The Heat of the Day, by Elizabeth Bowen
The Heat of the Day, by Elizabeth Bowen
Roderick, in implying to Cousin Nettie that he had to leave when he did in order to catch his train had been imperfectly truthful: in fact, he had another visit to pay. On his way from the station, he had located the church, and he now returned there; once inside the lych gate he embarked on his search for Cousin Francis. His mother's account had never been very clear; he had no guide--could instinct draw him? It seemed impossible that the old man at this moment could not speak. There would be as yet no headstone. A smell of clay still came up from places too new to be his; no bird sang; here and there flowers of wreaths rotted--he would have no wreath. No, nothing was possible but a general inclination of the head to all who lay there. A passer-by halted, watching across the wall in the November dusk, the young soldier wandering bareheaded among the graves.
The cover hopefully sells this one as "a Graham Greene thriller projected through the sensibility of Virginia Woolf." Not being much of a fan of either writer, I found it neither thrilling nor sensible. In fact, it seemed to have all the dust of a third tier, pompous, Victorian era novel, to the extent that it was continually jarring to be pulled back to its actual setting during WWII.
It's not the plot. The plot is superficially exciting. A divorced woman, considered scandalous because misogyny, falls in love while huddling in the underground during the London blitz. A second man tells her that the first man is a spy, and threatens blackmail. Her grown son inherits an estate and is digging up old family history from the relative in the nursing home. Another woman, whose husband is fighting in Europe, is having an affair. Hum-de-dum-de-dumdum.
It's the language. I could care about none of the characters, had to keep turning back to find plot details my brain had missed, and could not keep my eyes open for long. This is my third Bowen novel, and I have no particular memories of the other two.
Roderick, in implying to Cousin Nettie that he had to leave when he did in order to catch his train had been imperfectly truthful: in fact, he had another visit to pay. On his way from the station, he had located the church, and he now returned there; once inside the lych gate he embarked on his search for Cousin Francis. His mother's account had never been very clear; he had no guide--could instinct draw him? It seemed impossible that the old man at this moment could not speak. There would be as yet no headstone. A smell of clay still came up from places too new to be his; no bird sang; here and there flowers of wreaths rotted--he would have no wreath. No, nothing was possible but a general inclination of the head to all who lay there. A passer-by halted, watching across the wall in the November dusk, the young soldier wandering bareheaded among the graves.
The cover hopefully sells this one as "a Graham Greene thriller projected through the sensibility of Virginia Woolf." Not being much of a fan of either writer, I found it neither thrilling nor sensible. In fact, it seemed to have all the dust of a third tier, pompous, Victorian era novel, to the extent that it was continually jarring to be pulled back to its actual setting during WWII.
It's not the plot. The plot is superficially exciting. A divorced woman, considered scandalous because misogyny, falls in love while huddling in the underground during the London blitz. A second man tells her that the first man is a spy, and threatens blackmail. Her grown son inherits an estate and is digging up old family history from the relative in the nursing home. Another woman, whose husband is fighting in Europe, is having an affair. Hum-de-dum-de-dumdum.
It's the language. I could care about none of the characters, had to keep turning back to find plot details my brain had missed, and could not keep my eyes open for long. This is my third Bowen novel, and I have no particular memories of the other two.