was the script. I shall never understand why modern writers feel the need to revise dialogue written by literary masters. It just dripped along, without any of the clever sparkle that enlivened the books — particularly Barchester Towers, which made me laugh out loud.
And while I’m at it, I have one last quibble. The books were written in the late 1850s, early 1860s. But for some reason, the film’s costumers chose to include a number of dresses that were so obviously early 1850s. It’s almost as though they had left-overs from a Dickens production, which, come to think of it, they probably did.
The Bridesmaid
October 23rd, 2011
O Bridesmaid, ere the happy knot was tied,
Thine eyes so wept that they could hardly see;
Thy sister smiled and said, “No tears for me!
A happy bridesmaid makes a happy bride.”
And then, the couple standing side by side,
Love lighted down between them full of glee,
And over his left shoulder laugh’d at thee,
“O happy bridesmaid, make a happy bride.”
And all at once a pleasant truth I learn’d,
For while the tender service made thee weep,
I loved thee for the tear thou couldst not hide,
And prest thy hand, and knew the press return’d,
And thought, “My life is sick of single sleep:
O happy bridesmaid, make a happy bride!”– Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Just two days ago, I was proud to stand among the lovely bridesmaids while my oldest friend (in duration, not age) exchanged vows with the love of her life. She was breathtaking in a beaded white gown, blushing beneath the bridal veil her mother once wore. Here’s to the happy couple! May their union endure and blossom through the years.
Having one’s picture taken repeatedly, sobbing through a wedding ceremony, toasting, and dancing can really wear a bridesmaid out. By the end of the evening, I was ready to collapse into a handy chair. (I wasn’t quite as tired as I look — my eyeliner ran a bit when I teared up.)
Isn’t that the prettiest bridesmaid dress you’ve ever seen? I’m very lucky to have a friend who likes purple as much as I do. And there was something Madame X (or at least Gigi does Madame X) about the neckline too…which I admit I accentuated on purpose by nipping in the waist when I altered the dress.
Escape from Barsetshire
October 18th, 2011
While recovering from a cold over the weekend, I finally finished The Last Chronicle of Barset. I nearly shouted for joy as I turned the final page. Not that I didn’t enjoy my Trollopian sojourn this year, but really, enough is enough. I am sure I shall eventually tackle the Pallisers, and I even have a copy of The Way We Live Now lurking on my shelf. For now though, I’ve had my fill.
Like Hardy’s Wessex, Barset has become a real county to me. I am conversant with its geography, topography, politics, and social moires. I know which families I’d be likely to get on with, and which invitations I’d do better to decline. I am familiar with everybody’s strengths and failings, and what they like to drink after a big dinner. And you can bet I took lots of notes, culling quotations in support of various topics I’ve been researching. I’d share some with you, but I fear all the good ones are still in the little notebook of “gleanings” that I keep on my night table, waiting to be transcribed.
Map of Barsetshire, courtesy of The Trollope Society.
For me, Trollope is alternately enthralling and deadly dull. The action often proceeds like a radio soap opera, inching along painfully toward an obvious conclusion. But for chapters at a time, he hits a kind of a rhythm and you are borne along most pleasantly on a rush of clever dialogue, intriguing thought, and perfectly believable emotion.
My favorite part of the Chronicles of Barsetshire was the glimpse they offered into clergical doings. I’m fascinated by the minutiae of religious doctrines and requirements in the mid-19th century. The dread of Roman Catholics is amusing, as is the mistrust of Jews, and curiosity about the mysterious “Musulmen” and “Hindoos.” But I particularly love the partisanship within the Church of England (or similar American sects). It seems silly to quibble over such tiny details, but I suppose it was all quite serious to them at the time — particularly as their cherished hope of heavenly reunion with departed loved ones depended on getting it right!
As is my wont, I couldn’t help applying Trollope to the world I see around me in 2011. I began to imagine how he might write about the scandal rocking the Catholic Church in America today — particularly as the news reports last week announced the first bishop to stand trial. It’s wicked I know, but somehow I can’t stop myself from laughing at the seedy priests and ineffectual bishops that Trollope would have written into the story. Alas, even were he alive today, I fear Trollope wouldn’t touch it with the proverbial ten-foot pole. It would be left to sharper pens, a la Dickens or Fielding, though they might not do it so much justice. Now Mark Twain might have a shot. Or perhaps Melville?
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