Fifty Forgotten Books by R. B. Russell (2022)

 I'm beginning to develop a shorthand for a recent change in literature. At the moment, it's LITE21C. When I was young, "lite" literature was what was called 'the beach read'. These were typified by things like lurid covers, foiling of the cover-text and, most importantly, being in A-format (which is those smallest paperbacks, usually 18cm high and 11 across). Bookstands in airports were full of them, yes, which was part of what led to the beach read appellation, but they had a broader cultural signifier of light reading, and were widely available throughout the trade. Nowadays, the threads have changed, most works are not in that format, but we still have the need for light reading, of course. So light reads, deceptively but I don't think altogether intentionally so, are in the same format as the weightier ones. In fact, the level of intention is probably the important thing to investigate. It often appears to lead to confusion, at the least. This is a LITE21C read. I enjoy light reading on occasion, like many. But I do inevitably end up thinking, in these days of can't-tell-one-thing-from-another-ness, that I hope people are still registering the difference. These are mini-essays on the author's favourite 'lost' books, and contain genial stories of discovering them in secondhand bookshops, of characters met whilst doing so, also of a bit of personal history alongside: joining literary societies, starting his own publishing business with a partner, and again the characters encountered in doing so. He is part of a set who are very influenced by writers of the supernatural, like Arthur Machen and H. P. Lovecraft, and who work on producing new editions of them. I really enjoy all the stuff about collecting interesting old books, as it's a passion of mine, and always get pleasure from hearing about the deeper background of authors who are known to me in only a limited way. The classic terms of appealing light reading really. The designation is recognisable not because of any strict determination of content, I think at least, but rather because of the feeling it gives of being a congenial wander through a subject. Perfectly pleasant, and completely unchallenging. Very different to "weighty" reading.

Descents of Memory by Morine Krissdóttir (2007)

 This is, as far as I am aware, the only substantial biography of John Cowper Powys. There have been pieces dedicated to all three writer brothers, there have been works of literary criticism with strong biographical content, but this is the first attempt to cover him solo from a biographical standpoint. Of course, the Powyses being what they were, there is no avoiding Theodore and Llewelyn, as they were critical in their brother's imaginative and practical life, makeup and exigencies. All the other children of the family are here in reasonable detail also, as are the parents, who were equally influential. Krissdóttir's angle is psychological, an extremely fruitful one when it comes to this subject. Not only was he fascinated by it, allowing it to leak into all his works to varying degrees, he was also subject to great swathes of manias, conceits and theorisings in his personal life, as far as those two things can be separated in such a Herculean being. The picture that is built up is an extraordinary one, of a character seething with ego and not necessarily recognising it, of the eldest of the clannish family running amok with the respect with which he was accorded by them, of early beginnings of somewhat curdled sexuality and decadence, of what became typical brazen selfishness covered over with childlike manipulation, of the eventual development of incredible levels of complexity and vision in novels which have the quality of being both folie de grandeurs and inspiringly magnificent. This piece also releases another vital story, although in a slightly muted fashion - that of Phyllis Playter, his second partner. Records of her in the form of letters or diaries are a lot less common, which explains the partial quality of the portrait. I would have liked to see a little more decision in the analysis of their connection, a plumping for reasons - it seems to me that this has happened in the case of Powys himself, but Krissdóttir has declined to do the same for Playter. There are surely conclusions to which a biographer could come regarding the deeper contexts of their relationship - what we get is a "maybe-ing" instead. The one thing which I think the book is fully missing also relates to Playter, though it may be something to do with length. It's already a very long book, quite appropriately, with somewhat spidery text on 44-line pages with slim margins - it really should have been two volumes, and falls in half very readily. But, having grown familiar to a significant extent with Playter, having had her hard life exposed from both a strictly biographical standpoint and a feminist one, and grown to care about these things, we should, I feel, have had an epilogue about her life between Powys' death in 1963 and hers in 1982. The lack feels like a missing last figure in the pattern. But what is here is an extraordinary and serious revelation, the result of a titanic amount of work, and to be celebrated with not exactly joy, but a feeling of enlightenment.