The death of Anita Brookner has just been announced. This is something I wrote about her recently on the History and Literary Stuff page of this site.
My love affair with Anita Brookner
Yes, you read that correctly, though you would be right in thinking that I don't mean a love affair in the usual sense. Even so, some might be surprised that I should talk about her in such a way, even figuratively. We have little in common apart from living in London for most of our lives, though even then there is a difference. Nearly all of Anita Brookner's characters live in central London, mostly in suitably snooty areas, whereas I was brought up in the suburbs. Nor can I imagine her being the first person to call if I fancied a jolly evening in a pub or indeed in a restaurant, given that so many of her characters seem to be borderline anorexic and usually go to bed early. Most of them are seemingly insipid and lonely women, and the few male characters are pretty much like the women except with trousers on. The charge that her characters and stories are mostly very similar also has some truth, at least on the surface. They do occasionally venture out of London, usually to Paris or expensive locations in Switzerland or the South of France (apologies if I have overlooked any who went to Benidorm or Orlando, though I doubt if I have), but there is no sense that they are there to enjoy themselves.
So why does she get under my skin? Why have I read all her novels, avidly waiting for the next to come out?
It's the writing, of course: that perfectly pitched prose that analyses, dissects and bores into the soul, producing insights into how our minds work that few other writers have matched. There is also immense humour, though this may be missed by those who aren't strong on irony or understatement and can only recognise screwball comedy or its literary equivalent.
Such writing can be difficult for those who are new to her, though once they get the hang of it many are hooked. The opening of Strangers is fairly typical:
Sturgis had always known that it was his destiny to die among strangers. The childhood he remembered so dolefully had been darkened by fears which maturity had done nothing to alleviate. Now, in old age, his task was to arrange matters in as seemly a manner as possible in order to spare the feelings of those strangers whose pleasant faces he encountered every morning — in the supermarket, on the bus — and whom, even now, he was anxious not to offend.
He lived alone, in a flat which had once represented the pinnacle of attainment but which now depressed him beyond measure. Hence the urge to get out into the street, among those strangers who were in a way his familiars, but not, but never, his intimates. He exchanged pleasantries with these people, but had learned, painfully, never to stray outside certain limits. The weather was a safe topic: he listened carefully to weather forecasts in order to prepare himself for a greeting of sorts should the occasion arise, while recognizing the absurd anxiety that lay behind such preparations, and perhaps aware that his very assiduity counted against him, arousing irritation, even suspicion. But codes of conduct that had applied in his youth were now obsolete. Politeness was misconstrued these days, but in any event he had never learned to accommodate indifference. Indifference if anything made him more gallant, more courteous, and the offence was thus compounded. And these were the people he relied upon to see him out of this world! Exasperation might save him, though that too must be discreetly veiled, indulged only in private. Hence the problem of finding fault with those whose job it would be to dispose of him.
Someone who was having difficulty getting into Brookner asked me which one he should try first, and after some consideration I plumped for Fraud, which has all the usual components but has more sympathetic characters than many of the others. We are also taken into the minds of several characters: the lonely middle-aged Anna, the elderly and formidable Mrs Marsh and Lawrence Halliday, Anna's unhappily married love interest. She had been disappointed that he chose the flashy and spoilt Vickie over her, and we are told about the time she learned of their engagement:
In the drawing-room she had switched on a single lamp, and then switched it off again: it seemed to her appropriate to sit in the dark, and she had allowed herself this little touch of drama. Besides, she could see quite well in the light of the street lamps, and she was not going to exaggerate her hurt. It was not yet despair. She recognized the rules of the game, saw that in any contest the more brightly coloured of the species would carry off the prize. Simply she was sorry that Lawrence had succumbed to so obvious a woman: she thought less of him for that. Vickie with her permanent air of excitement and suspicion, her urgent little body, her impermeable self-confidence, her air of conveying her understanding of a man's needs, her own greediness . . . Lawrence had looked hapless as he told her of his plans, almost a victim, as if he were sorry for what he was doing, but was in no way able to change his mind, having been taken over by a will greater than his own.
My one criticism of Brookner is that she probably overdoes the introspection, beautifully crafted though it is. I think a writer, like a good cook, should try to serve up a balanced meal. At least Fraud has a plot to drive it along and there is a rare hint of a happy outcome even if we are left to speculate about if and when that will be.
Hers is a difficult style to emulate, not that anyone should try too hard to copy the style of another writer. Read enough good writers' work and there is a chance that our own writing will improve, and those little tricks that we find intriguing may, just may, come through - alongside a few tricks of our own.
My love affair with Anita Brookner
Yes, you read that correctly, though you would be right in thinking that I don't mean a love affair in the usual sense. Even so, some might be surprised that I should talk about her in such a way, even figuratively. We have little in common apart from living in London for most of our lives, though even then there is a difference. Nearly all of Anita Brookner's characters live in central London, mostly in suitably snooty areas, whereas I was brought up in the suburbs. Nor can I imagine her being the first person to call if I fancied a jolly evening in a pub or indeed in a restaurant, given that so many of her characters seem to be borderline anorexic and usually go to bed early. Most of them are seemingly insipid and lonely women, and the few male characters are pretty much like the women except with trousers on. The charge that her characters and stories are mostly very similar also has some truth, at least on the surface. They do occasionally venture out of London, usually to Paris or expensive locations in Switzerland or the South of France (apologies if I have overlooked any who went to Benidorm or Orlando, though I doubt if I have), but there is no sense that they are there to enjoy themselves.
So why does she get under my skin? Why have I read all her novels, avidly waiting for the next to come out?
It's the writing, of course: that perfectly pitched prose that analyses, dissects and bores into the soul, producing insights into how our minds work that few other writers have matched. There is also immense humour, though this may be missed by those who aren't strong on irony or understatement and can only recognise screwball comedy or its literary equivalent.
Such writing can be difficult for those who are new to her, though once they get the hang of it many are hooked. The opening of Strangers is fairly typical:
Sturgis had always known that it was his destiny to die among strangers. The childhood he remembered so dolefully had been darkened by fears which maturity had done nothing to alleviate. Now, in old age, his task was to arrange matters in as seemly a manner as possible in order to spare the feelings of those strangers whose pleasant faces he encountered every morning — in the supermarket, on the bus — and whom, even now, he was anxious not to offend.
He lived alone, in a flat which had once represented the pinnacle of attainment but which now depressed him beyond measure. Hence the urge to get out into the street, among those strangers who were in a way his familiars, but not, but never, his intimates. He exchanged pleasantries with these people, but had learned, painfully, never to stray outside certain limits. The weather was a safe topic: he listened carefully to weather forecasts in order to prepare himself for a greeting of sorts should the occasion arise, while recognizing the absurd anxiety that lay behind such preparations, and perhaps aware that his very assiduity counted against him, arousing irritation, even suspicion. But codes of conduct that had applied in his youth were now obsolete. Politeness was misconstrued these days, but in any event he had never learned to accommodate indifference. Indifference if anything made him more gallant, more courteous, and the offence was thus compounded. And these were the people he relied upon to see him out of this world! Exasperation might save him, though that too must be discreetly veiled, indulged only in private. Hence the problem of finding fault with those whose job it would be to dispose of him.
Someone who was having difficulty getting into Brookner asked me which one he should try first, and after some consideration I plumped for Fraud, which has all the usual components but has more sympathetic characters than many of the others. We are also taken into the minds of several characters: the lonely middle-aged Anna, the elderly and formidable Mrs Marsh and Lawrence Halliday, Anna's unhappily married love interest. She had been disappointed that he chose the flashy and spoilt Vickie over her, and we are told about the time she learned of their engagement:
In the drawing-room she had switched on a single lamp, and then switched it off again: it seemed to her appropriate to sit in the dark, and she had allowed herself this little touch of drama. Besides, she could see quite well in the light of the street lamps, and she was not going to exaggerate her hurt. It was not yet despair. She recognized the rules of the game, saw that in any contest the more brightly coloured of the species would carry off the prize. Simply she was sorry that Lawrence had succumbed to so obvious a woman: she thought less of him for that. Vickie with her permanent air of excitement and suspicion, her urgent little body, her impermeable self-confidence, her air of conveying her understanding of a man's needs, her own greediness . . . Lawrence had looked hapless as he told her of his plans, almost a victim, as if he were sorry for what he was doing, but was in no way able to change his mind, having been taken over by a will greater than his own.
My one criticism of Brookner is that she probably overdoes the introspection, beautifully crafted though it is. I think a writer, like a good cook, should try to serve up a balanced meal. At least Fraud has a plot to drive it along and there is a rare hint of a happy outcome even if we are left to speculate about if and when that will be.
Hers is a difficult style to emulate, not that anyone should try too hard to copy the style of another writer. Read enough good writers' work and there is a chance that our own writing will improve, and those little tricks that we find intriguing may, just may, come through - alongside a few tricks of our own.