I love good historical fiction, and, of course, a good classic novel and history books. I tend to be rather Anglo-centric in my reading, simply because I’m obsessed with all things English, but I do like other settings too! I … Continue reading
A portrait of a young man and his times, Jacob’s Room is Virginia Woolf’s first truly experimental novel. E.M. Forster wrote of it, “amazing…a new type of fiction has swum into view.” Impressionistic in style, experimental in approach, the narrative is as inspired now, as it was when it first appeared.
I have read that Jacob was very much inspired by Woolf’s brother, Thoby,who died of typhoid when he was 26, and now I see why- there are a lot of parallels between his and Jacob’s life and fate.
This is a very interesting novel, in that you can see Woolf experimenting with her “voice” as a writer, which she obviously perfected later on. Right now, I think she peaked at Mrs. Dalloway, but I haven’t finished reading everything she’s ever written yet.
Nobody really knows who Jacob is, which makes this book even more interesting. Jacob is kind of like this otherworldly ghost, flitting about the novel, not quite within the grasp of the reader, let alone the other characters. We only see little flashes of his perspective, certainly not enough to “know” him. Everybody is thinking about him, everyone is calling him, but he never comes. He’s too busy going around and doing all the things, being a bit of a prat and boating in the nuddy to notice.
The writing is, as per usual for Woolf, absolutely beautiful. I have marked out several beautiful passages in my copy, which is always nice to do when you’re reading… it always tells me that I’m enjoying it. 
It seems that a profound, impartial, and absolutely just opinion of our fellow-creatures is utterly unknown. Either we are men, or we are women. Either we are cold, or we are sentimental. Either we are young, or growing old. In any case life is but a procession of shadows, and God knows why it is that we embrace them so eagerly, and see them depart with such anguish, being shadows. And why, if this — and much more than this is true — why are we yet surprised in the window corner by a sudden vision that the young man in the chair is of all things in the world the most real, the most solid, the best known to us–why indeed? For the moment after we know nothing about him.
Such is the manner of our seeing. Such the conditions of our love.
However, this book is quite slow, and not as well executed as her later experimental works, which is totally understandable. Some of the characters weren’t fully fleshed out, while some were totally real… The woman in the train carriage and Fanny Elmer I especially liked, as they felt absolutely tangible, as if I’ve met them before, as if they were some part of me.
Then the ending… it killed me. I knew how it ended, having read so much about it through researching my thesis, but oh man… when it happened, it was a kick in the guts.
I do think this little novel deserves a bit more attention than it gets, though not as much as I wish Between the Acts would get, coz that novel was like being repeatedly slapped and it was a thoroughly good slapping. I don’t know that I would re-read this in the next few years, but perhaps after a while, since the writing is so gut wrenchingly gorgeous.
4/5 stars
Blame it or praise it, there is no denying the wild horse in us.
A sweeping story told in letters, spanning two continents and two world wars, Jessica Brockmole’s atmospheric debut novel captures the indelible ways that people fall in love, and celebrates the power of the written word to stir the heart.
I kept picking up this book when I was in the bookshop, as it just seemed to draw me towards it, but I didn’t buy it. I love Scotland, so the name piqued my interest, plus the cover is very nice. I like epistolary novels and the time period it’s set in. Then finally, the clincher was that it was recommended as similar to The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, which absolutely sealed the deal… Alas, I am disappointed. That was a cruel comparison to make, as this book just couldn’t reach it, but I wanted something of a similar feeling.
It felt like every time I got into the story, an anachronism or misuse of a word would crop up. I found it really frustrating, as it makes me think the research for this book was sloppy. Making a Scotswoman on Skye use the word “sweater”, for example. In 1912. No. Just… no. Brockmole is American, but surely her editor would have picked this up? Or she’d have noticed her using an Americanism herself? Then, having Elspeth say that she had “a good supply of neeps, swedes and tatties” is sloppy. SWEDES ARE NEEPS. They are the same thing. Neeps are not turnips. For the love of God, authors, if you’re setting a novel in a foreign country, do your research. That is what set Burial Rites apart- the research was flawless. These little problems (there were more than just these two examples) throw a person out of the story and made my reading of this novel less pleasurable than it could have been.
I didn’t like the character of Elspeth much at all. I did like David, but Elspeth just rubbed me the wrong way until right near the end. Their story was sweet (nearly too sweet), but because I really didn’t like one half of the coupling, it was a bit hard to stay focused. I must say, I did spend the last 20 pages or so reading through tears, so something must have worked. Or I’m just an emotional wreck… that too.
I liked the dual timelines of the narrative, but I felt like we spent far more time with Elspeth and David. That meant that the characters in the second timeline were far less fleshed out, so it was far harder to feel much for them. I think more could have been done with that timeline in general, so it was more of an equal being than just a means to facilitate the ending.
I also thought the letters didn’t seem much like letters. Some were very short- so short that they seemed like a quick email, not a letter to a loved one overseas. Yes, they were sweet and nice and meaningful, but there was something missing in the execution.
I’m going to rate this 3.5 out of 5, because I did end up enjoying it and liking the characters enough to cry over the ending, but there were things missing in it for me. Perhaps if the ending was longer and not so quickly tied up, it would have reached a 4 star. If it had been executed better, with proper research, the story could have hit the 5 star mark. Maybe even if it hadn’t been compared to one of my favourite books, it wouldn’t have ended up disappointing me so. Perhaps, just maybe, I need to be less critical of little mistakes, but the little mistakes in this one made me question far more about it than I might have before.
3.5/5
There is so much hype surrounding this book. There are so many amazing reviews and it has won a slew of awards. It was written on a million dollar advance. Holy hell, that is a lot of money.
The premise is fantastic and totally not the standard at the moment. It’s nice to take a break from what the publishing world has been giving us for a while. I also felt kind of obligated to give this a shot since Hannah Kent is Australian and seems like a really great woman… she’s an formidable talent on the Australian university circuit and will definitely do some amazing things.
The novel follows Agnes Magnusdottir, a woman sentenced to death for a double homicide in 19th century northern Iceland. She is made to move into a family home to await her execution, against the wishes of the family who live there.
The novel is extremely well researched, so you can have absolute faith that the descriptions of the events are close to exact and that the way in which the people live is absolutely true. The descriptions of the Northern Icelandic landscape are phenomenal- I especially liked a description of two icebergs bumping into each other.
I was definitely dragged along through the story, even though I knew how it was all going to end. I just had to find out why Agnes had killed, or even if she had committed the crime in the first place. I wanted to know how Agnes went to her fate, and how she felt walking up to the place of execution. I loved listening to Agnes telling her story, and felt almost as if I was in the darkness of the Icelandic croft as she was telling it.
In some ways, I kind of wish it had only been told from Agnes’ point of view. I can see why it wasn’t, but I infinitely preferred her narrative voice over the third person narration.
Unfortunately, I didn’t really enjoy this book as much as I hoped I would. There’s no denying it is a great book… It’s just one that is difficult to enjoy, if “enjoy” is even the right word for it. There is a constant, dark sense of foreboding that pervades this work, as it absolutely should, but something about it just didn’t click with me. I almost feel like it was a little too far over into the pretentious literary side, but even that isn’t quite correct. Hence, I’ve really struggled to rate it.
For me, it kind of feels like I was waiting for a really good cup of tea, but when it was given to me, the person who made it used half tea and half coffee. So I’ve sort of got what I wanted, sort of got what I didn’t want, but it’s cold in Iceland and this is a hot beverage all the same.
What I can definitely say for sure is that the next problem I had is with me, not a fault of the author.
You may have noticed, but many literary texts- in fact, all of the Australian literary texts I can think of- use a trope called “the grotesque body”. Basically, there are descriptions of characters doing all the things humans do- eating, shitting, sleeping, pissing, fucking etc. It serves to humanise or debase a character, show that we are all basically just machines working to operate our bodies.
I can read about the nastiest of wounds, the sawing off of limbs, battles, death and decay. I can look at horrible injuries with nary a squirm. Hell, I know how to dress wounds that defy belief. I’m not squeamish -though I do have spidey senses for rotten meat and dairy (even a touch off and I’m retching). Regardless, I’m not a person to freak out over something yucky.
Just don’t make me read a passage where a character pees down her own leg. I’ll take the baby seal clubbing over the peeing, thanks.
This trope turns me off a book so fast it isn’t funny. I don’t know why, it just does. It makes me squirm like you wouldn’t believe, and there is lots of it in this book. I wish Australian writers would stop doing this, as it just irks me… once is fine, more than that is too much. It turns me off reading Australian literary writers, since I feel like this trope is going to be in there. (I’m looking at you, Tim Winton)
I didn’t have too much trouble with all the Icelandic names, thanks to the pronunciation guide at the front of the book and having a best friend who is Swedish, so I’m a bit used to the sounds. I’m glad Hannah Kent decided to keep the names in Icelandic and use Icelandic names for objects, as it helped with the authenticity. Plus, I really enjoyed understanding how the Icelandic surnaming system works!
I also really liked that Kent has used a period of history in a place not generally known about. I knew nothing about life in Iceland before this book, other than it must be bloody cold and living there in the 19th century must have been a wrench. I didn’t know about Agnes’ tale before this, but I would read more about her if I saw something written in English.
Overall, this is a fantastic piece of historical fiction… it is just not one that I connected with in the way I hoped. I think if I had read it without knowing it’s a book that is supposed to be staggeringly good- worthy of a million dollar advance good- I would have liked it more. I also would have liked at least 90% less urine, but that just seems the done thing in Australian literature. It’s not a book I’d read again, but it’s not one I regret reading at all.
If someone asked me if they should read it, I’d say yes. I have a few people in mind who I’m sure would really enjoy it, and I’ll probably end up buying them a copy for Christmas… but it just wasn’t all I had hoped for for myself.
3.25/5 stars (Yes, 3.25. Told you I struggled to rate it.)
Prisoner of war, optometrist, time-traveller – these are the life roles of Billy Pilgrim, hero of this miraculously moving, bitter and funny story of innocence faced with apocalypse. Slaughterhouse 5 is one of the world’s great anti-war books. Centring on the infamous fire-bombing of Dresden in the Second World War, Billy Pilgrim’s odyssey through time reflects the journey of our own fractured lives as we search for meaning in what we are afraid to know.
I took a ridiculously long time to get around to finishing this book. I’m talking years. I started reading it at least 4 years ago now, but lent it to someone halfway through and then never got back to it. I then picked it up a month ago but took weeks to finish reading it, even though I thought it was fantastic! I make zero sense sometimes. Curse university brain frying!
I really, really enjoyed this novel. I’m not hugely into American literature or modern classics- had a few bad experiences and gave up a bit. I do like sci-fi, but again, haven’t read a huge amount (compared to my friends, anyway). I was a bit worried about how I’d go with this, but I found it a really easy read and one that I fell into easily.
My only little qualm is that I wanted it to go a little further into situations. I also got annoyed by the time shifts at some points- I’d get really into a storyline and then BAM- time shift back to one I didn’t like as much!
I really liked Billy’s experiences on Tralfamadore. I’m a crazy person and totally kept mispronouncing the Tralfamadorians in my head, so the first time I heard it spoken out loud I was confused… I kept calling them “Tramalfadorians”. Oops. Regardless, their storyline was really interesting and I wish Vonnegut had spent a bit more time on them. I found their experience of time to be super interesting, as well as their fascination with Earth. They were a bit hilarious at times!
The anti-war sentiment in this novel is really thought provoking, especially considering it is a work of modern American fiction. I think that America has lost perspective on war and patriotism, something Vonnegut understood very well. I can’t imagine how horrific the bombing of Dresden was, but he handles it really well in this novel. Billy’s wartime experiences weren’t my favourite part of the book, which is unusual for me, but were really good anyway. I think I just wanted to get back to Tralfamadore!
The famous line, “So it goes.” just floored me at several points. There were times when it was used perfectly as a comedic device, but others where it just killed me. So it goes.
Overall, this was a fantastic book, but not really one of my all time favourites. I may come back to this another time, as I think it would benefit from a re-read, since there’s just so much going on in here! I’ll have to check out some more Vonnegut at some stage too. I really recommend this one to anyone who thinks it sounds up their alley… it’s so many things rolled into one that there’s sure to be something you’ll enjoy.
4/5 Stars
Ford’s masterly story of destruction and regeneration follows the progress of Christopher Tietjens as his world is shattered by the Great War.
In four volumes (Some Do Not…, No More Parades, A Man Could Stand Up— and The Last Post), Parade’s End traces the psychological damage inflicted by battle, the collapse of England’s secure Edwardian values and the new age, embodied by Tietjens’s beautiful, selfish wife, Sylvia. It is an elegy for the war dead and the passing of a way of life, and a work of amazing subtlety and profundity
I’ve deliberated extensively about how I want to do this review. I’ve decided to review as a whole rather than each book individually, as much of what I have to say would get repetitive over time.
I’d been really putting off the reading of this book, because it terrified me so badly. I felt like there was no way I was going too be smart enough to read it. I felt like I was going to get it all wrong, and everyone would discover that I’m some kind of fraud and kick me out of academia.
Well… none of those things happened. I’m actually not even using the book for my research anymore, so the whole pressure drama for me is entirely gone, so I’ve wasted a whole lot of angst over the whole deal. It happens!
Well… my reading experience ranged from:
To this, when I realised I actually understood what was going on (most of the time):
I did understand it! Even better, when I forgot that I was under pressure, I began to enjoy it enough to start getting enthusiastic about what was happening in the book, which was a little bit astounding!
I liked the character of Tietjens. I couldn’t help but feel vastly sorry for him, but also incredibly frustrated by his total inability to stand up for himself. Half of the series could have been avoided if he’d just told people that he didn’t do what they accused him of and that his wife was a raging sociopath!
Sylvia was one of the most detestable literary characters I’ve ever come across. Every time I thought she might be showing a redeeming feature, she did something even worse, so I couldn’t feel sorry for her or even begin to like her. As an antagonist, she’s great, but as a person? Avoid at all costs. I’m so glad I don’t know anyone half as nasty as her.
Valentine was a bit on the meh side, but I did love her relationship with Christopher. I felt that she read slightly older than her supposed age, which I actually preferred, as it made the age gap between them more palatable for me.
The various side characters, like Macmaster, General Campion, Mrs Wannop and Mrs Duchemin range from disgusting to amusing in fair turns. Sometimes they surprise you with an action that makes you want to jump into the book and punch them in the teeth. Other times you find them really hilarious. I suppose that’s what Ford was getting at- every human is so changeable: we have so many different sides depending on motive, perspective and situation.
“In every man there are two minds that work side by side, the one checking the other; thus emotion stands against reason, intellect corrects passion and first impressions act a little, but very little, before quick reflection.”
As for the writing style…. oh dear. I don’t even know where to begin.
It truly was one of the most challenging novels I’ve ever read. I’ve been reading a ton of Modernist literature recently, so I’m feeling really quite confident with their style, but this novel was hard going. I got through No More Parades in one 10 hour marathon session. It felt like I should have read triple the amount in that time, especially because I had no distractions at all and I’m a really fast reader.
The reason it took so long?
It’s SO damn dense. So dense. It’s like trying to swim through porridge.
That being said, I enjoyed that book the most out of the four. It had a far more coherent storyline for a longer period of time than the others did, and the things it was dealing with were far more interesting than Some Do Not…
If you’re wondering about the elipses in titles, it’s meant to be there. Ford is the absolute king of the elipses. I just went and performed a highly scientific experiment, by flipping to a random page and counting. I have 17 elipses on the two pages that make up a conversational paragraph. SEVENTEEN. Ford uses them to represent thought processes: the pauses between thoughts, the changing moment before the mind runs elsewhere, then snaps back to the original focus. It’s an interesting method, which does make sense once you get used to it, but won’t be many people’s cup of tea.
This is a fair example of how much it can be used, but it isn’t like this the whole way through.
“The room where they were dancing was very dark…. It was queer to be in his arms…. She had known better dancers…. He had looked ill…. Perhaps he was…. Oh, poor Valentine-Elisabeth…. What a funny position!…. The good gramophone played…. Destiny!…. You see, father! … In his arms! Of course, dancing is not really…. But so near the real thing! So near!… ‘Good luck to the special intention!…’ She had almost kissed him on the lips … All but!… Effleurer, the French call it…. But she was not as humble…. He had pressed her tighter…. All these months without…. My lord did me honour…. Good for Malbrouck s’en va-t-en guerre…. He knew she had almost kissed him on the lips…. And that his lips had almost responded…. The civilian, the novelist, had turned out the last light…. Tietjens said, ‘Hadn’t we better talk?…’ She said: ‘In my room, then! I’m dog-tired…. I haven’t slept for six nights…. In spite of drugs…’ He said: ‘Yes. Of course! Where else?….”
You can see the way Ford has arranged thought patterns and rendered them strangely coherent, yet at the same time very confusing. At this point in the book, Valentine is really confused, so the patterns become more disjointed to show this. The point of focus shifts around and around, sometimes in a whirl wind of words, that somehow make sense (or near sense, anyway). Ford throws the timeline of this novel in and out of the past, present and future, so there are points that you aren’t even entirely sure where in the timeline you are.
Each of the titles are worked more than once into their respective novels, which I think is a nice touch. I liked finding them, it became a bit of a game for me to count how many times I came across them!
If I didn’t have to read this, I would have likely just read up to No More Parades… and given up (and in fact, I did for a time). I think Ford faltered at that point, before finally careering to a halt. It doesn’t help that you get more Sylvia and less Christopher in A Man Could Stand Up-. This book is a weird, weird book and can really be taken in chunks, as long as you can keep all the facts straight in your head. There’s not a huge number of characters, but there’s an enormous amount of detail for all of them.
If you’d like to read it, I’d recommend beginning with Some Do Not, then moving on to No More Parades… and unless you’re really into it, stopping there. You’ve done enough at that point to pat yourself on the back. Then, you can go and watch the BBC production to find out what happens at the end, because I felt far more satisfied with watching it happen than reading it, which is a huge shame.
I can’t honestly say that I love this book. I can, however, say that I really respect what Ford was doing. I prefer his method of stream of consciousness to that of Woolf, but it took quite a while to get into it and it devolved a bit after he peaked in No More Parades.
If you’re interested in Modernist writing, like kooky war fiction, family sagas or the early 1900’s, do give this a try, but keep in mind that this is a challenging read. It repays the effort though, so don’t be too afraid to give it a shot. Even if you try the first two books, then move on, you’ll have achieved more than most people!
3.5/5 Stars
There are a breed of humans, like myself, who really like war literature. I don’t even really mind what war it is. I love it so much I’ve written about it on my blog, for assignments and currently working on … Continue reading
The second volume of Siegfried Sassoon’s semi-autobiographical George Sherston trilogy picks up shortly after Memoirs of a Fox-hunting Man: in 1916, with the young Sherston deep in the trenches of WWI. For his decorated bravery, and also his harmful recklessness, he is soon sent to the Fourth Army School for officer training, then dispatched to Morlancourt, a raid, and on through the Somme. After being wounded by a bullet through the lung, he returns home to convalesce, where his questioning of the war and the British Military establishment leads him to write a public anti-war letter. Through the help of close friend David Cromlech (based on Sassoon’s friend Robert Graves) a medical board decides not to prosecute, but instead deem him to be mentally ill, suffering from shell-shock, and sends him to a hospital for treatment. Sassoon’s stunning portrayal of a mind coming to terms with the brutal truths he has encountered in war—as well as his unsentimental, though often poetic, portrayal of class-defined life in England at wartime—is amongst the greatest books ever written about World War I, or war itself.
Siegfried Sassoon is my favourite war poet. I love the man. I’ve heard he was a bit of a monster to live with, which does come through in his work, but I’m enthralled by the way he writes. This “memoir” is set from 1915-1917 as “George Sherston” navigates the horror and trauma of the trenches.
I haven’t read the first section of these fictionalised memoirs, Memoirs of a Fox Hunting Man, because it really didn’t appeal to me and because this section is far more relevant to my needs. At first, I thought this might end up being a problem, but after some initial confusion over people who had obviously been introduced in the first book, I was fine. People come and go very quickly in this memoir.
When the blurb says this book is unsentimental, it means it. Sassoon frequently gets you to start liking a soldier he introduces, before giving you the details of their death at the end of the paragraph. It’s like being repeatedly punched in the stomach. To me, it shows his skill at grabbing the reader’s attention and emotions in a really short space of time, then twisting them. It’s written in a similar vein to his poetry, in many ways. .jpg)
I found it interesting to see the war from a first person perspective of an Officer, who is quite tough but has sympathy for the men under his control. He feels for the dead German soldiers he comes into contact with, realising that they’re really no different to himself. He is also sympathetic to the mental anguish suffered by many of the men around him, though he maintains a tough stance. You can feel his frustration when he goes home to friends and family with a rosy view of the war, while he becomes increasingly disillusioned.
As this is a thinly veiled autobiography, it’s easy to spot the people he’s referring to. Cromlech is obviously Robert Graves, a man who Sassoon has really mixed feelings about. Having read Graves’ Goodbye to All That, it’s a stark contrast of opinion- Graves thought Sassoon was wonderful, while Sassoon says some rather harsh things about Cromlech/Graves.
I was repeatedly shocked by the honesty and horrific descriptions of war in this book. I’ve become used to many Modernist books that skirt around the issues rather than dealing with them head on. Sassoon barrels in headfirst, with descriptions like this:
“I can remember a pair of hands (nationality unknown) which protruded from the soaked ashen soil like the roots of a tree turned upside down; one hand seemed to be pointing at the sky with an accusing gesture. Each time I passed that place the protest of those fingers became more expressive of an appeal to God in defiance of those who made the War. Who made the War? I laughed hysterically as the thought passed through my mud-stained mind. But I only laughed mentally, for my box of Stokes gun ammunition left me no breath to spare for an angry guffaw. And the dead were the dead; this was no time to be pitying them or asking silly questions about their outraged lives. Such sights must be taken for granted, I thought, as I gasped and slithered and stumbled with my disconsolate crew. Floating on the surface of the flooded trench was the mask of a human face which had detached itself from the skull.”
Eeeech.
I love how Sassoon deals with his anger about the war, his feelings towards the home front and the Army in this book. He is obviously still angry while he was writing, as he should be. I don’t blame him at all. He’s furious about the actions of the British Army generals, for making decisions that needlessly cost the lives of thousands of men. He’s hurt by the lack of understanding he encounters at home. He’s struggling to find a way to understand the deaths of the men around him, and how he is still living when they are dead. There are wonderful passages throughout about the futility of trench warfare, which are absolutely spot on and delivered in a wonderfully poetic way.
I wouldn’t recommend this to you if you’re a particularly squeamish individual, but if you’re okay with the quote above, you should be fine. Sassoon pulls no punches, but this gives the novel an extra dose of reality.
For me, it was a really nice change to read a war novel that wasn’t written in a Modernist 
style- the pages of this book practically turned themselves! This was an absolute treat, coming straight off reading Ford’s No More Parades!
Overall, I really enjoyed this novel. There’s a few slow sections, but for the most part it goes along at a cracking pace. It’s likely that I’ll end up reading the third novel, as it deals with the time that Sherston spent in Craiglockhart hospital, getting treatment for his shell shock.
3.5/5 Stars
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It is 1917 and Julia Ashton lives in a shuttered room in Queen’s Square, Bloomsbury. A young wife, no longer happy, she mourns the loss of her baby, and lives that war-time life of love and death as her poet husband, Rafe, comes and goes from the trenches of the First World War. In this “Other Bloomsbury”, a world of make believe, where the actors play at life and sex, Julia refuses to come to terms with her husband’s infidelity, her failing marriage and her private world of pain. Then into her trance-like state breaks Frederick, the writer with the flaming beard and the driving, volcanic genius. Only when she flees the fog and fever of London to seek a new calm in the wild countryside of Cornwall, can Julia face the truth about herself, her marriage and her future with the forceful Frederick.
The blurb of this book says pretty much all I need to say about the plot of this novel. In my opinion, this synopsis gives too much away, but it’s the only one I could find for this book! 
It’s a bit sad how under appreciated H.D. is. I think her work is as good as Virginia Woolf’s, yet she’s largely unknown. H.D. was part of the Imagist group of writers, alongside D.H Lawrence, Richard Aldington, Ford Madox Ford and Ezra Pound. They moved in similar circles to Woolf, however the Imagists weren’t in the famous Bloomsbury Group, but were a group of their own.
H.D. (or Hilda Doolittle) was born in America but moved to England after she left college. She had been in a relationship with Ezra Pound, who dubbed her H.D., but they had broken apart, though remaining friends. She married the poet, Richard Aldington, who is portrayed as Rafe in this novel. In fact, a lot of the Imagist group is portrayed in this novel, as it’s a very thinly veiled autobiographical work or Roman-a-clef. Frederick is D. H. Lawrence, Vane is Cecil Gray, the eventual father of her child. All of the characters are based on the people in her life, who were impacting on her experience… even Aldington’s mistress, Dorothy Yorke, who is called Bella in Bid Me to Live. 
This is an intensely clever book, with smatterings of Greek mythology and references to art, poetry and music throughout. I recommend having at least a passing knowledge of Greek myths and classical poetry before getting into this, as it helped me a lot! I did have to Google some things so that I could get the full picture, but I learnt quite a lot during this process. It’s quite a scandalous novel, as it throws quite a bit of shade on some people portrayed. I really enjoyed some sections of this book more than others, especially the beginning. She gives one of the most emotional scenes of a soldier leaving for the trenches that I’ve ever read- it brought me to tears.
Now there was nothing but the rough khaki under her throat.
Her chin brushed buttons, her thin-clad chest felt buttons, he was holding her too tight.
She didn’t say anything. Then she said, “Go away, go away, or it will be too late”
“Too late,” he said, “it’s damn near too late- and if-“
“Don’t say it,” she said. “Don’t say anything”
“Just this,” he said, “wear this for me, one out of suits with fortune, who would give more- who would give more- but that-“
She was crying on the pillow. He didn’t see me crying. She heard the front door thud, like the front door thudded when there was a thick fog. (pg. 29-30)
It also has one of the saddest returns of a soldier that I’ve read, apart from that of The Return of the Soldier by Rebecca West. I had tears in my eyes as I read it, as her struggle to accept the changes in her husband and the disintegration of their marriage carried on throughout the chapters.
You could not argue. His moods were more violent. He was not really the young officer on leave; that was not Rafe. Then if that was not Rade, well, let it be not-Rafe; the disintegrating factor was the glance; the look, the throwing aside of the uniform and the turn of the head, a stranger standing over by the book shelf, was Rafe Ashton. That is my husband, that is the man I married. The stranger became singularly strange, his language, his voice, the thing he brought into the room. Well, can you blame him? (pg. 45)
H.D and Aldington had a tempestuous writing relationship. He didn’t see much value in women’s writing, thinking that “women are incapable of the indirect method… [they are] writers belonging to the great second class” (1 Jan. 1914) H.D. targets both Aldington and Lawrence’s opinions on female authors several times in Bid Me to Live, most notably:
“You can’t light a fire unless the altar is there. You are right about man-is-man, woman-is-woman…But, Rico, I will go on and do it. I will carve my pattern on an altar because I’ve got to do it. You jeered at my making abstractions of people- graven images, you called them.” (pg. 164)
But what draws me to this book is H.D. herself. She’s a fascinating woman to look at. She travelled and lived all around Europe with her life partner, Annie Winifred Ellerman (or Bryher), for over 28 years. She lived as cousins with Bryher, who married twice for convenience. Bryher and her second husband, Kenneth, adopted H.D. and Cecil Grey’s daughter, Perdita, since Gray got cold feet during the pregnancy. She wrote poetry, studied Greek mythology and became mentally unstable. Bryher lovingly cared for her and quietly worked in the background to help her writing get recognition, even though they no longer lived together after 1946. Bryher herself is a fascinating woman- she even helped over 100 Jews escape the Nazi regime, until she had to flee them herself. 
The afterword in my edition (Virago Modern Classics) is a lovely missive written by Perdita on how she connected with this novel, finally understanding why her father was never spoken of. She seems to have had a childhood filled with love- two mothers and an adoptive father who thought the world of her. She still wished to know her father, though he was a taboo topic with H.D. and Bryher said he was a “bad man”. She did meet Gray eventually when she was older, but he never acknowledged her as his daughter. Perdita remained struck by the what if’s as she read this novel, as I did. What if H.D.’s first baby wasn’t stillborn? What if Aldington had not been unfaithful? What if Hilda’s relationship with Lawrence hadn’t quickly fizzled out? What if Gray hadn’t run away while H.D. was pregnant? 
My criticisms of the novel are relatively minor. I sometimes became confused by who she was speaking about, as she sometimes used nicknames or pet names without any previous indication as to whom that related to. Sometimes I couldn’t quite follow the text through its dream-like sequences, but I think on further re-reading (which I’ll have to do for uni) these will become slightly more easy to follow. This sort of thing is pretty common in novels like this, with an experimental style… I find it too in some of Woolf’s works as well. It takes some getting used to. There was also a fair bit of French in the beginning, but I just asked my mum what it meant or used a French dictionary… I don’t know French at all!
I also felt that the beginning of the novel was more streamlined and less confusing than the middle and end, but I think that was intentional. As Julia’s world gets shaken up, her narrative voice is shaken with it. It makes for some confusion, but I got the gist of what was going on most of the time, even if it took a couple of re-readings of paragraphs.
Another forewarning is that this book is a bit of a pain to get a hold of. To buy it on The Book Depository or Amazon, you’re looking at upwards of $95AUD, which is freaking ridiculous for a 190 page novel that should, by rights, be worth $20AUD. I managed to find it second hand on Better World Books, for the grand total of $7.50US. They don’t seem to have any copies at the moment, but better book finders than me will surely find it in a library or other second hand bookshop!
I firmly think that it’s not literary value that stops this book being well known- at least as well known as some of D.H Lawrence or Ford Madox Ford’s works. I believe that it’s because she was a female and was eclipsed by her male counterparts. It’s a sad thing, as so many other female novelists have received the same treatment. There’s fair chunks where Julia relates times where the men are talking shit about her work, and I don’t doubt for a second that she encountered this a lot in her life.
Hopefully, her work will become more widely available in the future, as it would be a perfect shame to let this book, and H.D. herself, fade into obscurity. This book was a challenging read for me, but one that really felt worthwhile. I’m looking forward to reading some of her poetry next, and have The Gift sitting here, which I finally (!) found at my uni library, in the wrong section, while I was looking for something else! Huzzah!
3.75/5 Stars
Edit: After reading this book perhaps 10 times over the course of this year, my rating has changed considerably. This book is pure and utter magic, and has transformed my life and reading mentality. The experimental prose takes a fair bit of getting used to, but once you understand (if that’s entirely possible) it, the flow and poetry of it is stunningly beautiful.
4.75/5 Stars
Buy from The Book Depository
“List 10 books that have stayed with you in some way. Do not take more than a few minutes and do not think too hard. They do not have to be the “right” books or great works of literature, just ones that have affected you in some way. Paste these instructions and tag 10 friends, including me, so I can see your list.”
1. Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte
Something about this book gripped me and hasn’t let go yet, much like Cathy’s ghost at the window!
2. All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque
This book started my obsession with war literature, and remains the only book to ever make me physically retch. Those are two pretty good accolades… Really, this book got me where I am now!
3. Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling
Need I say more? This series is my escape world, with many of my favourite people inside it’s pages.
4. Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maude Montgomery
Oh Anne! I adore her. She has always been my Anne with an E.
5. The Lord of the Rings by J. R. R. Tolkien
I wish I’d read this when I was younger, because I feel bad that I missed out on so many years with this book. But I’ve made up for lost time- I’m a bit obsessed, and my LOTR collection includes a tattoo and clothing. Tolkien’s book goes with me everywhere now, it’s embedded in my very skin!
6. The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows
Ohhhhh I wish I could read this for the first time again!
7. No Great Mischief by Alistair MacLeod
This book is stunningly gorgeous. I could wax lyrical about this book for days!
8. Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
Jane is my bae. Enough said.
9. The Daughters of Mars by Tom Keneally
This book was awesome and I still find myself thinking back to it a lot. I’d totally read it again if I didn’t know the ending was so wildly annoying.
10. In Cold Blood by Truman Capote
Somehow, this book has stuck with me for years. I think it has something to do with Capote’s incredible ability to make poetry out of the most mundane or horrific of situations.
bookarahma 