“Moonlight, white satin, roses. A bride.”

Angela Carter

 

Just south west of London in the suburb of Brixton, there’s an area not far from the High Street called Angela Carter Close.  It’s not very glamorous and kind of disappointing considering the writer it’s named after. I found the sign on the outside of brick building which houses some sort of electrical source. Right beside the small building, there was a pile of garbage bags and several bins. Not the kind of setting that I imagined for such a talented author.

Street sign on a building in Brixton

Angela Olive Stalker was born in 1940 in the town of Eastbourne. Due to the war Angela was evacuated to Yorkshire to live with her grandmother but she did attend High School in London, after which she worked as a journalist for the Croydon Advertiser. She studied English Literature at the University of Bristol.

In 1960, Angela married Paul Carter but they separated and in 1969 she used the proceeds of her Somerset Maugham award to leave him and relocate to Japan for two years. She continued to write about her experiences and did remarry. The second marriage produced a son.

Carter was a feminist who took a controversial leap by embracing the works of the Marquis de Sade. She recognised within the work, that women had a purpose other than giving birth.  I’m not sure if this is the kind of purpose that women would aspire to, but what the hell.  It was Carter’s recognition and who am I to argue.         

In the British Library there’s a section dedicated to literary legends of England.  Angela Carter is amongst them. Sadly, no photos are allowed in that part of the library.

The Magic Toyshop

 If you’ve never read anything by this amazing woman, then shame on you. Start now. Go and get yourself a copy of one of her books and read it.  I don’t think you’ll be disappointed. I’ve read The Magic Toyshop, which is an incestuous riches to rags story aimed at teenage girls – I think. Usually, when somebody writes something, they write it with an audience in mind and that usually starts with one’s self while imagining if you were a certain age and sex, would you read it? Then you kind of picture someone browsing the shelves of a book store and stumbling across your novel after which they spread the word on how wonderful the work is and you end up winning the Nobel Prize for literature and attend an awesome dinner in Stockholm and perhaps sneak out with a piece of the china place setting they use. This didn’t happen to Angela Carter and I don’t know if she ever had that thought, but I enjoyed the book and one day I’ll read more of her work.

 Carter passed away in 1992, she died of lung cancer and I don’t know where she’s buried.  I’ve tried so hard to find out where her grave is or some sort of memorial besides a street sign on a wall, but there isn’t much at all. At least I found something and I’m hoping that Once upon a time in the future, someone erects a more fitting monument to this amazing lady.

That I can read and be happy while I’m reading, is a great blessing!

Anthony Trollope

Right off the cuff, I am not a true Trollopian. For this I apologise.  Sadly I have only read one of his novels and it didn’t rock my world like some of the books I’ve read, but the author is interesting for more than just his literary works.

Plaque on the house in Montagu Square where
Anthony Trollope once lived

Born in 1815 in London, Anthony Trollope had a miserable childhood.  The schools that he attended were elite and Trollope had no money and no friends.  He was often bullied and even fantasized about suicide. If it wasn’t for his mother Frances becoming a successful writer herself, who knows what might have become of the Trollopes.

The family left London and lived in Belgium for a while and Anthony was offered a commission in an Austrian cavalry regiment, but before taking the post, he had to learn French and German within a year. The resourceful Trollope took a position as an usher in a school so he could learn the languages without any cost. How clever is that. This never came to fruition though because he received an offer of a clerkship in the General Post Office and returned to the UK to accept the position.

For some reason, this guy just couldn’t get his shit together.  He was constantly late for work and unruly. He owed money to a tailor and the debt grew to the extent that the debt collector would visit him at work demanding payments. He actually was very fearful that he would be dismissed.

An opportunity for him to relocate as a postal surveyor’s clerk arose in 1841. It meant a move to Ireland and an escape from the debt collector.  His supervisor jumped at the chance to get rid of him and Trollope was appointed the position.  He thrived in his new environment and became a valid member of staff.

So, to cut this very long story short, you know those red pillar boxes that dot the British urban horizon? Well, Anthony Trollope was responsible for those. They had been considered before, but his report confirmed the necessity and voila – the post box. Bow before its red glory.

Let’s not forget the one novel of his that I’ve read though.  The Warden is the first novel in the Chronicles of Barsetshire and I’m sure the others are just as wonderful. Although, I kind of struggled through it. He has plenty of work and plenty of fans so please, if you haven’t read anything by this amazing man, don’t let me discourage you. You might get right amongst it.

Trollope's grave in Kensal Green Cemetery

Anthony Trollope is buried in Kensal Green cemetery and I’ve been there.  A well-travelled author, he rests in the company of several other great writers that I will introduce you to in the future, but for now let me remind you that Once upon a time in the UK, a great mind delivered a report that made it possible for us to post letters at the end of the road instead of walking miles to the Post Office, and that’s why I love Anthony Trollope because I like to write letters.