DEADLY WOMEN

I got Vampire Lover in the post recently, which I bought for a dazzling £0.01 (how is that even possible?!)

The cover impressed me immensely: how cool is the cover? I love that it's the heroine who is biting/ drinking at the hero's neck, I love what it suggests about the power dynamic in the relationship. I love that she might be the 'vampire lover' in question. (I haven't read it yet, so I have no idea how truly subversive/ innovative it is. Right now, I'm simply content to anticipate).

Trying to find an on-line image of the cover led me to the discovery of another picture, called The Vampire by Sir Philip Burne-Jones (1897). I love this image, too. The senseless, supine man laying helplessly as the vampiress straddles him, neck arched and teeth bared. It might have been a direct inspiration for Vampire Lover.


It certainly inspired Kipling’s popular poem of the same name:

The Vampire
A fool there was and he made his prayer
(Even as you or I!)
To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair,
(We called her the woman who did not care),
But the fool he called her his lady fair--
(Even as you or I!)

Oh, the years we waste and the tears we waste,
And the work of our head and hand
Belong to the woman who did not know
(And now we know that she never could know)
And did not understand!

A fool there was and his goods he spent,
(Even as you or I!)
Honour and faith and a sure intent
(And it wasn't the least what the lady meant),
But a fool must follow his natural bent
(Even as you or I!)

Oh, the toil we lost and the spoil we lost
And the excellent things we planned
Belong to the woman who didn't know why
(And now we know that she never knew why)
And did not understand!

The fool was stripped to his foolish hide,
(Even as you or I!)
Which she might have seen when she threw him aside--
(But it isn't on record the lady tried)
So some of him lived but the most of him died--
(Even as you or I!)

``And it isn't the shame and it isn't the blame
That stings like a white-hot brand--
It's coming to know that she never knew why
(Seeing, at last, she could never know why)
And never could understand!''

As it turns out, this notion of the Vampiress, or the femme fatale was at its height towards the end of the 19th century; besides Kipling and Burne-Jones, there was Oscar Wilde’s Salome, Conan Doyle’s Irene Adler, the art of Klimpt and Audrey Beardsley to name a few. (Edvard Munch’s painting Love and Pain is more commonly referred to as ‘Vampire’ and depicts a helpless man in the embrace of a red haired ‘medusa like’ woman.)

The Victorian obsession with the femme fatale has obvious roots: prostitution and syphilis, feminism and the New Woman, which led to a fear of female sexual power and its potential malevolence. As Meier observes -

The myth of the femme fatale, a female character that erotically fascinates and enchants a usually male partner who eventually is ruined or destroyed by this relationship, seems to be a male myth from the very beginning. The various explanations of its origins converge in the concept of patriarchal fear in the face of the suppressed female principle in general - and of female sexuality in particular.

Which brings us to the flip side. Far from empowering women, feminists have long noted that there is an underlying misogyny inherent in the early depictions of femme fatales, a hostility stemming from fear, be it of economic marginalisation or the threat of that ‘dark continent,’ female sexuality. Bram Dijkstra goes so far as to suggest that these images represent the transition of women from victims to the victimizers of men.

So where does that leave me? I love the idea of the empowered, sexually confident vamp, the anto-heroine. But is she a male creation, a combination of masochism and wish fulfillment? A cautionary tale? I can think of hundreds of femme fatales in romance - most of them evil, and punished in the end for their rapacious sexual drive, for shamelessly exploiting men with their sexuality.

Is there a place for the femme fatale in romance as a heroine, and can you think of any good examples? (though I am loath to admit it, Shannon McKenna’s Tamara springs to mind).


The Climax
"Salomé", Oscar Wilde and Aubrey Beardsley (illus.)
1907 ed.

IDENTITY THEFT

This is a subject many non-Londoners will be tired of by now, but on May 1st, we get to vote for the next Mayor of London.

Politics has no place on a romance blog - right? - but I really can't keep quiet about my hatred for the Conservative candidate, Boris Johnson. The video below does a good job of listing all the reasons why, but it is also the fact that Johnson represents the 'anti-London' vote. To me, living in a city as vibrant, diverse and welcoming as London, a place where multitudes of cultures and communities come together, the idea of an old Etonian toff, a member of the detestable Bullingdon Club - which one blogger describes as "an elite network whose general agenda involves gorging themselves on pate de foie gras and suckling pigs, then wrecking restaurants while singing "Rah, rah, rah, we're going to rule the world". Then they rule the world." - is repugnant.

Like Charlie Brooker (a miserable bastard), I am predestined to hate everything about Boris Johnson because a) he is a Tory b) he is a product of his privileged, upper class upbringing and c) he has said and written things that should immediately disqualify his eligibility to run for public office. In Brooker's words -

Johnson - or to give him his full name, Boris LOL!!!! what a legernd!! Johnson!!! - is a TV character loved by millions for his cheeky, bumbling persona. ... he's magnetically prone to scandal, but this somehow only makes him more adorable each time. Tee hee! Boris has had an affair! Arf! Now he's offended the whole of Liverpool! Crumbs! He used the word "picaninnies"! Yuk yuk! He's been caught on tape agreeing to give the address of a reporter to a friend who wants him beaten up! Ho ho! Look at his funny blond hair! HA HA BORIS LOL!!!! WHAT A LEGERND!!!!!!

Basically, the thought of this buffoon becoming the Mayor of my city makes me ill. It's like taking my identity as a Londoner (which I prize) to a dark, smelly alley and mugging it.

So if the worst happens, if my beloved City becomes the playground of this raging idiot, I'm packing my bags. I'm moving to Scotland. I hear it's great. Although the Scots might not see it that way...

(Warning, the video contains some swearing)



Many more videos here. The Rainbow debate is priceless.

THE OUTCAST, BY SADIE JONES

Aren’t I supposed to be reviewing books, or something?

This endeavor is hampered somewhat by the fact that I haven’t been reading a great deal recently, and what I have been reading doesn't neatly fit into the definition of ‘romance.’ Next on the list is Lee Child’s latest testosterone fueled offering, Nothing to Lose, so unless I want this blog to wither on the vine, I thought I’d just go ahead and review something.

Lewis Aldridge is the Outcast in question, a 19 year old boy straight out of jail. The year is 1957 and Lewis returning to his middle class home in the English suburbs, where he has long been an outsider, treated with suspicion and distrust because he won’t - can’t - conform to the norms of this closed and affluent community.

The story switches from the present (the summer of Lewis’ return) to the events that led to his incarceration; his father’s return from the war, the death of his mother and the emotional isolation that followed this devastating tragedy.

I haven’t read a great many books set in the 50s (oddly, though, I’ve started to watch the excellent Mad Men and it bears an uncanny similarity to The Outcast in its depiction of affluence and dysfunction), and I wasn’t sure I’d like this. But I read it in one sitting. In one sitting, with tears streaming down my face (I’m easy) and my heart utterly wrenched for poor little Lewis. Why won’t someone hug him, I wondered, wiping fat drops from my cheeks.

Jones has a distinctive writing voice, spare, matter of fact, and she moves the story along very briskly (interestingly, she started out as a screenwriter and this has served her well; the pacing is excellent). I found the writing style - with its very long sentences and multitudes of ‘and’s and then’s - annoying at first, but it’s a deliberate choice to get us inside Lewis’ active ten year old mind. As Lewis grows, so the voice shifts and matures.

What I liked best about the book was the world itself, the claustrophobic, affluent world of the middle classes in the 50s, the glossy exterior and the seething, dark underbelly - best demonstrated by the wealthy Carmichaels, headed by the violent and brutish Dicky:

Dicky often hit Claire, it was his habit, and part of the pattern of the family, and it wasn’t questioned between them at all. None of them had ever, ever referred to it, but Kit got so angry it made her cry with rage.

This from the point of little Kit, another outcast.

What I found absolutely fascinating was the almost ritualised nature of the violence Dicky inflicts on the women in his family, and their acceptance of it, which often bordered on complicity.

Jones’ depiction of the women in this period is also fantastic; from Lewis’ mother, the vibrant, unconventional Elizabeth; the cold emptiness of Claire Carmichael and the growing discontent of Alice, the pretty trophy wife. Again, on the surface everything is fine, but just beneath it, these are deeply unhappy and dissatisfied people, who drink too much, who are abused or neglected by their husbands, who have no means of escape.

She tried to have strict rules about her drinking, but the wait for her sherry at half-past twelve made the morning seem very long. She absolutely wasn’t allowed a drink after her coffee at lunch, so that meant fitting it all in and knowing she then had to wait till half-past six for her cocktail. She knew it shouldn’t mean so much and it was important to stay in control, but she often found it hard to remember why...

Of course, the heart of the story is Lewis. Bright, thoughtful, sensitive Lewis who is very close to his mother and whose death leaves him utterly adrift in a world where he cannot express his grief, and where his repressed emotions leave him prone to violent outbursts. He becomes an outsider, because he cannot be like the others, and his obvious dysfunction is not tolerated by a tight knit community determined to pretend everything is just fine.

I could go on. There is Lewis’ grieving father, who cannot console his son and is the unwitting agent of his son’s downfall. There is Kit, the observer, who knows everything is wrong but it powerless to do anything about it. Beautiful, vain Tamsin and the weak wiled Alice. Then there is the powerful, evil, monstrous figure of Dicky Carmichael, the embodiment of all that is wrong with the world.

There are many dark moments, and few bright ones. At times, I wondered if things could get any worse - and they did. It is a desperately sad story, but ultimately uplifting. If you’re wondering why on earth you should pick this book up - well, there are moments of grace, and the story ends on a good note.

Sadie Jones said she wanted to write about an outsider, an outcast, someone who is rejected by society, but it is society itself that is damaged and corrupt. I think she did a really good job. This is her first novel, and it has been nominated for the Orange Prize (which she is strongly tipped to win).

I met her at a reading a few days ago and I can only add that she is also quite the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Doesn’t really seem fair.

An A. Not a romance, exactly, but an engrossing and intelligent read.

HOUSEKEEPING

I've decided to change my profile picture to something a little more representative of me (if you look at the new picture sideways, through squinted eyes, it looks vaguely Mariam-like). But it is with regret that I say goodbye to Lady Colin Campbell.

A few years ago, I read a fascinating account of her notorious marriage and divorce to Lord Colin Campbell, the second son of the Duke of Argyll: Victorian 'Sex Goddess.' Lady Colin Campbell and the sensational divorce case of 1886 by G. H. Flemming. This very public divorce case enthralled the country and filled the pages of newspapers with salacious detail, containing as it did all the elements of a good scandal - sexually transmitted disease (syphilis), various infidelities, allegations of cruelty and endless other examples of the upper classes behaving badly.

Her husband accused Lady Colin of conducting affairs with some of the most eminent men in Victorian society, including George Spencer-Churchill and Captain Eyre Massey Shaw, Chief of the Metropolitan Fire Brigade. Although found not guilty on these counts, she was nonetheless a intelligent and attractive woman who attracted many notable men, including George Bernard Shaw (who described her as a 'goddess') and the artist Whistler.

Born Gertrude Blood, Lady Colin stands out for many reasons unrelated to her sensational divorce. Her first article was published at the age of 14. Her first work of fiction (published when she was 21) went through seven printings. She was a singer who often gave recitals and her art was frequently exhibited. After her separation from Lord Colin (she was not granted a divorce, though it was accepted her husband had given her syphilis), Lady Colin survived on the proceeds of her writing, principally for newspaper articles and journals. She contributed to the Saturday Review and eventually became one of the first female editors of a London paper that was not for women (World).

Although I can't find any reference to it just now, I think she also wrote an impassioned defense of smoking, which is also kind of cool.

An astonishing, unconventional woman brought to life through a series of newspaper articles, transcripts, letters and reminiscences. In the words of one journalist, she posessed -

the unbridled lust of Messalina and the indelicate readiness of a common harlot.

I prefer to think of her as the kind of kick-ass Victorian I would like to see between the covers of more historicals, a bright, intelligent, unconventional figure who is no less admirable for all her flaws and foibles.

BOOK LEARNIN'

Woot! I just got Pamela Regis's A Natural History of the Romance Novel in the post today.

I've been meaning to read this forever (well, since the Bindel Fiasco) and the first 16 pages have been very instructive.

The book is a refutation of the claim that "the form of the romance novel genre - its ending in marriage - extinguishes the heroine and binds the reader." (11)

Regis argues that it's not in the HEA (or 'the betrothal') that the true meaning of a romance novel is found, but the 'barrier' and the 'point of ritual death.' The freedom our heroine achieves in overcoming these elements is what we the readers relate to. It is the heroine's freedom to choose the hero that we celebrate at the end of a novel.

I think.

That's me at page sixteen. I remain to be convinced, sitting somewhere in the middle of Bindel and Regis in this great never-to-end debate. Behold:

WHEN PEANUT BUTTER TASTES BAD

I've been meaning to write about this for an age, but a recent article in The Guardian tipped me into action mode. Where The Guardian leads, I follow.

"Unrequited love is nearly a universal experience. It is the stuff of literature (Cyrano de Bergerac had it badly but carried it nobly) and of deep despair. A study of 155 men and women in the Journal Of Personality And Psychology, from Case Western Reserve University in Ohio, found that only 2% had never experienced unrequited love (defined as an intense, passionate yearning that is not reciprocated). The study counted being rejected and rejecting someone as such an 'experience'. Men were a third more likely to have suffered unrequited love because of rejection."

Continues the wise Dr Dillner,

"Some people are more prone to unrequited love. If you are anxious (about relationships), emotionally needy and fall in love rather easily, then you're courting disappointment. Passion is great, but too much, too soon can push people away."

What brought on my interest in this neglected area of romance were the lyrics of the Harrow Sparrow, our very own warbling and tweeting Kate Nash. I kind of love her album, and I was struck by two tracks in particular, which articulate so well the highs and particularly the lows of unrequited love, or a giant crush. Listening to them made me remember all those times I've been in the throes of an agonising infatuation: the sweaty palms and the clumsy tongue and the excruciating blushes.

Nash has songs that go on forever, so I've plucked some choice lyrics

We Get on
Simply knowing you exist
Ain't good enough for me
But asking for your telephone number
Seems highly inappropriate

Seeing as I can't
Even say hi
When you walk by

[After a very funny and rambling narrative, Nash concludes on these prosaic and sweet words]

I don't ever dream
About you and me
I don't ever make up stuff about us
That would be classed as insanity
I don't ever drive by your house to see if you're in
I don't even have an opinion
On that tramp that you're still seeing
I don't know your timetable
I don't know your face off by heart
But I must admit
That there is still a part of me
That thinks we might get on
That we could get on
That we should get on

And then The Nicest Thing, wistful and full of longing,

I wish I was your favourite girl
I wish you thought I was the reason you are in the world
I wish my smile was your favourite kind of smile
I wish the way that I dressed was your favourite kind of style...

I wish you had a favourite beauty spot
That you loved secretly
'Cause it was on a hidden bit
That nobody else could see
Basically, I wish that you loved me
I wish that you needed me
I wish that you knew when I said two sugars,
Actually I meant three

There's just something about the way Nash blends the everyday mundane with sadness and longing that really got me. I'm not usually a fan of yearning and angsting and wishin' and hopin' but these songs have made me want to read some romances that deal effectively with the torments and obsessiveness of unrequited love.

In the past, I've shied away from this type of romance, possibly because pining heroines in the classics I was forced to read as a kid - books like Sense and Sensibility, Mansfield Park, Villette, The Professor (the entire works of Charlotte Bronte, let's face it) - left me angry and frustrated. Do something, damnit! Stop moping, ladies! Not to mention, the object of all this repressed longing was rarely worth the trouble.

Another practitioner is Mr Charles Dickens, who creates intensely passionate feelings in the hearts of his male protagonists. The foolish passion Pip felt for Estella (I never had one hour's happiness in her society, and yet my mind all round the four-and-twenty hours was harping on the happiness of having her with me unto death); the deep love John felt for Bella in Our Mutual Friend, which was ultimately returned; and Sydney Carton's love for Lucie Manette in A Tale of Two Cities ("You have been the last dream of my soul..." ).


Which brings me to my next point: I think men are intrinsically more sympathetic as the victims of unrequited love. Where Elenaor and Fanny made me gnash my teeth, Mr Darcy, Rhett Butler and Gilbert (Anne of Green Gables) made me sigh and melt. Perhaps it's a female thing: the thought of powerful, handsome men pining away for a woman must appeal on a wish-fulfillment level.

One of the few sympathetic portrayals of female unrequited love is Cassandra's for Simon in I Capture the Castle, an absolutely fantastic book about being young and in love.

More recently, romances I've read with one half of the couple secretly in love with the other include The Smoke Thief, That Linda Howard Sarah's Child - and - and -!

Not much else, really.

Some recommendations, please! Anything that makes you sigh with fellow feeling as you recall in excruciating detail the follies of your youth will do.

I leave you with the immortal words of Charlie Brown -

"Nothing spoils the taste of peanut butter like unrequited love."

GRIMSPACE, BY ANN AGUIRRE

Are you afraid of falling, baby?
No, I’m afraid of landing.

[He’s laughing and I’m smiling.]
Stupid idiot smile, don’t you know what comes next?

Sirantha Jax is a jumper. A carrier of the J-gene, she has the rare ability to navigate through Grimspace (and if you want to know what that is, read the fragging book). The story opens with Jax incarcerated in a Corporation facility in the aftermath of a jump gone bad. She is the sole survivor of a crash that killed 82 souls, including her pilot and lover, Kai. Jax has been jumping for fifteen years - a record high; for jumpers burn out fast and end up either dying mid jump, or quitting when they sense they are close to burnout. She is in deep grieving for Kai and her mind is close to destroyed, in no small part thanks to the interrogation techniques employed by the Corp Psychs, who are trying to get her to confess to crashing The Sargasso.

Jax is rescued from her cell by a mysterious man called March, the leader of a renegade band of fighters seeking to break the Corp monopoly on intersteller travel - and they need Jax in order to create a new breed of jumper.

Right. I was worried when I started Grimspace that I would be ill-equipped to deal with the sci-fi aspect of the story, as I don’t read in the genre. Luckily, my background in TV sci-fi is fairly solid (the various incarnations of Star Trek, Firefly, the new Battlestar Galactica) and I found myself settling into Aguirre’s world comfortably enough. Too comfortably, perhaps: I kind of wish one of the reviewers hadn’t said it reminded her of Firefly/ Serenity, for I immediately began to make comparisons with the show, and Whedonverse in general:

A rag tag assembly of quirky characters who quip at the most importune of times? Check.

Small women with immense power? Check. (looking forward to finding out more about Kerri)

Scary intersteller organisation seeking to impose hegemony over all civilised worlds, against which our heroes are fighting? Check.

More generally, any sci-fi from Star Trek to Battlestar has a certain core group of characters aboard a ship - captain, hot shot pilot, grumpy engineer, Doc, and the alien who allows us to gain perspective on our own humanity. (I suppose in romance parlance, these characters are the equivalent of the Other Woman, the Bad Mommy, the Slimy Rapist, the Fairy God Mother etc etc).

So anyway, sci-fi conventions all present and correct. (‘Jumping’ is also a term I've encountered in Battlestar Galactica, although Aguirre has taken this beyond the FTL travel and into grimspace, which is a very cool and interesting concept, particularly in the interdependent relationship it creates between jumper and pilot.)

Indeed, as I was reading Grimspace, I noted it was like watching an action movie, lots of action, great visuals. And Aguirre creates a vivid set of characters and locations, each more strange and exotic than the next. It is an eminently readable book, with short, crisp chapters and a constantly moving story that picks up speed nicely towards the end. The immediacy of the present tense-first person narrative means we experience everything with Jax, which adds to the excitement. (On the down side, there are times when everything is exploding and lives are in danger and Jax is explaining something utterly mundane and I’m thinking - run now, cogitate later!)

What makes Grimspace stand out are three things. Firstly, the writing. Aguirre is good and shows promise of getting better. I loved bits like this - The sky looks like a boiled potato - and this - A smile like a corrupt halo file flickers at the edges of her mouth. Her evocation of Jax’s loss and emotional fragility is also very good. I liked reading this book.

Secondly, there is Jax herself. So often authors attempt to create tough female protagonists and end up with wimpy losers. With Jax, you get what it says on the label. She is tough; she fights first, thinks later (thinking isn’t her strong suit, she readily admits). When it comes to saving her own skin, she’s a committed survivor and when it comes to making hard decisions, she doesn’t think about the children, she thinks about the odds. I love it. Plus, she enjoys sex, is more than happy to have good sex with a hot guy if it ensures safe passage (seriously!) and even remarks at one point, I know I don't look as good as I did before the crash, but I’m a rocket in bed. Cool, no?

Thirdly, the body count. I appreciate an author who can kill off her characters, and Aguirre really piles up the body count.

What doesn’t work for me is the romance, and part of that is related to the character of March. In a story bristling with quirky, unusual characters, there is something depressingly familiar about March. He is a Romance Hero and there is no escaping it. His fate is revealed from the first, when he is described as having a 'rough hewn, authoritative face’ and a ‘saturnine smile.’ I have no idea what he looks like, but I know he’s the Romantic Interest. Show me a rough hewn face that isn’t.

The romance between Jax and March is almost shoehorned in, and most clumsily at first. Jax is annoyingly juvenile in her initial interactions with him - There’s a five year old inside me that wants to kick his shins. This sort of elementary school flirtation just sits wrong, particularly when she is simultaneously recovering from the recent death of her lover. I could have done with a less antagonistic relationship between these two, perhaps based on mutual, grudging respect and a strong attraction.

March has a troubled past and a hyperactive saviour complex. He develops over the course of the story, but I guess there’s no breaking the mold, for in the end he remains a familiar creature: an incredibly powerful male - he’d kill the world for me - with a tortured past. It is his love for Jax that saves him and any threat to her life that unleashes his terrifying power.

I thought the resolution to the story was rushed and a little too easy (did no one else think to check the agenda?), but like a well executed action movie, it left me with a good buzz.

A highly recommended B.

[An aside: I would be really interested to know what a sci-fi reader thought of Grimspace. Does it break new ground? What kind of sci-fi is it? Leave a comment.]