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America's Queen by Sarah Bradford

Whilst watching the series finale of And Just Like That recently, after the program finished and Carrie said goodbye to Aidan (again), I found myself wondering idly what it is about the Sex and the City universe that has appealed to me and millions of others over the years. After some deliberation, I came to the conclusion that the reason is aspiration. Much as the series tries to convince us…

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Hello, It's Me...

I haven’t written much lately. Actually that’s not strictly true. I’ve been working on something I have wanted to write for a long time – a novel. Writing a novel, as any writer will tell you, is a complex, frustrating, tiring, and all-consuming process. And fitting it around work is quite frankly, a nightmare. I understand now why some writers head off to a log cabin, lock themselves inside and…

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5 Quick Reads

For our most recent public holiday in the UK, I wrote about my favourite doorstep novels (big books to get stuck into and take your time over).

Today, we’re going in a different direction, and I’ll be talking about some of my favourite quick reads.

We all live busy lives, and much as I love a big book, occasionally I crave the opposite: a short book I can read in a single weekend (or over 24 hours, if I’m on leave from work).

Here are five of my favourites:

Animal Farm by George Orwell (144 pages)

Ignore anyone who laughs at you when you tell them you’re reading this (which happened to me one day at work – it is possible the man in question thought I was talking about something else!).

Subtitled “A Fairy Story” this is actually anything but. A novella about the downtrodden animals of Manor Farm, who overthrow their human master Mr Jones and take over the running of the farm themselves, it’s a satire about totalitarian regimes (specifically Communism) and what happens when idealism is replaced by corruption and greed.

Granted, communism isn’t the most cheerful subject to acquaint yourself with on a sunny weekend, but Animal Farm is entertaining, powerful and terrifying in equal measure.

Shopgirl by Steve Martin (220 pages)

Yes, that Steve Martin. He writes books too!

I read this last year as part of a reading list. The prompt was “an author with the same initials as you”. I’m not the biggest Steve Martin fan, but I enjoyed the film version with Claire Danes and the author himself as her love interest, and so, over 3 long nights during the 2022 World Cup, I gave it a shot.

Shopgirl is a fun read, telling the story of Mirabelle, a lonely, adrift shop assistant who works in an LA department store. Mirabelle is pursued by two suitors: the older, emotionally unavailable millionaire Ray, and penniless, equally adrift Jeremy. It’s dark, funny and just a bit cool. I loved it.

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald (180 pages)

You didn’t expect me to write a list of quick reads without including The Great Gatsby, did you?

The quintessential novel of the Jazz Age, The Great Gatsby is one of the few novels that both myself and my sister thoroughly enjoyed. The tale of the fabulously wealthy Jay Gatsby and his doomed romance with the socialite Daisy Buchanan, told by Gatsby’s acquaintance Nick Carraway, there is a reason this one regularly makes an appearance on lists of the greatest novels ever written.

It’s very readable, it’s concise, and it doesn’t meander. The characters are flawed but likeable, and most importantly they are relatable.

If you’ve never had the pleasure of making Jay Gatsby’s acquaintance, sit down this week and do so immediately. You won’t want to leave.

Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson (104 pages)

One for a dark, cold, rainy night. I was gifted this book as a student, as part of a bound boxset of mystery and horror novels. It was part of a larger collection of short stories by Robert Louis Stevenson. Many people know what a “Jekyll and Hyde character” is, think they know the plot and hence avoid the book. Don’t be that person.

It reads like a mystery thriller, so if you’re not into horror novels (like me), there is still much here for you to enjoy.

Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde is very much the perfect short story, an absolutely riveting thriller. The plot races along at a breakneck pace (Stevenson himself wrote the original draft in less than three days), and if you’re anything like me, you’ll wish by the end that you didn’t already know what was coming!

Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys (192 pages)

One night, in the days before Netflix and Disney Plus, I was bored. I was in search of something to watch on TV and began channel hopping, when I came across a film called Wide Sargasso Sea. I had missed the first few minutes, but something about it grabbed me instantly. I was riveted and didn’t move from my seat until the film was finished. I’ve never seen it shown on any television channel or streaming service from that day to this. Having searched fruitlessly for months to find a copy of the film (these were the dark days when such things were not instantly available), I decided instead to read the novel on which it was based.

A prequel to Jane Eyre, Wide Sargasso Sea is the story of Antoinette Cosway, a white heiress living in Jamaica, who meets and marries the young Mr Rochester. It is essentially the story of how their marriage disintegrates and she becomes the Madwoman in the Attic of Charlotte Bronte’s novel.

I later donated Wide Sargasso Sea to a book swap shop in Tenerife, in the hope that someone else would discover it and love it as much as I did. And perhaps one day the BBC will decide to show the film again!

What are your favourite quick reads?

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Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen

When we experience something that changes our lives, many of us can recall every detail. We remember where we were at that precise moment, what we were wearing, exactly how we felt. We may remember small details, like what the weather was doing, or what we ate on that day. Many of my most prominent memories stand out to me because I remember every detail about them. I remember where I was the first time I heard Madonna’s Ray of Light album (sitting on the floor of my parent’s house, in my pyjamas). I remember what I was wearing on the night I first met my husband (a black jumper and jeans). I remember what I was doing and what time of day it was when I received the news that my Nan had died (getting ready for work at about 6:45 in the morning, on a dreary, cold day in December). I remember looking out of the window just after learning that my Uncle had passed away, and thinking how dark it suddenly seemed outside, as if all the lights had been switched off . I remember the feeling of lightness that came over me when I finally found the courage to leave a job that was so stressful it nearly ended my life. I remember the flash of terror that coursed through my body when I was called into a small room for the result of my first mammogram in 2020.

I also remember the first time I discovered Northanger Abbey.

It was an ordinary day, not long after I moved to Newcastle upon Tyne to study a degree in English Literature. An item was missing from the inventory of our newly rented flat, and the university authorities accused me of stealing it. I had spent much of the day defending myself against these allegations, since a) I am not a thief, and b) I had never seen the offending item, much less stolen it. So it is safe to say that I was not in a good mood. In the late afternoon, I decided to cheer myself up by studying the syllabus of my course. And there it was �� a little book called Northanger Abbey.

I have delayed writing about Jane Austen until now. Austen is without a doubt my favourite writer of all time, and probably the writer who has had the biggest influence on my life. I wasn’t certain that I could do her justice, and in addition I was keen not to turn this series into another “I love Jane Austen” piece. I find it very difficult to articulate just how big an influence Jane Austen’s work has had on my life. As a teenager, I dabbled in Austen the way some teenagers dabble in cigarettes or weed (I could not have been less interested in either). The first time I read an Austen novel in full was shortly after that dreary Tyneside afternoon, studying my degree syllabus. It read like a run-through of the greatest works of literature ever published: Moll Flanders, Jane Eyre, TS Eliot’s The Waste Land, Beloved by Toni Morrison. And Northanger Abbey.

In all honesty, next to the likes of Beloved, Northanger Abbey didn’t sound like the most exciting read. A coming-of-age tale about a 17 year old girl away from home for the first time, Northanger Abbey follows the life and loves of Catherine Morland, who navigates the world through friendships, romance and her love of Gothic literature. A parody of the Gothic novels that were popular during Austen’s day, it sounded to me a bit Mills and Boon, a flimsy romance novel that I would probably read quickly and forget just as quickly.

What I failed to realise at 18 years old was that the text was included on the degree syllabus for a reason. It was inserted into my life with an almost comic deliberateness. At 18, I too was experiencing the world for the first time on my own terms. As it turns out, I identified with Catherine Morland in many ways. I knew very little about the world. I felt a sense of responsibility to make a success of my new life. And, like Catherine in the novel, I may have been very good at reading books, but when it came to reading people, I was distinctly inexperienced. I viewed the world through a very different lens to the one I use today. Like Catherine, I placed great importance on wanting to be liked, and wanting to be seen as a good person by those around me.

Of Jane Austen’s heroines, Catherine Morland is the youngest, and the most naïve. She experiences situations common to many young adults: peer pressure, to join her friends Isabella, James, and John on their carriage rides, and bullying, in the form of her odious suitor John Thorpe. She becomes sulky and irritable on returning home to her parents (understandable, since her mother really is the most dreadful nag). She wants to be liked by her friends (particularly the vivacious Isabella Thorpe) but is not keen to be seen as a flirt, or risk situations that may lead to her disgrace. She wants to be respected by her friend, the 26-year-old parson Henry Tilney, but on a visit to the Tilney’s family home (the Northanger Abbey of the title) her overactive imagination leads her to fear that something terrible may have happened there. She must ultimately learn to separate life from fiction, and live her life in the real world, not as in a Gothic novel.

Northanger Abbey was an important novel in my life because its themes subconsciously appealed to me, in terms of where I was at in my life. Having re-read it several times since, I can see that in many ways it is as relevant today as it would have been in 1817. It is essentially a novel about young adults, and the journey to adulthood. Young people and their feelings are a central theme of Northanger Abbey, as is the path from innocence to experience. This is something that absolutely took place for me, in the 3 and a half years I lived in Newcastle upon Tyne.

There is a certain school of thought that all of Jane Austen’s novels are the same. They explore similar themes, they are similarly paced and all follow a similar plot trajectory (the heroine desires love and acceptance, she meets a man who turns out to be unsuitable, and eventually marries the man whom she dislikes or who acts as a confidant throughout the novel). Her heroines are similar in tone and in terms of their relationships with others. There are no really villainous characters in Austen’s novels – there is no one like Heathcliff or Mr. Rochester (although Mr Darcy gives them a run for their money). Characters commit sins against decency and propriety, but rarely deliberately hurt others. The heroine does not fall passionately, violently in love. Love is a gradual feeling; courtships are polite and almost imperceptible to those outside of the relationship. The heroine ultimately marries a man who is essentially a friend or confidant first and a lover second.

Austen’s novels also have a reputation for being difficult to read. I personally don’t find this to be the case. I think about the first time I read Northanger Abbey and find similarities to when I fell in love with my husband. It was easy. It was effortless. The simplicity of it was quite disconcerting! I couldn’t help feeling that he, like Jane Austen, had been a part of my life forever.

It is worth noting that parts one and two of the novel are very different. Part One tells the story of Catherine’s time in Bath with Isabella Thorpe and their friends, and Part Two depicts her time at Northanger Abbey with Henry Tilney and his sister. I’ve heard Northanger Abbey described a long time ago as a “blast”, and that’s exactly what it is. It doesn’t try to be high-brow or ruminate too deeply on the issues of the time. Instead, it is fun. I was right there with Catherine as Northanger Abbey and its locked rooms, mysterious chests and secret history intrigued and frightened her in equal measure. I couldn’t help but wonder if the novel was heading towards a very different ending, as Catherine wonders if the elderly Mr Tilney was responsible for his wife’s death. I rooted for her and hoped that she would marry Henry Tilney at the end (spoiler alert – she does). I hoped that they would live a happy life together in his parsonage.  

Jane Austen is without a doubt the author of my life. We shall be exploring her other works in due course, including a modern biography. I have researched her to great extent, and paid many visits to Hampshire and Bath, which both have great significance to her life and novels. Her mysteriousness fascinates me. As other Austen fans may be aware, there is a lot we don’t know about Jane Austen. Her sister Cassandra sadly destroyed most of their correspondence, robbing the world of a valuable legacy and insight into their life together. I would loved to have met her. I would like to find out what made her tick, how she could write so beautifully about love and its complexities without ever having married or found love herself. Perhaps she did find love and lost it? Perhaps, like her heroines, she refused to marry a man she did not love? What would she have made of the impact her work has had on modern literature?

There is much more that I can say on Jane Austen – revealing my full thoughts and feelings, and a more detailed exploration of her influence on my life would probably lead to a much longer piece.

I will close by saying that if you have never read Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey is a good place to start. It lacks the gravitas and heavier themes of Pride and Prejudice, or the memorable characters of Emma, but it is light, (mostly) cheerful, and most importantly, it will make you laugh.

And that is as good a place to start as any.

[sarah-aliterarylife]

The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton

Have you ever been on a holiday that was so good you didn’t want to come home? A trip that was so exciting, so filled with fun and new experiences, that you didn’t want it to end? Have you ever visited a place that was so wonderful, that you would be happy to live out the rest of your days there?

In February 2014, we travelled to New York to celebrate my husband’s 30th birthday. We were newly married in June of the previous year, and had recently bought our first home together. New York was bitterly cold, made even more so by the vicious winds that swept through the skyscraper filled streets. There was snow on the ground when we landed at Newark on a cold Friday morning. But we didn’t care one bit. For one week, we lived like New Yorkers (albeit with the perma-smiling faces of two tourists on their first trip to the Big Apple). We took long walks in Central Park. We visited Bloomingdales, Grand Central Station and the Rockefeller Centre. We walked along the High Line and watched a fashion shoot taking place inside one of the nearby buildings. We wandered the winding streets of Greenwich Village and drank hot tea in glasses in a tiny hipster café. We had lunch at a restaurant near Washington Square, surrounded by academics from NYU and Woody Allen types. We got lost looking for the Flatiron Building and ended up in Chelsea. On one particularly chilly afternoon, we took refuge in a church on the Upper East Side and drank hot chocolate, enjoying the stillness, a sanctuary from the bustling streets outside.

I love America. I would visit a different state every year, if the exchange rate didn’t make it so expensive for us Brits. I love its brashness, the boldness and confidence of its people. America to me is like a patchwork quilt of many colours and embroidered images. On every occasion I have visited, no two days are ever the same. No two streets are the same. You can be completely anonymous one moment and told that you are beautiful by a stranger the next. I love American people, American culture, American food, American television. But most of all I love American literature.

I couldn’t visit New York without perusing its many bookshops. I spent at least an hour wandering around Barnes and Noble on Fifth Avenue, until my new husband asked me if we could do something else. I couldn’t leave without making a purchase, so I left with two American classics – The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton, and A Farewell To Arms by Ernest Hemingway.

And then I left them on the plane.

It was possibly the joy of some young academic’s life when they boarded the next Virgin Atlantic flight to New York, only to discover some free reading material for their trip, courtesy of me, underneath their seat. Either that, or the cabin crew threw them away. Regardless, I was devastated to discover on arriving home that I had left my double bill of classic American novels on the plane. The first thing I did was repurchase them both. I saved Hemingway for later that year, and read it during a trip to Paris to celebrate my own milestone birthday. But I got stuck into Edith Wharton right away.

Published in 1920, The Age of Innocence was Edith Wharton’s eighth novel, and is widely regarded as her finest work. The first Pulitzer Prize winning book to be written by a woman, it is billed as a slightly satirical novel, a comedy of manners.

The Age of Innocence is centred around Newland Archer, a young New York lawyer who has recently become engaged to May Welland, a young debutante from a prominent New York family. However, his world is thrown into disarray with the arrival of May’s cousin, Countess Ellen Olenska. The Countess has returned to America after separating from her husband, a Polish count, and her arrival causes a sensation. She shocks polite New York society with her glamorous and revealing outfits, unconventional manners, and rumours of adultery. It may not come as a surprise (especially if you have seen Martin Scorsese’s film version, starring Daniel Day Lewis as Newland Archer) to learn that Newland soon becomes attracted to the captivating Ellen. She returns his feelings, but decency and the fear of society’s judgement soon prove too much for Newland, and he moves forward with his wedding to May.

Time and May’s eventual pregnancy conspire to keep the lovers apart, until 25 years later, May dies from pneumonia. Now a father of three children, Newland travels to France with his son, where he arranges to visit the Countess at her Paris apartment. However, at the last moment, he changes his mind, choosing to send his son alone instead. He ultimately decides that he is content to live with his memories of the past.

It would be easy to dismiss The Age of Innocence as a kind of 19th century chick lit (I hate that term). It is also easy to call it a novel about two lovers and very little else. Instead, it is a novel about the struggle between society’s expectations and individual desires – essentially, between the individual and the group. May Welland is characterised as a product of the system, an ideal example of the social code. She is beautiful, innocent, and not intellectual. She appears perfectly subservient, and is the perfect wife for a man in Newland Archer’s position. And yet she is unafraid to manipulate Newland when it is needed, and there is no doubt that she uses her eventual pregnancy as a ruse to be rid of Ellen Olenska forever.

Edith Wharton wrote about a period of American history that took place around 50 years before she was born. She was writing about a time when moral codes and manners strongly dictated how the individual would act. Any deviation from these codes would lead to disgrace and even removal from polite society. Hence Newland ultimately refuses to sacrifice his desires and opinions in order not to upset the established codes of New York society.

The ending of this book initially irritated me. (That is not the first time it has happened – Cold Mountain by Charles Frazier and One Day by David Nichols both made me want to throw the book at the wall) Why bother with a significant time jump and the creation of circumstances that would allow true love to prevail, only to have your leading man conduct a complete about-turn right at the last moment? I imagine that Edith Wharton did this to demonstrate that in real life, because in real life, love between two old lovers rarely prevails. We rarely end up with someone we have loved and lost. Many of us have at one time or another loved someone we could not be with (or someone who was not ours to love) and when those relationships end, it is often final. Very few of us will eventually find a way to be with “the one who got away”. Newland Archer realises, with a depressing finality, that his memories of Ellen Olenska are ultimately more satisfying than any relationship between them could be, and that a renewal of their relationship in mid-life could never be the same. They may discover that they have nothing in common. They may discover that, 25 years on, they are very different people and no longer suited. Their romance may not last, and their memories will be tainted. So he chooses to leave their love in the past.

“It’s more real to me here than if I went up” he says.

The Age of Innocence is an intriguing insight into the New York of the 19th century – The Gilded Age, or Old New York as it is known. Since reading the novel, I have harboured a mild curiosity about that world, and its modern equivalent. I would be interested to learn whether some of those codes and conventions depicted in the book still exist, amongst a certain small proportion of New York’s high society. Watching the cliques of New York housewives at lunch together on Madison Avenue during our trip, and overhearing their conversations, I am sure that it does. Does that segment of society still marry (at least in part) for advantageous purposes, as opposed to simply marrying for love? Does who you know count more than what you know? Are women still expected to a certain extent to be a beautiful, innocent ingenue, as opposed to a free thinking, carefree woman like Ellen Olenska?

In 2023, we can find much to ponder about Old New York and its parallels to modern society in Edith Wharton’s novel.

Like this? Take a look at my website:

A Literary Life – A journey through the books of my life. (whatsarahread7.co.uk)

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Books I Couldn't Finish

As you may recall from one of my previous posts, it takes a lot for me to break up with a book.

In fact, there are few things I dislike more than admitting to myself things just aren’t working out.

It doesn’t happen often, but admittedly post-2020 I have become slightly more discerning in terms of doing things that make me happy, and not continuing with things that don’t. Life is simply too short.

So with some regret, here is a short list of books I couldn’t finish.

Gilead by Marilynne Robinson

Over the last few months, I have been working my way through all 100 books recommended by Oprah Winfrey as part of her Book Club. This book is (so far!) the only one I could not bring myself to finish.

Set in 1956, it takes the form of a letter from the elderly Reverend John Ames to his young son. In the letter, the reverend reflects on his life, his Christian faith, spirituality, community, love, death and loneliness. The book is largely a religious text (or at least that’s how it seemed to me) and the plot is minimal.

Gilead started off well, but I soon found that every few pages my mind would begin drifting onto other subjects such as work, my to-do list or what to make for dinner. Sometimes, within a few minutes I drifted off to sleep. That is not a good thing at 3pm in the afternoon! Ultimately, after 110 pages, I’d got the gist.

Shortly afterwards, I was slightly horrified to find that the book was part of a series, and four were recommended by Oprah as part of her reading list! Sorry Oprah, I don’t think I’ll be revisiting Gilead any time soon.

2. Slaughterhouse 5 by Kurt Vonnegut

This book is a semi-autobiographical account of the Dresden fire bombing by British and American air forces in 1945. That’s the first I’ve heard of it.

I don’t remember where I was or what I was doing when I read Slaughterhouse 5. What I do remember is that somewhere around page 30, I realised that I had no idea what was going on or what the book was about.

I put it down and have never looked at it since!

3. Catch-22 by Joseph Heller

In fairness, this one started off well – I took it with me on a work trip to Stavanger in 2018, and devoured the first few chapters quickly. But there was no movement in the plot and I quickly realised that each evening, the same events were going to happen. Settling down each night in my hotel room, I would have no idea in what order events were taking place, I would wonder if I’d missed something important, and the main character would begin to irritate me after about 10 minutes.

I persevered until about halfway through, before I couldn’t take it anymore and found something else to read instead.

4. Moby Dick by Herman Melville

I tried. I really did.

I read this at the close of 2019, at the beginning of a long period of illness. At the time, I wasn’t sleeping or eating very well, and my mind was heavy with worries. I tried my best to focus my mind on the exciting tale of Captain Ahab and his quest to kill the whale, Moby Dick, but I just couldn’t do it. There was simply no room in my brain for such a complex and intricate novel. Of course, I didn’t realise this at the time, and I became angry with myself for failing to grasp the language or the plot.

Perhaps now that my brain is back to full capacity, I will revisit Moby Dick and give it another go.

5. Every text on the Medieval Literature module of Newcastle University’s BA English Literature course

Yes, you read that correctly.

I have never struggled with so many books as I did on the unfortunate occasion I chose to study Medieval Literature at university. Reading them back to back was an absolutely Herculean task. I struggled with the intricacy of the language, the themes, the plots, and even the online study notes were not helpful.

In my defence, at the time I was also working nearly 30 hours per week, struggling to support myself and in an unhappy relationship that I didn’t know how to end. Unfortunately, I didn’t have space in my brain to also decipher The Canterbury Tales, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, and Morte D’Arthur. I still have no idea how I managed to pass the module!

What are some books you couldn’t finish?

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With the help of my (poor) IT skills, I’ve updated my website! It’s now easier to access my posts, and subscribe if you enjoy reading them.

Feel free to take a look here :

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An Abundance of Katherines by John Green

Breaking up is hard to do, or so the song goes. I’ve never been very good at letting go of things that no longer make me happy, or things that never made me happy in the first place. I remained in a job that did immense damage to my mental health for 8 years, when I really should have left after 5. I stayed with a man I did not love for over 3 years. I have restricted my diet, and exercised to the point that I injured myself, because I thought that being slimmer would make me happy. As humans, we’re conditioned to stick things out, keep trying, persevere, even if that serves no other purpose than to make us unhappy. The same applies to the books in my life. The amount of times I’ve started a book and found it dull, uninspiring, or just downright awful, but couldn’t bring myself to put it down and read something else instead, amazes me. Why do we do this to ourselves? Are we so afraid of failure, or the sense of disappointment that comes with accepting that something just isn’t for us? Perhaps I commit to things too easily.

Once I’m in, I’m in, and I find it very difficult to remove myself emotionally. No matter how bad a book is or how little I connect to the narrative, a part of me has to see it through to the end. Perhaps I’m subconsciously hoping that it will get better, or that the ending will blow me away. An Abundance of Katherines by John Green is one such example of this. I am aware that the concept of a “bad” book is a very subjective one, and that John Green has millions of fans around the world who probably think that An Abundance of Katherines is a masterpiece. That’s ok, but I am not one of them. I thought it was dreadful. I chose An Abundance of Katherines because I had enjoyed two of John Green’s other novels, The Fault In Our Stars and Paper Towns (more on those in future instalments). It’s a novel that is aimed at a young adult audience. Yes, I hear you ask, why is a woman who is most certainly not a young adult reading books meant for teenagers? What did she expect? The truth is that there are some marvellous young adult novels whose reach extends far beyond their target audience. I think I hoped that this book would be the same. The novel tells the story of a teenage prodigy called Colin Singleton, whom you could say has a “type”. His “type” in this instance is girls named Katherine. Colin has dated 19 of them, to be exact. And every time he dates a girl called Katherine, she breaks up with him. Over 297 pages, Colin and his Judge-Judy loving best friend Hassan take a road trip (minus any Katherines) and attempt to solve The Theorem of Underlying Katherine Predictability – Colin’s words, not mine. They also try to avoid a bloodthirsty feral hog, and avenge everyone who has ever been dumped. Some hijinks involving a dead Austrian archduke and a moral about reinventing oneself ensue. Reviews of An Abundance of Katherines were largely positive. The Guardian describes it as “brilliant, quirky and fantastically nerdy”. I do not agree with this. Don’t get me wrong, I love a quirky narrative and fun characters who are somewhat left of centre, like Colin and his friend Hassan. But I found Colin to be a whiny, irritating sap. As a main character and a leading man, he is awful. No self respecting teenage girl (let alone 19 of them!) would ever date him. The constant use of anagrams drove me mad. The made-up words (fug? Jewfro?) got on my nerves. The Katherines themselves were unlikeable.

Most importantly, huge swaths of the novel were incredibly boring. I kept waiting for an interesting plot twist, or for one of the characters to do something unexpected, but nothing happened. The narrative proceeded exactly as I suspected it would. It was dreadfully dull in parts. I found it so mind-numbingly dull that I actually found excuses not to read it – I did our laundry, I cleared out the wardrobes, I baked a cake, I even went walking on Cannock Chase alone (!) as I was so desperate to have something else to do. I also wasn’t certain as a reader who the book was aimed at. The book contains many obscure references and footnotes that I suspected a young adult audience would not understand. If I had read it when I was a teenager, I don’t think I would have understood half of those references. Perhaps John Green is aware that, due to the success of his other novels, his audience has widened to include adults as well? And yet, I stuck with An Abundance of Katherines all the way to the end. Why did I do this? Perhaps I identified with Colin. I have been told in the past that I too have a “type” - the difference between me and Colin being that I haven’t dated 19 of them! The simplest and most likely answer is, I hate not to finish a book. I enjoy the sense of achievement that comes with completing a novel and starting afresh with a new one, like a new chapter in my life. For me not to finish a book, it must be truly terrible or (and this is very important) it must have the ability to send me to sleep on more than one occasion. Admittedly I came pretty close with An Abundance of Katherines, but it was summertime, the nights were long, the weather was warm, and it was only 297 pages long. I think a part of me must have thought, what the hell? Let’s finish it and move onto something else. Quickly. I have the greatest respect for John Green as a young adult novelist. I thoroughly enjoyed my previous forays into his work, and the fact that he has played such a key role in getting young adults interested in reading, and covers sensitive subjects such as mental health and terminal cancer so effectively, is to be celebrated. But this book really wasn’t my cup of tea. Perhaps next time I will share with you a list of the books I couldn’t finish! (It will be quite short)

[sarah-aliterarylife]

5 Doorstop Novels For a Long Weekend

I like big books and I cannot lie! Please excuse the Sir Mixalot reference, but I love a big book.

Here are a few of my favourites :

1. Gone With the Wind by Margaret Mitchell (825 pages) Five weeks. That’s how long it took me to get through Margaret Mitchell’s epic exploration of the American Civil War and life in the Deep South.

Fans of the film should be mindful that the novel is very different to the film version. Scarlet O’Hara is much less of a southern belle in the book – she’s an unapologetic, hardnosed , and at times shockingly unpleasant, woman. She gives birth to 3 children (not one, as depicted in the film), and her first two marriages are not quickly discarded failures – indeed her second marriage to Frank Kennedy lasts for several years and is probably her happiest, if not her most comfortable, relationship.

There is no doubt that Gone With the Wind is a controversial novel. Much of the language and attitudes are of their time and have the power to shock modern readers to their core (myself included). But as an epic tale of war, poverty, love, heartbreak and loss, there is little to beat it.

2. Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell by Susannah Clarke (865 pages) Sorry JK Rowling – this is the finest novel ever written about wizardry and magic in England. Fantasy books don’t usually do it for me, but Susannah Clarke’s depiction of two wizards in 19th century England was recommended to me by a good friend and family member. It blew my mind! It was so good that I read it again a few years later, just in time for the BBC adaptation.

Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell has been described as Tolkein meets Jane Austen, but I don’t think that quite does it justice. It has stormy nights, spells, haunted ballrooms, bells that ring in the night, and sinister gentlemen with thistledown hair. It also has a terrifying scene at York Minister involving talking statues. (I’ve still never visited York Minster - you’ll understand why if you’ve ever read the book)

It is a novel that enthrals and scares the reader in equal measure!

3. The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt (771 pages) I wasn’t expecting to enjoy The Goldfinch as much as I did. At first, I couldn’t quite wrap my head around how the tale of little boy who steals a priceless painting could be strung out over 771 pages. That shows how much I know. I couldn’t put it down! What unfolds is an unforgettable story of childhood trauma, addiction, the value of authenticity, despair and ultimately, hope. I loved it and can’t recommend it highly enough.

4. Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver (633 pages) This is a great choice for readers who are interested in Charles Dickens but intimidated by the complexity of his novels. I read this book during Christmas 2022 – it took me a big two weeks to finish, but every word was worth it. It’s a riveting read.

The novel transports Dicken’s David Copperfield to the Appalachian Mountains in Virginia, one of the poorest areas of the USA. Dickens’ themes of poverty and survival are translated effortlessly to the US foster care system. In this world, family may be the one we are born with, or the one given to us via social care. Addiction is everywhere and poverty is “as natural as the grass grows”.

I won’t spoil much more of this wonderful book as I will discuss it in greater detail in a future instalment, but suffice to say you will not regret making the acquaintance of Demon Copperhead and his friends.

5. The Luminaries by Eleanor Catton (853 pages) “Like a circle in a circle, like a wheel within a wheel” I found this quote from the song The Windmills of Your Mind on the Amazon listing for The Luminaries, and it sums up this twisty, spiralling novel very well. Don’t bother with the BBC’s pedestrian adaptation – your time is far better spent on delving into the novel instead.

The Luminaries demands of the reader an investment both of time and focus. Set in the New Zealand goldfields in 1866, it is a story that quite literally takes place at the end of the world.

We begin with a tense gathering of twelve men, who meet in secret to discuss a series of unsolved crimes. From there unfolds a story about boom and bust, shipping, banking, murders and ghosts. Don’t try and read it on your daily commute (like I did). Settle in next to a roaring fire, grab a blanket and a hot drink, and just go with it. Let the twisting, slippery narrative and the darkness wash over you. You won’t regret it. What’s your favourite doorstop novel?

[sarah-aliterarylife]

The Mill on the Floss by George Eliot

Some books are associated by their readers with certain things. Some we associate with a particular time in our lives. Some we read because we want to learn from them. Some satisfy a curiosity in us, and others validate or contradict our beliefs. Some we read purely for fun.

I have always associated certain novels with nothing more than pure escapism. George Eliot and her masterpiece The Mill on the Floss personifies escapism for me. I associate it with warm summer days, reading in my armchair in our conservatory (the sunniest spot in the house, and my happy place) with my feet on a footstool, a hot cup of tea by my side. Or lazy afternoons spent in the garden, lying on a blanket with a glass of cold lemonade. Sometimes we don’t want in-depth social commentary or a hard-hitting narrative, we want to read about sibling love and family connections in a beautiful setting, a novel that we can immerse ourselves in when life challenges us.

In 2016, we had dived headfirst into the renovation of our house, and I was desperate to escape. I couldn’t literally escape, the renovations being well underway, and my help being needed practically 24/7, but in the evenings and on the rare days when no work took place, I was determined to fill my head with other things.

One of the first novels I turned to was a book that had been sitting on my bookshelves for a long time. It was crisp and unmarked and had never been touched since it was given to me as a Christmas present by my Nan (my dad’s mother). It was a book that I couldn’t quite believe I had never read before. It was The Mill on The Floss by George Elliot. A classic of Victorian literature and widely considered to be amongst the greatest novels ever written, it is often also considered to be one of the most challenging books of the Victorian era. I knew instantly I had to give it a go. And so, as the warm summer evenings gradually turned to autumn, I would settle in each evening with a cup of tea and my new friends Maggie and Tom Tulliver, and immerse myself in the fictional village of St. Oggs and its inhabitants. For a short time, it was the perfect antidote.

The Mill on the Floss is another sprawling novel, spanning 10 to 15 years in the lives of Maggie and Tom, siblings who grow up together at Dorlcote Mill on the River Floss, a fictional setting in Lincolnshire, England.

Maggie Tulliver is the main protagonist, and the novel tells the story of her relationships with her older brother Tom, and her romances with two very different suitors: Philip Wakeham, a sensitive, shy, hunchbacked boy, and Stephen Guest, the fiancé of her best friend, Lucy Deane. Philip is an intellectual, largely cast out of society due to his appearance, and a good friend to Maggie (although he loves her deeply). Stephen and Maggie share an intense romantic attachment and eventually elope together before Maggie’s guilt forces them to return to face the consequences. Cast out of society and in disgrace (isn’t it funny how men are never in disgrace when such things happen!), Maggie turns to Tom, who rejects her, telling her that she will never again be welcome under his roof. The novel concludes with one of the most famous endings in literature, when the River Floss floods, and Maggie struggles through the rising waters to find Tom. Together they are reconciled before their boat capsizes, leaving them to drown in an embrace.

If all this sounds like the worst kind of soapy family drama (that is probably down to my recollection of the plot, to be fair) please be assured that it is not. The Mill on the Floss is a complex, richly layered novel with many themes other than the relationship between the two siblings. The book is not a religious novel, but it is concerned with morality, and chiefly the importance of sympathy. (Notably, the contrast between Tom’s lack of sympathy for Maggie following her disgrace, and the sympathy shown by both Lucy Deane and Philip Wakeham towards her). Maggie and Tom are the products of two competing families (the Tullivers and the Dodsons), that both have long histories. The influence of the past upon one’s present identity is a key theme of the novel. The past is not something to be escaped, nor is it something that will rise again to haunt us, but it is an inherent part of Maggie’s character.

The Mill on the Floss is complex and lengthy. Written in three parts, it requires commitment of the reader. We experience the mundanities of daily village life and the lives of the residents of St. Oggs alongside the main plot. Many scenes start in the middle, and chapters often end on a cliff-hanger, which can take some getting used to. Written in 19th century English, the tone and style of George Eliot’s text can be difficult to grasp at first – the sentences are very long, and the novel contains many historical references, which can be jarring and divert from the main narrative. The characterisation is complex. We are presented with the workings of a community – social and economic – that tracks the growth of the society of St. Oggs. It is handy to possess a basic knowledge of the Industrial Revolution and the key themes of Victorian society before reading a novel like The Mill on the Floss, as it frequently holds references to the new economic trends of the time, and innovations such as the steam engine.

Many readers describe The Mill on the Floss as feminist novel. I would agree with this. Maggie Tulliver is considered as a child to be a contrary character. She reads too much, she speaks her mind, she is a tomboy, and she has a rebellious streak, even cutting off her hair. Her behaviour is in stark contrast with that of her cousin, Lucy Deane, who is obedient, sweet tempered, and conventionally beautiful – the perfect model of Victorian femininity. And yet it is Maggie to whom her fiancé Stephen Guest is so deeply attracted.

I believe I enjoyed this novel so much partly because I relate to Maggie Tulliver. As a child, I too was a bit of a tomboy, and throughout my life I have preferred the company of male friends and work colleagues to women. I have grappled with my emotions like Maggie, and developed feelings for men whom I should have stayed clear of. I have been led into decisions (in the same way that Maggie is led into her elopement with Stephen Guest, at a point when she is simply too tired to resist), that I now regret. Maggie Tulliver is not a fallen woman in the traditional sense of the phrase as she retains her innocence, but she is clearly someone for whom the traditional tropes of the Victorian female do not sit well. And that is something that most modern women can relate to. We constantly feel pressure on ourselves to be classically beautiful, perfectly composed, look a certain way and behave a certain way. Anything that deviates from that is at best noticed and commented on, and at worst punished harshly.

If you are new to the classics, The Mill on the Floss is a good place to start. Go slowly, take your time with it and let the beauty of the language and setting wash over you. Don’t give up when the action or the references to historical events overwhelm you. And brace yourself for the ending. It will be worth the wait, I promise.

[sarah-aliterarylife]

Monarchs, Steinbeck and Matthew Perry : My To Be Read List

Working my way through the list of period dramas on the BBC IPlayer, I began thinking about the books on my To Be Read list. Believe it or not, there are still a few titles that continue to evade me as the years go by!

Time, work commitments and life in general have all meant that I’ve not yet found time to read the following :

1. Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray

My literary journey has led me to make the acquaintance of many extraordinary women – Jane Eyre, Bathsheba Everdean, Elizabeth Bennett – but Becky Sharpe is not among them. I actually own two copies of Vanity Fair (a large paperback and a free Kindle copy, bought in what was probably a senior moment a few years ago, not realising I already owned it). Clearly a sign that I need to read one of them at some point!

2. The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck

Whilst I very much enjoy a Great American Novel from time to time, I’ve never quite made it round to the Joads and their story.

3. The Complete Works of Charles Dickens

If I was ever lucky enough to be a guest on Desert Island Discs, this would be my book choice. To be fair, a desert island would be the most likely setting for my ever completing such a mammoth task. If you have attempted to read a Dickens novel, you will know that his complex prose requires NO DISTRACTIONS. Don’t read Dickens on a train, or with the television blaring out beside you. I personally find total peace and quiet, a clear head and an unlimited amount of time the optimum conditions to get stuck in. Not easy things to find in today’s world.

So far, my journey through the complete works of Charles Dickens amounts to Great Expectations, Oliver Twist, A Christmas Carol, Bleak House and a Tale of Two Cities. I struggled massively with the latter two – I’m not sure what that says about my intelligence level – and I haven’t touched Dickens since. Perhaps one day I’ll take myself to a desert island and complete the rest.

4. A Suitable Boy by Vikram Seth

Watching the BBC adaptation of this novel recently prompted me that the book itself has been sat on my shelves for far too long. For a moment, I couldn’t quite work out why I had never read it. And then I remembered.

This book scares me. It’s nearly 1500 pages long!! My doorstop copy has been sat in my house for a good 5 years, and I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve considered reading it many times but have never quite worked up the courage or inclination to give it a go. Truthfully, what may be stopping me is that I attempted to read Vikram Seth’s Two Lives a few years ago and struggled with it. It was well written, but I couldn’t connect with the plot and couldn’t finish it. I am told that A Suitable Boy is his best novel though, so perhaps one day I’ll give it a go.

5. Friends, Lovers, and The Big Terrible Thing by Matthew Perry

I am massive Friends fan and have been itching to read this since it was published last year. A good summer holiday read perhaps. (Although probably not, given some of the subject matter!)

6. A biography of every British monarch since William the Conqueror

Yes, I am aware that a) doing this would probably take me the rest of my life to complete, and b) I’m not even certain that a biography of every British monarch exists. So far, my progress amounts to biographies of Elizabeth I, Mary Tudor, Henry VIII (sensing a pattern here?)  and Charles II. So I’m getting there! (Sort of)

7. Maya Angelou’s autobiographies

Maya Angelou, the American poet, memoirist, and civil rights activist, lived a long and fascinating life. In fact, she was a woman who lived several lives, having been a writer, friend of Martin Luther King, single mother, dancer, singer and even a prostitute. Her first volume of autobiography, I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, is considered to be one of the foremost texts on the black experience and racism ever written. Maya Angelou’s courage, her fearlessness and her wit and humour in the face of her struggles have inspired me for much of my adult life. I began reading her 7 volumes of autobiography shortly before her death in 2014 and made it through the first two books, but life intervened and I never revisited them. Having recently listened to the BBC’s radio dramatization of these wonderful books (and the lady herself on Desert Island Discs), I felt a new pull towards Maya Angelou’s writing, and am now regretful that I didn’t finish them. Another one to add to my list!

What’s on your To Be Read list?

[sarah-aliterarylife]

Bringing Down The House by Ben Mezrich, or

How Not To Deal With Your Problems

In 2016, I made a series of poor decisions. Having decided early in 2016 to sell our starter home and move to a bigger property, we were faced with a difficult market and a tight budget (if you’re unfamiliar with the horrors of the UK property market, a short browse on Right Move or the BBC website may enlighten you). Having sold our house, we finally found a property we both loved, that needed no amendments and would be available with no chain (the golden goose of the property world). However, we allowed ourselves to be talked out of that purchase by a person who meant well, but whose advice turned out to be catastrophic. Our buyer was upset, and suddenly we were in a race against time – find a new home quickly or risk our sale falling through.

And so, we succumbed to a difficult market and settled on an older property with no chain. The house was in a good area but dated and tired. It would need a complete overhaul. Blinded by the optimism of youth, I convinced myself that renovating a property would be fun, and that we could complete the work in one year if we began right away.

One year later, I was physically and mentally exhausted. I had severely overestimated my knowledge and abilities where house renovations were concerned, and within weeks of moving in, it was clear that we had made a terrible mistake. Any spare time was non-existent, being spent either working on the house, talking about the house, or arguing about the house. My marriage was at breaking point, and although I loved my husband desperately and wanted to make our marriage work, renovating the house had highlighted our differences and I felt trapped in a situation where my voice wasn’t being heard, where my lack of knowledge was used to talk me into making decisions I wasn’t informed enough to make. My savings had been severely depleted, and the money I had carefully saved after leaving university had reduced by roughly half. I was broke, exhausted, and angry. I felt like a guest in my own home, as if the house wasn’t really mine. It is a feeling I have never been able to shake.

And so, in September 2017, as the final part of the first phase of renovations drew to a close, I planned to take a long break from viewing carpet samples, laying tiles and spending my days covered in grout, paint and cement. I wanted to rest and work on my marriage. So, I booked a 10-night break to Las Vegas. As you do.

It may not have been the most constructive solution to my problems, but part of me wanted to let loose. I wanted to immerse myself in the bright lights of The Strip, play blackjack, eat Korean food in the middle of the day and people watch from the poker tables. I planned to be so busy that I wouldn’t have time to think about the financial mess I’d created, or the house that didn’t feel like home.

For my holiday reading, I decided against anything too heavy. I needed something light, with a simple, familiar plot, that would lend itself well to short bursts of reading in bed at night, rather than long stretches of time spent on a beach. At the same time, I wanted to read a book that would provide me with context and a sense of place. I wanted to learn about the city we were visiting, and events that had taken place there. I’m a bit of nerd in that sense.

This led to me a non-fiction title, Bringing Down The House, by Ben Hezrich. I was familiar with the film version – 21 – and the plot was one I knew well. For the benefit of those not familiar with the story, the book recounts the story of the MIT Blackjack Team, a group of MIT students who used their skills in card-counting to make millions of dollars in casinos across the US. As their skills develop and their wealth grows, greed and manipulation set in, and the students are forced into underhand and immoral activities to continue their winning streak. Like a few books based on true events, doubt surrounds the events of the book. The Boston Globe famously published an article refuting much of the book’s plot as fictional, and I can also attest to some glaring differences between the book and film version.

Bringing Down The House is a fast-paced tale, with a lot of detail on the nuances of blackjack and casino etiquette that it was helpful to experience whilst in Las Vegas itself. The ethics of effectively stealing from a casino are a prominent theme within the book. Was what the students were doing really that wrong? If you possess the skills and intelligence to ensure a win at gambling, what’s the harm? As a business, do casinos have a right to protect their money as fiercely as they do in the book?

The main character is Kevin Lewis, an MIT student, and the son of immigrants from Hong Kong. Kevin is a dream student, highly intelligent with a bright future ahead. He understands that mathematical knowledge and technical skill is the key to his future success. During his third year at MIT, Kevin joins a group of students who disappear from campus mysteriously every weekend, having discovered that they are part of the MIT Blackjack Team. Kevin quickly begins a double life of weekends spent playing blackjack at casinos in Las Vegas and Atlantic City, earning thousands of dollars in the process. Kevin and the team hide their considerable wealth and card counting skills from their family and friends, but eventually the stakes become higher and it becomes increasingly difficult to evade detection by the casinos. Greed and manipulation set in amongst the team, and the book takes on an almost Mafia-like tone as they resort to ever more outlandish tactics to earn more cash and continue their winning streak.

As is the case with many books on subjects such gambling, drug abuse or alcohol addiction, Bringing Down the House is less a book about crime than a morality tale. It deals with corrupting power of money, of duty versus responsibility, and the sheer delusion of a group of people who genuinely believed that what they were doing wasn’t wrong, despite committing deeply immoral acts against themselves and others.

What the MIT students did was not illegal – card counting is perfectly legal across the US and UK. But it is frowned upon, and if you are discovered to be a card counter at your local Grosvenor or Resorts World, you will almost certainly be removed and banned for life. Not that many of us would be likely to try – card counting is notoriously complex. It involves keeping a count of the cards removed from the deck by your dealer and requires a considerable degree of mathematical skill. In fact, it is actively discouraged by many gambling organisations as a dangerous and ineffective method of winning. Casino.org even has this sobering article on its website – 6 Reasons Why You Should Never Count Cards. The reason the MIT Blackjack team were so successful is that, very simply, they were MIT students. Every team member possessed a high degree of technical and mathematical knowledge. They attended Harvard university, one of the foremost technological institutions in the world. Someone like me, with my B grade at GSCE mathematics and a pathological fear of ever having to solve a quadratic equation again, wouldn’t stand a chance.

Let’s talk about gambling. Why do we love to gamble? Some people enjoy the social aspects of playing cards with friends. Others enjoy the thrill of a big win. On the darker end of the spectrum, some may see gambling as a solution to their financial difficulties, an escape from depression, or a respite from boredom or loneliness. For many, the element of risk is a huge factor – we thrive on the thought that our lives could be changed for the better by a single hand of cards, or a single roll of the dice. I saw this several times in Las Vegas – groups of people cheering, hugging each other, some in tears following a big win. I couldn’t help but wonder if those winnings would really bring them happiness.

I am not a big gambler, purely because I’m not very good at it! I’ve always seen it as a waste of money, and I am the stereotypical person in a casino betting small amounts no bigger than £5. You should bet big to win big? No thanks. However, writing this piece led me to think about the everyday gambles we take. Choosing to love someone is a gamble. Choosing a career, or a career change, is a gamble. Choosing a home to live in is a gamble. Choosing the people we surround ourselves with is a gamble. What about some of the gambles I have taken personally? Choosing to prioritise my mental health over career success. Choosing to commit to a relationship over relocating to work for a global company with whom I might have worked all over the world. Choosing to move out of my parent’s home at 18, to build a life and study in an unfamiliar city several hours from home. All were gambles, and all of them paid off. Perhaps I’m a better gambler than I originally thought.

Perhaps the gamble I took with our house will eventually pay off. Because the house always wins, right?

[sarah-aliterarylife]

9 Books I Loved As A Child

A super quick post for a Friday!

Here are a few books I loved during my childhood :

The Very Hungry Caterpillar by Eric Carle.

A picture book originally published in 1969, The Very Hungry Caterpillar is the story of a caterpillar who eats a lot of food!

I loved this book, and it may have contributed to the fact that I now spend about 50% of my day thinking about eating. Of course, as a child I didn’t pick up on the subtle healthy eating messages it contains! (the caterpillar munches his way through lettuce and other vegetables with no issues, while sugary foods give him a stomachache) I still get peckish whenever I see it in a bookshop!

2. Peace At Last by Jill Murphy.

“The hour was late and Mr. Bear was tired. But he could not sleep – however he tried and wherever he tried.” I was obsessed with the tale of Mr. Bear trying to find a comfortable place to sleep, and lost count of the amount of times it was borrowed from our local library. I came across it again a few years ago on a holiday to Devon, sitting in a cupboard. Naturally, I couldn’t resist a quick re-read!

3. Each Peach Pear Plum by Janet and Allan Ahlberg.

More food!!

4. Fantastic Mr. Fox by Roald Dahl

I read most of Roald Dahl’s books as a child, but this was my first love. I am reliably informed that as a little girl, this was my bedtime story of choice every night for a long time! In fact, I love it so much that, one long day during the first UK lockdown (when you might say I had some time on my hands) I sat down with a cup of tea and re-read it from cover to cover. And I fell in love with it all over again.

5. The Tale of Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter

I’m a big Beatrix Potter fan, but Peter Rabbit was my favorite, closely followed by The Tale of the Flopsy Bunnies. It has everything a children’s book should have – an intrepid hero, a fearsome villian, a moral (you should always listen your parents), not to mention a cat that gets locked inside a greenhouse! Last year I was lucky enough to visit Hill Top, Beatrix Potter’s home in the Lake District, and it was a magical day that reminded me of the simple power of her books and how much they still enthrall children and adults alike today.

6. The Twits by Roald Dahl

Sorry Tim Burton, I don’t think you’ll be making a film of this one any time soon. Mr and Mrs Twit are a spiteful, unkempt old couple who play the most vile practical jokes on each other. I re-read this book as a child many times, but as an adult I really can’t remember why I loved it so much, as they really are horrible to each other! From a glass eye in a mug of beer, to a truly disgusting serving of Spaghetti Bolognese, I’m amazed that in our modern world, certain well- meaning people haven’t lobbied to have it banned.

7. The Mallory Towers series by Enid Blyton

I am aware that there are controversies surrounding the novels of Enid Blyton. However, the Mallory Towers series is considered wholesome enough for the BBC to make it into a successful television series, and that’s good enough for me! The 6-book series is set at a girl’s boarding school in Cornwall, and stars Darrell Rivers, who joins the school in the first novel and eventually becomes Head Girl in the final book. Darrell and her friends partake in all manner of post-war girl’s school fun, including midnight feasts, lacrosse, a pantomime, and trying not to fall foul of their housemistress Miss Potts!

8. The Sweet Valley High / Sweet Valley University series by Francine Pascal

Good Lord. This one is a definite step onwards from Enid Blyton! For a short time in the mid-90s, I was slightly obsessed with the Sweet Valley High series. It appealed to the same part of me that also loved Neighbours and Home and Away. The Wakefield twins and their scandalous (for 1997) antics enthralled me. I laughed out loud when I reminded myself of some of the plotlines!

For instance : Elizabeth Wakefield was almost murdered by her boss, stalked by a doppelganger (who turned out to have a twin who was also a psychopath), and was held hostage by a man with a bomb. And she was the sensible one! Jessica Wakefield on the other hand, dated a werewolf (take that, Bella Swan!), joined a cult, and eloped during college with a man who was violent towards her.

Riveting stuff, when you’re 14.

9. Sophie’s World by Jostein Gaardner

Philosophy for a teenage audience. Sophie Amundsen is a Norwegian teenager who is introduced to the history of philosophy by an unknown author, who sends her letters on the work of individual philosophers and the Big Questions. We begin with the question “Who are you?” and the novel progresses from there. This novel fed into my early interest in philosophy, and my decision to study philosophy at A level. Sadly, that didn’t last. I hated every second, and dropped the subject after one year. Philosophy remains the only school subject I was ever truly bad at. I don’t think my brain is wired that way! I actually re-read this book in full a few years ago. It blew my 30-something mind, so goodness only knows what it did to me at 15!

Which books did you enjoy as a child?

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[sarah-aliterarylife]

Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte - independence, perfect novels and notes in the margin

On reflection, there was only ever one novel with which to begin this journey: Emily Bronte’s sprawling, gothic masterpiece Wuthering Heights.

Wuthering Heights marks the beginning of my lifelong love affair with literature, my fascination with gothic novels, and the first truly adult book I read. Essentially, it marks the moment when I became an adult. I read Wuthering Heights for the first time a few weeks shy of my 17th birthday – it was the first text on my A Level English Literature course. My dog-eared, battered copy of Wuthering Heights is the most valuable item I own. Not valuable in a monetary sense – it probably came from the Reader’s Digest, or a now-defunct high street bookshop like Ottakar’s – but in terms of emotional value, my wrinkled old copy means more to me than any other book I own. One day it will fall apart completely, and it will be the end of an era. The novel was a gift from my grandmother, a tiny, red-haired lady who loved books, Brookside and crossword puzzles. I had never read a single page of it until the day I began my English Literature course. I was always slightly afraid of it, doubting my own intelligence and believing that such a lengthy tome would be too much for my teenage brain. I could not have been more wrong. I loved it and devoured every word, sometimes reading ahead of the chapters we were assigned to read for the class, simply because I could not wait to find out what happened next.

My copy is very well-thumbed and is peppered throughout with my notes in the margin, underlined sentences, footnotes and this sombre warning - “there is a ghost scene in this chapter”. Re-reading the notes of that studious young girl fascinates me, and subsequent readings have often taken longer than intended!

Wuthering Heights is essentially a story of two families – the Earnshaws of Wuthering Heights and the Linton family of Thrushcross Grange. The novel is told in flashback, late at night over a roaring fire to the current tenant of Thrushcross Grange, Mr Lockwood, by the housekeeper, Nelly Dean. Nelly recounts the story of Catherine Earnshaw, the youngest child of the Earnshaw family, and Heathcliff, a foundling adopted by Mr Earnshaw, Catherine’s father. Cathy and Heathcliff share an intense bond that never moves beyond friendship, despite their passion for each other. Believing that his feelings for Cathy are not reciprocated, Heathcliff leaves Wuthering Heights and Cathy marries Edgar Linton of neighbouring Thrushcross Grange. Years later, Heathcliff returns as a rich man, to exact vengeance. I will not spoil the climactic tragedy in Chapter 16 that precedes the second half of the novel, but suffice to say that true love does not conquer all on the wily, windy moors.

Wuthering Heights is often characterised as a novel about love. It isn’t. It is a novel about relationships – the relationships between families, with those we love, those we hate, with the people who care for us and with whom we share an unbreakable bond, whether we desire that bond or not. Many of the themes covered are universal and have been felt by many of us during our lives: the pain of unrequited love, discrimination, powerlessness, the depressing notion of loving a person who is neither a good person nor a kind one, whom we love in spite of their faults. I found it interesting that in Andrea Arnold’s 2011 film version of Wuthering Heights, Heathcliff is portrayed by a black actor, which only serves to highlight his alienation in the context of 19th century Yorkshire.

Wuthering Heights is one of the few novels where I did not actively seek out a film version. The imagery of the moors that is so central to the events of the novel, and the vibrant personalities who populate it, that I had created in my head, are so real to me, and so perfect, that no film or television series could ever truly do it justice. Many adaptations ignore the second half of the book entirely, which to me is a bit like buying an album and only listening to the singles. The only adaptation that ever comes close to a strong interpretation is ITV’s two-part series with Tom Hardy as Heathcliff and his wife Charlotte Riley as Cathy. Because let’s face it, Tom Hardy was born to play Heathcliff, wasn’t he? But even that adaptation changed the ending. I felt like throwing the remote at the television. I steered clear of Wuthering Heights on screen after that.

Another common misconception about Wuthering Heights is that it is a difficult novel to read. I personally did not find this to be the case (although I accept that the first time I read it, I was studying it at school, which helps a great deal in terms of understanding the language, themes, and imagery). The complexity of Wuthering Heights is due to its structure. The novel essentially begins at the end, which can be confusing for a first-time reader. The first character we meet is an outsider, and unrelated to the main protagonists. The first few chapters present the reader with a mystery – who is Heathcliff, the brusque landlord of Thrushcross Grange, and who are the surly occupants of Wuthering Heights? The ghost scene in Chapter 3 is when the story really begins, which requires patience of the reader. The narrator changes several times. The main plot meanders and we revert to a story within a story on several occasions – for example, Isabella Linton’s tale of her marriage to Heathcliff and its subsequent breakdown, or the story of Heathcliff’s grim night in the churchyard at nearby Gimmerton. There are numerous characters across the Earnshaw and Linton families, and I can understand how the notion of two Catherines (the older Catherine Earnshaw and her daughter, Catherine Linton, who features heavily in the novel’s second half) could be confusing. Indeed, a stage production I once saw had them both played by the same actress, which only added to the confusion.

Like any great love, Wuthering Heights has the power to frustrate the reader – we witness too little of Heathcliff’s courtship of Isabella Linton for it to be truly believable when they elope (although the Tom Hardy adaptation does attempt to rectify this), and don’t get me started on Mr. Lockwood – but, frustrations aside, it is as close to a perfect novel as it is possible to be. I believe that it is the greatest work of literature in the English language. What is even more incredible is that it was written by the enigmatic Emily Bronte, who published Wuthering Heights under the pseudonym Ellis Bell. She never married, had worked briefly as a governess at nearby High Sunderland Hall (this time in her life is rumored to have inspired the events of Wuthering Heights), and never left the Bronte parsonage at Haworth, Yorkshire. How did a novel of such power and passion originate? Even more incredibly, it is believed to have been written in just under a year. If I had the gift of time travel, I would dearly love to spend a day at the Haworth Parsonage with Emily Bronte, picking her brain. Where did the inspiration for Wuthering Heights come from? Was a second masterpiece on the horizon? (Letters from her publisher towards the end of her life indicate that it was, but no manuscripts exist) Of course, we will never know the answer to either question. Emily Bronte died from tuberculosis on 19th December 1848, aged 30 years old.

Each time I re-read Wuthering Heights and revisit all those notes and underlined passages, I see a young girl who craved independence. I had finally broken away from a bad relationship and was moving on with my life by immersing myself in friends and schoolwork. I was looking to the future, and I knew that I needed to do well at school to get the grades to go to university. I had recently taken my first part time job, and was saving money at a frantic pace, to earn enough to start my adult life. I badly wanted to move out of my parent’s home and find a place of my own. I wanted to begin building my own life and making my own decisions. I see in those notes the signs of someone focused on the future, someone who was working hard to achieve their goals. I wish I could go back and tell her that everything will be ok. To bide her time, continue to work hard, and everything she is looking for will fall into place. Her time will come, perhaps not immediately, but she will find what she is looking for.

Wuthering Heights and its violent passions would go on to shape my life, my beliefs about love, hate, gender roles, and class for decades. It taught me that everyone has a dark side. Everyone, even the most virtuous amongst us, is capable of cruelty. It taught me that it is possible to sympathize with a villainous man (Heathcliff), or with a selfish, vain woman (Cathy), and even worse, root for them to find happiness together. It taught me that not every love receives its happy ending, that love has the power to make us whole, or to destroy us completely.

It is a life changing experience to read Wuthering Heights for the first time. Which brings me to the final lesson it taught me - the joy of a book that is so good, it is impossible to put it down. And that is something I have searched for ever since.

[sarah-aliterarylife]

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte

One of my earliest memories is of finding a treasure trove. I was in my Aunt and Uncle’s house (a beautiful house in a small village outside Wolverhampton, that is still the model for the type of house I would like to live in one day), sitting in front of a gigantic wooden bookcase. Or at least it seemed gigantic, to my young eyes. It was filled with books of every size and colour. Some were very old, leather-bound books, and some were newer editions, with colourful jackets and pictures on the front cover. One title caught my eye instantly. It was bright red, small, and bound in leather. The cover and pages were worn, and it had clearly been read and enjoyed many times. It was called Jane Eyre.

I remember opening the book and reading the small text on the first page. It said, “There was no possibility of taking a walk that day”. Why? I was intrigued. I read onwards. But after a few lines, I was confused. Who was speaking? Was this Jane Eyre? Who were the other people the mysterious narrator mentioned – Mrs Reed, John, Eliza and Georgiana? They couldn’t be Jane’s family, surely? They didn’t share her name. Why was she lurking in the window seat, "cross legged like a Turk?" Why was she observing the family but not joining them around the fireplace? The language stuck in my throat (“The said John and Eliza”) and made no sense. After reading a couple of pages, I put the book down.

The next time I visited, I returned to the treasure trove of books and once again Jane Eyre caught my eye. This time, I asked to take it home with me and started again. I made it a bit further on this second go around, and solved the mystery of who the Reed family were in relation to Jane (Mrs Reed is her widowed Aunt, and the three children are her cousins). I recall being very saddened by the cruelty Jane experiences during her time with the Reed family, and wondering why no one seemed to love this lonely little girl. When Jane is shortly afterwards sent away to Lowood school, I felt a strong sense of injustice when, having finally been given a chance to make friends and spend time around other like-minded children, she is branded a liar and the other children are instructed not to befriend her. I think at this point my sensitive young mind found the novel simply too upsetting, and I decided I couldn’t read another word.

Years later, I attended a university lecture on the concept of the madwoman in the attic. I remembered my previous attempts at reading Jane Eyre, and that shamefully, as a child I had given up on it. I remembered how much I had enjoyed Wuthering Heights and wanted to read something similarly engrossing and dramatic. I suddenly developed an urge to give it another try. But I was in Newcastle upon Tyne, and that beautiful red leather copy was back at home in Walsall (a 3-and-a-half-hour train journey away). So, the next day, I walked to my local book shop, Blackwell’s, and purchased a copy.

That night, I sat down to begin again – this time, I didn’t stop until I had finished. Night after night, I would settle in with the autobiography of Jane Eyre, and I can say without doubt that each new instalment thrilled me. This wasn’t a sad story about intense cruelty, with a terrible denouement for its characters, like Wuthering Heights. It is instead the story of a survivor, of someone who rises above the cruelty and anxiety of her childhood to become a passionate woman with a distinct sense of self-worth. It is also about the internal struggle between Jane’s desire to be loved, and her desire for freedom. After I finished the book, I missed it terribly.

For those who have never read Jane Eyre, it tells the story of an orphaned girl who, when her parents die, is sent to live with her cruel aunt and cousins (the widowed Mrs Reed, John, Eliza and Georgiana), who treat her as less than a servant. After angering the difficult Mrs Reed one too many times, she is sent away to Lowood school, where she befriends the introverted Helen Burns and eventually stays on to work as a teacher. After teaching for two years, Jane longs for new experiences out in the wider world, and accepts a position at Thornfield Manor, where she befriends the housekeeper, Mrs Fairfax, and teaches a lively young girl named Adele. Adele is the ward of Mr Rochester, a mysterious man with whom Jane finds herself falling in love. Jane and Rochester begin a tentative romance which culminates in a marriage proposal. However, on their wedding day, Jane discovers that Mr Rochester is already married: to Bertha Mason, whom he married in Jamaica as a young man. The mentally disturbed Bertha now lives at Thornfield, isolated in the attic with her nurse. Appalled and horrified, Jane flees Thornfield and is forced to sleep outside, penniless and begging for food. She is rescued by the Rivers family, three kindly siblings who take her in and help her to find work at a local school. St John Rivers eventually proposes marriage and a new life overseas as a missionary. However, after hearing Rochester’s voice calling her name one night over the moors, Jane realises that she cannot abandon the man she loves. She returns to Thornfield to find that it has been burnt to the ground by Bertha Mason, and Rochester has been left blinded. At his new residence Ferndean, Jane and Rochester re-build their relationship and eventually marry.

For readers who have read both Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre, we can make a series of comparisons between the two works. Both contain elements of the gothic. An isolated house in a moody, windswept location. An anti-hero / love interest in the forms of Heathcliff and Mr Rochester. But while Cathy and Heathcliff’s story ends in tragedy, with the male protagonist made only more bitter by the events of the novel, Jane and Rochester’s story ends happily, with him redeemed and changed by her love. It is important to note at this point that, particularly for readers interested in the feminist aspects of Jane Eyre, that their relationship is reconciled on Jane’s terms. Throughout the novel, Jane largely enjoys economic autonomy, working independently and engaging in useful and worthwhile work as a governess and teacher. She desires a marriage based on love and companionship, not for financial gain or a loveless partnership. Her experiences with Reed family and at Lowood school bestow her with a strong self of her own self worth. When St John Rivers proposes marriage following her split with Rochester, it is based not on feelings on love but a partnership based around a common purpose. She refuses his proposal. Following the reveal of Rochester’s wife in the attic, she also refuses to stay at Thornfield, horrified at the thought of living as his mistress.

That copy of Jane Eyre bought from Blackwell’s bookshop still sits on my bookshelf. It is now missing a front page but is otherwise largely intact. I have returned to it several times over the years. What I love most about Jane Eyre is her ability to survive, no matter what life throws at her. Her influence on my life has been enormous. She showed me that it is possible to survive. No matter what terrible events come our way, we have the ability to survive. Life goes on, whether we like it or not, and we can either choose to move forwards with it or remain trapped within each situation or feeling.

In my life, I have been made redundant several times. I have had two breast cancer scares. My heart has been broken so badly I thought that it would never mend. I have reached out in friendship to people who took advantage of my kindness. I have struggled throughout my adult life with bouts of depression, the most recent of which was so serious that even considering writing about it terrifies me. But somehow, I survived. I chose to survive. A small part of me refused to be beaten. She kept going, chose to get out of bed each morning and hold her head high. She chose to move forwards and choose happiness.

Jane Eyre is a book that everyone should read at least once in their life. In addition to the theme of survival, it is a novel about the struggles between passion and conscience, wanting to belong versus being an outsider, wanting to be loved versus the desire for autonomy. The plot is evenly paced, and it is never boring (despite what my 7-year-old self would have told you!) It is not a difficult novel to read, with such well-developed descriptions of Jane’s emotions that it is hard not to feel moved. Many quotes from Jane Eyre have passed into common parlance. Try these on for size:

“Reader, I married him”.

“I would always rather be happy than dignified”.

“I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself”.

“I am no bird, and no net ensnares me.”

It says a lot about Jane Eyre and its influence on my life, that the last of these quotes now sits on the wall in my study, facing my desk.

At moments when I feel overwhelmed, when I feel anxious, trapped, or when I can feel myself slipping into the dark hole of depression, I take a moment to read that quote and remember that I am an independent human being. My self worth lies in my own hands, not in others. I can stay quiet, as I have done for so many years, or I can use my voice to say the things I want to say. I can wallow and lose myself in my current state, or I can choose to do as Jane does and pick myself up, move forwards and fly away from my troubles.

I choose the latter.

[sarah-aliterarylife]

My Life In Literature : Welcome!

A boy once told me how I would die.

It would be breast cancer, he told me, in my right breast. It would happen on 20th June 2022. I would be 37 years old. So when I found a lump in my breast on a cold winter’s night in January 2022, frightened is not an accurate word to describe the fear I felt.

The boy was my first boyfriend, and he told me this when I was 15 years old. He was also a pathological liar, a psychotic bully who terrified me beyond belief for much of the two and an half years we were together. Our relationship was what I now recognise to be abusive. He would often threaten to harm himself or harm me if I left, and so I stayed, for far longer than I should have done. One day, I will write about my time with this boy and the effects his actions had on my life, but now is not that time.

21 years after I ended the relationship, I knew deep down that no one can predict the future and the lump was merely a coincidence, but nevertheless, the experience sent me into a spiral. I began to experience anxiety attacks (mainly at night before bed, leaving me unable to sleep afterwards). My skin broke out into red, scaly patches, that no moisturiser would clear. I lost weight. I stopped eating. My mind descended into a dark place and my work suffered. Sometimes I could feel the lump and other times I could not. I felt as if I was going mad. Eventually, I consulted my doctor and she prescribed anti-depressants, therapy and a mammogram.

After a long 3 week wait for a hospital appointment, a mammogram and ultrasound revealed the lump to be benign, a swollen gland that increased in size in accordance with hormones (hence why I could feel it at certain times and not at others). The relief I felt at discovering the lump was benign was so great that I burst into tears on the ultrasound chair, leading three concerned nurses to rush over and comfort me.

One of the worst experiences of my life was finally over, but the effects stayed with me for many months. Indeed, they are still with me today. I began to reflect on my life, and my choices. Have I really lived the life I wanted for myself? Will the choices I have made in my life lead to regret, or a sense of accomplishment? Have I lived my life with meaning and purpose?

I came to the conclusion that I have lived a cautious life, an unremarkable one. I work hard and live in a comfortable home, with a man I love very much. I am careful with my finances and follow the 80/20 rule – 80% frugality and modesty with my money, my diet, my lifestyle in general, and 20% fun and spontaneity. In a cost of living crisis, it’s the best we can all hope for.

I have spent my life moving. Moving house, moving jobs, moving between friendships and relationships. But throughout all this movement, the one constant in my life has been books. For as long as I can remember, I have been an avid reader. Most people in life have a passion – for some people it’s sport, or food, or fitness. My passion is books. I’m a book nerd, as a former work colleague once called me.

Books have shaped my life in a way that no person ever could. They have been my friends and constant companions through times of anxiety and stress, they have helped me to relax and grounded me throughout a lifelong battle with depression and anxiety.

Reading forms a non-negotiable part of my daily routine. I read on trains, whilst waiting in the car outside shops or petrol stations, at art galleries, in cafes, in fields, even standing outside buildings in a crowded city. I read everything I can get my hands on – everything from thrillers, the classics, biographies, memoirs, poetry, cookbooks and westerns. I don’t have a “type” or a favourite genre. As long as it is a good story told well, I will read it.

I do not consider myself to be an intellectual, or particularly well read. I have never finished the complete works of Shakespeare (although I do own a copy). I couldn’t finish Mrs Dalloway, Swann’s Way or Doctor Zhivago. It took me three attempts to read Lord of the Rings. My long standing ambition to read the complete works of Charles Dickens has stalled at 5 novels, and I have struggled with most of them (but I did enjoy Oliver Twist and Great Expectations). I dislike books that other people love, and often find myself enjoying titles that many people hate. For instance, I found On The Road by Jack Kerouac dull and meandering, but thoroughly enjoyed The Fault In Our Stars by John Green. Where I am at in my life influences what I read. Sometimes I’m in a non-fiction phase, at other times I decide to widen my range and begin working my way through the classics (again).

But when I find a book I love, I am obsessed. I find excuses to read it every moment I can. I have been known to read on my lunchbreak, whilst waiting for the kettle to boil, and on many occasions whilst I probably should be doing something much more important. A long time ago, I was once told off for reading at work. Today, the simple joy of sitting quietly with a good book at the end of my working day is one of the greatest pleasures in my life.

This blog is something I have been considering for a long time. It began with a clear-out and developed as the cost of living crisis in the UK began to bite. It will not surprise you to learn that I own a lot of books! Currently, I own two (large) full bookcases and several heaving bookshelves, plus a Kindle with over 180 titles stored (many read, some as yet unread). My haul increases by roughly one title per week (bought either electronically or second hand on Ebay – big shout out to World of Books, I’m a big fan of yours!)

One of the many thoughts that came out of my experience last year, was thinking about the books that have shaped my life. In this blog, I will be exploring some of those titles with you, and explaining how they have played a part in shaping my life. Some I loved, some I did not. Some I will illustrate with my memories of where I was and what I was doing whilst reading them. I will give you my thoughts on each title, as best as I can articulate them.

I am not a literary critic, nor am I an author. You may disagree with some of my thoughts, or come to the conclusion that I am not particularly well read. That’s ok. I am simply a lover of books, with a passion for reading. I do not stick to one particular genre, or certain authors (although I do have my favourites). Over the last few years I have tried to avoid re-reading the same books, but from time to time I have a relapse and return to titles that bring me joy. It’s a mental health thing.

By writing this blog, I hope to take you on a journey, and introduce you to some of the books that I have enjoyed (or not, as the case may be!) throughout my life. Along the way, I may even discover a few titles I’d forgotten about! On second thoughts, that’s unlikely – one thing you will learn about me is that I have a memory better than any elephant. Maybe you’ll agree with my thoughts. Perhaps you won’t. We may even have fun together.

But first, where to start?