If Evelyn Waugh had written Northanger Abbey, how would it read? That sort of parlor game can be interesting; and it can obviously be played for comedic effect (exercise for the Reader: think of the most incongruous author/literary genre). But the Waugh writing Northanger Abbey exercise requires no act of the Imagination to determine its Nature. Someone wrote it.
Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons is utterly charming. Flora Poste goes to a dark, foreboding country farm house full of ominous, dark figures. Add a mystery surrounding a past wrong done by the family at Cold Comfort Farm to Flora’s father and some equally mysterious Rights which to which Robert Poste’s child may lay claim if only she could figure out what said Rights actually are. How would Waugh (or Austen, in an earlier age) handle it? He’d write a novel which mocks the genre toward which that description is clearly heading. One by one, Flora maneuvers the dark, foreboding aspects of the farm into light, cheerful aspects, not by clever machinations, but by an intrepid spirit which refuses to be crushed under the weight of all the expectations created by the setting. It’s silly, cleverly done and, as I said, charming.
My favorite line in the book? Easy. “She liked Victorian novels. They were the only kind of novel you could read while you were eating an apple.” That is pure poetry—I have absolutely no idea what it means, but yet it strikes me as perfectly true, capturing something truly deep. That line has hovered at the edge of my consciousness since I read it, hinting at something (I know not what). Poetry is best when it is vaguely understood, and I understand that line vaguely. If anyone actually understands the line, please, please keep silent.
Reading this novel is a new landmark in my reading career. This is the first book I have read after a recommendation on Twitter. (Thanks, Mallory.) As I noted here, I got my Twitter account a few months back; I still have absolutely no idea what to make of it. (Lily knows what to make if it; she is terribly embarrassed that I have a Twitter account. For some reason she thinks that people in their mid-40's have no business on Twitter. And, oddly, Lily doesn't have a Twitter account, so it is not clear why she feels so strongly about this.) Composing a thought limited to 140 characters can be a pleasant diversion (well, only if one doesn’t cheat by ignoring the constraints of proper grammar—in this way, tweeting is like composing a sonnet, but not as time consuming). I think the only way to enjoy the exercise is to treat it much like I treat this blog—ignore the Reader. If one starts worrying about whether the matter being composed will be enjoyed by the people reading it, then it would be rather crippling. There was a really interesting Wall Street Journal article recently about the number of people who have become increasingly obsessed with their on-line identities and how much people Like what they have written. People become despondent when posting on Facebook if not enough of their Friends click the Like button. Similarly on Twitter; insufficient Retweets brings despair. I can see how this could happen—were someone to worry whether enough people were reading his blog, the whole exercise would become tedious. So, why does this blog continue? It’s been an interesting intellectual exercise—forcing myself to pause after each book I read, letting my mind rove where’er it wills. Who knew, for example, that Cold Comfort Farm and the Like Button on Facebook were related? But, where then lies the role of Twitter in my life? Perhaps an apple and a Victorian novel hold the key.
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