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3.5 AVERAGE
3.5 AVERAGE
medium-paced
Strong character development:
Complicated
Loveable characters:
Complicated
Diverse cast of characters:
N/A
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Complicated
"This is not a real book. It does not deal with real people, nor should it be read by real people. But there are in the world so many real books already written for the benefit of real people, and there are still so many to be written, that I cannot believe that a little alien book such as this, written for the magically-inclined minority, can be considered too assertive a trespasser."
A deeply strange, odd little book that I only became aware of through a recent review in The Washington Post. Written 100 years ago, it really can't be compared to anything else (maybe if Harry Potter had been written by Henry James?), and the 'plot' such as it is, never fully comes together. But the writing itself is so astonishingly bizarre and fascinating that it keeps one involved and eager to get to the next bon mot. I found myself constantly re-reading paragraphs in amused delight.
A deeply strange, odd little book that I only became aware of through a recent review in The Washington Post. Written 100 years ago, it really can't be compared to anything else (maybe if Harry Potter had been written by Henry James?), and the 'plot' such as it is, never fully comes together. But the writing itself is so astonishingly bizarre and fascinating that it keeps one involved and eager to get to the next bon mot. I found myself constantly re-reading paragraphs in amused delight.
This book is so hard to rate, because the brilliant parts are so brilliant that they outshine the fact that the author seems to have set out to write a novel apparently without ever having read one, like it completely fails to do what you expect it to, it doesn't fit together, the tone is constantly wandering everywhere...and yet it is full of these astonishing little moments that I was constantly copying out and emailing to friends.
Although the author herself does say in the introduction that:
This is not a real book. It does not deal with real people, nor should it be read by real people. But there are in the world so many real books already written for the benefit of real people, and there are still so many to be written, that I cannot believe that a little alien book such as this, written for the magically-inclined minority, can be considered too assertive a trespasser.
It's half a sort of feminist Wodehouse-ish satire of upper-middle-class ladies and their "good works" during WWI...and half a strange but lovable fantasy adventure about a witch who runs a boardinghouse for people who want to live alone.
Here is the first paragraph, which I immediately fell in love with:
There were six women, seven chairs, and a table in an otherwise unfurnished room in an unfashionable part of London. Three of the women were of the kind that has no life apart from committees. They need not be mentioned in detail. The names of two others were Miss Meta Mostyn Ford and Lady Arabel Higgins. Miss Ford was a good woman, as well as a lady. Her hands were beautiful because they paid a manicurist to keep them so, but she was too righteous to powder her nose. She was the sort of person a man would like his best friend to marry. Lady Arabel was older: she was virtuous to the same extent as Achilles was invulnerable. In the beginning, when her soul was being soaked in virtue, the heel of it was fortunately left dry. She had a husband, but no apparent tragedy in her life. These two women were obviously not native to their surroundings. Their eyelashes brought Bond Street—or at least Kensington—to mind; their shoes were mudless; their gloves had not been bought in the sales. Of the sixth woman the less said the better.
Although the author herself does say in the introduction that:
This is not a real book. It does not deal with real people, nor should it be read by real people. But there are in the world so many real books already written for the benefit of real people, and there are still so many to be written, that I cannot believe that a little alien book such as this, written for the magically-inclined minority, can be considered too assertive a trespasser.
It's half a sort of feminist Wodehouse-ish satire of upper-middle-class ladies and their "good works" during WWI...and half a strange but lovable fantasy adventure about a witch who runs a boardinghouse for people who want to live alone.
Here is the first paragraph, which I immediately fell in love with:
There were six women, seven chairs, and a table in an otherwise unfurnished room in an unfashionable part of London. Three of the women were of the kind that has no life apart from committees. They need not be mentioned in detail. The names of two others were Miss Meta Mostyn Ford and Lady Arabel Higgins. Miss Ford was a good woman, as well as a lady. Her hands were beautiful because they paid a manicurist to keep them so, but she was too righteous to powder her nose. She was the sort of person a man would like his best friend to marry. Lady Arabel was older: she was virtuous to the same extent as Achilles was invulnerable. In the beginning, when her soul was being soaked in virtue, the heel of it was fortunately left dry. She had a husband, but no apparent tragedy in her life. These two women were obviously not native to their surroundings. Their eyelashes brought Bond Street—or at least Kensington—to mind; their shoes were mudless; their gloves had not been bought in the sales. Of the sixth woman the less said the better.