How to Tame a (male) Shrew

download shrewWhen did you last see a production of The Taming of the Shrew? Not recently, I’ll bet. A comedy whose title alone always made it tricky to negotiate has arguably no place at all in today’s postfeminist world. If so, we are the poorer for it. Shakespeare is Shakespeare after all, and to consign any work of his to oblivion is a huge loss.

Which is why I’m delighted that the play forms part of the RSC’S current season and have lost no time in seeing it. Admiring the company’s courage in tackling something so politically incorrect, I wondered how they’d get round the problem.

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Dear little thing

Easy: reverse the roles. Make Italy a collection of cities ruled by matriarchs, with Petruchia wooing Baptista’s sullen son Katherine (I guess Katherino just doesn’t work), while Grumia and Hortensia vie with each other over the hand of Katherine’s charming younger brother, Bianco. As an ironic take on the patriarchy, it works brilliantly. More, by seeing so many powerful women on stage with only a brace of men, the paucity of female parts in plays by Shakespeare – as with countless other dramatists – is brought home in a way that never struck me before. I mean, I knew the imbalance was bad… but not that bad. The acting was extremely good, with much hilarity generated by this Vice Versa scheme, particularly in the case of the delicate, long-haired, pampered Bianco being fought over by his two lusty female suitors. The blatant sexism of the set up didn’t matter a bit anymore because, well, the boot was on the other foot, wasn’t it?

And yet.

Film bookI’ve always had a soft spot for The Taming of the Shrew. Some decades ago (ha, I’m not saying how many), I found myself on a school outing to the Young Vic, where I fell head over heels for Jim Dale’s mischievous Petruchio. The energy, wit and sheer magic of the play blew me away; I had no idea Shakespeare could be this much fun. Yes, Petruchio behaved abominably, but his sparring with Jane Lapotaire’s Katherine generated a chemistry that brought them together in what, at the time, felt a perfectly possible meeting of minds. The text doesn’t explicitly set Katherine up as an equal – in fact, her last speech does anything but – yet the clues are there. From the start she is the only character able to match Petruchio’s wit, giving back killer line for killer line as he tries – and fails – to trip her up. Hers is a much cleverer and more interesting personality than that of her insipid sister, Bianca, and if all Shakespeare was concerned about was keeping women in their place, why would he have bothered with Katherine’s character at all?

T of SAnd this is where the current Stratford production misses the point. So important is the idea that the male Katherine suffer total submission to the female Petruchia, as a faithful reversal of the supposed norm, that Katherine is never allowed to take Petruchia on in any way. No banter. No surface compliance while clearly running rings round her tyrannical wife. No mischievous spark in his eye that shows that he, too, can play the game; heavens, the poor chap is never allowed to raise his eyes from the ground in the whole play. Any hope of creating a genuine understanding between the two, let alone affection, is lost. At the end, Petruchia has achieved the enormous prize of an abject, characterless slave to do her bidding, not a desirable, feisty husband who is her intellectual equal. Chemistry? About as much as between a rattle snake and a, erm, shrew.

Still, it’s an original idea and a rollicking production and something had to be done to keep The Taming of the Shrew alive. Go and judge for yourself. You have till the end of August in Stratford, then it’s on tour, plus a live cinema broadcast on 5 June.

 

(From an article first published on Authors Electric Blog.)

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Did Scrooge dodge a bullet?

a christmas carol 2Happy New Year all!

Right, I’ll kick off 2019 with an admission: until a month ago, I’d never read A Christmas Carol.

Yup, you read that right. Charles Dickens’s much-loved (and pleasingly short) fable about mean old Scrooge being ‘woke’ (right up there with modern idioms, that’s me) and swapping his miserliness for kindness and generosity… to be honest, I knew the story so well I really thought I had read it. But in preparation for a family visit to David Edgar’s adaptation of the book for the Royal Shakespeare Company, I thought I’d take up the original – and boy, am I glad I did.

The Real McScrooge

Because if I hadn’t, I might really have thought that what we saw in Stratford was the Real McScrooge. Or rather, I’d have suspected some of the odder scenes as being fashionably updated, but not known exactly where Dickens ended and his adaptor began. The more skilled the adaptor – and Edgar is very skilled – the more the original writer’s essence is blurred, twisted and, frankly, betrayed.

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Fezziwig (John Leech) – ruined by his own generosity. NOT.

I’ve banged on about this kind of thing before: the sickly, bogus, supposedly A A Milne quotes littering the internet, David Hare’s pride at writing ‘genuine’ Virginia Woolfisms. But increasingly I feel I’m holding up an umbrella against a tsunami of ‘improvements’ meted out to just about every great literary figure no longer alive and therefore unable to protest, by contemporary writers who feel with astonishing arrogance that They Can Do It Better. It’s not good enough for Edgar that Dickens allows avarice to enter the soul of the young Scrooge, in spite of the generosity of his employer, Fezziwig. There has to be a reason. So Edgar makes Fezziwig profligate and unwise, leading to bankruptcy and death; from which harsh lesson, ah, of course, Scrooge derives his obsession with money. Cause and Effect, satisfying present day rules of character creation.

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Appalling poverty: the workhouse at St Marylebone

Dickens: a fomenter of class warfare?

Except that Dickens didn’t give a fig for these rules. He saw no need to explain why Scrooge becomes a miser in the first place; it was just in his character. Nor, in Dickens’s world, are kind and generous people punished for being so: his whole point is that people have a choice in the way they behave towards others. Nor is he an overtly radical writer, though from Edgar’s adaptation you could be forgiven for thinking so. Yes, he showed the appalling effects of poverty, hunger, sickness and lack of education on the poor but his aim was to arouse the consciences of the wealthy to relieve that want, not to foment class warfare. When Scrooge in the book visits (invisibly) his nephew’s Christmas party, he finds a happy group of people enjoying each other’s company, making him regret his refusal to take part; what he doesn’t find is a heartless political discussion, blaming poor parents for sending their 4 year-old children down the mine so that they can spend their earnings on gin, and (highly suspect in days before contraception) a particularly unpleasant woman congratulating herself and her husband for ‘only going for our fifth child when we knew we could afford it.’

wentworth st by gustavee dore

Wentworth Street by Gustav Dore

A Trio of Entitled Brats

I have no problem with Dickens himself appearing as a character in this adaptation, discussing with his friend Forster the scoliosis and other deformities suffered by seamstresses and milliners, as well as child labour in factories and mines. This is a clever device that teaches us much about the terrible conditions around him that Scrooge (and others like him) refuse to see. I do mind when Edgar alters A Christmas Carol itself because, well, how dare he? How dare he write a scene in which Mrs Cratchit humiliates her husband for not standing up to Scrooge, when poor Bob has no chance of doing that and keeping his job, as his wife (in the REAL Christmas Carol) knows?  Or have Bob Cratchit, thinking himself dismissed, give his employer a hefty piece of his mind, purely for an easy laugh from the audience who knows better? Or, most puzzling of all, distort the charmingly rumbustious scene of the family that Scrooge might have had (if he’d married his childhood sweetheart, Belle) by making the children a trio of entitled brats complaining at the presents brought home by their loving father? If that was really what Dickens wrote, wouldn’t Scrooge feel he’d dodged a bullet there, rather than yearn for the love and joy he could have had?

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The happy family scene (Arthur Rackham) Scrooge might have had. Where are David Edgar’s entitled brats?

Dickens it ain’t

It was a good show, with some outstanding acting (eg Gerard Carey playing the over-tragically-written Bob Cratchit) but it wasn’t Dickens.  By all means, David Edgar, write your Victorian Christmas morality tale, you can even borrow heavily from the great man himself. Just don’t call it A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens, OK?  Because Dickens it ain’t.

 

 

(Adapted from an article on Authors Electric)

Never mind Fake News: what about Fake Quotations?

Not long ago I was idly flicking through The Sunday Times when this snide little piece in the media gossip column, Atticus, caught my eye:

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Atticus, The Sunday Times, 21.10.18

Amusing, yes, especially for Sir David Hare.  It’s not his fault that the public don’t know Woolf’s work well enough to distinguish which words she genuinely wrote and which are the ones that he, adapting a novel about Woolf for the screen, makes her say. How hilarious that Hare’s clever line is now attributed to the author herself! And how naïve of the academic, bless them, to confuse a fictional film with a biopic! I mean, who does that?

No one, obvs.

Except the countless people on the internet who now attribute Hare’s line to Woolf. QED.

Virginia Woolf

Richmond – a Fate Worse Than Death, as Virginia Woolf never said. (Getty Images)

 

Does anyone else hear a great clunk of irony in Atticus’s stonkingly patronising attitude to the academic? She or he is the only person in this sordid little anecdote to care about what a writer did or did not write.  That Hare line will now be attributed to Woolf by innumerable people (students, readers… good heavens, writers, even) because it feels right.  Just as we have fake news stories that are believed because they feel true to some people, not because they are (Brexit will give us £350 million per week for the NHS, Obama is a Secret Muslim, Trump will Make America Great Again), the internet is awash with fake quotations from famous literary figures because people who don’t bother to read the actual works feel these are the kinds of things their authors would write. When the truth (ha, the truth) is that the literary figures in question would stab themselves with their own quills rather than write the kind of tosh often attributed to them.

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A. A. Milne: abused by gloopy so-called Winnie-the-Pooh quotes. (AP Photo)

The most abused author in this respect is A A Milne, who in his Winnie-the-Pooh books created some of the most delightful, subtle, understated, poignant, funny, moving dialogue that has ever or will ever be written; yet I estimate around 90% of so-called ‘A A Milne’ quotes spread gloopily over the internet like Pooh Bear’s own beloved hunny are meaningless platitudes made up by idiots who think it’s the kind of sweet, cutesy thing Pooh would say.

Of course, this travesty only works if people don’t know the original books well enough, and the sad truth is that the Disneyfication of Winnie-the-Pooh has swamped a classic that many of my and my parents’ generation knew by heart. The same trick would never work with Shakespeare, for instance. If I tried to attribute a line to the great bard like, ooh, I don’t know, how about,

Never was bear more wickedly traduc’d,

I’d have all the scholars down on me like a shot.

The works of Virginia Woolf and A A Milne, on the other hand, are clearly barely known by hordes of people who use the internet, and I’m willing to bet there are a great many more literary figures whose coinage is being debased in this way.  I’d love (but also hate) to know who they are.

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Pooh Bear: wickedly traduc’d

So just think, Grant Tucker of Atticus and Sir David Hare: one day in the future there may be all sorts of fake Tucker and Hare quotations littering people’s brains, things you never wrote and would never dream of writing.  Not so funny then, eh?

 

(From an article first published on Authors Electric)

 

 

3 Reasons for my Shameful Secret

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Biscuits or books?

I have a shameful secret. My book shelves are full of books I haven’t read. Shocking, isn’t it? You’d think that instead of browsing Blackwell’s and Waterstones for the latest hot reads, I’d get through the stack building up at home first. Good housekeeping, surely. Like eating all the biscuits in the tin before going out to buy more.

Cider with RosieWell, not really. For a start, less than half the titles stretching out until the crack of doom across my walls are down to me. When, many years ago, my husband and I united our separate collections of 500 or so each in marriage, I looked forward to throwing out the many duplicates that must occur. There were 6. From which one can only conclude that either we complemented each other nicely, or had absolutely nothing in common. I wish I could remember what those 6 books were, as that might shed some light on the situation, but I can’t. Cider with Rosie, possibly, and The Catcher in the Rye. Certainly not Science Fiction, Fantasy, Travel, Anthropology, Psychology, Cell Biology, History, Biography, Classical Music, Wood Engraving or a free copy of the Book of Mormon picked up in Salt Lake City on a gap year holiday. In other words, my undergraduate accumulation of Eng Lit underwent a rather exciting broadening of horizons, thanks to its new shelf fellows.The Catcher in the Rye

Since then our store has only grown, with beautiful Folio Society editions of the great classics rendering redundant all the old dog-eared paperbacks (which I still can’t bear to throw away). And I have to admit that an uncomfortable proportion of all our books are ones I’ve bought, Fully Intending To Read One Day but have not, as yet, got round to.  There are various reasons for this:

  1. The author is well-known but doesn’t grab me,
  2. The book looks dauntingly thick.
  3. The title puts me off.

Pathetic, really.

The Once and Future KingSo I have resolved to tackle the backlog, beginning with a book that comes into Category 3, in spite of its passing 1 and 2 with flying colours. I have huge admiration for T H White (1), whose The Once and Future King is one of the best books I have read in my life; and, far from being of a daunting width (2), this one is pleasingly slender. But –  Mistress Masham’s Repose? It sounds like a twee fest of Miss Muffet clad little girls playing in a prettily decorated wendy house.

Mistress Masham's Repose.png

I could not have been more wrong. Wronger I could not have been. Mistress Masham’s Repose turns out to be a glorious riff on 18th century literature, with Gulliver’s Travels at its heart but sweeping in references to Alexander Pope, Dr Johnson and a whole sheaf of other literary figures. Mistress Masham herself doesn’t even figure in this delightful tale (it’s just the name of an island in the parkland of a vast, crumbling stately home); the heroine is Maria, a brave and resourceful 10 year-old orphan who, stumbling one day on a hidden colony of Lilliputians, battles to protect them from her evil governess and the governess’s crony, a most unchristian vicar. I love the way T H White makes absolutely no concessions to his readership in what is meant to be a children’s book, though if I’d tried to read it as a child I probably would have taken a different view. Gullivers TravelsA thorough knowledge of Gulliver’s Travels, including the lands of Laputa and the Houyhnhnms, is taken for granted, and much of the dialogue is in a flowery 18th century English, to the point where Maria wonders whether she too might start speaking in Capital Letters. Yet somehow the richness of the story and the sheer powerfulness of the characters win through and all I can do is kick myself for missing out on this wonderful read for so long.

Still, I’ve learnt my lesson. Now for the next in my treasure of neglected works.

Gibbon’s Decline and Fall.

Erm…

 

(From an article first published on Authors Electric Blog)

 

Sicily: a Paradise of Beauty… and Squalor

Some chapters on in The Leopard (I know, I know, I’m a slow reader but it’s been a crazy summer), a paragraph brought me up short. Not for its quality of writing (which goes without saying) but because the aspect of 19th century Sicily it describes chimes uncannily with what will strike any traveler there today:

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Bella Sicilia

the contrast between the wild, extraordinary beauty of the landscape and the heaps of refuse spread along roads, fields, streets, lapping the foundations of baroque churches and palaces and spilling over into mediaeval squares.

Litter is of course a problem all over the world but Sicily takes it to a whole new level, appalling not just the tourists who flock there for its wealth of classical architecture, but visitors from other parts of Italy too.

Gattopardo 2Now, according to Lampedusa, this is nothing new. When he wrote The Leopard in 1957, plastics, aluminium and other non-biodegradable items made up a much smaller proportion of rubbish than they do today; yet the attitude that would allow them to become such a problem in Sicily in particular goes back hundreds of years. Set against the backdrop of Italian Unification in 1861, the novel depicts officials arriving from the northern province of Piedmont being aghast by what they see:

In front of every house the refuse of squalid meals accumulated along leprous walls, trembling dogs were rooting about…

In Lampedusa’s view, filth and beauty existing cheek by jowl is rooted deep in the Sicilian mindset, itself created by the sheer difficulty of survival in such a harsh landscape and climate. The hero, Don Fabrizio, recalls the reaction of some visiting foreign naval officers (British, as it happens):

They were ecstatic about the view, the vehemence of the light; they confessed, though, that they had been horrified at the squalor, decay, filth of the streets around. I didn’t explain to them that one thing was derived from the other.

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A Paradise of Pasta

Reading this brought me straight back to a holiday my husband and I took in Sicily with some friends a couple of years ago. What we didn’t realise was that these friends were great Montalbano fans (as in the TV series). For them, Sicily was a paradise of home-made pasta served in simple trattorie; of streets winding through honey-coloured villages to empty, squeaky-clean squares; of enchanting fishermen’s cottages looking out on to wide stretches of golden and spotless beaches. Their distress at the Day-Glo plastic, empty cans and rotting food disfiguring every beautiful scene was acute.

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No thanks

The mess bothered me too but not as much because I didn’t have that perfect television picture in my head of what it should be like. It’s not that the cameras had lied, exactly; more that they’d been positioned to cut out all the ugly bits. And each location had clearly been given a good clean-up before every shot.

The funny thing is, our friends knew deep down that filming creates its own reality. Part of the joy of watching a series like Montalbano is the beautiful setting; why would a film director want to spoil it?

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Montalbano: a dream of Sicily

Yet we buy the dream all the same without realising it, which means that visiting the location of a favourite film or TV programme sets us up for disappointment. I rarely watch the hugely popular Inspector Morse series but when I do am amused to find, for instance, the detective knocking on the door of a house in Jericho with the Sheldonian Theatre in view just behind it, making an aesthetically pleasing but geographically impossible picture.

Sheldonian-Theatre-oxford

The Sheldonian Theatre in Oxford: aesthetically pleasing, just not in Jericho.

Not quite the same as trails of litter everywhere (though we have our fair share of that in Oxford too); but something that could still disconcert an ardent Morse fan trying, literally, to follow in their hero’s footsteps.

None of which solves Sicily’s rubbish problems. If Lampedusa was right, only a massive shift in the Sicilians’ own outlook will do that.

 

(From an article first published on Authors Electric Blog)

 

Leading your characters into temptation

On the subject of food (can you tell it’s a favourite with me?), there’s another role it can play in books, very different from the nurturing, life-enhancing way I looked at last month. Just the opposite, in fact. And while this works as a literary and moral device, it can be pretty cruel to your characters.

Serpent-goddess-eve

And so it begins…

To begin at the beginning… How does the serpent corrupt Eve in the Garden of Eden? With a crisp, juicy apple, thus setting in motion 2,000 years of imagery in which the poor apple takes the brunt of all the evil in the world. Interestingly the idea of fruit being a catalyst for trouble isn’t just a Judeo-Christian one: think of the six pomegranate seeds swallowed by Persephone when kidnapped by Hades, which bind her to the Underworld for half the year. Or the golden apple thrown by Eris, Greek goddess of discord, into the wedding of Thetis and Peleus, which reappears at the judgement of Paris, only for him to assign it to the wrong goddess and kickstart the Trojan War.

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Golden Apple of Discord

With such powerful religious and classical antecedents, no wonder the idea of Forbidden Fruit took such hold on the western imagination, a vein of wicked temptation running from the Garden of Earthly Delights of mediaeval literature to the yearning for apricots that betrays the Duchess of Malfi to the clandestine plum pudding Edmund Gosse nibbles, in Father and Son.

Garden of Earthly Delights

The Garden of Earthly Delights by Hieronymus Bosch

This last example is especially poignant, since it comes from a memoir, not fiction. A member of the puritan Plymouth Brethren, Gosse’s father believed the pleasures associated with celebrating Christmas – singing, dancing, fine clothes and feasting – to be the work of the devil. Aghast that his little son should be so deprived, the maids feed him a slice of the plum pudding they’ve secretly made for themselves; his father, discovering the crime, ‘flung the idolatrous confectionery on to the middle of the [dust heap], and then raked it deep down into the mass.’

plum pudding

Idolatrous Confectionary

I find this scene heartbreaking to read. As Gosse himself writes, ‘The suddenness, the violence, the velocity of this extraordinary act made an impression on my memory which nothing will ever efface’ – all arising from a fear that what is enjoyable to the senses must by definition be sinful. Here is the exact opposite of the ‘speckled cannon ball…blazing in half of half-a-quartern of ignited brandy,’ that cheers the table of the hard-up Cratchit family in Dickens’s A Christmas Carol.

Oliver TwistIndeed, while Dickens makes brilliant metaphorical use of natural phenomena (the fog in Bleak House, for instance, confusing and entrapping as the legal system; or the predatory Carker’s white teeth in Dombey and Son) he is the last writer to endow an apple, a pudding, or anything else with evil characteristics. There’s nothing like a poverty-stricken childhood to teach you the true value of food. It is hunger, not greed, that prompts Oliver to ask for more (Oliver Twist). Pip quakes in terror that his theft of a pie will be discovered; yet he stole not for himself, but to feed a starving runaway convict (Great Expectations).

Great Expectations

Once food is seen for what it is – nourishing, tasty, a source of pleasure and celebration with friends – treating any part of it as somehow inherently wicked becomes both impossible and heartless.

The Lion the Witch and the WardrobeNot for some of the great children’s writers though. It’s hard on Edmund, in The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, that while his sister Lucy can safely be treated to tea and toast by a faun, he unwittingly seals his pact with the White Witch by accepting the treats she offers. (‘He had the look of one who had been with the Witch and eaten her food,’ says Mr Beaver.) The drink – ‘very sweet and foamy and creamy’ – is enchanted, of course, so no ordinary food; yet there’s a sense in which Edmund is being punished for enjoying it so much.

The Magician's nephew

And in The Magician’s Nephew, Lewis actually recreates the Garden of Eden, with poor Digory being tempted by the Witch to eat the apple from the Tree of Life (‘A terrible thirst and hunger came over him and a longing to taste that fruit’) rather than bring it, as instructed, to Aslan.

Do modern children’s books put their heroes through this kind of Food As Temptation ordeal? My impression is no, and a good thing too. Far better for the smells and tastes of delicious things to be celebrated, so encouraging a healthy relationship with eating, rather than treated as a test for your characters to fail, as some of the children in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory do, or the ever-hungry Dick in The Faraway Tree. Surely in our more secular age we can dispense with this biblical sense of guilt surrounding food. 

Not as simple as that. The popular culture young readers are growing into lays a heavy burden of blame on delectable goodies, from Salman Rushdie’s famous Naughty But Nice advertising slogan for cream cakes to Slimming World’s use of the term ‘syns’ for treats (short for ‘synergy’, I know, but that fools nobody).

Naughty but Nice

Naughty… but nice

We may no longer believe literally in the idea of Forbidden Fruit; but we are a long way from being free of its power. Cake, anyone?

 

(Adapted from an article originally published on Authors Electric Blogspot.)

 

How books can save your life. Literally.

The Reading CureThere’s something about people all around me forgoing delicious things – like chocolate and wine – that has me thinking of food like never before. (I gave up giving anything up for New Year/Lent a long time ago. Life in winter is miserable enough.) How apt then, that Laura Freeman’s publishers, W & N, should have chosen mid-February to launch her memoir, The Reading Cure: How Books Restored My Appetite, in which she describes how the mouth-watering descriptions of food in the great classics saved her from the worst ravages of anorexia.  Siegfried Sassoon fortifying himself with boiled eggs and cocoa before a dawn hunt (Memoirs of a Foxhunting Man);

siegfried_sassoon

Siegfried Sassoon

Mrs Cratchit’s plum pudding – ‘a speckled cannon ball…blazing in half of half-a-quartern of ignited brandy’ (A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens) – these glorious images tempted her back to the warmth, nourishment and companionship of good things. For most of us, books are food for the soul; for Freeman, they turned out to be food for the body, too.

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Plum Pudding in A Christmas Carol

Reading her article in the Sunday Times, https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/books-saved-me-from-starving-myself-to-death-ls2cd8c75, I wanted to punch the air. Anorexia is a terrible, relentless illness. Freeman describes the mental state it induces in terms of a library full of smashed book cases, in which the calm and order the sufferer longs for are reduced to splinters of glass and wood and rain spattered paper. The fact that books saved her, gave her ‘reasons to eat, share, live, to want to be well,’ shows how much the senses are involved in the pleasure of reading, not just the mind.

For proof, I challenge you to read this list of provisions from St Agnes’s Eve by John Keats and not a) drool, or b) feel sick (depending on your sweetness of tooth).

‘…a heap

Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd

With jellies, soother than the creamy curd…’

Trifle

Not exactly Keats.

No prizes for guessing my reaction to these glorious lines. But then I always did like fruit jellies and cream, and my enjoyment of this poem harks back to some very early reading indeed. Aged 5, my favourite of the My Naughty Little Sister stories by Dorothy Edwards was the one where she and Bad Harry sneak into the larder and demolish a splendid trifle planned for his birthday party, beginning with the silver balls and jelly sweets on the top before diving into whipped cream, custard and sponge below. Ok, so it’s not exactly Keats… but it’s a fine example of the importance of food in children’s books.

Wind in the Willows picnicLaura Freeman cites glorious picnics in The Wind in the Willows, a theme also popular with Enid Blyton, whose Famous Five, Adventurous Four, Secret Seven – whatever – are sustained by freshly baked bread, new-laid eggs, delicious ham and – unforgettably – lashings of ginger beer.Famous Five

Delightful as these interludes are, their role in the plot shouldn’t be underrated, especially in adventure stories. If you’re going to thrust your characters into hair-raising situations, making them perform superhuman tasks, you’d better make sure you feed them. You’re already asking your readers to suspend a lot of disbelief; rendering your heroes immune to normal human needs is pushing it.

Ante Passchendaele jacketSending Ante with her companions, Gil and Florence, on a journey through Hell in Ante’s Inferno, I knew I had to allow them to stock up on energy and supplies to keep them going through all that heat and darkness. A break in Elysium, where Hector and Aeneas invite them to join in their cricket tea (er, you have to read the book) and Odysseus gives them water skins, did the trick:

‘Taking a strawberry, Ante allowed it to burst in her mouth, rolling its warmth and            sweetness on her tongue.’

My inspiration for calling up the sensuous pleasure of food was the scene in The Last Battle, where C S Lewis allows his characters a rest from all the fighting:

wild-strawberry‘Not far away from them rose a grove of trees, thickly leaved, but under every leaf there peeped out the gold or faint yellow or purple or glowing red of fruits such as no one has seen in our world… All I can say is that, compared with those fruits, the freshest grape-fruit you’ve ever eaten was dull, and the juiciest orange was dry, and the most melting pear was hard and woody, and the sweetest wild strawberry was sour.’

 

Just reading that again after all these years makes my mouth water.

How wonderful, then, that Laura Freeman’s delight in words has altered the balance of power between herself and her anorexia. It’s not a magic cure – she acknowledges the anorexia may never go away altogether – but it’s books that have brought her back to the idea of food and feasting with friends being something to enjoy, not dread.  Books can literally save your life.

But we knew that.

 

(Adapted from an article originally published on Authors Electric Blogspot.)