Book Review · Books · Fiction · Historical Fiction · James Lincoln Collier and Christopher Collier · Uncategorized · YA Fiction

My Brother Sam Is Dead by James Lincoln Collier and Christopher Collier

 

Image result for my brother sam is deadThe American Revolutionary War is in its early stages, which is seemingly marked by people having to choose between two sides. Staying neutral is hardly an option when the choice is between remaining a British colony or to break free to a new America. Tim Meeker’s brother, Sam, has enlisted to be a part of the American Revolutionary Army. Sam and his friends at Yale believe in an America that is free of British rule. Tim, on the other hand, doesn’t know what to think. He admires his older brother, and when brave intelligent Sam talks about the necessity of defeating the British, it seems like the right thing to do. But to side with his brother would mean to go against his father. In fact, there are a lot of people who disagree with the revolutionaries. Which side is right?

Being faced with this question in the 21st century is not exactly overwhelming because we know how history has played out. But being drawn into the 17th century with Tim and his family makes this question seem so much harder. It makes the reader question whether the means ever justify the end. It’s especially stirring because the story is told through the voice of an 11-year-old boy. Though this book was written for young adults it can be appreciated by any thinking person, regardless of age.

I was a little surprised to find that this junior novel has been listed several times for violence and abusive language. It’s also been accused of being unpatriotic. I don’t remember coming across any shockingly vulgar language, but on further inspection this book does contain mild profanity. A search on why this book is banned will give you a better understanding of the instances considered violent, profane, and unpatriotic.

While I don’t understand how a story about war can be described accurately without violence of any sort, the descriptions here are not overly gruesome (in my opinion). I can’t say whether this book is patriotic or not. However, I will say that this book talks less about the importance of choosing the right side and more about how painful war is in general. My Brother Sam Is Dead paints an alarmingly clear picture of how in war there really is no good and bad side. Both sides are forced to act cruelly, regardless of what these actions are meant to achieve. As Tim’s father says, “In war the dead pay the debts of the living.” (Spoiler Alert: Skip on to the next paragraph if you’d rather not know Tim’s response to this) Continuing…Years later Tim writes in response to his father’s words, “…they have paid us well. But somehow even fifty years later, I keep thinking that there might have been another way, beside war, to achieve the same end.”

I thought that this book was an excellent piece of historical fiction. I especially liked the end where the writers include which parts of the story were based on true events. This book can be easily read in one sitting and it’s amazing how such a tiny book can be packed with so much. While 11-year-old Tim’s account can be amusing at times, you may also need a box of tissues at hand. This book leaves its readers with a very sobering view of both American history and of war, in general.

Book Review · Fiction

Two Book Reviews: Tara Road and Quentins by Maeve Binchy

Displaying IMG_20160926_173725.jpgDiscovering Maeve Binchy’s writing this last week was similar to when I discovered Amy Tan’s writing a few years ago: their books were read from cover to cover nearly non-stop, after which I went out and bought as many more books of theirs that I could find.

My aunt in Delhi sent Tara Road for me to read a few weeks ago, but I only picked it up to read last Thursday after having just completed the melancholic Brideshead Revisited (It was depressingly realistic while being beautifully sad at the same time, that I needed my next book to be very unlike it). One of the reviews on the jacket of Tara Road described Maeve Binchy’s writing as good natured gossip, which I felt I needed after Evelyn Waugh, who’s writing is equally impressive though definitely not gossipy in any way (More on that in another upcoming post).

I found that I quite enjoyed Maeve Binchy’s easy writing style. Her stories seem to be about regular people with regular stories that have been told very, very well.

Tara Road begins with the story of Ria and Danny Lynch, and how they buy their dream home, a sprawling dilapidated Victorian house, on Tara Road, Dublin. It doesn’t take very long for them to renovate the house and transform it into the warm, cozy home they’d envisioned it to be. Their kitchen is constantly abuzz with family and friends. They seem to have the perfect family life. So it comes as quite a shock to Ria when Danny informs her that he hasn’t been happy for a long time and is now leaving her for someone else. Up until now Ria, who hadn’t the slightest idea that their marriage was in trouble, had her life revolving around her family. Without her husband, she feels quite lost and unsure of how to even begin getting on with her life. It’s hardly surprising that when Ria receives a phone call from an American, Marilyn, who’d like to know the possibilities of a house exchange in the summer, she agrees without hesitation. The story goes on to describe the two women’s lives, the new friends they make, the experiences that add to their character, and their learning to cope with the heartache that life sometimes brings.

I actually picked up Quentins because I recognized it as the fancy restaurant frequently mentioned in Tara Road. And I did, in fact, recognize some of the characters. It made it all the more absorbing. Here’s a bit about the book, Quentins.

Ella Brady’s life gets hit by dire circumstances and she is forced to work at 5 jobs, 16 hours a day. One of the jobs she’s working at is with a friend who makes films. When he asks for ideas that might win a prize at a film festival, Ella suggests they make a documentary on the restaurant, Quentins. After all, this restaurant was founded nearly forty years ago. It might be interesting to use it to trace back the changing economy in Ireland along with its people and their changing hopes and aspirations. So while this book begins and ends with Ella, it’s infused with stories about the people connected with Quentins – its staff and customers alike.

I think Maeve Binchy is a very skilled story teller. She writes about the ordinary as if it were extraordinary. There’s so much to feel when reading her books – sad, angry, glad, amused, and, if ‘fuzzy’ is an appropriate word to use here, that also. Her books were a delight to read. I even did a bit of evangelizing at the used book store when I saw two copies of the same book. It was a little shocking when the lady I was talking to said she’d already read Maeve Binchy but preferred Barbara Taylor Bradford and Mary Higgins Clark. It threw me a little off guard. I’m still unsure about exactly which sort of reader might appreciate being recommended a Maeve Binchy book. Nevertheless, I shall try. If you are able to find joy in a story with ordinary complications, but one described charmingly well, with deep insight into human nature (and all that that involves), you may enjoy Maeve Binchy’s works. Her writing really is similar to good-natured gossip and goes well with a bag of chips, cups of tea, biscuits, and the occasional bar of chocolate.

Book Review · Books · Culture · India · Non Fiction · William Dalrymple

Nine Lives by William Dalrymple

Nine-Lives-final-frontFor the longest time I couldn’t understand people who read Non Fiction for fun. I couldn’t imagine getting lost for hours in anything that resembled real life too closely. But even then travel writing and history never classified as boring. How could they when they carried the potential of mystery, charm, and the idea that such fantastic magical things actually happened Once upon a time…!

Nine Lives by William Dalrymple happens to be one of those books that envelope its readers in a world that is both intriguing and unreal. Now add to that that it’s shocking because it is real. In this book William Dalrymple explores the impact of modernization on some of the religions in India, through the stories of nine people. As he mentions in the Introduction, the writer remains mostly in the background while allowing his interviewees and their stories to speak for themselves. The characters are not exoticized (I know because I didn’t roll my eyes once at the narrative). However, their stories are somewhat exotic.

In the first story, The Nun’s Tale, a Jain nun struggles to remain detached as her best friend starves herself according to ritual. The second story, The Dancer of Kannur, is about a Dalit (a low caste) man who’s worshipped as a deity once every year. This was one of the more exotic stories. The why may be a spoiler, so if you’d rather not know skip on to the next paragraph. Okay. This story involves possession by the deity during which time the protagonist drinks the blood of a chicken.

The third story, The Daughters of Yellama, talks about the temple prostitutes who are revered by a large number of people in Karnataka but also equally shamed and criminalized – sometimes by the same people.

The Singer of Epics was one of the stories I found most enchanting. It tells the story of a Rajasthani story teller and the oral epic’s struggle for survival.

The two other stories that I liked best in this collection were The Monk’s Tale and The Maker of Idols. In the Monk’s Tale, Tashi Passang tells us about his decision to break his vows as a monk and take up arms against the Chinese during their invasion into Tibet; the unbearable hatred; and the guilt that still remains with him for having taken part in such violence. He also tells us how he eventually overcame his anger and hatred. It was both touching and inspirational. (For some reason, I’ve always enjoyed reading about monks. In fact, I remember pouring over the Dalai Lama’s autobiography during my Only Fiction phase).

The Maker of Idols relates to us the story of Srikanda Stpathy, a bronze caster. It was interesting to read about the rituals and requirements in creating an idol. I also found the dialogue amusing. It made the story seem more personal and because of that, heartwarming.

In brief, The Red Fairy explores Sufism and its rift with mainstream Islam. The Lady Twilight and The Song of the Blind Minstrel talk about Tantra and Baul philosophy. Both philosophies diverge from mainstream Hinduism by embracing the taboos of orthodox religion and rejecting socially accepted norms and traditions.

Nine Lives is a fascinating study into how religion is a major part of our identity, especially because it helps define our values, beliefs and priorities. Keeping up with the times while still preserving what we believe is an important part of us seems to be the struggle of a traditional society. Reflecting on this, it seems that most people are forced to compartmentalize their lives with religion in a separate box. The world doesn’t have time for religion that is all pervasive – not unless it’s heavily tweaked.

I enjoyed reading this book very much. I thought the narrative was fairly objective, but not so much that the stories were dry and harsh. I liked the snippets of history and brief descriptions given by the author. It felt very much like I was being shown a story rather than being told one. I don’t think this book will disappoint regardless of whether you’re interested in history, religion, people, good writing, or just a good story.

‘Still, every day, I pray to our family deity, Kamakshi Amman, to change his mind and preserve the lineage. I have even promised to renovate her temple if my prayers are answered. But I know that if my boy gets high marks he will certainly go off to Bangalore – and it looks as if he will do well in his exams. For some reason all the Brahmin boys do well in maths and computer exams. Maybe that’s in the blood too – after all we’ve been making calculations for astronomy for 5, 000 years.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Srikanda, shrugging his shoulders. ‘It’s all part of the world opening up. After all, as my son says, this is the age of computers. And as much as I might want otherwise, I can hardly tell him this is the age of the bronze caster.’ – page 204 (The Maker of Idols)

Book Review · Books · Muriel Spark

The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark

The first book I’d read by Muriel Spark was The Snobs and, like I confessed in my review of it, I did not care for it very much. I couldn’t understand how people could compare the work of Muriel Spark with Penelope Fitzgerald whose book, The Bookshop, I’d adored. In fact, the primary reason for my decision to read another Muriel Spark book was to explore her writing before I decided to write her off completely. I have to say that I enjoyed Muriel Spark’s novel, The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, far more than I did her book of short stories.

The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie is set in the 1930s in Edinburgh, Scotland. The story is of a Miss Jean Brodie, an unconventional school teacher and her chosen students with whom she can speak freely. These girls, chosen by Miss Brodie, are popularly known as the Brodie Set. And though they are admired for their exclusivity by other girls at the conservative Marcia Blaine School, their mentor isn’t as well accepted by her fellow teachers. In fact, the headmistress tries very hard, throughout the story, to wheedle out some proof of misconduct on Miss Brodie’s part.

Miss Jean Brodie believes that she is in her prime. This is a major asset to her girls, who now have the opportunity to absorb the enlightening things that Miss Brodie is experiencing at this time in her life – so she says to them. The story follows the lives of the Brodie set, the influence that Miss Brodie has on them, their own reflections, discoveries, and personal decisions. Most of the story is told through the perspective of the Brodie Set, although it is written in the third person and is also very objective in certain places.

 

“It is not to be supposed that Miss Brodie was unique at this point of her prime; or that (since such things are relative) she was in any way off her head. She was alone, merely, in that she taught in a school like Marcia Blaine’s. There were legions of her kind during the nineteen thirties, women from the age of thirty and upward, who crowded their war‐bereaved spinsterhood with voyages of discovery into new ideas and energetic practices in art or social welfare, education or religion. The progressive spinsters of Edinburgh did not teach in schools, especially in schools of traditional character like Marcia Blaine’s School for Girls. It was in this that Miss Brodie was, as the rest of the staff spinsterhood put it, a trifle out of place. But she was not out of place amongst her own kind, the vigorous daughters of dead or enfeebled merchants, of ministers of religion, University professors, doctors, big warehouse owners of the past, or the owners of fisheries who had endowed these daughters with shrewd wits, high‐coloured cheeks, constitutions like horses, logical educations, hearty spirits and private means. They could be seen leaning over the democratic counters of Edinburgh grocers’ shops arguing with the Manager at three in the afternoon on every subject from the authenticity of the Scriptures to the question what the word “guaranteed” on a jam‐jar really meant. They went to lectures, tried living on honey and nuts, took lessons in German and then went walking in Germany; they bought caravans and went off with them into the hills among the lochs; they played the guitar, they supported all the new little theatre companies; they took lodgings in the slums and, distributing pots of paint, taught their neighbours the arts of simple interior decoration; they preached the inventions of Marie Stopes; they attended the meetings of the Oxford Group and put Spiritualism to their hawk‐eyed test. Some assisted in the Scottish Nationalist Movement; others, like Miss Brodie, called themselves Europeans and Edinburgh a European capital, the city of Hume and Boswell.” ~ pgs. 34 – 35

 

I realize that the bit I’ve said about the book before the excerpt doesn’t say very much about the plot or the story itself. The truth is I’m not sure I can summarize the story well enough without spoiling it completely for anyone else planning to read this book. In fact, the best part of this book for me was the not knowing what would happen next. I thought it was very unpredictable in an easy going sort of way, unlike in a mystery novel.

I liked reading The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, mostly because it was excellently written. I know I compared her writing to Roald Dahl’s books for adults in my other review. I still think there are certain features reminiscent of Roald Dahl. In terms of writing style alone, this novel reminded me a lot of Sylvia Plath’s writing. The descriptions are vivid and sharp; the ideas blunt and amusing, and the expressions are unique. The writing voice is slightly stronger than Penelope Fitzgerald’s softer, kinder tone, even though her writing is very ‘matter of fact’ as well. Both Muriel Spark and Penelope Fitzgerald write very intriguing stories about brave spinster women stirring up change with individualism. If you’ve read any of these writers do let me know what you think 🙂

Book Review · Psychology · Sylvia Plath · Uncategorized

The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

My friend, Loretta, and I keep talking about how we should resurrect the weekly book discussions we’d begun in Pune. It’s not quite easy though with her being in Australia, me in India, the major time difference between us, and the fact that we both have so much to do anyway. The book we’d chosen to discuss for our last meeting (which never happened, sadly) was The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. I managed to complete this book in one sitting on a Friday when I was feeling too blah to care about my other responsibilities. I spent most of that day lying on the couch, lost in Sylvia Plath’s shockingly hilarious book.

I don’t know why I’d waited so long to read this book. I’d known it was a semi-autobiographical account of Plath’s struggle with mental illness and clinical depression – and that had fascinated me, as a student of Clinical Psychology. I guess I kept putting it off because I expected it to be gloomy and depressing, like most other books based on psychopathology. However, The Bell Jar turned out to be a surprise. It was witty, insightful and intriguing. I hadn’t expected it to be so funny. It’s become one of those books I can’t help flipping through every so often, rereading my favourite passages.

Apart from describing the experience of being clinically depressed and schizophrenic (that’s what most researchers claim her symptoms indicate), this book is also revealing to the mind of Esther Greenwood, a 21-year old girl in the 1950s.

In brief, the story begins with Esther Greenwood as an intern in New York. The magazine Esther is interning for that summer is famous and comes with many perks. It’s striking that she isn’t taken up with the sudden glamour. In fact, on her last night in New York, Esther flings out her new stylish clothes one by one out the window and watches them float away. Her friends from the magazine, her boss, the boy who imagines himself engaged to her, and her longing to be a writer and to live an exciting life herself, are all sketched out in the most unpretentious way that it reverses the solemn subject of the story to amusement. Society’s expectations and Esther’s own conflicting views suggest a tangential independent streak that was probably quite foreign to the larger population of the time (I hesitate to use the word ‘feminist’ because it seems to have so many confusing connotations). For one, she voices her confusion of women having to remain pure and innocent, while men were allowed to follow a double standard. And when her mother tries convincing her to be a typist, she writes that she’d rather write her “own thrilling letters” instead of someone else’s.

 

Of course, somebody had seduced Buddy, Buddy hadn’t started it and it wasn’t really his fault. It was this waitress at the hotel he worked at as a busboy the last summer at Cape Cod. Buddy had noticed her staring at him queerly and shoving her breasts up against him in the confusion of the kitchen, so finally one day he asked her what the trouble was and she looked him straight in the eye and said, “I want you.”

“Served up with parsley?” Buddy had laughed innocently.

“No,” she had said. “Some night.”

And that’s how Buddy had lost his pureness and virginity. (pg. 146)

 

It might be nice to be pure and then to marry a pure man, but what if he suddenly confessed he wasn’t pure after we were married, the way, Buddy Willard had? I couldn’t stand the idea of a woman having to have a single pure life and a man being able to have a double life, one pure and one not.

Finally I decided that if it was so difficult to find a redblooded intelligent man who was still pure by the time he was twenty-one I might as well forget about staying pure myself and marry somebody who wasn’t pure either. Then when he started to make my life miserable I could make his miserable as well. (pg. 166)

 

In some ways this is a coming of age story, as many have pointed out. However, the bell jar that closes down on Esther’s life stifles dreams and hopes so that she’s wary and content with surviving. This book is fearless and modern in that Esther’s passage to adulthood is marked by rejecting the accustomed norm of womanhood i.e., marriage and children. At 22, she’s already been through enough to have a clear assessment of mental illness and an appreciation for the strength that helped her through it. This helps strengthen her existing views of societal norms, interestingly.

It was fascinating to read Esther’s thoughts, her slide into uncertainty, the gloom about meaninglessness in life and achievement, her attempt to commit suicide, and the journey to recovery. It’s impossible not to be impressed by Esther’s courage in both overcoming her illness and in daring to question societal norms at a time when it was unthinkable. Eventually, it’s her courage and ability to form an independent opinion based on her own experiences that mark the entrance into adulthood.

 

Doctor Nolan had said, quite bluntly, that a lot of people would treat me gingerly, or even avoid me, like a leper with a warning bell. My mother’s face floated to mind, a pale, reproachful moon, at her last and first visit to the asylum since my twentieth birthday. A daughter in an asylum! I had done that to her. Still, she had obviously decided to forgive me.

“We’ll take up where we left off, Esther,” she had said, with her sweet, martyr’s smile. “We’ll act as if all this were a bad dream.”

A bad dream.

To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is the bad dream.

A bad dream. (pg. 448)

 

I liked The Bell Jar for so many reasons, the most important being that it was exceptionally well written. There are quite a few books and movies about clinical depression but very few manage to describe the battle against hopelessness without being either detached or uncomfortably morbid. I don’t know how to describe this book without sounding morbid myself but, this book was laugh-out-loud funny as well as thought provoking. Read it and you will see 🙂

 

Book Review · Fiction · Muriel Spark · Uncategorized

The Snobs by Muriel Spark

The SnobsThe Snobs, besides being the title of the book, is also one of the stories included in this brief collection of short stories by Muriel Spark. The other four are The First Year of My Life, The Fortune-Teller, Christmas Fugue, and the Executor. At ten rupees, I considered this book a steal. Muriel Spark is well known and has won many literary awards for her stories with their twists and plots that have readers intrigued till the end.

This book was my first sample of Muriel Spark’s writing. I have to be honest and say that while the twists in her stories were certainly intriguing, I was not as enchanted as I have been by many other books. Watership Down by Richard Adams, The Glassblowers by Daphne du Maurier, and The Bookshop by Penelope Fitzgerald come to mind as examples of books that have held me completely captive. I realize that this is probably a reflection of certain preferences that I have while reading.

I’m not sure if I should offer short descriptions of the stories since they’re tiny tales with plenty happening. It’s difficult to say where I might be spoiling the reading experience for someone else. But if I may try: The first story in this collection, The Snobs, is about an amusing couple who are such frightful snobs.  The First Year of My Life is, again, fairly self-explanatory. It’s the story about the thoughts of a baby, a few months old, who baffles everyone by refusing to smile. The Fortune Teller is a bewitching tale about a girl whose destiny is altered unexpectedly without her being aware of it.

Christmas Fugue is the most difficult to explain: Cynthia believes her life has become ‘empty’ in Australia after her cousin, Moira, leaves. It is interesting to read about the occurrences that reverse it. The fifth story, The Executor is a gripping account of Susan Kyle’s experience as her uncle’s literary executor.

The stories have been told very well. They’re imaginative, descriptive, and unlikely. Muriel Spark’s writing is intelligent and sharp, with a good dose of black humour and elements that add shock. It made me think of a friend I had in college who was disturbingly observant, appeared clairvoyant, and said the most outrageous things. We used to tiptoe around her because we never knew what to expect. And that’s how I imagine I might feel if Muriel Spark were alive and I happened to meet her. I have developed a mild distaste for a style with a caustic edge. I would much prefer to meet Penelope Fitzgerald, whose writing style is gentler and somehow friendlier.

One other thing that I am unable to appreciate anymore is extravagant absurdity.  I felt that the short stories by Muriel Spark reminded me of the short stories for adults written by Roald Dahl. Now I like Roald Dahl’s writing for children. In fact, I adore it along with Quentin Blake’s engaging illustrations. But I do not care for Henry Sugar or any of the other characters invented by Roald Dahl for his adult readers, or the stories that they’re in. I don’t think I enjoy the absurd as much as I used to.

Apart from personal preferences that draw me towards other books and other authors, I liked Muriel Spark’s lucid writing and dead pan way of saying things. There were parts that made me laugh. Her writing, without a doubt, is stylish.

The pilot walked up the aisle towards Cynthia. He sat down beside her.

‘A complete nut. They do cause anxiety on planes. But maybe he’s harmless. He’d better be. Are you feeling lonely?’

Cynthia looked at the officer. He was good-looking, fairly young, young enough. ‘Just a bit,’ she said.

‘First class is empty,’ said the officer. ‘Like to come there?’

‘I don’t want to – ‘

‘Come with me,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Cynthia. What’s yours?’

‘Tom. I’m one of the pilots. There are three of us today so far. Another’s coming on at Bangkok.’

‘That makes me feel safe.’  (pg.38)

Book Review · Books · Fiction · Penelope Fitzgerald

The Bookshop by Penelope Fitzgerald

the bookshopI bought this book, The Bookshop, at the Daryaganj Book Market in Delhi because it looked like it might be an interesting read. It’s a shame I waited three years before I finally did read it. If I had read it sooner I’d probably have managed to secure copies of Fitzgerald’s other books and savoured each one by 2016.

In The Bookshop, Penelope Fitzgerald tells the story of a middle aged woman, Florence Green, who decides to open a bookshop in the fictitious East Anglian town of Hardborough in the year 1959. The narrative meanders through the challenges Florence Green faces in starting the only bookshop in a town where the general majority does not see the sense in having a bookshop. There is, in particular, a Mrs. Gamart, who attempts to dissuade our protagonist from starting the bookshop. When Florence Green, a very insignificant person in comparison to Mrs. Gamart, politely refuses to be persuaded and stands firm in her decision, she only invites a barrage of more difficulties. It doesn’t help that the Old House, her new home and location of the bookshop, is haunted by poltergeists.

This story is not fast paced or thrilling in any way. It’s quiet with few embellishments. Penelope Fitzgerald’s writing voice is gentle and very matter of fact here. You do not see Florence Green wallowing in self-pity or lashing out in anger at the injustices hurled her way. She is pictured as a kind, unpretentious woman with an outlook on life that is balanced between reality and hope.

The writing style is clear and descriptive with characters that come alive and make your eyes widen at their behavior, or shake your head and laugh quietly. The author manages to convey courage and strength even while focusing on the ordinariness of her main character. I could picture Florence Green sighing at the unpleasantness that life dealt her, then shrugging and trying to figure out her next step.

The qualities that made this book a delight to read were its quiet discernment of human life and Penelope Fitzgerald’s exquisite brilliance in telling a story that has no seeming plot. In a way, it is reminiscent of actual human life that does not have a prominent plot either. The narrative is clear-eyed in relating instances that make one gasp in shock for the poor lady. As the jacket on the book reads, “This story is for anyone who knows that life has treated them with less than justice.” To me, The Bookshop seemed to suggest that even the most ordinary person is an interesting story of themselves and can find ways to connect with other people. It goes without saying that this is highly dependent on how well the story is told.

I found out this afternoon that this novel was one of the author’s earlier works and is based on personal experiences. While Penelope Fitzgerald had worked part time in a bookshop, the similarity that strikes us is the unexpected difficulties she faced in her middle years. It was interesting to learn that she published her books only after the age of sixty.

I thought The Bookshop was a lovely book! I liked its quiet lack of emphasis, the charming narrative, and unpretentious humanness throughout. I will definitely be on the lookout for more of Penelope Fitzgerald’s books.