Recommended! by Nicola Wilson

Sometimes there comes along a book you never even hoped you’d get to read – something so totally up your street that it feels almost like a personal kindness that the author was willing to write. Such is Recommend! (2025) by Nicola Wilson – subtitled ‘the influencers who influenced how we read’. It is a history of the Book Society, which began in 1929 as one of the UK’s first book-of-the-month clubs, and went on for many more decades.

The idea was simple: notable authors of the day would read advance copies of books and pick a choice for their growing number of subscribers. If they didn’t want that, there would be alternatives they could substitute in. Each book would come with the Book Society News, including reviews and articles. The everyday, normal reader could have what highbrow literary groups had had for generations. They even had a ‘literary club’ in London that any subscribers were welcome to visit and use, though who knows how many did. Forgive a long quote, but I enjoyed this aspirational look at what a dinner between five literary minds could and would turn into:

For as the red wine was served out, followed by whiskey and cigars for the men, cigarettes for the ladies, the writers’ plans began to take shape: month by month, book by book, they’d change how people thought about reading. As judges their tastes would be broad and eclectic, embracing popular genres and literary fiction, as well as history, travel writing, and memoir. They would not take themselves too seriously; books should be enjoyable and for everyone. By supporting new authors and encouraging a habit of book-buying, they’d break the back of the private subscription library market, enabling ordinary, busy people to build their own collections of first editions. They would help those without nearby bookshops to keep up with new writing and ideas, creating a wide Anglophone reading community. Their selections and recommendations will be bestsellers, making publishers, agents, and booksellers take note. They’d shake up the staid book world with their expert advice, allowing wider audiences, with a growing appetite for books, better access to a world from which many felt actively excluded

Along the way, they would gain enemies. Personal attacks and jibes about their integrity would haunt them, threatening to topple their careers. They would be accused of dumbing down, mocked as ‘middlemen’ for ‘conferring authority on a taste for the second-rate’. Not all five would stick it out. But the Book Society they began that night would serve tens of thousands of readers worldwide for the next forty years, steering a course through the Great Depression, the rise of fascism, and the devastation of World War II. Hundreds of what we now think of as twentieth-century classics would first reach readers wrapped in ‘Book Society Choice’ yellow bands.

The initial group included names still known today. The head of the selection committee was Hugh Walpole; alongside him was J.B. Priestley and Rose Macaulay, though the latter dropped out before the first novel was published. Replacing her was Clemence Dane (pseudonym of Winifred Ashton), and the others on that initial committee are perhaps less remembered – writer and reviewer Sylvia Lynd and academic George Gordon, lending the group some critical respectability. Later judges who get a lot of space in the book include Cecil Day-Lewis and Edmund Blunden.

Wilson takes us through the set up of the group, its advertising and some initial pushback, and how the first books were chosen – which seems not to have been plain sailing. ‘For Hugh, the club’s first choice was a mess’, she writes. His father died in the midst of the decision making, and so he had to leave it to others – who were debating between Helen Beauclerk’s The Love of the Foolish Angel and Joan Lowell’s non-fiction The Cradle of the Deep. The former was chosen – which turned out to be a relief, as Lowell’s book was exposed as a hoax.

The book is structured chronologically, but with different judges taking centre stage at different times. I was a little sceptical about this at first – after all, if we delve into Hugh Walpole’s life (for instance) only for the initial chapter, then how would Wilson deal with significant things happening to him later? How would it work to only learn depths about Sylvia Lynd in chapter four? Well, and not for the last time, I’m very impressed by Wilson’s handling of her material. Somehow, it works. She expertly manages to assess when we really need to learn more about a judge’s personal life – whether that be affairs and divorce, substance abuse, or merely the shifting literary fortunes that gave them more or less time to devote to the Book Society. It works brilliantly, and Recommended! becomes rather a page-turner.

I’m skimming the surface of the details in here (you’ll just have to read it!) but, to be honest, I’d have been captivated if Recommended! were only an account of the mechanics of starting and running a book-of-the-month club. And it’s so much more. Wilson doesn’t tell us about every single choice at length, there are plenty of satisfyingly detailed sections exploring why books were chosen, what that did to their reputation, who squabbled with whom, etc. And the choice of titles is certainly varied. While book-of-the-month clubs now tend towards popular, pacey fiction, the Book Society were unafraid to recommend hefty history books – and, indeed, many of the leading highbrow writers of the day.

I said it on Tea or Books? when mentioning Recommended! and I’ll say it again – I was blown away by Wilson’s research. I wrote about the Book Society for my DPhil and spent quite a lot of time researching it – and I know how extremely difficult it was to find any information. It was a struggle even to find a list of the books they chose, and indeed I failed to find a complete list – but Wilson has found far, far more. The newsletters, the relevant correspondence, the detailed understanding of the judges’ lives throughout the decades – there is so much expert research presented in an engaging way, and it never feels like anything is missing. It is extremely impressive, and I doff my cap to Wilson.

While the Book Society continued until the 1960s, Wilson’s book takes us up to the end of the Second World War, with a postscript and some appendices covering the later years – which is rather a relief, to be honest, as we could stay in the heyday. The only thing missing from this exceptional book is a full list of titles as an appendix – they are listed at the ends of chapters, but that does require quite a lot of flicking about, and I’d have preferred to have a full list to consult.

The Book Society may never have numbered millions of subscribers, but it truly changed the way that society – or a certain section of society, at least – chose and read their books. It could have been a curio of literary history, left to explore in the shadows by students like me. I’m so glad that Wilson has rescued The Book Society from that fate with this captivating, fascinating book that garlands its incredible research with an approachable chattiness. In conclusion: Recommended! is heartily recommended.

Mr Teddy by E.F. Benson

Mr Teddy

I have a teetering pile of E.F. Benson novels I’ve not read – he was so prolific, and some of his books aren’t that easy to come across, so I always snap up any that I find in the wild. Most of the time, I love reading the results of this foraging – occasionally, some of his earlier novels haven’t worked as well for me. But mostly he has a witty view of small-town communities that revels in their competitiveness and bitchiness and interdependence, and I lap it all up.

Mr Teddy (1917)  – published in the US as The Tortoise – falls somewhere in the middle of his writing career. On the first page, ‘Mr Teddy’ – Edward Heaton – is shaving in the mirror and reflecting on the fact that he has just turned 40 years old. That felt apposite, as I am a few months away from the milestone myself. He is a decent, kind man who has enough wealth to make decency and kindness fairly easy on the whole, though he struggles to achieve his potential – his potential being artistic. He has made plenty of very good, half-finished portraits… and nothing more. The morning of his 40th birthday is a time for reflection on such incomplete achievements.

One area of his life where kindness is very much evident is in dealing with the true monster of the book – his mother, Mrs Heaton. I say ‘monster’. She is also the novel’s greatest delight, for me. In her, Benson has created an exceptional portrait of long-suffering, where the suffering is entirely confected and the complaints about it weary everyone around her. She is constantly saying that nobody must consider her feelings, that they clearly don’t care about her opinions or her anguish, all the while refusing to allow anybody to help her and deliberately misinterpreting anything as a personal barb.

“I know I have have no say in the matter,” said his mother, instantly proceeding to have a pretty good ‘say’,”because you are master of this house, and I am your pensioner. Whether that was or was not a kind and considerate way of your father to leave his money, so that I was necessarily dependent on you for the ordinary comforts of life, I hope I have too great a loyalty to his memory to say. Nothing shall induce me to open my lips on that subject. You will perhaps tell me when you have decided what room to give Robin; and if you settle to give him my bedroom, I’m sure I will sleep wherever you choose to put me without a murmur – not that I sleep much at the best of times.”

Benson is so adept at this sort of character, and Mrs Heaton is both consistent and infuriating. Edward puts up with her in a manner befitting a saint, only occasionally allowing impatience to creep into his voice (and being made to pay for it). Perhaps a little more impatience would have made him a little more realistic. Certainly, I found myself deeply frustrated by Mrs Heaton – in a way that I loved reading about.

Teddy’s dearest friend is a younger woman called Daisy, in and out of their house constantly in the manner of villagers who have known each other forever, and who belong to the very select upper class of the community. (The lower classes may as well not exist except as servants, in Mr Teddy, and there is no indictation of their experience of village life.) While notably younger than Teddy, she has reached an age where she considers herself on the shelf – somewhat south of 30. But if Teddy were to ask her…

A fun side plot is Daisy’s sister’s career as an author. Her novels appear in instalments in the parish magazine, and from thence are published under a pseudonym and pretty popular with the wider public. As publishing approaches go, I suspect that was always unusual. Marion takes her writing career extremely seriously, not least as the moral compass of her readers. She considers it both shocking and an enormous responsibility when one of her characters loses her Christian faith (though she will resume it after a decent interval). Benson – and Marion’s readers – take her career rather less seriously.

Now in late October the era of ‘winter dessert’ had begun, and while Daisy ate a small green apple, which quite resisted the cutting edge of a silver knife, Marion chose a hard ginger-nut which was nearly as intractable to the teeth. She announced about this period the news of the impending salvation of Mrs Anstruther.

“Well, that’s a great relief to me,” said Daisy. “I have often felt quite depressed in thinking of her. I wondered if you would find you could touch her heart.”

“Yes, but I think she must die,” said Marion.

Speaking of dying – a spoiler for about a third of the way through the novel – Mrs Heaton’s self-pity for once is justified, and she dies. Her behaviour is, indeed, rather more tolerable during this trying period. Like so many self-obsessed nuisances, she deals better with crises than with everyday inconveniences. Sadly for Mr Teddy, I think this is where the novel loses a lot of its momentum. In the remaining two-thirds of the novel, new neighbours arrive and Edward’s possible romantic life becomes more significant. I enjoyed Mr Teddy right through to the end – but it had lost its main spectacle.

We are often told that conflict is necessary for action in a novel, and I think that is only true if ‘conflict’ is considered in the loosest possible manner. It’s perfectly possible to write an excellent novel without anybody as dislikable as Mrs Heaton. But her selfishness is not only an exceptionally good, funny portrait – it also, somehow, gave the novel its momentum. If only to see which character might finally snap and murder her. With Mrs Heaton off the page, it became a pleasant, witty comedy of manners – but without any obvious driving force.

Such plot as there is seems to come in rather a rush at the end, and Benson does rather try to have his cake and eat it with some genuinely poignant moments – perhaps falling a little too near the writings by Marion that he is teasing about. I think Mr Teddy would have been more successful if he had kept his antagonist alive – and resisted a little self-indulgent bathos. But E.F. Benson is E.F. Benson, and I really enjoyed my time in this novel even with those quibbles. And there are plenty more on the Benson tower to enjoy next.

StuckinaBook’s Weekend Miscellany

Hope you’re having a good weekend! I have a jam-packed one, seeing lots of friends (and also the musical Titanique, which I’m very excited about). Along the way, I’ll be having my first ever Peruvian meal, or at least what London thinks is Peruvian food. Not to mention, of course, a handful of books along the way – a couple of train journeys will helpfully contribute there. I also have a pile of books I finished before May still waiting to be reviewed, as they were neglected for A Book A Day In May.

Whatever you’re up to, here are a book, a link, and a blog post to help you feeling weekendish.

1.) The link – ok, niche audience maybe, but my friend Lizzie and I have started a podcast about the soap opera Emmerdale! It’s called Dingle All The Way, after the Dingle family, and you can find it on Spotify or wherever you get podcasts.

2.) The blog post – I’m not going to lie, I was hoping to see more blog reviews of The Spring Begins by Katherine Dunning, especially as Scott (Furrowed Middlebrow) and I have both made it our top books of the year. It is now available, so please do go and read it! It’s marvellous! What are you waiting for! Don’t just take my word and Scott’s word for it – Caro has written a wonderful review too now.

A Crumpled Swan: Fifty essays about Abigail Parry's 'In the dream of the cold restaurant'

3.) The book – yes, this book grabbed my attention because I misread the subtitle and thought it was 50 essays about Abigail’s Party, and wouldn’t that be wonderful? But, having corrected myself, I’m still intrigued by David Collard’s A Crumpled Swan: Fifty essays about Abigail Parry’s ‘In the dream of the cold restaurant’, which looks to be far more wide-ranging than the title suggests – looking at wider issues of writing and reading, using a single poem as a basis. It could be fantastic or it could be extremely self-indulgent, and I’ll need to read it to find out.

Project 24 update (books 6-14)

I haven’t updated you on my Project 24 buying for a good while – and please know that that is absolutely not because I’ve been behaving on that front. In fact, I’m getting ahead of where I should be.

Let’s go in the order I bought them, which is unhelpfully not the order that they’re pictured above.

An Avenue of Stone by Pamela Hansford Johnson
I was in a bookshop in Stirling, Scotland, a month or two ago, and didn’t want to leave it empty-handed. There were quite a few rare-ish books that I loved, but already owned. It felt like the kind of shop where I should be able to find something special – and in the end I plumped for An Avenue of Stone by Pamela Hansford Johnson, having recently loved her novel Catherine Carter. I was a little hesitant, because it is apparently the middle of a trilogy, but I figured I could start accumulating…

Adventures of an Ordinary Mind by Lesley Conger
Lesley Conger wasn’t a name I knew, but when Brad/Neglected Books posted on BlueSky, I immediately ordered a copy across the Atlantic. I love books about reading, and apparently this is one the earliest examples that Brad has come across. It’s not your stereotypical ‘busy wife and mother’ reading – she seems to lean towards the Greek classics – but I’m looking forward to delving in.

Agatha Christie’s Marple by Mark Aldridge
Agatha Christie’s Poirot by Mark Aldridge

I forgot to include these in the picture, but I found a couple of interesting looking books that trace Agatha Christie’s most famous detectives through their careers – including the genesis and reception of each book.

Crooked Cross by Sally Carson
Persephone have been trumpeting this reprint as a bestseller even before it was published – and, since it is a portrait of a selfish tyrant becoming a global leader, it is sadly all too relevant to today. I had a trip to Bath a couple of weeks ago and made sure to pick up a copy (as well as pressing Guard Your Daughters on a friend).

The Provincial Lady Goes Further by E.M. Delafield
The Provincial Lady in Wartime by E.M. Delafield

Women Are Like That by E.M. Delafield
The Babe, B.A. by E.F. Benson
On the way back from a church weekend away, I decided to stop at Canons Ashby National Trust. I just fancied a nice day out in the sunshine, and somewhere to finish that day’s book for A Book A Day In May. Well, what a nice surprise to discover they were doing a book fair in the old priory. And, oh gosh, I had the experience we all dream of in that situation.

I don’t have high hopes for this sort of thing, which is often piles of crime thrillers and paperbacks that were popular in 2005. But (as always) I headed for the ‘old and interesting’ table. And I couldn’t believe it when I spied Women Are Like That – one of the very few E.M. Delafield books I didn’t previously own, and which is only available very expensively online. And then I found an E.F. Benson stash too!

There were a few rare E.M. Delafields and E.F. Bensons that I already owned, so was happy to leave them there for another person like me to be overjoyed by. But I couldn’t leave behind these two lovely editions of Provincial Lady books – the one series that I allow myself to duplicate at whim. They are the most striking in the photo, and I am very glad to spend some of my Project 24 allowance on them. But it’s Women Are Like That which really excited me – to the point where I genuinely wondered if I were dreaming. I’ve had that found-a-book-I-really-want dream too many times!

So, yes, I officially can’t buy a book until August to keep on track, but (a) I’ve really happy with my choices so far, and (b) I actually ordered a book online this morning…

Finishing #ABookADayInMay

I finished A Book A Day In May today with O Caledonia (1991) by Elspeth Baker. Rachel and I will be pitting it against The Sundial by Shirley Jackson in the next episode of Tea or Books?, so I won’t jump the gun by reviewing it today.

But hurrah for finishing A Book A Day In May – and in rather lovely circumstances, as I took O Caledonia to Blenheim Palace and read pretty much the whole thing in the sunshine, overlooking the lake. It’s only half an hour from my house and I have a year’s membership, meaning I can pop in without feeling I need to explore every corner each time.

I’ve done this reading project, or variants on it, for four or five years now – and it was really fun this year. Last year, with my eyes still quite bad many months after Covid, I did struggle on certain days – so I was really thankful to be able to do so much reading without any deleterious impact on my eyes, even during the peak of hay fever.

This May, it didn’t even feel like I was struggling to fit it in. Some judicious audiobooks and starting books ahead of schedule definitely helped. And, yes, there have been some duds along the way (which Madame Bibi seemed to avoid in her similar project – almost all seemed to be winners) but there were wonderful successes too.

In order of reading them, here are my favourites:

Blue Postcards by Douglas Bruton
The Odd Woman and the City by Vivian Gornick
The Trouble With Sunbathers by Magnus Mills
The New York Trilogy by Paul Auster

The Snake Has All The Lines by Jean Kerr – #ABookADayInMay Day 30

Back in 2012, I read Jean Kerr’s best-known book, apparently turned into a beloved film, Please Don’t Eat The Daisies. She followed it in 1960 with The Snake Has All The Lines – a curious title that apparently comes from her son being cast as Adam in a school play about Eden, but complaining that the snake has all the lines.

Like the previous collection, a lot of The Snake Has All The Lines covers the experience of being a put-upon wife and mother – and, like that collection, it is episodic. The separate comic essays don’t have any overarching narrative, which makes her writing perhaps a little less satisfying to curl up with than something like Raising Demons or Life Among The Savages by Shirley Jackson – but certainly very diverting to dip into. Or, if you’re doing A Book A Day In May, read in one rush.

Kerr is very pithy, and the lines she opens essays with are well-crafted – e.g. ‘I feel about airplanes the way I feel about diets. It seems to me that they are wonderful things for other people to go on.’ She is gifted at observational comedy about domestic life, and does it with a precision and rhythm to her sentences that is always enjoyable. What I will say, though, is that those observations have become truisms over the years. Even in 1960, I suspect it wasn’t the peak of freshness to say that children are a handful and given to chaos, or that husbands are absent-minded and a little bit useless – in the six or so decades since, most comic writers would choose to put a little bit more of a spin on it.

Here she is on married life:

When a man calls you from Tulsa, he invariably makes the mistake of calling either from a public bar or from his mother’s living-room. Neither setting is exactly conducive to a free exchange of ideas. There, within earshot of his fellow revellers or his mother, he can hardly say the one thing you want to hear, which is that he misses you terribly, it’s been a nightmare, a nightmare! and he’s never going to make a trip alone again. For that matter, you can’t tell him you miss him either, because the children are there with you and they become downright alarmed at any hint that their parents have preserved this degrading adolescent attachment so far into senility.

And here’s an example of her take on children:

I know that small children have a cetain animal magnetism. People kiss them a lot. But are they really in demand, socially? Are they sought after? Does anybody ever call on them on the telephone and invite them to spend the week-end on Long Island? Dot heir own grandmothers want them to spent the whole summer in Scranton? No. For one thing they bite, and then they keep trying to make forts with mashed potatoes.

It’s all very entertaining, if not the most original. But there is more variety in The Snake Has All The Lines than I remember there being in Please Don’t Eat The Daisies. As well as wife-and-mother scenarios, Kerr is writing as a successful author and playwright – so there is an essay about dealing with bad reviews, for instance, and one about travelling with a show you’ve written. Most unusually of all, she dramatises Lolita and Humbert Humbert at marriage counselling, which I daresay I’d have understood better had I read more than one and a half pages of Lolita.

Kerr isn’t writing great literature and she isn’t pretending to be. But this is an example of a genre I love – self-deprecating domestic memoirs with an exaggerated tone and a clippy pace – and a very enjoyable example at that.

A couple of underwhelming #ABookADayInMay choices – Days 28 + 29

Coming towards the end of A Book A Day In May, I’ve read a couple of books that weren’t particularly bad, but left me pretty underwhelmed. So let’s race through them.

One Writer's Beginnings: Amazon.co.uk: Welty, Eudora: 9781982152109: Books

One Writer’s Beginnings (1984) by Eudora Welty

I’ve only read two of Eudora Welty’s novels – The Optimist’s Daughter, which I thought was brilliant, and Delta Wedding, which I didn’t. Years and years ago I started One Writer’s Beginnings but somehow never finished it – and, considering it’s 102 pages, I should have taken that as a red flag. Well, I started again and now I’ve read it, but it felt very meh.

One Writer’s Beginnings comes from three lectures that Welty gave at Harvard, and I wonder what they made of them there. Really, this is my fault though. I always find the childhood sections of autobiographies the least interesting sections – and One Writer’s Beginnings told me in the title that that’s what it would be. Welty’s three chapters are basically childhood anecdotes and family folklore, and only right at the end do we get anything hinting at her writing career (beyond the odd mention here and there, which presumably reminded Harvard that they’d invited her as a Pulitzer prizewinning author, rather than someone with a diverting childhood).

There’s nothing wrong with her stories, and some of the things her family experienced were heartrending (there is a poignant section where she accidentally learns about the brother who died, and even more poignant that she adds that her parents never mentioned him again). But I found that her novelist’s craft rather deserted her. Even anecdotes that should be interesting in fundamentals come across as curiously uninteresting. I recognise that I’ve not detailed what many of them are, and that’s because I’ve already forgotten almost all of them. I don’t know why One Writer’s Beginnings was so bland to me, but it was. Your mileage may vary.

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Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda (2015) by Becky Albertalli

I listened to this young adult novel, having previously watched the film – adaptated under the more crowdpleasing title Love, Simon. It’s about a gay teenager (Simon) who has been emailing another gay teenager – both of them using pseudonyms. The novel is about this e-friendship, wondering who ‘Blue’ might be, and the wider group of Simon’s friends and family.

I’d enjoyed the film, but found the book a bit slow by comparison. I didn’t much care about any of Simon’s friends, and the subplots involving them were a bit of a slog. The book picked up towards the end – and, thank you fading memory, I had misremembered the identity of ‘Blue’ – so that revelation came as a surprise the second time around. I guess either I’m too old for this sort of book, or the makers of the film turned it into something a bit zippier. (As a sidenote, and I’ve found this a few times, listening to an audiobook with lots of emails in it is a mistake, cos you can skim over the email address / time stamp / subject line when you’re reading it, and it is tedious to hear all these read out over and over again in an audiobook.)

So, not the best couple of days, so let’s be optimistic for finishing off May well with my next two choices.

Eastwards and Far by Chris Lee-Francis – #ABookADayInMay Day 27

I think I stumbled across Eastwards and Far (2023) by Chris Lee-Francis on Lee-Francis’s Twitter profile, and was intrigued enough to order a copy pronto. As a memoir of cycling across Canada, it combines something I love reading about (Canada) with something I felt fairly ambivalent reading about (cycling) – but, on balance, I liked the idea of seeing Canada through the eyes of an adventurous traveller enough to give it a go. It’s been 25 years since I got a bicycle and I feel, if anything, less likely to get on one after reading Eastwards and Far, but I loved the experience of reading it.

Lee-Francis got the idea while cycling around Ontario in 2013. He spotted a sign for the Trans Canada Trail, and wondered if it would be possible to cycle all the way from Vancouver to the furthest West point of the enormous country – only later realising that the trail wouldn’t be completed until 2017. That gave time for a plan to formulate – and he and has friend Kristian ended up starting their three-month journey in Vancouver by the middle of 2017 (a third friend wasn’t able to get three months off work, so joined in for the final month). Eastwards and Far developed from the journals that Lee-Francis took during that time – turning into an endurance travelogue, documenting the experiences, the beauty, and the Canadians they met along the way.

For the most part, there are not significant dramas. Along the way, some vital belongings go missing, there is a near encounter with a bear, and misreading of a map leaves them with only six eggs to eat and nowhere to buy food – but this is not a memoir about overcoming great hazards and dangers. Rather, it is a memoir of the wonders that can be encountered by undertaking something like this. The highs and lows of battling all weathers and environments to achieve something momentous. And, above all, the interest and kindness of strangers. There are countless people along the way who may only appear for a few paragraphs or a page, but are indelliby part of the men’s experience – whether offering food, somewhere to camp, or simply company.

As the stories continued I realised our bikes had let us skip several layers of social interaction usually required to be sitting in someone’s kitchen talking as friends. A few hours ago we’d not yet met. Now, after nothing more than asking where we could safely violate several byelaws to spend a night sleeping rough without getting caught, we’d been invited over the threshold into their home.

There are definitely amusing moments in Eastwards and Far, but it isn’t played for laughs. This is no attempt to create a Three Men in a Boat style narrative. I’d, instead, describe the tone as warm. Chris Lee-Francis comes across as a thoroughly decent guy – and I suspect a lot of the kindness he and Kristian receive from strangers is because of that decency, and a capacity and willingness to embrace positives encountered every day. What else would possess someone to cycle for thousands of miles?

Of course, hearing about the challenge probably raises lots of logistical questions in your mind – and I enjoyed learning about the answers, particularly the Very Canadian ones. How, for instance, do you deter bears?

At the end of each day in bear country, when you’re nice and relaxed, tent ready and waiting, with a meal and maybe a beer inside you, comes the time to hang your food bags from a nearby tree.

The collective recommendations of friends, park rangers, information pamphlets, and numerous other knowledgeable sources was to suspect all food and cooking gear at least four metres off the ground, a safe distance from camp. Sounds easy, but this part of the day had often become more of a rigmarole than I felt it should’ve been.

The first step was to establish how far away to hang the bags. Received wisdom says at least a hundred metres, which we measured early in the trip to estimating Kristian’s running speed, calculating how long it would take him to run that far, and me timing him while he sprinted off into the distance. Bags would be suspended from a suitable tree somewhere beyond the perimeter.

“That was twelve seconds!” I called to Kristian the first night we did this. “Probably not a hundred metres?”

He looked wounded. “It could be!” he called back.

“Isn’t the world record just under ten?!”

“True! I guess the ground is quite uneven!” He ran a bit further and stopped again.

“That looks good! Probably fourteen seconds total?!” We used this time on subsequent nights.

One aspect that intrigued me, and wasn’t covered in any detail, was what it was like to spend three months constantly with a friend – and high-endurance three months, too. There are very few people I could spend that much time with, without going mad or severing the friendship. The two men seem to still be firm friends by the end, so it was obviously a success – and perhaps scarcely a cross word was spoken between them on the trip. Or perhaps Lee-Francis drew a veil over it.

He keeps the pace up well through the narrative. Something that could have become quite repetitive is somehow compulsive to read – even though he resists any urge to introduce sustained jeopardy. There is never really any doubt that the cyclists will complete their challenge, and do so in one piece. By avoiding any false tension, we can instead enjoy the journey as an adventure into curiosity. I’m still unlikely to ever get back on a bike, let alone undertake any significant challenges, but I really enjoyed reading about it from the comfort of my sofa.

As a sidenote, Eastwards and Far is by some distance the best-quality self-published book I’ve ever come across – French flaps and all! I would have appreciated the font being a little larger, as it is quite tiny, but it was certainly readable. If you’d like to read it yourself, you can get hold of it from Chris Lee-Francis’s website.

Play It As It Lays by Joan Didion – #ABookADayInMay Day 26

I have long meant to read Joan Didion, but didn’t really know what her writing would be like. I knew she wrote about grief in My Year of Magical Thinking, but – despite having read various reviews of her books over the years – hadn’t really pieced together what sort of style her fiction might be. I certainly hadn’t expected anything as hard-boiled as Play It As It Lays (1970).

As the novel opens, we get short chapers from the perspectives of Maria, Helene, and Carter – and the rest of the novel is in short, numbered sections that look at what have led to the opening: which is Maria in a psychiatric institution. Why is she there? Helene explains it to us, briefly, sort of, in the midst of accounting trying to visit Maria in the institutino:

I drove all the way out there, took the entire morning and packed a box for her, all the new books and a chiffon scarf she left at the beach once (she was careless, it must have cost $30, she was always careless) and a pound of caviar, maybe not Beluga but Maria shouldn’t bitch now, plus a letter from Ivan Costello and a long profile somebody did in The New York Times about Carter, you’d think that would at least interest her except Maria has never been able to bear Carter’s success, all that, and Maria wouldn’t see me. “Mrs. Lang is resting,” the nurse said. I could see her resting, I could see her down by the pool in the same bikini she was wearing the summer she killed BZ, lying by that swimming pool with a shade over her eyes as if she hadn’t a care or a responsibility in the world. 

Maria has had an unhappy, chaotic childhood – shaped by her father’s reckless gambling, which leads them to losing their home and moving to a town that he won in another game. The town doesn’t even exist in the ‘present day’ of the novel; nor does the motel, that her father installed where he hoped a highway might conveniently put an exit. She is used to instability and disappointment when she moves to the town characterised by it: Hollywood.

Apparently Play It As It Lays helped to shape the way that mid-century Hollywood was understood. It reminded me of A Way of Life, Like Any Other (1977) by Darcy O’Brien and, to a less extent, Prater Violet (1946) by Christopher Isherwood – which both demonstrate the chaotic insincerity of tinsel town. But, stylistically, Didion is very different. A lot of the short chapters are short, sharp dialogue exchanges between Maria and the people she forms unhealthy, dependent relationships with – her erstwhile husband, Carter; her lover Les; the film producer BZ; his wife Helene. For instance…

“I wasn’t just crazy about your asking Helene how much money BZ’s mother gives them to stay married,” Carter said on the way back in from the beach.

The top was down and Carter was driving too fast because he had to meet Freddy Chaikin and a writer from New York at Chasen’s at seven o’clock. “I wasn’t just crazy about that at all.”

“Well, she does.”

“Does what.”

“Carlotta gives them money to stay married.

‘So what.”

“I’m sick of everybody’s sick arrangements.”

‘You’ve got a fantastic vocabulary.”

She looked at him and she spoke very fast and low.

“I’ve got a fantastic vocabulary and I’m having a baby.”

Carter slowed the car down. ‘I missed a transition,’ he said finally.

Maria did not look at him.

There are other characters who play significant roles – such as Ivan Costello, whom Wikipedia describes as a ‘psychopathic blackmailer’, but he didn’t seem much more psychopathic than anybody else in the novel, to me. Because Didion gives everyone the same staccato, apathetic tone of voice, I did find it hard to disintinguish between characters. It seems deliberate – Play It As It Lays is a composite portrait of emotionless despair – but it did mean, to me, that there wasn’t much nuance between people. It scarcely mattered which absence of empathy Maria spent time with.

As well as exposing the heartlessness of Hollywood, and Maria’s limited and misogynistic experience on two movies (one successful and the other an unreleased critical darling), Play It As It Lays is a thorough portrait of dusty, hot California. Towards the middle of the novel, Maria is mostly occupied with driving – long drives along the freeway, aimless but vital to her continuation. It is oppressive and enveloping for the reader:

In the aftermath of the wind the air was dry, burning, so clear that she could see the ploughed furrows of firebreaks on distant mountains. Not even the highest palms moved. The stillness and clarity of the air seemed to rob everything of its perspective, seemed to alter all perception of depth, and Maria drove as carefully as if she were reconnoitering an atmosphere without gravity. Taco Bells jumped out at her. Oil rockers creaked ominously. For miles before she reached the Thriftimart she could see the big red T, a forty-foot cutout letter which seemed peculiarly illuminated against the harsh unclouded light of the afternoon sky. 

There are key scenes that stand out in the choppy, sparse narrative – perhaps most significantly, the illegal abortion that Maria undertakes, the confusing ways she has to book and find her appointment, and the disastrous aftermath. Didion writes it with relentless reality, resisting any urge to make it a political point.

As Play It As It Lays closes, we learn the truth about what has led Maria to her institution (even though we don’t learn the specifics of why her and Carter’s young daughter is in a different institution). Rather surprisingly, she seems to receive a lot of visits from characters whose behaviour wouldn’t lead you to believe they’d bother.

And it ends, without any real sense of hope (maybe?). Didion is ruthless in her realism. The title is another way of saying ‘play the cards you are dealt’ – and there is a sense that the characters have done, are doing, will do this – and that the result is a moral and emotional neutral. As I said, I didn’t know what to expect from Didion, and it certainly wasn’t this sort of novel. I’m not sure exactly what to make of it. Play It As It Lays certainly has its fan base (Jacqui calls it ‘blisteringly good‘) and I’m a bit less clear about my view. There is certainly a lot to admire, but I found its sparseness and melancholy a little hard to parse. There is a laudable consistency to the tone, but I ended feeling like I knew surprisingly little about Maria, let alone anybody else in the novel. I think I liked the book nonetheless, but perhaps one to revisit to be sure what I think.

Help us celebrate 10 years of Tea or Books?!

A super quick mini-episode – well, not really an episode – asking for your contributions to the next episode of ‘Tea or Books?’. It will be TEN YEARS since Rachel and I first put an episode out into the ether – I can’t believe it’s been a whole decade, and I’m so thankful to everyone who has listened, commented, emailed, reviewed etc over the time.

Will you help us celebrate? In the next episode, I’d love to share your contributions – are there books we’ve suggested that you’ve read and loved? Are there topics you particularly enjoyed? Anything that we can use to celebrate 10 years in style. Do send in your voicenotes or emails to teaorbooks@gmail.com, or put any highlights into the comment section on this blog post.

(Please do, otherwise it’ll be a very quiet first half of the episode!)