Tag Archives: fiction

I Capture the Castle

I discovered this fantastic book through Netflix instant play, where I watched what I assumed just to be a pretty cool indie movie. I didn’t realize that it was based on a novel until I was checking out some books at the library and saw it in its forest-green jacket in a pile of returns. “Um, could I grab that book too?” I asked the librarian, who kindly added it to my stack.

I love this book.

This book was first published in 1948, and British author Dodie Smith weaves what can only be called a classic tale. The narrator, 17-year-old Cassandra, starts a journal which morphs into the story of her family’s past and present. “I am writing this journal partly to practise my newly acquired speed-writing and partly to teach myself how to write a novel–I intend to capture all our characters and put in conversations. It ought to be good for my style to dash along without much thought, as up to now my stories have been very stiff and self-conscious.” And let me say–there is nothing stiff or self conscious about this delightful novel!

Cassandra Mortmain’s family is penniless, artistic, and entirely unique, living rent-free in a crumbling English castle with virtually no furniture, a funny old bathroom in a tower, and a real moat. Her father, a brilliant but long unfruitful writer, has been languishing idle for years. Topaz, Cassandra’s stepmother, is a famous artists’ model whose hard work keeps the household afloat and who from time to time communes with nature in the nude. The book encompasses a 6 month period in which the family undergoes drastic changes–Cassandra’s elder sister Rose may have found a way out of poverty via the age-old method: a rich suitor, the American Simon Cotton.

Cassandra as a narrator is endearingly honest and candid–sometimes poetic, sometimes practical. She speaks with absolute, unjaded sincerity. The story that emerges is so fresh and captivating in part because she comes to the page with her emotion and excitement still glowing from whatever event has just transpired. It’s impossible not to get wrapped up in her story, her emotions, her fantasies, and her disappointments.

Cassandra experiences confusing feelings towards the different men in her life: her father as a failed artist, their young hired hand who has the looks of a Greek god, Simon Cotton even as he woos her sister–and as she gradually shakes off her childhood, she starts learning what she wants out of life.

I can’t resist giving you a taste of the writing, so here’s a small excerpt–after falling into the tempestuous clutches of young love, Cassandra ponders “Surely it isn’t normal for anyone so miserably in love to eat and sleep so well? Am I a freak? I only know that I am miserable, I am in love, but I raven food and sleep. Another great luxury is letting myself cry–I always feel marvellously peaceful after that. But it is difficult to arrange times for it, as my face takes so long to recover; it isn’t safe in the mornings if I am to look normal when I meet father at lunch, and the afternoons are no better, as Thomas is home by five. It would be all right in bed at night but such a waste, as that is my happiest time.”

Everyone should read this book. And for your added enlightenment, if I’m reading this correctly on the ‘other books by Dodie Smith’ page, this author also wrote “The Hundred and One Dalmatians.” What!?!? Perhaps Disney took great liberties with the story? Anyway, this enchanting book is seriously not to be missed.

I’m addicted to book-a-hol

At one point in my compulsive reading I had reached the end of my ‘books to read’ list. So I freaked out, tore my garments, and frantically danced the polka. Then I realized that dancing the polka was accomplishing nothing, so I changed tactics and did a google search for a list of Booker prize-winning novels: Iris Murdoch’s “The Sea, the Sea” was among them. Sign me up! I cried, and 2 weeks later the book was ready for pickup at my local library branch.

The book starts out as a series of writings and sketches by Charles Arrowby, the narrator. He has just retired from a gloriously successful career in theater (as actor, director and playwright) and has bought a small stone house by the sea. He starts writing his thoughts, toys with the idea of writing his memoirs, describes his new house, talks a little about his old friends and lovers. At first, it’s a patchwork of material, like a journal. He talks about the meals he eats of olives, lentils, oats and honey; the refreshing but dangerous swims he takes off the rocky cliffs near his house; the enchantment of the old beveled mirror in his front hall.  This led me to believe that the book was going to be a series of poetic ramblings like “Gift from the Sea,” and I considered tossing it aside in favor of something a little more meaty. However, as the characters (Charles included) start taking on definition and weight, a narrative emerges that drives most of the book forward, with a clear story and themes that cut to the very heart of the human condition.

After reminiscing about his first love, a woman from his teenage years, Charles encounters her completely unexpectedly in town one day. After 40 years she has aged a lot and is no longer beautiful, but Charles muses “If even a dog’s tooth is truly worshiped it glows with light. My love for Hartley was very nearly and end in itself. Twist and turn as she might, whatever happened she could not escape me now.” And old woman married to a potentially tyrannical husband, Charles begins to believe he will be her savior of sorts.

The recurring refrain “Jealousy is born with love, but does not always die with love” echoes throughout his efforts to recover Hartley from her sad marriage. Ironically, in his endeavors Charles behaves very much like the man he hates the most–irrational, angry, jealous, set in his ways, inflexible with those he loves. As a reader however, I couldn’t help but feel a strong affection towards him in spite of his flaws. After seeing all the rabbit trails his thoughts followed and all the convoluted ways he arrived at his frequently wild conclusions, I felt like I could at least understand his sometimes (very) poor decisions.

The copy of the book that I got from the library made the following statement on the cover: “A rich, crowded, magical love story.” Scattered among the down-to-earth descriptions of the anchovies Charles ate for lunch and the emotions he’s feeling towards his ex-lover, there are mysterious and perhaps magical elements that come into play: at one point, Charles sees a sea monster with a writhing dragon-like body rise from the waves. He later wonders if he really saw it or was simply reliving part of his bad LSD trip from decades prior.

As love, disappointment, family, and purity take the center stage as themes, Murdoch grabs your heart and winds it into her story with the power of truly wonderful writing.

Through this novel, you get a vision of the egotism of the human heart, the mental tricks we play to boost our own self-image, and the way we transform the story of our lives by retelling it in different ways. At one point, Charles describes himself as “an aging powerless ex-magician for whom people were sorry” as opposed to the god-like creature he shaped himself to be in previous pages. He seems at last to see in himself what the story has been revealing all along to the reader: “The only fault which I can at all measure is my own. I let loose my own demons, not least the sea serpent of jealousy. But now my brave faith which said ‘Whatever she is like, it is her that I love,’ has failed and gone, and all has faded into triviality and self-regarding indifference; and I know that quietly I belittle her, as almost every human being intentionally belittles every other one.”

As a reader I of course longed for a neat ending, something to tie up the loose ends, but how much better the real ending is–as the narrator says “That is no doubt how the story should end, with the seals and the stars, explanation, resignation, reconciliation, everything picked up into some radiant bland ambiguous higher significance, in calm of mind, all passion spent. However life, unlike art, has an irritating way of bumping and limping on, undoing conversions, casting doubt on solutions, and generally illustrating the impossibility of living happily or virtuously ever after”–I leave it to you to nab this book and take it to its mysterious and uneasy but perfect end.