I use this phrase as it is one I heard throughout my youth. It has a condescending air, in that it suggests that only somewhat genteel, well brought-up, probably wealthy or privileged women could afford to ‘dabble’ in literary pursuits. I suppose the people in the book world who persisted in using this phrase well beyond its sell-by date were those people who considered Jane Austen the patron saint of the lady novelists. Many of them were merely being polite, in that they would refer to all women as ladies; as in, ‘Ladies first’, when letting women of all descriptions on the bus ahead of them. Of this type were male authors such as E. M. Forster, who, in his lectures on the novel, used the pronoun ‘he, his, him’ exclusively when discussing his hypothetical readers or writers, as if women readers and writers did not exist in the literary world – or even in the world. And yet he discusses Jane Austen, Emily Bronte and George Eliot with as much respect for their art as for any of the male authors he refers to. He was simply using the conventions of his age; and the ‘lady novelists’ who read his book knew that ‘he, his, him’ included them too.
But perhaps this sex apartheid in the literary world sharpened the minds and the pens of the lady novelists writing during that era of male domination – because there are so many, and they were so good. Many of the best of them are not household names so I would like to offer a list of Lady Novelists who should be better known. Edith Wharton, who is well-known, probably thanks to movie adaptations, heads my list. Her prose is so pure, so human, that readers of Ethan Frome cannot tell whether the first-person narrator is male or female: the tale the narrator tells is the important thing.
This list is far from complete – many great writers are missing from it, so it looks short; but that is because it ignores all those women writers who are celebrated today and whose names come up in all the lists, as well as all those you will probably come across during your studies. Today women equal – possibly even surpass – male writers in their number and prominence in the literary world. The names below are some of the greatest writers in the English language, whose careers and reputations no doubt suffered from their having written during that era when they would have been lumped together under the slightly dismissive label of Lady Novelist.
And yet, ironically, it was George Eliot herself who, in her 1856 essay, ‘Silly Novels by Lady Novelists’, first set up the phrase as a pejorative. And its influence, and her influence, perhaps spurred future lady novelists to show their true worth. Any serious writers among them would have felt the stern eye of George Eliot looking over their shoulders, challenging them to write better; warning them against writing ‘Silly Novels by Lady Novelists’. See this link for her essay: https://georgeeliotarchive.org/items/show/101
Antonia White Barbara Pym Elizabeth Taylor Elizabeth Jane Howard Willa Cather Bessie Head Olivia Manning Collette Penelope Lively Penelope Fitzgerald Muriel Spark Nadine Gordimer Edna O’Brien Elizabeth Bowen Caroline Blackwood George Egerton
Undeterred by winter rains, I fought my way to the bustling metropolis for the British Library’s Fantasy exhibition and was handsomely rewarded by an inspirational feast for the imagination. Here are my top 4 exhibition moments, ranked and in reverse order:
4 – Angela Carter’s notes for The Bloody Chamber:
‘insert: first view of the castle ‘…words cannot convey to what extent that scene was wild & lonely & forbidding, nay, unearthly’. There’s something arresting about seeing a story you’ve known for so long in its embryonic form. Thoughts noted, struck through, re-worded – the writer, at that point, did not entirely know where those thoughts would go and what the result would be – but you know! You have the result on your bookshelf. You read the book as an undergrad and you have taught it to your own students. I found myself thinking ‘that’s it, Ange, keep going!’…
3 – C.S. Lewis’s notes for The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe:
Another amazing little bit of scribbling from C.S. Lewis – his original handwritten idea for the first book (to be published) from his Narnia world. Here, the four children have different names: Ann, Martin, Rose and Peter – ‘But it is most about Peter who was the youngest’. ‘They were sent to stay with a kind of relation of Mother’s who was a very old Professor who lived all by himself in the country’. I cannot see any mention of the wardrobe here, but the upside down notes below say (as far as I can make out) ‘1. Science & Religion a. miracles b. origins.’ The rest is a mystery to me, but so exciting to see the start of a tale that shaped my imagination from childhood.
2 – Beowulf and Game of Thrones:
Fantasy is not niche. Fantasy is not new. Fantasy is, and has always been, fundamental to our ways of conveying meaning through story. Here is the oldest surviving Fantasy manuscript from the UK – Beowulf, the only manuscript of it that we know of (scribe unknown, poet unknown, date c. 975-1025 CE), with an example of contemporary fantasy writing beside it – George R. R. Martin, a book from his story-cycle A Song of Ice and Fire (Folio Society edition, 1996). A good millennium of Fantasy writing. On the wall, ‘Needle’ – Arya Stark’s sword, with harness – a prop from the popular Game of Thrones TV series based on Martin’s books.
1 – Susanna Clarke’s plan of tides for Piranesi:
If you have read Susanna Clarke’s 2020 novel Piranesi, and love it and wonder/fret about how the main character is getting on just about all of the time, then it’s really hard not to blub uncontrollably in front of the notes lent to this exhibition by Susanna Clarke. These two sheets of paper detail her plan of the tides that swell around The House (Kind and Beautiful). It feels like work that didn’t really need to take place – having read the novel several times now, I have never thought too much about the logistics of the tides, even as Piranesi himself notes them – but it is work that has been done, nonetheless, just in case, just because, and it shows an attention to detail, a care and respect for Things that reverberates through Piranesi himself. There I was, in a wet, dim, windy London (not too far from Batter Sea), looking at a document that read not as a plan of a literary fantasy world but as a guide from a traveller who had inhabited another dimension. note 1. ‘Flooding centred on the 9th Vestibule. This is the tide from the South. The High Tide will rise at 11.30 a:m. The diagram is not right. It This will produce a certain amount of flooding which would in the normal way subside quickly. The problem is the subsequent High Tides’. In an age of sea-level rise, and in a week when the Trent had flooded very badly (a river which is tidal for 50 miles), we are ourselves at the Mercy of the Tides.
Cormac McCarthy, one of the most important American writers of the last 50 years, has died at the age of 89. His writing career spanned from 1965 until the publication of his last novels in 2022. He is best known for the novels The Road and No Country for Old Men, both adapted successfully for the screen. His work, certainly in style, is often compared to that of Faulkner, in that his control of language and punctuation defies our conventional expectations but maintains the reader’s attention and understanding. His use of language and imagery, and his comparison to great writers of the early 20th century, has led to critics labelling him a late modernist who challenged the emerging orthodoxies of postmodernist indeterminacy. It was the Border Trilogy novels – All the Pretty Horses (1992), The Crossing (1994) and Cities of the Plain (1998) – which brought him to public prominence. These novels reflect on the frontier as a key part of America’s founding myth. The best of these, for me, is All the Pretty Horses. A revisionist Western, it transplants the battle between man and the wilderness from Texas to Mexico. John Grady Cole and Lacey Rawlins cross from modern Texas into what the sixteen year olds hope will be the unspoilt wilderness that their predecessors tamed on the American frontier. The novel is a quest narrative and a bildungsroman.
The opening pages encourage us to think that we are in the 19th century. The candle, the hat, the portraits of ancestors all signify an earlier time than the actual setting. Death, repeated here, suggests a finality, an ending; but also the possibility of new beginnings. The calf bawling and the prairie reveal to the reader that this is an agricultural area and that we are in American West. Also, the train challenges our expectations. It symbolises change and industrialisation, reinforced by the language: ‘boring’, ‘howling’, ‘bellowing’. That the train comes from the East, all that the West has stood in contrast to, is important. The ‘endless fenceline’ demonstrates the scale of the landscape. Fences are also symbolic of the taming nature and the domestication of the land. Later, the boys have to pull out the staples to allow the horses to pass through fences. The Mexican cook suggests that the boundaries between the cultures either side of the border are no longer as distinct as they used to be, and also Texas’ history as a part of Mexico.
The themes of the novel are very much those of the conventional Western; the battle between man and nature, a nostalgia for a simpler way of life that is attuned to the rhythms of the land, and established beliefs. Grady is trying to locate himself in relation to the wilderness in which he finds himself. He feels that the wildness inside him, a sort of primordial urge, needs to be reflected by the landscape. The narrative suggests that Mexico offers this possibility in ways that Texas couldn’t, particularly when he hears a wolf howl. The contemplation of God and religion is important as the westward expansion of America was often seen as religious obligation. The boys are to be transformed by their encounter with the pristine wilderness of Mexico, which substitutes for the Old West, into self-reliant, independent and resourceful cowboys. The zacateros they encounter on the Mexican plains represent simple agricultural workers responding to the shifts of the seasons. While they are friendly, they are not represented in a romantic way, instead being dishevelled and dirty.
Their exploration of this ‘new Eden’ are punctuated with places that represent both the garden and hell. The Hacienda de Nuestra Senora de la Purisima Concepcion (I’ll leave you to do your own translation. The reader is pushed to translate a lot of Spanish dialogue, forcing us into active readers) is vibrant and abundant with nature’s bounty. America is a nation whose identity is shaped through this idea of the battle between the settlers and nature. The horses are symbolic of nature and the wilderness. Grady’s ability to subordinate the horses reflects the ambitions of the early American settlers. However, there are two ambiguities here: the horses were introduced by Europeans and, crucially, once nature has been tamed, the frontiersman must move on to seek out new challenges and new wildernesses. This section is a biblical allegory here. We can see Grady as an American Adam in this Edenic landscape, Alejandra as the sexual temptation and Don Hector is the God-like authority who casts Adam from paradise.
In contrast, the prison the boys end up in as punishment for their transgressions demonstrates that Mexico is not a savage wilderness where they will find challenges on the journey towards manhood, but is a society they are unable to interpret. In Part III they virtually abandon travel by horse and instead become very 20th century, riding in trucks and travelling by train.
As Cole rides back through northern Mexico it reveals itself to be far more industrialised than the idealised natural landscape he had seen it for on his journey south. The crossing back into Texas is less detailed, more matter of fact. That it is Thanksgiving, an American holiday celebrating the expansion of the nation is symbolic. We see that Cole is a cowboy out of his time. Towards the end, a number of thematic concerns combine. The industrial nature of the Texas landscape is illustrated by the city lights, the highways and the oil fields. When Cole speaks Spanish to the Mexican girl at the judge’s house, she responds in English.
The certainties of the American West as a place of mythical origins is dismantled by the book’s temporal moment (mid-20th Century) and the harsh realities of Mexico. However, as a bildungsroman, it traces Cole’s development from the innocence of youth to the self-reliance and self-knowledge of manhood.
This week, in 1956, Allen Ginsberg’s Howl and Other Poems was published by City Lights in San Francisco.
This was a revolutionary collection of poems that connected Ginsberg’s poetic present to an American tradition that included Alt Whitman and William Carlos Williams, and also created the conditions for new forms of poetry.
Ginsberg was part of the group of writers who would come to be known as the Beat Generation – beaten down, the beat of the still marginal jazz music, beatific. 1957 would see the publication of other seminal (I use that word deliberately, as all of these texts have sex and sexuality as persistent and dominant themes) Beat texts – Kerouac’s On the Road in 1957 and Burroughs’ Naked Lunch in 1959.
Ginsberg and his fellow writers attempted a radical critique of their conformist, Cold War times. They did so by inheriting their ideas in, modified form, from the madmen and outlaws of the previous generation, to paraphrase Fitzgerald (who belonged to his own generation, the inter-war Lost Generation).
The Beats adapted their modes of expression to distance their work from the aesthetic orthodoxy: they introduced new rhythms and measures, new prose styles and vocabularies, new underworld themes and settings. Their work was to be spoken and heard, freeing it from the constraints of publishing and the academy.
Beat writers sought to expand consciousness – their own and that of their readers – through the experience and representation of travel, sex, drugs, Eastern mysticism and new literary forms; all of which appear in ‘Howl’.
‘Howl’ is a courageous response to the dominating passivity of the Cold War culture of conformity that succeeded the war, typified by the TV appearances of Senator McCarthy waving his evidence of communist infiltrators into American government.
Most people know the first lines:
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in
the machinery of night
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz
The poem is in 4 sections, including the later ‘Footnote’. This first section is a list of the fallen – Neil Cassidy, Burroughs, Kerouac, Naomi Ginsberg. They are American aesthetic and intellectual exiles whose joy, emotional and sexual appetites, hunger and despair set them apart from what has been termed ‘the republic of mere logic’.
In Part II, Ginsberg posits Moloch, a tyrannical Hebrew deity who demands child sacrifice, as the personification of the capitalism and uniform consumption, which banishes deviance, improvisation and spontaneity in all its forms.
Part III takes Carl Solomon, the lunatic saint who was inspiration and publisher to the Beats. ‘I am with you in Rockland’, Ginsberg declares – allying himself with the mental patient in the asylum (to employ the vocabulary of the time).
Part IV, or ‘Footnote’, is Ginsberg’s solution to the oppressions of his contemporary American culture and his attempt to escape from the rationality of the machine. Instead of Moloch, he proposes a society of spiritual grace which celebrates the sexual, behavioural, artistic and political deviances that Part I and Moloch seek to destroy – these then become ‘Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy….’. In Part I the soul, the spirit and the body are profane and transgressive, here they are spiritual and sacred. This reappraisal will result in a new American society that will accept Ginsberg and his friends who have previously been excluded.
Instead of embracing Ginsberg’s new poetic vision of citizenship – where deviance is holy – America banned his poem for obscenity.
Perpetua Collective presents – The Yellow Wall-paper by Charlotte Perkins-Gilman. Adapted by Poppy Johnson.
The text of ‘The Yellow Wall-paper’ is short but dense, and any adaptation of it must necessarily choose which aspect or aspects to focus on. Being narrated entirely by ‘the Woman’, every ounce of conversation is relayed second-hand, and thus we might conclude that the entire text is open to interpretation as it is open to narrative bias. Perpetua Collective, under the direction of Poppy Johnson, chose to focus on possible arsenic poisoning causing the Woman’s distress and confusion.
The parts of the script that were lifted from the text itself were delivered with great conviction by Ellie Belk, who drew the audience in from the outset. Unafraid to hold sustained eye contact with each audience member, the unnerving element of the story was brought to the fore. Performing some kind of dramatic gymnastics, Belk was able to jump from excitable to distressed to calm to worried with great fluidity, making us question what the character really was feeling and how she was dealing with being in the room of ‘The Yellow Wall-paper’. At no point was the character portrayed to be unlikeable, which is a credit to Belk’s tone, delivery and overall persona.
Her husband, John — played by Joshua Jones — attempts to calm her or distract her using various methods. John was displayed as a cold man, certainly more callous than he might appear in the text (even through a second-hand account), but the effect created was intriguing. First, it created enormous empathy for ‘the Woman’. Because the audience does not feel warmth towards John, the natural outlet for an ally is the other character. Secondly, it made the ending more striking (changed in this, perhaps to tie in with the arsenic poisoning angle, to show ‘the Woman’ collapsing and John weeping over her), since John’s own character is unravelled to become weaker and more emotional than he was previously shown to be. It’s not easy to play an accidental villain, but Jones danced the line between concerned husband and stubborn physician with great aplomb.
Such affection for Belk’s ‘Woman’ is strengthened by Ashley Bernstone’s depiction of Jerry (a change from the text’s Jennie), who provides a gentle and comforting role in the adaptation. The audience is left to ponder what approach they would take in such circumstances. Bernstone played the part very well, allowing the softer man to contrast with John. Plus, it appears Bernstone has proven to be an expert at catching very small keys travelling towards him in dimmed light.
The question of how to involve the audience was answered from the outset. The seats were arranged as two sides of a square, with the set as the other two sides, adorned with the garish yellow wall-paper. On the backs of each chair were scraps of the same wallpaper, and the lighting of the room was entirely yellow, effectively making the audience either part of the wall-paper or sitting just behind it — a detail used to great effect when Belk delivered the line, ‘Sometimes I think there are a great many women behind,’ while staring at each audience member slowly and deliberately. Lighting was used to create the silhouette of the woman in the paper, also played by Bernstone (who, it appears, has proven to be an expert at curtsying), and when the paper was torn down to reveal her, the intertwining of the two women was powerfully delivered, with the climax of John’s discovery and despair ending the play with a palpable poignance.
If a central tenet of theatre is to make things real, then Perpetua Collective did a stellar job.
The Yellow wall-paper was performed on Friday 22nd and Saturday 23rd July 2022 at Staffordshire University.
In being taught how to read a text critically, the student learns how to see beyond what is presented on the page. That is, they may read the sentences that are written in black and white, but they will see the colour of socio-economic-historical contexts that frame the work in a time and place. Such a practice has a twofold benefit: the first is that it illuminates the text to show what treasures are nestled within; and the second is like it, that it illuminates the time and place in which the authors of those works lived and worked. This dual illumination stretches the imagination of the reader backwards and forwards, seeing the arc of change that has occurred over the years, and it is the literary critic who sets out to enable those changes to become more clearly recognised. The illumination of the past is that history is not always told as it should be, and the authors of the time help to bring true history to us, the illumination of the future is that we can see what the future may look like under the same arc, and these illuminate the present so that we recognise that we live in a moment of influence. That things were what they were is one thing, but things do not have to become what they appear to be heading towards. The track of our society can be given a junction to enable it to move in a new and better direction.
Yet for all that literary criticism does, there is an element of textual creation and engagement that stands alone — an element which illuminates the space around it in a completely unique manner. The element is noticeable whenever it is encountered, and undeniable to those who have experienced it. Such an element is readily available to see in places where old and precious books are displayed. One such place is the British Library, which displays works of great thinkers and creators from years gone by. There a visitor can see the First Folio of Shakespeare’s works, handwritten lyrics by John Lennon, manuscript paper of Mozart and the sketches of Da Vinci. These and more are housed in a gallery named ‘Treasures of the British Library’, which is as apt a name as could possibly be given to such a gallery.
As with all old books and manuscripts, the room has to be kept quite dim. The lights are not garish and brutal, but soft in a way that enables them to display the cases without causing too much damage to the things contained therein. Yet even for the room being in semi-darkness, there is an undeniable light that seems to shine from the very essence of the room, and which has a quality of staying with the one who views those works. The quality, or the element as it may also be called, is a difficult one to describe. It is a curious blend of these works being defining moments in the history of literature, the ways in which they have been crafted and the finality of them that makes them so appealing. That Austen sat down and wrote books that are still read two hundred years later, the original, neatly handwritten pages of which are shown clearly in a case, and that she will not write another ever again, cause an illumination to come to the text that cannot be emulated in any other fashion. Perhaps this is what Walter Benjamin meant when he spoke against reproduction of art. There is something more brilliant about seeing the original workmanship than could ever be attained by cratefuls of printed editions of those same books. The grandeur is not in the number of copies of the texts, but rather in the entirety of that person’s work and craft being contained by pen and ink on a handful of pages, and the enduring effects that those scribbles had. Though publishers will always seek sales, mere numbers hold no sway over the power of the original manuscript. Though literary criticism may help to bring context and understanding to a text, it stands separate from what the text in its own original manifestation can bring.
All this to say that when the Staffs Uni English students visited that room earlier this year, it was a sunny day. We exited the building, but there was a difference. On any other occasion, when exiting a building into sunlight, there is a point where the building appears very dark as the internal light pales in comparison to the brightness of the sun. Ordinarily, the dark building and the things within it are left behind as the person enters into glorious sunlight. But on this occasion the difference was that the building did not become dark. For behind us light was shining from the ‘Treasures’ gallery. And in some way, we didn’t leave that building and the things inside it behind, but we have taken it with us.
Here in the English and Creative Writing
department, we like to think we celebrate amazing women every single day. From
our brilliant staff and students through to the wonderful female novelists,
poets, playwrights, short story writers, essayists, and literary critics
featured on our modules, we are surrounded by amazing women all the year round.
That said, we are not ones to pass up an
opportunity to shout even louder about amazing women in literature so, to mark
International Women’s Day this week, we asked some of our team to tell us about
their favourite novels by female authors:
Senior Lecturer in English and Creative
favourite book is The Wolf Border by Sarah Hall. This novel follows
Rachel as she moves back from her job on a wolf reserve in the USA to the
borders of England and Scotland to run a rewilding programme. Dealing with her
mother’s death, and reconnecting with her estranged brother as she negotiates
the project and the politics of wealthy Lairds
and local communities, Rachel is a character of great strength and humanity:
flawed, intelligent, determined, and responsive.
ability to portray a
woman so genuine and uncompromising in the face of so many literary tropes
about motherhood, relationships, and landscape is thrilling. Her prose is
precise, and her evocation of place and people captures the nuances of both.
about her process, she says: ‘I’m interested in the working nature of the land
as well as its resistance to what we place upon it, metaphysically, and
sometimes physically. This is what I’ve grown up with when it comes to Cumbria
– farming, sheep, rain, difficulties travelling, self-sufficiency, obduracy,
respect’ (Hall, 2009), and this close attention to details shines through in her clear depiction not of only of
place but the emplaced human within it.
an author and novel I return to over and again.
Senior Lecturer in English and Course
Director for Sound and Communication
Plath’s The Bell Jar is an exploration of the social, economic, and
sexual pressure on young women that seems as relevant today as it was in the
1950s, when the book is set.
first glance, The Bell Jar does not strike the reader as an overtly
political novel. The key themes that present themselves, and for which the book
is popularly renowned, are the explorations of growing up in America, mental
illness, teenage suicide, and the angst of a young woman finding her way in a
large and scary world of work, fashion, education, and relationships.
Consequently, The Bell Jar is often seen as a rites of passage novel.
concerns are given added interest for the reader by the autobiographical detail
that haunts Esther’s Greenwood’s narrative and continues to hold the public’s
novel was originally published in 1963 under a pseudonym. At the time critics
found the book to be a thoughtful exploration of a young woman’s mind. However,
when the book was published under Plath’s own name in 1966 its reception was
strongly influenced by the circumstances surrounding her suicide at the age of
30in 1963, just after the book’s original release. Much attention, unsurprisingly,
has been given to the stormy relationship with her husband, the British poet
Ted Hughes, and her relationship with her two children.
all the biographical attention to the novel justified. Well, to some extent it
is. The Bell Jar is an account of Esther’s time at college, her
experiences as a ‘guest editor’ on a New York magazine and her subsequent
breakdown – all supported by a wealthy sponsor.
Plath too went to an all-girl college, won a scholarship to Mademoiselle
magazine and attempted suicide.
title itself speaks of both clarity and constriction. The bell jar is a glass
container in which the contents can be seen clearly but can also be read as the
shop windows in which the fashion-conscious characters check their reflections.
But it is
also about the suffocating constraints of Esther’s situation and society:
fashion and commodity as part of 50s social ideology in America, the role of
the patriarchal medical profession in Esther’s illness, and the constraints of
the social and political environment on Esther’s gender role and in her
relationships with men.
novel’s opening reflects on the execution in the electric chair of the
Rosenbergs for spying for the USSR and goes on to explore the effects of
Electro Convulsive Therapy on Esther.
issue of gender roles and freedom for women in this book is specifically
related to the issue of sexual freedom. Before the pill, sexual and moral
politics revolved around ideas of health, hygiene, and conformity. Esther’s
mother, for example, sends her an article entitled ‘In Defense of Chastity’,
which concludes that the best form of birth control is abstinence.
conclusion of the novel Esther is assessed by the hospital board for a return
to the society that she has rejected. To do so she must show that she is a
well-adjusted, socially integrated, mentally well citizen of 1950s American
society. You will have to read the book to find out if she succeeds.
Amy Louise Blaney
Associate Lecturer in English
are so many literary works by female authors that I adore: Margaret Atwood’s The
Handmaid’s Tale, Maggie O’Farrell’s Hamnet, Jane Austen’s Northanger
Abbey, Margaret Cavendish’s The Blazing World…the list goes on.
this piece, though, I wanted to share my love of Donna Tartt’s debut novel, The
Secret History. Partly because it is a brilliant piece of fiction that
playfully inverts the rules of genre and can be seen to have kick-started a
trend for so-called ‘dark academia’, but also because its conflicted central
characters – and their struggles to find their place and identity within the
world – continues to resonate with me in new ways every time I re-read the
an elite New England university, The Secret History tells the story of a
close-knit group of six classic students who, it becomes apparent, have
committed a terrible crime.
novel is narrated by Richard Papen: a young man from a modest background who
finds himself, through an unusual twist of fate, becoming part of an elite
clique of students, hand-picked by charismatic classics professor Julian
position as an outsider is crucial to the novel. As the reader, we see the
events of the novel solely through his eyes and we are, initially at least,
invited to sympathise with this awkward, isolated young man, marooned and
adrift amidst an elite world of apparent social, intellectual, and financial
novel progresses, however, the novel plays with and inverts ideas of tragedy,
melodrama, and detective fiction to rewrite this singular worldview. As
readers, we begin to question the veracity of Richard’s narrative and the
plausibility of his perceptions. As we follow this murder mystery in reverse,
we are invited to consider not who the killer is – we know this from the outset
– but who the victim is and, more importantly, why they are the victim
and what the significance of their murder is.
put, The Secret History is, like all the best novels, a book that merits
repeated reading and that, as I age and evolve as a reader, unpacks itself in
new ways with each revisit. Read it, think about it, then put it on a shelf and
come back to it in five- or ten-years’ time. I guarantee you will experience it
More Female-Authored Fiction?
longlist for the 2022 Women’s Prize for
Fiction was announced on International Women’s Day and
contains a fantastic line-up on contemporary novels written by women. Past
winners of the prize include Madeline Miller, Barbara Kingsolver, Tayari Jones,
Ali Smith, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Zadie Smith, Helen Dunmore and Carol
Shields, whilst this year’s shortlist features novels by Louise Erdrich, Ruth
Ozeki, and Elif Shafak amongst others.
Dickens’ 210th birthday today, as good a reason as any to spend a thought or two on this outstanding writer. It’s even a platitude to say that the work of this most inventive of Victorian novelists has withstood the test of time (and shedloads of literary and autobiographical criticism to boot) and remains relevant, instructive and enjoyable to this day. Nothing could be a better reminder of Dickens’s art, of his extraordinary treatment of language, than the following excerpt from Oliver Twist of 1837-39, the foundational first of the whole host of new Realist Victorian novels to follow. As a fledgling text, this novel very much strikes us as experimental still, a laboratory of various narrative forms and styles, ranging from topical investigative journalism to educational journey, as in Bildungsroman, and allegorical morality tale.
The passage below shows Dickens’s full potential as narrative magician,
with similar fireworks going off in all of his later novels. New Victorian Realism
in full cry: London waking up in the in the early morning to the hustle and
bustle of a crowded day… The reader wonders: who is talking? It is not Sikes, nor
Oliver, who are walking across the stage here. When the prose heats up, the
narrator does the vanishing act of much of later Modernist ‘free indirect
discourse’. Whose consciousness is streaming here? Might it be that of the big
city itself? I always ask myself in passages like this: was Dickens really in
charge of his writing here, or was he being written (so-to-speak) by language
that wants breaking out? One could say that langue is driving a coach and
horses through the authorial project in sections like this….
Dr Martin Jesinghausen
From Oliver Twist,
Chapter 21: The Expedition.
was a cheerless morning when they got into the street; blowing and raining
hard; and the clouds looking dull and stormy. The night had been very wet:
large pools of water had collected in the road: and the kennels were
overflowing. There was a faint glimmering of the coming day in the sky; but it
rather aggravated than relieved the gloom of the scene: the sombre light only
serving to pale that which the street lamps afforded, without shedding any
warmer or brighter tints upon the wet house-tops, and dreary streets. There
appeared to be nobody stirring in that quarter of the town; the windows of the
houses were all closely shut; and the streets through which they passed, were
noiseless and empty.
the time they had turned into the Bethnal Green Road, the day had fairly begun
to break. Many of the lamps were already extinguished; a few country waggons
were slowly toiling on, towards London; now and then, a stage-coach, covered
with mud, rattled briskly by: the driver bestowing, as he passed, an admonitory
lash upon the heavy waggoner who, by keeping on the wrong side of the road, had
endangered his arriving at the office, a quarter of a minute after his time.
The public-houses, with gas-lights burning inside, were already open. By
degrees, other shops began to be unclosed, and a few scattered people were met
with. Then, came straggling groups of labourers going to their work; then, men
and women with fish-baskets on their heads; donkey-carts laden with vegetables;
chaise-carts filled with live-stock or whole carcasses of meat; milk-women with
pails; an unbroken concourse of people, trudging out with various supplies to
the eastern suburbs of the town. As they approached the City, the noise and
traffic gradually increased; when they threaded the streets between Shoreditch
and Smithfield, it had swelled into a roar of sound and bustle. It was as light
as it was likely to be, till night came on again, and the busy morning of half
the London population had begun.
down Sun Street and Crown Street, and crossing Finsbury square, Mr. Sikes
struck, by way of Chiswell Street, into Barbican: thence into Long Lane, and so
into Smithfield; from which latter place arose a tumult of discordant sounds
that filled Oliver Twist with amazement.
was market-morning. The ground was covered, nearly ankle-deep, with filth and
mire; a thick steam, perpetually rising from the reeking bodies of the cattle,
and mingling with the fog, which seemed to rest upon the chimney-tops, hung
heavily above. All the pens in the centre of the large area, and as many
temporary pens as could be crowded into the vacant space, were filled with
sheep; tied up to posts by the gutter side were long lines of beasts and oxen,
three or four deep. Countrymen, butchers, drovers, hawkers, boys, thieves,
idlers, and vagabonds of every low grade, were mingled together in a mass; the
whistling of drovers, the barking dogs, the bellowing and plunging of the oxen,
the bleating of sheep, the grunting and squeaking of pigs, the cries of
hawkers, the shouts, oaths, and quarrelling on all sides; the ringing of bells
and roar of voices, that issued from every public-house; the crowding, pushing,
driving, beating, whooping and yelling; the hideous and discordant dim that
resounded from every corner of the market; and the unwashed, unshaven, squalid,
and dirty figures constantly running to and fro, and bursting in and out of the
throng; rendered it a stunning and bewildering scene, which quite confounded
Mr. Sikes, dragging
Oliver after him, elbowed his way through the thickest of the crowd, and
bestowed very little attention on the numerous sights and sounds, which so
astonished the boy. He nodded, twice or thrice, to a passing friend; and, resisting
as many invitations to take a morning dram, pressed steadily onward, until they
were clear of the turmoil, and had made their way through Hosier Lane into
It’s Edgar Allan Poe’s birthday. Poe is a figure who has fascinated readers for nearly 2 centuries. His death at the age of 40, on a Baltimore street at election time, has led to speculation that he died of alcohol poisoning, in a political brawl or, more recently, a diabetic coma. His stories also remain enigmatic. He is best known for his gothic horror tales and as the inventor of the literary detective (in ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’). The aristocratic and eccentric Auguste Dupin and his narrator-recorder-sidekick are the model for Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson. His hysterical tale of incest and aristocratic decay, ‘The Fall of the House of Usher’, explores Freudian concepts of Oedipal conflict and the uncanny many decades before Freud even contemplated them. One of his most influential stories, ‘The Man of the Crowd’, combines both in the pursuit of a criminal figure through the labyrinthine streets of a gothic London night, lit by the flickering glare of early gaslight. Walter Benjamin sees this as a story that contains the origins of modernism that would take many decades to catch up with this literary genius.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that any blog post about Jane
Austen must begin with an awkward homage to her best-known novel, Pride and
It is also a truth universally acknowledged that, since her death on 18
July 1817, aged only 41, many writers have sought to capture the magic of
Austen’s writing, and to pay tribute to her through imitations, sequels,
retellings, and reimaginings of her work.
So, in honour of Austen’s birthday (16 December 1775), I wanted to share
six of my favourite literary reimaginings and retellings of her most famous
work. For keen readers of Austen, I hope these will share new light upon a
favourite novel. For those yet to become acquainted with her, maybe these will
serve as a means of introduction? For me, the versatility and variety of the
following books demonstrates the genius of Austen’s characterisation and
plotting, the timelessness of her themes, and the resonance that the stories
she told continue to have for thousands of readers today.
The Other Bennet Sister by Janice Hadlow
Published in 2020, Janice Hadlow’s The Other Bennet Sister tells
the story of Mary, middle of the five Bennet girls, plainest of them all and,
arguably, the most overlooked by both her family and her creator. An introvert
in a family of extroverts, Mary is very much a peripheral figure within Pride
and Prejudice – and is usually depicted alongside Mr Collins as a figure of
fun in the many film and TV adaptations. Hadlow, however, manages to convey the
depth of Mary’s character, showing us a young woman who, though different from
her siblings, has no less passion and no fewer dreams. For those new to Austen,
this lively modern novel may encourage you to read Pride and Prejudice the
first time whilst, for Austen-lovers, seeing Lizzie, Darcy, Jane, Lydia et al. from
Mary’s point of view provides a chance to reflect on the value of wealth and
beauty from the perspective of a young woman without either.
Ayesha at Last
by Uzma Jalaluddin
Set in modern-day Canada, Uzma Jalaluddin’s Ayesha at Last takes
the plot and themes of Pride and Prejudice and combines them with a
modern Muslim romance. Heroine Ayesha Shamsi has set aside her dreams of
becoming a poet to pay off her debts to her wealthy uncle. Adding to her
problems, she’s still single whilst, as her boisterous family are always
reminding her, her flighty younger cousin Hafsa is close to rejecting her one
hundredth marriage proposal. When Ayesha meets Khalid, she finds herself
irritatingly attracted to someone whose conservative and judgemental nature
means he looks down on her choices and dresses like he belongs in the seventh
century. Yet unbeknownst to Ayesha, Khalid is also wrestling with what he
believes and what he wants. Despite announcing a surprise engagement to
Ayesha’s cousin Hafsa, Khalid just can’t get the outspoken Ayesha out of his
mind. Ayesha at Last is a lot of fun and, for me, demonstrates that the
themes and concerns of Austen’s novel resonate not only across time but also
through cultures. Another modern re-telling worth a shout is Curtis
Sittenfeld’s Eligible, which moves the action to modern-day Ohio and
adds in a dash of reality TV.
Death Comes to Pemberley by P. D. James
Pride and Prejudice…and
murders! Queen of Crime P. D. James brings her expert plotting and fine eye for
detail to Pemberley in this elegantly gauged tribute to Austen’s vitality. Set
in 1803, the orderly world that Darcy and Elizabeth have created for themselves
is threatened when, on the eve of their annual ball, Lydia Wickham –
Elizabeth’s unreliable sister – stumbles out of a carriage screaming that her
husband has been murdered. James’s pastiche of Austen is laced with authentic
smatterings of Austen’s trademark wit, combining this with a thoroughly
researched portrait of Georgian law and order. As a crime story, Death Comes
to Pemberley is deeply enjoyable in its own right but, for me, it also
demonstrates the versatility of Austen’s imagination and the way in which her
sharp observations of society and wicked sense of humour underpin a genre so
seemingly disparate as crime fiction. For more genre-bending Austen, fantasy
fans might also like to look up Heartstone by Elle Katherine White for Pride
& Prejudice with additional dragons.
Pride and Prejudice and Zombies by Seth Grahame-Smith
Okay, so I mostly put this one in here because it’s Pride and
Prejudice WITH ZOMBIES. And what isn’t to love about that as a concept? Look
beneath the parodic swordfights and ignore the ninjas for a moment (because
yes, there’s also ninjas in this one), however, and you’ll find a wry
commentary on literary expectations and Regency-era society. The academic
literature on this adaptation of Austen’s classic is, honestly, very
interesting and considers everything from the meaning behind Charlotte Lucas’s
zombification to the importance of sword-wielding heroines for modern female
readers. For those seeking to move beyond Darcy and Elizabeth, Grahame-Smith
added a kraken and some pirates to Austen’s first published novel to create Sense
and Sensibility and Sea-Monsters, and wrote a sequel called Pride and
Prejudice and Zombies: Dreadfully Ever After.
What Matters in Jane Austen by John Mullen
Mullen is a Professor of English at University College London and has taught Austen to university students for over a quarter of a century. Distilling that knowledge into a lively and accessible piece of literary criticism, What Matters in Jane Austen endeavours to answer twenty crucial puzzles about Austen’s work including, How Much Does Age Matter?, Do We Ever See the Lower Classes?, and Is There Any Sex in Jane Austen? Mullen is an entertaining and knowledgeable guide – especially to Austen’s lesser-known works – and his book is the perfect primer for revisiting the novels with a fresh critical eye.
Longbourn by Jo
Speaking of the lower classes, who does wash the mud of Elizabeth Bennet’s skirt after she troops over to Netherfield Park to appal polite society? The answer, for Jo Baker at least, is Sarah: one of the housemaids at Longbourn, the Bennet family home. Baker’s eye for detail undercuts the televised romanticisation of Austen’s era, depicting not only the lives of those who do the dirty work that enable Austen’s polite heroines to take tea or go to balls, but also reflecting on the turbulent politics of the era and, poignantly, on the aftereffects of the Napoleonic Wars.
These are just a smattering of many adaptations and appropriations of Austen’s work but, hopefully, they’ve given you a flavour of just how resonant her writing remains. More than 200 years after her death, Austen’s novels and short fiction continue to be read and enjoyed by readers across the globe. And whilst F R Leavis saw Austen as one of the cornerstones of the ‘canon’ of English Literature, for me, her work resonates not because of its universality or intrinsic brilliance (although I do think Austen is brilliant) but because of the way that her intricate examinations of love, marriage, family, society, and commerce invite new perspectives, new approaches, and new imaginings that encourage us to reflect not only on the period in which she lived and wrote but on our own experiences and society today.