There are books that whisper. Books that purr. And then there’s Valmouth - a novella that arrives on the literary stage dressed in ostrich feathers and screaming “darling” before it’s even found its seat. If novels were guests at a country house, Valmouth would be the one caught kissing the butler, flirting with the vicar, … Continue reading Valmouth: Where Decorum Goes to Die (with a Wink and a Fan)
Tag: fiction
The Phantom in the Linen: On the Ubiquity of White Ladies, Grey Ladies, and Other Draped Nonsense
A couple of weeks ago, I found myself in Blanchland, Northumberland - a village so theatrically atmospheric it looks like it was designed by a heritage-obsessed monk with a fondness for mist. I was holed up in The Lord Crewe Arms, one of the North’s most famously haunted pubs - though frankly, the prices gave me … Continue reading The Phantom in the Linen: On the Ubiquity of White Ladies, Grey Ladies, and Other Draped Nonsense
Fingersmith: A Tale of Pickpockets, Pornographers, and Plot Twists So Sharp You’ll Need Stitches
“The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?”— Jeremiah 17:9 First of all... On the Reluctance to Read the Modern …or, Why I Approach Contemporary Novels Like They Might Bite Me There’s a particular stiffness in my posture whenever someone recommends a “brilliant new novel.” A twitch behind the eyes. … Continue reading Fingersmith: A Tale of Pickpockets, Pornographers, and Plot Twists So Sharp You’ll Need Stitches
Haunted, Harrassed, and Hard-Done-By: Susan Hill’s The Woman in Black
They say curiosity killed the cat, but if you ask me, it merely got the cat thoroughly spooked and left it clinging to the curtains like a caffeinated spider. Such is the effect Susan Hill’s The Woman in Black has on a reader: you pick it up thinking you’re in for a quaint little ghost … Continue reading Haunted, Harrassed, and Hard-Done-By: Susan Hill’s The Woman in Black
Confessions of a Shandean: Or, How I Came to Love a Book That Can’t Keep Its Trousers On
I must begin, dear reader, with a warning: Tristram Shandy is not a novel - it is a literary striptease performed by a madman with a feather quill and far too much time on his hands. Approaching it as one might approach a standard narrative is like bringing a map to a dream: utterly useless … Continue reading Confessions of a Shandean: Or, How I Came to Love a Book That Can’t Keep Its Trousers On
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