SUFFER THE CHILDREN (Monthly Book Report: 6/16 and 7/16)

NOTE: I didn’t finish any books in June, hence the combo…Upon receiving a sensible reader recommendation I’m making a small change to the usual formula and will henceforth be listing the books reviewed at the top of the post. I’m also going to include snapshots of the authors when they are available. It’s all part of my  learning curve.

Reviewed this month: Virginia Hamilton’s The House of Dies Drear; Josephine Tey’s Miss Pym Disposes; Charles Portis’s True Grit. A so-so ghost story with some interesting sociological elements and two of the best post-war novels written in the English language. Common theme: Youth observed or remembered.



The House of Dies Drear (Virginia Hamilton, 1968)


This one has a fine premise: a black professor moves his southern family to a mysterious, possibly haunted, Ohio farmhouse that was once a key station on the Underground Railroad. The story is told in plain-speak, mostly from the perspective of the professor’s teenage son, Thomas Small.

Unfortunately, it’s far too languid in tone and pedestrian in style to work as either a crime novel (it won the Edgar’s juvenile award for its year) or a ghost story. The requisite tension simply never ratchets.

What it does do well is catch the rhythm of bourgeoisie black family life in a period of massive upheaval. The period goes unmentioned anywhere except the copyright page but some of the tension of the age creeps into the atmosphere anyway, especially in the first third. That the denouement of the actual ghost story which makes up the book’s final third turns out to consist of mundane plotting told at a lumbering pace is therefore all the more disappointing.

Miss Pym Disposes (Josephine Tey, 1948)


“But do you have to know the human structure in such detail?” asked Lucy.

“On Tuesday morning we do,” said the Thomas who slept. “After that we can forget it for the rest of our lives.”

Middle-aged spinster and lady authoress, Lucy Pym, comes to visit an English girls’ school at the invitation of its devoted headmistress, who once did Lucy a kindness in their own school days. What could be more English than that?

It starts as a comedy of manners in the classic style and ends as a lacerating psychological horror story, as if tracing a long arc from Jane Austen to the yet-to-be-published Patricia Highsmith. Even on a re-read it’s hard to catch Tey devising this nightmare, as opposed to observing it. The final horror feels close, almost unbearably claustrophobic, much like Conrad’s achievement in Under Western Eyes or Nabokov’s in Bend Sinister.

But those were novels about the long reach of terror states, and, if anything, Miss Pym Disposes is rendered more devastating by its bucolic setting and miniaturist’s attention to detail.

There isn’t even a dead body until very near the end. By the time it arrives, off-hand observations like “The use of a book so tiny that a mapping pen had been necessary in order to make the entries legible could have only one explanation.” have accumulated subtly and thoroughly enough to build a mountain of dread, which grows, word-by-word, until, with the last page, it falls on both the reader and the world Tey has so delicately constructed with horrific, shattering force.

Not simply one of the finest crime novels ever written, but as good a post-war English language novel as I’ve read. So good it’s even a match for…

True Grit (Charles Portis, 1968)


The only novels I’ve re-read more than a time or two in adulthood are the crime fiction of Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler and Ross MacDonald, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and this one. That covers a fair range of concerns if not style–if anything links them it’s a tendency to elide everything that isn’t necessary.

As I’ve grown older, I find I appreciate this quality in more than fiction. Time grows short.

The basic story of True Grit is now familiar to millions of people who have seen either of the two good movies made from it. (I wrote about some of the reasons film-goers who haven’t read the book might be missing something here.)

In the Arkansas of the late 1920s, an aging spinster named Mattie Ross, sets out an account of the great adventure of her youth: a trip by her fourteen-year-old self into Indian Territory (present day Eastern Oklahoma), in the company of U.S. Marshal, Rooster Cogburn, and a Texas Ranger named Labeouf, to avenge her father’s murder.

Many have noted the book’s miracles of economy and tone. I second those notations. It manages to make the plain, realistic voice of a tight-fisted Presbyterian old maid sing in every line, including first and last sentences unlikely to ever be bettered.

Many have also suggested Mattie herself bears some resemblance to both Huck Finn (through age and geography) and Captain Ahab (through temperament).

I’ll let others hash that out and just say that Mattie would probably have had little use for either and would have understood that neither character’s creator was likely any more enamored of her than she of them.

Like all truly great fictional characters, she stands alone.

That doesn’t mean Portis wasn’t drawing on deep wells.

He said in later years that Mattie’s voice came from his time as a stringer on Little Rock’s principal paper. As the youngster in the building he was put in charge of editing the reports sent in by various rural county representatives who were invariably older women of something near Mattie’s vintage with their own ideas about what ought to be in a newspaper. He was repeatedly forced, by “journalistic standards,” to cut out all the good stuff. But he retained the memory of their clear styles and no doubt prickly insights. Mattie was his homage.

The mastery of that voice alone might have secured the book a high place. But it stands even taller because, beneath the voice, Portis sensed a previously concealed connection between two sturdy American archetypes: The Spitfire and The Frontier Spinster.

The former had been granted a long, proud tradition by the time True Grit was being written. The nineteenth century’s models, Judith Hutter and Jo March, had given way to Scarlet O’Hara and Scout Finch in the twentieth.

The latter had been routinely ridiculed (as spinsters have been everywhere through most of human history) and never been treated with anything like the dignity or force Portis discovered in Mattie (let us not say “created”–in life, she had always had it).

There were reasons why

If the crit-illuminati have had a far more complicated relationship with Mattie Ross than with Huck or Ahab or pretty much anyone else, it’s because her stinging, arch-conservative, Christian voice can’t help reminding them (or us) which character represents the rock upon which civilizations are built. Seen from this side of the great cultural divide (a divide that was opening wide even as Portis was writing), it can get very confusing trying to decide whether we should be laughing with her or at her.

And by the time you get around to deciding, she might have broken your heart.

You might have realized in that split-second delay, that, having granted her this one moment in fiction, we’ve cast her, and her memory, aside in the world, having sold ourselves on the notion that it is no longer necessary to produce people who will ride into the Choctaw Nation in the dead of winter to kill the bad men.

More’s the pity?

We’ll find out soon enough.

5 thoughts on “SUFFER THE CHILDREN (Monthly Book Report: 6/16 and 7/16)

  1. Hi Johnny

    When I saw True Grit as a girl Matti’s age, I disliked her (or the actress, I’m unsure which I blamed) so much it made the movie hard to take. It’s only in recent years now that we are losing individuality with a unique and specific stamp—personality that stands out because of , not in spit of, one’s rock-real background. ,

    Now I can appreciate her and love the way she uses language (“draws it like a gun”). I have not read the book, but the phrases and rhythm of the dialogue do not simply evoke “quaintness”, they bring out the essence of “back home”, her entire world (which she expects the rest of the world to bend to). For the uninitiated (anyone born after 1980) you already know what her point of view is going to be after her first five minutes on the scene…until you’re wrong…and surprised again to be wrong again.

    Katharine Hepburn portrayed the ultimate “spinster” type in her middle years, unashamed and unvarnished women, but also real enough to be vulnerable and not quite resigned to singleness or dry worlds. Feminist thinking later labeled her prickly qualities “independence” (“grit” would be too much for them); but only after they were sure plenty of sex was hiding in there somewhere, to erase any taint of virginity-past-the point-of-no-return (that would have to imply emotional and mental disorder).

    Kate Hepburn snorted at a lot of these ideas in later interviews, such as the cult about her strength but about toughness like that found in Matti, she had no words, she just had to “be”. No wonder she was picked to play Matti’s successor in True Grit’s replay, Rooster Cogburn.

  2. Hey April, it’s great to hear from you. You make a lot of good points. One thing I think a LOT of people have missed is that Mattie is not supposed to be “likable.” Kim Darby was slagged on the set (by both Henry Hathaway and John Wayne) for playing her as written and by virtually everyone else ever since. I had the same reaction you did when I first saw the movie on television in the 70s.

    Then I read the book a little while later and it all made sense. (Haillee Steinfeld was much more likable in the recent version which is also very good.) As good as the two films are, they don’t quite catch the book’s melancholy, the sense that an old woman who consistently professes to regret nothing, does, in fact, retain a sense of those saddest words “it might have been.” Would have been great, incidentally, if Hepburn had been available to play the older Mattie in the new version!…or if somebody had thought to use the same kind of framing device in the 1969 version…(wow, you just made my head explode…she was, in effect, playing an older Mattie in Rooster Cogburn, and having her do a voice-over at the end, from the perspective of an older Mattie in the 1969 movie would have taken the film to a whole other level and given critics some cover to appreciate Darby’s interpretation.)

    The other thing no film will ever catch about the book is how beautifully it’s written…Almost all of the memorable dialogue from both films is straight from the book. In that sense, it might be the most well-adapted book ever. The British writer George MacDonald Fraser, who specialized in historical novels from the period, said the 1969 version was the purest example of Victorian language (as it had descended from Elizabethan language) ever put on film and that Wayne should have played Falstaff. I’ve seen the film in a whole new light ever since I read that.

    But even a faithful adaptation can’t catch the depth of the narrative (Mattie’s got an opinion on EVERYTHING!) or the force of the book’s ending in particular. I occasionally get my copy out and read it out loud (which I don’t do with any other passage I’ve ever read) and, even reading it to myself, I NEVER get through it without choking up.

    Probably doesn’t help that I had an uncle named Frank Ross…but I’m not the only one to be similarly affected!

    BTW…Do you still have a facebook page?? I haven’t been able to find it lately through the search engines and I haven’t been able to dig up the link you sent me way back.


  3. I remember reading the comment about the language and about Wayne, thank you for clarifying the source. Wayne had a great ear for and good timing with words and cadence, which is really the name of the game with performing much of Shakespeare.
    I’m not on FB or Twitter anymore, having decided to curtail that expense (of time).
    Keep up the good writing!

  4. Pingback: HISTORY AND MYSTERY (Monthly Book Report: 9/16 and 10/16) | The Round Place In The Middle

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