Mighty Be Our Powers, by Leymah Gbowee with Carol Mithers

I don’t often read autobiography, so I probably would never have picked this off the shelves to read, but I was given it by my friend Mel as a Christmas present. Partly I have been put off the genre by the proliferation of the so called mis lit (misery literature) books that take up huge sections of bookstores with their tales of women overcoming their depressing and dire circumstances. As much as this book is at heart a story of a woman overcoming difficult circumstances, it also, thankfully, sheds light on a part of the world I know shamefully little about. As recipient of a Nobel Peace prize, Leymah Gbowee has a story worth telling.

Gbowee was only 17 when the first Liberian Civil War began. Previously she had led a sheltered life. War put an end to plans of attending college as the family fled the fighting. Gbowee does a good job of showing how quickly, and utterly, life changed for urban Liberians. She captures the shock of a recognisable, everyday existence changing to life in a war zone - where family members are separated, food is scarce, and people are gunned down in the streets in front of you - within a matter of days. She eventually fled Monrovia (the Liberian capital) with some of her family and ended up in a refugee camp in Ghana. There she first met Daniel, who would become a long term partner, father of her children, but who was also an abusive and manipulative man.

While Gbowee’s story could not be told without it, the long sections on her marriage did test my patience a little. After the interesting personal account of the war I felt it got bogged down in the details of this abusive relationship. It isn’t in any way irrelevant, both in that it shows how destructive war can be (would the confident Leymah at the beginning of the book have been as susceptible?), and that while this relationship was going on Gbowee began working as a trauma counsellor; the contrast between her professional life and what she put up with at home is striking. Four children later she ended the relationship and really began the work she is now famous for.

Gbowee started out as a counsellor, trying to heal the damage inflicted on women and children, especially the notorious child soldiers. At a work conference she met other likeminded women who wanted to start a women’s organisation, which is now WIPNET (Women in Peacebuilding Network). Gbowee became the leader of the Liberian Women’s Initiative. By now the second Liberian Civil War had begun. Gbowee and the women she worked with were inspired not just to mop up the trauma afterwards, but to fight for an end to war in Liberia. Some of you may have heard of the sex strike that was part of the tactics used by women in Liberia to garner attention to their calls for peace. But that was only a fraction of what they did. Working across the religious divide with Muslims and Christians, and with members of various tribal groups, they attended churches and mosques to speak to women there. They drew pamphlets with pictures so they could be understood by the illiterate. Eventually what was now the Women of Liberia Mass Action for Peace were staging huge sit-ins of thousands of women, first in a market, then in a football field Charles Taylor drove past twice daily, demanding Taylor begin peace talks to end the war that was tearing Liberia apart. When talks began in Ghana, they attended in protest every day. As it became clear that the talks were not being taken seriously, the women encircled the rooms, linking arms, threatening to keep the men prisoner until they knuckled down to business.

Gbowee and her colleagues gave a voice to those most often disenfranchised by war. As she emphasises in the book, how women and children are treated in war is an amplification of how they are treated in peacetime. If it is acceptable to rape and beat your wife and family, how do you think those men will treat civilians in a war zone, when all around them is chaos and violence? It is a reminder why the rights of women around the world still need our attention.

Mighty Be Our Powers is not a perfect book, but what limitations it has in terms of style are more than made up for in content. The story is far bigger than can be contained in one memoir, but this gives a focus to the book that makes it accessible. It also deserves to be praised for its ability to explain necessary context to those like myself who know very little about the political background, without losing its audience in the detail. It is also an inspiring story of what people can achieve, against the odds, once they set their mind to it. Gbowee was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize, alongside Liberian president Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, and Yemeni activist Tawakel Karmen, in 2011. It is humbling to think she is still only 40 years old.

Mastiff, by Tamora Pierce

I first read Tamora Pierce’s books when I was 11. As an avid reader I had somewhat outgrown the children’s section of the public library, so on one of our frequent visits my mother asked someone to recommend young adult books for me. One book they pulled off the shelf was Alanna: The First Adventure, the first book in the Song of the Lioness Quartet. So began a love affair that continues today. Sitting on my bookshelf are two cancelled library books from that series that I bought at the whopping price of twenty cents each. I have read those books over and over again, and when anything new is published, well, I have to read that too.

The first series, The Song of The Lioness, tells the story of Alanna, a girl who disguises herself as a boy so she can train as a knight. Set in the fantasy kingdom of Tortall, it involves magic, meddling gods, and swords - all the classic fantasy stuff. Many of Pierce’s other series are spin-offs, involving connected characters; Alanna herself often appears as an adult in a minor role. Mastiff is the third of The Beka Cooper trilogy. It is also set in Tortall, but we have travelled back in time to tell the story of an ancestress of another major character from the first series, George Cooper.

Tamora Pierce set out to write strong female characters in her series, something she felt was lacking in many of the books she read as a child. This is probably one of the things I loved about the books growing up. So often fantasy aimed at young adults, even specifically girls, have weak female roles. The classics of the genre, Tolkein and C. S. Lewis, are often specifically criticised for this; however recent books can be almost as bad, such as megahit Twilight with pathetic Bella; even Hermione in the Harry Potter books is the ‘clever one’ and sometimes a bit of a wimp. One, otherwise good, young adult book someone I know has recently read featured a woman whose superpower is to read peoples’ minds - by having sex with them. Filling this void of characterisation are Tamora Pierce’s heroines; they are strong willed and tough, and yet remain feminine, even in the middle of a soldiers’ campaign.

As Pierce’s books often take place over many years, they can follow their main characters through adolescence into adulthood, exploring all the terrain that comes with that change. Relationships with the men in their lives are complicated, occasionally messy, but always portrayed as an equal partnership. Pierce is also admirably frank about sex as a natural part of healthy adult relationships. Sometimes the books probably even get ahead of their intended readers, as in the fourth Lioness book, when Alanna realises the difficulties of mixing having a family with the man she loves and her chosen career as a Knight of the Realm.

The books also tackle more universal themes. Loyalty and betrayal are a major theme in Mastiff. How the rich or powerful treat those weaker and poorer than them is a recurring theme in many of her books. And while her books focus on female characters, they don’t do this to the detriment of male characters. Platonic friendships between male and female characters are portrayed well. Some of my favourite characters are the men; and I’m pretty sure my first real literary crush is courtesy of these books too…

I’ve been reading Tamora Pierce’s books for well over half my life now, and I have of course outgrown them to a degree, but my respect for what she has achieved as a writer has only grown. I don’t love her recent books, such as Mastiff, in the same way I love the books I read as a child. But that is more a product of my development rather than a reduction in quality. So to those of you out there who might be wanting to give a book to a young adult reader anytime soon, I couldn’t recommend these highly enough.

Love In A Cold Climate, by Nancy Mitford

Love in A Cold Climate This is a sequel to Nancy Mitford’s successful The Pursuit of Love, which I very much enjoyed as a light hearted read. Like The Pursuit of Love, it is narrated by Fanny Logan, and is about her family. However rather than being about the endearingly eccentric Radlett family, this tells the story of another cousin, Polly Hambleton, and her family. The Hambletons are every bit as upper class as the Radletts, but lack their warmth and charm. I think the novel suffers from a similar problem.

Polly Hambleton is a rich and dazzlingly beautiful heiress, and upon her return from India, where her father was Viceroy, is expected to make an excellent marriage. To her mother’s dismay she displays a total lack of interest in any of the eligible young men her mother introduces her too. She reconnects with her cousin Fanny, to whom she expresses her disinterest in love affairs, saying that she hoped on returning from India, where romances were common place, to find people living in England’s ‘cold climate’ to be less obsessed with affairs. However upon the death of her Father’s sister she announces she will marry her uncle-by-marriage, Boy Dougdale, to the horror of both her family and society.

Boy Dougdale is the main reason I found it difficult to truly enjoy this book. He has been unfaithful to his wife for years, sleeping with maids, acquaintances and, unbeknownst to Polly, was reputedly her mother’s lover for some time. But he is also called ‘the lecherous lecturer’ by the young Radletts due to his inappropriate behaviour towards girls. While they treat this in a light hearted manner, indeed nothing more specific than stroking girls’ hair is mentioned in the book, it lends the whole love affair a slightly queasy tone, especially as Polly makes it clear to Fanny that she has been in love with him ever since she was a girl. Despite all the disapproval of Dougdale’s behaviour shown in the book, at no point is it really treated as immoral behaviour. Perhaps these are modern sensibilities - after all we no longer expect girls to settle down and produce children at eighteen either, but they are sensibilities I’m glad exist.

As I’ve already said the novel is named for Polly’s description of England. However it also acts as a metaphor for the cold relationship between Polly and her mother, Dougdale and his first wife, eventually Polly and Dougdale, and many other relationships that exist in this novel. Ultimately it is hard to like Polly, and therefore to care about her. Linda Radlett’s desperate and hapless love affairs in The Pursuit of Love were convincing, and she was likable enough that it lent a pathos to their unfortunate ends. The rest of the Radlett family appear in this novel, and while they are still amusing, they aren’t enough to make it funny. Nor are they important enough to provide an emotional core to this novel; rather they bluster around the edges of the story, clashing with the staid Hambletons. As Polly has been written out of the will, a distant relative Cecil arrives to inherit. He effects a drastic change on Lady Hambleton, but he cannot do the same for the novel. He is flamboyantly homosexual, so flamboyant, and so coyly treated that it seems almost parody. As charming as he might be, he is also shallow. He might appear to be a glamorous peacock to the novel’s society, but really he is only a crow, attracted to shiny baubles.

As neatly and effectively as the story is finally wrapped up, I was left unmoved. To today’s audience the paedophilic tendencies of Dougdale are too creepy to enjoy the sensation created in the novel by his marriage to Polly. The stereotyping of homosexuality in Cecil is also a little dated. Nancy Mitford’s wry depiction of the upper class is as sharp as ever, but it doesn’t have the human appeal that In Pursuit of Love did. I’d stick to the first, and forget about the sequel.

Martin Chuzzlewit, by Charles Dickens

I was a late-comer to Dickens. My first was Bleak House, read over Christmas in 2006. Over the intervening years I have read my way through most of his oeuvre, and am now down to rereading, or to reading his less well loved novels, hence Martin Chuzzlewit as my summer reading choice. As much as I love Dickens, his novels can be a challenge. Martin Chuzzlewit is a good example of this; at the end I was glad to have read it, but it was a hard slog at times.

Martin Chuzzlewit centres on three members of the Chuzzlewit family, both young and old Martins and a Jonas. The latter, along with a Chuzzlewit cousin Mr Pecksniff, is one of this novel’s villains. Thematically the book is about selfishness and most of these characters embody this trait in spectacular fashion. Virtue is represented by Pecksniff’s employee, Tom Pinch, a wholesome and kind young man who is naively devoted to Pecksniff at the novel’s beginning. It is a huge relief, and helps to inject some energy into the novel, when three quarters of the way through he finally grows some balls and realises Pecksniff’s true nature. Throughout the book Pecksniff projects such assuredness in his own virtue that few suspect the depths of greed beneath, and much of the novel is taken up with the events that will lead to his exposé.

As fantastic as his villains can be, Dickens’s characterisation of women is often deeply troubling. Many of his female heroines are paper-thin, idealistic characters, lacking the idiosyncrasies that bring the rest of his creations to life. This book is a particularly bad example of this. The female heroines Mary Gregory and Ruth Pinch epitomise everything Dickens thought a young woman should be: slim, pretty, modest, demure and interested in little other than the men in their lives and running a household. In other words, not like real woman at all. The introduction of my edition of Martin Chuzzlewit (written by Simon Callow) puts it well, calling it ‘fetishistic’ and ‘dehumanising’. I cannot think of better words myself. Dickens writes some fantastic female characters too, the third villain of this novel Mrs Gamp being a good example of his grotesques. Some of his most famous characters are troubled women: Nancy in Oliver Twist, Lady Dedlock in Bleak House, and of course, Miss Havisham. During the course of this novel Jonas Chuzzlewit marries Pecksniff’s youngest daughter, Mercy. Initially she is a callous, flighty girl, but once married she is subjugated by a brutal husband and is portrayed sympathetically as a woman living in real fear. This contrast between his characterisation of women is symptomatic of his relationships with women in real life; he was cruel in later life to his wife, rejecting her and keeping her from her children, even though he was a social campaigner, writing of the plight of fallen women in his papers, and helping to fund and run homes to look after women in desperate circumstances. I’m looking forward to reading more about this in Claire Tomalin’s Dickens: A Life, one of my Christmas presents (although I think I need a wee break from Dickens first).

The story itself begins when the older Martin has cast off his nephew, the young Martin who now has to make his own way in the world, without the promise of a vast inheritance. After some time with Pecksniff, where he befriends Tom Pinch, Martin heads to America to make his fortune. He is accompanied by Mark Tapley, who begins as comic relief, but who soon develops into a generous hearted individual from whom Young Martin will learn many important, and predictable, lessons. Considering this is often referred to as Dickens’s American novel, I was surprised how little of the time was spend in America. However, what it lacks in length it makes up for in spite. Dickens’s loathing of the United States is apparent on every page. He mocks the manners of its people, their belief in their country, and he takes a stab at the practice of slavery. In short it is not a very flattering portrait, and at the time was greeted with outrage in America. It is quite funny though, with nearly every man introduced by someone else as ’one of the most remarkable men in the country’. Dickens would be horrified that his portrayal of the American press is now most prescient in the case of the British tabloids; his account of the New York Sewer with such headlines as ‘the Sewer’s own particulars of the private lives of all the ladies’ and ‘the Sewer’s exclusive account of a flagrant act of dishonesty committed by the Secretary of State when he was eight years old’ could be in a piece of modern satire.

Dickens’s razor sharp wit is only one of the reasons I love his books. When he breathes life into a character they rate amongst some of the finest characters in literature. None of the characters in Martin Chuzzlewit quite make that grade - Mrs Gamp comes the closest. His ability to bring Victorian England to life is another reason. I think I was sold from the opening paragraphs of Bleak House with its description of the muddy foggy streets; incidentally this is the original appearance of now clichéd urban fog. In this book Dickens describes a character out for a walk in the country side; we follow him down paths, through fields, and into a copse. However, when we reach the other side, no figure emerges, and we realise that something insidious has happened out of our view. It is beautiful writing, with an almost cinematic quality in the movement Dickens uses to paint the scene. When I read passages like that, I fall in love with Dickens all over again.

Once Young Martin has returned home, a suitably reformed character, and reunited with Tom Pinch, all that remains is to see our villains punished and heroes rewarded. This is done in typical Dickensian fashion, with astounding coincidences and improbable turns of events, leading to a satisfying conclusion. The book ends stronger than it begins, with a clear sense of purpose. The tying up of loose ends here is done no more ridiculously than in other Dickens’s novels. After hauling myself through the middle few hundred pages I enjoyed the final chapters as everything came to a speedy conclusion, with only the mildest sense of relief that it was indeed finishing.

A Storm of Swords, by George R. R. Martin

The third instalment of George R. R. Martin’s Song of Ice and Fire, A Storm of Swords, is the largest - so far - of the series. Originally it was published in two volumes, although it is now possible to buy it as one book as I did. Considering its size, about a thousand pages, it is not a challenging read. Martin certainly knows how to write blockbuster books that keep you gripped.

By A Storm of Swords Martin has a well established world and cast of characters. Or, at least, the characters would be well established if he didn’t kill so many off! The cast of narrators is expanded again, to include Jaime Lannister and Samwell Tarly; both are welcome additions, with Jaime in particular becoming a bit of a favourite. This happens at the expense of Theon Greyjoy, who I didn’t greatly miss. The characters are spread across a vast geographic area. Therefore there are multiple stories all happening at the same time, some of which barely intersect with the others in the book. If you like concise fiction, perhaps this isn’t the one for you. Martin began his career as a television writer and his desire to write novels grew out of frustration at the constant restrictions he found himself under. In his own words:

‘I’m going to write a story that’s just as big as I want to make it, and I’m going to have castles and battles and dragons and as many characters as I like. There will be no budget, there will be no running time. If I can describe it I can have it.’

There is a certain degree of excess in all these novels, Martin wallows in detail, huge feasts and battles, bloody fights and copious amounts of sex, although thankfully the sexual violence is toned down from A Clash of Kings (this may be partly due to the lack of Theon Greyjoy). I’m often amused at his fascination with the banners carried by the men to identify themselves; people are constantly introduced with a description of the sigil on their tunic, or shield, or whatever, even though we will never meet them again. These details, along with the clear mythology and history, are part of what makes Martin’s world building so successful, although it is his character work that really makes these novels. No one is allowed to be a clear cut good/bad guy; each have flaws, do terrible things in the name of war, and yet we see a human at the heart of each. Jaime and Tyrion Lannister are perhaps the best examples of this, nominally the bad guys and yet so likeable when events are told from their point of view.

It is impossible to discuss Martin’s novels without discussing his propensity to kill off major characters, which is difficult to do without giving massive spoilers. Suffice to say, in two major set pieces in this novel major characters die, unexpectedly, with ramifications that echo throughout the rest of the novel. It is this that helps to keep the novel feeling fresh and exciting. You’re never really sure who is safe or who, as much as you love the character, will turn out to be dispensable. This is tempered though by Martin’s fake killings: a number of characters disappear for huge tracts of the books, only to turn up with a ‘ha ha I’m not really dead’. At times this can be annoying, but there is a really good one of these moments in this one, so I’ve decided to forgive him for this tendency.

If you’re willing to get sucked into a sprawling fantasy epic then I would recommend these. I hope the series finishes well, but so far I think the books have got better as they go on. A sword swinging saga, with dragons, a little bit of heart, and just the right amount of bombast; what more could one ask of a holiday read?

A Conspiracy of Friends: A Corduroy Mansions Novel, by Alexander McCall Smith

Charming. That is the one word review applicable to Alexander McCall Smith’s books. Sometimes treated with disdain by literary types, his series are nevertheless phenomenally successful. So why do so many people love, or hate, his books?

Two of his most popular series are detective series - The No. 1 Lady Detective and The Sunday Philosophy Club. But there are no conflicted investigators or grisly crimes to be solved. They revolve around cheats and liars and two women determined to set things right. Some of the series, including Corduroy Mansions, don’t even have strong central conflicts, but rather have a large cast of characters around which the plot develops. Much of what is entertaining about these books is watching ordinary people muddling their way through mundane lives.

Watching a book show (First Tuesday Book Club, my favourite TV show) last year, a guest stated she would never read an Alexander McCall Smith book when she hadn’t read all of Emile Zola’s novels yet. Well, good for her. Having yet failed to hit it off with Zola (albeit having read only two of his many novels) I don’t understand the contradiction in reading both, but it is typical of the snobbery existing in literary circles. It is the same kind of snobbery that looks down its nose at any genre fiction, as though being shelved under literary fiction at your local bookstore is the only marker of quality. I love to read books that open my mind, that challenge me, and I appreciate quality prose, but I also want books that just entertain me.

Will these books change the course of the world? Be studied for centuries by university types? No. But they are generally entertaining. And A Conspiracy of Friends is no exception. It is a very gentle humour, and inevitably with such a prolific author, it is familiar. But it is so damn charming it’s hard not to read it without a smile on your face. I don’t want to give the impression that people in these books are always ‘nice’ because they aren’t. Characters niggle at each other, undermine and exasperate each other in ways that only people who know you well can. It is often very recognisable, but written with a lightness of tone that doesn’t weigh it down in the realities of life. I don’t want to include any spoilers, but an author who can write accidents involving the Large Hadron Collider in a comedy, is someone who deserves to be enjoyed.

Felix Holt, by George Eliot

Anyone who takes a look at my bookshelves will know how much I love the Victorian novel. The nineteenth century was a period of huge social change; with the expansion of manufacturing towns and introduction of the railway, Britain’s population exploded and ’new money’ became a force to be reckoned with. It provides a backdrop for some of the most iconic English language writers: Charles Dickens, Thomas Hardy and a personal favourite, George Eliot. Born Mary Ann (or Marian) Evans, the daughter of a farmer, she was lucky to receive an excellent education, largely because she was considered such an unattractive child she would never marry well. Her early life was respectable enough, taking over as her father’s house keeper at the age of 16 after her mother’s death; she remained with him until his death when she was thirty. At this stage her life takes a more unconventional turn; Evans moved to London, became a literary editor and fell in love with a married man. Although George Lewes was estranged from his wife, he was unable to divorce her, so Evans and he decided to live together openly as a couple. When she began to publish as an author Marian Evans adopted the male name George Eliot not just to avoid stereotyping as a female novelist, but also to avoid the scandal associated with her home life.

Many of Eliot’s novels are in fact historical novels, set during the years of her childhood, and Felix Holt is no exception. Set in 1832 this was an important year for British history, as it was the year the first Reform Bill was passed. This event forms a backdrop for much of the novel’s action. Before I had read George Eliot I had never heard of said bill, but it changed the electoral landscape of Britain dramatically. Way back in 1430 laws were passed establishing that male owners of land worth more than forty shillings were able to vote in county elections. Amazingly this rule did not change for four hundred years, until the passing of the Reform Bill, which increased the eligible voters by 50%. The Reform Bill also created new seats of parliament in the industrial towns such as Manchester. It is interesting stuff, but Eliot writing in 1866 assumes a level of familiarity with this history that I think most modern readers will struggle with. But that, in my opinion, is what Wikipedia was made for.

The political landscape of this novel may be dense, but her depiction of English country life and its people is as accessible as ever. The novel begins with a coach ride through southern rural England into the industrial midlands, depicting the shift from the agrarian lifestyle in tune with the earth to the smoky cities with workers up all night. The story itself begins at Transome Court, where a coach is expected. Eliot paints a picture of the whole estate in anticipation, but includes details that lead us to understand this is an estate in decline. We read a whole page before we are introduced to Mrs Transome, and two more before we learn it is her son, Harold Transome whom she awaits. Mrs Transome is a sad creature; she puts me in mind of Miss Havisham without the craziness, only the heartbreak. Eliot describes her beautifully with ‘She was far beyond fifty; and since her early gladness in this best-loved boy, the harvest of her life had been scanty.’. Harold has been overseas for fifteen years and has now returned to run the estate ruined by his now deceased elder brother. The Transomes represent the old families of England, clinging on to respectability and class, even though scandal is knocking at their door.

Into this we introduce Esther Lyon, adopted daughter of the local Dissenting minister. Esther is of humble origin, but has developed taste for the high life working as a governess in fashionable families. It would be easy for her to be a flighty Victorian female, but in the hands of Eliot, Esther is a rounded human being, aware of her faults, and capable of deep love and compassion. Esther’s father is friends with Felix Holt, a young craftsman of strong political opinion and high ideals. Holt is the least successful character in this novel; unusually for Eliot he never comes across as a person, only an idea, and unfortunately, a plot device.

Holt and Harold Transome are drawn together by the destabilising effects of the county elections. But it is in their love of Esther that they are truly rivals. Temptation lies in Esther’s way when she is invited to spend time at the Transome estate. This allows Elliot to explore a new relationship, that between Esther and Mrs Transome. The care that develops between the two is lightly depicted and believable. Mrs Transome is lonely and yearns for the affection Esther can give her; she haunts the manor like a living ghost. Esther on the other hand, in her youth and vitality, embodies a possible future for England, and in conjunction with Felix Holt, a new politically vocal middle class.

Eliot always writes convincing female characters and here she has succeeded again. Unlike many contemporary writers, Eliot can be unkind to her characters, allowing them to make bad marriages, so there is genuine tension as to whether Esther will end up like Mrs Transome. Some of the political machinations are convoluted but Eliot brings the rapid change Britain was experiencing to life within the scale of one village. While I enjoyed this book I would have to say it is probably of most interest to those who have already enjoyed George Eliot’s work. While it is a shorter novel than some, the plot meanders more. In short, it isn’t her best work. But, at the risk of sounding like a snob I think ‘not as good as Middlemarch’ is a criticism that can be made of every other novel ever written.