NYRB Classics Spotlight: Fancies and Goodnights

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Malvern staff member Fernando is a New York Review Books Classics enthusiast, and he has an excellent recommendation for y’all…

Fancies and Goodnights by John Collier

The more short stories you read, the more you realize John Collier had a particular, dark inimitable style, which set him very much apart from the writers of his time. Probably why he explored television writing, working on The Twilight Zone and other such shows: the page wasn’t enough to contain his imagination. These stories are quite priceless and come highly recommended during the winter season.

Also recommended: The Fountain Overflows by Rebecca West. This story about a family with Dickensian strokes is charming and can be rather funny, too.

NYRB Classics Spotlight: Virgin Soil

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Malvern staff member Fernando is a New York Review Books Classics enthusiast, and he has an excellent recommendation for y’all…

Virgin Soil by Ivan Turgenev

Constance Garnett was perhaps one of the most important Russian-to-English translators of the early 20th century, and she is renowned for translating canonical Russian male authors such as Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, and Anton Chekhov. Most of her early work, though, was spent translating Turgenev, and here we have his final novel, where the Russian countryside, its people and tragedies, come to life in what is referred to as his “tragic masterpiece.”

Also recommended: Peasants and Other Stories by Anton Chekhov. This sister NYRB Classics selection is also translated by Constance Garnett. The wintertime always seems to me the perfect time to read nineteenth-century Russian literature.

Staff Picks: The Bog People

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Celia recommends The Bog People by P.V. Glob:

Have you heard the story of the bog bodies, dear reader? It begins long ago and far away, and is the kind of tale you might want to read in the dark of the year, when the nights (even in Austin) are getting cold, and the days are shorter and shorter. It begins like this:

Sometimes a bog spits up a body, deceased but so perfectly preserved that no untrained eye could tell you whether it’s a few weeks or many centuries old. And they are centuries old, many of them, and they have been discovered for centuries on end, by people cutting peat by hand or with machinery, who go into the bog for fuel to burn in the hearth and emerge with something other. The tannins in bog water, working in the right conditions, turn the human body into leather, and so you’re left with a corpse that looks ageless, hardened off by time and weather but still so intact that you could take its fingerprints. So intact that you can tell whether its owner wore their hair loose or in braids. That’s sometimes. Sometimes, also, you find a body that is strange, compressed by the weight of the peat above it, or partially dissolved, leaving only a strange, vampiric castoff to history, a ghost of a corpse.

It’s impossible to talk about this book without talking about its photos, which are uncanny and upsetting and which capture the physicality of their subjects so distinctly that they seem to open the door into another, timeless dimension. I suspect that you will either hate them and want to look away or find them fascinating. To me, what is fascinating in them is the apparent care and attention with which the uncaring processes of nature have scooped these bodies of men and women out of the past and delivered them, whole or almost whole, into the present.

In the face of this otherworldliness, P.V. Glob’s narration is oddly steadfast and charming. A Danish archaeologist who examined many of the bog bodies first hand, Glob dedicates the book to a group of schoolgirls who had written him a letter years earlier about his work on one famous discovery. He remarks, apologetically, that the children who wrote to him at that time are doubtless grown up now: “I have all too little time, and so it has taken me a long while to finish my letter.”

The book that follows is part archaeological mystery, part academic treatise, and part idiosyncratic reflection of the person who produced it. Glob’s writing charitably pauses to explain the practice of carbon dating (perhaps less well known to the general public in the ‘60s, when he was writing) and pollen analysis. He transcribes, somewhat cantankerously, a rude poem printed in the Danish tabloids after the discovery of a body in a fen near Grauballe, the better to dismantle its argument. Describing how a man had a heart attack attempting to remove a body from the bog where it lay, he writes: “The bog took a life for a life; or, as some may prefer to think, the old gods took a modern man in place of the man from the past.”

One feels that Glob, too, is toying with the idea that the old gods to which (he believes) the old residents of Tolund and Grauballe sacrificed the people in the bog might still reach into the present day through the bodies of those that were dedicated to them. And his work is at its haunting best when he is observing those bodies, their clothes, hair, and teeth, the mystery through which they’ve come into the present. The science of archaeology has progressed somewhat since The Bog People, but the moment that Glob captures of being face-to-face with deep history, and trying to push a candle a little forward into the darkness, remains haunting.

Staff Picks: I Used to Be Charming

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Julie recommends I Used to Be Charming by Eve Babitz:

I’ve read everything by Eve Babitz except for her nonfiction books Fiorucci, the Book; and Two by Two: Tango, Two-Step, and the L.A. Night, and only because the former costs an armload and the latter would have required making a purchase online (gross).

I only mention this by way of saying that I’m not a binge reader of any author’s work (I need time for TV), but with Eve Babitz, it’s different. If she wrote the airplane flight safety guide, I’d read it. If she wrote the menu at The Cheesecake Factory, I’d gobble it down. If she scrawled a single word under a bridge, I’d brave my fear of murderers just to decipher the code.

When I told a fellow bookseller that if I had read Eve Babitz in my early twenties my life might have been very different, I wasn’t kidding. Perhaps I would have dropped out of college. Perhaps I would have bought a hotrod (a 1969 Pontiac GTO). Perhaps I would have ignored everyone who told me, “L.A. sucks, don’t move there.” Instead, I had to wait until my late thirties—a time when I’m officially going gray, a time when my idea of a wild night means renting DVDs from the public library—to finally find an author that I connect with, because if I know anything about reading Eve Babitz it’s that it’s very difficult not to become attached, or see her as a long-lost friend.

And pretty much everyone wants to be her friend (and/or ally). When Eve Babitz called into C-SPAN’s Book TV to say hello to Joan Didion, Didion smiled wide and said, “Hi Evie.” Eve didn’t ask her a “literary question”—she wanted to know about Didion’s fancy china and how she managed to put together such fabulous dinner parties with so many people passed out on the floor; it’s hilarious.

Eve Babitz dissolves the barrier between formal and informal, high art and low, celebrity hunk and average Joe; she writes books you can be yourself in the midst of—and you can bet money that my copy of Black Swans contains cookie crumbs and chocolate ice-cream stains.

It’s true, I have a bad habit of talking about the authors that I love like I hang out with them in my head, and I do. This means that I fail, as a reviewer, to speak cogently about the actual book. I neglect to talk about craft and voice and sentences, so here’s my one-line summation of Eve Babitz’s prose:

It’s great!

Nouns, verbs, and the other stuff, it’s all there and it works. I have so many favorite essays in I Used to Be Charming, it’s impossible to pick; they all reach out, whisper in your ear, and make you feel like you’re in on a daring heist—these are the sort of essays that’ll make you forget to put on your seatbelt.

In “My Life in a 36DD Bra, or, The All-American Obsession,” the essay begins in her quintessential deadpan style:

When I was fifteen years old, I bought and filled my first 36DD bra. Since then, no man has ever made a serious pass at me without assuring me in the first hour that he was a leg man.

In another piece, “Great Legs,” Babitz proves that two can play at the objectification game. Calling herself an “appreciative student of men’s legs,” she outlines all of the preferred types in ascending order:

There are, it seems to me, three basic styles of great [legs]: cowboy, athletic, and my beloved scrawny rock and roll. The cowboy legs most women can’t help feeling weak in the knees about are Clint Eastwood’s in those Sergio Leone movies. They are so graceful and divine that even my grandmother, dozing before the TV, sits up the minute the flute solo comes on.

I get her point, but I’m more of a butt gal.

In choosing Molly Lambert to do the introduction, NYRB made a good call. Lambert doesn’t attempt to close read in that way that twists your brain into a knot, nor does she fan-girl in that way that sucks all the fun out. She tells it straight about the city Eve adores: “Anyone who thinks Los Angeles is only gorgeous would-be starlets dangling over the maw of destruction has never had jury duty here.”

Like Babitz, Lambert is a true-blue Angeleno, aware of the hustle of being a writer in a city that’s shifting like a rubik’s cube. She writes:

The cost of living in L.A. has gone up absurdly…even as wages have stagnated, leading to a housing crisis that has pushed thousands of people into tent villages all over the city.

Loving a city doesn’t mean overlooking its flaws and injustices, nor does it mean ignoring how hard it is sometimes to survive. In the title essay Babitz writes:

I once read in The Village Voice that an artist was anyone over twenty-five without health insurance—well, that was me alright: over fifty without health insurance.

I finished the book with a feeling of deep gratitude that Eve Babitz exists. She produced a body of work—many pieces appearing in “women’s” magazines like Ms., Vogue, Cosmopolitan, and Self—in a voice so distinctive, writers today have to envy her and an era when editors didn’t squash out personality in favor of a uniform (snooze-fest) house style. In short, Eve Babitz can only write like Eve Babtiz.

Lambert gets it right when she states that:

To be a female artist is to put your own stubborn obsessions above all else in a world that still expects you to take care of other people while setting your own obsessive interests aside.

She reminds us that “Eve Babitz was of the first generation of women who really had it in their power to decide not to get married or have children.”

I always thought you had to be a sexless schoolmarm in order to become a great writer, but Eve Babitz disproves this. Foot-shuffling aside, I arrive at the point where I state the obvious, I Used to Be Charming is not a Babitz book one can live without, or you could, but it wouldn’t be fun.

* In true Hollywood style, I would like to thank everyone who made this review possible. To Joe Bratcher and Becky Garcia, for giving me a job. To Tracey, for keeping an eye on my tenses. To NYRB, for sending us cool stuff. To my mom, for letting me bake for nine months. And lastly, to Eve Babitz for not dying from smoke inhalation or over boogie.

NYRB Classics Spotlight: In the Heart of the Heart of the Country

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Malvern staff member Fernando is a New York Review Books Classics enthusiast, and he has an excellent recommendation for y’all…

In the Heart of the Heart of the Country by William H. Gass

Gass’s breakthrough 1968 collection is a book that reminds me of Bruno Schulz’s The Street of Crocodiles in its brevity and unexplained power. His setting is the Midwest, where the seasons tower over confined living spaces and great expanses of land. Gass’s language can be spooky and melancholy as it animates the brutality and wonder of these unique, stylistic stories. It’s a great read to hide out with during the first pangs of autumn cold.

Also recommended: The Fox in the Attic by Richard Hughes. The first part to Hughes’s self-proclaimed “20th-Century War and Peace” dazzles and disturbs.

Staff Picks: The Corner that Held Them

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Celia recommends The Corner that Held Them by Sylvia Townsend Warner:

It only takes a few pages for this book to bewilder you. The Corner that Held Them begins with Alianor de Retteville, a twelfth-century English noblewoman who is not, by any means, the novel’s heroine. Nevertheless, it is she who will set the events that follow in motion. She is, at the beginning, in bed with her adulterous lover, she is surprised by her husband, she watches as her lover is killed, she is spared, she grows old, she has children, she dies. All this occurs in the first six pages, and the procession of events is so shocking that I hesitate to even describe it. Here, look:

At the first start of waking Alianor did not move. Recumbent, stiffening in the posture of her sleep, she watched her lover being butchered. What would have been the use of moving? She could not save Giles and in a little while she would be dead herself. So she stayed as she was, her long arms and narrow hands spread out on either side as she had laid them for coolness, for the air, cooled with rain, to refresh her ribs and flanks. […] It was this immobility which saved her life. Turning to the bedside Brian de Retteville supposed that he would now kill the woman too. But seeing her lie there, so calm, so arrogantly still, his anger was arrested by the horror a man feels at a woman’s immodest individuality.

It’s a breathless passage, with all the commas scrubbed out, except for those few describing the air cooled by the rain, and Alianor, “so calm, so arrogantly still.” One reads it in a kind of stumbling, pauseless rush. And then after the moment of violence, life jerks back into motion, and within a few pages this woman we’ve just met has lived a complete, unhappy life, and is herself dead.

Because, with the murder out of the way, and having saved Alianor’s life through her own frozen indifference to her safety, the novel skips forward: Brian de Retteville will spend the next several decades taunting his wife and retelling the story of how he killed her lover to guests, and on her death, he’ll be inexplicably overcome with remorse and use her considerable fortune to found a Benedictine convent on one of her estates, called Oby. And with that, the novel hurtles forward in time, to pick up a cool hundred and fifty years later, just as the Black Death is making ground in England, and the convent at Oby is infected. This little moment of death, too, will pass, leaving its survivors to face other societal convulsions, a few months or a few decades in the future.

Alianor is, largely, forgotten by the community in whose honor she was founded. But those jarring first pages—and the question of “immodest individuality”—will be the cornerstone for what comes after. What Warner is most interested in is not the individual, but the life of an institution. The Oby convent is a community carved out of the church and the law’s general hostility towards women, not quite self-directed, but often without oversight, and the question of faith in the convent is always mixed with the question of independence: will the next Bishop keep the nuns on a shorter leash, will they be able to decide their own affairs, and will they have the money to do so?

When the Black Death strikes the convent, Warner sums up the situation like this: “the extravaganza of death that was sweeping their world away suggested no changes to them except the change from being alive to being dead.” Still the rents must be collected, noble legacies secured, the convent’s food and beer and cloth purchased, the chapel renovated and the priest’s salary paid. Often this must be done in opposition to the church hierarchy, which, as a rule, would like to place the nuns under stricter scrutiny and a tighter budget. While the nuns are pulling their daily living by inches out of the jaws of death, the ground is changing under them. Soon there may be no workmen, no farmers to pay the rent, no priest to take confession or deliver the last rites.

Personal faith, in this world, is both mandated and met with deep suspicion and hostility. Spiritual knowledge is one of the few avenues of power that can, theoretically, spring up in women as well as in men, among the poor as easily as the rich. And so, naturally, the structures of church and government want to be certain that the wisdom of God isn’t being unreasonably or inconveniently distributed, despite the advent of the plague that has turned the world upside down. One recurring motif in The Corner that Held Them is the knowledge and power of the outcast: the bastard clerk who, almost accidentally, claims the title of priest, from which he is excluded by his illegitimate birth, the ostracized nun who receives a vision from Saint Leonard instructing her to go and become an anchoress, the man appointed custodian of the convent, who finds unexpected beauty and grace in a visit to a leper colony.

It is the task of power to mediate (and disarm) these individual experiences of truth and beauty. When, for instance, the local bishop comes to evaluate the nun Lilias’s request to become an anchoress, he hears her story of being struck down at prayer by Saint Leonard and responds thus:

He told her of his sister, a nun at Barking, who had twice been addressed by heavenly voices. On the first occasion the voice warned her that the tap of a wine-cask had not been properly turned off, so that the wine was wasting. On the second occasion, when his sister had cracked a nut and found nothing inside it but dust and a fat white grub, a voice had rebuked her disappointment by exclaiming, “You should thank God for this picture of a good nun!”

The implied message is clear: it is not for a nun to seek spiritual insight, but to tend to the earthly tasks required to keep the convent running, and to not complain when she is served worms instead of nuts. The novel’s long view of history is frequently extremely funny, as with the madcap idea of angels descending from heaven to bully a nun for being sad about a walnut, but there’s a tyranny underlying the humor. To wit: it’s nearly impossible to find meaning in a world that is so relentlessly hostile to individual experience.

The tone of farce that the novel frequently adopts has a dark edge. History will wipe these women and all that they accomplish entirely from memory. It’s not quite a tragedy when the convent loses its altar vessels, or the old priest loses his mind, or the chaplain of lepers loses his house, because these things are common occurrences in the flow of the years. The final sum of all of these losses is a kind of winsome and rueful comedy. So the community mostly bumbles along, with everyone doing the tasks they’ve been assigned, and the small dissatisfactions that they feel are mostly quiet ones. Heavenly ecstasy and the terror of hell are, for the most part, private experiences, like bubbles in a piece of blown glass. If you crack the glass to get at them, they evaporate, and the vessel itself breaks. Warner handles her years delicately, but sometimes she lets some small catastrophe slip in, so that you look at the jagged edge of a day and ask, Is this what it was? Yes.