Monthly Archives: September 2013

The Sleeping Beauty by Elizabeth Taylor

The Sleeping Beauty is Elizabeth Taylor’s sixth novel – a romance, as the title suggests. It’s about how love can awaken people from inner deadness. Several people in this novel are awakened in this way.

54 Cover W NVinny, an expert in consolation, arrives in the seaside town of Seething (what a name!) to console Isabella, whose husband has been drowned in a boating accident. While providing Isabella with sympathy Vinny falls for Emily, a beautiful woman, herself damaged in a car accident. She has recovered physically, with altered but beautiful features. However, she keeps to a very small life helping her sister with her guest house and with her handicapped adult daughter. Vinny encourages Emily (echoes of Wuthering Heights intended) to give up her shut away life. Against considerable opposition and in spite of already being married, Vinny woos and marries Emily. Love, it seems, conquers all.

This is by no means the best of Elizabeth Taylor’s novels. I found the central character difficult to like, I think largely because of his name: Vinny. It conjures up for me what we used to call a spiv, a dissolute, empty charmer. And this is not Vinny’s character. He is genuinely sympathetic to people. He provides comfort, indeed, until he meets Emily, this has been the basis of his relationship with women. It was his undoing with his mendacious wife.

A second disadvantage of this novel is that Emily is not a lively character, always a weakness in the fairy tale – the heroine is asleep! Vinny’s love works the magic of the prince’s kiss, but I did not find Emily to be a very interesting character.

54 Ballet

The main delight in this novel for me was noticing the details with which Elizabeth Taylor says so much about the characters. Here is the first appearance of Emily. Vinny watches her on the cliff path with her niece:

… the woman herself did not pause. She walked on at the same pace, her head erect, as if she noticed nothing at all, or else always the same thing ahead of her. (p7)

Another example:

To say that Vinny’s wife was not above telling a lie – and she would not have been his wife at all if that had been so – would be to underestimate her inventiveness. She had in fact a great distaste for the truth and was for ever tidying it up or turning her back on it. …Vinny’s desertion she had disposed of by moving to a new place and saying he was dead. She even changed Vinny himself into a Fighter Pilot and gave him a D.F.C with bar. (p109)

Here is Isabella’s son, Laurence, doing his National Service, and not much more than a school boy:

He stood up, his hands still clumsily fidgeting witht the papers at the table. He was tall, and because he wore his old school suit – the grey double-breasted flannel, which had shrunk at the cleaner’s – his wrists shot out too far from the sleeves and too much sock showed between the turn-up and shoe. (p9)

This is the arrival of Vinny’s mother, Mrs Tumulty, at the guest house:

Vinny and the gardener brought in the most curious weather-beaten luggage – an old leather hat-box; a round-topped trunk with labels of countries which no longer existed, hotels which had been shelled in 1916 and never risen again; a Gladstone-bag; a wicker hamper. There were also Mrs Tumulty’s bird-watching glasses and a black japanned box in which she collected fungi; for she was a great naturalist. (p53)

How clever to tell us everything necessary about her past and present through her luggage! And enjoy the presentation of this next scene: Isabella and her former school friend Evalie are spending their morning transforming themselves. Laurence is about to arrive, of course, and find his mother thus:

The knitting lay discarded among the newspapers on the floor. Even Evalie had put hers aside while magic – she hoped – was transforming her appearance. Both were confident that this time, under stiff clay, new faces awaited them, rejuvenated, unbelievably braced and smoothed. (p226)

And a final example; this is Elizabeth Taylor’s description of Vinny’s weakness.

The curious hesitancy in him was caused by his romanticism, his longing for perfection. At the beginning of each relationship he struck the right notes; but sophistication, lightness, gallantry, could not carry him through anything so dire as passion. There were changes to make that defeated him. The circumstances were never right – pitch darkness, for example, he felt, essential. Women having been kissed and stroked, then helped into their coats, were surprised. Sometimes, they went home in such a fury of righteousness to their husbands that they behaved for a while impossibly; having, unexpectedly, no guilt to expiate, they wondered why they should waste their resolutions of kind attentiveness exonerated as they were by their fidelity (which their disappointment very soon became to them). Next morning, roses from Vinny helped them to forgive. (p69)

Such a paragraph illustrates Elizabeth Taylor’s grasp of not just Vinny’s behaviour, but also of how the women used him. And how they rationalised his failure. The roses are a sublime touch and one which brings the writing back to Vinny.

As always with Elizabeth Taylor the cast of minor characters are as well portrayed as the main players, as I hope these examples have shown. There is Laurence, the young man in the shrunken suit, who is also awakened by love, a less dramatic story shadowing that of Vinny and Emily. Then there is the family of Tillotsons who provide Elizabeth Taylor with an opportunity for writing about quarrelsome children and a bossy nanny; Rose, Emily’s jealous and possessive sister; Philly, the troubled girl who Emily has been caring for. The relationships of these people reveal their substitutes for love – duty, position, appearances, honour, ties, power.

54 Cover

Perhaps in the end I would have liked a more romantic, less middle-aged prince, and a more lively sleeping beauty. But there is so much else to admire in her novel.

 

The Sleeping Beauty was published in 1953; her seventh novel, Angel, in 1957. I’ll be reading it in October.

 

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The Heat of the Day by Elizabeth Bowen

I read this thriller twelve months ago and I noted that I expected to reread it and soon. It turns out that rereading is very rewarding, and nothing is spoiled by knowing the plot, indeed the other features of the novel become more evident.

53 Heat cover

It’s set during the Second World War and the tension comes from the suggestion that one of the main characters, Robert, is involved in treason. The novel opens as the creepy Harrison prepares to meet Stella. Stella has already rejected Harrison, ‘asked him to go away and stay away’. We have been warned that ‘he was not, however, through.’ Harrison visits Stella in her flat and reveals his plan to blackmail her: his silence about Robert can be bought if she becomes his mistress and does not see Robert again. The scene in which Harrison reveals his hand, is carefully drawn out in Chapter 2 and is a powerful example of an effective scene in fiction. Stella’s feelings alter from irritation of being bothered by a man she does not want to see to shock and disbelief at what Harrison tells her and finally confusion about what she should do. Can she believe Harrison? What should she do to protect the man she loves? If Harrison is right should she protect Robert? How can she know? The story is set up, the tension holds, as the interactions between Harrison, Stella and Robert run their course.

53 roped off road

One of the most impressive aspect of this novel is the depiction of living in London during the Blitz.

They had met one another, at first not very often, throughout the heady autumn of the first London air raids. Never had a season been more felt; one bought the poetic sense of it with the sense of death. Out of mists of morning charred by the smoke from ruins each day rose to a height of unmisty glitter; between the last of sunset and first note of the siren the darkening glassy tenseness of evening was drawn fine. From the moment of waking you tasted the sweet autumn not less because of an acridity on the tongue and nostrils; and as the singed dust settled and smoke diluted you felt more and more called upon to observe daytime as a pure and curious holiday from fear. All through London the ropings-off of dangerous tracts of streets made islands of exalted if stricken silence, and people crowded against the ropes to admire the sunny emptiness on the other side. The diversion of traffic out of blocked main thoroughfares into byways, the unstopping phatasmagoric streaming of lorries, buses, vans, drays, taxis past modest windows and quiet doorways set up an overpowering sense of London’s organic power – somewhere there was a source from which heavy motion boiled, surged and, not to be damned up, force itself into new channels. (p90-91)

Elizabeth Bowen does not forget the dead, and she provides a strong image of them, present through their absences.

Most of all the dead, from mortuaries, from under cataracts of rubble, made their anonymous presence – not as today’s dead but as yesterday’s living – felt through London. Uncounted, they continued to move in shoals through the city day, pervading everything to be seen or heard or felt with their torn-off senses, drawing on this tomorrow they had expected – for death cannot be so sudden as all that. Absent from the routine which had been life, they stamped upon that routine their absence – not knowing who the dead were you could not know which might be the staircase somebody for the first time was not mounting this morning, or at which street corner the newsvendor missed a face, or which trains and buses in the homegoing rush were this evening lighter by one passenger. (p91-2)

This passage illustrates her rather difficult style and its density has the effect of slowing the reader, so you have to engage with the direction of the sentence, its meaning, its surprise. In the example above, the sentence that begins ‘Absent from the routine’ by its end has conjured up the non-presence of the dead, and has a very pleasing rhythm.

53 Pauls

The novel is claimed as a London novel, and it is indeed very clearly located around the Regent’s Park area, although, echoing Stella’s confusion, the blackout means that sometimes she does not know where Harrison has taken her. An interesting article about its London-ness, by Jane Miller (author of Crazy Age), can be found on the London Fictions website. The London location and the heightened sensibilities of living there are contrasted with Stella’s visit to the rural calm of Ireland. Ireland remained neutral during the war, although not unaffected by it (Stella uses months’ supply of house candles, unknowingly). A second contrast is to Holme Dene, where Robert’s mother lives, in the Home Counties. Holme Dene is permanently for sale and rigidly in thrall to Muttikins. Elizabeth Bowen’s description reveals a great deal about Robert’s family:

…upstairs life since the war, had up there condensed itself into very few rooms – swastika-arms of passage leading to nothing, stripped of carpet, bulbs gone from the light-sockets, were flanked by doors with keys turned. Extinct, at this night hour Stygian as an abandoned mine-working, those reaches of passages would show in daylight ghost-pale faded patches no shadow crossed, and, from end to end, an even conquest of dust. (p258)

One important theme of the novel concerns allegiances, what individuals owe to other people. In war it is an unquestioned assumption that one will have allegiance to one’s country and abhorrence of fraternization or spying for the enemy. The central questions of the novel are about Robert’s treachery or not, and Stella’s duty to him or her country.

Stella’s visit to Mount Morris in Ireland raises questions about place in allegiance, of one nation to another, and the bequest to Roderick brings up questions of who owes what to whom in the next generation. To whom, Elizabeth Bowen appears to ask, when the chips are down, do we owe our loyalty? Her answer, I think, is to the integrity of the self and one’s love for others.

It is also a novel about appearances and what is concealed and whether you should trust what you see, what you feel, what you want to trust. At the centre of this theme is Harrison, a shady character, about whom we never know much, not his work, his past, or where he goes or what he does when he is not with Stella. And like Stella we do not know whether to believe what he implies. We do not want to believe that Stella’s lover is a traitor.

Stella has the reputation of a woman who shamefully abandoned her husband. Her son Roderick learns the truth from a woman who has been feigning madness for years. But the truth is not that simple, for Stella has preferred people to believe what they thought was the truth rather than acknowledge to the world that her husband did not want to stay with her. Even Stella’s affair with Robert is presented to the reader as not of the real world.

The lovers had for two years possessed a hermetic world, which, like the ideal book about nothing, stayed itself on itself by its inner force. (p90)

Appearances of the characters reflect something about their role in the plot and their characteristics as well as Elizabeth Bowen’s confidence in handling them. Harrison comes and goes in a shady way. Stella is not directly introduced until Chapter 2. Robert does not appear until Chapter 5. Many of the minor characters appear and disappear as acquaintances did in London’s reduced social world.

53 EB

Despite being a published writer for 25 years Elizabeth Bowen found it difficult to finish the novel. She wrote the early sections during the war but it was not published until 1948. She had fallen in love with Charles Ritchie, a Canadian diplomat, to whom the book is dedicated and considered the physical model for Robert. Their affair continued, despite his return to Canada, his marriage and frequent separations, until she died in 1973. (For more details of this and other writers’ lives during the war see Lara Feigel’s The Love-charm of Bombs).

I love this novel. I expect I will read it again and again. I hope I can encourage you to read (or even reread) it.

For another enthusiastic blog review see Book Snob’s here. My reviews of earlier Elizabeth Bowen novels are here: The Hotel, and The Last September.

 

Reminder: the next general Readalong will be in December. If you want to make a reading suggestion please do so. I will announce the choice in the next few weeks.

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Memento Mori and Night Waking: two short reviews

Who would have thought that moving house, specifically unpacking cardboard boxes, could consume so much time? It is time I would rather have spent on writing, including writing for the blog. Today I am posting two short reviews. They are not connected, except in being books I have read recently, although both treat quite dark themes with a strong leavening of humour. The first can be linked to my theme of novels with strong older women characters. The older male characters are strongly drawn as well.

52 Mem Mori

Muriel Spark Memento Mori

This novel is short, bizarre, almost macabre, but is quite redeemed by its comedy. Published in 1959 and set in the ‘50s, the story concerns a connected group of older people.

Dame Lettie Colston (a philanthropist who behaves with no charity) has received phone calls commanding her – ‘Remember you must die’. Lettie does not wish to remember, and has reported the calls to the police. Her brother, Godfrey, (owner of the Colston works) is concerned for her, until he receives his own calls and then his concern is all for himself. His wife Charmian, a novelist, quite accepts the reminder when she receives it. Other characters also receive the call: Alec Warner, who is researching gerontology, taking copious notes about the effects of aging on people, including himself; the poet, Percy Mannering, who can do nothing without being loud and shouty (including spending a windfall on an excessively long telegram about another poet).

In this novel the characters are living in their 70+ years as they did when they were younger – using and deceiving other people, being cruel, blaming, lying to and exploiting each other. They pursue vendettas, try to get even, settle old scores, behave as badly as ever.

Miss Taylor, once Charmian Colston’s maid, now an inhabitant of a hospital ward for old women (referred to as grannies), has a theory about the calls. It will do.

‘In my belief,’ she said, ‘the author of the anonymous telephone calls is Death himself, as you might say. I don’t see, Dame Lettie, what you can do about it. If you don’t remember death, Death reminds you to do so. And if you can’t cope with the facts the next best thing is to go away for a holiday.’ (p179)

Those that live as though they will never die are the most troubled by the phone calls. Everyone is at the mercy of the physical expressions of aging. Guy Leet, writing his memoirs, for example, is finding it hard going. ‘The laboriousness of the task resided in the physical, not the mental effort. His fingers worked slowly, clutched round the large barrel of his fountain pen …’ (p185)

This is not a pleasant group of people. Miss Pettigrew is an evil, blackmailer and yet she achieves her goal of inheriting money through foul means. She has a stroke so is not able to enjoy it for long. In the end they all die, as we all do.

Lively, merry, harsh. Look on death or it will visit you. Or go away for a holiday.

David Lodge (no relation) reviewed Memento Mori recently in the Guardian. He said, ‘it is a wonderfully funny and exhilarating read’.

52 Night W

Sarah Moss Night Waking

The second novel was published in 2011 and recommended to me by my friend Marianne. As the title suggests the tensions in it come from the lack of sleep. Anna Bennett, her husband Giles and their two children are spending the summer on Colsay, a St Kilda-like island. She is suffering from lack of sleep. She also suffers from lack of time to finish her book and from lack of internet connection. Her husband counts puffins and seems unaware of her struggles.

Those who care for young children will know of their deadening demand for repetition. In this novel it is The Gruffalo, Julia Donaldson’s wonderful tale of a clever mouse’s adventures. Sarah Moss manages to convey the tedium of repetition without spoiling the original.

Anna’s story becomes serious when the skeleton of a baby is discovered near their house. This leads Anna to spend time checking the history of the island, its inhabitants and absentee landowners. Her story is interwoven with letters from May, a young woman in Victorian times, who tried to bring better birthing practices to the island’s inhabitants. Eventually the two stories coincide.

By the end of the novel Anna has moved into relative freedom from her children’s sleeplessness and recommitted to her marriage. She has helped a family who have come as trial guests to the holiday home on the island and decided that her older son needs a little help with his rather bizarre fixation on death and catastrophe.

The novel is written in the first person and the humour is found in the authenticity of her chaotic life and her commentary upon it. At one point it seems as if ghosts are about to intrude. In the end all these are revealed to be functions of sleep deprivation. Nicely observed and with an interesting setting and good bit of historical research wound in.

The Guardian Review of this book can be found here.

Both were very good reads.

The next post will be the Readalong: The Heat of the Day by Elizabeth Bowen.

 

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Dear Jade

To Jade Amoli-Jackson, author of Moving a Country.

Dear Jade,

Congratulations on the publication of your collection of poems called Moving a Country. I want to encourage lots of people to buy it (click on the link to go to Amazon!)

51 Moving Country

Your poetry (and your involvement in your play Souvenirs) demonstrate the power of words. The power of words to help heal and the power of words to tell other people about other lives. I looked at video clips of you and other members of the Freedom from Torture Write to Life group here speaking about the value of writing – ‘I would have run mad,’ you say, without the writing.

No one leaves her home unless she is running away from something or someone has driven her away. I am telling you. I have first hand experience of that. (pxi)

With these words you begin your introduction, My Painful Journey, to your collection, Moving a Country. You write about your childhood, family and life in Uganda. Your good life, with your husband and three children changed with a new government in 1985. First he was taken and killed, then your father and twin sister both died, your children were abducted and finally you too were taken.

It is wise to be good to people even if they are not related to you; that’s why I am still alive. (pxiii)

Your were helped to escape and came to London, were given leave to remain and have since become a UK citizen. You were assisted by the Medical Foundation, and now in turn you volunteer at the Refugee Council.

In the first section in Moving a Country you look back affectionately to lives connected to your past in Uganda. The second section looks at your flight and troubled times in Uganda. I found this section very dark, hard to read. I can’t imagine the pain associated with the poem Gone within a Second, a cry in darkness for your missing children. Others refer to the everyday losses: food, drink, clothes, transport, language. The title poem is eloquent about the loss that you experienced on moving country and about the memories that persist. The first verse is …

Moving a Country

Move the evergreen trees
Meandering rivers
Lakes and seas
Wild and domestic animals
Birds of all sizes
Pack them all up
Place in the suitcase of my brain

In this poem I like the way you present some of the things that go to make a country, the impossibility of transporting them, and then you shift suddenly to tell us you have them in your head. The following verses become more powerful and more moving as they refer to your life and people you loved in your country. In the remaining sections your poems reveal how fragile a person’s survival can be and how torture undermines self-respect as well as inflicting physical damage. Yet you are generous, even when you had so little, and readily acknowledge the assistance you received from organisations and individuals, such as your writing mentor and editor Lucy Popescu.

You have written that story-telling helps heal and rebuild lives. For readers, your writing helps us understand a life that has been very different to our own. I have been moved by your poems. And amused by some. I laughed out loud at the poem English Ladies, and the one you read in the Tate – Marriage proposal with a shaky start.

I said in my last post that I don’t blog about poetry and then in the very next posting the subject is poetry. But it is important that people write poetry. And important that they read and know the things of which you write, to understand that people are being treated in despicable ways. And this knowing brings an obligation to do something. In my case, I support Freedom from Torture and I write about your writing to encourage others to read it. Your voice should be heard.

Whenever I have met you, Jade, you have greeted me with friendliness and warmth and I have seen you laughing and smiling with your friends. This post is a tribute to your spirit and is written with very best wishes for your future in writing, and in your life.

Caroline.

This post is about a collection called Moving a Country by Jade Amoli-Jackson. She is a member of Freedom from Torture’s Write to Life Group and performed in the group’s play, Souvenirs. Catriona Troth blogged about the launch in June of Moving a Country here.

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On not blogging about poetry

Your blog covers everything – except poetry, my sister told me when I was reviewing bookword earlier this year. I find it hard to believe but this is my 50th post and this is my half-century response to her implied challenge.

The death of Seamus Heaney last week was an occasion for considerable public acclaim of his work, and a reminder that the Nobel Prize for Literature was awarded to him in 1995. Paul Muldoon, fellow Irish poet, gave a moving tribute on In Tune on BBC Radio3. Heaney had a gift, he said, to connect the reader with the writer, and to give back the world of things and the things of the world, seeing them as if for the first time. He allowed in people who were not ordinarily interested in poetry.

50 anthol

I love reading poetry. I am very fond of anthologies. As a (former) Londoner I always enjoyed the serendipity of Poems on the Underground. I often dip into the two volumes of Poem for the Day. Again the randomness of the day’s poem is part of its delight. To read The Nation’s Favourite Poems (of which Rudyard Kipling’s If was the ‘clear and unassailable winner’ in the poll conducted in 1995) is to revisit poetry lessons at school. I have good memories of mutual pleasure in poems with my American penfriend, chosen from Palgrave’s Treasury. My sister also likes anthologies (suggested them for her Desert Island Books) and sent this photo.

50 H's poetry

And I have had great pleasure, too, in reading what poets write about poetry. These books have made good travelling companions. Roger Housden’s 10 poems to change your life introduced me to two poems I often reread: Mary Oliver’s The Journey and Derek Walcott’s Love after Love. I got a great deal out of Ruth Padel’s two books: 52 ways of looking at a poem and The Poem and the Journey and sixty poems to read along the way. In fact I think I will dip into both of them again.

50 on poetry

Recently I have read Glyn Maxwell On Poetry. In his review Adam Newey in the Guardian said it was the best book about poetry he’s ever read. I enjoyed the humour, the creativity and the technical details with which it explores form, rhyme patterns, line breaks and so on. It’s all a far cry from the kind of solemn incantation that school poetry encouraged.

The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle’s wreck
Shone round him o’er the dead.
(From Casablanca by Felicia Dorothea Hemans, 1826)

According to Glyn Maxwell poetry, although a human activity, has been ‘unnecessary for almost all of creation’ (p10). Just pause a moment and notice the work of that word ‘almost’. When was the time that poetry was necessary? Is it now? Let’s hope it’s now, in our time. Maxwell takes the reader through some of his reflections on poetry, on poems, on the writing and reading of poems, a meander that is sometimes playful, sometimes teasing, passionate, fervent and unsettling.

He approaches poetry as both sensual and intellectual, an intellectual journey to enhance the senses, a sensual journey to be spiced with intellectual appreciation. The TLS reviewer seemed to think it fell short of being a decent course on writing poetry, but I did not read it as a how to write book. And that’s partly because I don’t write poetry.

I don’t write poetry. I try not to say I can’t write poetry, but I don’t seem to make any progress when I try to learn to write the stuff. I am still dissuaded by the criticism I received when I was 17, from a published poet. He didn’t agree that my poems were prize winners, and suggested I had written ‘chopped up prose’. After nearly half a century I am still bruised.

50 poets

I can’t memorise poems. But I have lots that mean something to me: Philip Larkin The Years; Mary Oliver, Wild Geese; Yeats, The Dancer and the Dance; Alice Oswald Dart … I revisit these with pleasure and anticipate many yet unknown.

I suspect that stillness is needed to enjoy poems. I don’t have much in my life. Don’t expect many blogs on poetry but I can’t help asking myself: would I be a better reader of poetry if I wrote more? Would I be a better writer of poetry if I read more?

What would you say to persuade me to try writing poetry? Would you take the trouble? What poetry do you like?

 

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Writing the Women’s Revolution

A birthday being a good moment to reflect, I noticed that I am not mellowing with age. I am as fierce (aka strident) a feminist in my 60s as I was in my 20s and 30s. Pursuing feminism in the midlands in the late ‘60s and ‘70s I was conscious that my study and my reading was shaped by my beliefs. I researched and wrote about Mary Wollstonecraft for my history degree, for example. Her published works were hard to find at that time. I have an American edition of The Vindication of the Rights of Women, picked up during my visit in 1967-8. (BTW, as they tweet, my sister emailed me this image from Desktop Retreat blog. ‘I love this picture of you writing your blog?!’ Had she spotted that the picture on the wall is a portrait of Mary Wollstonecraft?) Mary Wollstonecraft – an early example of writing the revolution.

49 blog writing

I think I was one of many women, reading like mad! The second wave of feminism, as it has been called, was fuelled in part by sharing women’s writings. I was well placed to enjoy them as I was emerging from the canon of English Literature as taught in school. (I was already alert to new fiction, requesting On the Road by Jack Kerouac for the school library. Request refused.)

We found that it was in our collective action that we learned, explored, argued, sought support for our private troubles and laughed and laughed and laughed. How did feminists ever get a reputation for dourness? One of the activities of the Rugby Women’s Group was discussing books, and these are eight books I remember being especially influential at the time. Most of them seem to have come from abroad, especially from the US.

The Feminine Mystique (1963) Betty Friedan, asking why American women were not happy in the suburbs and suggesting some reasons. She called it ‘the problem that has no name’.

The Female Eunuch (1970) Germaine Greer, the Australian who made her name in the UK, challenged the prevailing views, especially about sexuality it seems to my memory. She also made us understand that we had learned to judge ourselves though men’s eyes.

The Second Sex (1949) Simone De Beauvoir, the French consort of Jean-Paul Sartre (how impressive was that!) wrote magisterially about women’s status over the centuries.

Our Bodies Ourselves (1971) Published by the Boston Women’s Health Collective, an innovative health guidebook for women. It’s hard to remember now but when it was first published medical records were closed to patients, and women had to have their husband’s permission for prescriptions for contraception.

49 Angela Davies

If they come in the Morning (1971) by Angela Davies. This book and her Autobiography (1974) were shocking because they revealed the treatment of African-Americans, and the hounding of a black woman communist. She was imprisoned, for goodness sake.

49 Fear of F

Fear of Flying (1973) Erica Jong was explicit about women’s sexual desires and invented the phrase ‘the zipless fuck’.

The Women’s Room (1977) Marilyn French’s American novel is about a women who finds herself when she rejects her cosy life in the suburbs (see Betty Friedan, above).

The Children of Violence Sequence (1952 – 69) Doris Lessing’s five novels, beginning in Rhodesia but continued in London as the protagonist, Martha Quest, became politicised. The Golden Notebook was also written during this period in 1962.

 

In the UK there were important and interesting new developments in publishing. In 1973 Virago was established, the dark green covers showing up quickly on the shelves of like-minded women. (She’s celebrating her 40th birthday this year!) The Women’s Press was also set up at this time, and its subscription ensured that those of us who didn’t live in metropolitan areas still got to read the zebra striped publications.

49 Sp Rib

And of course there was Spare Rib: a monthly magazine, with pre-digital layout, bringing us news to which we had no other access.

This was the time when women were reviled for bra-burning, for rejecting the marriage-status defining title of Miss or Mrs. (We pioneered using Ms, and it saddens me that today it is often mistakenly believed to to indicate lesbianism, I hear, or divorce.) Spare Rib and to some extent the Guardian’s Women’s page published on Tuesdays, gave a different voice, a serious consideration of the matters that concerned us.

Some of us were campaigning for abortion rights (Abortion Act 1967), better contraception including for unmarried women, maternity rights, and later supported the miners’ wives and were active against the US base at Greenham Common. Others were involved in trade unionism, parliamentary politics, education, mental health, housing, consumer rights …

In whichever strand of feminism one was active there were women writing to support the revolution.

 

Do you have memories of significant writing from the second wave of feminism? Who will be remembered as the feminist writers of today?

 

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