Illustration by Anna Russell
Now more than ever, I have been particularly conscious of a need to document; to keep track of these turbulent yet monotonous times. My diary over the past two months has been full of my own jumbled up thoughts and feelings, rather than a response to the events taking place in the world around me. Boris Johnson’s haphazard broadcasts don’t even get a look in.
But one thing I have been following is what I have been reading. If anything good has come out of this period of isolation it has been the ample time I have been able to carve out purely for reading. I have indulged in the simple pleasure of curling up in a quiet corner and pouring over the pages of a good book. I have kept a note of the questions I have pondered, the worlds I have explored and the stories I have devoured, in the hope of making sense of this extraordinary time. My now dog-eared reading diary has never seen so much use.
23 March Mine has been an eclectic mix. When lockdown began, I had just returned home from my flat in Edinburgh clutching a copy of C.S. Lewis’ Mere Christianity. I had chosen Lewis’ book in order to find solace in the words of someone also living through a global crisis, one which correspondingly forced everyone to adapt to a ‘new normal.’ As my world appeared to be treading on new ground, I looked to learn from the experience of someone who had gone through similar motions.
My final week in Edinburgh had been confusing to say the least. Decisions had to be made as to my location if a lockdown were to be announced. I had two years’ worth of accumulated belongings to be organised and final rushed goodbyes to be said. It was not what I had planned for the end of four years in that brilliant city. Lewis’ lectures, which were originally broadcast on Radio Four during the Second World War, offered a feeling of stability. As I adapted to my new situation, I found I resonated with those words, written so long ago yet still so pertinent. Being able to steal a few minutes of my day assimilating his advice eased me into my new reality and helped me accept I would be in it for the long-haul.
27 March Literary escapism was the mode I turned to next. Having raced through Rebecca in January, it wasn’t long before I returned to the suspenseful prose of Daphne du Maurier. As my time in Edinburgh was coming to a close - and while shops were still open - I treated myself to a trip to Lighthouse Books. There, after spending what seemed like an hour perusing the politics section, I found myself drawn to a copy of My Cousin Rachel. It soon took pride of place on my bedside table, eagerly waiting to be read.
Set on the Cornish coast, the novel is a delightful mix of romantic mystery and psychological thriller. When I started reading the novel, I was only a few days into what would become a two-month (and counting) sabbatical at my family home. Already desperate to escape, I longed for a change of scene – a longing which du Maurier’s exquisite depiction of place and construction of plot was well placed to compensate.
I raced through it, perpetually on tenterhooks as I flipped onto the next page. Who is Rachel? What are her motives? Why does the novel end in the way it does? Without giving the plot of the novel itself away, it is safe to say that by the end, I was no nearer to gaining any answers. I finished My Cousin Rachel at 1A.M. after a three-hour reading session in which I had almost forgotten the word coronavirus. But like all good things – the novel included – that forgetfulness soon came to an end.
9 April In this time of global crisis, eyes have been on the global response – quite specifically, the response of a particular resident of a particular house. Yet, while the world’s attention has been somewhat focused on the White House’s current occupants, mine has been its previous inhabitants. Michelle Obama’s autobiography Becoming has long been on my reading list. When deciding that in lieu of my usual diet of politics podcasts and news bulletins, I would choose an audiobook to accompany me on my daily walks, Becoming was indeed the perfect choice.
Narrated by the former first lady herself, it is an intimate, hilarious, and considered insight into the life of a truly inspiring, yet truly ordinary woman. I am not usually one to be drawn to biographies – too often bored by focusing solely on one person - but Obama’s honest insight into her own life and the life of her husband has been a somewhat grounding experience. Our leaders remain human underneath it all.
21 April In the true sentiment of women helping other women, I borrowed Helen Lewis’s hardback debut Difficult Women: A History of Feminism in 11 Fights from my sister (who has yet to read it). A gift from my mum for her birthday, my sister - in the midst of a 3000-word essay and desperate for me to give it a proof-read – had no choice but to lend it to me.
Lewis’s book is written in a manner that I aspire to emulate in my own writing. Her words are witty and candid and at times laugh out loud funny. But this is never at the expense of the book’s measured and deliberate argument. The real-life women mentioned in Lewis’s book make for a fascinating collective. They are all deeply complex characters who are simultaneously worthy of criticism yet wholeheartedly relatable in some way. From Annie Kenny to Jayaben Desai to Edinburgh’s own Sophia Jex-Blake, Lewis brings the women she discusses to life through her extensive research and evident care for her subject matter. *Readers will be happy to note that I have since returned the book to my sister. *
2 May After my whistle-stop tour of feminism, I was pleased to return to the comforting arms of fiction. As a stickler for Edwardian literature, I have since found joy in a copy of The House of Mirth. Edith Wharton’s 1905 novel is a caustic examination of the wealthy circles of Gilded Age New York. The novel’s protagonist, Lily Bart, is never to be dealt a good hand – both in life and in her penchant for card games – and the book follows her as she struggles from one scandal to the next.
Yet, while Lily Bart’s predicament is not a happy one, Wharton’s eagle-eyed perception of the particularities of upper-class life have provided ample joy. From her description of one unfortunate character as “one of those episodical persons who form the padding of life” to her almost forensic depiction of vapid yet venomous gossip, Wharton’s novel leaves no one without condemnation.
I am close to the end of The House of Mirth and, by the time this piece is published, I’m sure my memories of it will not be nearly as clear. So, from now on, however this situation pans out, you will surely be able to find me tucking into a good book over my morning coffee, waiting for the world to resume (but hoping that resumption will happen after I’ve reached the next chapter).