LOVE - Book review

Angela Carter’s slim novel Love was published in 1971 and revised in 1987. In her new Afterword she states that the three main characters are ‘the pure perfect products of those days of social mobility and sexual licence’ (p113). Sadly, the characters themselves are not perfect – far from it.

 Annabel is psychologically unstable: ‘a sparse, grotesquely elegant, attenuated girl with a narrow face and hair so straight it fell helplessly down around her as a mute tribute to gravity. She had prehensile toes that could pick up a pencil and sign her name. She stole’ (p27).

Her husband is Lee: ‘Annabel was quite incomprehensible to him and he already knew she was unbalanced; yet his puritanism demanded he should be publicly responsible for her. He was overcome with conflicting apprehensions’ (p30).

Lee’s brother Buzz ‘had been grievously exposed to his mother’s madness’ (p13) and lived with the married couple. ‘Their mother’s madness, their orphaned state, their aunt’s politics and their arbitrary identify formed in both a savage detachment’ (p11).

It’s a distinctly destructive love triangle tainted with infidelity, self-loathing, suicide, jealousy and a split from reality for impaired souls. The kind of fractured relationships Ruth Rendell/Barbara Vine indulged in most effectively.

At one point Lee is interviewed by Annabel’s psychiatrist, ‘She was dressed entirely in black and lavishly hung about with hair of metallic yellow. Her eyes were concealed behind tinted glasses and her voice was as if smoked also, dark-toned and husky’ (p55).

With few pen-strokes Carter effectively inhabits the damaged trio. And of course her prose is always readable, the writing of an astute and acute observer:

‘... and old men sit outside in shirtsleeves on kitchen chairs, as if put out to air upon the pavement. On the low window ledges, one might find, here, a pie set out to cool or a jelly to set, there, a dreaming cat’ (p11).

‘the peeling walls, bare and lopsided staircase, fissured linoleum underfoot, foetid accumulated reek of years of greasy cookery’ (p91).

‘He felt nothing but the absence of feeling which is despair’ (p100).

Indeed, it won’t end well.

Shuttlecock - book review

I’ve come late to Graham Swift’s 1981 novel Shuttlecock. I’d bought it on paperback release when I was studying psychology with the Open University, as it was labelled ‘a psychological thriller’; but I never got round to reading it then.

 

The book is narrated in the first person by Prentiss who works as a senior clerk in the ‘dead crimes’ department of the police archives.

There’s a Kafkaesque tone to it, a dreamlike quality that lingers even after the last page is turned.

We’re not exactly sure of the narrator’s reliability regarding his observations and conclusions.

His boss is Quinn, who remains aloof and has a tendency to psychologically and verbally bully the office staff. Then Prentiss begins to realise that some files once requested by Quinn are never returned, while others are tampered with.

Prentiss is a bit of a bully himself, domineering towards his wife and hypercritical of his two sons, Martin and Peter. It is possible that this is relevant to his childhood. He makes twice weekly visits to his father in a mental institution, following the old man’s breakdown. Prentiss is obsessed about his father’s wartime memoir, Shuttlecock, about his spying exploits in France for SOE and his subsequent capture and torture. Gradually, Prentiss questions his father’s alleged bravery, perhaps recognising that he himself is a coward. But he finally plucks up the courage to confront Quinn about the missing files.

The narrative is riveting, despite the unappealing nature of Prentiss, and offers insightful parallels about father and son relationships. It is not all grim; there is humour to be found, notably his references to his sexual antics with his wife Marian, though nothing graphic. An editor might have pointed out the possible reader confusion of using two female character names beginning with the same letter, Marian (his wife with pert breasts) and Maureen (she with big breasts from the typing pool), but that’s of no real consequence. 

This is not a thriller, but that dubious description is no fault of Swift but rather the publisher. Certainly it is suspenseful and continually intriguing with countless behavioural observations.