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exurbanis 's review for:
Marking Time
by Elizabeth Jane Howard
rounded up from 4.5 stars
Cazalet Chronicles #2 covering Fall 1939- winter 1941. The family "circles wagons" and gather more or less permanently in Sussex. Rupert is MIA at Dunkirk but Clary refuses to believe he's dead; Sybil is dying of cancer but neither she nor Hugh will admit to the other that they know; Louise rebuffs her father and falls in love with painter Michael Hadleigh; Polly – well, Polly – I love her!
So say my notes, which cannot begin to capture the nuances of this story.
Some bits that might:
(Hugh of Sybil) Suddenly he was overcome by a longing for her—to hold her in his arms, to watch her breathing, to hear her small soft voice, to reminisce, to chat, to gossip with her of nothing important, except that it had been shared, that their knowledge was equal, their responses sometimes delightfully different . . . . (Does that not describe a happy marriage?)
Or Clary in her journal:
She wouldn’t tell me. “You’re too young,” she said. There must, thank God, be a diminishing number of things I’m too young for, but then, I suppose, before you can turn around there start to be an increasing number of things you are too old for. You can’t win. I’m looking forward to being thirty, which I should think would be the brief interval between those horns of dilemma.
Oh, if you have not read this gentle saga, I encourage you to start it with The Light Years.
Thanks again to Joules at Northern Reader who alerted me to this!
Cazalet Chronicles #2 covering Fall 1939- winter 1941. The family "circles wagons" and gather more or less permanently in Sussex. Rupert is MIA at Dunkirk but Clary refuses to believe he's dead; Sybil is dying of cancer but neither she nor Hugh will admit to the other that they know; Louise rebuffs her father and falls in love with painter Michael Hadleigh; Polly – well, Polly – I love her!
So say my notes, which cannot begin to capture the nuances of this story.
Some bits that might:
(Hugh of Sybil) Suddenly he was overcome by a longing for her—to hold her in his arms, to watch her breathing, to hear her small soft voice, to reminisce, to chat, to gossip with her of nothing important, except that it had been shared, that their knowledge was equal, their responses sometimes delightfully different . . . . (Does that not describe a happy marriage?)
Or Clary in her journal:
She wouldn’t tell me. “You’re too young,” she said. There must, thank God, be a diminishing number of things I’m too young for, but then, I suppose, before you can turn around there start to be an increasing number of things you are too old for. You can’t win. I’m looking forward to being thirty, which I should think would be the brief interval between those horns of dilemma.
Oh, if you have not read this gentle saga, I encourage you to start it with The Light Years.
Thanks again to Joules at Northern Reader who alerted me to this!