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You Should Read This: Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons

English novelist Stella Gibbons. Photo to accompany review of Cold Comfort Farm.
Cold Comfort Farm was Stella Gibbons' first novel but not her last - 22 other literary works followed it.
Another adequate movie that was a brilliant book. I came to Cold Comfort Farm having seen it referenced somewhere as a comic novel. It was that, in spades.

What: Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons was published in 1932. It’s a send-up of all the books of the time romanticizing the rural life. It references many of the popular novels of its time, adding a layer of appreciation if you’re familiar with that work, but it isn’t necessary to know that much order to enjoy it.

Who: People who enjoy English humor at its subtlest will particularly enjoy Cold Comfort Farm, as will those familiar with the literature of the time. And, if you are a woman who has ever been hit on by a particular type of academic male, you will recognize Mr. Mybug and glory in the very very accurate portrayal of a man soaked in nature’s fecund blessing.

Why: If you’re considering writing humor, this is an excellent book to take a look at for its myriad of different strategies, including a very accurate send-up of the ways dialect are often portrayed. At the same time, it remains an interesting and engaging story.

When: Read this when you want a little humor and charm. Read it when you have been too long among the self-important, and need to see them skewered a little.

Where and how: Don’t read it in the woodshed; there’s something nasty in there.

#sfwapro

4 Responses

  1. Yay Cold Comfort Farm!

    …But I loved the movie as well as the book.

    …One thing I haven’t seen people talk about is the ways in which the story echoes _Emma_. Some day I’ll write a blog entry about that.

  2. I love this book! I thoroughly enjoyed the writer’s commentary threaded through the text. It was also a great story and when they made it a movie, they did a good job. Thanks for the reminder!

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You Should Read This: Woman and Nature by Susan Griffin

Cover for Woman and Nature by Susan Griffin to accompany review written by speculative fiction writer Cat Rambo.
She knew her skill and she knew it well. She could speak more than one language. She spoke their language, and she spoke hew own, which they could not speak.
What: Poetry and meditative essay mingle in Woman and Nature: The Roaring Inside Her by Susan Griffin. I found this book in grad school when I was first learning to look into metaphors to find out what they contained.

Who: Read this if you’re a woman, whether or not you call yourself a feminist. Read it if you’re a man trying to write realistic women, because the structures Griffin talks about are ones that affect all of this, but particularly women. Read it if you don’t mind some poetry mixed in with your thinking.

Why: Read this to reexamine the words and metaphors we use to describe both nature and women, to understand the attitudes behind the language.

He says that woman speaks with nature. That she hears voices from under the earth. that wind blows in her ears and trees whisper to her. That the dead sing through her mouth and the cries of infants are clear to her. But dfor him this dialogue is over. He says he is not part of this world, that he was set on this world as a stranger. He sets himself apart from woman and nature.
And so it is Goldilocks who goes to the home of the three bears, Little Red Riding Hood who converses with the wolf, Dorothy who befriends a lion, Snow White who talks to the birds, Cinderella with mice as her allies, the Mermaid who is half fish, Thumbelina courted by a mole.

When: Read this when you want to be lulled by words out of your own body and into the material forms of tree and earth and shell.

Where and how: Read this near a window, where you can look out at trees or sky or mountains or water.

#sfwapro

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You Should Read This: The Face in the Frost by John Bellairs

Cover of fantasy novel The Face in the Frost by John Bellairs.
The books have been reissued, but this is the cover I'm familiar, and which immediately evokes the book for me. I love the magic system in it - read the book to see why.
John Bellairs wrote a host of children’s books, including one of my favorites, The House with a Clock in Its Walls, and a single adult novel, The Face in the Frost. I wish the ratio had been in the opposite direction, because The Face in the Frost just has such an engaging world and characters that I would have loved more of it. Much, much more. It’s a woefully slim little book, and I will not claim that it has the world’s most satisfying ending, but it delights me in so many ways.

Much of the book’s richness lies in the banter between the two old friends (there’s only one place it falls flat, and it says something about the quality of the texture elsewhere that the flat spot drives me a little nuts every time I read it), who are both skilled and eccentric wizards. The friendship is a longtime one, built of mutual affection, exasperation, and shared experience. Pieces of this book are a buddy roadtrip, taken through a series of small kingdoms, some only town-sized, and the supernatural menace is one that is genuinely haunting.

I’ve read other books by Bellairs, but with the exception of The House with a Clock in its Walls (which has lovely Edmund Gorey illustrations as a bonus), I find that his children’s literature falls flat for me, though I know it’s well-loved by many middle-graders. For me, it lacks the menace that both Face in the Frost and Clock in Its Walls hold.

I used part of the first paragraph for the description of Prospero’s house for our clan housing on Dark Castle MUD, (back in the innocent days of the early Net when the majority of us had no idea what copyright meant); for all I know (and hope) it’s still there, but I somehow doubt it. Here it is, for your delectation:

Several centuries (or so) ago, in a country whose name doesn’t matter, there wa a tall, skinny, straggly-bearded old wizard named Prospero, and not the one you are thinking of, either. He lived in a huge, ridiculous, doodad-covered, trash-filled two-story horror of a house that stumbled, staggered, and dribbled right up to the edge of a great shadowy forest of elms and oaks and maples. It was a house whose gutter spouts were worked in the shape of whistling sphinxes and screaming bearded faces; a house whose white wooden porch was decorated with carved bears, monkeys, toads, and fat women in togas holding sheaves of grain; a house whose steep gray-slate roof was capped with a glass-enclosed, twisty-copper-columned observatory. On the artichoke dome of the observatory was a weather-vane shaped like a dancing hippopotamus; as the wind changed, it blew through the nostril’s of the hippo’s hollow head, making a whiny snarfling sound that fortunately could not be heard unless you were up on the roof fixing slates.

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