The Kindest Thoughts…..

Recently as my birthday approached, I made a list of books for my son Warren and Robbie (who is my cousin’s son but is like one of my own), so that they could choose one or two for me. Because, as we all know, it’s sometimes difficult to know what to give as a birthday gift. Whilst this was happening in London, it never occurred to me that on the other side of the world in Collins Street Melbourne my eldest son Brendan was visiting Kay Craddock Antiquarian Bookseller, seeking out a first edition for me.  The coveted prize was carefully packed into my sister Pauline’s suitcase and delivered to me on the morning of my birthday.

When I opened the gift, I could imagine Brendan standing in the antique book store explaining the type of person I am and exactly what I do with my spare time which of course, as you know, is stalk dead writers.

Immediately after opening the present, I sent a text to Brendan thanking him and then went on to leaf through the pages of my very first, first edition. The book is illustrated throughout in colour and black & white and the boards are a trifle sprung.  The edges of the dust jacket are lightly rubbed and split and the outer leaves and edges slightly foxed. It was published in London in 1974. I know all this because tucked into the dust jacket’s plastic cover is a description of the book. 

The first edition from my son Brendan

Cobwebs to catch Flies is a book about illustrated books that were used to help educated children from 1700-1900, but not text books, more the type you would buy to home school your child. The compilation has been put together by Joyce Irene Whalley and when you open the book, the musty smell of knowledge wafts up.

Just three of the many that Warren & Robbie bought me

The stack of books that I received from Warren and Robbie will keep me occupied for quite some time.  They include works from Robert Louis Stevenson, George Eliot and Jane Austen. When I put together the list, I didn’t expect to get eight books and I kind of felt like the luckiest person in the world on Saturday morning when Warren handed me one after the other. There were also chocolates included in the booty and Warren’s girlfriend Aleks bought me a bottle of Tequila and some Ferrero chocolates as well. Needless to say, we had Margaritas that night and drank the whole bottle.

To top off this particular birthday, my sister is taking me to the Jane Austen Centre and I just can’t wait.  The trip is planned for the end of the month so you can expect to see some pics from the expedition. But as I wait feverishly in anticipation for the excursion I have my first edition and a stack of classics to remind me that Once upon a time in September 2012, the kindest thoughts produced one of the best birthdays I’ve ever had.

www.kaycraddock.com

The beginning is always today – Mary Wollstonecraft

Hidden behind St Pancras International railway station in London is Old St Pancras Churchyard.  The church is the quaint English village type and said to be one of the oldest sites of Christian worship in England. In that churchyard there is a headstone that marks the resting place of Mary Wollstonecraft.

Old St Pancras Church

 

Mary was born in 1759 in Spitalfields and is the mother of Mary Shelley.  That’s not why she's starring in my blog this week though.  Wollstonecraft was also a writer.  She wrote novels, history and a children’s book, but she is most known for the book The Vindication of the Rights of Woman.  Right now you’re probably thinking – “Oh my giddy aunt,” she’s going to start sprouting about equal opportunity and the like, but fortunately, I’m not. The subject doesn’t interest me as much as the writer.

Born into a family where drunken violence was a reoccurring event, she was forced to hand over money to her father that she would have inherited on maturity.  As a teenager, Mary would lie outside her mother’s bedroom to protect her. Wollstonecraft was an avid reader and would spend time reading with her friend Jane Arden who came from an intellectual home unlike her own. A more important relationship that was formed during her life was that with another woman by the name of Fanny Blood.  Go ahead and laugh, I couldn’t believe the name myself. Mary had visions of living in a peaceful bliss with Fanny. However, her friend married and soon after, passed away. 

Plaque in Dolben St Southwark

As you may well know, at that particular time in history, there weren’t many prospects for the less fortunate and whilst working as a governess, Mary decided to embark on a career as an author. The Vindication of the Rights of Woman is one of the very first feminist books. In the book, Wollstonecraft argues that women should have an education corresponding to their status.  She claims that women are the educators of the nation’s children and not just society’s ornaments. Whether or not you agree with the subject, it’s enlightening to know that even way back in that era; there was somebody who had enough confidence in herself to take a chance on something that was for those times, a little irregular.

Headstone marking the original burial place of
Mary Wollstonecraft

Wollstonecraft married William Godwin after a passionate love affair, but shortly after their daughter Mary was born, she died from septicaemia leaving behind an odd legacy as she had written in many genres. Although the head stone is in the churchyard of Old St Pancras Church, her remains are now in Bournemouth in the family tomb.

I for one prefer not to get involved in feminist debates, but I do believe in freedom of choice.  So if you want to burn your bra, shave your head or become a Brickies labourer, then so be it.  What I will say though is that Once upon a time in London, a woman believed so strongly in something that she chose to write a book that helped pioneer a revolution.

Hark hark the dogs do bark!

Once again I find myself revisiting grade four but this week I’m remembering one of my favourite stories from a lesser known or somewhat forgotten author.  I’m referring to Dodie Smith.

Dorothy Gladys ‘Dodie’ Smith was born on the 3^rd of May in 1896.  Fond of writing plays, she wrote her first at the age of 10 and began acting in bit parts in her teens. Originally from Lancashire, Dodie relocated to London with her mother and step father at the age of 14.  The house that they lived in was in Dorset Square, not far from Regents Park.

As Dodie got older, she became a more accomplished actress and writer. Travelling, acting and writing became the norm for Smith, but until I recently researched the author, I didn’t know any of these facts.  The novel that introduced her to me was of course, The Hundred and One Dalmatians.

 

In the outer circle of Regents Park in London, a story of love between two dogs evolves. It tells of how their 15 puppies are taken by the evil Cruella de Vil and the measures they take to save not only their pups, but 97 in total.

I’ll never forget when Mr Mether (my 4^th grade teacher), wrote the name Cruella de Vil on the blackboard and after removing a few letters and manipulating the rest, transformed the name of the villain to Cruel Devil. I think that was the point in my life when I realised that when you write stories, you can use words in any way that you choose to. Maybe that’s why this particular writer and book are so important to me because at that particular moment, I thought Dodie Smith was a genius. I have so much to thank her for.

 

The Hundred and One Dalmatians isn’t the only book that Smith wrote, but it’s the only one I’ve read as I didn’t know if the others would live up to my expectations. My life isn’t over yet though. Since the book was written, there have been 2 movies and a musical about the Dearlys and their brave dogs.  The musical features lyrics written by Dennis DeYoung, the frontman from one of my favourite bands, Styx.  I wish I’d seen it

 

Dodie Smith passed away in 1990 at the age of 94 but her thirst for writing lives on to be enjoyed by readers time and time again. The story proves that the love of a child by their parent goes above all else, even with dogs. And it all happened, Once upon a time on the outer circle of Regents Park.

“We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams.”

Roald Dahl

I was first introduced to Roald Dahl at the age of nine.  My teacher at the time, Mr Mether, read the class an epic adventure of a chocolate fantasy world. Not all at once mind you, but chapter by chapter. Sort of like a serial. That book was of course, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. 

Roald Dahl was born in Wales to Norwegian parents on the 13^th of September 1916.  Dahl wasn’t just a writer though. During WWII he became a flying ace and an intelligence officer and rose to the rank of Wing Commander. I could go on to tell you about the terrible plane crash and also about his family, but I’d rather visit the magical mind of one of the greatest story tellers of the 20^th century.

Table of objects in his writing hut

Dahl wrote in an enviable style. He was a master of invention, especially when it came to naming things. For four hours every day he sat in his writing hut working. Roald Dahl could start and stop just like that. His stories are mysterious and a little on the dark side and the characters are quirky enough to bring the dullest tale to life.

When I first heard of how Charlie Bucket nibbled at his chocolate each birthday, I imagined what it would be like if your family were so poor that all of your grandparents slept in the same bed and cabbage soup was the only thing on the menu.  But like every good story teller, Dahl came up with a solution to the problem. He rescued the wretch by giving him a golden ticket which invited him on that magical adventure through the factory that nobody ever went into and nobody ever came out of. This would have been a dream come true for all chocolate lovers and I really did wish it were me at the time, because as you may know, when you’re a child you believe everything is real.

Dahl reappeared in my life a few years ago when I read My Uncle Oswald.  This book is definitely worth reading and just like the children’s stories, the characters are quirky and the story outrageous enough to suck you into the pages and hold you captive until the end.

Roald Dahl Museum

In Great Missenden in Buckinghamshire, there’s a Roald Dahl Museum and it’s crammed with the delights that you experience in his work and a lot of his personal belongings too.  Whether you’re a fan of Gremlins or Oompa Loompas, you’ll enjoy taking a moment to step back into your nine year old self and remember what it was like when you first discovered the stories, just like I did. I was lucky enough to take an archive tour and I soon learned that his family kept everything.  Before I knew it, I was looking at the original manuscripts and work of the writer.  I actually had the opportunity to read some unpublished work and found out that the original story of Charlie and the Chocolate factory was very different than the one we all know and love. I could reveal it, but I would rather you went to the museum and found out for yourself.

BFG footprints near his grave

On a much sadder note though, Roald Dahl passed away on the 23^rd of November 1990 and he is buried in the churchyard of St Paul’s in Great Missenden. But like his life, every story must finish and the ending to this one goes something along the lines of, Once upon a time in the UK, a storyteller presented us with a golden ticket to a literary world that continues to tantalise your tastebuds whether you’re nine or forty-nine.


His grave at St Pauls where somebody has left him a Kit Kat

We have tears in our eyes,

As we wave our goodbyes,

We so loved being with you three.

So please now and then,

Come and see us again,

The Giraffe, the Pelly and me.

Roald Dahl 1916-1990

 

www.roalddahlmuseum.org

 

Oooo la la

Anne Declos

This week I’d like to take you on a journey to France. Not my beloved Paris, but to Rochefort the birthplace of French journalist Anne Declos.

Declos who was born in 1907, worked as a journalist until 1946 when she joined Gallimard Publishers as the editorial secretary. As an avid reader she translated and introduced the French to work by the likes of Virginia Woolf, T S Eliot and F Scott Fitzgerald. She became a critic and was on the jury for many literary awards.

Anne Declos AKA Pauline Reage and Dominique Aury

The Story of O came about when Anne’s lover made claim that a woman couldn’t write an erotic novel.  Declos proved him wrong by writing The Story of O. Published under the name Pauline Reage, many questioned whether or not it was actually written by a woman.

I remember the book being mentioned on television when I was in my teens.  I asked my mum about it and she told me it was filth and I shouldn’t read it. Years later when I was accidentally browsing through the erotica section of Borders in Carlton, I, by chance, stumbled across the controversial novel.  Of course I bought it and read it asap. However, I never did tell my mum.

The content of the book is sadomasochistic erotica. It’s the story of a French girl – referred to as O, who was sold into sexual slavery by her boyfriend.  Surprisingly, the book is actually written in good taste and the language isn’t at all what I imagined it to be.  Needless to say, The Story of O was prevented from being sold to minors and brought obscenity charges against the publisher due to the subject. Declos did not disclose that she was the author of the book until 40 years after the book was published.

Whether you like it or not, the controversial story is a classic.  The story is timeless and more than 50 years later, if you picked it up, although shocking, you could relate it to today. I’m glad I read it, not only for the experience, but also so I could tell you that, Once upon a time in France, a woman took a wager and proved that you don’t have to be a man to write erotica.

 Poetry & Prose

John Betjeman

On the south bank of the Thames protected from the weather by Waterloo Bridge, there’s a second hand book shop and however hard I try, I can never walk past without browsing.  When I find a bargain I snatch it from the table and pay the man.  I have no idea where the books come from and I don’t really care either. Anyway, when I found a copy of John Betjeman’s best of, I couldn’t resist, especially since it was just over three quid. It was a pleasure doing business for something so enjoyable.

John Betjeman was actually born John Betjemann in 1906. His surname was changed during World War I to sound less German. The family lived at Parliament Hill Mansions in Highgate North London. In 1909 they moved to a more opulent part of Highgate.

Statue of John Betjeman at St Pancras International

Betjeman was educated at Byron House and Highgate School where he was taught by none other than the poet T S Eliot.  He then went on to board at the Dragon School preparatory school in Oxford.  After failing the maths section of the entry exam, Betjeman struggled to get into university, but was accepted as a non-scholarship student.  While at Magdalen College, he was tutored by a young C S Lewis so at this stage of his education, Betjeman had been introduced to two literary greats.

After university, Betjeman worked for a brief period of time as a private secretary, school teacher and film critic. He was employed by the Architectural Review as assistant editor from 1930-1935 and this employer was said to be his true university. During this period, he married Penelope Chetwode and their first child was born in 1937.

If you’ve read any of his work, you’ll understand why I was excited about the book.  Betjeman’s subjects are places and the everyday.  I wouldn’t say the wording is simple, but there is a touch of comedy and it really is easy to understand.  There isn’t a great deal of abstract in his work and his humour only adds to the honesty. If you've never been aquainted, there’s still time.

John Betjeman passed away in 1984 and is buried in the churchyard at St Enodoc’s church in Cornwall. I wish I had known him.  I think he would have been interesting to talk to and the kind of man that people are just drawn to. His style is formidable and charismatic – I love it.  Oh and after sprouting about how much I like the late John Betjeman, might I add that Once upon a time in London, a Poet Laureate pushed aside the pretentious and gave the world an offering of enjoyable modernism that really is second to none.

 

Who’s Afraid?

Virginia Woolf

Really and truly, I had no idea how to start this.  When I first began to read Mrs Dalloway, I didn’t realise the path the book would actually take and to me, what started with a nice walk along Bond Street took a downwards spiral to something that resembled a party plot of ‘Keeping up Appearances.’ To be honest, I couldn’t wait to finish the book and on this occasion, the author is definitely more interesting to me than this particular story. Please forgive me if I’ve offended any of you by saying that and sadly, I wouldn’t be inclined to read any of her other work.

The troubled life of Adeline Virginia Stephen started on the 25^th of January 1882 in London England. But if you read the authors memoirs, her most vivid memories are of St Ives, Cornwall where the family spent every summer up to 1895.

Her tragic descent began when she lost her mother in that very year at the age of 13 and then the loss of her half-sister two years later, led to the first of Virginia’s many breakdowns. The death of her father in 1904 led to her being institutionalised. Her breakdowns and subsequent mood swings were also said to be the result of sexual abuse from her half-brothers which is included in her memoirs.

The plaque on the house in Hyde Park Gate

Educated by her parents in their home in Hyde Park Gate, Virginia did later attend Kings College and studied several languages in the ladies department.  Woolf began her writing career in 1900 for the Times and her first novel was published in 1915. Some might say that a story slightly reflects the personal experience of the writer.  If this is the case, in my opinion, it seems that her private world made a public debut in much of her work.

The picture of Woolf on a window of Kings College

Woolf was a member of the Bloomsbury group and played a part in the Dreadnought Hoax dressed as an Abyssinian prince.  The six members sent a telegram to HMS Dreadnought instructing that the ship must be prepared for the group of princes to visit.  The UK foreign office even arranged a VIP coach for the group.  The group showed their appreciation of the tour with the words ‘Bunga Bunga.’ When revealed as a hoax, the expedition was an embarrassment to the Navy and the Home Office and when the official Emperor of Ethiopia requested to view the vessel, the request was declined.

She married Leonard Woolf in 1912 and although she was troubled mentally and extremely fond of the same sex, their marriage was in her words, complete. There were never any children of course, but if you read into her life, it’s to be expected.

Virginia spent the last years of her life with her husband in Sussex at Monks House which is now maintained by the National Trust.  After completing the manuscript of her last novel, she slipped once again into a deep depression and on the 28^th of March 1941 after writing her last words in a note to her husband, she filled her pockets with stones and walked into the River Ouse.

The tragic life of Virginia Woolf is a story that affects everybody differently and it’s definitely worth telling you that, Once upon a time in 1941, a woman who loved her work, fell out of love with the world and left it behind.

http://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/monks-house/

http://www.museumofhoaxes.com/hoax/archive/permalink/dreadnought_hoax/