There are certain authors who remain close to your heart long after others have arrived and stolen the genre for their own benefit.
For me, Jean Plaidy is one such writer. I discovered her at school and the library there will bear witness to my love, as each sign out card probably has my name on it at least five times.
Born Eleanor Hibbert in 1906, she started writing in the 30s, but wasn't published (under her maiden name of Burford) until 1941. Her pseudonym of Jean Plaidy was first used in 1945 until her final novel in 1993 - the year of her death. She had six other pseudonyms (including Victoria Holt and Philippa Carr) and over the span of sixty years, she wrote almost 200 books. She died at sea, somewhere between Greece and Port Said, Egypt - which seems almost fitting for someone who spent much of her writing life moving about various historical periods.
The reason I love Jean Plaidy, is because she creates the world of the time she is writing about so fully that you can't help be entranced. You feel the danger Henry VIII's wives are in; you understand the boredom Victoria feels as she is kept sequestered by her mother; the idea that Catherine de Medici could poison those closest to her is very real.
Before I realised that some of my favourite Plaidy's were written in the 80s and early 90s, I was going to say she was dated. That more modern historical authors like Philippa Gregory managed to get deeper beneath the skin of those times. But it's not actually true. Something continues to sparkle about Plaidy's writing and she will forever remain a favourite.
So - I have thirty of her books on my shelves, and I think I'm going to dive back into the worlds she writes about. Now to decide - Tudor, Georgian or Victorian era first?
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Monday, 16 November 2009
Sunday, 24 May 2009
Lost in Romance
Isn't the weather lovely? Oxford is crammed with people eating ice cream and enjoying the way the college stone looks in the sunshine. The river is teaming with punts, and no one seems to be falling in. Bank holiday weather of the most sublime sort - and I don't even care that I'm actually working tomorrow. With weather like this, and the promise of more to come for summer, I could work every day as long as I got a Pimms at the end of it!
I spent much of the day in the Botanic Gardens, marvelling at the riot of colour, and reading about a different sort of colour in Jude Morgan's brilliant 'Passion'. Dovegreyreader was talking recently about Jude's latest book, which reminded me I had yet to read the above mentioned, and it seemed fitting after 'The Ballad of Dorothy Wordsworth', which mum has just picked up, and which seems to hardly be suited to such a day. It needs to be read during a storm. 'Passion' on the other hand, is ideal for the heat and brightness of today, for what other words could be used to describe the four women that are shown in the novel. Mary Shelley and Fanny Brawne have yet to burn as brightly as Caroline Lamb or Augusta Leigh, but it seems to be only a matter of time, before they too fall into the embrace of Byron, Shelley or Keats.
How different from Wordsworth, who has only an obsessed sister to cast a shadow over poetic respectability.
I am barely halfway through, but I am being whirled along, as if I too were engaged in a waltz with a dissolute rake. Jude' style is mesmerising and mercurial; hardly the same from one page to the next. Sometimes taking the voice of one woman, speaking directly to the audience, and at other times allowing the reader to be less involved. On the periphery, untouched by scandal, but seeing it just the same.
I must go tend to my pink arms, and see if I can make my shoulders the same colour. I was too involved in reading to notice the tan lines ....
I spent much of the day in the Botanic Gardens, marvelling at the riot of colour, and reading about a different sort of colour in Jude Morgan's brilliant 'Passion'. Dovegreyreader was talking recently about Jude's latest book, which reminded me I had yet to read the above mentioned, and it seemed fitting after 'The Ballad of Dorothy Wordsworth', which mum has just picked up, and which seems to hardly be suited to such a day. It needs to be read during a storm. 'Passion' on the other hand, is ideal for the heat and brightness of today, for what other words could be used to describe the four women that are shown in the novel. Mary Shelley and Fanny Brawne have yet to burn as brightly as Caroline Lamb or Augusta Leigh, but it seems to be only a matter of time, before they too fall into the embrace of Byron, Shelley or Keats.
How different from Wordsworth, who has only an obsessed sister to cast a shadow over poetic respectability.
I am barely halfway through, but I am being whirled along, as if I too were engaged in a waltz with a dissolute rake. Jude' style is mesmerising and mercurial; hardly the same from one page to the next. Sometimes taking the voice of one woman, speaking directly to the audience, and at other times allowing the reader to be less involved. On the periphery, untouched by scandal, but seeing it just the same.
I must go tend to my pink arms, and see if I can make my shoulders the same colour. I was too involved in reading to notice the tan lines ....
Sunday, 17 May 2009
Doomed Love
I don't know what's got into me this past week, but suddenly I am devouring books quicker than normal, and I've been totally immersed in the lives of women on the periphery. If it's not Dorothy Wordsworth, then it's Nelly Ternan. Does it say something for my subconscious that I seem to be reading about woman who were repressed (deliberately or otherwise) by the men that loved them? I do hope not.
It's hard to write a biography when there is not much evidence of the person being scrutinised. Ellen (Nelly) Ternan was a young woman brought up in an acting family with what looked like a decent, if not completely promising, acting career in front of her, until one day Charles Dickens decided to take his amateur acting up a level and hired her, and the rest of her family, to take the roles that his family had previously played. From that day in 1857, Nelly was inextricably bound up with Dickens and as a result slipped almost completely from the pages of history.
Certainly as the Victorian era's best model for family values (even if he did abandon his wife and was unduly critical of his children) Dickens could afford no scandal to touch his name, and he therefore endeavoured to keep Nelly as cloistered as possible, but the subterfuge went so far that even after his death, Nelly remained silent on the subject of her famous patron.
Claire Tomalin's portrait is an interesting one to read, because even with the scant information there is to enable us to form a clear picture, there is still enough snippets for us to gain an understanding of where she came from and where she went after a thirteen year vanishing act. The fact that Dickens had a mistress doesn't particularly shock modern sensibilities, but when the news was breaking just after the First World War people were outraged. The person it appears to have hurt the most, however, was Nelly's son from her marriage after her time with Dickens. Geoffrey had been brought up believing his Mother was young and truthful, wholly in love with his father, and never anything more remarkable than the wife of a schoolmaster. To discover she had once been an actress, was a decade older than she pretended to be, had possibly deceived his father for the whole of their marriage, and might have never truly loved him, was too much. Geoffrey refused to talk about the potential truth for the rest of his life, and is believed to have destroyed much vital evidence that would have helped us put a character to the many images we have of Nelly. Interestingly, the reverse is true of Dorothy Wordsworth - we have many words, and only two images, one a silhouette.
I wonder sometimes if there are any other invisible women to be discovered. Half the Victorian world seems to have lived double or triple lives; who else split their lives into public and private and managed to get away with it - up to a point? One can only wonder at the scandalous stories that are still to be revealed to the world.
It's hard to write a biography when there is not much evidence of the person being scrutinised. Ellen (Nelly) Ternan was a young woman brought up in an acting family with what looked like a decent, if not completely promising, acting career in front of her, until one day Charles Dickens decided to take his amateur acting up a level and hired her, and the rest of her family, to take the roles that his family had previously played. From that day in 1857, Nelly was inextricably bound up with Dickens and as a result slipped almost completely from the pages of history.
Certainly as the Victorian era's best model for family values (even if he did abandon his wife and was unduly critical of his children) Dickens could afford no scandal to touch his name, and he therefore endeavoured to keep Nelly as cloistered as possible, but the subterfuge went so far that even after his death, Nelly remained silent on the subject of her famous patron.
Claire Tomalin's portrait is an interesting one to read, because even with the scant information there is to enable us to form a clear picture, there is still enough snippets for us to gain an understanding of where she came from and where she went after a thirteen year vanishing act. The fact that Dickens had a mistress doesn't particularly shock modern sensibilities, but when the news was breaking just after the First World War people were outraged. The person it appears to have hurt the most, however, was Nelly's son from her marriage after her time with Dickens. Geoffrey had been brought up believing his Mother was young and truthful, wholly in love with his father, and never anything more remarkable than the wife of a schoolmaster. To discover she had once been an actress, was a decade older than she pretended to be, had possibly deceived his father for the whole of their marriage, and might have never truly loved him, was too much. Geoffrey refused to talk about the potential truth for the rest of his life, and is believed to have destroyed much vital evidence that would have helped us put a character to the many images we have of Nelly. Interestingly, the reverse is true of Dorothy Wordsworth - we have many words, and only two images, one a silhouette.
I wonder sometimes if there are any other invisible women to be discovered. Half the Victorian world seems to have lived double or triple lives; who else split their lives into public and private and managed to get away with it - up to a point? One can only wonder at the scandalous stories that are still to be revealed to the world.
Monday, 28 July 2008
Blog of a cosmopolitan woman ...
I feel quite accomplished.
Gone is the month where I have started reading a book, only to put it down through boredom, or the thought that something else might be better. Now, finally, at the end of July, I am back in the swing of things, having read four books in the space of two days.
I have just finished Diary of a Provincial Lady - hence my title obviously, and have been compelled to think in very short sentences about rather trivial matters. Actually, whilst cooking supper, I found myself documenting it for the benefit of absolutely no one, and am rather worried in case problem persists. Also, I sense it is about to rain torrentially, as I hear thunder, but this does not worry me unduly, as I am supposed to be watering the garden, and this will save me the trouble.
I am compelled to quote two short passages, which amused me greatly:
Firstly: 'Letter comes by second post from my dear old schoolfriend Cissie Crabbe, asking me if she may come here for two nights so so on her way to Norwich. (Query: Why Norwich? Am surprised to realise anyone ever goes to, lives at, or comes from, Norwich, but quite see that this is unreasonable of me.')
Secondly: 'Question of books to be taken abroad undecided till late hour last night. Robert says, Why take any? and Vicky proffers Les Malheurs de Sophie, which she puts into the very bottom of my suitcase, whence it is extracted with some difficulty by Mademoiselle later. Finally decide on Little Dorrit and The Daisy Chain, with Jane Eyre in coat pocket. Should prefer to be the kind of person who is inseparable from volume of Keats, or even Jane Austen, but cannot compass this.'
To which I reply; firstly - even having spent a year in Norwich, I can also be surprised that anyone comes from Norwich (to go anywhere else) and secondly, actually, she does seem to be the kind of person who is inseparable from Jane Austen. Who would take Dickens on holiday with them? .... Actually cannot really cast judgement, as my own father shows tendency to take complete Remembrance of Things Past by Proust each time he goes to Greece, and always seems to read them.
Suffice it to say I like the Provincial Lady very much, and will no doubt end up seeking her other outpourings out when I should be saving money for a rainy day (which is upon us, so it seems ...)
I will leave you with pictures. Nothing particularly beautiful, or noteworthy. I thought you'd like to see the shoes I bought.
I'm off to read some more of Ferney - Dovegreyreader asked recently what books were captivating their readers even when they are away from them, and this is certainly one of them ....
Gone is the month where I have started reading a book, only to put it down through boredom, or the thought that something else might be better. Now, finally, at the end of July, I am back in the swing of things, having read four books in the space of two days.
I have just finished Diary of a Provincial Lady - hence my title obviously, and have been compelled to think in very short sentences about rather trivial matters. Actually, whilst cooking supper, I found myself documenting it for the benefit of absolutely no one, and am rather worried in case problem persists. Also, I sense it is about to rain torrentially, as I hear thunder, but this does not worry me unduly, as I am supposed to be watering the garden, and this will save me the trouble.
I am compelled to quote two short passages, which amused me greatly:
Firstly: 'Letter comes by second post from my dear old schoolfriend Cissie Crabbe, asking me if she may come here for two nights so so on her way to Norwich. (Query: Why Norwich? Am surprised to realise anyone ever goes to, lives at, or comes from, Norwich, but quite see that this is unreasonable of me.')
Secondly: 'Question of books to be taken abroad undecided till late hour last night. Robert says, Why take any? and Vicky proffers Les Malheurs de Sophie, which she puts into the very bottom of my suitcase, whence it is extracted with some difficulty by Mademoiselle later. Finally decide on Little Dorrit and The Daisy Chain, with Jane Eyre in coat pocket. Should prefer to be the kind of person who is inseparable from volume of Keats, or even Jane Austen, but cannot compass this.'
To which I reply; firstly - even having spent a year in Norwich, I can also be surprised that anyone comes from Norwich (to go anywhere else) and secondly, actually, she does seem to be the kind of person who is inseparable from Jane Austen. Who would take Dickens on holiday with them? .... Actually cannot really cast judgement, as my own father shows tendency to take complete Remembrance of Things Past by Proust each time he goes to Greece, and always seems to read them.
Suffice it to say I like the Provincial Lady very much, and will no doubt end up seeking her other outpourings out when I should be saving money for a rainy day (which is upon us, so it seems ...)
I will leave you with pictures. Nothing particularly beautiful, or noteworthy. I thought you'd like to see the shoes I bought.
I'm off to read some more of Ferney - Dovegreyreader asked recently what books were captivating their readers even when they are away from them, and this is certainly one of them ....
Thursday, 22 May 2008
Life through a letter
Reading Dovegreyreader's thoughts on getting back into the letter writing groove has inspired me to talk about my own feelings. I feel like it should come with a warning: I will start ranting. I may not be able to control my ranting. Please consider yourselves warned!
It is impossible to say where my love of writing and receiving letters first started. I have always loved rushing down the stairs to the front door and picking up whatever has been put there, sifting through it for anything with my name on it. I suppose when I went to boarding school at the age of nine, it turned into a particularly important event for me. I lived ever so close to home (six minutes by car) and my reasons for going were two fold.
Firstly: I was sick of nannies. My parents were both working away from home, so I had a string of nannies for the first nine years of my life.
Secondly: I read Enid Blyton. I think that should explain most of my reasoning. Suffice to say it was nothing like what I had read!
Anyway, with boarding came the need to stay in touch, and so I gave as many people as I could instructions to write to me, which they duly did. I have a box (the kind office printer paper comes in) jam packed with postcards and notelets from people who clearly had little to say, but who wanted to stay in touch.
Books with letters in them enthralled me too.
When I became old enough to buy books without a parent peeking over my shoulder, I was invariably drawn to collections of letters. Doing a quick count round the room now, I have ... at least twenty four volumes of letters, ranging from Heloise and Abelard to Nancy Mitford, with a couple of royals, a prime minister, authors and a few actors thrown into the mix for good measure. There is nothing quite like a letter for showing a person in all their different moods.
What would a person make of me, if they were to read my letters I wonder? If they read the ones I wrote when I was fifteen, they would see a young girl, clearly bored in Physics lessons (where I wrote most of them) who thought she was in love with a boy named Tom (who subsequently turned out to be gay, and then died a couple of months after my 18th birthday in the Cayman Islands), was attempting to make him jealous, and was obviously very confused about her faith.
Not a bad little time capsule for something so 'mundane' as a letter, is it?
I think my true love of writing and receiving matured whilst I was away at University. There I truly was cut off from the world I knew, and I made every effort to ensure that my ties were still strong. When I went to Norwich to do my Masters, it became doubly important to write letters. It didn't even matter if the people I wrote to didn't respond, or wrote back via email or facebook. My thoughts were out there, and I had done my bit to keep the connection alive.
My studies into the workings of biography and autobiography also highlighted the importance of letters to me. Time for another review of my booksheleves. I have .... over 122 biographies and autobiographies (I stopped counting), which does not include those books which are biographical fiction (which is another thing entirely, and not meant for this post). How could those books have been written without recourse to the vast amount of letters that the subjects wrote - even if some of them (Henry James, I'm thinking of you) burned so many? Email is all very well, but it worries me slightly that the biographers of the future may find they lack something, because email is essentially a more hidden process (passwords and such, being - of course - private). I've had reason to revise this opinion having read the wonderful Before I Say Goodbye, by Ruth Picardie, edited by her sister after her death, but I still think that in general, when the biographer does not have a direct link to their subject, it will become a stumbling block.
For me, there is nothing in this world that makes me happier than finding a letter that isn't a bill or a bank statement (I've spent how much on books this month?!) on the floor. The thrill I get of posting things too, is very sweet.
I leave you with a wonderful extract from a letter that Joyce Grenfell wrote to her best friend Virginia Grahame. In the fifty or so years that they were friends, they wrote nearly every day, and when both were in the country telephone every day too.
'Perhaps it would be an exaggeration to say that I live for your letters, but they are certainly one of the major joys of my exsitence. You have an amazing way of transmitting yourself to your pen, so that when I read I can picture you all the time.'
It is impossible to say where my love of writing and receiving letters first started. I have always loved rushing down the stairs to the front door and picking up whatever has been put there, sifting through it for anything with my name on it. I suppose when I went to boarding school at the age of nine, it turned into a particularly important event for me. I lived ever so close to home (six minutes by car) and my reasons for going were two fold.
Firstly: I was sick of nannies. My parents were both working away from home, so I had a string of nannies for the first nine years of my life.
Secondly: I read Enid Blyton. I think that should explain most of my reasoning. Suffice to say it was nothing like what I had read!
Anyway, with boarding came the need to stay in touch, and so I gave as many people as I could instructions to write to me, which they duly did. I have a box (the kind office printer paper comes in) jam packed with postcards and notelets from people who clearly had little to say, but who wanted to stay in touch.
Books with letters in them enthralled me too.
When I became old enough to buy books without a parent peeking over my shoulder, I was invariably drawn to collections of letters. Doing a quick count round the room now, I have ... at least twenty four volumes of letters, ranging from Heloise and Abelard to Nancy Mitford, with a couple of royals, a prime minister, authors and a few actors thrown into the mix for good measure. There is nothing quite like a letter for showing a person in all their different moods.
What would a person make of me, if they were to read my letters I wonder? If they read the ones I wrote when I was fifteen, they would see a young girl, clearly bored in Physics lessons (where I wrote most of them) who thought she was in love with a boy named Tom (who subsequently turned out to be gay, and then died a couple of months after my 18th birthday in the Cayman Islands), was attempting to make him jealous, and was obviously very confused about her faith.
Not a bad little time capsule for something so 'mundane' as a letter, is it?
I think my true love of writing and receiving matured whilst I was away at University. There I truly was cut off from the world I knew, and I made every effort to ensure that my ties were still strong. When I went to Norwich to do my Masters, it became doubly important to write letters. It didn't even matter if the people I wrote to didn't respond, or wrote back via email or facebook. My thoughts were out there, and I had done my bit to keep the connection alive.
My studies into the workings of biography and autobiography also highlighted the importance of letters to me. Time for another review of my booksheleves. I have .... over 122 biographies and autobiographies (I stopped counting), which does not include those books which are biographical fiction (which is another thing entirely, and not meant for this post). How could those books have been written without recourse to the vast amount of letters that the subjects wrote - even if some of them (Henry James, I'm thinking of you) burned so many? Email is all very well, but it worries me slightly that the biographers of the future may find they lack something, because email is essentially a more hidden process (passwords and such, being - of course - private). I've had reason to revise this opinion having read the wonderful Before I Say Goodbye, by Ruth Picardie, edited by her sister after her death, but I still think that in general, when the biographer does not have a direct link to their subject, it will become a stumbling block.
For me, there is nothing in this world that makes me happier than finding a letter that isn't a bill or a bank statement (I've spent how much on books this month?!) on the floor. The thrill I get of posting things too, is very sweet.
I leave you with a wonderful extract from a letter that Joyce Grenfell wrote to her best friend Virginia Grahame. In the fifty or so years that they were friends, they wrote nearly every day, and when both were in the country telephone every day too.
'Perhaps it would be an exaggeration to say that I live for your letters, but they are certainly one of the major joys of my exsitence. You have an amazing way of transmitting yourself to your pen, so that when I read I can picture you all the time.'
Wednesday, 21 May 2008
Ode to Oxford
Earth has not anything to show more fair, wrote Wordsworth - and although I know he was talking about London at the time, today is one of those days that I feel it could be applied just as well to Oxford.
I love this city so much. It's grand and glorious buildings in that soft stone, that when cleaned of the grime of centuries, are so warm and welcoming; the narrow winding streets between colleges, through which one can meander and hear various college sounds; the fact that with very little effort you can be out into the countryside, in a little known pub or village. I find it so magical that I can be looking at buildings like the one above almost every day.
Tonight I was privileged to view the Botanic Garden after it closed, and have a tour, learning a few things along the way. Did anyone know, for instance, that the man who caused it to come into being was actually a murderer? He wasn't prosecuted because in the 1600s it was legal to kill a man, if that man had killed your servant!
The lower part of the garden belonged to Merton (whilst the rest belonged to Magdalene), and was offered in the 50s, when it had been flooded many times - the rent was offered at 2 and 6, and those wise gardeners paid 100 years upfront! Just think how much rent that would be now!
We stood by a great black fir tree, which twisted it's way up to the sky, looking for all the world like it was about to shake it's branches and settle in some new position. This was the tree that Lyra and Will sat under in 'The Amber Spyglass' and promised to return to each year. But it was also Tolkien's favourite tree ... and truly it did look like if one sat under it for too long, it might try to swallow you up!
There are times, of course, that I dislike Oxford. When it's been raining for two long, and you think the water meadows are going to take over the city; or in the summer, when I wish that what Pullman wrote was true, and there was another city above this one, where we could banish all tourists and mothers with small children! But these are small and insignificant things, and pale in comparison with how much I love this city, and the joy and inspiration it gives me.
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