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lm_waverley 's review for:
Even Beyond Death
by Fiona Melrose
Silver lining of shivering in bed with flu? Getting to read a proof of Fiona Melrose’s ‘Even Beyond Death’: a witty, charming, beautiful and tragic celebration of the glories of love.
Set in increasingly pious southern French Avignon in 1657, it follows aspiring writer Jehan, Marquis de Baudelaire, as he discovers the true beauty and power of love when a good looking Dutch valet arrives in search of a job. If I’ve made that sound too schmaltzy it’s because I’m still recovering from the ending (and because flu).
Outwardly, Jehan is naughty, sexy, witty, vain, and feckless, and his voice as a narrator dictating to his C21st scribe as she writes and weeps in coffee shops, is fun and compelling from the first page in a world of real tennis, musketeers, scheming clerics, and Moliere. Inwardly, as only his sister and his scribe know, things are very different.
The writing is gorgeous, full of sweetspot descriptions that conjure up a pool on hot summer’s day, the heat of impossible desire, and the contrast between the potential shame of being caught cheating at tennis and of breaking the law for the one he loves so they might be together even if only in eternal sleep like his inspiration shepherd boy Endymion, lover of the moon.
Physical and platonic love are depicted beautifully, and if graphic desperations of the former aren’t your thing, writerly debates between Baudelaire and his scribe act as neat warnings to skip. (I particularly loved the wry, writerly bickering and presentation of a character working with - or against - an author as her work takes shape).
You might need a handkerchief though, preferably soaked in rose water and neroli (not just for any seasonal ague you might be suffering from).
NB these comps might be influenced by a raging fever: It reminded me at various points of the film ‘Ridicule’, AJ West’s ‘Thomas True’, and Alice Wynn’s ‘In Memoriam’. I think it ought to have reminded me of some glorious French lit too, but I shamefully haven’t read enough.
Thanks for @littlebrownbookgroup_uk and @netgalley for the advanced copy.
Set in increasingly pious southern French Avignon in 1657, it follows aspiring writer Jehan, Marquis de Baudelaire, as he discovers the true beauty and power of love when a good looking Dutch valet arrives in search of a job. If I’ve made that sound too schmaltzy it’s because I’m still recovering from the ending (and because flu).
Outwardly, Jehan is naughty, sexy, witty, vain, and feckless, and his voice as a narrator dictating to his C21st scribe as she writes and weeps in coffee shops, is fun and compelling from the first page in a world of real tennis, musketeers, scheming clerics, and Moliere. Inwardly, as only his sister and his scribe know, things are very different.
The writing is gorgeous, full of sweetspot descriptions that conjure up a pool on hot summer’s day, the heat of impossible desire, and the contrast between the potential shame of being caught cheating at tennis and of breaking the law for the one he loves so they might be together even if only in eternal sleep like his inspiration shepherd boy Endymion, lover of the moon.
Physical and platonic love are depicted beautifully, and if graphic desperations of the former aren’t your thing, writerly debates between Baudelaire and his scribe act as neat warnings to skip. (I particularly loved the wry, writerly bickering and presentation of a character working with - or against - an author as her work takes shape).
You might need a handkerchief though, preferably soaked in rose water and neroli (not just for any seasonal ague you might be suffering from).
NB these comps might be influenced by a raging fever: It reminded me at various points of the film ‘Ridicule’, AJ West’s ‘Thomas True’, and Alice Wynn’s ‘In Memoriam’. I think it ought to have reminded me of some glorious French lit too, but I shamefully haven’t read enough.
Thanks for @littlebrownbookgroup_uk and @netgalley for the advanced copy.