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If I tell you that I love you, will you even be there?
I have done almost nothing with the last day and a half except read, bake, and finally sleep, which I like to think was good for me. I am especially proud of how glossily the glaze for the hermits came out—I'd put it on danishes if I liked them. We had no light molasses in the house for the butterscotch brownies, so either I substituted golden syrup or I just followed the instructions in British English. I got up this morning around eleven and then I went back to bed until two.
In between sleeping, I finally read Eric Ambler's The Mask of Dimitrios (U.S. A Coffin for Dimitrios, 1939), which I had not previously gotten around to despite loving the film noir it was adapted into. I had gotten the impression from Background to Danger (1937), Epitaph for a Spy (1938), and The Light of Day (1962) that the typical Ambler hero either gets his arm twisted into the intrigue business or more or less literally stumbles into it; the protagonist in this case goes looking, but is just as realistically incompetent when he gets there, albeit with the intriguing, perhaps self-satirical complication of the splinter of ice in the heart attributed to every writer by Graham Greene, who owed this novel a debt that can be seen from the top of a Ferris wheel in Vienna. It feels weird to consider that I have seen more films than read books written by Ambler, but I'm catching up.
Christianna Brand's Heads You Lose (1941) contains some extremely dubious psychology, literary allusion, and a denouement like a bucket of red herrings dumped over the reader's head, but especially in the wake of l'affaire Mendel it was a pleasant surprise to encounter the character of Henry Gold, who feels as much like a topical comment on anti-Semitism as a suspect in an elaborate country house mystery who happens to be Jewish. Described as "unmistakably Jewish . . . a small, slim, ugly man, with a friendly, rather puck-like smile that lit up his face into eagerness and gave him a quite overwhelming charm," he's the insider-outsider of the party at Pigeonsford, having recently married one of the much-admired granddaughters of Lady Hart. It is unsurprisingly, locally regarded as a misalliance: the omniscient narrative lets us in on more than one character, even among the sympathetic circle of the principals, thinking of Henry as some variation on "that dreadful little Jew." So far, so Golden Age. The fact that Henry is clever, funny, kind, vividly interested in the world and in people and madly adored by his wife doesn't mean that he's one of us. Except that the book actually seems to think he is and takes some pains to show it. "People all thought Henry was terribly lucky to marry me," Venetia confides to her sister in an early scene, "I know they did, just because he was a Jew and not very good-looking and not as up in society as some of the others . . . but if they only knew, it was me that was the lucky one." Later, as her husband is cheerfully cleaning up at vingt-et-un—they are playing for matches, of which Henry has accumulated so many that he has been obliged to trade in his winnings for a lighter so as to free up the pot for the other players—she teases popular prejudices, "He always does it. It only shows that it's quite right when they say that the Jews have all the money and people like Henry are responsible for the War and Mussolini and the measles epidemic and the common cold and everything else that ever goes wrong with the world . . ." It doesn't feel like merely the loyalty of a doting wife when the character who sneers most openly at Henry is an unlikable murder victim or when Venetia's own grandmother, while some of the red herrings are still flopping around on the floor, steadily takes his side for once before her granddaughter. Even Venetia's sadly accepted conviction that she is so much the more loving one of their marriage is disproven by the end of the novel, which is an important enough part of their relationship that I don't even mind when her sister cuts in, "Don't get all Jewish and sentimental, darling, or I shall start howling." It makes a change, all right? Especially when I didn't want to talk about the hostage situation at Congregation Beth Israel in Colleyville, Texas until it was over and hadn't turned into another Tree of Life.
Last night it was five above freezing outside and with the wind chill felt like five below and the moon looked like a follow-spot of ice. Tonight it's fogged over and the moon had a sort of blue-gel effect before it set. Tomorrow it is supposed to rain, which is demoralizing. The reservoir behind my parents' house was covered with skaters this afternoon.
In between sleeping, I finally read Eric Ambler's The Mask of Dimitrios (U.S. A Coffin for Dimitrios, 1939), which I had not previously gotten around to despite loving the film noir it was adapted into. I had gotten the impression from Background to Danger (1937), Epitaph for a Spy (1938), and The Light of Day (1962) that the typical Ambler hero either gets his arm twisted into the intrigue business or more or less literally stumbles into it; the protagonist in this case goes looking, but is just as realistically incompetent when he gets there, albeit with the intriguing, perhaps self-satirical complication of the splinter of ice in the heart attributed to every writer by Graham Greene, who owed this novel a debt that can be seen from the top of a Ferris wheel in Vienna. It feels weird to consider that I have seen more films than read books written by Ambler, but I'm catching up.
Christianna Brand's Heads You Lose (1941) contains some extremely dubious psychology, literary allusion, and a denouement like a bucket of red herrings dumped over the reader's head, but especially in the wake of l'affaire Mendel it was a pleasant surprise to encounter the character of Henry Gold, who feels as much like a topical comment on anti-Semitism as a suspect in an elaborate country house mystery who happens to be Jewish. Described as "unmistakably Jewish . . . a small, slim, ugly man, with a friendly, rather puck-like smile that lit up his face into eagerness and gave him a quite overwhelming charm," he's the insider-outsider of the party at Pigeonsford, having recently married one of the much-admired granddaughters of Lady Hart. It is unsurprisingly, locally regarded as a misalliance: the omniscient narrative lets us in on more than one character, even among the sympathetic circle of the principals, thinking of Henry as some variation on "that dreadful little Jew." So far, so Golden Age. The fact that Henry is clever, funny, kind, vividly interested in the world and in people and madly adored by his wife doesn't mean that he's one of us. Except that the book actually seems to think he is and takes some pains to show it. "People all thought Henry was terribly lucky to marry me," Venetia confides to her sister in an early scene, "I know they did, just because he was a Jew and not very good-looking and not as up in society as some of the others . . . but if they only knew, it was me that was the lucky one." Later, as her husband is cheerfully cleaning up at vingt-et-un—they are playing for matches, of which Henry has accumulated so many that he has been obliged to trade in his winnings for a lighter so as to free up the pot for the other players—she teases popular prejudices, "He always does it. It only shows that it's quite right when they say that the Jews have all the money and people like Henry are responsible for the War and Mussolini and the measles epidemic and the common cold and everything else that ever goes wrong with the world . . ." It doesn't feel like merely the loyalty of a doting wife when the character who sneers most openly at Henry is an unlikable murder victim or when Venetia's own grandmother, while some of the red herrings are still flopping around on the floor, steadily takes his side for once before her granddaughter. Even Venetia's sadly accepted conviction that she is so much the more loving one of their marriage is disproven by the end of the novel, which is an important enough part of their relationship that I don't even mind when her sister cuts in, "Don't get all Jewish and sentimental, darling, or I shall start howling." It makes a change, all right? Especially when I didn't want to talk about the hostage situation at Congregation Beth Israel in Colleyville, Texas until it was over and hadn't turned into another Tree of Life.
Last night it was five above freezing outside and with the wind chill felt like five below and the moon looked like a follow-spot of ice. Tonight it's fogged over and the moon had a sort of blue-gel effect before it set. Tomorrow it is supposed to rain, which is demoralizing. The reservoir behind my parents' house was covered with skaters this afternoon.
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Books are important!
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I don't think I'd ever heard of Christianna Brand before, but I'm glad Heads You Lose included Henry Gold.
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In a Cuisinart if you have one and in a stand mixer if you don't and by hand if you really have to, cream ¼ lb (1 stick) of butter with 1¼ cups dark brown sugar firmly packed. Add 1 cup flour sifted or scant, 1 teaspoon vanilla extract, 1 tablespoon light molasses or golden syrup, and 2 eggs. (If not using a Cuisinart, add molasses, vanilla, and eggs before flour. We used salted butter to no detriment.) Beat until very smooth. Turn out into a buttered 9-inch square baking pan. Scatter with chopped pecans if you feel like it and can eat them, which I can't. Bake at 350° F for 32–35 minutes, checking carefully toward the end, until the traditional inserted toothpick just barely comes out dry. It will look very moist on top even when it's done. You don't want to dry it out. Let it cool in the pan and either in-pan or out cut into desired sizes. Eat as soon as humanly possible. Discover the next day you need to make more.
I don't think I'd ever heard of Christianna Brand before, but I'm glad Heads You Lose included Henry Gold.
I knew her for years as the author of the source novel of Sidney Gilliat's Green for Danger (1946), but I never thought much about looking for her as an author until all of a sudden two to three people on my friendlist were reading her and then so was my mother. I think she just got reprinted.
I even like Henry Gold in his own right! He is a delightful person. He does get caught up in the bucket of red herrings, but so does the series detective.
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Butterscotch Brownies by Scholar Sovay
Incidentally I never cook giveaway food with nuts because J is allergic to pecans and TL is allergic to almonds, so I decided to just leave those out of my repertoire.
Re: Butterscotch Brownies by Scholar Sovay
You're welcome! The pecans were in the original recipe, so I included them just in case.
(I am not allergic to nuts, I just can't digest them at any grade above flour or nut butter, so I tend not to cook with them myself.)
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Also I am delighted that you've been baking, and so relieved with you.
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It's true. People who are vividly engaged with the world also tend to be good to look at. People who don't care can have all the classical bone structure and big deal.
[500 words about the sociopolitical relationship between bigotry, appearance-as-marker, and who is considered ugly, reserved for another time]
Hey, I pruned an entire miniature essay about Henry and Venetia out of the middle of this thing!
I would actually love to know how Henry looked to his author inside her head, because the description of him as "unmistakably Jewish" is modified by "without having the characteristic features," which (a) begs the inevitable question of the characteristic features, although my best guess is that she was trying to avoid falling into stereotype (b) then seems to eliminate several ways in which he could be automatically characterized to the English eye as ugly (c) so, what? Is it just the unmistakable otherness? We get a fair amount of visual information about his expressions and his movements, which seem as lively and appealing as his smile, but the only other physical detail is that he's dark-eyed. I have been assuming no matter what that I would like his face.
(Leslie Howard icon deployed in honor of unconventionally beautiful Jewish people.)
Also I am delighted that you've been baking, and so relieved with you.
*hugs*
Please find the recipe for butterscotch brownies, above.
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For years, I knew Christianna Brand as the editor of a glorious anthology of Naughty Children, and as the author of the Nurse Matilda stories. I only realized last year that she wrote mysteries. I must get hold of this one.
Nine
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See above for recipe! Personally, I was really pleased with the hermits.
For years, I knew Christianna Brand as the editor of a glorious anthology of Naughty Children, and as the author of the Nurse Matilda stories. I only realized last year that she wrote mysteries.
I've never read any of her children's fiction. My mother believes she read some of her short stories in Ellery Queen, since she was fantastically prolific and publishing right up until the end of her life.
I must get hold of this one.
It's wild! I am reliably informed there are wilder. If Green for Danger (1944) is anything like its film, for example.