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The Price of Things by Elinor Glyn

E >> Elinor Glyn >> The Price of Things

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Verisschenzko looked at her earnestly--he was silent for some seconds.

"Fate may alter the atmosphere. There are things hovering, I fear, of
which you do not dream, little protected English bride. Perhaps it is
good that you live while you can."

"What things?"

"Sorrows for the world. But tell me, have you seen Harietta Boleski in
her London role?"

"Yes--she is the greatest success--every one goes to her parties; she is
coming to mine at Ardayre."

Verisschenzko raised his eyebrows, and nothing could have been more
sardonically whimsical than his smile.

"I saw Stanislass this morning--he is almost _gaga_ now--a mere
cypher--she has destroyed his body, as well as his soul."

"They are both coming on the twenty-third."

"It will be an interesting visit I do not doubt--and I shall see the
Family house!"

"I hope you will like it--I shall love to show it to you, and the
pictures. It means so much to John."

"Have you met your cousin Denzil yet?".

Verisschenzko was studying her face; it had gained something, it was
a little finer--but it had lost something too, and there was a shadow
in her eyes.

"Denzil Ardayre? No--What made you mention him now?"

"I shall be curious as to what you think of him, he is so like--your
husband, you know."

The subject did not interest Amaryllis; she wanted to hear more of the
Russian's unusual views.

"You know London well, do you not?" she asked.

"Yes--I often came up from Oxford when I was there, and I have revisited
it since. It is a sane place generally, but this year it would seem to be
almost as _desequilibre_ as the rest of the world."

"You give me an uneasy feeling, as though you knew that something
dreadful was going to happen. What is it? Tell me."

"One can only speculate how soon a cauldron will boil over, one cannot
be certain in what direction the liquid will fly. The whole world seems
feverish; the spirit of progress has awakened after hundreds of years of
sleep, and is disturbing everything. In all boilings the scum rises to
the top; we are at the period when this has occurred--we can but
wait--and watch."

"If we had a new religion?"

"It will come presently, the reign of mystical make-believe is past."

"But surely it is mysticism and idealism which make ordinary
things divine!"

"Certainly when they are emplanted upon a true basis. I said
'make-believe'--that is what kills all good things--make-believe. Most
of the present-day leaders are throwing dust in their followers' eyes--or
their own. Priests and politicians, lawyers and financiers--all of them
are afraid of the truth. Every one lives in a stupid atmosphere of
self-deception. The religion of the future will teach each individual to
be true to himself, and when that is accomplished the sixth root race
will be born. Look at that man over there talking to a woman with haggard
eyes--can you see them in the gloom? They have all the ugly entities
around them, the spirits of morphine and nicotine--drawing misfortune and
bodily decay. Every force has to have its congenial atmosphere, or it
cannot exist; fishes cannot breathe on land."

Amaryllis looked at the pair; they were well-known people, the man
celebrated in the literary and artistic section of the world of
fashion--the woman of high rank and of refined intelligence.

Verisschenzko looked also. "I do not know either of their names," he
said, "I am simply judging by the obvious deductions to be made by their
appearances to any one who has developed intuition."

"How I wish I could learn to have that!"

"Read Voltaire's 'Zadig.' Deductive methods are shown in it useful to
begin upon--observe everything about people, and then having seen
results, work back to causes, and then realise that all material things
are the physical expression of an etheric force, and as we can control
the material, we need thus only attract what etheric waves we desire."

Amaryllis looked again at the pair--both were smoking idly, and she
remembered having heard that they both "took drugs." It was a phrase
which had meant nothing to her until now.

"You mean that because they smoke all the time, and it is said they take
morphine _piqures_, that they are not only hurting their bodies, but
drawing spiritual ills as well."

"Obviously. They have surrounded themselves with the drab demagnetising
current which envelops the body when human beings give up their wills. It
would be very difficult for anything good to pierce through such
ambience. Have you ever remarked the strange ends of all people who take
drugs? They seldom die natural, ordinary deaths. The evil entities which
they have drawn round them by their own weakness, destroy them at last."

"I do not like the idea that there are these 'entities,' as you call
them, all around us."

"There are not, they cannot come near us unless we allow them--have I not
told you that the atmosphere must be congenial? Our own wills can create
an armour through which nothing demagnetising can pass. It is weakness
and drifting which are inexorably punished; they draw currents suitable
for the vampires beyond to exist on."

"All this does sound so weird to me." Amaryllis was interested and
yet repelled.

"Have you ever thought about Marconigrams and their etheric waves?
No--not often. People just accept such things as facts as soon as they
become commercial commodities--and only a few begin to speculate upon
what such discoveries suggest, and the other possibilities which they
could lead to. Nothing is supernatural; it is only that we are so
ignorant. Some day I will take you to my laboratory in my home in
Russia and show you the result of my experiments with vibrations and
coloured lights."

"I should love that--but just now you troubled me--you seemed to include
smoking in the things which brought evil--I smoke sometimes."

"So do I--will you have a Russian cigarette?"

He took out his case and offered her one, which she accepted. "Will it
bring something bad?"

"Not more than a glass of wine," and he opened his lighter and bent
nearer to her. "One glass of wine might be good for you, but twenty would
make you very drunk and me very quarrelsome!"

They laughed softly and lit their cigarettes.

"I feel when I am with you that I am enveloped in some strong essence,"
and Amaryllis lay back with a satisfied sigh--"as though I were uplifted
and awakened--it is very curious because you have such a wicked face, but
you make me feel that I want to be good."

His queer, husky voice took on a new note.

"We have met of course in a former life--then probably I tempted you to
break all vows--it was my fault. So in this life you are to tempt me--it
may be--but my will has developed--I mean to resist. I want to place you
as my joy of the spirit this time--something which is pure and beautiful
apart from earthly things."

Into Amaryllis' mind there flashed the thought that if she saw him often,
her emotions for him might not keep at that high level! Her eyes perhaps
expressed this doubt, for Verisschenzko bent nearer.

"Another must fulfil that which must be denied to me. You are too young
to remain free from emotion. Hold yourself until the right time comes."

Amaryllis wondered why he should speak as though it were an understood
thing that she could feel no emotion for John. She resented this.

"I have my husband," she answered with dignity and a sweetly
conventional air.

Verisschenzko laughed.

"You are delicious when you say things like that--loyal, and English, and
proud. But listen, child--it is waste of time to have any dissimulation
with me, we finished all those things when we were lovers in our other
life. Now we must be frank and learn of each other. Shall it not be so?"

Amaryllis felt a number of things.

"Yes, you are right, we will always speak the truth."

"You see," he went on, "if you represent anything you must never injure
it; you must destroy yourself if necessary in its service. You
represent an ideal, the ideal of the perfect wife of the Ardayres. You
must fulfil this role. I represent a leader of certain thought in my
country. My soul is given to this--I must only indulge in through
which nothing demagnetising can pass. It is weakness and drifting which
are inexorably punished; they draw currents suitable for the vampires
beyond to exist on."

"All this does sound so weird to me." Amaryllis was interested and
yet repelled.

"Have you ever thought about Marconigrams and their etheric waves?
No--not often. People just accept such things as facts as soon as they
become commercial commodities--and only a few begin to speculate upon
what such discoveries suggest, and the other possibilities which they
could lead to. Nothing is supernatural; it is only that we are so
ignorant. Some day I will take you to my laboratory in my home in
Russia and show you the result of my experiments with vibrations and
coloured lights."

"I should love that--but just now you troubled me--you seemed to include
smoking in the things which brought evil--I smoke sometimes."

"So do I--will you have a Russian cigarette?"

He took out his case and offered her one, which she accepted. "Will it
bring something bad?"

"Not more than a glass of wine," and he opened his lighter and bent
nearer to her. "One glass of wine might be good for you, but twenty would
make you very drunk and me very quarrelsome!"

They laughed softly and lit their cigarettes.

"I feel when I am with you that I am enveloped in some strong essence,"
and Amaryllis lay back with a satisfied sigh--"as though I were uplifted
and awakened--it is very curious because you have such a wicked face, but
you make me feel that I want to be good."

His queer, husky voice took on a new note.

"We have met of course in a former life--then probably I tempted you to
break all vows--it was my fault. So in this life you are to tempt me--it
may be--but my will has developed--I mean to resist. I want to place you
as my joy of the spirit this time--something which is pure and beautiful
apart from earthly things."

Into Amaryllis' mind there flashed the thought that if she saw him often,
her emotions for him might not keep at that high level! Her eyes perhaps
expressed this doubt, for Verisschenzko bent nearer.

"Another must fulfil that which must be denied to me. You are too young
to remain free from emotion. Hold yourself until the right time comes."

Amaryllis wondered why he should speak as though it were an understood
thing that she could feel no emotion for John. She resented this.

"I have my husband," she answered with dignity and a sweetly
conventional air.

Verisschenzko laughed.

"You are delicious when you say things like that--loyal, and English, and
proud. But listen, child--it is waste of time to have any dissimulation
with me, we finished all those things when we were lovers in our other
life. Now we must be frank and learn of each other. Shall it not be so?"

Amaryllis felt a number of things.

"Yes, you are right, we will always speak the truth."

"You see," he went on, "if you represent anything you must never injure
it; you must destroy yourself if necessary in its service. You represent
an ideal, the ideal of the perfect wife of the Ardayres. You must fulfil
this role. I represent a leader of certain thought in my country. My soul
is given to this--I must only indulge in that over which I am master.
Indulgences are our recompenses, our rights, when we have obtained
dominion and they have become our slaves; to be enjoyed only when, and
for so long as, our wills permit. When you say a thing is _'plus fort que
vous'_--then you had better throw up the sponge--you have lost the fight,
and your indulgence will scourge you with a scorpion whip."

"You say this, and yet you are so far from being an ascetic!"

"As far as possible, I hope! They are self-acknowledged failures; they
dare not permit themselves the smallest indulgence, they are weaklings
afraid to enter the arena at all. To me they are at a stage further back
than the sensualists--what are they accomplishing? They have withered
nature, they are things of nought! A man or woman should realise what
plane he or she is living on, and try to live to the highest of the best
of the physical, mental and moral life on that plane, but not try to
alter all its workings, and live as though in a different sphere
altogether, where another scheme of nature obtained. It is colossal
presumption in human beings to give examples to be followed, which,
should they be followed, would end the human race. The Supreme Being will
end it in His own time; it is not for us to usurp authority."

"You reason in this in the same way that you did about the smoking."

"Naturally--that is the only form of sensible reasoning. You must keep
your judgment perfectly balanced and never let it be obscured by
prejudice, tradition, custom, or anything but the actual common-sense
view of the case."

"I think we English like that better than any other quality in
people--common sense."

Verisschenzko looked away from her to a new stream of guests who had come
out on the terrace--a splendid-looking group of tall young men and
exquisite women.

"With all your faults you are a great nation, because although these
latter years seem often to have destroyed the sense of duty in the
individual in regard to his own life, the ingrained sense of it had
become a habit and the habit still continues in regard to the
community--you are not likely to have upheavals of great magnitude here.
Now all other countries are moved by different spirits, some by
patriotism and gallantry like the French, some by superstition and
ignorance worked on by mystic religion, as in my country--some by
ruthless materialism like Germany; but that dull, solid sense of duty is
purely English--and it is really a glorious thing."

Amaryllis thought how John represented it exactly!

"I feel that I want to do my duty," she said softly, "but..."

"Continue to feel that and Fate will show you the way. Now I must take
you back to your husband whom I see in the distance there--he is with
Harietta Boleski. I wonder what he thinks of her?"

"I have asked him! He says that she is so obvious as to be innocuous, and
that he likes her clothes!"

Verisschenzko did not answer, and Amaryllis wondered if he agreed
with John!

They had to pass along a corridor to reach the staircase, upon the
landing of which they had seen Sir John and Madame Boleski leaning over
the balustrade, and when they got there they had moved on out of sight,
so Verisschenzko, bowing, left Amaryllis with Lady de la Paule.

As he retraced his steps later on he saw Sir John Ardayre in earnest
conversation with Lemon Bridges, the fashionable rising surgeon of the
day. They stood in an alcove, and Verisschenzko's alert intelligence was
struck by the expression on John Ardayre's face--it was so sad and
resigned, as a brave man's who has received death sentence. And as he
passed close to them he heard these words from John: "It is quite
hopeless then--I feared so--"

He stopped his descent for a moment and looked again--and then a
sudden illumination came into his yellow-green eyes, and he went on
down the stairs.

"There is tragedy here--and how will it affect the Lady of my soul?"

He walked out of the House and into Pall Mall, and there by the Rag met
Denzil Ardayre!

"We seem doomed to have unexpected meetings!" cried that young man
delightedly. "Here I am only up for one night on regimental business, and
I run into you!"

They walked on together, and Denzil went into the Ritz with
Verisschenzko and they smoked in his sitting-room. They talked of many
things for a long time--of the unrest in Europe and the clouds in the
Southeast--of Denzil's political aims--of things in general--and at last
Verisschenzko said:

"I have just left your cousin and his wife at the German Embassy; they
have now gone on to a ball. He makes an indulgent husband--I suppose the
affair is going well?"

"Very well between them, I believe. That sickening cad Ferdinand is
circulating rumours--that they can never have any children--but they are
for his own ends. I must arrange to meet them when I come up next time--I
hear that the family are enchanted with Amaryllis--"

"She is a thing of flesh and blood and flame--I could love her wildly did
I think it were wise."

Denzil glanced sharply at his friend. He had not often known him to
hesitate when attracted by a woman--

"What aspect does the unwisdom take?"

"Certain absorption--I have other and terribly important things to do.
The husband is most worthy--one wonders what the next few years will
bring. Their temperaments must be as the poles.

"No one seems to think of temperament when he marries, or heredity, or
anything, but just desire for the woman--or her money--or something
quite outside the actual fact." Denzil lit another cigarette. "Marriage
appears a perfect terror to me--how could one know one was going to
continue to feel emotion towards some one who might prove to be the most
awful physical or mental disappointment on intimate acquaintance? I
believe _affaires de convenance_ selected with thought-out reasoning are
the best."

Verisschenzko shrugged his shoulders.

"That is not necessary. If the brain is disciplined, it is in a condition
to use its judgment, even when in love, and ought therefore to be able to
resist the desire to mate if the woman's character or tendencies are
unsuitable, but most men's brains are only disciplined in regard to
mental things, and have no real control over their physical desires. I
have been this morning with Stanislass Boleski--there is a case and a
warning. Stanislass was a strong man with a splendid brain and immense
ambition, but no dominion over his senses, so that Succubus has
completely annihilated all force in him. He should have strangled her
after the first _etreinte_ as I should have done, had I felt that she
could ever have any power over me!"

Denzil smiled--Stepan was such a mixture of tenderness and
complete savagery.

"I always thought the Russian character was the most headstrong and
undisciplined in the world, and took what it desired regardless of costs.
But you belie it, old boy!"

"I early said to myself on looking at my countrymen--and especially my
countrywomen--these people are half genius, half fool; they have all
the qualities and ruin most of them through being slaves, not masters
to their own desires. If with his qualities a Russian could be balanced
and deductive, and rule his vagrant thoughts, to what height could he
not attain!"

"And you have attained."

"I am on the road, but did not affairs of vital importance occupy me at
the moment I might be capable of ancient excess!"

"It is as well for the head of the Ardayre family that you are occupied
then!" and Denzil smiled, and then he said, his thoughts drifting back to
what interested him most:

"You think Europe will be blazing soon, Stepan? I have wondered myself in
the last month if this hectic peace could continue."

"It cannot. I am here upon business with great issues, but I must not
speak of facts, and what I say now is not from my knowledge of current
events, but from my study of etheric currents which the thoughts and
actions of over-civilised generations have engendered. You do not cram a
shell with high explosives and leave it among matches with impunity."

The two men looked at one another significantly, and then Denzil said:

"I think I will not retire from the old regiment yet--I shall wait
another year."

"Yes--I would if I were you."

They smoked silently for a moment--Verisschenzko's Calmuck face fixed and
inscrutable and Denzil's debonnaire English one usually grave.

"Some one told me that your friend, Madame Boleski, was having a
tremendous success in London. I wish I could have got leave, I should
like to have seen the whole thing."

"Harietta is enjoying her luck-moment; she is in her zenith. She has
baffled me as to where she receives her information from--she is capable
of betraying both sides to gain some material, and possibly trivial, end.
She is worth studying if you do come up, for she is unique. Most
criminals have some stable point in immorality; Harietta is troubled by
nothing fixed, no law of God or man means anything to her, she is only
ruled by her sense of self-preservation. Her career is picturesque."

"Had she ever any children?"

Verisschenzko crossed himself.

"Heaven forbid! Think of watching Harietta's instincts coming out in a
child! Poor Stanislass is at least saved that!"

"What a terrible thought that would be to one! But no man thinks of such
things in selecting a wife!"

"You will not marry yet--no?"

"Certainly not, there is no necessity that I should. Marriage is only an
obligation for the heads of families, not for the younger branches."

"But if Sir John Ardayre has no son, you are--in blood--the next
direct heir."

"And Ferdinand is the next direct heir-in-law--that makes one sick--"

Verisschenzko poured his friend out a whisky and soda and said smiling:

"Then let us drink once more to the Ardayre son!"




CHAPTER VII


Lady de la Paule really felt proud of her niece; the party at Ardayre was
progressing so perfectly. The guests had all arrived in time for the ball
at Bridgeborough Castle on the twenty-third of July and had assisted next
day at the garden party, and then a large dinner at Ardayre, and now on
the last night of their stay Amaryllis' own ball was to take place.

All the other big country houses round were filled also, and nothing
could have been gayer or more splendidly done than the whole thing.

John Ardayre had been quite enthusiastic about all the arrangements,
taking the greatest pride in settling everything which could add lustre
to his Amaryllis' success as a hostess.

The quantities of servants, the perfectly turned-out motors--the
wonderful chef--all had been his doing, and when most of the party had
retired to their rooms for a little rest before dinner on the
twenty-fifth, the evening of the ball, Lady de la Paule and John's
friend, Lady Avonwier, congratulated him, as he sat with them, the last
ladies remaining, under the great copper beech tree on the lawn which led
down to the lake.

"Everything has been perfect, has it not, Mabella?" Lady Avonwier said.
"I have even been converted about your marvellous Madame Boleski! I
confess I have avoided her all the season, because we Americans are far
more exclusive than you English people in regard to whom we know of our
own countrywomen, and no one would receive such a person in New York, but
she is so luridly stupid, and such a decoration, that I quite agree you
were right to invite her, John."

"She seems to me charming," Lady de la Paule confessed. "Not the least
pretension, and her clothes are marvellous. You are abominably severe,
Etta. I am quite sure if she wanted to she could succeed in New York."

"Mabella, you simple creature! She just cajoles you all the time--she has
specialised in cajoling important great ladies! No American would be
taken in by her, and we resent it in our country when an outsider like
that barges in. But here, I admit, since she provides us with amusement,
I have no objection to accepting her, as I would a new nigger band, and
shall certainly send her a card for my fancy ball next week."

John Ardayre chuckled softly.

"That sound indicates?"--and Etta Avonwier flashed at him her lovely
clever eyes.

John Ardayre did not answer in words, but both women joined in his smile.

"Yes, we are worldlings," Lady Avonwier admitted, "just measuring people
up for what they can give us, it is the only way though when the whole
thing is such a rush!"

"I am so sorry for the poor husband," and Lady de la Paule's fat voice
was kindly. "He does look such a wretched, cadaverous thing, with that
black beard and those melancholy black eyes, and emaciated face. Do you
think she beats him when they are alone?"

"Who knows? She is so primitive, she may be capable even of that!"

"Her clothes are not primitive," and John Ardayre lighted a cigarette.
"I don't think she really can be such a fool."

"I never suggested that she was a fool at all!" Lady Avonwier was
decisive. "No one can be a fool who is as tenacious as she is--fools
are vague people, who let things go. She is merely illiterate and
stupid as an owl."

"I like your distinction between stupidity and foolishness!" John Ardayre
often argued with Lady Avonwier; they were excellent friends.

"A stupid person is often a great rest and arrives--a fool makes one
nervous and loses the game. But who is that walking with Amaryllis at the
other side of the lake?"

John Ardayre looked up, and on over the water to the glory of the beech
trees on the rising slope of the park, and there saw moving at the edge
of them his wife and Verisschenzko, accompanied by two of the great
tawny dogs.

"Oh! it is the interesting Russian whom we met in Paris, where all the
charming ladies were supposed to be in love with him. He was to have come
down for the whole three days. I suppose these Russian and Austrian
rumours detained him, he has only arrived for to-night."

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Stranger than fiction: the true story behind Kidnapped

It is a satirist's dream come true. John Crace looks back over a decade of poking fun at clunky plots and dodgy dialogue

I could be the only person who has never forgotten William Sutcliffe's Love Hexagon. It was the first book I ever digested and I'd like to be able to say I'd spent a lot of time selecting it. But it wasn't like that.

A few days earlier I'd been stopped in the corridor by the new editor of the Editor, the Guardian's standalone digest of the week's news (RIP), and asked if I'd like to take over a little-noticed column called the Digested Read. She wandered off before I had time to answer, but she didn't need to hang around. The ­Digested Read is a dream job for any satirist and I would have done it for almost nothing. Come to think of it, I did. But I still needed to choose a book and as I hadn't yet got the hang of ringing publishers, asking to bite the hand that feeds, I went to see the literary editor, who poked around in her cupboard for something she didn't want. So Love Hexagon it was.

I doubt it's much consolation to Sutcliffe now, but I soon realised it was a poor choice. The Digested Read works best with authors who are getting the most media attention in any given week – be they Ian McEwan, JK Rowling, Nigella Lawson or Katie Price – and since that first week, it is a principle to which I have tried to stick.

It's not infallible. Publishers tend to keep their big names for the spring and summer; in these months there's often too much choice and it can be a straight toss-up between JM Coetzee and AS Byatt. At other times of the year, particularly January, the publishing lists are thin and books squeeze in that normally wouldn't get a reading. It happened once with the brother of a well-known author, a mistake for which I've clearly never been forgiven by the victim; a year ago someone kindly directed me to his blog where he continues to regularly rubbish me seven or eight years on. Books do also just get missed. I never gave The Da Vinci Code a second thought when it came out.

Over the last 10 years, the Digested Read has changed locations several times – from the Editor to the main paper to G2 – but the format has remained the same; rewriting a book in 700 words in the style of the author. The primary goal is to entertain – something the book itself has often failed to do – but it's also intended as a (semi-) serious critique, for much of the fun is derived from clunky plot devices that don't work, pretentious stylistic tics, risible dialogue and an absence of big ideas. Literary criticism does not have to be dull to be serious.

Some people object to its cruelty. I have no defence. Satire often is cruel, especially when it's accurate. Here's the thing. I read every word of every book I digest, scribbling notes on the pages as I go along. I can't afford not to because if I get something wrong, I'm stuffed. So you could argue that I show rather more respect for the integrity of an author's work than a reviewer who gives a book the thumbs up after a skim read. And that does happen. I've read reviews of books I've ­digested and can see the critic has only read the blurb, the first few chapters and the ending. But who cares so long as it's a positive review? Certainly not the author or the publisher. You might, though, if you fork out £10 to buy it.

And many authors do seem to "get" the Digested Read. I'm continually delighted – and astonished – by the number of writers who are more generous about my work than I am about theirs and get in touch to say how much they enjoy the column. Especially when it's someone else's books. Some even email to say they've liked what I've done to their own book. That I don't understand. Publishers are also surprisingly complimentary; some authors would be surprised to discover how much their egotism gets up the noses of their editors and publicists. My favourite compliment is this from the New York Times: "The best book-related feature in any of this planet's English-language newspapers." That will go on my gravestone.

No writer has yet – and I'm not keen for a precedent to be created – emailed to tell me they hate me. It would be nice to imagine this was because they all thought I was so wonderful, but I suspect this is wishful thinking. More likely they are maintaining a dignified ­silence, or have their minds on higher matters.

Not that authors don't have their strops. Jilly Cooper moaned to the Daily Telegraph that I had given away the plot of her book. I hadn't been aware there was one; the ­ending was blindingly obvious from about page 20. One award-winning young author had a complete strop after I digested their partner's book, and threatened never to write for the Guardian again; a threat that hasn't been kept.

One last thing. Sometimes I am asked if I enjoy reading. How could I not? Do you ­really imagine the last 10 years have been an extended exercise in masochism? Especially now that I also digest a classic each week. Few books are as good as their publicity – and it's more often than not the difference between hype and reality I try to exploit – but there haven't been many that have had no redeeming qualities.

Reading is, and remains, a pleasure. As does digesting. Edith Wharton's The Age of Innocence is a great book. It's also great to satirise. The two aren't mutually exclusive. So here's to ­another 10 years digesting. If you'll have me.

A complete archive of John Crace's Digested Reads guardian.co.uk/digestedread


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The greatest Russian writer you've never read

From Huck Finn to Holden Caulfield and Humbert Humbert, the novelist provides an entirely trustworthy guide to some of literature's slipperiest characters

Henry Sutton was born in Norfolk in 1963. After training as a journalist he worked for a number of national newspapers and magazines. He is the author of five previous novels, including Gorleston, Flying and Kids' Stuff, and a collection of short stories, Thong Nation. He also teaches creative writing at UEA and lives in Norwich with his family. His new novel, Get Me Out of Here, is published by Harvill Secker.

Buy Henry Sutton books at the Guardian bookshop

"Something strange happened to unreliable narrators in the mid-20th century: they became a little more reliably unreliable, and a lot nastier. In the late-19th century they tended to be untrustworthy either because they were hiding something about themselves or had failed to recognise the truth, generally because of some kind of psychological weakness. However, as modernism shifted into post-modernism and we all became that much more cynical, most narrators were expected to be complicated. Unreliability became inextricably linked with malevolence – not to mention duplicity, delusion, even derangement. Of course, as the parameters stretched, unreliable narrators also became a lot more fun, with humour often countering the blackness. The challenge was to make tricksy first-person characters both intriguing and entertaining."

1. Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov (1955)

Never straight with himself, let alone the ladies and gentlemen of the jury to whom he is ultimately addressing his words, Humbert Humbert arrived halfway through the 20th century, intent on justifying his appalling crime. Nabokov's syntactical genius is the one true triumph.

2. The Turn Of The Screw by Henry James (1898)

Is it a ghost story, or the tragic tale of a young woman undergoing a breakdown? Believing her two young charges are communing with the spirits of her two dead predecessors, the prim governess of Bly House becomes increasingly panic-stricken and erratic, until she's left with a dead boy in her arms.

3. The Heart Of Darkness by Joseph Conrad (1902)

Right at the start we're told that Marlow likes to spin yarns. However, his tale of journeying up the Congo, in search first of ivory, and then the infamous Kurtz, is one of the most powerful stories in literature. Whether his story is strictly faithful becomes irrelevant, as Marlow ends up highlighting the moral corruption at the heart of all humans.

4. Money by Martin Amis (1984)

John Self is one of literature's most repulsively addictive narrators. The book might be subtitled "A Suicide Note", but it is in fact a love story, with Self dreaming up ever more extravagant ways to shed his wedge while pursuing entirely corruptible Selina Street, among others. The fact that Self might never have actually existed, revealed towards the end, is Amis's sly take on the death of the self.

5. American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis (1991)

Patrick Bateman makes John Self look even more out of shape, when it comes to commenting on the big brands and applying his murderous hands to the unsuspecting and the vulnerable. Yet Ellis's great comment on consumerism and the death of high culture could just be a mirror to our own deluded thoughts, and Bateman nothing more than a sickly funny fantasist.

6. The Killer Inside Me by Jim Thompson (1952)

It was Jim Thompson, not James M Cain, who put the hard into hard-boiled, the noir into roman noir. He was also one of the first crime writers to take us into the heads of seriously twisted killers, if not out-and-out psychopaths. Deputy Sheriff Lou Ford is regarded as a pillar of the small Texan community he serves. Yet he's in possession of a secret he doesn't even admit to himself. When the bodies start to appear, the net slowly tightens.

7. The Catcher in the Rye by JD Salinger (1951)

Classic unreliability when first published in the early 1950s which now looks almost tamely reliable. Of course young Holden Caulfield is anything but clear about what his short, privileged life has already led him to believe – he's a teenager. Naturally everything's phoney, except his beloved sister Phoebe. Though even she is abandoned as Holden loses his fragile grasp on reality.

8. The End Of Alice by AM Homes (1996)

Narrated in the first person by a hyper-intelligent paedophile, and from the third person perspective of a 19-year-old girl with an unhealthy fixation on a much younger boy, Homes's homage to Nabokov didn't just question the nature of desire, but that of literary taste and acceptability. A brutally brave and truly experimental novel that, over here, fell very foul of the Daily Mail.

9. We Need to Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver (2003)

Shriver's Orange Prize-winning novel is a postmodern masterclass in unreliability, as the principal theme of nature versus nurture trickles through the slow revelations of exactly what Kevin has done. Told in a series of letters by Kevin's mother, Eva, to her estranged husband, Franklin, the reader is never quite sure of whether it was Eva or Kevin who exhibited the most disturbing behaviour. Franklin, meanwhile, is guilty of chronic denial.

10. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain (1884)

In his search of freedom, as he floats down the Mississippi, Tom Sawyer's best friend "Huck" Finn finds himself travelling out of his rational mind. First published in 1884, Twain himself described his controversial masterpiece, as "... a book of mine where a sound heart and a deformed conscience come into collision and conscience suffers defeat".


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Diagram prize pits worm hunter's afterthoughts against Nazi spoons

An anti-Stalinist author who died in obscurity in 1951 may be the greatest Russian writer of the last century, his English translator Robert Chandler explains to Daniel Kalder

Stalin called him scum. Sholokhov, Gorky, Pasternak, and Bulgakov all thought he was the bee's knees. But when Andrei Platonov died in poverty, misery and obscurity in 1951, no one would have predicted that within half a century he would be a contender for the title as Russia's greatest 20th-century prose stylist. Indeed, his English translator Robert Chandler thinks Platonov's novel The Foundation Pit is so astonishingly good he translated it twice. Set against a backdrop of industrialisation and collectivisation, The Foundation Pit is fantastical yet realistic, funny yet tragic, profoundly moving and yet disturbing. Daniel Kalder caught up with Chandler to talk about why more people should be reading Platonov.

Why did you translate Platonov's Foundation Pit twice?

No other work of literature means so much to me. I translated it together with Geoffrey Smith in 1994 for the Harvill Press, and again in 2009, together with my wife Elizabeth and the American scholar Olga Meerson, for NYRB Classics. There were two reasons for retranslating it. First, the original text was never published in Platonov's lifetime, and the first posthumous publications – on which our Harvill translation was based – were severely bowdlerised. One crucial three-page passage, for example, is entirely missing.

Second, Platonov is hard to translate: in the early 1990s we were working in the dark. During the last 15 years, however, I have regularly attended Platonov seminars and conferences in Moscow and Petersburg. One indication of how deeply many Russian writers and critics admire him is the extent of their generosity to his translators; I now have a long list of people I can turn to for help. Above all, I have the good fortune to have my wife, who shares my love of Platonov, and the brilliant American scholar, Olga Meerson, as my closest collaborators. Olga was brought up in the Soviet Union; she has a fine ear, knows a great deal about Russian Orthodoxy, and has written an excellent book on Platonov. She has deepened my understanding of almost every sentence.

You've argued that Russians will eventually come to recognise Platonov as their greatest prose writer. Given that he's up against titans such as Gogol, Tolstoy and Chekhov this is quite a claim.

Well, it probably sounds less startling to Russians than it does to English and Americans. I've met a huge number of Russian writers and critics who look on Platonov as their greatest prose writer of the last century. In my personal judgment, it was confirmed for me during the last stages of my work on Russian Short Stories from Pushkin to Buida, an anthology of short stories I compiled for Penguin Classics. I worked on this for several years, did most of the translations myself and revised them many times. I read through the proofs with enjoyment – I was still happy with the choices I had made – but there were only two writers whom I was still able to read with real wonder: Pushkin and Platonov. Even at this late stage I was still able to find new and surprising perceptions in Pushkin's The Queen of Spades and Platonov's The Return. This didn't happen with any other writers. 
 
Readers who encounter Platonov for the first time are often struck by his surreality: in the Foundation Pit, for example, a bear staggers through a village denouncing kulaks [supposedly wealthy peasants]. But you've said that almost everything he writes is drawn from reality.

Platonov's stories work on many levels. When I first read his account of the kulaks being sent off down the river on a raft, I thought of it simply as weird. Then I realised that it's one of many examples of Platonov's way of literally realising a metaphor or political cliché; the official directive is to "liquidate" the peasants – and this unfamiliar word is interpreted as meaning that they must be got rid of by means of water.

Many years later I found out that this scene is also entirely realistic. The Siberian Viktor Astafiev wrote in his memoir: "In spring 1932 all the dispossessed kulaks were collected together, placed on rafts and floated off to Krasnoyarsk, and from there to Igarka. When they started loading the rafts, the whole village gathered together. Everyone wept; it was their own kith and kin who were leaving. One person was carrying mittens, another a bread roll, another a lump of sugar." Any educated Russian reading these lines today would at once imagine that they were written by Platonov.

As for the bear, he's drawn from many sources. He is the generally helpful but somewhat dangerous bear of Russian folk tales; he is a representative of the proletariat – strong but inarticulate. As a hammer in a forge, he is linked both to Stalin, whose name means "man of steel" and to Molotov, whose name means "hammerer". He is the tame bear often employed by a village sorcerer. Platonov's bear "denounces" kulaks by stopping outside a hut and roaring; in the late 1920s an ethnographer working in the province of Kaluga recorded the belief that "a clean home, outside which a bear stops of his own accord, not going in but refusing to budge – that home is an unhappy home". And one of Platonov's brothers has written that there really was a tame bear who worked in a local blacksmith's.

Platonov started off as a committed communist, but was appalled by collectivisation and the excesses of Stalinism. Uniquely – unlike others who adopted an oppositional stance, or wrote critiques for the desk drawer – he tried to negotiate a space within Soviet culture in which he could write honestly about what was going on. Is it fair to say that he failed?

I don't think so. Some of the stories he managed to publish – The River Potudan, The Third Son and The Return – are as great, in their more compact and classical way, as the novels he was unable to publish. The Return was viciously criticised, but it was published in a journal with a huge circulation and may well have been read by hundreds of thousands of people. And there is no knowing how important Platonov's example was to younger writers. Vasily Grossman, for example, was a close friend. They met frequently during Platonov's last years and read their work out loud to each other. Grossman gave the main speech at Platonov's funeral. His last stories are very Platonov-like. And Platonov's very last work – the moving, witty versions of Russian folk tales he composed after the war – was included, without acknowledgment, in millions of school textbooks. Platonov was not widely known, but he was widely read. Here again he is in a similar position to Grossman, whose words are carved in granite, in huge letters, on the Stalingrad war memorial, without acknowledgment of his authorship.

Platonov's language is often extremely intimate yet also strange: alienated and alienating. Is he exceptionally difficult to translate? And does he sound more "normal" in the original than in translation?

He is certainly difficult to translate. On the other hand, I've sometimes been surprised by how much of him evidently survives even in a poor translation. I've met people who have been deeply moved after first encountering him in a very poor translation indeed. As for your second question, you need to ask someone who is entirely bilingual and not involved in the work. All I can say myself is that all languages have norms that can be infringed, and that we do our best to infringe English norms just as Platonov infringes Russian norms. It is for you and other readers to judge how much we have succeeded!
 
Sometimes I think you have a secret plan to steer readers away from familiar authors such as Chekhov towards more angular, difficult work such as Platonov, thus reshaping perceptions of 20th-century Russian literature.
 
Well, I'd put it at least a little differently! I love Chekhov's stories as much as anyone, and would especially love to translate The Steppe and A Boring Story. But then Chekhov isn't so very easy or smooth either, though many of his complexities and contradictions are smoothed over in translation. What's certainly true is that I think we have a distorted view of Soviet literature. For many decades it was impossible for a Soviet writer to achieve fame in the west except through a major international scandal. This is what happened with both Pasternak and Solzhenitsyn. Both are important writers, but they are not greater writers than Grossman, Platonov and Shalamov.

Things are changing, however. Grossman is far better known in the west now than he was 10 years ago. Platonov is at least beginning to be noticed – Penelope Fitzgerald and John Berger are two of the English writers who have been quickest to realise his genius. And there is a chance that the Yale University Press will soon be commissioning a complete translation of Shalamov's Kolyma Tales. One more point: we have found it easier in the west to learn to appreciate the 20th-century writers who wrote from outside the Soviet experience. Bulgakov reached adulthood long before the revolution. He was never taken in by it; he looks down on everything Soviet. Grossman, Platonov and Shalamov, however, belong to a generation 10 to 20 years younger. All of them, at least for a while and to some degree, shared the hopes of the revolution. They write from inside the Soviet experience. This perhaps gives them a greater depth and complexity; their work contains no ready-made answers.

• Robert Chandler's new co-translation (in collaboration with his wife and Olga Meerson) of The Foundation Pit will be published in the UK by Vintage Classics later this year.   
 


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