'Spare' by Prince Harry

It was one of the most searing images of the twentieth century: two young boys, two princes, walking behind their mother’s coffin as the world watched in sorrow—and horror. As Princess Diana was laid to rest, billions wondered what Prince William and Prince Harry must be thinking and feeling—and how their lives would play out from that point on.

For Harry, this is that story at last.

MY THOUGHTS:

 I was surprised it was only a two-month wait for 'Spare' to arrive at my local library for me. I'd expected far longer as this is undoubtedly the bestselling non-fiction title of 2023. There's a fast turnover, as I needed to get stuck straight into it, to return within two weeks. It took every day of that fortnight, since it's quite a chunky book with lots to take in.

Anyway, since the whole world has been shamelessly gawking and commenting about Prince Harry's life, I understand why he chooses to use the platform he never asked for to set the record straight. He says, 'I savoured normality, wallowed in it. For the first time I was just a name. Is this what other people feel like every day?' 

Harry first reveals himself as that 12-year-old boy who was denied the right to process his intense and sudden grief privately. 'I reached for my father's hand and then cursed myself because that gesture set off an explosion of clicks.' His mother's tragic and untimely death is the frame on which many of Harry's subsequent reminiscences hang. His experience, especially in those first few years after Diana's death, suggests that grief is a personality changer. After that pivotal event in his life, he couldn't sit still in a contemplative frame of mind or attempt to quietly read a book, because those moments were when the grief gremlins attacked him. We'll never know if he would have faced the world with a more peaceful mindset had she lived, for that trajectory was closed for poor Harry. It makes very poignant reading, especially whenever he refers to Diana's 'disappearance' rather than her death. He admits that a certain element of denial helped see him through, whether or not others may have considered it healthy. 

Nobody can dodge the controversial 'Spare' issue after which he named his book. Okay, as a fellow youngest sibling, I get where Harry is coming from. Being born last is in itself a trial. You grow up feeling marginalised and often find yourself a source of jest while the others watch you process things they've had several extra years to get a handle on. That all comes as part of the territory with Harry too, but with the additional gripe of feeling that who he was (the Spare) is a by-product of who he wasn't (the Heir). It's not a simple matter of being miffed because William had a bigger bedroom in the palace but a fact of life that cuts at his whole personhood. Other reviewers have scoffed at Harry's feelings, but whether or not we consider him a bellyacher, they are his feelings. 

For the bulk of his book, I greatly admire Harry. We have no idea how it must feel to be ever on your guard, second-guessing how every innocent gaffe might be re-shaped by the predatory 'paps' to present to the world. We know nothing of the 'fancy captivity' of a lifetime spent like this. Harry does his best to explain the bitter irony that's so galling to him; that the same unscrupulous vultures who twist the minutiae of his own life fail to keep the world informed about far more vital issues we all should know.

The parts other people have cherry picked were over-stated, as I'd expected. The flurry about the incident where he loses his virginity aged 17 is over in a passing sentence without any name mentioned. Come on folk, it isn't even an incident. The 'frostbitten todger' is hilarious, although admittedly I'll probably think of it whenever photos of William and Kate's wedding pop up, since that's when Harry suffered the painful ordeal. And as for mentioning his 25 kills in his military career, in Harry's own words, 'We were in a war, what did they think I was doing, selling magazine subscriptions?' Some people have mentioned possible repercussions on Archie, Lilibet and other children of Harry's down the track, but isn't the highly publicised fact that he was fighting in Afghanistan likely to call for care and discretion anyway? It's sad to think that he's being vilified for what is arguably a most sacrificial period of his life.  

I found Harry to be refreshingly candid and vulnerable in his approach. He isn't a bit superior or self-obsessed. On the contrary, he admits to feeling way out of his depth from as far back as his Eton schooldays and confesses non-stop, internal self-criticism. He's frequently embarrassed by his titles, as he considers them so unearned. Harry has a compassionate heart for wounded war-heroes and sufferers of panic attacks and other mental health issues, as he's sadly been there. He's a hard-worker, an empathetic sounding board, a brave and skillful pilot and an admirable ambassador for disabled athletes. He's also a sensitive and loving husband and father, and has now proven himself to be a fascinating, erudite author too. (Okay, I know a lot of the polish comes from Harry's ghost writer, J.R. Moehringer, who deserves kudos for helping Harry discover his own compelling voice.) 

It would have been a 5 star read for me, but I'm dropping one because of Harry's candid revelations about his brother, who he always calls 'Willy.' Heartfelt as they are, I flinched several times while reading them. I feel 'Harold' has crossed a line, placing 'Willy' in an awkward, no-win situation. Responding in kind, with a 'just for the record...' style approach is not an option for the future monarch, without using the sort of public pettiness his family has always stood above. Yet by keeping silent, William is consenting to being regarded by many as the petty prat who threw a hissy fit when his brother was allowed to retain his beard for his own wedding, to mention just one example. It seems the Spare wields a sort of freedom after all, in his regretful tell-all which the Heir could never get away with. 

I suspect what we get between the brothers is terribly biased and one-sided, as conflicts always are. Harry's side is clear and sincere as far as he can tell, yet Willy's side is bound to be completely different and equally compelling from his own point of view. The assumptions Harry makes, although completely true in his own eyes, may be far from the truth as his brother sees it. (For example, Harry assumes William is responding to the press when he calls Meghan rude and abrasive, but who's to say William doesn't feel himself to be perfectly justified and speaking from personal experience? The same event can be recounted by different people in ways impossible to reconcile. In Harry and William's case, they may both be real-life unreliable narrators.) 

Harry arguably leaves William no other recourse than to resort to their Eton schooldays and pretend he doesn't know him. Although this book, Spare is the result of hours of painstaking work, there's a thoughtless, reactive vibe about some of it, particularly so many of the parts concerning William. 

It's tragic to think this memoir might spell the end of the brothers' relationship. 'No one but Willy understood what it was like to live in this surreal fishbowl in which normal events were treated as abnormal and the abnormal was routinely normalised.' I'll bet if William were free to write his own memoir, it would be even more scorching in many ways, since the Heir surely bears burdens the Spare happily missed out on. 

One of the most repeated and memorable quotes is King Charles', 'Don't read the news stories, darling boy.' That's Charles' default approach, and I tend to wonder if his darling boy's book is now up high among the literature he refuses to read. (I think our king comes across quite sympathetically for most of the book, except for him and Camilla making deals with the media to twist certain matters in exchange for portraying them favourably.) 

Whew, my husband and kids are glad 'Spare' has now gone back to the library, as I'll stop talking to them about all this stuff. But I tend to regard this book as a generous revelation into a slice of history which anyone who keeps an eye on the Royals shouldn't miss. I'm sure it'll be up among my top 10 reads of the year. It's fantastically written and there's more I haven't even begun to discuss, including his relationship with other royals such as his grandparents (I would've liked to see more Prince Philip in these pages), his great Aunt Margaret (Aunt Margo), the Queen Mother (Gam Gam) and his Uncle Andrew, not to mention Meghan, the love of his life. But this review is long enough so I won't even go there.  

Think of me when we're all hunkering down watching Charles' coronation. 

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'Miss Garnet's Angel' by Salley Vickers

Stories magically unfold within this novel’s irresistible tale of Miss Julia Garnet, a schoolteacher who decides, after the death of her longtime friend Harriet, to take an apartment for six months in Venice. Soon overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of the city and its magnificent art, Miss Garnet’s English reserve begins to melt away. For the first time in her life she falls in love—with an art dealer named Carlo—and her once ordinary world is further transformed by a beautiful Italian boy, Nicco, and an enigmatic pair of twins engaged in restoring the fourteenth-century Chapel-of-the-Plague. Most affecting to Julia, though, is her discovery in a local church of panels depicting the ancient tale of Tobias and the Angel. As Julia unravels the story of Tobias’s redemption, she too strives to recover losses—not just her own but also the priceless painting of an angel that goes mysteriously missing from the Chapel along with one of the twins restoring it. His name is Toby. And Miss Garnet herself may prove to be an angel, but nowhere in this haunting, beautifully textured and multilayered novel is anything quite what it appears to be.

MY THOUGHTS:

I made a new year's resolution to read some of the books of  the Apocrypha, because I'm unfamiliar with them, so I made a start with the strange and bizarre book of Tobit. In a nutshell, a righteous old man turns blind when sparrows poop in his eyes, then sends his son on a long journey to acquire some family funds they're entitled to. The Angel Raphael accompanies the boy on his travels, incognito. In the process, young Tobias catches a fish with astoundingly specific healing properties and acquires a beautiful wife with a history of accidental husband slaying. That unusual tale led me to this novel, because it's been on my shelf for a while and I knew it draws greatly from the old story. 

Miss Julia Garnet is a pedantic retired school teacher with Marxist ideals. After the sudden death of her housemate Harriet, she decides to take a six-month holiday alone in Venice. Since she's not the sort of person who appreciates the opulent, iconic character of the Catholic church tradition it seems an odd choice of destination. Yet Venice rubs off on Julia, along with the hunch that there may, after all, be more depth to the world than the ho-hum, everyday sliver of life she's used to. The Apocryphal story of Tobias and the angel comes to her attention through artwork everywhere, and then to Miss Garnet's surprise, she finds herself caught up in an unfolding, modern counterpart of that ancient story.

Even though the premise sounded so ambitious and appealing, I found the modern parallel way too heavy handed and unsubtle. It is clear who each new character is meant to represent, and Vickers had to tweak her plot in all sorts of far-fetched tangents to pull off her analogy. What's more, Julia Garnet struck me as a tedious, woeful protagonist whose head space I kept wanting out of. She seems to be forever bumping into things and hurting herself, or second-guessing others in her dithery efforts to gauge their intentions towards her. 

My favourite parts of the novel by far were the retellings straight from the Book of Tobit itself. Salley Vickers assumes the voices of  the dad Tobit and son Tobias brilliantly, to the extent that I grumbled whenever we were back with Julia again, even though she's the main character. Yet if I hadn't read the book of Tobit just before reading this novel, they would've gone over my head. 

Even here, I would've loved more about the awkward position of poor Tobias, the boy who'd been coerced to get betrothed to a girl whose inner demon had murdered seven new husbands on their wedding night as they attempted to consummate the marriage. How would you feel knowing you stood a fair chance of being number eight? Maybe the black humour of the original tale is unintentional, but I love how his new father-in-law admits he'd been preparing a spot for him in the family crypt as Tobias headed to Sarah's bedroom, basically admitting, 'I thought you were a goner, mate.' 

At one point, Salley Vickers has Tobit say, 'I've come to see that bungling is what all of us do. Perhaps bungling is what we are here for.' That might be my best takeaway, since I feel she's sort of bungled her handling of the Book of Tobit, which doesn't lend itself easily to modern knock-offs. For example, the modern counterparts of Toby and Sarah are a young pair of supposed twins restoring an ancient Venetian church. That in itself is a highly unlikely stretch of credibility. 

Julia Garnet undoubtedly softens and mellows as a character, yet all through she seems to be the same finicky spinster who insists on having tradesmen address her as, 'Miss' rather than 'Mrs' rather than just letting it pass. Still, I can't deny Vickers gave it a good try, resulting in something almost as bizarre as the original. I remained just curious enough to keep turning pages to find out how this modern mess of an adaptation would turn out. 

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'Boy' and 'Going Solo' by Roald Dahl

This year is one for reading off my shelves. I've resolved to buy no more books until our financial pinch has eased off. Because Roald Dahl has been in the media lately, regarding sensitivity editors sensoring his books, his two memoirs of his early life caught my eye. My elder son recommended Boy years ago when he was just 10 or 11 years old. I'm finally taking it up way down the track, since that son is now 28. But better late than never. 

Boy

When Roald Dahl's mother died in 1967, he discovered she'd kept all the 600+ letters he'd ever written her from the time he was a little boy at boarding school. That unexpected gift provided him with great fodder to begin the task of writing his two-part memoir. This first part, 'Boy' was first published in 1984 when Dahl was 68. 

Being born in 1916 and raised in the harshness of the 20th century shaped him into the humorous writer we know so well. He'd observe the gross unfairness of authority figures, and being restricted from any form of come-back, he'd lampoon them instead, with his carefully crafted caricatures. 

Brutal school canings take up a fair amount of space, which Dahl justifies by describing the traumatic mark they left on their impressionable minds, even more so than their burning bottoms. I now suspect many British gentlemen from 1940 onwards must've walked around with permanently scarred buttocks. (Roald says, 'Even today when I have to sit for any length of time on a hard bench or chair, I begin to feel my heart beating along the old lines that the cane made on my bottom some 55 years ago.') It's appalling and atrocious, but Roald, or rather 'Boy' gets the last word. 

He spills the beans on one cruel and dour headmaster of Repton School who became Archbishop of Canterbury and officiated at Queen Elizabeth's coronation. Even though Dahl doesn't mention Geoffrey Fisher by name, a quick google leaves readers in no doubt who he was talking about. The Dahl family's local doctor justifies hated boarding school by saying, 'Life is tough, and the sooner you learn to cope with it, the better for you.' Some may argue our 21st century pendulum has swung too far in the opposite direction, with students' paths being padded to a detrimental effect for the real world beyond. But after reading some of Roald's harrowing experiences, I can see why that was deemed necessary. Oh man!    

Reading between the lines, I get the impression Roald was a bit of a rascal. Not a vicious, bullying one, but a mischievous, pushing-the-envelope type of imp. He was the brains behind a couple of hilarious practical jokes I won't spoil for you. (The chapter entitled Goat Tobacco really tickles my fancy.) The fact that some of Roald's schoolmasters had it in for him, 'for no apparent reason' is suggestive. When Dahl became captain of his school sports team, they refused to make him a prefect, although other school captains all automatically became prefects. It makes me suspect a cheeky demeanour sparkling through the outward conformity. And I say all power to him, for maintaining his inner comic throughout years of put-downs and beatings. 

We learn many other interesting details about living in the early 20th century. Two half hour lessons were considered sufficient in 1925 for Dahl's older half-sister to decide she was ready to drive the family car. Tests to earn your license were way in the future. 'You were your own judge of competence,' Roald says. And he nearly had his nose knocked off by his sister's bad and reckless driving. 

'My nose had been cut almost clean off my face as I went through the rear windscreen and now it was hanging on only by a small thread of skin.'

He describes how Dr. Dunbar, their local GP, taped his nose in place, then sewed it back on in a home operation of the Dahls' nursery table. Perhaps there was a little poetic license. Are we really to believe that this humble medical man from the mid-1920s pulled off a job worthy of a 21st century plastic surgeon? 

Kudos to Roald's plucky widowed mother Sofie too. She elected to stay back in England after her husband's death, with her two step kids and four of her own, rather than return to her family in Norway. It was purely to honour his wishes, as Harald Dahl thought British schools were the best the world had to offer, and wanted his children educated there. His son didn't agree with him about the sterling character of British schools, and I'm willing to accept Roald's opinion as the more accurate one, since he formed it from bitter experience.       

Overall, Dahl makes seemingly chance and random recollections both meaningful and entertaining. That's something I guess requires years of retrospective thinking backwards to pull off. Perhaps that's partly why some studies suggest seniors are happier people than their more youthful counterparts. 

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Going Solo

This second memoir tackles a dramatic slab of Dahl's early twenties. When he leaves school, he works with the Shell Company, where he's stationed in deepest, darkest Africa. Home base is the tiny town of Dar Es Salaam, which teems with colourful, lethal jungle animals. There are also black and green mambas, both equally deadly. 

Then suddenly the danger factor of Roald's life revs up a hundredfold. War breaks out when he's 23, and he's thrown straight in the deep end, assigned the formidable task of stopping resident Germans swarming out of town to send them to prison camp. Next, Dahl enlists for training to be a fighter pilot, although at 6 feet 6 inches tall, he can barely squeeze his lanky frame into the tiny cockpits.

One incident retells a serious accident in which Dahl was victim of a logistical cock-up. He was following wrong directions given by a superior officer in total good faith. The outcome is a forced crash landing where his head is thrown forward on collision causing a fractured skull, temporary blindness and totally compressed nose.

Whoa, Roald's nose cops another blow!! (See the childhood incident above in Boy, where it was almost severed.) 

This time, at least, a qualified field plastic surgeon is on hand to operate, although ineffective anesthesia makes it a bit scary. Back on his feet, Dahl is off again, with further flying adventures taking him to Greece and Palestine. 

I'm sure many modern day gamers like my sons might relate to his descriptions of flying his planes and engaging in battle, because the panels and controls sound quite rudimentary by today's standards. Thank heavens the stakes for our millennial boys are so much lower. Dahl reveals many of the campaigns he's involved in as panicked, reactive, spur-of-the-moment craziness and often expresses surprise that he managed to survive.  

(Think of all those zany kids' classics of his never having been written! The world must have missed a wealth of creative genius that was never delivered by young men with great potential, whose lives were cut far too short. War takes a horrific toll which we'll never realise in our lifetime.)

Of course, it wouldn't be a Roald Dahl book without some moments of light relief. He still takes every opportunity to satirize folk, including U.N. Savory, the guy with his collection of different length wigs. Other moments are touching, such as his encounter with a community of Jewish refugees he had no idea was being persecuted. That part of Hitler's regime hadn't made it to the news Dahl and his pilot friends were hearing. 

I don't usually enjoy war stories or detailed description of combat, but this one drew me in. It's well told in his up-close-and-personal style. I wish there'd been more memoirs.

The photo above was taken in June 1941, a few months after that second serious accident to his nose. Hats off to the doctors of the day, who obviously did excellent patchwork in both cases, as he was clearly pretty handsome. 

🌟🌟🌟½

'Pollyanna of the Orange Blossoms' by Harriet Lummis Smith

MY THOUGHTS: 

Tragically, the beloved original author Eleanor H. Porter died of tuberculosis five years after the publication of Pollyanna Grows Up in 1915. Her two Pollyanna books had been selling so wonderfully well, the publishers knew when they were onto a good thing. They enlisted the help of Harriet Lummis Smith to take up the slack and keep the stories coming where Porter had left off. Smith made such a smooth transition of this one in 1924 that I love it as much as Porter's books, if not more. 

It starts with a wedding and move to a tiny apartment in New York City. Jimmy gets a job with an engineering firm there, and he and Pollyanna are excited to be living in the Big Apple of the pre-WW1 era (not that they realise at the start that this is their point in history, of course). Young and inexperienced, they are winging it a bit, but course correction always sets in because they have what it takes to go the distance; genuine love and devotion for each other. Indeed, Smith makes this fabulous pair easy to cheer on. We are told, 'the rapture of their first nest making was one that could never be duplicated.' 

Male dominance was rife in the early twentieth century. Pollyanna and her new neighbour, Judith, introduce themselves to each other as, 'Mrs James Pendleton' and 'Mrs Russell Thayer.' You can't get much more patriarchal than that. Women generally didn't aspire to work outside the home, and if they did it wasn't by choice, as we see through the plight of poor Lizzie, the single mother who did a spot of domestic cleaning to make ends meet. Although Judith sometimes bristles about being a drudge, Pollyanna loves the lifestyle. For her, their apartment is her creative canvas and being free to shape it all day is the gladdest thing ever. 

I don't feel inclined to hiss and boo at the blokes though. They didn't have it easy, no doubt about that. Jimmy works 5.5 days a week! I was astonished to see him head off to the office on Saturday mornings to work half days and it set me googling. It seems the 40 hour work week with its two day weekend wasn't introduced until the 1940s, although forward-thinking Henry Ford had inaugurated it in his own factories way earlier. I feel our boy Jimmy was hard done by, although he and Pollyanna certainly never complained. They were delighted that he got to knock off at 1pm on Saturdays and have a free afternoon for city excursions. It's a lesson in perspective for me.  

The story introduces the catastrophising, negatively-skewed Judith as a fun foil and contrast to Pollyanna. She makes mountains out of molehills, stores up grievances, sulks over supposed insults and slips into perpetual black moods. The big question is whether or not Judith can make a go of Pollyanna's glad game when she hears about it. It's fun seeing her put it to the test, because I've admittedly had my share of Judith moments. She comes to understand that a decisive attitude to enjoy life is ninety percent of the battle won.

I'm sure Porter would have been more than happy with the direction in which Smith took the characters she invented. Smith obviously immersed herself in Porter's two books and stays true to every single character. Aunt Polly is as imperious and austere as ever, and Jamie Carew, now an author, is still his touchy, high maintenance self. One of my favourite incidents in this novel occurs when Jamie and Sadie are expected for afternoon tea and Pollyanna and Jimmy must defuse a few household catastrophes in the lead-up.

World War One breaks into Jimmy and Pollyanna's domestic bliss, and I noticed just a touch of foreshadowing. Now I'm going to get a bit plot-spoilerish because it raises an interesting question. Read on if you dare. 

Was it commendable for Pollyanna not to tell Jimmy she was pregnant before he answered the call of duty and sailed off to serve in France? The story leaves no doubt that we're supposed to take secrecy as a heroic sacrifice on her part, to make it easier for him to do his patriotic duty. Yet arguably, especially from a more modern perspective, he should have been told anyway! Pollyanna's spur-of-the-moment decision to keep her pregnancy secret from Jimmy is controlling and manipulative, however well-intended, because she denies him the possibility of response. They are co-parents and just because she carries the baby, he deserves not to be kept in the dark. I see both points of view, and I guess that because patriotic readers of 1924 who had recently come through the war were the target audience, we're being coerced to verge to their side and consider Pollyanna a great heroine for her silence. 

Okay, spoiler over.

I feel we are in capable hands with Harriet Lummis Smith, and look forward to more Pollyanna tales from her. Next up will be Pollyanna's Jewels.

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'Oliver Twist' by Charles Dickens

The story of Oliver Twist - orphaned, and set upon by evil and adversity from his first breath - shocked readers when it was published. After running away from the workhouse and pompous beadle Mr Bumble, Oliver finds himself lured into a den of thieves peopled by vivid and memorable characters - the Artful Dodger, vicious burglar Bill Sikes, his dog Bull's Eye, and prostitute Nancy, all watched over by cunning master-thief Fagin. Combining elements of Gothic Romance, the Newgate Novel and popular melodrama, Dickens created an entirely new kind of fiction, scathing in its indictment of a cruel society, and pervaded by an unforgettable sense of threat and mystery.

MY THOUGHTS:

I was left so gloomy and irritated by my recent reading of Dombey and Son that I didn't dare choose another of Dickens' less renowned books yet. I wanted to follow that facepalm with something certain to hit my sweet spot. What better than a scathing indictment of society that delighted the public enough to be taken on stage with a stellar musical score all of its own? Even my Year 7 class put on a great production of 'Oliver!' based on the 1968 film. I wasn't in it because I joined the school after the cast had already been chosen. That made me really sad, but I have strong memories of those days and decided it was high time I actually read the book. 

Poor little Oliver's anonymous mother gives birth to him in a workhouse and dies. He's assigned a random name by Mr Bumble the Beadle (who is up to T for Twist) and thrown upon the hypocritical mercy of charity. Behind the scenes, Oliver's parents were, of course, real people with complex histories. But since nobody knows, he's treated like the dregs of society in an institution where inmates are exploited and starved. 

Severely punished for his unprecedented nerve to ask for more gruel, Oliver is apprenticed to Mr Sowerberry the undertaker where he's bullied by cowardly fellow-apprentice, Noah Claypole. Finally Oliver trudges his own way to London, and becomes the oblivious target of creepy old Fagin and the gang of little boys he's training to become criminals. What's more, a vindictive face from Oliver's past (or rather, his parents' pasts) is out to get him. What chance does an innocent boy have with sneaky undesirables hemming him in from multiple directions?  

Charles Dickens wasn't an old guy when he wrote this book. I think an image of the bearded, mature author of classics gets stuck in our heads. This was only his second book and he was 25 years old, surely still in touch with how young boys think. His wistful and sensitive Oliver, forever coming head on with the seamier side of society, is captivating and convincing. But so is the street-smart and super-precocious 'Artful Dodger' who carries off the slick mannerisms of a grown man in his too-big clothes; and his sidekick, the easily amused Charley (aka Master Bates!) The obnoxious, tough-talking Noah with the heart of a chicken is pretty memorable too.

But it impresses me even more that such a youthful Dickens conjured up with his pen such unforgettably shady characters from the underworld, including the villainous Monks, who would've been of a similar age to himself. And don't get me started on the infamous Bill Sikes with his serious anger management issues. 

The sticky problem of Fagin became awkward for Dickens. Even though the young author was not writing for such a reactive woke culture as ours, he still faced shouts of 'Anti-Semitism' which apparently surprised him. But it's no wonder! I didn't count them, but it's clear that the rascal is referred to as 'the Jew' far more than his actual name. (My Google search reveals that in the first 38 chapters alone, Fagin is referred to as 'the Jew' 257 times, as opposed to a mere 42 for 'Fagin' and 'the old man' combined.) I believe Dickens re-issued a later edition where he weeded some out, but it was a case of too little, too late. That designation (the Jew) is bandied around so often it does merge with the villainy and repulsiveness of Fagin's character, which is sometimes likened to Satan himself. Especially how he creeps around like some hideous lizard from the gutter calling everyone, 'My dear.' And if you've seen the musical, do you remember him crooning to his young protėgės that they've 'got to pick a pocket or two'? The guy is so abhorrent, he's a legend.  

About 25 years down the track when Dickens wrote Our Mutual Friend, he created Mr Riah, a noble-hearted hero of the Jewish faith. If that was an olive branch to make up for Fagin, I wonder if it worked. 

Here, I believe, is the power that drives this story. Dickens reveals two parallel universes within one geographical location, Victorian London. There is the gentle, lovely respectable world inhabited by the likes of Mr Brownlow and the Maylies. This is heaven itself to Oliver, 'after the noise and turbulence in the midst of which he had always lived.' Juxtaposed against this is the harsh and sordid abyss of iniquity which is anathema to Oliver, but a trap for all who dip their toes in, however unwittingly. Dickens makes it clear that nobody can hope to hop over in an upward direction. Oliver, aged 11, is swallowed by the dark side, who refuse to relinquish him.

That is where the awesome Nancy, former girl pupil of Fagin's, steps in. There are strong hints that she's a prostitute, although Dickens never states it outright. This young woman feels that her own case is too far gone, but resolves to be a bridge for Oliver, whatever it may take. Whoa, she's earned herself the right to be the first heroine who springs to our collective minds whenever anyone mentions this book. Dickens loved the sweet and principled Rose Maylie. She was believed to be modeled on his own beloved sister-in-law Mary Hogarth, who passed away while he was writing it. Yet I'll bet the general public embrace the conflicted character of Nancy, that bad girl with her tragic brand of thief's honour. 

I do love this book. It's up among my favourite Victorian novels, and only just slips in to the early end of that era too. It was first published in monthly installments between February 1837, the year Victoria ascended the throne, and April 1839. The cops who pound on the derelict warehouse door toward the end of the story demand the gang to, 'Open up, in the name of the King.' They're evidently referring to King William IV, who died in 1837. So although Oliver the book squeezes into the Victorian era, Oliver the story pre-dates it just a little. 

I guess it set a high bar for all Victorian novels yet to come. It's so satisfying when Oliver finally gets a break. How much horror can one young boy take? The astounding coincidences we're bombarded with at the end are all part of the fun. Dickens could probably get away with them then because the magazine subscribers he was writing for relished that neat sense of loose ends being tied up. And he gets away with them now because he's Dickens and that's his trademark.

 If I'd been a reader from that time period, I would've echoed right back at Dickens the iconic words of his title character. 'Please sir, I want some more.' 

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'The Grapes of Wrath' by John Steinbeck (Chapters 16 - 30)

 Warning: Spoilers. We're discussing Part 2.

'Okie used to mean you was from Oklahoma. Now it means you're a dirty son-of-a-bitch.'

Whew, this second half of the novel is the disillusioning section in which the Joad family realise that they, among thousands of others, are victims of callous, widespread exploitation. Fobbed off in their home state to seek work in California, they discover their golden destination is an inhospitable zone where they are taken advantage of by greedy landowners and despised by the general population, who resent their willingness to work for a pittance. Employers collude with police and bank sharks to keep workers from the Dust Bowl destitute and ripped off.

The gut-wrenching quality of Steinbeck's writing is that we all know but for being born in a different place and time, we could be the Joads. Which of us has never been shunted from one government department to another, seeking resolution of our issues from people who don't really care? Here we have the most extreme example, leading to wholesale homelessness and starvation for thousands. The nation of America has let down its precious citizens, and Steinbeck aims to make sure everyone knows it. 

I feel we can't help but appreciate his main character Tom, that master of straight-talk. He's rough around the edges, to say the least, but his refusal to sugarcoat his insights is good for those at the receiving end. Tom zooms directly in on people's blind spots and tells them pointed home truths they'd be wise to take on board. Whether it's the one-eyed chap at the used car yard (clean up your act, make the best of things and move on) or his own spiky, defensive younger brother ('Goddamn it Al, don't keep your guard up when nobody ain't sparrin' with ya'), Tom gets to the crux. His social conscience is fired up by the end of the novel to do his utmost for downtrodden victims of a corrupt system. Even his mother recognises that he's different from the others, in his burgeoning passion for social justice. 'Everythin' you do is more'n you.' 

Tom's dilemma may well form the heart of the novel. He knows he's breaking his parole conditions by moving out of Oklahoma but figures that if he keeps his nose clean and doesn't get into trouble with the law, nobody will ever be any the wiser. Yet alas, it's not that simple. Tom never anticipates the possibility that the agents of law themselves may be upholding something that's rotten to the core. It turns out holding his peace will be incompatible with holding his head high as a decent man. To avoid his own soul being tainted by the corruption at large, Tom must risk his personal safety by making waves.   

I'm touched by the spiritual hunger in the collective human heart. That other concerned humanitarian soul, Jim Casy, keeps reminding people that he's no longer a preacher, yet they still keep requesting words of prayer, benedictions and blessings. And Casy realises that providing what they ask for is neither hypocritical nor pretentious as he feared, but the humane thing to do. Saying a brief, heartfelt prayer is benevolent balm for those who crave comfort and meaning for their plight, which is almost everyone they come across. And arguably, that craving wouldn't be in the human heart if there was no means of fulfilling it.  

We don't even know what becomes of the Joads at the end. The desperate travel saga involves members of the family being picked off one by one for whatever reason, whether death, choice or necessity. Ma Joad is determined to be the glue that holds the family together, but her will is no match for eroding circumstances. They leave Oklahoma with 13 people on the truck, which is whittled down to just six by the end. Those they lose include Tom and Al, the only two drivers. The weather is turning wintry, which means nobody will hire workers at all for the next six months or so. So what happens to the half dozen left (not to mention those who have gone) is anyone's guess. 

All power to the Joad kids. Let's hope Noah settles down to make a simple but satisfactory life for himself by the Colorado River. And that Tom will dig into latent leadership genius to make an effective difference for his people. And that Rose of Sharon will continue to muster the heart of maternal compassion she uses in the final scene of the story to nurture those who need it. (My heart goes out to this girl. I don't think she was 'whinin' around candyin' herself', as Ma expresses, considering she was pregnant, nauseous, transient, starving, and her husband had just taken off and left her.) 

Let's hope that Al settles down to become a solid and reliable family head himself, and realises he has nothing to prove. And that the day will come when Winfield decides he's had a gutful of Ruthie using him as her prop to big-note herself into believing she's cool and cocky. Also that Ruthie herself realises a gentler, more generous approach may see her better through life. These two youngest Joads are an interesting little pair.

Above all, let's hope a day will come when the family needn't wonder where their next bite of food is coming from. 

Have I changed my opinion about this book from the time I loathed it as a school text? Heck yes! This is clearly a fantastic epic that served a noble purpose and deserves nothing less than five stars. Ma tells both Al and Rose of Sharon on separate occasions that they're too young to really 'get it.' I think the same thing applied to me as a 17-year-old English student. This far down the track, the whole thing moves my middle-aged heart. The image that remains with me is that of Uncle John launching Rose of Sharon's stillborn baby down the flooded river in an apple crate, to speak powerfully and silently for his people like a little dead Moses.  

See here for Part 1 (Chapters 1-15)

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Agatha Christie Mysteries

 Sad Cypress (Hercule Poirot mystery 1933)

It seems such a clear case against the accused, the court is only going through the motions of a hearing. Twenty-something Elinor Carlisle is accused of murdering golden-haired, angelic Mary Gerrard. Apparently she did it in the guise of hospitality with a plate of poisoned fish paste sandwiches. Elinor was known to have been bitterly jealous of Mary. Not only was Mary supposedly 'sucking up' to Elinor's invalid Aunt Laura with the intent to steal Elinor's inheritance, but she attracted the love of Roddy Welman, Elinor's own adored fiancē. 

Mary comes across as so beautiful and well-liked, it seems impossible that anyone else could have either a motive for murder or access to that plate of sandwiches. That is, until Hercule Poirot gets involved in the case. 

This is one of those mysteries that goes back years before either Elinor or Mary were born. But on the surface, poor Elinor appears outside windows like a vulture, overhearing Mary's vulnerable moments. 

Poirot, being his usual smug self, brags how everyone he interviews helps him out by telling lies, some well-intended. And the lies people tell are sometimes more revealing to him than the truth. I like how the little Belgian detective is described as 'Londonified' after one trip to the big city. 

Some of my favourite lines include Dr. Peter Lord, Elinor's admirer, telling Poirot, 'She has the bad taste to prefer a long-nosed, supercilious ass with a face like a melancholy horse,' and Poirot solemnly acknowledging who he means. 

Poirot can get philosophical at times. 

Roddy: Why should these things happen to one? It's not as though one wished them to happen! It is contrary to all - to all one's ordered expectations of life.

Poirot: Ah, but life is like that. It does not permit you to arrange and order it as you will. It will not permit you to escape emotion, to live by the intellect and by reason. You cannot say, "I will feel so much, and no more." Life, Mr. Welman, whatever else it is, is not reasonable.

Roddy: So it seems.

I'm glad the rat who did it didn't escape justice. But how terrible that such an audacious murder happened at all, to someone innocent of all the undercurrents, with her whole life ahead of her. 

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The Moving Finger (Miss Marple mystery 1942)

A young man named Jerry Burton is ordered by his doctor to recuperate in the country after a light plane crash. His sister Joanna is going with him and they've rented a cottage called Little Furze in an idyllic village named Lymstock. Little do Jerry and Joanna realise the town is being plagued by an anonymous letter writer with some axe to grind. Before long they receive their own vicious epistle, with loads of venom but no substance. 

The letters are merely a nuisance to most, and initially a joke to the Burtons. But when a poor local woman commits suicide after reading what's arrived in the post, everyone decides 'Poison Pen' has gone too far. It's become a matter for the police. 

Technically, this is a Jane Marple mystery, although our spinster sleuth is more of a bit player, only present in the last 40 pages. What she does is awesome just the same. She even trumps Inspector Graves, the expert in anonymous letter cases called in from London. Miss Marple's modest rationale for her brilliance is, 'One sees a good deal of human nature in a village.' 

This novel is quite a psychological study. The letter writer comes across as one disgruntled, cheesed off individual who wants to lash out at the whole human race, for whatever reason. They've been called, 'dangerous as a rattle-snake, a cobra and a black mamba rolled into one.' Then there's the first victim's frame of mind to consider. Did she find the letter's content struck too close to home? The vicar's wife suggests, 'If suicide is your idea of escape from trouble, then it doesn't very much matter what the trouble is.' 

My other observations deviate from the mystery to the time period. Jerry and Joanna's elderly landlord, Miss Emily Barton, decides to take her tenants' heavy smoking in her stride, because 'everyone does it.' She says, 'I'm afraid I haven't moved with the times... The only thing is there are no ashtrays in the house.' Joanna cheerfully offers to bring lots of their own, and promises, 'We won't put cigarette ends down on your nice furniture. Even I can't stand that.' 

Oh, poor Miss Emily, the smoking would be a deal-breaker for me. Imagine the atmosphere in her home once their lease expires.

Then there's the interesting introduction of Jerry's favourite work of art, 'Old Man enjoying the pleasures of idleness.' He fetches it to show the doctor's sister, Aimee Griffith, who breezes around urging others to be industrious. Jerry points out that we owe lots of famous inventions to idleness. Our boy turns out to be a great spokesman for the limitations of the Protestant Work Ethic at its extreme. 

Oh, and romance is rife, even in a poky town with lots of unpleasant crime. By the end, both Jerry and Joanna have found the loves of their lives. I read this one in just a few sittings. Couldn't help it. There are so many possible suspects, each with interesting back-stories that just might push them over the edge.  

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