This book by Barbara Trapido is one of Katie's other most favourite books. Katie was my housemate and is one of my best beloveds. I had seen this book in our sweet little flat and kept meaning to read it. Now I've moved out of our sweet little flat and I'm all reminiscent and forlorn. So when I saw a copy in the second hand bookstore I frequent (the exact same edition as Katie's) - I bought it out sentiment for days now gone.
I assumed the author was British so kept it aside for next year but then I noticed the write up on Barbara Trapido and saw she was born in Cape Town, grew up in Durban and studied at the University of Natal. (Ha!) Which pretty much makes her South African, even if she emigrated to London. JM Coetzee is now an Australian citizen (gross) and he's still hailed as one the most prominent South African authors of our time. So there.
I read the book in one day. Which says a lot about:
a. How absorbing I found the book and
b. How unemployed I actually am.
I found the story to be funny and sad and sweet and charming and very, very British. It was so strange to be swirled into the delightfully sinister world of English academics and novelists who are witty and knitty and full of safe, deviant ideas of fun and sex, who outrageously say 'fuck' a lot in their charming English accents and who bravely write books whilst reading the Guardian and planting potatoes.
After reading about Angolan immigrants living in Johannesburg, the complexities of being a pseudo white South African liberal in the seventies and the grandiose ongoings of southern Africa in 1830s through the eyes of the Barolong tribe - I couldn't get enough of the frivolous conversations of the daughter of a greengrocer, Katherine and her introduction into the intellectual world of her philosophy professor and his jumbly family romping about with violins and Russian novels. (Excuse the length of the sentence).
It was strange and lovely to read such an oddly familiar story and almost, nearly unenjoyable but I had a very good time reading it and didn't like it at all. I'm in a bit of lonely, radical, idealistic place right now so naturally I found the feminist themes a bit too subtle and possibly even weak. And at the end of the day, us clever girls who get degrees, live independent lives, move to Italy, have many lovers and tell many stories will ultimately one day get to marry a British novelist, make quirky babies in a sweet rambling home and plant apple trees and then our dreams really will come true. Hooray for aspiring novelists who clean up after themselves! Oh! The husbands they will make!
I'm not sure what to make of this book. I think it is about how to be the wife of a British intellectual. And I don't know if I'm very interested in that.
Here are some book covers... I have put them in an order in which they get progressively uglier.
I assumed the author was British so kept it aside for next year but then I noticed the write up on Barbara Trapido and saw she was born in Cape Town, grew up in Durban and studied at the University of Natal. (Ha!) Which pretty much makes her South African, even if she emigrated to London. JM Coetzee is now an Australian citizen (gross) and he's still hailed as one the most prominent South African authors of our time. So there.
I read the book in one day. Which says a lot about:
a. How absorbing I found the book and
b. How unemployed I actually am.
I found the story to be funny and sad and sweet and charming and very, very British. It was so strange to be swirled into the delightfully sinister world of English academics and novelists who are witty and knitty and full of safe, deviant ideas of fun and sex, who outrageously say 'fuck' a lot in their charming English accents and who bravely write books whilst reading the Guardian and planting potatoes.
After reading about Angolan immigrants living in Johannesburg, the complexities of being a pseudo white South African liberal in the seventies and the grandiose ongoings of southern Africa in 1830s through the eyes of the Barolong tribe - I couldn't get enough of the frivolous conversations of the daughter of a greengrocer, Katherine and her introduction into the intellectual world of her philosophy professor and his jumbly family romping about with violins and Russian novels. (Excuse the length of the sentence).
It was strange and lovely to read such an oddly familiar story and almost, nearly unenjoyable but I had a very good time reading it and didn't like it at all. I'm in a bit of lonely, radical, idealistic place right now so naturally I found the feminist themes a bit too subtle and possibly even weak. And at the end of the day, us clever girls who get degrees, live independent lives, move to Italy, have many lovers and tell many stories will ultimately one day get to marry a British novelist, make quirky babies in a sweet rambling home and plant apple trees and then our dreams really will come true. Hooray for aspiring novelists who clean up after themselves! Oh! The husbands they will make!
I'm not sure what to make of this book. I think it is about how to be the wife of a British intellectual. And I don't know if I'm very interested in that.
Here are some book covers... I have put them in an order in which they get progressively uglier.
(This is the one Katie and I have)
(Quite nice)
(What?)
(AAAHHHHHHfuck)
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