Yes, it is late for me on New Year's Eve and have I a booklist for you. I have outdone myself. Last year I read 40 books; this year 59. I know most people won't find this list anything more than self-indulgent, but I LOVE looking at booklists when the people take time to briefly encapsulate their thoughts about each given work, so I believe this will be of interest to somebody somewhere.
1. How to Write Like Chekhov - Anton Chekhov
Compiled from his letters, as he talked often of his own work as well as other people's, this is a far cry from the usual teach-yourself-to-write manual, being what the title says, not necessarily how to "sell." I found it interesting, enlightening and proof of Chekhov's wonderful humaneness.
2. A Swiftly Tilting Planet - Madeleine L'engle
Oh, awful. How this woman won a Newbery only a few years earlier... She preaches unrestrainedly, leaves the protagonists with nothing to do, has black villains and pure heroes and can't manage realistic dialogue anymore. I can't understand what happened to her.
3. Glimpse into Terror - Clarissa Ross
Even worse. A gothic novel that is set in "Country Club Heights" where the citizens play golf, dress in the worst the 70s had to offer and gossip about who's dating who. And it is not a satire. Also, the writing is really, truly horrible.
4. Fluke, or I Know Why the Winged Whale Sings - Christopher Moore
Many elements of Monty Python come together in this novel. It starts as an eccentric, slightly science fiction comedy, at times laugh out loud funny. Unfortunately, once it hit full-blown science fiction, it lost steam fast, eventually becoming a chore to read through crassness and idiocy. Oh well. All scenes in our world were really good.
5. Nick Drake: a Biography - Patrick Humphries
Somewhat repetitive in relaying information, and not always staying on the point, but still an achingly sad portrait of a troubled artist who died from a lack of communication. The portrait made me hear his final record in a whole new light.
6. The Journal of John Woolman - John Woolman
Harvard Classics featured this, a pious man far ahead of his time. Before the American Revolution, this Quaker believed slavery to be wrong. His wisdom was profound, his humility almost painful, his prose a dead bore.
7. Testimony - Dmitri Shostakovich
This has stirred controversy as not being a real, unedited work. Who cares? It is still a gut-wrenching vision of the horror of Stalinist Russia, mixed with moments of bleak humor and agonised humanity.
8. Them - Joyce Carol Oates
My mood at the time of reading this was black. I was desperate for distraction and seized on this family saga, a gritty vision of life from the 30s to the 60s in America. Oates' ability to capture the passage of time, and to make her pathetic, noble, flawed, hopeless characters leap off the page are her real talents here. Maybe the timing was just right for me to love this, but I still remember it as a tour de force.
9. Just Kids - Patti Smith
My main drive and inspiration to write comes from this book. Patti Smith was a Bohemian's Bohemian, in the right place at the right time to meet all the right people and be inspired by the Muse. Her poetic memoir, centered in her relationship with Robert Mappelthorpe, remains one of my favorite books of all time.
10. Two Faces of Fear - Julie Wellsley
Cliche gothic, nothing new except gangsters and multiple points of view. One chilling scenario involved the heroine pinned under a beam while rats come investigating, but other than that, very forgettable.
11. Ice - Anna Kavan
Kavan is now forgotten. Ice, once you get past the first few hallucinatory chapters (which don't make much sense), turns into a fascinating vision of coming apocalypse and the attempts of various governments to seize what power and control they can in the meantime, all filtered through the narrator's voice as he tries to locate a young woman he used to know. Good luck finding it. And wish me luck trying to find any more of her work.
12. Fruits of Solitude - William Penn
A wise man, was Mr. Penn. A dry read, but always of interest.
13. Best Tales of the Yukon - Robert W. Service
Service was no poet, but as a storyteller, he excelled. Therefore, the dull poems in this collection are the ones without a character to voice. Sam McGee and Dan McGrew are the famous ones, but there are plenty of other tall tales to satisfy those wishing to look further. Some rather gruesome.
14. More Fruits of Solitude - William Penn
Penn's sequel doesn't work so well. Rather than advice, he mostly sums up ideals, and no man or woman can live up to that.
15. An Afternoon Walk - Dorothy Eden
A real page turner, about a housewife who starts to think herself going insane. Genuinely frightening, thanks to Eden's ability to write.
16. The Tale of Despereaux - Kate DiCamillo
Oy! Where'd the old DiCamillo magic go? My expectations may have been too high, but it actually disturbed me. The rats are ugly, and the perpetrators of evil; most everyone else are foolish in varying degrees. For so much potential, this became a black and white, pedantic mess, and I can't understand how it won a Newbery.
17. The Hunchback of Notre-Dame - Victor Hugo
Nobody can write a better simile, in any language, than Victor Hugo. Don't for a moment think this is some kind of beauty and the beast fable. This is a dark tragedy, mixed with the most bitter irony. Except for a boring chapter functioning as a written map of Paris, it excels. My favorite of this year's classic literature.
18. Bowie in Berlin: a New Career in a New Town - Thomas Jerome Seabrooke
Like the Drake biography, it suffers repetition of facts. The Station to Station/Lodger years in Bowie's life are the most interesting to me, and this simply added to my admiration.
19. Alice's Adventures in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll
Whimsical nonsense that enchanted me from the beginning. Plotless, but who needs one in a book this delightful? Worthy of its reputation.
20. The Silent Boy - Lois Lowry
One of the saddest books I've ever read. In the early twentieth century, empathetic Katy's childhood is recounted, in all the small details that make it seem like true autobiography, including her carefully built friendship with Jacob, the boy of the title, a mute autistic. At the end of the story (it's a very small book) something truly terrible happens, and when I remember the book, it haunts me still.
21. The Dean's Watch - Elizabeth Goudge
How do you classify a novel too much like a fairy tale to be historical fiction and yet with no magic in it to make it fantasy? This marvelous comfort read came upon me purely by accident, saved from a bookshelf in England and brought back for me to marvel at. An exquisite, restorative tale by another near-forgotten novelist...
22. Through the Looking Glass - Lewis Carroll
Better than Alice in Wonderland, partially because of the emergence of plot. And partially because in this story, six months after the previous events, Alice chooses to go back, knows the rules of nonsense (throwing fewer tantrums and making fewer stupid decisions) and seems to have a genuine affection for the characters she meets.
23. Aspects of the Novel - E.M. Forster
Literary criticism, illuminating and witty, very readable and easy to recommend.
24. The Unsuspected - Charlotte Armstrong
My first Charlotte Armstrong, a woman who wrote straight suspense. This book was popular enough to get made into a film with Claude Rains. Lots of twists make it hard to stop reading and featuring a fabulously unorthodox marriage.
25. Sonnets from the Portuguese and Other Poems - Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Liz was a better poet than Robert, that's my opinion. Psychologically profound, with more concerns than just the trials of love (see The Cry of the Children) and an exceptional, clotted vocabulary I can't help but admire.
26. The Phantom Tollbooth - Norton Juster
When you've gone into Carroll withdrawal, this is the book to pick up. More verbal nonsense and delight, though via his decision to give the book a finale, Norton Juster makes a slight error. Alice wakes up in the middle of her showdowns, sparing us any "I've learned my lesson" denouements such as occurs at the end of this book.
27. The Bottle Imp - Robert Louis Stevenson
I shouldn't count this, it's only a solitary short story. A twist on the usual deal with the devil story, set in Hawaii. What more can be said?
28. The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Wilde was an Exhibitionist, which is why I love him. He was always playing himself and showing off. And this flawed mixture of drawing room comedy and Victorian Gothic exhibits fine writing and overwriting, the dull, dull Dorian Gray and the fabulous dandy Lord Henry, who gets all the good lines.
29. The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu - Sax Rohmer
Gasp! The infamous work of racist pulp fiction! Oh come on all ready. This was a hoot. Put a Holmes clone and his sidekick racing about England, frantically trying to guess at Fu Manchu's latest dastardly plot, trying to avert it (usually failing) and racing off to do it again elsewhere. Howling stranglers, poisonous insects and gases, a (sadly inanimate) mummy, opium dens, trademark exotic lady...man, this has it all! Forget about the slanderous "Yellow Peril" and enjoy a pulp classic.
30. The Importance of Being Earnest and Other Plays - Oscar Wilde
More flawed Wilde. Five plays, the hypnotic Salome, painful melodrama A Woman of No Importance, enjoyable Lady Windermere's Fan, too absurd for it's own good title play and best of the lot An Ideal Husband.
31. Wildfire at Midnight - Mary Stewart
Of all the gothic writers after Du Maurier, Stewart has the best reputation. This one is like an early Hitchcock film on paper, unbearably suspenseful, leavened by flickers of humor at the beginning and descriptive scenery on the Isle of Skye. Pointless romance tossed in at the last second, but the suspense was first rate.
32. The True History of the Elephant Man - Michael Howell & Peter Ford
Simply the best work of non-fiction I have ever read. Well written, well researched, showcasing the best and worst aspects of Victorian society and immortalizing the unforgettable, miraculous Joseph Merrick.
33. The Frozen Thames - Helen Humphries
I had a week to use, and picked up this slim post-modern experiment from the library. A vignette is depicted, each time the Thames froze in English history. Helen Humphries is a limited writer (each of the first person narratives sound like the same person - herself) but she does very well within that limitation.
34. A Garden of Earthly Delights - Joyce Carol Oates
Them was part of the thematic Wonderland Quartet. So I read the first book in the set, and it was far more dismal. Oh yes, the family is more diseased American Gothic than anything else, and you plow through Clara Walpole's horrible life and end up at a hopelessly down conclusion. Not as good as Them.
35. Three Men in a Boat - Jerome K. Jerome
Pre-Wodehouse English humour. Three gentlemen take a boat along the river Thames, seeing the sights, getting into a variety of amusing scrapes and the narrator often going off on suppositions, poetic raptures, and old memories. Everything is delightful in this old book.
36. Bohemian Manifesto - Laren Stover
A candyfied Guidebook to Bohemian living. More joke than practical info, but it does feature some great book and music lists and very nice watercolour illustrations by a Parisian called Izak.
37. Apology, Crito, Phaedo - Plato
Apology is a masterpiece, Crito an interesting continuation. Phaedo is too long by half, but features a perfect argument for the soul's immortality and a description of the worlds beyond that reminded me a lot of C.S. Lewis.
38. The Yearling - Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings
Not for children, this lengthy novel about a boy coming of age (polite way of saying he gets his guts ripped out) is pretty damn intense. Lots of animal hunting, lots of natural descriptions of backwoods Florida and much emotion. I can see why it won the Pulitzer that year.
39. The Prophet - Kahlil Gibran
As poetry, this is pure heaven. As philosophical discourse, it falls back on ideals no human could uphold. As spiritual uplift, it weaves a gorgeous spell. But it is as poetry that I see it, first and foremost.
40. My Last Duchess and Other Poems - Robert Browning
Some masterpieces, especially Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came. Amongst his lengthy narratives, most were boring. He wrote too much from the view of egotistical artists, but Fra Lippo Lipi managed very well. I wasn't much impressed overall, sadly.
41. The Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald
Well written, depressing novel about a filthy rich, careless couple who bomb out every life they tangle with and sail serenely on from the wreckage. Why should I care?
42. The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane - Kate DiCamillo
I read this last year, but I had to read it again, and I still think it is DiCamillo's masterpiece.
43. Wise Child - Monica Furlong
A young adult fantasy with an emphasis on the little things in life. A simple, but pleasing story.
44. Women and Fiction - Susan Cahill, editor
An old compilation of women writers. Some brilliant short stories, some with merits of one kind or another and only a few I really didn't like (Stein, Lessing, Paley).
45. We Took to the Woods - Louise Dickinson Rich
A charming memoir from the 40s, written by a lady whose family was living way off the beaten track in rural Maine. A very comfortable read, full of humorous anecdotes.
46. The Castle of Otranto - Horace Walpole
With the overwrought story of an opera and the super fast pace of a comic book, Horace Walpole's original Gothic novel lampooned the genre before it existed. Five chapters long, a quick read with no literary merit whatsoever, but it was good for entertainment.
47. The Ice Maiden - Jean Vicary
Gothic (70s romantic suspense variety) set in northern Europe, and with a better plot than most. Unfortunately, the conclusion to the romantic plot was actually jaw dropping in its sheer lunacy. Other than THAT, it was really good, maybe amongst the best.
48. Wildlife of North America - Thomas A. Lewis
A large coffee table book that attempts to instill admiration for the unique survival tactics of the wildlife we share the planet with. It certainly worked on me.
49. Juniper - Monica Furlong
An excellent complement to Wise Child, functioning as prequel. They could be read in either order. Juniper is a less idealised story of wise woman apprenticeship, but on the other hand has more "adventure" type fantasy. Equally matched with the first book.
50. Vathek - William Beckford
Strange little curio, full of cardboard characters (none of whom are likable) and really nasty moments of "Humor." Also many an exercise in fine writing. If Oscar Wilde didn't read this novel, he should have. It was so bizarre that I can't say I'm sorry I read it, but I do think it was a complete waste of time. Luckily, it was nearly as short as Otranto.
51. Remembrance - Teresa Breslin
In this young adult book, WWI gets a rare treatment. Five young people in Scotland are transformed by their involvement in the conflict. It captures the horrors of the trenches, the changing society back home and a very beautiful love story all at once.
52. War Poems of Siegfried Sassoon - Siegfried Sassooon
Among the three famous war poets, Sassoon was the satirist, the grim ironist to whom the main villains were not the enemy army, but the higher command that prolonged the war without just cause. The collected war poetry shows his shift from idealism to bitterness and shows that, incidentally, he was a very good poet just on a technical level.
53. Wyndspelle - Aola Vandergriff
Overwrought gothic, like a Vincent Price B-flick. Lots of death and gruesomeness, twists and turns. First of a trilogy that I hope to locate the rest of some day.
54. A Touch of Chill - Joan Aiken
This story collection comes in two renditions with different lineups. I bought the British set, and Joan Aiken excels at an unnerving atmosphere. One of my favorite books of short stories.
55. A Dram of Poison - Charlotte Armstrong
During a midlife crisis, a kindly poetry professor smuggles some poison out a lab to kill himself. Hiding it in an olive oil bottle, he misplaces it on the bus and next thing you know, it's a mad chase to find the bus, find the passengers and find that bottle, and engage in philosophical debate on the meaning of life during the driving scenes. You won't find an odder fish among thrillers, I think, but it's pretty darned good.
56. The Golden Sayings of Epictetus - Epictetus
Stoic philosopher in the Harvard Classics, with some interesting things to say. Sometimes dull, but more often thought provoking (that's why I read this stuff, other than the prestige of it) and occasionally pithy.
57. Creatures in an Alphabet - Djuna Barnes
Modernist writer's last work, based on the idea of old children's bestiaries. Her own sophistication removes these simple poems from the realm of children. I've meditated over them for the elegant vocabulary, obscure references and gentle wit.
58. Strong Poison - Dorothy L. Sayers
First Sayers novel I've read, in which amateur sleuth Peter Wimsey falls in love at first sight with accused murderess Harriet Vane. Very linear mystery, easy to see where it's going. Where Sayers excels is her depiction of all levels of society. This one has interviews with the gentiles, upper and lower working class and Bohemians. It's also witty, but it's not much of a mystery.
59. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time - Mark Haddon
Final book of 2010, finished today, incidentally. Deservedly celebrated narrative from an autistic 15 year old boy. Easy to read, yet very postmodern, bleakly funny, hopeful and very sad.
If you are still here, I am amazed and I honor you. That is my reading list of 2010. It's past midnight, lord help me. Happy New Year. I'll start it by going to bed.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Monday, December 27, 2010
Christmas
And what did I do?
You see, I'm far too exhausted to consider reviewing a CD this Monday, so I've come to this neglected blog site, instead.
Christmas is first of all, about food. Let's just face facts. Holidays always fell in winter, traditionally, to follow the harvest and use up surplus. Obviously, if you had no surplus, the harvest was bad and the holidays would be consequently thin. If you can afford to celebrate, then you already have just cause, and if you can't afford it, you don't.
Food: I did make cookies. Chocolate, with carob chips (which work far better than you'd think). We had homemade hummus in tortilla wraps for Christmas Eve, and then the rich food came out for the next day. Raisin Pie, with lots of sour cream (I made that) and a Shepherd's Pie with homemade seitan (my mother made that). We also helped ourselves to eggnog, and I have to admit it was store bought.
Do I come across as a food snob?
The family sat down on Christmas Eve to watch Reginald Owen's take on Scrooge. Highly inept, deserves to be forgotten. He made Scrooge so angry I expected him to have a coronary on the spot. A prototype Glinda the Good appeared as the ghost of Christmas Past (which so outraged me I expected to have a coronary). Marley's ghost was somnambulant, the sentiment tipped over into treacle, and there were various scenes of snowball fighting and sliding on ice for some physical comedy.
We put it all to rights the next day with Alastair Sim's masterpiece. Sim played Scrooge as a man who'd ceased to care, and believed Christmas to be simply one more attempt made by people to hoodwink him. Yet he made the man likable simply by giving him a droll sense of humour. Unlike Owen, there's no snap your fingers and he's better. Scrooge in this film fights it all the way. Christmas Past might remind him of things he put away, make him repent and regret his losses, but he persists in the defeatist idea that he's "too old" to change his ways. So when he makes so astonishing a change at the end (one that must be seen to be believed) it is not overdone, partially because Sim can put a damper on the pure joy Scrooge is feeling, and partially because laughter is, as Dickens said in the story, catching.
Two favorite moments: Scrooge tipping back into self-loathing for a moment "I have no right to be this happy," and then the laughter coming out again as he says that he just can't help it... And the scene in his nephew's hallway with the maid who says not a word. That wordless moment cannot be explained as such, it has to be seen.
So, it's not Christmas in this house without that film.
But the miracle of the day was the weather. Warm enough to walk outside without gloves or hat, yet not melting. Snowing gently in big, feathery flakes, with only a mild breeze and coating everything from the tree limbs to the thistle heads. The sun even turned out, behind such layers of clouds that you could look right at it without being blinded, yet not so many as to obscure it. The sun looked like the moon when full, while still giving all the light it had. And not a car on the road, not an interruption to this tranquil scene, because all the neighbours had gone elsewhere for the day. Fresh snow on the ground, yet unploughed, the only company in my faithful dog, the horses and cattle in the pastures yonder....
Since nothing could top that, Christmas was over when I walked back indoors. And after a Boxing Day spent feasting on leftovers, it is now back to business as usual. Literally one day, one day to put off cynicism and conversations about politics and what Obama's done to the country, and how horrid all your relatives are, and did you hear about the Johnson's getting busted for drugs and all the other usual topics. It seems a shame.
Well, that was my Christmas. It was good, yet now it's passed by. I hope everyone reading this felt a similar sense of peaceful joy that day. Or at least had a good day. Believe you me, Christmas can go horribly wrong, and it pays to be thankful for the years when it goes right.
All's well that end's well.
You see, I'm far too exhausted to consider reviewing a CD this Monday, so I've come to this neglected blog site, instead.
Christmas is first of all, about food. Let's just face facts. Holidays always fell in winter, traditionally, to follow the harvest and use up surplus. Obviously, if you had no surplus, the harvest was bad and the holidays would be consequently thin. If you can afford to celebrate, then you already have just cause, and if you can't afford it, you don't.
Food: I did make cookies. Chocolate, with carob chips (which work far better than you'd think). We had homemade hummus in tortilla wraps for Christmas Eve, and then the rich food came out for the next day. Raisin Pie, with lots of sour cream (I made that) and a Shepherd's Pie with homemade seitan (my mother made that). We also helped ourselves to eggnog, and I have to admit it was store bought.
Do I come across as a food snob?
The family sat down on Christmas Eve to watch Reginald Owen's take on Scrooge. Highly inept, deserves to be forgotten. He made Scrooge so angry I expected him to have a coronary on the spot. A prototype Glinda the Good appeared as the ghost of Christmas Past (which so outraged me I expected to have a coronary). Marley's ghost was somnambulant, the sentiment tipped over into treacle, and there were various scenes of snowball fighting and sliding on ice for some physical comedy.
We put it all to rights the next day with Alastair Sim's masterpiece. Sim played Scrooge as a man who'd ceased to care, and believed Christmas to be simply one more attempt made by people to hoodwink him. Yet he made the man likable simply by giving him a droll sense of humour. Unlike Owen, there's no snap your fingers and he's better. Scrooge in this film fights it all the way. Christmas Past might remind him of things he put away, make him repent and regret his losses, but he persists in the defeatist idea that he's "too old" to change his ways. So when he makes so astonishing a change at the end (one that must be seen to be believed) it is not overdone, partially because Sim can put a damper on the pure joy Scrooge is feeling, and partially because laughter is, as Dickens said in the story, catching.
Two favorite moments: Scrooge tipping back into self-loathing for a moment "I have no right to be this happy," and then the laughter coming out again as he says that he just can't help it... And the scene in his nephew's hallway with the maid who says not a word. That wordless moment cannot be explained as such, it has to be seen.
So, it's not Christmas in this house without that film.
But the miracle of the day was the weather. Warm enough to walk outside without gloves or hat, yet not melting. Snowing gently in big, feathery flakes, with only a mild breeze and coating everything from the tree limbs to the thistle heads. The sun even turned out, behind such layers of clouds that you could look right at it without being blinded, yet not so many as to obscure it. The sun looked like the moon when full, while still giving all the light it had. And not a car on the road, not an interruption to this tranquil scene, because all the neighbours had gone elsewhere for the day. Fresh snow on the ground, yet unploughed, the only company in my faithful dog, the horses and cattle in the pastures yonder....
Since nothing could top that, Christmas was over when I walked back indoors. And after a Boxing Day spent feasting on leftovers, it is now back to business as usual. Literally one day, one day to put off cynicism and conversations about politics and what Obama's done to the country, and how horrid all your relatives are, and did you hear about the Johnson's getting busted for drugs and all the other usual topics. It seems a shame.
Well, that was my Christmas. It was good, yet now it's passed by. I hope everyone reading this felt a similar sense of peaceful joy that day. Or at least had a good day. Believe you me, Christmas can go horribly wrong, and it pays to be thankful for the years when it goes right.
All's well that end's well.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Meditations on the passage of time...
I have finally seen my first film for the new year. 2008's The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, which got thirteen Oscar nominations, and has divided opinions... As usual, some love it, some hate it. I'm in between.
It's a loose adaptation of F. Scott Fitzgerald's short story. Three hours long, and leisurely. It doesn't make you sit up and take notice with the opening shot, rather it slowly draws you in, if you've got time and patience.
The story is bracketed by two women, elderly Daisy (Cate Blanchett) and her daughter Caroline (Julia Ormond), who's with her on her deathbed in New Orleans as Hurricane Katrina closes in. Daisy insists her daughter read a journal, the life story of Benjamin Button (Brad Pitt), a man who was born old and aged backwards.
First, the setting and cinematography, the style and effects used to age the characters, are all stunning. Visually the film is a lovely watch. The script, especially in the early part of the film, has many a strong line and the characters, again in the early part, are very compelling.
It starts as magic realism of a sort. Nobody treats Benjamin like he's truly abnormal. Outside of his adopted family, I'm not sure anybody else even cottons on to his "case." It added a dreamlike, surreal quality to the work, which I quite liked.
However, in the long run, no amount of artistic tones will endear me to films that run off course down the road, and that is exactly what I feel happened here.
When Benjamin is a boy, growing up in a nursing home, there's a sense of love and sorrow all mixed up. There's a contrast between the little girl Daisy and the elderly people he'd known until then. Characters come and go, and all are dynamic creations, from Queenie to the sea captain. Elisabeth (Tilda Swinton) being the standout. I don't know why, but her romance with Benjamin completely overshadowed his later one with Daisy. Perhaps it was because they really seemed to listen to each other (or at least, we got to see them talk). Perhaps because neither was as drop-dead gorgeous as the later paring. Or maybe just because I prefer Murmansk to whatever warm place he and Daisy hung out at.
The problems come after the moving sea battle. At this point, all the previous characters are gone, or relegated to bit players. It's all about Ben and Daisy now. Their relationship, after various starts and stops, finally smoothes out into an ideal. Love on both sides. Then Daisy reveals she's going to have a baby. And the cracks start to appear...
Here be SPOILERS
It is at this point that I found the story turned soulless, and I lost my enjoyment of the tale. Instead of anything admirable, Brad Pitt (who I stopped thinking of as Benjamin here, because he just looked too much like himself) turns tail and runs. Instead of accepting his disability and the fact that we all grow old and die, instead of staying with a woman who loves him that much and helping to raise his daughter, cherishing that which is so dear to him, he just ups and walks away. Then he bellyaches about how he wished he could have been there for Caroline, as if something prevented that other than his own choice.
In the end, overviewing the film, I can't like Benjamin very much. He seemed emotionally stunted, especially given the film's coda, where he sums up everyone he's known in one line: "artist, Shakespeare buff, mother, dancer, swimmer, etc." That just seemed unforegivably cold of him. You can't sum a dear person up in one line! One word! People are more than their main interest. I hope when I die, someone will think of me as more than a "reader."
He was always a very reserved main character. But in this last chapter, he seemed, and the script seemed, to lose so much of what feeling they'd previously had. And it being so long, so much time being invested, I just felt cheated by how it chose to conclude.
Perhaps I wasn't in the mood. Perhaps rewatching it would make me appreciate it more fully. I don't know. I found it depressing. And not in a cathartic way. I'm not sorry I watched it, but my opinion of it is decidely mixed. The title of this post is what I identified as the main theme of the work. They shouldn't have billed it as a romance, really. That's the trouble. But the billing sells better. Oh well.
It's a loose adaptation of F. Scott Fitzgerald's short story. Three hours long, and leisurely. It doesn't make you sit up and take notice with the opening shot, rather it slowly draws you in, if you've got time and patience.
The story is bracketed by two women, elderly Daisy (Cate Blanchett) and her daughter Caroline (Julia Ormond), who's with her on her deathbed in New Orleans as Hurricane Katrina closes in. Daisy insists her daughter read a journal, the life story of Benjamin Button (Brad Pitt), a man who was born old and aged backwards.
First, the setting and cinematography, the style and effects used to age the characters, are all stunning. Visually the film is a lovely watch. The script, especially in the early part of the film, has many a strong line and the characters, again in the early part, are very compelling.
It starts as magic realism of a sort. Nobody treats Benjamin like he's truly abnormal. Outside of his adopted family, I'm not sure anybody else even cottons on to his "case." It added a dreamlike, surreal quality to the work, which I quite liked.
However, in the long run, no amount of artistic tones will endear me to films that run off course down the road, and that is exactly what I feel happened here.
When Benjamin is a boy, growing up in a nursing home, there's a sense of love and sorrow all mixed up. There's a contrast between the little girl Daisy and the elderly people he'd known until then. Characters come and go, and all are dynamic creations, from Queenie to the sea captain. Elisabeth (Tilda Swinton) being the standout. I don't know why, but her romance with Benjamin completely overshadowed his later one with Daisy. Perhaps it was because they really seemed to listen to each other (or at least, we got to see them talk). Perhaps because neither was as drop-dead gorgeous as the later paring. Or maybe just because I prefer Murmansk to whatever warm place he and Daisy hung out at.
The problems come after the moving sea battle. At this point, all the previous characters are gone, or relegated to bit players. It's all about Ben and Daisy now. Their relationship, after various starts and stops, finally smoothes out into an ideal. Love on both sides. Then Daisy reveals she's going to have a baby. And the cracks start to appear...
Here be SPOILERS
It is at this point that I found the story turned soulless, and I lost my enjoyment of the tale. Instead of anything admirable, Brad Pitt (who I stopped thinking of as Benjamin here, because he just looked too much like himself) turns tail and runs. Instead of accepting his disability and the fact that we all grow old and die, instead of staying with a woman who loves him that much and helping to raise his daughter, cherishing that which is so dear to him, he just ups and walks away. Then he bellyaches about how he wished he could have been there for Caroline, as if something prevented that other than his own choice.
In the end, overviewing the film, I can't like Benjamin very much. He seemed emotionally stunted, especially given the film's coda, where he sums up everyone he's known in one line: "artist, Shakespeare buff, mother, dancer, swimmer, etc." That just seemed unforegivably cold of him. You can't sum a dear person up in one line! One word! People are more than their main interest. I hope when I die, someone will think of me as more than a "reader."
He was always a very reserved main character. But in this last chapter, he seemed, and the script seemed, to lose so much of what feeling they'd previously had. And it being so long, so much time being invested, I just felt cheated by how it chose to conclude.
Perhaps I wasn't in the mood. Perhaps rewatching it would make me appreciate it more fully. I don't know. I found it depressing. And not in a cathartic way. I'm not sorry I watched it, but my opinion of it is decidely mixed. The title of this post is what I identified as the main theme of the work. They shouldn't have billed it as a romance, really. That's the trouble. But the billing sells better. Oh well.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
A new short story
Heads up, everybody. I've a new short story on the lookout for an opinion, and better still, Blogger took it without protest. I'm sorry to the fans of my fantasy short story, The Apprenticeship of Lady Death, but this is not the sequel. The sequel requires me to be in the right frame of mind for a certain amount of humour.
It isn't a fantasy at all. It's a slice of life. I'm not too pleased with the scene setter, but after that (which was written way back in early summer), all the writing is more recent and I'm immensely pleased with the finished product. My apologies for any mistakes I make in English living or behaviour.
Tell me what effect it has on you, please. If any.
Gwendolen
There was a woman on the street corner, all alone under the orange glare of the lamps. She held a cell phone tightly in her right hand, and a large, cumbersome traveling bag in her left. The faint murmur of the river was audible. By day, that detestable sound was masked by street life, and she hated late summer nights, when it could creep indoors and mock her.
But tonight would be the last time... She was finally escaping it. She flipped open her cell and read the most recent text message she had.
"Gwen,'' it said. "Call came thru. New job. Leave Wed. Meet 2:30 on the corner. Luv U. Tom."
She shifted uncomfortably and unwillingly looked at her watch. 3:48AM it declared. Gwen was finding it difficult to breathe. He was sometimes late to their meetings. But he always came. Always.
She picked up her bag and pocketed the cell. But she stood a moment longer, wanting in the worst way to hear an approaching car. Dying for it. She could live anywhere, do anything, as long as Tom was coming for her.
But no sound disturbed the river. He wouldn't come. All for naught, she thought in a daze. And head spinning with exhaustion, Gwen stumbled back the way she had come.
********____________________********
In the kitchen, she took the note she'd left on the fridge and shoved it to the bottom of the wastepaper basket.
In the living room, she put her cell on the coffee table - its usual place.
In the bathroom she stared at herself in the mirror. By common standards, she was an unremarkable woman. Short and a bit plump, with dishwater blonde hair in a ponytail. Her eyes were hazel, fine enough. But she was a colorless individual. She wondered what Tom had seen in her, even for a short while. And wondered if he was laughing at her yet.
She put her bag in the walk-in closet down the hall. She'd unpack later.
Then Gwen crept into the bedroom. Roger was a heavy sleeper, quite unlike her. She envied him that talent. She only stayed long enough to grab her wedding ring from the dresser, and then she returned to the living room.
Gwen deleted all of Tom's text messages and his phone number before settling on the couch and attempting to get some rest. But instead she found herself staring into the dark, too tired to prevent her mind from wandering…
********____________________********
At fourteen, she'd looked about the same. She'd sat in the schoolroom of her father's large Thames-side house, a dejected figure.
"No. No. This one's right... Almost, but still a poor attempt. Wrong and wrong again. Can't you read? Or are you unable to grasp a simple concept? No... No. No. NO!" Here her father crumpled her Latin test paper and dashed it aside. "Why the devil can't you learn this? Can it be I've raised an imbecile? You never try. I feel I've put more effort into your education than you have. You must realise it is your best hope of leading a decent, uncommon life..." Here he paused. "Look at me when I speak to you, please."
Gwendolen jerked her head up automatically. "Now," he said, "how old are you again?"
"Fourteen, Sir," she whispered.
"Fourteen... With this record, you'll never reach Oxford. You'll have the privilege of being the first Weydon-Smith to be considered an academic failure. Thank God you'll marry... But you damage yourself as well, girl. What prospects exist for a common dunce? Don't presume to rely on my generosity; I've spent it all defying my friends’ advice about you. I spared the rod, and kept you home from a banal world. Had I known what a disappointment you'd be, I would have sent you to boarding school; let them waste their time educating your thick, ungrateful head. I can only be glad I saved my money."
She leapt from her chair in anger and humiliation. "Stop saying I'm stupid. I'm not! You know I'm not!"
He looked pleased at her show of pride, but only said "then prove it. Do this again," and he pointed at her desk, "and come down to supper when it's completed. Try to correct those mistakes." He made to quit the room and she started to cry at the thought of the futile hours ahead. He halted in the door.
"Only fourteen and you've already learned the art of feminine hysterics. Well I'm glad you're capable of learning something."
"You probably wish I'd been a boy!" she shouted.
"Gwendolen, don't be a fool. You make a wretched girl, but as a boy you'd fare even worse." Her father chuckled at his words and shut the door as he left.
********____________________********
"My parents say there's so much violence in London these days. You're lucky not to be in public school, Gwen," said Pamela seriously. "Only a week ago, those two boys got into a knife fight, and now, there's like, been all these drug busts, so they say... And we all got searched this morning, so my Dad says, it's time to quit school and move, so they've been sizing up these little towns with lower crime rates, you know? So I might," she gave a happy skip on the sidewalk while Gwen stared at her in disbelief, "I might, just might be in Cheddar or Swindon or Gloucester... You know, they're gonna get someplace a little more community based, a bit countryish. I'll write anyway. Shame your Dad's such a freak against technology, 'cause my handwriting sucks..."
And indeed it did. Gwen struggled to answer her friend's letters, but there was precious little to say. Their contact became sporadic, and it was a relief when it stopped altogether.
********____________________********
"Father?" Gwen asked at dinner one summer night.
"Yes?" As usual, he was reading and eating at once. He set aside Goethe's Faust in German, and spared her a glance for the first time since meal began.
"I...well, I'd like to travel. Why don't we ever leave Riverside?"
The question bored him and he returned his gaze to his plate. "Why should we? There's no pressing need, is there? I've already seen the world; it's a tiring place. Oxford, Glastonbury... Europe. And Cambridge. My friends are here, my house is my home, I have my books and studies... You're just restless. It will pass. Don't dwell on it. Sixteen is too young to be out there on your own anyway."
That was the end of the conversation.
********____________________********
Gwen met Roger in a pub. Her father disapproved of pubs. ("I'm a sober man and always have been," he said when she first asked his permission. "But do what you like, Gwendolen. I can't stop you, but I can pray I taught you common sense, at least.") So she was there to notice him, thanks to his flat accent. He smiled when she asked about it.
"Mum's an American," he explained. "I picked up a lot of her accent. I'm Roger Black," he offered his hand," I'm new to the area. You?"
"Gwendolen Weydon-Smith. So what do you think of the Riverside?"
"Oh yeah, well it's great, isn't it? Charmed to be here."
Gwen looked politely disbelieving and changed the topic to where he'd come from. And from there to his hobbies...
"Oh, I'm not much of a reader. Really. I'm a film sort, as it were. Ever seen Kind Hearts and Coronets?"
"No... You probably won't believe this, but I don't have a television. Or a computer."
A pause, then, "well that's alright. You've just saved the best part of your education for last."
********____________________********
Though Roger's list of associates soon branched out, he retained a simple affection for Gwen and they often had lunch together. He introduced her to electronics. She regaled him with stories of her upbringing and education, which he found wonderfully funny and eccentric. "If I'd known how well read you are," he said absently, "I'd have been far too intimidated to say a word when we met."
Gwen was taken aback. "My father always thought me a hopeless learner."
"Well, he must have set his standards far too high. Compared to me and my kind, you're like an Oxford don. What, are you ashamed of that?" for she had just cringed. She shook her head and he continued. "By the way, when do I get to have dinner at your place? It sounds like quite a show, like dining with royalty almost."
"Don't you find that off-putting?"
"Should I?"
"Yes."
"Not intellectual enough for the old man, am I? Well then, what do you say if I take you out to dinner instead?"
********____________________********
The doorbell rang. Gwendolen froze in the act of brushing her teeth. She could hear her father going to answer it. Roger was early.
By the time she got downstairs, her father and her date were squared off in the hall. Roger was looking extremely flustered. Her father turned to her with disdain. "Gwendolen. Is this young specimen taking you out to dinner?"
"Yes, Sir." She didn't look at either of them. In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought. "And a film."
"Have you been out with him before?"
"Yes."
He nodded. "Please excuse us," he said to Roger. She followed him to his study and shut the door. "Be seated, please." She sat down across from him and waited for his lecture. He remained standing.
"I trust you're keeping an eye on your reputation, Gwendolen. Frankly, I'm disappointed. Pubs... Handsome, witless young men... I should have anticipated it, of course. But I hoped you'd have the taste to choose a deserving set of in-laws..."
"Do you think intelligence is better than integrity, Father?"
He almost smiled. "Good rejoinder. I take it he has been looking out for your reputation then, even if you haven't. Will you be marrying him?"
She nodded. "If he asks me."
He sat down and predictably reached for a book. "May I enquire ... Is Mr. Black a traveling man?"
Gwen stared at him, opened her mouth to speak, to voice fury at his audacity... and said, "he's not from London, no. But if you dare presume that I'd marry him for...and to get away... It's not important..."
Her father appeared quite immersed in Pliny, but as he turned a page he said, "please do us a favor, and don't lie, girl. You'd marry him in a second if it let you leave this house. You want him to rescue you, save you from the mundane. But he can't rescue you from what's going on in your head, Gwendolen. That's not on his list of priorities, I'd stake my life on it. By all means go marry him, move away, see the sights, have a kid. Live as you please once you're Gwendolen Black. You have my blessing. But don't hold false expectations. He isn't waiting with bated breath to cart you off to Rome, God knows.
"You've been more cheerful recently; I suppose he's the reason... You're dismissed, Gwen. Go enjoy yourself."
She dashed away, leaving him without a goodbye.
********____________________********
They were married in November. The church service was small, dressed down and dour. Which was unsurprising, Gwen thought, being as the priest, Father Henry, was a friend of her father's. The Black family, and numerous friends had all turned up for Roger. On her side, there was only her father, he being her only living relation. After giving her away, he spent the remainder of the wedding party aloof, calming ignoring his in-laws. Gwen did her best to make up for his reticence, but it hurt her nonetheless, and she let him know.
"Well you needn’t look at me like a whipped dog, Gwendolen," he said. "No man can change his nature." They spoke in low voices so as not to be overheard. "Still," he added, helping himself to a tray of black olives, "I suppose this can be considered your fifteen minutes of fame. You're everybody's darling today, it appears. I'll make an effort." He smiled, with a note of apology, or so it seemed to her, and drifted off into the crowd.
Roger and his older brother Percy came up to her. "Hello love," said her husband. "I was wondering where you got off to. Is the old man bothering you?" he added, following her gaze. "Gwen?"
She shook her head as if to clear it, and walked away without answering. She could hear Percy say to him, "I'll be straight with you, Roddy... You're going to make an odd couple, that you are. I wish you luck."
Roger made no reply. Not everybody's darling, Father, she thought.
********____________________********
Following the excellent dinner party there were speeches from seemingly every member of the Black family. These ranged from Amanda Black, the American mother, bursting into tears and saying this was the happiest day of the year for her; to Percy leading them in an ambiguous toast. "To health, wealth and happiness," he said coolly. Roger's cousin Olivia, a twice over divorcee, was the only Black who said nothing; though she stood up frequently to use her camera.
The last speech came from Roger's friend Neil Buchan, the by then tipsy best man. "I'm sure we all wish them happy days and happier nights, from here to eternity, forever and ever... and ever and ever... And may they be blessed with a wide circle of friends, good health and a better job. May my good friend Roger, and his charming, well-to-do wife, live and prosper. And may we all remember this day as one of the happiest this year has bestowed. Amen."
There was applause from everyone as he sat down. Then he turned his beaming face to Gwen's father, who had joined in the clapping with less and less enthusiasm, and said jovially "there now, we've all had our turn. You ought to have yours. Up you get now, and have your speech. If it's longer than Livvy's, you're a hero!" Olivia rolled her eyes as the others laughed. Gwen's mouth was suddenly dry.
Her father stood up and said without preamble, "I think we can all safely attest that this would have been a happier day for us had my wife been here to see it. But as it is," he gave Gwen a pained glance, "I must make do. I assure you all I will never forget this day as long as I live." He raised his wine glass, untouched till then, and said, "to Gwendolen." He downed the glass, grimaced at the flavor and returned to his chair as if nothing had happened.
********____________________********
Roger rented a larger flat to take in his wife. Though she was chagrined to still be in London, Gwen resolved to make the best of it for the short term. New possibilities were now open to her. She got a job, learned to drive and had been given admission to a fully modernized world. With all these changes made, her restlessness evaporated as if it had never been. She and Roger spent Christmas with his family in St. Ives.
"Oh to hell with London," she said, only half-jokingly, on their last night. "Why not forget the rat pack and just stay here? It's so much nicer."
Roger didn't stop packing. "Pleasant for you, but impractical. One mustn't forget, love, that I grew up here. Returning is hardly an option at this point. Besides, all our friends are in London..."
"Couldn't we move somewhere else?"
"Most likely, but why? I thought we were doing rather well."
"Because it... it bores me, is all."
He left off packing and came to sit beside her on the bed. "I think I see the problem, Gwen. But try to look at it logically. Traveling is expensive. Moving is expensive. What we need is to be practical, even stringent. So far, I'd say we've been very lucky. Two decent jobs, a flat that's not too grotty, and good neighbours all around us. We're doing great. You don't like London, alright, but that's no reason to lose your head. I can't guarantee we'll move this year or the next... But we'll make it our long-term plan, alright?" He smiled at her with such sympathy that she had to look away.
"Yes Roger. I understand."
********____________________********
So life continued in much the same way. They got another flat, closer to the Thames, and then they had a baby - which led to another problem.
"What, do you mean you aren't even going to tell him she exists?" said Roger, not seeming to understand what a simple thing she was asking. "Gwen, for God's sake, I know you weren't close, but he's your father. He'd want to know."
"I will not have my daughter judged and found wanting by that spiteful old man," she said quietly. "Jessica has your entire family for relatives; she certainly doesn't need a grandfather. Besides," she added suddenly, "she's been born to a pair of dunces, and doesn't even have the honour of Weydon-Smith as a surname."
"My God... Gwen, he's not going to disown his only grandchild..."
"Why not? He disowned me fast enough." She left her chair and grabbed her car keys. "I'm going out."
He beat her to the doorway. "No you're not."
"I don't want to have this conversation, Roger. Let me go!"
"You're upset. I'll not have you navigating London traffic in this state."
"I am not in a state!"
Jessica began to cry and Gwendolen matched it with her own petty tears. Roger hugged her briefly, "alright, we'll say no more about it," and then went to take care of his daughter.
Gwen sank back into her chair, and closing her eyes, wished that it would all just go away.
********____________________********
She started spending her time with Tom Carey, a man who made his living doing European photography for calendars. He clearly had a great enthusiasm for the job.
"I'm trying to convince Mick (he's my boss you know) to do a calendar of little known places. You know, everybody and his brother photographs London, Big Ben, the Changing of the Guard, Stonehenge and Parliament - that's all one gets if you want England. A tour guide of monuments! It bores the pants off me, if you want the truth. How you Londoners bear it, I'll never know. No, what I want is to find the prettiest little towns in England, the dribs and drabs nobody really sees. Give the public something different, and hope the intrepid ones follow your footsteps and discover all those beautiful, forgotten places... So I'm pressing really hard for this, and hopefully he'll get so sick of listening to me, he'll cave in just to shut me up."
"Does that work?"
"Well it has before. I've gotta run though. Deadlines are approaching and I'm gonna have to be out on the Moors soon. If the weather doesn't cooperate I'll have to shoot the whole damn thing in black and white. It's got to look evocative, but not rainy. Needs to have really amazing cloud structures too. So says Mick. He's a real perfectionist, drives everybody mad, no one more so than himself. I could tell you some stories sometime..." He shoved his arms into his raincoat, tipped the barman and went out into the rain without a goodbye. Gwen watched him go with a blissful smile on her face.
********____________________********
Roger shook her shoulder gently. "Gwen? Gwen, wake up. There's shopping this morning, remember?"
Gwen opened her eyes and sat up. Where was she? She shook her head and brushed her hair away from her face. She'd been leaving... last night with Tom, she was going to leave the Riverside... She looked at her wedding ring and blushed with anger and shame. "I'll get cleaned up," she said. "You want to be going by 9:30?"
He nodded, and she went swiftly away.
When she came to the kitchen, Roger already had breakfast halfway to the plate. He pulled out a chair for her, then went to pour Jessica's cereal for her. "What do you say?" he asked in singsong.
"Thank you, Papa," she replied.
"See, that wasn't so hard," he said, ruffling up her black hair. Gwen smiled a bit, and a minute later the bacon and eggs were done.
"Heads or tails?" she asked when the meal was over.
"Oh, I think I'd like tails this time. It's been a while. Unless you want it?"
"No, I'm fine with heads."
So Gwen took the car keys and Roger got in the backseat with Jessica and they set off to get groceries. A steady stream of chatter and nonsense came from the backseat, and Gwen began to feel a little bit lighter. It was a warm, sunny day and traffic wasn't too gruesome. While carrying the groceries, Roger got the trunk for her. They found the speaker set they were looking for, and got a good deal on it without much fuss. Jessica behaved very nicely in public, so they took her to the nearest pet shop and let her look at the hamsters for a while. When all the errands were over, it was getting toward lunchtime.
"So are you feeling better?" asked Roger cautiously in a spare moment.
She was alarmed. "What do you mean?"
"You seemed very down and out this morning. Was the Thames bothering you again?"
She didn't answer for a moment. "The Thames always bothers me," she managed. "It's been a beautiful morning, Roger. Let's go home now."
They got in the car. Thank you, she thought. Thank you, Roger. I didn't deserve it. You don't know what I've done. You just don't know. Oh God, what have I done?
And she wanted to turn around right now and tell him, confess everything, watch him forgive her, and earn redemption. But she started the car instead. He wouldn't listen, wouldn't believe. I didn't want to leave you, she thought. It wasn't you and Jessica, it's the River and this whole damn city. I was going to leave and never come back...
She knew this street, had been shopping here ever since she'd married Roger five years ago. She knew what she'd hear if she rolled down the windows, knew all the sights, even fancied she knew all the people she could see. She longed for the countryside, longed to move away and raise her daughter in a better environment than this. But they never did get it all planned out, all the funds mapped out... It had been talk and plans and New Year's Resolutions and wishful thinking.
Gwen realised there was silence from the backseat. Roger was tired, she thought. And Jessica all talked out for once. She switched on the radio, eager to hear something other than her thoughts. A woman's voice filled the car, crying out how brokenhearted she was, how her man had gone and left her, and the forecast was nothing but rain... It was a soul station, playing something morose as usual.
I'm sorry, so, so sorry Roger. I love you. I never meant it to turn out this way. Forgive me, please. But how could he? How could he forgive her something he didn't know about? It would devastate him to learn what she'd done. Destroy the family, and trust would never be there again. Gwen's eyes were blurring, she couldn't find the button to turn off the music. She slowed down and waited for her sight to clear.
Then she sped up. A guilty conscience forever, she thought dismally. I'll never have what I really want. I thought I'd be gone this morning, far, far away and never looking back. Tom promised me...
"Gwen, slow down. This isn't a race," Roger protested from the back.
He never promised anything. It was me making all the promises. I was Grotesque. No wonder he left me. I never deserved him. And never, ever deserved Roger. What did I do wrong? How'd I get here?
The car was noticeably accelerating. Gwen paid it no heed. She ran through all of last night's memories again. I wish I'd gone to Oxford, she thought.
She remembered what he said, "this would have been a happier day for us had my wife been here..." Her mother, Maria Weydon-Smith. She had been an excellent driver; never got a speeding ticket, or even so much as a parking fine. She'd treated cars like rolling bombs. But she'd died in one anyway, stove in by another driver, one who wasn't so careful... But Maria had left her husband and daughter at home, not in the backseat...
It might have been better for us if we'd been with her.
She took her foot off the gas pedal, shuddered and took a breath, then hit the break. A police car pulled up next to them. Gwen rolled down the window and made her apologies. The policeman gave her a ticket, lectured her in a polite way, made sure she understood how out of line she was. Gwen continued to apologise profusely, assuring him it would never happen again. Satisfied, he went back to his vehicle and continued on the rounds.
Unwillingly, she turned to look at her husband. Roger's face was pale, his knuckles white, his eyes aghast. She made a decision, took the keys out and unbuckled. "You drive."
FINIS
It isn't a fantasy at all. It's a slice of life. I'm not too pleased with the scene setter, but after that (which was written way back in early summer), all the writing is more recent and I'm immensely pleased with the finished product. My apologies for any mistakes I make in English living or behaviour.
Tell me what effect it has on you, please. If any.
Gwendolen
There was a woman on the street corner, all alone under the orange glare of the lamps. She held a cell phone tightly in her right hand, and a large, cumbersome traveling bag in her left. The faint murmur of the river was audible. By day, that detestable sound was masked by street life, and she hated late summer nights, when it could creep indoors and mock her.
But tonight would be the last time... She was finally escaping it. She flipped open her cell and read the most recent text message she had.
"Gwen,'' it said. "Call came thru. New job. Leave Wed. Meet 2:30 on the corner. Luv U. Tom."
She shifted uncomfortably and unwillingly looked at her watch. 3:48AM it declared. Gwen was finding it difficult to breathe. He was sometimes late to their meetings. But he always came. Always.
She picked up her bag and pocketed the cell. But she stood a moment longer, wanting in the worst way to hear an approaching car. Dying for it. She could live anywhere, do anything, as long as Tom was coming for her.
But no sound disturbed the river. He wouldn't come. All for naught, she thought in a daze. And head spinning with exhaustion, Gwen stumbled back the way she had come.
********____________________********
In the kitchen, she took the note she'd left on the fridge and shoved it to the bottom of the wastepaper basket.
In the living room, she put her cell on the coffee table - its usual place.
In the bathroom she stared at herself in the mirror. By common standards, she was an unremarkable woman. Short and a bit plump, with dishwater blonde hair in a ponytail. Her eyes were hazel, fine enough. But she was a colorless individual. She wondered what Tom had seen in her, even for a short while. And wondered if he was laughing at her yet.
She put her bag in the walk-in closet down the hall. She'd unpack later.
Then Gwen crept into the bedroom. Roger was a heavy sleeper, quite unlike her. She envied him that talent. She only stayed long enough to grab her wedding ring from the dresser, and then she returned to the living room.
Gwen deleted all of Tom's text messages and his phone number before settling on the couch and attempting to get some rest. But instead she found herself staring into the dark, too tired to prevent her mind from wandering…
********____________________********
At fourteen, she'd looked about the same. She'd sat in the schoolroom of her father's large Thames-side house, a dejected figure.
"No. No. This one's right... Almost, but still a poor attempt. Wrong and wrong again. Can't you read? Or are you unable to grasp a simple concept? No... No. No. NO!" Here her father crumpled her Latin test paper and dashed it aside. "Why the devil can't you learn this? Can it be I've raised an imbecile? You never try. I feel I've put more effort into your education than you have. You must realise it is your best hope of leading a decent, uncommon life..." Here he paused. "Look at me when I speak to you, please."
Gwendolen jerked her head up automatically. "Now," he said, "how old are you again?"
"Fourteen, Sir," she whispered.
"Fourteen... With this record, you'll never reach Oxford. You'll have the privilege of being the first Weydon-Smith to be considered an academic failure. Thank God you'll marry... But you damage yourself as well, girl. What prospects exist for a common dunce? Don't presume to rely on my generosity; I've spent it all defying my friends’ advice about you. I spared the rod, and kept you home from a banal world. Had I known what a disappointment you'd be, I would have sent you to boarding school; let them waste their time educating your thick, ungrateful head. I can only be glad I saved my money."
She leapt from her chair in anger and humiliation. "Stop saying I'm stupid. I'm not! You know I'm not!"
He looked pleased at her show of pride, but only said "then prove it. Do this again," and he pointed at her desk, "and come down to supper when it's completed. Try to correct those mistakes." He made to quit the room and she started to cry at the thought of the futile hours ahead. He halted in the door.
"Only fourteen and you've already learned the art of feminine hysterics. Well I'm glad you're capable of learning something."
"You probably wish I'd been a boy!" she shouted.
"Gwendolen, don't be a fool. You make a wretched girl, but as a boy you'd fare even worse." Her father chuckled at his words and shut the door as he left.
********____________________********
"My parents say there's so much violence in London these days. You're lucky not to be in public school, Gwen," said Pamela seriously. "Only a week ago, those two boys got into a knife fight, and now, there's like, been all these drug busts, so they say... And we all got searched this morning, so my Dad says, it's time to quit school and move, so they've been sizing up these little towns with lower crime rates, you know? So I might," she gave a happy skip on the sidewalk while Gwen stared at her in disbelief, "I might, just might be in Cheddar or Swindon or Gloucester... You know, they're gonna get someplace a little more community based, a bit countryish. I'll write anyway. Shame your Dad's such a freak against technology, 'cause my handwriting sucks..."
And indeed it did. Gwen struggled to answer her friend's letters, but there was precious little to say. Their contact became sporadic, and it was a relief when it stopped altogether.
********____________________********
"Father?" Gwen asked at dinner one summer night.
"Yes?" As usual, he was reading and eating at once. He set aside Goethe's Faust in German, and spared her a glance for the first time since meal began.
"I...well, I'd like to travel. Why don't we ever leave Riverside?"
The question bored him and he returned his gaze to his plate. "Why should we? There's no pressing need, is there? I've already seen the world; it's a tiring place. Oxford, Glastonbury... Europe. And Cambridge. My friends are here, my house is my home, I have my books and studies... You're just restless. It will pass. Don't dwell on it. Sixteen is too young to be out there on your own anyway."
That was the end of the conversation.
********____________________********
Gwen met Roger in a pub. Her father disapproved of pubs. ("I'm a sober man and always have been," he said when she first asked his permission. "But do what you like, Gwendolen. I can't stop you, but I can pray I taught you common sense, at least.") So she was there to notice him, thanks to his flat accent. He smiled when she asked about it.
"Mum's an American," he explained. "I picked up a lot of her accent. I'm Roger Black," he offered his hand," I'm new to the area. You?"
"Gwendolen Weydon-Smith. So what do you think of the Riverside?"
"Oh yeah, well it's great, isn't it? Charmed to be here."
Gwen looked politely disbelieving and changed the topic to where he'd come from. And from there to his hobbies...
"Oh, I'm not much of a reader. Really. I'm a film sort, as it were. Ever seen Kind Hearts and Coronets?"
"No... You probably won't believe this, but I don't have a television. Or a computer."
A pause, then, "well that's alright. You've just saved the best part of your education for last."
********____________________********
Though Roger's list of associates soon branched out, he retained a simple affection for Gwen and they often had lunch together. He introduced her to electronics. She regaled him with stories of her upbringing and education, which he found wonderfully funny and eccentric. "If I'd known how well read you are," he said absently, "I'd have been far too intimidated to say a word when we met."
Gwen was taken aback. "My father always thought me a hopeless learner."
"Well, he must have set his standards far too high. Compared to me and my kind, you're like an Oxford don. What, are you ashamed of that?" for she had just cringed. She shook her head and he continued. "By the way, when do I get to have dinner at your place? It sounds like quite a show, like dining with royalty almost."
"Don't you find that off-putting?"
"Should I?"
"Yes."
"Not intellectual enough for the old man, am I? Well then, what do you say if I take you out to dinner instead?"
********____________________********
The doorbell rang. Gwendolen froze in the act of brushing her teeth. She could hear her father going to answer it. Roger was early.
By the time she got downstairs, her father and her date were squared off in the hall. Roger was looking extremely flustered. Her father turned to her with disdain. "Gwendolen. Is this young specimen taking you out to dinner?"
"Yes, Sir." She didn't look at either of them. In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought. "And a film."
"Have you been out with him before?"
"Yes."
He nodded. "Please excuse us," he said to Roger. She followed him to his study and shut the door. "Be seated, please." She sat down across from him and waited for his lecture. He remained standing.
"I trust you're keeping an eye on your reputation, Gwendolen. Frankly, I'm disappointed. Pubs... Handsome, witless young men... I should have anticipated it, of course. But I hoped you'd have the taste to choose a deserving set of in-laws..."
"Do you think intelligence is better than integrity, Father?"
He almost smiled. "Good rejoinder. I take it he has been looking out for your reputation then, even if you haven't. Will you be marrying him?"
She nodded. "If he asks me."
He sat down and predictably reached for a book. "May I enquire ... Is Mr. Black a traveling man?"
Gwen stared at him, opened her mouth to speak, to voice fury at his audacity... and said, "he's not from London, no. But if you dare presume that I'd marry him for...and to get away... It's not important..."
Her father appeared quite immersed in Pliny, but as he turned a page he said, "please do us a favor, and don't lie, girl. You'd marry him in a second if it let you leave this house. You want him to rescue you, save you from the mundane. But he can't rescue you from what's going on in your head, Gwendolen. That's not on his list of priorities, I'd stake my life on it. By all means go marry him, move away, see the sights, have a kid. Live as you please once you're Gwendolen Black. You have my blessing. But don't hold false expectations. He isn't waiting with bated breath to cart you off to Rome, God knows.
"You've been more cheerful recently; I suppose he's the reason... You're dismissed, Gwen. Go enjoy yourself."
She dashed away, leaving him without a goodbye.
********____________________********
They were married in November. The church service was small, dressed down and dour. Which was unsurprising, Gwen thought, being as the priest, Father Henry, was a friend of her father's. The Black family, and numerous friends had all turned up for Roger. On her side, there was only her father, he being her only living relation. After giving her away, he spent the remainder of the wedding party aloof, calming ignoring his in-laws. Gwen did her best to make up for his reticence, but it hurt her nonetheless, and she let him know.
"Well you needn’t look at me like a whipped dog, Gwendolen," he said. "No man can change his nature." They spoke in low voices so as not to be overheard. "Still," he added, helping himself to a tray of black olives, "I suppose this can be considered your fifteen minutes of fame. You're everybody's darling today, it appears. I'll make an effort." He smiled, with a note of apology, or so it seemed to her, and drifted off into the crowd.
Roger and his older brother Percy came up to her. "Hello love," said her husband. "I was wondering where you got off to. Is the old man bothering you?" he added, following her gaze. "Gwen?"
She shook her head as if to clear it, and walked away without answering. She could hear Percy say to him, "I'll be straight with you, Roddy... You're going to make an odd couple, that you are. I wish you luck."
Roger made no reply. Not everybody's darling, Father, she thought.
********____________________********
Following the excellent dinner party there were speeches from seemingly every member of the Black family. These ranged from Amanda Black, the American mother, bursting into tears and saying this was the happiest day of the year for her; to Percy leading them in an ambiguous toast. "To health, wealth and happiness," he said coolly. Roger's cousin Olivia, a twice over divorcee, was the only Black who said nothing; though she stood up frequently to use her camera.
The last speech came from Roger's friend Neil Buchan, the by then tipsy best man. "I'm sure we all wish them happy days and happier nights, from here to eternity, forever and ever... and ever and ever... And may they be blessed with a wide circle of friends, good health and a better job. May my good friend Roger, and his charming, well-to-do wife, live and prosper. And may we all remember this day as one of the happiest this year has bestowed. Amen."
There was applause from everyone as he sat down. Then he turned his beaming face to Gwen's father, who had joined in the clapping with less and less enthusiasm, and said jovially "there now, we've all had our turn. You ought to have yours. Up you get now, and have your speech. If it's longer than Livvy's, you're a hero!" Olivia rolled her eyes as the others laughed. Gwen's mouth was suddenly dry.
Her father stood up and said without preamble, "I think we can all safely attest that this would have been a happier day for us had my wife been here to see it. But as it is," he gave Gwen a pained glance, "I must make do. I assure you all I will never forget this day as long as I live." He raised his wine glass, untouched till then, and said, "to Gwendolen." He downed the glass, grimaced at the flavor and returned to his chair as if nothing had happened.
********____________________********
Roger rented a larger flat to take in his wife. Though she was chagrined to still be in London, Gwen resolved to make the best of it for the short term. New possibilities were now open to her. She got a job, learned to drive and had been given admission to a fully modernized world. With all these changes made, her restlessness evaporated as if it had never been. She and Roger spent Christmas with his family in St. Ives.
"Oh to hell with London," she said, only half-jokingly, on their last night. "Why not forget the rat pack and just stay here? It's so much nicer."
Roger didn't stop packing. "Pleasant for you, but impractical. One mustn't forget, love, that I grew up here. Returning is hardly an option at this point. Besides, all our friends are in London..."
"Couldn't we move somewhere else?"
"Most likely, but why? I thought we were doing rather well."
"Because it... it bores me, is all."
He left off packing and came to sit beside her on the bed. "I think I see the problem, Gwen. But try to look at it logically. Traveling is expensive. Moving is expensive. What we need is to be practical, even stringent. So far, I'd say we've been very lucky. Two decent jobs, a flat that's not too grotty, and good neighbours all around us. We're doing great. You don't like London, alright, but that's no reason to lose your head. I can't guarantee we'll move this year or the next... But we'll make it our long-term plan, alright?" He smiled at her with such sympathy that she had to look away.
"Yes Roger. I understand."
********____________________********
So life continued in much the same way. They got another flat, closer to the Thames, and then they had a baby - which led to another problem.
"What, do you mean you aren't even going to tell him she exists?" said Roger, not seeming to understand what a simple thing she was asking. "Gwen, for God's sake, I know you weren't close, but he's your father. He'd want to know."
"I will not have my daughter judged and found wanting by that spiteful old man," she said quietly. "Jessica has your entire family for relatives; she certainly doesn't need a grandfather. Besides," she added suddenly, "she's been born to a pair of dunces, and doesn't even have the honour of Weydon-Smith as a surname."
"My God... Gwen, he's not going to disown his only grandchild..."
"Why not? He disowned me fast enough." She left her chair and grabbed her car keys. "I'm going out."
He beat her to the doorway. "No you're not."
"I don't want to have this conversation, Roger. Let me go!"
"You're upset. I'll not have you navigating London traffic in this state."
"I am not in a state!"
Jessica began to cry and Gwendolen matched it with her own petty tears. Roger hugged her briefly, "alright, we'll say no more about it," and then went to take care of his daughter.
Gwen sank back into her chair, and closing her eyes, wished that it would all just go away.
********____________________********
She started spending her time with Tom Carey, a man who made his living doing European photography for calendars. He clearly had a great enthusiasm for the job.
"I'm trying to convince Mick (he's my boss you know) to do a calendar of little known places. You know, everybody and his brother photographs London, Big Ben, the Changing of the Guard, Stonehenge and Parliament - that's all one gets if you want England. A tour guide of monuments! It bores the pants off me, if you want the truth. How you Londoners bear it, I'll never know. No, what I want is to find the prettiest little towns in England, the dribs and drabs nobody really sees. Give the public something different, and hope the intrepid ones follow your footsteps and discover all those beautiful, forgotten places... So I'm pressing really hard for this, and hopefully he'll get so sick of listening to me, he'll cave in just to shut me up."
"Does that work?"
"Well it has before. I've gotta run though. Deadlines are approaching and I'm gonna have to be out on the Moors soon. If the weather doesn't cooperate I'll have to shoot the whole damn thing in black and white. It's got to look evocative, but not rainy. Needs to have really amazing cloud structures too. So says Mick. He's a real perfectionist, drives everybody mad, no one more so than himself. I could tell you some stories sometime..." He shoved his arms into his raincoat, tipped the barman and went out into the rain without a goodbye. Gwen watched him go with a blissful smile on her face.
********____________________********
Roger shook her shoulder gently. "Gwen? Gwen, wake up. There's shopping this morning, remember?"
Gwen opened her eyes and sat up. Where was she? She shook her head and brushed her hair away from her face. She'd been leaving... last night with Tom, she was going to leave the Riverside... She looked at her wedding ring and blushed with anger and shame. "I'll get cleaned up," she said. "You want to be going by 9:30?"
He nodded, and she went swiftly away.
When she came to the kitchen, Roger already had breakfast halfway to the plate. He pulled out a chair for her, then went to pour Jessica's cereal for her. "What do you say?" he asked in singsong.
"Thank you, Papa," she replied.
"See, that wasn't so hard," he said, ruffling up her black hair. Gwen smiled a bit, and a minute later the bacon and eggs were done.
"Heads or tails?" she asked when the meal was over.
"Oh, I think I'd like tails this time. It's been a while. Unless you want it?"
"No, I'm fine with heads."
So Gwen took the car keys and Roger got in the backseat with Jessica and they set off to get groceries. A steady stream of chatter and nonsense came from the backseat, and Gwen began to feel a little bit lighter. It was a warm, sunny day and traffic wasn't too gruesome. While carrying the groceries, Roger got the trunk for her. They found the speaker set they were looking for, and got a good deal on it without much fuss. Jessica behaved very nicely in public, so they took her to the nearest pet shop and let her look at the hamsters for a while. When all the errands were over, it was getting toward lunchtime.
"So are you feeling better?" asked Roger cautiously in a spare moment.
She was alarmed. "What do you mean?"
"You seemed very down and out this morning. Was the Thames bothering you again?"
She didn't answer for a moment. "The Thames always bothers me," she managed. "It's been a beautiful morning, Roger. Let's go home now."
They got in the car. Thank you, she thought. Thank you, Roger. I didn't deserve it. You don't know what I've done. You just don't know. Oh God, what have I done?
And she wanted to turn around right now and tell him, confess everything, watch him forgive her, and earn redemption. But she started the car instead. He wouldn't listen, wouldn't believe. I didn't want to leave you, she thought. It wasn't you and Jessica, it's the River and this whole damn city. I was going to leave and never come back...
She knew this street, had been shopping here ever since she'd married Roger five years ago. She knew what she'd hear if she rolled down the windows, knew all the sights, even fancied she knew all the people she could see. She longed for the countryside, longed to move away and raise her daughter in a better environment than this. But they never did get it all planned out, all the funds mapped out... It had been talk and plans and New Year's Resolutions and wishful thinking.
Gwen realised there was silence from the backseat. Roger was tired, she thought. And Jessica all talked out for once. She switched on the radio, eager to hear something other than her thoughts. A woman's voice filled the car, crying out how brokenhearted she was, how her man had gone and left her, and the forecast was nothing but rain... It was a soul station, playing something morose as usual.
I'm sorry, so, so sorry Roger. I love you. I never meant it to turn out this way. Forgive me, please. But how could he? How could he forgive her something he didn't know about? It would devastate him to learn what she'd done. Destroy the family, and trust would never be there again. Gwen's eyes were blurring, she couldn't find the button to turn off the music. She slowed down and waited for her sight to clear.
Then she sped up. A guilty conscience forever, she thought dismally. I'll never have what I really want. I thought I'd be gone this morning, far, far away and never looking back. Tom promised me...
"Gwen, slow down. This isn't a race," Roger protested from the back.
He never promised anything. It was me making all the promises. I was Grotesque. No wonder he left me. I never deserved him. And never, ever deserved Roger. What did I do wrong? How'd I get here?
The car was noticeably accelerating. Gwen paid it no heed. She ran through all of last night's memories again. I wish I'd gone to Oxford, she thought.
She remembered what he said, "this would have been a happier day for us had my wife been here..." Her mother, Maria Weydon-Smith. She had been an excellent driver; never got a speeding ticket, or even so much as a parking fine. She'd treated cars like rolling bombs. But she'd died in one anyway, stove in by another driver, one who wasn't so careful... But Maria had left her husband and daughter at home, not in the backseat...
It might have been better for us if we'd been with her.
She took her foot off the gas pedal, shuddered and took a breath, then hit the break. A police car pulled up next to them. Gwen rolled down the window and made her apologies. The policeman gave her a ticket, lectured her in a polite way, made sure she understood how out of line she was. Gwen continued to apologise profusely, assuring him it would never happen again. Satisfied, he went back to his vehicle and continued on the rounds.
Unwillingly, she turned to look at her husband. Roger's face was pale, his knuckles white, his eyes aghast. She made a decision, took the keys out and unbuckled. "You drive."
FINIS
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