Zami by Audre Lorde (1982)

 This book feels a little 'dressed'. I wish it could have discarded this. The author's often sensuous, direct recording of experience is so striking and affecting. But sometimes she'll launch out from this brilliant space and head off into what I would call grandstanding, where the typical excesses brought about by Beat and associated movements of the mid twentieth century twist and snarl up that freeflow. Of course this would not be seen as snarling, rather as amazing poetic enhancement. Grrrrrrrr. But that part of this book, I can happily relate, is minor. Most of it is sumptuously rich with straightforward colour and feeling. Even when it discusses negative emotions or events, it tastes distinctive and is profuse with energy. It is an autobiography, tracing Lorde's life from first understanding in the 30s to the beginning of the 60s. She deals very honestly with family life in New York in the 30s and 40s, her younger self bewildered sometimes, angry sometimes, coming to terms with what it was to be a black girl in a world which felt strongly inimical, even inside her family unit. The weight of history is something to be thrown off in the case of constrictions from her mother (for example), or just felt, understood and fought in the case of the extra belabouredness of being black at that time. Her throwing off also included the realisation of her lesbianism, and a slow progress toward positive celebration of that fact, and, most importantly, a deep picturing of the delights of women, to her mind. In many ways it's a naked book, the aroused body is close by often, registering. The dressing spoken of at the beginning, for me, undercuts this exceptional plain-spokenness. And it exists even in the second subtitle - why should this be a biomythography? It's quite a simple book for almost all of its length, albeit a beautiful and major simplicity. But, despite these small niggles, it's a corker.

An Abdication by JS Mitchell (1969)

 This forgotten book falls into the remit of the deep pocket of novels coming under the heading of 'Late 60s/Early 70s Experimental', a few of which are still celebrated, most gone like this one, but a very defined period which needs expanding for modern readers. It consists of a series of scenes in the life of a thirteen year old schoolboy: nags at school, socially among the boys, and politically with the temperaments of teachers; nags at home with parents who are perhaps a little distant and disconnected; nags more broadly in the world with angers, small bursts of sexual feeling, fears, cussedness and bewilderment. It displays a coolness, where emotions are seen without positivity or heat or need of warmth - more in the zone of curious encrustations on being. Its form is alphabetized, with each section having a heading, and arranged from "Abdication" on the first page to "Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z" on the last. None seems all that much more important than any other, which emphasizes the random quality of using alphacode as the arrangement. Many have sees and see alsos at the end, meaning that one can choose to jump ahead to another section which is somewhat related, or resist the urge and stay alpha-consecutive. Mitchell sometimes has some fun with these, sending the reader on long goose-chases through the book, back and forth until they end up back where they started. This quality of randomness makes me wonder about the intention. Could this have been another example of the novel-in-sections-in-a-box, the most notable example of which is BS Johnson's The Unfortunates? It would certainly work that way, though I don't feel it suffers from being bound together by Faber in the ordinary mode. In the end, it is enjoyable and quietly plangent, its random and overly even quality being the only (and expected) issue, where there's the feeling of a distinct lack of umbrella of arc. It has arcs - only they're tucked away within the confines of each section.

The Lady Paramount by Henry Harland (1902)

 This is the second iteration of what I call 'Harland 3'. Harland 1 was the pseudonymous works by "Sidney Luska"; Harland 2 was the early works under his own name. Harland 3 had by far the most success, being the most primary-coloured and concentrated. And the most romantic. I identified the previous iteration of this last group (The Cardinal's Snuff-Box) by saying that it had chocolate- or cigar-box brilliance of hue. This one's the same. A scion of the current ruling family of a mythical Adriatic island, which has been incorporated into the new Italy, decides she will seek out her cousin, of the denuded branch, regarded as the 'true' one. He's living the life of a gentleman in England. As with The Cardinal's Snuff-Box, in some senses, the action centres around fond deception, falling in love, the test of the other's genuineness of feeling, above and beyond the call of money and position. It also has the same concerns with the Catholic church. It clips along very brightly, the intensification of focus keeping it clear and essential. Their relationship leaps along with playfulness and some charm, until the inevitable revelation, and the melding back together of the parts of the family into a royal whole. My interest has been piqued as to how Harland suddenly 'got' that he could achieve this far greater clarity and pointedness. My suspicions lie with his wife as a potential co-writer. Aline Merriam appears to have been a sculptor, but she did apparently complete his last novel after he died. Is she the person responsible for the escalation of definition?

Lives of Houses edited by Kate Kennedy and Hermione Lee (2020)

 This is a themed anthology which suffers from the usual disease - the effort of compiling such disparate material is a tokenistic one. It is meant as a revelation of what houses mean in human lives, and has a very particular bent toward writers. As such, it's a slightly middling affair. The writing itself being the core of these people's lives, any talk of their houses, however influential in glancing ways, feels like an outer layer of a secret we've already penetrated. Outer layers of course retain their interest, though it doesn't feel particularly essential: one's fascination briefly flares (in some cases) and then dies down without much permanent increment. To do the volume justice, a couple of discoveries have stayed with me: the fact that Lear's nonsense wasn't always brilliant, rather drab, is a reality-check - all tikky-wikky and witchy-wee; and that the Disraelis were seen as arrivistes; and the sad story of Yeats' tower, which is the only more lasting memory associated with the subject matter. Like most subject anthologies, this is just OK. 

The Whisperer in Darkness by HP Lovecraft (2007)

 This is the first volume in a paperback reissue of all of Lovecraft's works. I'd been directed toward him many a time over many years, via the interest in him of people I knew. I finally got there, and my responses are mixed. There are nine pieces in this first volume, among them some of his most famous, like The Dunwich Horror, Dagon and At the Mountains of Madness. Initially, with short pieces like Dagon as a first exposure, I was quietly impressed; there seemed a strange place he occupied, full of landscapes empty of obvious life but which harboured it in hidden places. A fascination with archaeological records persisted, showing lost civilisations and the possible influence of vaguely hinted at others, either of a previously unknown prehistoric intelligent species, or visitors from elsewhere, surviving secretly. This was riddled with the author's queasiness at such things, which was elaborately explained. I could also see where the prejudice against him has received its energy, through the hackneyed adage "show, don't tell". There's a lot of telling here. But also a lot of showing, so that relation is an interesting one. As the volume progressed, though, that criticism gathered some weight, I will admit. It foundered in the middle of the volume in his longest piece (at least as far as I am aware) The Case of Charles Dexter Ward, which really did chug back and forth in a tiring sargasso sea of blasphemous this, and stench-laden that. It would have been better if those elements had been searing, and capable of raising the ghost of Giger, but they were less horrifying by quite a way, mainly because they were so often referenced as "nameless" or  "incapable of description" or whatever. And the treatment was profoundly repetitive. Surviving behind though was a peculiar atmosphere. The depth and specificity of his imagining of these others and their alien cultures still has great underlying charm. It seems to me that his pulp origins are most betrayed in this element: these stories would be much better not read all together in omnibus volumes, but encountered periodically, at good distances from one another. He seems to me almost the paragon of a little going a long way. So I'll no doubt pick up the second volume at some point, but at the moment I'm Lovecrafted out.

After the Rain by John Bowen (1958)

 This one confirms some conclusions about Bowen that I had come to after reading his first from two years earlier. He's a great ideas-man, but shows a few faultlines in terms of execution. That earlier one had transplanted a historical situation of the 1700s into 1950s Scotland, and if the melding was a little awkward, well, the result was fascinating. This one posits the end of the current world in flood, has a group of survivors aboard a raft who are fairly typical middle-class English types of the time, has a little fun with that, but awkwardly. It has the feel of a slightly stiff black and white film starring John Mills, Shirley Eaton and Kenneth More. But it's intriguing all the same. The eight survivors cope broadly well to begin with, but dark patches begin to appear as time goes by. When they are becalmed for an extended period, the sun beating down on their raft and no discernible movement, they start to go a bit doolally. It ends up with their 'leader' Arthur declaring himself a god and withdrawing to the one bedroom aboard. Most of the group fall in with the plan in their sense of exposedness and uncertainty. The parallels with Lord of the Flies and its like are obvious - were Faber, the publishers of both, looking for another Golding? We are clearly expected to come to the conclusion that Arthur has got bored with his divinity when he declares that he's not the god, rather the high priest of the god, and comes out to interact with everyone again - it's a neat sleight. They get moving again finally after several months, encountering strange atmospheres of the sea and movements of its animals. Finally, after a terrifying encounter with a giant squid, Arthur declares that the animal was an incarnation of their god. His jumped-at next step is an "expiation" - revealed only to John, the main character - they will secretly sacrifice the as yet unborn baby of Sonya, one of the group. John believes it to be his child, and is enjoined by Arthur to take part in the coming sacrifice as punishment for his consistent questioning of Arthur's status. John spills the plan out on the deck to the bodybuilder Tony, who is a simple working class man who's kept out of most of the middle-class delusional shenanigans, as they are now confirmed to be. His ground-level morality is outraged and he engages Arthur in a fight to both their deaths overboard. The following morning the remainder of the group finally spot an island - as though there had been a pattern of lockedness which the death of Arthur has symbolically broken. The blurb mentions that Angus Wilson had called this "a satire of the first order". I have to say I'm not quite sure that's true. If it does have targets, they feel momentary and isolated, coming in minor cuts. The rest is more directly adventuresome. But it is limpid and bold, if a little silly. Funny combination, which phrase sums up Bowen for me at the moment. 

Jane and Prudence by Barbara Pym (1953)

 Great to return to Pym again. This one feels like a subtle progression from the previous one in one sense in particular - 'dangerous' characters are a little more foregrounded. Like her first novel (about which I remember little else) the centre of this one is a village in the country. And again like it, it involves people nearby to the church or in it, and their love affairs, tight lives and niggles with one another. But it's no I. Compton-Burnett hell-stoker; the milieu is rounded out instead with incisive wit of a more standard variety. The two titular characters are an older woman from a particular Oxford college who has since married a clergyman, and a younger one of the same college who was tutored by the older and is still on the marriage market. The older, Jane, has moved to the village with her husband as vicar. The younger, Prudence, is in London, working at a small office. Jane and Prudence have kept up their relationship, with Jane feeling almost responsible sometimes for providing Prudence with marriage options. Prudence, meanwhile, has had quite a few relationships, about some of which Jane knows nothing. We work through the process of acclimatization into the village's (and the church's) life and with its characters as it happens to Jane and her husband Nicholas. And we concurrently examine Prudence's life in the office and at her flat in London with similar attention to variances of character at work and her private aims, the main one of these an adoration of her boss which is unrequited. Shot through with humour, this is what can be seen as typical Pym territory, as it veers between gentility and pointedness, warmly familiar pokes and somewhat cooler stabs. The thing which differentiates this a little is, as aforementioned, a livelier attention to characters, two in particular, who don't quite play by the rules. Jane herself is an uncomfortable blurter on occasion, steaming in before she's really thought something through, ruffling feathers with awkward truths. And even more of this stripe is village woman Jessie Morrow - a small, mouse-like, tiny-voiced companion to dragon Miss Doggett, who is splendid and severe. Jessie is the proverbial dark horse, revealed as having steel under her featherbed exterior, as she firmly (and unexpectedly) decides to oust Prudence from the affections of a local lothario - another of Jane's plans for her younger protégé goes astray. These small harshnesses only work in the way they do, I think, because they are couched within such a reassuring frame, though it would be interesting to see what Pym could do with an entirely savage free-for-all.