twentieth century fiction

Novella a Day in May 2026 – No.9

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I love The Thin Man films. Starring William Powell and Myrna Loy as married detective duo Nick and Nora Charles – not forgetting loyal Schnauzer Asta – they are an absolute wisecracking joy.

So I don’t really know why it has taken me so long to read Dashiell Hammet’s final novel, published in 1934 (the first of the films was released the same year), but I’m very glad to have finally got to it.

Nick Charles is a former New York private eye, now married to wealthy Nora and living in California, running his father-in-law’s business interests. He is back on the East Coast for Christmas when he runs into Dorothy in a bar (Nick is constantly drinking alcohol despite the story taking place in 1932, before the end of Prohibition) whom he knew as a child, and she now needs his help to find her missing scientist father.

Nick is reluctant, but his wife Nora is more open-minded:

“There’s nothing I can do to help her.”

“She thinks you can.”

“And so do you, which shows that no matter what you think, you can always get somebody else to go along with you.”

Nora sighed. “I wish you were sober enough to talk to.” She leaned over to take a sip of my drink. “I’ll give you your Christmas present now if you’ll give me mine.”

I shook my head. “At breakfast.”

“But it’s Christmas now.”

“Breakfast.”

“Whatever you’re giving me,” she said, “I hope I don’t like it.”

“You’ll have to keep them anyway, because the man at the aquarium said he positively wouldn’t take them back. He said they’d already bitten the tails off the -“

“It wouldn’t hurt you any to find out if you can help her, would it? She’s got so much confidence in you, Nicky.”

This captures so much of the comedic tone of the novel. Nick and Nora’s constantly teasing, fond relationship underpinned by respect, and the fact they do truly listen to one another is what gives the story heart. (Admittedly it also captures how their relationship is underpinned by relentless alcohol consumption!)

Despite Nick’s reluctance, it isn’t long before he’s drawn into the mystery and the various machinations of Dorothy’s family, which results in a murder of the scientist’s assistant/mistress, and gangsters with guns rapidly appearing:

“So far I had known just where I stood on the Wolf-Wynant-Jorgensen troubles and what I was doing – the answers were, respectively, nowhere and nothing – but when we stopped at Reuben’s for coffee on our way home at four the next morning, Nora opened a newspaper and found a line in one of the gossip columns: “Nick Charles, former Trans-American Detective Agency ace, on from Coast to sift the Julia Wolf murder mystery”; and when I opened my eyes and sat up in bed some six hours later Nora was shaking me and a man with a gun in his hand was standing in the bedroom doorway.”

What follows is good fun, with speakeasys, red herrings, a genuinely terrifying mother, comedic turns from villains, and world-weary wisecracks from Nick.

The novel is over ninety years old and so attitudes have dated, not least towards women (the phrase “feminine brainstorms” was a particular favourite of mine) and towards mental illness; Nora makes several baffling references to Nick’s Greek heritage; and there is one use of a racial slur. But none of these instances are the focus of the story, or attempted to be validated.

Generally with these types of novels I’ve been conditioned by Raymond Chandler to forget the plot and enjoy the ride, but actually, The Thin Man does hold together, albeit reliant on a lot of exposition by Nick in the final few pages. If you fancy a hardboiled read but on the comedic rather than noirish side of things, with a witty heroine and a very appealing Schanuzer, then this is one for you.

Although… I must admit this is a rare instance where I think the film is better! The dialogue is snappier, the plot leaner and the chemistry and charisma of the two main stars (plus Asta) is just phenomenal. So even if you don’t fancy the book, I would urge you to see the film 😊

“She laughed. “All right, all right. Still want to leave for San Francisco tomorrow?”

“Not unless you’re in a hurry. Let’s stick around awhile. This excitement has put us behind in our drinking.””

Novella a Day in May 2026 – No.7

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Last year for this project I read Brigid Brophy’s The Snow Ball, which made me keen to read more. Hackenfeller’s Ape (1953) was her debut novel and already demonstrates what an accomplished stylist and storyteller she was.

Professor Clement Darrelhyde is at London Zoo watching two Hackenfeller’s apes, Percy and Edwina. The apes are thought to be the closest to humans, and Brophy draws her parallels with a light comic touch.

“In captivity it moved on all fours; but in the jungle, as Hackenfeller had noted, it ran erect with its hands holding onto branches overhead. Children sometimes used a similar method when they learn to walk, but in the adult man it was forgotten until he had to relearn it in crowded buses and trains.”

Both the Professor and Edwina hope for a mating to occur, but Percy is not obliging, despite the Professor’s ritual of singing Mozart to them.

“Here was an animal discontent with his monkeydom, already exercising the first characteristic of Man, which Man had never satisfactorily explained, self-restraint.”

Very quickly we learn that the Professor is under time pressure. An arrogant young researcher named Kendrick wants to send Percy to space in a rocket. The Professor is outraged, disparagingly drawing parallels in his mind between Kendrick and Rossini! He has only a few days to try and rescue Percy (although, keeping him in a cage is an odd kind of rescue).

“He looked like a scholastic grasshopper, crossing Regent’s Park and shattering its pastoral calm.”

The Professor undertakes interviews of comic misunderstanding with a journalist, and the inappropriately named Colonel Hunter at the League for the Prevention of Unkind Practises to Animals. Brophy has great fun satirising the press bias and well-meaning inactivity of organisations.

Eventually the Professor is aided by Gloria, a young pickpocket and burglar who, having been in prison, is up for setting Percy free.

But what does Percy want? Brophy takes us inside his mind in a way that works perfectly. It never seems clunky or whimsical, and she never sentimentalises Percy. I particularly enjoyed this reflection of his:

“Physically, he was exhausted. The Professor had not let him have his sleep out; and that at first seemed typical of the Professor’s nattering officiousness.”

The Professor and Gloria seemed doomed to failure and I couldn’t work out how Brophy would end this tale, but it is surprising and sensational, and she carries it off with aplomb.

I should warn readers there are some upsetting moments with the animals, but these are sentences not scenes. Brophy was a leading campaigner for animal rights and she knows how to make her points without didacticism or horror.

This really is an astonishing novel, finely balancing serious issues with comedy, philosophy with outright silliness.

Hackenfeller’s Ape has been reissued by Faber as one of their wonderful Editions series. More than 70 years after it was written, I’m sure it will resonate with a new generation of readers.

Novella a Day in May 2026 – No.5

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Following on from yesterday’s post on Gentleman Prefer Blondes, today I read the sequel But Gentlemen Marry Brunettes by Anita Loos (1927).

(Please note – some spoilers for Gentlemen Prefer Blondes!)

I’ll start with the negatives: I don’t think this quite has the sparkle of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes and it has less of the vignette style which suited Lorelei’s voice so well. I would hesitate to recommend it as a standalone novel, but as a short, diverting companion-piece to Blondes, there is still much to enjoy.

It opens with Lorelei expressing some quite modern views on marriage:

“I am full of ambitions and I think that practically every married girl ought to have a career if she is wealthy enough to have the home life carried on by the servants. Especially if a girl is married to a husband like Henry. Because Henry is quite a homebody and, if a girl was a homebody to, she would encounter him quite often.”

As Lorelei settles into married life and motherhood, Dorothy is still on hand with cynical commentary:

“And even Dorothy says that “a kid that looks like any rich father is as good as money in the bank.” I mean sometimes Dorothy becomes Philosophical, and says something that really makes a girl wonder how anyone who can make such a Philosophical remark can waste her time like Dorothy does.”

When Lorelei decides to follow a career as a writer, she heads to the Algonquin Round Table. I don’t know what Loos’ relationship was with this group, but she’s pretty biting about these literary wits:

“So then they all started to tell about a famous trip they took to Europe. And they had a marvelous time, because everywhere they went, they would sit in the hotel, and play cute games and tell reminisences about the Algonquin. And I think it is wonderful to have so many internal resources that you never have to bother to go outside of yourself to see anything.”

Lorelei decides to write about her friend Dorothy’s life, from travelling carnival, to school:

“Well, the Principal went down to Dorothy’s class and told all the girls that Dorothy had not had the advantage of a pure home, so they must form themselves into a little Committee, and help her not to stray. And after that, Dorothy really became the center of attraction, until one of the girls took a false step with a visiting football team and Dorothy lost her novelty.”

To joining the Ziegfeld Follies:

“Because hardly any broker seems to have enough Psychology to realize that the real ideal of his dreams is some small town village bell that he used to weave a romance around when he was age sixteen. But Mr. Ziegfield knows all about Psychology so that is the kind he picks out. And Dorothy says that about all Mr. Ziegfield does to “glorify” them, is to get them to comb the hay out of their hair, and give up starch in lingeray.”

For a story about Dorothy, there’s quite a lack of her biting observations, which was a shame. However, there are still some good lines:

“Gloria warned Dorothy that it would be fatal to marry a saxaphone player, without giving yourself an opertunity to get sick of him first.”

(Very reminiscent of Some Like It Hot!) And one that had a slightly Wodehouse turn of phrase:

“I mean, he could not take to drink, because he had already done that for years.”

So all in all, Loos’ wit means there is enough to enjoy if you enjoyed Blondes, and at novella-length Brunettes doesn’t outstay its welcome.

To end, we’ve had blondes and brunettes, now an extremely famous redhead, who like Dorothy was part of the Ziegfeld Follies:

Novella a Day in May 2026 – No.4

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I knew of Anita Loos’ Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (1925) from the iconic 1952 filmed musical, but somehow I never got round to reading it. I found this Penguin edition of the novella plus the sequel with the original illustrations by Ralph Barton, and realised now was the time for me to spend with Lorelei Lee, gold-digging flapper.

Told in diary form, we follow Lorelei around New York and then Europe, as she dates a series of men, trying to get them to spend as much money on her as possible.

“So by the time Piggie pays for a few dozen orchids, the diamond tiara will really seem like quite a bargain. Because I always think that spending money is only just a habit and if you get a gentleman started on buying one dozen orchids at a time he really gets very good habits.”

Lorelei is also on a constant quest to improve her mind, aided by Mr Eisman who suggests she keep a diary, although it never quite works. Her attempt to host a literary salon ends thusly:

“So Sam asked if he could bring a gentleman who writes novels from England, so I said yes, so he brought him. And then we all got together and I called up Gloria and Dorothy and the gentleman brought their own liquor. So of course the place was a wreck this morning and Lulu and I worked like proverbial dogs to get it cleaned up, but Heaven knows how long it will take to get the chandelier fixed.”

She does, however, attract a novelist:

“As soon as he found out that I was literary. I mean he has called up every day and I went to tea twice with him. So he has sent me a whole complete set of books for my birthday by a gentleman called Mr. Conrad. They all seem to be about ocean travel although I have not had time to more than glance through them.”

Ultimately though, she asks her maid to read Lord Jim and then tell her what happens.

The diary forms a series of vignettes as Lorelei and her acerbic friend Dorothy ricochet from one party and one man to another, before they travel to Europe. Dorothy is quick-witted and incisive, but also much more romantic. While she falls in love on the ship to England, Lorelei bemoans the lack of spending opportunities.

“I mean I really hope I do not get any more large size imitations of a dog as I have three now and I do not see why the Captain does not ask Mr. Cartier to have a jewelry store on the ship as it is really not much fun to go shopping on a ship with gentlemen, and buy nothing but imitations of dogs.”

It is this humour and the guilessness of Lorelei’s tone that make this such an enjoyable read. She is relentlessly materialistic,  but there is nothing vicious about her.

Loos also has some serious points to make among the light comedy. Lorelei was sexually assaulted in the past, and shot her assailant. In court, she was subject to misogynistic destruction of character. As she observes:

“I mean a gentleman never pays for those things but a girl always pays.”

There is a sense that she feels that men are still getting the better deal, when all they lose is money.

“I mean I always seem to think that when a girl really enjoys being with a gentleman, it puts her to quite a disadvantage and no real good can come of it.”

The reader also questions who is using who. Lorelei wants money, but what do this succession of men really want – do any of them truly care for Lorelei and are they even taken in by her?

When she and Dorothy are in London, they are mistaken for rich and subsequently invited to a series of aristocratic homes because people want to flog them things:

“So we went to tea to a lady’s house called Lady Elmsworth and what she has to sell we Americans seems to be a picture of her father painted in oil paint who she said was a whistler. But I told her my own father was a whistler and used to whistle all of the time and I did not even have a picture of him but every time he used to go to Little Rock I asked him to go to the photographers but he did not go.”

This is a perfect example of how Loos captures Lorelei’s ignorance but she is not the butt of the joke. Not knowing who Whistler is stops her being ripped off. Similarly, I usually dislike non-standard spellings to demonstrate a character’s poor education as condescending, but with Lorelei it serves to remind the reader that she is young and naïve and not to judge her actions too harshly.

“The Eyefull Tower is devine and it is much more educational than the London Tower, because you cannot even see the London Tower if you happen to be two blocks away. But when a girl looks at the Eyefull Tower she really knows she is looking at something. And it would even be very difficult not to notice the Eyefull Tower.”

I mean, she’s not wrong…

The other way Loos achieves balance is through Dorothy’s reported comments, cutting through any suggestion of whimsy:

“Dorothy looked at me and looked at me and she really said she thought my brains were a miracle. I mean she said my brains reminded her of a radio because you listen to it for days and days and you get discouradged and just when you are getting ready to smash it, something comes out that is a masterpiece.”

Gentlemen Prefer Blondes is a clever, entertaining satire on early twentieth century materialism, relationships between the sexes, and the choices available to women. Lorelei is somehow charming, and Loos never loses sight of the comedy – a protracted farce with a diamond tiara is particularly entertaining!

I think I’ll try the sequel for tomorrow, but I understand its not quite as accomplished. Fingers crossed that it is still enjoyable…

“I mean champagne always makes me feel philosophical because it makes me realize that when a girl’s life is as full of fate as mine seems to be, there is nothing else to do about it.”

The tone of the film is frothier, but of course I’ll end with the trailer of Marilyn Monroe as Lorelei and Jane Russell as Dorothy:

Novella a Day in May 2026 – No.2

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Stefan Zweig is a favourite writer of mine, I find him so insightful and compassionate. I also really like Pushkin Press Classics published in the smaller editions with the French flaps, so I was pleased to find just such a copy of his 1927 novella Twenty-four Hours in the Life of a Woman (transl. Anthea Bell 2003).

It opens at a guesthouse on the French Riviera, “ten years before the war” with the unnamed first-person narrator remembering the arrival of an attractive single man who quickly absconds with Henriette, the wife of a manufacturer. Her absence causes quite a stir:

“Silently, one by one, as if put to shame by so shattering an emotional outburst, we crept back to our rooms, while that stricken specimen of mankind shook and sobbed alone with himself in the dark as the building slowly laid itself to rest, whispering, muttering, murmuring and sighing.”

The narrator takes a more liberal view of Henriette’s conduct, which puts him at odds with the other guests. I enjoyed Zweig’s gentle humour here:

“Well, it’s of no importance here to go back in every detail over the stormy course of an argument conducted between soup and dessert: only professionals of the table d’hôte are  witty, and points made in the heat of a chance dispute at table are usually banal, since the speakers resort to them clumsily and in haste.”

The narrator’s assertion that “I’d rather understand others than condemn them.” attracts the attention of Mrs. C, who from the way she’s initially described sounded easily in her nineties, but as it turns out is sixty-seven! She deliberately builds an intimacy with the narrator in order to tell her story, and he becomes the silent interlocutor to her tale.

“It is intolerable to spend one’s whole life staring at a single point in it.”

She describes how, at the age of forty-two, grieving her husband and with her sons fully grown, she arrived at Monte Carlo.

“I came there out of tedium, out of the painful emptiness of the heart that wells up like nausea, and at least tries to nourish itself on small external stimulations.”

She is not a seasoned gambler, but her husband enjoyed the casinos so she visits, and there becomes consumed by the vision of a young man compulsively placing bets.

“His face spoke the same fantastically extravagant language of extremes as the hands”

[…]

“A fear of something dreadful, something I had felt invisibly enveloping the young man like a miasma from the first moment.”

What follows is a character study of Mrs C and a portrait of addiction which is entirely believable. With his characteristic humanity, discernment and understanding, Zweig considers the supressed tragedies of people’s lives and how we continue to live.

Twenty-four Hours in the Life of a Woman possibly felt more dramatic on initial publication – for twenty-first century readers nothing especially unpredictable takes place. But that is not to diminish it in any way. The evocation of strong feeling, and of trauma, is so sensitively realised that it remains a deeply affecting read.

This story has been filmed several times, including a made for television version with Ingrid Bergman. However, in its depiction of the glamour, seediness, seductions and betrayals of gambling, it also reminded me of a film I saw recently with lovely JacquiWIne, Bay of Angels:

“Who could be frightened in as wide and bright, as clean and quiet a house as this?” (Richard Yates, Revolutionary Road)

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One of the benefits of taking part in events like the 1961 Club, hosted by Kaggsy and Simon this week, is that it encourages me to finally get to novels languishing in the TBR, such as Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates.

I have enjoyed Richard Yates when I’ve read him previously but I also know that I kept putting off Revolutionary Road because he can be so bleak. And it is bleak, good grief. But Yates is such a great writer that reading this was never a slog, and I whizzed through his first novel.

The two protagonists, married couple April (“A tall ash blonde with a patrician kind of beauty”) and Frank Wheeler (“the kind of unemphatic good looks that an advertising photographer might use to portray the discerning consumer of well-made but inexpensive merchandise”) are just shy of thirty and living in suburban Connecticut in 1955.

Frank would probably take issue with the authorial description above, as he sees himself as “an intense, nicotine stained, Jean-Paul Sartre sort of man,”.

Frank and April are monumentally smug and pretentious, seeing themselves as living in suburbia with two children, a job in the city for him and role as a homemaker for her, but somehow above it all and different to their neighbours, all of whom are doing exactly the same:

“Intelligent, thinking people could take things like this in their stride, just as they took the larger absurdities of deadly dull jobs in the city and deadly dull homes in the suburbs. Economic circumstance might force you to live in this environment, but the important thing was to keep from being contaminated. The important thing, always, was to remember who you were.”

A crisis early on forces April to feel that she cannot continue. She feels their life needs enormous change and that she is to blame for holding Frank and his immense mind back.

“this idea that people have to resign from real life and ‘settle down’ when they have families. It’s the great sentimental lie of the suburbs, and I’ve been making you subscribe to it all this time. I’ve been making you live by it!”

What she fails to realise is that her husband is deeply ordinary, no great thinker, and with no discernible talent at anything so far. So her plan that they move to France and she work while he simply lives off her while he decides what to do, is fundamentally flawed.

Yates expertly portrays these two young people bound up in each other’s idea of who they are; feeding one another’s vanities and delusions. They become excited at the plan and for a while it rejuvenates their relationship:

“He felt tense and keyed up; the very act of sitting on a coffee table seemed an original and wonderful thing to do.”

However, the reader is more aware than April that her husband is not entirely convinced of the plan. Deep down, he knows his inadequacy, and his play-acting.

“he found he had made all his molars ache by holding them clamped too long for an effect of  grim-jawed determination by candlelight”

When April finds herself pregnant again, Frank sees a way out. They will have to stay in suburbia to raise their third child. April disagrees, and the strain and tension in their marriage gradually tightens to breaking point…

Revolutionary Road is an absolute masterpiece and it is astonishing that it was Yates first novel. The characterisation is unblinking; the post-war American Dream with all its materialistic conformity is minutely dissected.

What I found so clever was that having found April and Frank vain, shallow, and condescending for almost all the novel, by the end I felt desperately sad and sorry for both of them. Yates has written a tragedy, and suggested it is occurring daily behind the manicured lawns and bright smiles of middle-class, mid-century America.

“It was invincibly cheerful, a toyland of white and pastel houses whose bright, uncurtained windows winked blandly through a dappling of green and yellow leaves. Proud floodlights were trained on some of the lawns, on some of the neat front doors and on the hips of some of the berthed, ice-cream colored automobiles.”

To end, a trailer for the 2008 adaptation, which I know I’ve seen but don’t really remember. Time for a rewatch:

“Every woman who writes is a survivor.” (Tillie Olsen)

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Simon and Kaggsy are running one of their marvellous Club events all week, this time it is the 1961 Club. I’m hoping to do a few posts, and I’m starting with a short story.

Tell Me a Riddle by Tillie Olsen is a collection of four stories, with the titular tale published in 1961, so that is the one I will concentrate on. But all four are expertly realised with distinct narrative voices and I really recommend the whole collection.

Tell Me a Riddle looks at the last year or so together of a couple who emigrated from Russia (as the author’s parents had done). It opens:

“For forty-seven years they had been married. How deep back the stubborn, gnarled roots of the quarrel reached, no one could say – but only now, when tending to the needs of others no longer shackled them together, the roots swelled up visible, split the earth between them, and the tearing shook even to the children, long since grown.”

This antagonistic couple are not mellowing with age. He wants to move to supported accommodation, the Haven, she is determined to stay put. The fury of the sacrifices she has made throughout married life spill out, as he tries to entice her:

“A reading circle. Chekhov they read that you like, and Peretz. Cultured people at the Haven that you would enjoy.”

“Enjoy!” She tasted the word. “Now, when it pleases you, you find a reading circle for me. And forty years ago, when children were morsels and there was a Circle, did you stay home with them once so I could go? Even once? You trained me well. I do not need others to enjoy. Others!” Her voice trembled. “Because you want to be there with others. Already it makes me sick to think of you always around others. Clown, grimacer, floormat, yesman, entertainer, whatever they want of you.”

Having not spoken her resentments previously, she now digs her heels in:

“Enough. Now they had no children. Let him wrack his head for how they would live. She would not exchange her solitude for anything. Never again to be forced to move to the rhythms of others.”

The impasse escalates, with neither seeming to be anywhere close to winning, until events overtake them and her health begins to deteriorate:

“A bellyful of bitterness and every day the same quarrel in a new way and a different old grievance the old quarrel forced her to enter and relive. And the new torment: I am not really sick, the doctor said it, then why do I feel so sick?”

They move around the USA, visiting children and grandchildren, both reflecting on what they left behind and what lives they have enabled their children to create. Olsen analyses the promises and shortfalls of the American Dream through ordinary lives.

At the start of the story the husband has called his wife “Mrs Word Miser”, among other epithets. But by the end, as she lays dying in bed:

“The week Lennie and Helen came, the fever returned. With it the excited laugh, and incessant words. She, who in her life had spoken but seldom and then only when necessary (never having learned the easy, social uses of words), now in dying, spoke incessantly.”

The deathbed scenes are vivid and affecting. In a short space of around 50 pages Olsen brings her characters into noisy, awkward being and achieves what takes some writers ten times the space. She has absolute command of the short story and uses it expertly.

I realise I’ve made the story sound quite depressing, but while it is sad, I didn’t find it bleak. The characters are so strong and determined, and the voices so true and clear, that Tell Me Riddle conveys an energy which isn’t depleting.

I have Olsen’s novella Yonnonido in the TBR which I keep putting off – I’m really looking forward to picking it up now.

To end, a song from 1961 that I thought was much later in the decade, probably because it is such a timeless classic:

“Every night he tried himself and every night he acquitted himself.” (Emeric Pressburger, The Glass Pearls)

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Well, it’s only February but I already think that I’ve read one of the most extraordinary books of my year: The Glass Pearls by Emeric Pressburger (1966).  Most pleasingly, it was a twofer for reading events this month, #ReadIndies hosted by Kaggsy as it is published by Faber as one of their Faber Editions series; and Hungarian Literature Month hosted by Winston’s Dad as Emeric Pressburger was born in Miskolc, Hungary.

Pressburger studied in Prague, moving to Weimar-era Berlin and then escaping the Nazis by moving first to Paris then London. It was there he met Michael Powell, and the powerhouse filmmaking duo was formed. I’m a big fan of Powell and Pressburger films, and it was this that led me to read The Glass Pearls (and a nice chat with the bookseller who is also a P&P fan.) But it absolutely stands on its own terms, not simply as curio for cinephiles.

At the start of the novel, Karl Braun is moving into a lodging house in Pimlico, unloading a few items from a piano tuner’s van. His neighbours are curious, but mild-mannered Karl soon fits in. His fellow lodgers, Strohmayer who always has a deal on the go, and Kolm, a concert-loving chemist, are also European émigrés who escaped Hitler’s regime and assume Braun is the same. But the reader soon knows something the characters don’t: Braun is a Nazi escaping justice from the trials.

“I have lived for twenty years according to self-imposed rules; it wasn’t easy and I’m not going to change my ways now. I denied myself everything I used to enjoy most.”

Pressburger’s mother died at Auschwitz, as did many members of his extended family. In this astonishing novel he writes from the point of view of a Nazi doctor who carried out atrocities at Wittau concentration camp.  It is so brilliantly done. The third-person narrative means it is presented as this is the man, this is what he did and how he now lives, which means as a reader you can stick with it where a first-person narrative would be too much to ask. But in writing from Braun’s point of view, it is also made personal, and you are asked to spend time alongside someone who has repeatedly taken unforgivable actions, for which he feels no remorse.

Braun frequently has nightmares about pursuit and capture, and justifies himself at imagined trials thusly:

“He would never do anything to serve only his own purpose unless it served the common purpose as well. He would go to any length to help others, disregarding his own interest. He loved his work; he was a good family man; adored his wife and child; he was religious, prayed to God and respected his laws. He was a romantic and romantics were the salt of this earth.”

And in this way Pressburger consistently shows us the man, his complete and utter delusion, his cruelty and vanity, and also makes him recognisable.

Braun leads an ordinary life in post-war London. He has a love interest who he takes to concerts in a sedate courtship; he has to navigate his workplace politics; he chats to his fellow lodgers. No-one knows he is Dr Otto Reitmüller.

“He made enough money for his needs, he even had a little in the bank. He enjoyed a good book, a good play, a good concert, a good talk. What else does a man want from life?”

We know one thing he wants: his wife and child back, killed in Hamburg bombings. Braun wasn’t with them, called back to camp to continue his horrors, which are portrayed clearly, sickeningly, but not sensationally.

Braun isn’t pretending to be cultured, or bereaved. He is both those things and an unrepentant torturer. It is powerful portrait that demands responsibility from those who enact war crimes, but also from those who witness, to acknowledge how it could happen again when the people who did it were ordinary – friends and neighbours.

His paranoia steadily grows as the newspapers report on the trials, the deadlines are extended, and a fellow fugitive urges him to get the money they stashed in Swiss bank account and join ‘the Brotherhood’ to live out their days in Argentina.

“He knew he could never have stuck it out in prison. His strong sense of justice would have reared up against petty persecutions by his warders.”

Braun becomes more fearful and restless. Two men seem to be watching him, the tension mounts, and while I didn’t want him to escape, The Glass Pearls absolutely worked on the level of a thriller where you are speeding through it to know the outcome.

“One had to be careful about the deductive powers of a fertile brain. Once trained for critical examination and to present the fullest picture of possible dangers to its master, the brain tended to overdo things were not watched too closely.”

It felt Hitchcockian in many ways, but a reversal of the innocent man pursued by shady forces.

“Suddenly he knew that all he was yearning for was peace.”

There’s a very interesting Afterword in this edition from filmmaker Kevin Macdonald, who is also Pressburger’s grandson. He movingly describes Pressburger’s survivors guilt and how when he developed dementia, he had delusions of being chased by Nazis. Astonishingly, he also says:

“Emeric went so far as to imbue the Braun character with certain traits of his own; such that, to some degree, Braun is a self-portrait.”

To end, a trailer for a delightful Powell and Pressburger film that is slightly less well-known than some of their big hitters. I’m not the biggest fan of romance but it would take a heart of stone to resist the charm of I Know Where I’m Going!

“I suppose we don’t know much except from the books we have read, but at least we want to live.” (Barbara Comyns, A Touch of Mistletoe)

/ madamebibilophile / 20 Comments

I’d planned to read Barbara Comyns’ A Touch of Mistletoe (1967) in December for obvious reasons, but I fell behind with my plans as always. Despite the title it’s not a Christmas book at all, and instead it’s got my 2026 reading off to a great start.

A Touch of Mistletoe is thought to be semi-autobiographical, as it follows sisters Vicky and Blanche Green from teenagers in the 1920s, to extreme poverty in the 1930s, through to marriage and motherhood in wartime, ending in the 1950s. Certainly a semi-feral childhood is something Comyns has explored before:

“Our mother rather lost interest in us after the thirst got hold of her and, although our grandfather was vaguely fond of us, he certainly wasn’t interested.”

While their brother Edward seems fairly content in a disengaged way, the sisters are desperate to leave their Warwickshire home. Vicky wants to go to art school, but the solicitor who controls her inheritance from her father does not think this is an appropriate use of funds. Blanche is yet to come of age:

“Blanche could not draw, but she had the very special gift of romantic beauty. She was extremely tall and willowy, with a flowing mass of almost black hair, classical features and a pale moon face, her skin as fine as the skin inside egg shells.”

Comyns is so adept with those arresting similes. Another that struck me later was:

“He looked like an ugly bird who had been given beautiful dogs eyes by mistake”

And:

“He was a great admirer of Cézanne and I did not say that he usually left me feeling rather cold and I thought his paintings looked as if he lived on sour apples.”

Vicky escapes to Amsterdam but finds herself an unpaid housekeeper for a filthy home, looking after bull terriers. (I must admit I skim-read some of the passages to do with the dogs, it was pretty awful.) She escapes, and after briefly returning home where her mother has swopped alcohol for incessant cleaning, the sisters finally get to London.

“It took us months to get used to the insidiousness of London grime and the hard water.”

They live in poverty, sharing a bed in boarding house, along with cockroaches and rats. They very nearly starve entirely, and the descriptions of hunger, inadequate clothing and squalid rooms put me somewhat in mind of Jean Rhys. Unlike Rhys the sisters are less dependant on men for money favours, and Comyns retains a cheeriness all of her own:

“Our bed sitting room was in a large Victorian house in quite a pleasant square with a garden in the centre where lime trees grew. Our room was on the hall floor and was painted a brilliant orange and blue, even the cheap china was orange and blue. The divan cover was a large damask table cloth dyed black. We thought it a wonderful room with its gas fire and ring with a little tin kettle on it.”

A striking detail of this time was their meagre meals: “To avoid spending shillings we used candles; but it was a slow way to cook—about twenty minutes to get an egg to boil.”

The situation doesn’t last forever, as Blanche finds work as a lady’s companion and Vicky falls in love with an art student. The description of married life here is very similar to Our Spoons Came from Woolworths. While Vicky’s husband Gene initially seems just as selfish as Charles in Spoons:

“Our marriage was such a happy one, perhaps partly due to the fact that Gene always had his own way over everything”

It gradually emerges that in fact he is very unwell. I thought the portrayal of serious mental illness – along with their mother’s alcoholism previously – was dealt with without judgement. There are parts of A Touch Of Mistletoe which are of their time and while I don’t think intended to be derogatory, are not language we use now. But the descriptions of Gene are sympathetic, and the outdated treatment he has sounds horrific but is never sensationalised.

Vicky worries about providing for their son Paul:

“He needed so much—good food, fresh air, clothes, education—there was no end to it and all I had to offer was love.”

Yet somehow they muddle through, with the help of kindly friends and neighbours, as well as Marcella, the family’s housekeeper of many years. Throughout it all Comyns retains her signature tone of unnerving guilelessness.

Later, Vicky remarries but her husband Tony also struggles with alcohol. Blanche has also had marriage troubles, and both feel they are entering old age as 40 looms (!)

The experience of London during the war is brilliantly evoked, as it was in Mr Fox, with enormous terrors sitting alongside the surprising smaller details:

“One evening, I think it was our wedding anniversary, we went to a famous restaurant where they had pheasant on the menu, but, when the waiter brought it to our table, it was only Spam pressed into the shape of a bird’s wing.”

A Touch of Mistletoe is longer than other Comyns I’ve read (336 pages) as she usually tends towards novella length, and I wondered if her beguiling, eccentric tone could sustain a longer novel. I needn’t have doubted. It was an absolute joy to spend longer than usual with a captivating writer whose voice is entirely her own.

To end, I can’t think of an appropriate 80s tune, so instead here’s the trailer for a film I saw twice last year, once at my local Odeon and then again with a Q&A with the writers/lead actors and director at the wonderful Prince Charles in December. It’s a gentle, beautifully observed film about grief and regret, friendship and kindness, and it’s got some silly jokes in it too. If you’ve not caught The Ballad of Wallis Island yet I do recommend it:

“A desire to move furniture is a desire for life. “(Celia Fremlin, The Long Shadow)

/ madamebibilophile / 22 Comments

I’ve been meaning to read Celia Fremlin for a while, encouraged by JacquiWine’s excellent reviews. Happily, this coincided with my plan to read some Christmas-set golden age/cosy mysteries in December, as The Long Shadow (1975) builds its tension through a haunted group of houseguests throughout the festive period.

I immediately knew I was in for a treat with Fremlin. We join Imogen at the first party she’s attended since her husband died two months ago. We quickly learn that while she is grieving, she also recognises that Ivor was not a pleasant person. There is no sentimentality in her reflections.

“How Ivor would have loved being dead! It was a shame that he was missing it all. How he would have loved to watch the letters pouring in, day after day, by every post, in their tens and in their dozens, each one a tribute to himself.”

She also casts a critical eye over the niceties of solo party attendance:

“She’s a widow, that’s what she is. With wooden detachment, Imogen watched Myrtle’s social aplomb faltering before the task of finding something intriguing to say about Imogen: something at least as amusing as Dutch Elm disease.

She gave it up.”

There’s also some astute observations about the deeply odd ways that the English approach the bereaved:

“Even Edith Hartman from next door had at last stopped popping in with cups of tepid Oxo and soothing stories about people who had died of cancer recently.”

But soon Imogen has more to worry about than navigating social mores, as someone rings in the middle of the night, telling her they know she killed her husband.

Told from Imogen’s point of view, she is clear she didn’t kill him. She has little time to reflect though, as it’s not long before her adult step-children turn up; the somewhat reprobate son Robin, and acquisitive daughter Dot, with her husband Herbert and their two young sons, Vernon and Timmie.

More bafflingly, Robin brings an almost silent girl to the house who wafts around preparing macrobiotic food, and Ivor’s scatty second wife Cynthia flies in from Bermuda to also take up residence. Then someone starts moving Ivor’s papers and updating them, the children have faces visiting them in nightmares and see a man in a Santa costume sat in Ivor’s study, and Imogen begins to wonder if a ghost isn’t part of the company too…

“It was high time Ivor got moving. It wasn’t fair to be dead and yet to stay around like this, in every room, in every corner of the house”

As a reader we are meant to be sceptical of ghosts and suspect everyone else, and they certainly act suspiciously! All of the adults seem to be Up To Something but I certainly couldn’t work out what was going on.

The Long Shadow is well-paced at only 242 pages, with a finale that is satisfying and believable. There’s even a final comic twist right at the last sentence. It’s certainly made me keen to read more Fremlin and thankfully Faber have made more reissues available.

Although not heavily Christmas-themed, it’s a great Christmas read with its house full of extended family, things unspoken, and would be easily digested after a dinner of heavier festive fare 😊

To end, two of my favourite folk singers coming together to sing insults at each other in honour of Christmas (please note, they have updated some of Kirsty MacColl and Shane MacGowan’s name-calling, but the language remains decidedly colourful):