Some thoughts on our #1937club reading – and where next??

As I always seem to be saying, what a stupendous week of reading that was!! It’s been quite wonderful to see all of the posts and reviews on books from 1937, and I think this is definitely the most popular club week yet – the response has been astonishing! I’m still gathering up posts to link to, so please, if I’ve missed yours, leave a comment and I’ll share it on my 1937 page.

I’ve personally had such fun reading from 1937 this week, so much so that I abandoned my usual post during the week of previous reads, moving it back to my trail post to leave space to cover another book. Even so, I could easily have kept on reading from 1937 and here are just some of the books which got away. All would have been marvellous reads and I’m tempted to keep the pile out and intact in case I can get to any more of the titles!

I’m afraid that, thanks to Wafer Thin Books, I also added a 1937 book to the TBR… I haven’t got to it this week, but it’s a Stefan Zweig title I’d not come across before, so that was a win (I think…) 🤣

I’d like to thank everyone who took part in the #1937Club – as I said, it’s been marvellous to see what you’ve all been reading and enjoying, and my wishlist has definitely expanded! Thanks also to my co-host Simon, who came up with the original idea for the clubs and always designs such wonderful badges! If you’ve hosted any kind of reading event, you’ll know that they do take a lot of work, but the club weeks are always such fun and I particularly enjoy the variety that reading from a particular year gives us.

The next club will be in October 2024 and so Simon and I put our heads together at the weekend to decide on the next year to read from. He noticed that there was one particular decade where we’d only featured two years, and so – drum roll – the next club reading week will be:

Yes, from 14-20 October, 2024, we will be reading and exploring books from 1970! Having had a quick look online, it’s an interesting year, possibly a bit transitional, in that there are works from established authors but also from newer ones. I confess that I’ve already begun to assemble a pile of possibles, and there are some books I’m really keen to read. So you have six months’ warning for the #1970Club – look forward to seeing you in October! 😂

“The years changed things…” #1937Club #VirginiaWoolf

My final book for 1937 is one which I was really looking forward to revisiting; it’s by a favourite author, but it’s one of her titles I suspect I’ve only read once, and that was longer ago than I’d care to acknowledge… I am, of course, talking about the truly wonderful Virginia Woolf and her book “The Years”.

The Wordsworth edition on the left is the one I read this time, as my old original copy on the right is a bit fragile now…

As I’ve no doubt rambled on about in the past, I first discovered her work in my early twenties and read everything I could get hold of (including the diaries and letters). She’s one of my favourite authors, and I’ve re-read some titles more than once (“Mrs Dalloway”, “To the Lighthouse”. “Flush” and “Orlando” spring to mind). However, there are others that I’ve only read the one time (as far as I can remember) and “The Years” is one of those. So I was going into it cold, in effect, with no real memory of the book or what it was about or what to expect. And I made a point of avoiding introductions or reading about it so I could have a pure experience; and in many ways it was like reading the book for the first time again, and I was equally blown away by it!

“The Years” tells the story of the extended Pargiter family over a period of time ranging for 1880 to what is designated as ‘The Present Day’ (so presumably in the 1930s), and as the book opens we’re introduced to the Colonel Abel Pargiter side; central to the story will be eldest daughter Eleanor, who’s somewhat in charge of household matters at the moment, as her mother Rose is ill in bed, dying. She has sisters, Milly, Rose and Delia; and brothers Martin, Morris and Edward. We meet each of these characters in the first section, finding out a little about them. Eleanor does good works; teenager Delia feels trapped by her mother’s illness and longs for her death; Martin is already a practicing barrister; Edward is studying at Oxford, and is in love with his cousin Kitty, who will also feature throughout the book. Ten year old Rose sneaks out to the toy shop but is frightened on the way home by a man exposing himself. Already, the patterns laid down for male and female in this Victorian world are clear.

The uproar, the confusion, the space of the Strand came upon her with a shock of relief. She felt herself expand. It was still daylight here; a rush, a stir, a turmoil of variegated life came racing towards her. It was as if something had broken loose—in her, in the world. She seemed, after her concentration, to be dissipated, tossed about. She wandered along the Strand, looking with pleasure at the racing street; at the shops full of bright chains and leather cases; at the white-faced churches; at the irregular jagged roofs laced across and across with wires. Above was the dazzle of a watery but gleaming sky. The wind blew in her face. She breathed in a gulp of fresh wet air. And that man, she thought, thinking of the dark little Court and its cut-out faces, has to sit there all day, every day. She saw Sanders Curry again, lying back in his great chair, with his face falling in folds of iron. Every day, all day, she thought, arguing points of law. How could Morris stand it? But he had always wanted to go to the Bar.

However, instead of using a simple, linear narrative, Woolf jumps ahead in each of her sections, focusing on a particular year and following her characters through the changes of their lives. We meet the cousins, children of Sir Digby Pargiter and his wife Eugenie; these are Magdalena (Maggie) and Sara (Sally), and the trajectories of their lives will be somewhat different to those of their relatives. Other characters feature, friends and servants and contacts, but always we return to the two families and the changes in their lives as society changes around them. World War 1 will affect some; others will travel abroad; marriages will take place which might not be the expected ones; and meanwhile the crowded dance of modern life, which Woolf always captured so brilliantly, continues. The book ends with an extended set piece in the then present day, a party attended by the surviving Pargiters where they’re contrasted with the younger generation and contemplate the modern world.

My life, she said to herself. That was odd, it was the second time that evening that somebody had talked about her life. And I haven’t got one, she thought. Oughtn’t a life to be something you could handle and produce?—a life of seventy odd years. But I’ve only the present moment, she thought. Here she was alive, now, listening to the fox-trot.

That’s a fairly simplistic summary of what is a deep, rich and quite wonderful book; and my experience of re-reading it has made me wish I went back to Woolf’s work more frequently. “The Years” is quite brilliantly constructed, and the clever way she moves forward in time for each section works wonderfully. Each is introduced by what I would call one of her panoramic sequences, where she notes the season of the year and casts her narrative eye over London and the countryside, summing up and describing the weather, what people are doing and how she sees the world. These are quite brilliant, and there are sequences like this in “Mrs Dalloway”, which frankly were what first convinced me of her genius.

She sat still for a moment; then undressed and paused with her hand on the blind. The train had got into its stride now; it was rushing at full speed through the country. A few distant lights twinkled here and there. Black clumps of trees stood in the grey summer fields; the fields were full of summer grasses. The light from the engine lit up a quiet group of cows; and a hedge of hawthorn. They were in open country now.

Woolf’s writing is just stunning in this book, as always, and I make no apology for including several quotes; I could have filled several posts with her words. She captures the interior and often fragmented thought processes of her characters, encompasses major events (death of the King, war, the Irish Problem), and takes the reader on a journey through the changing times over a period of 50 or so years. It’s a remarkable achievement, and quite unforgettable.

Yet, once again, I I found Woolf remarkably easy to read. Her prose is so beautiful it just hypnotises you, and I do wonder why she has a reputation for being difficult (or perhaps I’m just attuned to her writing?) Woolf’s intention was, I believe, to reflect the differing options for men and women, and how this changed over the years; certainly, in the early sections of the book, the female characters have a very narrow, proscribed set of life choices; and it’s only in the later parts that their opportunities widen, though marriage still seems to be considered the main choice. But Eleanor is restricted to good works; Kitty marries for money, as far as I can tell, despite loving someone else, and being attracted to a different way of life; and Maggie and Sally end up in unpromising lodgings with limited incomes. As well as being a beautiful read, there’s also much food for thought in “The Years”.

As I suspected, I remembered nothing of “The Years”, so it really was like reading it for the first time, and as always with Woolf I ended the book stunned. It was her penultimate novel and the last published in her lifetime, and I chose to pick up a Wordsworth Classics edition ((here collected with her last novel, “Between the Acts”); my original copy is too fragile and crumbly to risk reading. Interestingly, there were notes and annotations in this which aren’t of course in my 1980s original copy! I found that they were mostly unnecessary for me, but I guess a younger reader might find them helpful.

So reading “The Years” has been one of the highlights of what has been a really marvellous reading week for the #1937Club. I always reckon Virginia Woolf as one of my favourite authors, and this book has reminded me how much I love her writing. I’m definitely going to have to go back to some of the other titles I’ve not revisited in decades, but in the meantime I’m so happy to have ended our club week with some a wonderful book!

*****

As a coda, I wanted to give a little more background to “The Years” and comment on another book I’ve read alongside it. You see, my understanding is that Woolf’s original plan was not simply to write a novel, but to try something more audacious, along the lines of what she called a ‘novel-essay’. Embarking on this in 1932, she created a series of draft essays which were to be interspersed with extracts from a novel “The Pargiters”; these would be used to illustrate her points about what life was like for men and women, and how their experiences and opportunities differed so widely. This plan never came to fruition and instead she went on to write “The Years”.

However, her original intention has been recreated as far as possible by Mitchell A. Leaska and was published under the title of “The Pargiters: The Novel-Essay Portion of The Years”. I was so embroiled in Woolf that I picked this up straight after finishing “The Years” and I do think this is the best time to read it. “Pargiters” makes fascinating reading, as the focus is on the events of 1880 (opening) section of the final novel, and the essays expand on what was trying to say in her book. The chapter extracts are extraordinary as they have variant events, explore options which were abandoned in the final book and generally add much to any reading of “The Years”. Of course, the latter is such a brilliant book that it stands proudly on its own; but as a Woolf obsessive/completist, reading “The Pargiters” was an essential experience.

So I have ended our #1937Club week just as convinced as I ever was about the genius of Virginia Woolf. This post is probably much too long already, but it only scratches the surface of her work, and I could go on and on about her – but I’ll stop here. I’m just happy to have spent some wonderful hours lost on the prose of one of my favourite authors; a wonderful way to end our reading week!

The sparkling correspondence of a great author – #1937Club

Today’s book for the #1937Club is one that’s long overdue some attention, lurking as it has been on Mount TBR since its reissue in 2014 (ten years ago – OMG!!!) It’s a release from indie publisher Michael Walmer, and was the first in his ‘belles-lettres’ series. A chunky and handsome volume, it’s “Letters to a Friend” by the esteemed author Winifred Holtby, and it makes absolutely fabulous reading.

Holtby is probably best remembered now for her novels, in particular “South Riding”, which is something of a classic; and her novels have been published by Virago (many of them also lurking on the TBR…) However, in her time, she was something of an activist, mixing with a fascinating range of people, and the letters reveal much of her life.

Holtby was born in Yorkshire in 1898 to a prosperous farming family; educated at home and then at Queen Margaret’s School in Scarborough, she passed the entrance exam for Somerville College, Oxford in 1917. However, Holtby delayed her entry, instead joining the Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps (WAAC), and in 1918 was sent to France. It was here that she met Jean McWilliam who was the commander of her camp; Holtby became her hostel foreman and the two women became firm, lifelong friends. However, post-war, McWilliam moved to South Africa and the book collects the many letters Holtby wrote to her friend until her early death in 1935.

It has to be said up front that Holtby is a marvellous correspondent – anyone would love to receive letters of this calibre! Addressing her friend as Rosalind and signing herself, almost always, as Celia (in reference to the two cousins in “As You Like It”) Holtby relays events from her life, reflections on the changes taking place in the world, impressions of London through the seasons, thoughts about the latest books and plays, and much, much more. The period immediately after the First World War was one of change, with society trying to come to terms with the devastation wrought by that conflict and to build a newer, better world. Holtby was heavily involved in the League of Nations, having pacifist and feminist views, and this led her to giving talks and lectures, attending meetings, and even standing on Hyde Park Corner (or indeed any street!) and simply starting to talk to the public!

As I said above, she’s remembered nowadays for her novels and also for her great friendship with the novelist Vera Brittain, and the latter features all through the book in Holtby’s letters. I’ve read that Brittain could be a difficult woman (which is understandable as she lost close friends, a fiance and a brother in the war); however, apparently the picture she left of Holtby is often an unkind one. McWilliam, I think, would have none of that, and the letters in this collection show Holtby as intelligent, committed to causes and so often displaying a wonderfully positive view of life.

We talked about burlesques and school discipline and Dostoievsky and porridge, and whether bread and cheese and beer are really better than stuffed olives and champagne, and neckties and dons and all the thousand and one silly things that one talks about on a long morning when the air is frosty and the roads are dry.

Holtby’s letters reflect her deep involvement in social causes; she was also a prolific journalist, producing pieces for whoever would take them, and as the years moved on she became more able to publish. The letters also contain her reflections on her novels as she wrote them, and she most definitely lacked confidence in them. By the time of her death, she’d published six novels as well as poetry, short stories and non-fiction. Yet she never seemed satisfied with the books, and she was working on “South Riding” at the time of her death; publication was arrange posthumously by Brittain.

Despite her self-doubt, Holtby was a sparkling, engaging correspondent, not afraid to engage in debate about the issues of the time and always clear about her affection for her friend. The letters do thin out at the end and I wondered if this was because life was busy and getting in the way of writing, or because of the editing process. The collection was put together by McWilliam and Holtby’s mother Alice, and released of course in 1937; it may be that there were personal issues or views that they were uncomfortable including. However, the picture that emerges of Holtby is a compelling one; a committed woman, a loyal and caring friend, and someone who always tried to help those she could, she’s a person I would like to have known.

Holtby always comes across as very human, in that she’s not afraid to change her mind, explore other points of view and indeed questions herself and her attitudes on a regular basis. However, she does hold back from committing completely to something like the socialist cause; I suspect because of her background and upbringing, and even after years of helping the less well off, she can still state: “I agree with Bernard Shaw that poverty is a crime, not a misfortune, and that what’s wrong with the world is not that there are rich capitalists, but that every one is not sensible enough to be a capitalist.” I have to say that we would disagree on this one!!

A few words on this edition; as I mentioned, Michael Walmer re-issued this in 2014 and it’s basically a facsimile of the original edition. Being a book from 1937, there is terminology which would not be acceptable nowadays, despite Holtby’s openness towards other races and creeds. Interestingly, she was aware of the colour issue, particularly as McWilliam was living and working in South Africa; although she doesn’t pontificate particularly deeply on the difficulties there. The Irish problem, too, concerned her greatly. I did find myself brought up short a couple of times by the contradiction of someone who seeks equality for all on one page then saying on the next page “we are going to have a servant”; but of course Britain was still very much a society based on class at that point! Being an older reader (!) I got most of the references in the books to events and institutions (the only notation is minor and provided by McWilliam at the time), but I suspect a younger reader might require Google to clarify some items!

My pile of (unread) Holtbys plus Brittain’s book on their friendship

But in the end this is such a fascinating read, and opens your eyes to what life was like in the years when you didn’t go out and buy your clothes off the peg but instead made your own, or had them made for you, and a couple of items had to do for a season! The glimpses of everyday life are one of the most fascinating aspects of Holtby’s letters, and they’re valuable for that alone. They also cover her relationship with Vera, her meetings with Stella Benson, Rose Macaulay and many others, and all in all, these letters make an absorbing collection. Much of her thought on the state of the world and the need for countries to live in harmony is sadly still very relevant, and I do feel that we’re missing intelligent commentators nowadays.

I hadn’t intended to read Holtby’s letters when I first made my list of possible reads for 1937, but in the end I’m really glad I did. She was a wonderful writer; warm, intelligent, humorous and always concerned for her friends and for others. “Letters to a Friend” is a brilliant read, and I really *must* get round to reading some of her fiction!!

 

#1937Club or not? A fascinating title from Japan… #kawabata

As I mentioned in yesterday’s post, I’m pleased that I’ve been able to include translated works for the #1937Club, and today sees another one making its appearance on the Ramblings! This book was a last minute idea, and I’m perhaps cheating slightly with the date, as it’s a work which was released in segments, then a complete version in 1937 and then revised for a later edition. The book is “Snow Country” by Yasunari Kawabata, translated by Edward G. Seidensticker. I’m probably pushing things a little by including it here, but I’m going by the Wikipedia entry which says: “He combined these segments into a “complete” Snow Country, making numerous changes to the texts as they appeared in the journals, which was published in June 1937.” And it’s my blog, and I felt like reading it, so there!! 😀

At 114 pages in my edition, “Snow Country” is in novella territory (though the typeface *is* very small…) I believe it’s often considered Kawabata’s masterpiece and it tells the story of Komako, a young girl who lives in a mountainous hot spring village in Japan in the eponymous snow country, and her love for Shimamura, a visitor from Tokyo. When they first meet, Komako is still very young and although she helps out at parties, she’s not yet a trained geisha. However, on his return for a repeat visit, Shimamura finds that she’s become a geisha, and the book traces their odd relationship over these visits, as well as both of their relationships with Yoko, a young woman Shimamura first encounters on a train journey to the village.

The book is set against the changing seasons in the snow country, and the weather has extremes as well as seeming to influence many of the characters’ actions. Shimamura himself is an odd, almost impassive, person; escaping from his family to get away from Tokyo for a while, he thinks nothing of spending time with other women, and as well as Komako, he’s very drawn to Yoko. He’s something of a dilettante, with an interest in Western ballet (despite never having seen one) and his behaviour towards Komako is certainly inconsistent.

Following a stream, the train came out on the plain. A mountain, cut at the top in curious notches and spires, fell off in a graceful sweep to the far skirts. Over it the moon was rising. The solid, integral shape of the mountain, taking up the whole of the evening landscape there at the end of the plain, was set off in a deep purple against the pale light of the sky. The moon was no longer an afternoon white, but, faintly colored, it had not yet taken on the clear coldness of the winter night. There was not a bird in the sky. Nothing broke the lines of the wide skirts to the right and the left. Where the mountain swept down to meet the river, a stark white building, a hydroelectric plant perhaps, stood out sharply from the withered scene the train window framed, one last spot saved from the night.

For her part, Komako is a women of emotional extremes, and elements of her past are gradually revealed over the length of the book. On the initial train journey, Yoko had been looking after a young man called Yukio, and there are rumours that he was engaged to Komako. Despite her denials, it appears that Komako has taken up work as a geisha to pay his medical bills (a burden which will disappear with his death). She drinks heavily, behaves erratically and has a troubled relationship with Yoko. It’s clear that the rather flimsy Shimamura is obsessed with beauty and aesthetics, but has no real substance; and as events build to a dramatic climax, it seems that the two women have only each to care about, with the man in the centre of this taking a step backwards at every point where he might have been some use.

“Snow Country” is a beautifully written book which throws up a number of questions and provokes many thoughts! Shimamura himself is an oddly elusive character, often drifting off into reveries and dreams when faced with beauty in any form, whether of a human face or voice, or indeed the stars and mountains surrounding him. There’s a superficial aspect to him, whereas the women seem much more solid. Komako is a young and emotional girl, moving into womanhood, drinking too much, obsessed with Shimamura yet unable to hold onto him, and I felt sorry for her; it seems that she’s simply being used and has no chance of getting what she wants. Yoko too is somewhat evasive and I was never quite sure what motivated her.

Whether it can be classed as from 1937 or not, I found “Snow Country” a fascinating and absorbing read, full of beautiful imagery and drama; and it’s left me thinking about how overwhelming nature can be, how tragic it is that Komako’s beauty will be wasted before long because of her dissipated lifestyle, and how we should perhaps put people before abstract notions of aesthetics. There are hints of the contrast between tradition and modernity too; despite the older tradition of the geisha, there are trains and modern trappings which indicate this is a world which is changing. The writing has almost a hypnotic quality, and although the book is an easy, potentially quick read, it has the kind of prose that lingers in the mind. An unforgettable book, then, and even if it’s cheating a little, I’m glad I chose to read “Snow Country” now!

Some classic Soviet-era stories for the #1937Club #platonov

After my wonderful start to the #1937club with some lovely reads, I have to confess that I hit a bit of a wall… I had a great pile of possible reads, a mixture of old favourites and books which had been lurking on the TBR for a while. However, I picked up and put down several titles, and none were really gelling with my reading mood. So I had a bit of a search around online, checking out favourite authors to see if they had anything published in 1937 and *did* find a few extra books I had which would fit in (these ended up being the last image on my March round-up post). I was particularly pleased to find that there was a Russian author I could choose for the year, and that’s the great Andrei Platonov. His “Chevengur” was a standout read at the turn of the year, and according to Wikipedia he was publishing short stories in the 1930s, including two I can be fairly sure came from 1937. And fortunately, I had access to them…

The River Potudan

Apparently there was a whole collection which appeared in 1937 under this title, but I haven’t been able to find out which stories it contained. However, I do have this story, translated by Robert Chandler, Elizabeth Chandler and Angela Livingstone, in a Platonov collection called “The Return” and it was the perfect choice, as I adore Platonov’s writing.

“Potudan…” concerns a young man called Nikita Firsov who is returning home from fighting in the Civil War. He makes his way back to his home, near the titular river, and finds his father is the only surviving member of his family. It’s hard for him to adjust to a non-combative role, but he gradually does, reconnecting with Lyuba, a women he remembers from when they were both children. They eventually marry, but the War has left psychological scars on Nikita and he cannot consummate the marriage for fear of hurting Lyuba. Both he and his wife consider death, and there will be a period of separation while Nikita runs away and struggles both physically and mentally. The ending is perhaps a little ambiguous, but I’ll let you make up your own mind if you read this one!

“The River Potudan” is a moving, muted story which focuses on those who survive a major conflict and have to try to put life back together. Both Nikita and Lyuba have suffered and lost much, looking to each other for comfort. Yet it’s not easy to reconstruct a normal setting after such major upheaval. It’s a beautifully written story which really lingers in the mind.

The Fierce and Beautiful World

In contrast, “The Fierce and Beautiful World”, translated by Joseph Barnes (and from an older collection released in 1970), tells the story of an apprentice train driver, and his mentor Maltsev; the latter is an experienced and competent worker who has an almost symbiotic relationship with his engine and won’t let his apprentice touch it. However, events and nature conspire against Maltsev, and the narrator tries to help him when there is a near disaster and he’s investigated. Things do not go as planned, though, and the science he tries to employ just makes things worse.

Maltsev drove the locomotive on, throttle wide open. We were now headed straight for a big stormcloud which had appeared above the horizon. From our side the cloud was lighted up by the sun, but its interior was being ripped by severe, angry bolts of lightning, and we could see how the shafts of lightning plunged vertically down onto the quiet distant earth and we were racing madly toward that distant ground as if hurrying to its defense. It was clear that the sight appealed to Alexander Vassilievich; he leaned far out of his window as he stared ahead, and his eyes which were used to smoke and flame and distance were glittering now with excitement. He realized that the work and the power of our locomotive were comparable with the might of the storm, and perhaps this idea made him feel proud.

However, despite tragedy, the story has a beautiful and emotional ending; and its exploration of natures versus science is very thought-provoking.

*****

Interestingly, I felt resonances between both of these stories and “Chevengur”, in that both contain elements which feature in the larger work. The love of machines, the clash between old and new, science and nature is a strong theme at the start of that novel. And the need to reconstruct things after conflict also appears in “Chevengur”, so I did end up feeling that Platonov wove most of his recurring obsessions into his great novel.

But that’s by the by. These two stories were powerful and memorable, and I’m so glad that I had the chance to read them for for 1937. It’s sometimes the easy option for our clubs to focus on English-language originals, but so far this week I’ve managed to get some translated works in – and hopefully that will continue as the club progresses!!

For the #1937Club, a guest post considers a much-loved classic…

As has become a tradition, Mr. Kaggsy has offered up a review for the #1937Club and this time he takes on a book and author who have been much loved – though I wonder how much they’re read nowadays? The title is “The Citadel” by A.J. Cronin, and I think Mr K. was a little underwhelmed…

Archibald Joseph Cronin (born 1986, Dunbartonshire, 1896; died 1981, Montreux) was both a doctor and prolific writer. He trained at hospitals in Scotland and Ireland, subsequently entering general practice and later having a practice in Harley Street, London. His most famous novel, “The Citadel” (1937) is hailed as having led to the establishing of the UK National Health Service in 1948, having fictionally exposed inequity, incompetence and misconduct in the medical profession.

As with “The Citadel”, many of Cronin’s books became bestsellers, also being adapted for the cinema and radio – one of the latter being produced in 1940 with Orson Welles – as well as being much translated. The publishing of “The Citadel” resulted in resistance from medical sources, there even being moves to have the novel banned. However, the book has remained in print and the screen life of “The Citadel” included the 1938 US MGM earliest film, starring Robert Donat, plus three television versions in 1960 (twice) and 1983.

In time, another of Cronin’s creations, Doctor Finlay of Tannochbrae, appeared as short stories (1978) and as “Dr Finlay’s Casebook” (2010), also enjoying a long run on British TV as Doctor Finlay (1993-1996) and the earlier Dr Finlay’s Casebook (1962-1971; based on Cronin’s 1935 novella “Country Doctor”).

First edition Victor Gollancz 1937 and reprint 1939; Little, Brown 1938. US publishings and Hollywood adaptations led to the author and his family living in America for several years.

And so, on to “The Citadel”, a novel of its time, but with a lifespan stretching into the present century. The 2019 Picador paperback included an introduction by Adam Kay, best-selling author of “This is Going to Hurt: Secret Diaries of a Junior Doctor” (Picador, 2017), which was itself made into a BBC TV series in 2022. “The Citadel” became publishers Victor Gollancz’s highest ever selling book, with Cronin being claimed as the most successful novelist of the 1930s, along with the novel winning the US National Book Award, Favorite Fiction of 1937.

The story opens in 1924, with Andrew Manson starting out as a doctor in South Wales. As he travels by train to his new area he is filled with overwhelming exhilaration springing from the hope and promise of the future. Upon arrival he is told Last assistant went ten days ago. Mostly they don’t stop. At the home of the practice doctor, the newcomer discovers the senior to be seriously ill, meaning Andrew will likely be working more as the replacement than assistant.

Barely recovered from travelling, Andrew is needed for a house visit, answering the call without hesitation. He is nervous of making his first examination, a young woman in bed, the husband looking on. His diagnosis of a ‘chill’, he realises, is deficient, more likely an infection, one which needs medication. As he mixes this back at the surgery, a male assistant to another doctor insolently instructs the entrant. I realise you’re just passing through on your way to Harley Street, but in the meantime there are one or two things about this place you ought to know. You won’t find it conforms to the best traditions of romantic practice. There’s no hospital, no ambulance, no X-rays, no anything. If you want to operate you use the kitchen table. You wash up afterwards at the scullery bosh. The sanitation won’t bear looking at. In a dry summer the kids die like flies with infantile cholera.

After an unsatisfactory night’s sleep, the novice arrives early at the surgery, finding the dispenser, Jenkins, already present. One imparted piece of information is alarming. You don’t have to be so early, doctor. I can do the repeat mixtures and the certificates before you come in. Miss Page had a rubber stamp made with doctor’s signature when he was taken bad. Jenkins has an equally disconcerting instruction ready, as he pours water, ready to be dispensed. We know what good old aqua means, eh, doctor, bach. But the patients don’t. I’d look a proper fool too, wouldn’t I, them standin’ there watchin’ me fillin’ up their bottles out the tap.

Worse is on its way, as Andrew later suspects, from learning of more local cases, that a enteric infection has broken out. Advice given to him is far from comforting. If you should run into anything very nasty ring up Griffiths at Toniglan. That’s fifteen miles down the valley. He’s the district medical officer…But I’m afraid he’s not very helpful. Attempts to contact the advisor are fruitless, the young doctor being told, You’ll never find Doctor Griffiths in Toniglan this hour of day. He do go to the golf at Swansea afternoons mostly…I wouldn’t waste my time on him if I was you. An assistant has the likely answer, It’s the main sewer that’s to blame. It leaks like the devil and seeps into half the low wells at the bottom of the town. I’ve hammered at Griffiths about it till I’m tired. He’s a lazy, evasive, incompetent, pious swine.

Bantam Books 1951 and 1962; New English Library 1972.

At the end of the first month, Andrew’s patients are all doing well, his intervention having contained the outbreak. As the days pass, his encounters with internal politics and work-shyness become the norm. His seeking of a second opinion in one case produces a galling response, Dr Bramwell giving a cursory glance at the patient abed. He shook hands and hurried off, leaving Andrew utterly nonplussed. His entire conduct at the case betrayed his ignorance. He simply did not know.

Andrew reflects on one cynical view which has been expressed to him, … that all over Britain there were thousands of incompetent doctors distinguished for nothing but their sheer stupidity and an acquired capacity for bluffing their patients. Meanwhile, his local input results in an imaginative way to rid the community of the putrid sewer and gain a new one, the process involving some dynamite. Such are the ways of taking charge, in that nobody else is likely to. The doctor now has a grip on the area, the practice personal and the local people.

The story carries on with anecdotes, meetings, cases and social interaction. In due time Andrew is interviewed for a new post, one preferring applicants to be married. The opportunity presents itself for him as doctor and prospective husband to take up the position and enjoy living in the provided house with his, hopefully, soon-to-be wife, Christine. His interview is successful and as he leaves he jubilantly takes in the new surroundings, much improved compared to his present setting, and with a nice little hospital, as he had been told. More joy is to follow, as his marriage proposal is accepted.

Andrew approaches his first day at the West Surgery with exhilaration, although his caseload turns out to be a succession of people needing a sick certificate, with presently forty waiting, no time for proper consultations and a fair proportion of them looking quite able to work. Worse still, one individual has not been examined for seven years.

At a future point the good doctor loses his temper in the practice and is advised to …go slow, go easy, look before you leap! However, poor medical methods continue to inflame him, while he falls fouls of a nurse who eschews his new-fangled ideas of somebody that’s been here no more nor a week. As for the hospital, the doctor finds that it is in the control of his senior and that the junior is only required for processes such as anaesthetics. He unloads his feelings onto his wife, feeling bitter as to how he gets dragged off his case when it goes into hospital… and … loses the case as completely as if he’d lost the patient. It’s part of our damn specialist-G.P. system and it’s wrong, all wrong!

By the end of the year the physician is gaining a social life, he and his wife being wined and dined. With winter’s passing, Andrew has a new impetus, wanting to find better treatments for longstanding conditions and illnesses, linked to local working and living conditions. A prevailing view is that these things are a fact of life, something which the keen doctor can neither accept nor understand.

The first several years pass, during which the story takes in professional, procedural and medical situations, with continuing glimpses of Andrew’s domestic and social life. A disciplinary matter arises, leading to the doctor having to defend his lengthy studies into lung conditions associated with unhealthy working situations. Although a majority decision is in his favour, Andrew feels compelled to give a month’s notice, leaving behind an unsatisfactory post and its, to him, unacceptable practices.

New English Library TV tie-in 1983; Orion Publishing Co 1996; Picador 2019.

A position as medical officer with the Ministry of Works is taken up, in London, although Andrew is frustrated at the more administrative side of his appointment and general inertia of various august bodies. Whereas he has been keen to pursue his respiratory research, he is instead tasked with looking into uniformity of such things as dressings and the like, to standardise equipment in factories and mines. The work was imbecile. It consisted in the inspection of the first-aid materials kept at different collieries throughout the country: splints, bandages, cotton wool, antiseptics, tourniquets and the rest.

Attending the scene of a serious motor versus bicycle accident has Andrew saving a life and realising that he is not furthering his own career. The doctor seeks to fill a vacancy in a London practice, one with a long-established principal, a gentleman who will likely not be dislodged in the short term. To his wife he sounds off, It’s pretty damnable, Chris! The way these old fellows hang on with their back teeth. And you can’t prise them loose unless you’ve got money. Isn’t that an indictment of our system!

After weeks without a solution, an opening arises, …all at once Heaven relented and allowed old Doctor Foy to die, painlessly, in Paddington. Before long, Andrew, now thirty, has his plate on the door. However, the small payments received for medical assistance are not providing much in the way of income, … It’s the system, he thought savagely… There ought to be some better scheme, a chance for everybody— say — oh, say State control! He also hungers for medical friendship. His burning thought is to become attached to one of the London hospitals, thereby effectively being a consultant.

Now, with more substantial cases to handle, there arose another procedural issue, Many of his cases were urgent — surgical emergencies which cried aloud for immediate admission to hospital. And here Andrew encountered his greatest difficulty. It was the hardest thing in the world to secure admission, even for the worst, the most dangerous case. Fortunately, Andrew’s practice improves, with more patients being on his panel. Gradually, a more affluent patronage is secured, with increased remuneration for the doctor. A guinea a visit — it was three times the largest fee he had ever earned! In seeking first-class patients, he needs to buy some smarter clothes, thus gaining more recommendations.

Soon, now owning a car as well, Andrew’s income is rising, one consultation paying five guineas. He enjoyed receiving cheques now, and to his extreme satisfaction more and more of them were coming his way. However, his wife is the conscience of the pair, not relishing seeing her husband’s name in society publications covering lunches which he had attended. At last, an opening comes up at the Victoria Chest Hospital, in Battersea, and Andrew begins occasional duties at the out-patients department, a relic of the eighteenth century. In time he also leases a consulting room for his private practice, where he will be able to hold his better-class consultations; some further networking brings in more private patients. Sadly, the rise in prosperity saddens Christine, herself feeling that she might no longer be the right wife for Andrew.

A tragedy occurs sometime after, as a result of a botched operation which Andrew observes. As more time passes, he questions his present medical life, the increasing money making his work seem unworthy. After some soul-searching there is an epiphanic change of mind and a reconciliation with Christine. ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful, dear, if we could form a little front-line unit… a kind of pioneer force to try and break down prejudice, knock out the old fetishes, maybe start a complete revolution in our whole medical system.’

The latter part of the novel deals with a tragic loss and, latterly, a taut situation which provides a lead-in to the approaching close of the story. This reviewer found the book well-intentioned, but of its time, a melodrama. The liberal dialogue and domestic scenes at times are a distraction from the thrust of the medical saga. However, that said, the disapproval of then current standards and practices provides a powerful argument to dismantle the old, pre-war customs and put in place a more standardised system, without the financial and controlling interests.

Clearly, the decades of reprinting, translations and screen or radio adaptations testify to the worthiness of the novel, along with Cronin’s other works. However, the treatment of the central character did not seem to make him always to be as crusading as was expected, at times allowing good and bad fortune to pave the way towards the goal sought. Nevertheless, “The Citadel” is an easy, spirited and sincere read.

Well, thanks for your review, Mr. K. It seems that the book may have been pioneering in many ways but perhaps hasn’t necessarily aged well. An interesting slice of social history, though, if nothing else!

 

Travelling round the world with a great French artist for the #1937Club

My second title for the #1937Club is by another favourite author, and I’m ashamed to say that it’s been languishing on the TBR since 2012 – which is verified by the packing slip still inside the book, and I can’t believe I’ve owned it unread for so long!!! The title is “Round the World Again in 80 Days” by Jean Cocteau, translated by Stuart Gilbert, although interestingly the original French title is “Mon Premier Voyage” – I assume the English title is to flag up the Jules Verne connection at the start!

The book covers Cocteau’s travels in 1936, when he and his current lover, Marcel Khill took a journey around the world following the route that the fictional Phileas Fogg and Passepartout travelled in “Around the World in 80 Days” by Verne. Cocteau was at an interesting point in his life: addicted to opium, known more as a writer than anything else, he hadn’t yet made the films which would ensure his name was remembered (and for which he’s now best known I think). The travels were sponsored by the ‘Paris-Soir’ newspaper, and Cocteau set off to track the route along with his own personal Passepartout (and he refers to Khill like this all the way through the book!)

I owe much to the Rome express. It cleared my mind of cobwebs, the befuddlement of one who after many years of sleep is wakened with a start; it resolved the difficulty I had found in living on my own resources instead of suffering the lot of a somnambulist walking precariously along the edge of a roof.

Of course, Fogg’s journey was a fictional one, and so Cocteau does wonder whether he can match this in real life. But if I’m honest, the book is more about Cocteau’s experiences and impressions, rather than the need to trace the trains and boats Fogg took. So Cocteau travels through Egypt, India, Hong Kong, Japan and the USA, to name just some of the stops on the journey, and everywhere he goes, he’s open to new experiences and new acquaintances. Of course, Cocteau was famous at the time, and had introductions to consuls and the like wherever he went. However, he preferred to trust local guides and go off to explore the less obvious parts of a place. So the red light districts and the opium dens are more interesting to him, and he provides vivid portraits of all of the places he goes.

One outstanding part of the journey for Cocteau was his meeting with Charlie Chaplin and Paulette Goddard, also travelling part of the same route. Cocteau was starstruck, and records their encounters and the rapport he felt they had. Interestingly, according to Simon Callow’s introduction, Chaplin was not so enamoured; but whatever the case, Cocteau was happy with their meetings.

Needless to say, despite the occasional close shave with deadlines for ship, train or plane departure, Cocteau and his Passepartout make it back home by the deadline. Their journey has been full of sights, sounds, smells, food and new landscapes; and the glimpses he gives of these countries at a past time are fascinating. Cocteau was always looking out for what might be classed as the underbelly of a place; and his observations of Harlem, for example, are fascinating if perhaps a little problematic…

Cocteau is always an entertaining writer with some beautiful prose, and I did love following his journey around the world as well as his impressions of the various countries and peoples he encountered. However, it has to be said that reading this book can be difficult in that there is language used in it which would not be acceptable nowadays and any potential reader should be aware of that. I don’t think Cocteau means anything derogatory, in that he was using the acceptable terminology of the time, and he does seem warm and admiring of the peoples he meets, particularly admiring the Sikhs he encounters. However, the wording and what are sometimes racial stereotypes could be disturbing for some.

Nevertheless, reading Cocteau is always a treat and I was glad there was a title I could read for our club. I should say that perhaps I’m cheating a little by including this book for #1937, as it was originally published in French in 1936. However, the translation by Stuart Gilbert is copyrighted 1937 so there you go. The age of this version is perhaps relevant to the issues I mentioned above, as I imagine a modern translation would render certain parts of the book differently, but I’m not aware of any other version available (and the book seems one of Cocteau’s more obscure titles.)

So my second read for the #1937Club was a success; I do like vintage travel writing and there’s at least one more title on my pile of possibles which would fall into that category. Should I go for that? Should I go for classic crime? Or should I pick some fiction? All will be revealed as the week goes on…

Kicking off the #1937Club with not one, but two, classic crime authors!!

It’s become something of a habit for me, during our club reading events, to begin the week with some classic crime. I often choose Agatha Christie; as well as being a huge favourite of mine, she was also very prolific with at least one title for most of the years in the range we cover! Another prolific author from the period was Simenon with his Maigret tales, and so when I was checking out possible books for 1937 both of these authors were ones I looked at.

In fact, 1937 was a bumper year for Christie – at the height of her powers, she published “Dumb Witness” and “Death on the Nile”, both of which I love. She also produced the short story collection “Murder in the Mews“, which collected together four shorter works; and I actually read one of these (“Triangle at Rhodes“) for the 1936 Club, as it was initially published that year. Simenon, in contrast, only published one work I can see in 1936, and that was the short story “Maigret’s Mistake“. So I decided that it would be nice to indulge in these short stories to start off our club week, and a real treat they were!

Maigret’s Mistake

The anthology containing “Maigret’s Mistake”

Maigret is a long-time favourite character of mine, but frankly there are so many novels and short stories featuring his exploits that I’m never quite sure what I’ve read and what I haven’t, unless it’s on the blog!! In this case, I really can’t be sure.

Anyway, Maigret’s Mistake is a short story from 1937, and as far as I can tell the only one actually published that year. Here, we follow Maigret as he looks into the death of a young woman who works for a seedy bookseller, one of those who stocks dodgy books for even dodgier customers. Maigret loathes the man, having to hold himself back from punching him; and he’s quite sure the man is responsible for the young woman’s death. However, the revelation of a particular fact will have a dramatic effect on his suspicions.

This was an interesting, short, sharp Maigret story, perhaps a little harsher than some of his later exploits. You don’t normally think of Maigret as particularly aggressive, but here his temper really gets the better of him. The conclusion was perhaps unexpected, and it just shows what a clever writer Simenon was. Lucky for me that I have had a couple of the newer translations of the Maigret books sent to me by my BFF J., so I have no excuse to not sit down and read some more!!

Murder in the Mews

My very vintage copy of “Murder in the Mews” – owned since I was a teenager!

As I mentioned, this collection of four stories was issued in 1937, and each of these features the wonderful Hercule Poirot. The three I read for our club were outstanding, as would be expected from the Queen of Crime and I’ll share a little about each one.

The title story opens on November 5th, Bonfire Night, where Poirot and his old contact Inspector Japp are walking home from dining together. They comment that this would be the perfect night for a murder, with all the noise covering up anything like a shot in the dark. However, it transpires that there has been a death; a young woman, Barbara Allen, is found dead; but is it suicide or murder? It will take all of Poirot’s expertise to get to the truth, and as usual he runs rings round Japp!

The second title, The Incredible Theft, is quite Holmesian in its premise. There is a gathering at a country house, with some important politicians present and also a woman considered to be a notorious spy. When some vital papers disappear in incredible circumstances, Poirot is called upon to find out what has happened. Despite numerous red herrings, including a maid who claims to have seen a ghost and an elusive intruder, Poirot is not fooled and reveals an ingenious plot.

The last story in the collection which I read was Dead Man’s Mirror, and this was a really inventive one – truly, Christie had the most remarkable mind! Here, she uses one of her regular tropes, that of a dominating patriarch or matriarch; in this case, Sir Gervase Chevenix-Gore, a man full of ego who keeps his family and extended entourage dancing round him. However, he’s summoned Poirot because of some kind of family scandal, and after checking on the family with Mr. Satterthwaite (more of whom later), the great detective travels to the Chevenix-Gore family seat. However, he is too later, as shortly after his arrival, his client is discovered dead – apparently by suicide. But why would a man with an ego like Sir Gervase shoot himself in the head? This is another case where it will take all Poirot’s skill to find out what really happened.

I absolutely *love* Christie’s work and these three stories really were marvellous, coming as they do from her golden period. Poirot is beautifully conjured (though, interestingly, described more than once as ‘old’ – bearing in mind how long his career went on, she might have been better off playing down that aspect at this point!) He runs rings round his rivals and the opposition, and can be discreet when it’s needed. I would say that these long short stories do give a perfect flavour of the variety of case types he tackles, and when you add on the final story, Triangle at Rhodes, you get the ideal collection to discover what Poirot is like. Even in her short works, Christie is always on form!

I mentioned also one of Christie’s recurring characters, Mr. Satterthwaite; he originally appeared in the earlier “The Mysterious Mr. Quin” collection, a book I love, and had his one major encounter with Poirot in “Three Act Tragedy” from 1934. He only makes a fleeting appearance in Dead Man’s… but it’s lovely to see him turn up again. Even Christie’s minor characters are beautifully drawn.

So I’m happy to have started off the #1937Club with two favourite crime writers and two favourite detectives. If you saw my list of possible reads for the club at the beginning of the month, you’ll have seen that there are a good number of GA crime possibilities – I’ll just have to resist the temptation to read nothing but mysteries for the week!!!

 

Coming up on on Monday – the #1937Club!!!

Yes, it’s that time of year again – on Monday, Simon and I will be co-hosting one of our six-monthly reading clubs, and this time we’re focusing on the year 1937. It promises to be another bumper year, and I did share some pictures of possible choices at the beginning of the month.

However, there were a number of titles I didn’t put on the piles because I’d already read them and didn’t intend a revisit. Some of these were pre-blog and although they’re excellent books they weren’t particularly calling at the moment.

Tolkien’s “The Hobbit” is one of the most loved titles from 1937; I first read this when I was a teenager, and although I revisited the full “Lord of the Rings” sequence in recent years, I haven’t picked up the first book in a while. Another book from the year which is still highly regarded (and is one which my Offspring studied at school) is “Of Mice and Men” by John Steinbeck. Again, that’s another title I read pre-blog, actually alongside my Offspring reading it; it’s a powerful and bleak book, and I suspect I would have to be in the right frame of mind for a revisit.

Then there’s George Orwell’s “The Road to Wigan Pier”, a wonderful book that I’ve read a couple of times and will no doubt go back to again. The great Agatha Christie was very prolific in 1937 and at least two of her books are titles I’ve read pre-blog, and more than once!

As for 1937 books featuring on the Ramblings, well there are many! A recent title was “The Case of the Late Pig” by Margery Allingham which featured in the collection above and was a brilliant read. Golden Age crime was at its height in 1937, and other mysteries from that year include “The Cheltenham Square Murder” by John Bude and “These Names Make Clues” by E.C.R. Lorac, to name just a couple.

Other works I’ve written about here include “The Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass” by Bruno Schulz, “After Midnight” by Irmgard Keun, “Mona Lisa” by Alexander Lernet-Holenia, “The Nutmeg Tree” by Margery Sharp, and “Journey by Moonlight” by Antal Szerb – truly, some brilliant books!

So if you’re still unsure as to what to read for the #1937Club, there are a few ideas for you. Please do join in – the event is a low-pressure one, where you just read as few or as many works from 1937 during the weeks and share your thoughts. We very much look forward to hearing about what you read! 😀

 

The story of an inspirational bookshop – over @ShinyNewBooks

I have a review up today on Shiny New Books which I wanted to share with you, and it’s a book which touched me deeply. “A Bookshop of One’s Own” by Jane Cholmeley explores the story of the Silver Moon Feminist bookshop which used to live in Charing Cross Road, London; as one of the founders, she’s well placed to tell the story, which starts in the 1980s and ends just into the 21st century.

The place was a trailblazer, stocking feminist and gay literature when it was hard to find, as well as offering a safe space and a women-only cafe which was a welcoming spot. I paid many visits to the shop/cafe in the 1980s so the book resonated with me very much, especially the explorations of how the world has changed since then, the problems women/gays faced then and face now, and the picture of the depressing corporate reality with live with nowadays.

Silver Moon was such an inspiration to so many, and Virago even paid tribute with a short story anthology celebrating the shop. The book is a marvellous read, and you can find my full review here.