Lisl's Bits and Bobs: A 1925 Mission of Mercy

"Nome Calling: No Serum, Urgently Need Help"

Nome in 1925 was a city recently emerged from a gold rush in which its population had swelled by about 20,000 following discoveries along a prehistoric beach line on the Bering Sea. Now, with just under 1,000 Europeans and 450 Natives, it still remained the largest city in Alaska and was a hub for medical aid and supplies utilized by those from villages along Norton Sound and the Bering. Before the freezeover each year it also served as a shipping point in what Ungermann in The Race to Nome refers to as “trackless northwestern Alaska.”

Nome is located on the southern portion of the Seward Peninsula,
itself jutting out of Alaska's northwest on the Norton Sound.
Nenana lies to the east, near Fairbanks in the Interior.

Inhabitants of this region in fact did know of natural trails where they existed and broke new ones each year as they made their way to and from destinations in the course of their lives and business. The mail run from Nenana, in Alaska’s Interior, to Nome took about thirty days by dog sled. Mushers also worked with the sled dogs on trap lines, hauling in moose and caribou and performing medical runs. Dog teams were such an integral part of survival in the area, and there were so many that Nome city ordinance required bells to alert pedestrians of sleds.

It was here that Dr. Curtis Welch, an 1897 Yale graduate and promising physician from California, had arrived in Nome along with a good many other doctors. With the end of gold, so too were the doctors, who departed the northland in great numbers after the final payday. Welch had stayed on for his love of the land and its social customs, and along with his wife, a registered nurse, he dedicated his life to the people of Nome and outlying areas.

Now, on this January day years after the boom, Dr. Welch visited the home of two children who had been sick for three days. Owing to their sore throats their mother had thought they had bad colds, but when the doctor tried to exam them, the children couldn’t even open their mouths wide enough for him to see. Several days later he was able to examine another ailing child and found what he had suspected, feared and tried to dismiss. In Nome he didn’t have access to a laboratory to send specimens, but now the evidence was plain to see: diphtheria patches, unmistakable and stark.

The unimaginable dilemma Welch faced was that his on-hand supply of anti-toxin was not nearly enough, for diphtheria spreads with devastating speed. The serum was also five years old, and he feared what he had would not be effective. He had ordered new stock the previous summer, but none had yet arrived. With the port frozen over, shipping was out of the question and then, as it remains today, there is no road in or out of Nome. With the location of a batch of serum in Anchorage, a new question arose to plague the doctor: How to get it to Nome? Whilst flight had been utilized in the Great Land, it was a summer occupation, given the open-air cockpits of the time. 

While a Fairbanks faction lobbied to have their airplanes part of the rescue effort--they argued their case of machinery and greater speed--it, too, had to concede that industry is still sometimes inferior to traditional methods. Weather conditions exceeding -60 degrees Fahrenheit in testing damaged parts and engine oil congealed in the cold. In the end the necessary choice became the strength, endurance, intelligence and loyalty of the sled dog. 

From the time Welch's radio call went out on January 25--"Nome calling...We have an outbreak of diphtheria...No serum...Urgently need help"--mushers met to organize the best drivers and teams, and set up a relay system with checkpoints at which the anti-toxin could be passed on, each one bringing the precious serum closer to the stricken city. The serum's race to Nome began in a cylindrical container packed onto a train from Anchorage to Nenana where Wild Bill Shannon would pick up the first lap of the sled dog legs. His nine malamutes at some points carried on at a trot in order to keep from scorching their lungs with the frozen air. Shannon could tell by a particular pinch in his nose with inhalation when they were entering a cold pocket of air, and the current -50 degrees conditions were already to be met with caution.

While Shannon's leg of the race proceeded fairly smoothly, the entire journey was to present a saga worthy of re-telling many millions of times over, and indeed it has been. As it unfolded, however, Nome's predicament captured the attention of those in the United States, and they too were mesmerized. Alaskans were once again engaging in creative problem solving, to say the least--though sled dogs were commonly engaged, the precious cargo made the journey fraught with anxiety and fear. The Anchorage doctor had specially wrapped the package and sent along specific instructions for it to be warmed at each checkpoint. What if it froze? God forbid it be lost. An injury on the trail could result in a musher freezing to death--what would happen to Nome if the vital medicine never made it there? Each musher in turn attempted to keep the nightmarish possibilities at bay by banishing these thoughts from their minds, urging their dogs on and keeping an eye out for their needs along the way. 

It was not long, however, before a too-large dose of reality intercepted their plans. The epidemic had spread in Nome and claimed four more lives. Fifteen more people had also become ill. The grave news for the mushers when they heard it spurred them on, with dogs who could sense urgency in their masters' voices and who, it cannot be forgotten, pushed themselves to limits most people would consider unimaginable. Armed, however, with a combination of keen intuition--that warned them of cracking ice, for instance-- and courageous drive, they continued their legs along a trail stretching across nearly 700 miles of rugged Alaska, the sort of terrain those Outside often romanticize but subsequently dismiss as unreal given its extremity. 

Starting in Anchorage (Southcentral) the serum travelled north to Nenana (start of red line) where it then travelled west nearly 700 miles to reach its destination

Newspaper outlets of the day did the same, capitalizing on the event with hyperbole wholly unnecessary in light of the bare facts. Ungermann wonders how many of the agencies' readers "could run thirty to fifty miles at subzero temperatures over a desolate frozen trail without stopping? How many of them would wade into a melee of snarling, snapping, part-wolf dogs to stop a fight and straighten [a] tangled harness?"  Indeed, how many of them, or those who wrote the articles for that matter, how many could balance the duties towards animals whose capacities made this journey even possible, yet relied on the mushers for their well being? As it was determined the relays' distances would be shorter for greater speed, dog and master needed each other equally, and Nome desperately needed them both. 

Early on in his young adult account of the serum race, Ungermann points out the danger of treating or perceiving sled dogs as pets. They weren't comparable to fully domesticated dogs who play with boys and balls--these were creatures adapted to and simultaneously in need of the wild land they lived in. Sedentary lifestyles were (and remain today) anathema; the need for activity is hardwired in them. Moreover their distinct personalities interacted within their own communities and the humans they teamed with in a variety of ways: they might clash with other dogs or prove to be capable leaders and models for the rest of their packs. Togo, for example, one of the more well-known of these serum race dogs, preferred to run in a straight line. Leonhard Seppala, his Norwegian-born musher, strained to keep his favorite dog on course, to no avail. Togo would run up precipitous banks and across pack ice as opposed to the trail, yet he always seemed to know when certain topographic points were to be avoided. 

By the time the precious cargo reached Seppala's hands, it was already almost a lucky twist it had. His job was to rendezvous with Henry Ivanoff near Shaktoolik. Ivanoff, who had collected the serum from Myles Gonangnan, proceeded on the way to meet Seppala as the two drove towards each other. However, Ivanoff's dogs scented reindeer and broke away in search of the herd. The dogs' drive up against Ivanoff's sled brake caused frustration amongst the pack, resulting in a fight. As Ivanoff waded in to break up and untangle, he spotted Seppala driving by and waved to him. The Norwegian, unaware of the serum transfer and believing he was to carry on to where Ivanoff had left Gonangnan, waved back and continued on. 

The wind carried Ivanoff's words away as he attempted to capture Seppala's attention. The dogs could see Shaktoolik now, which to them meant food and rest, and their drive and determination to reach their goal increased. Seppala, too, was looking forward to the rest, given his unawareness--a result of being out of telephone contact--of the change to relay distances, and belief that he still had another 140 miles to go before collecting the serum and turning right back around for Nome. The wind had been at his back on the way; going back to the beleaguered coastal city would be even tougher. Seppala strained to hear; was that a crucial word on the wind? He finally managed to hear it again and yes, it was what he thought he had heard. Ivanoff had shouted again, "Serum--turn back!"

Leonhard Seppala and his lead dog, Togo

Seppala and his team had run many a race in their time; the musher was famed for his speed and endurance. He relied on his team, in particular Togo, to get them safely through and this time not only would be no exception, but was more important than any race they had ever run. Up against them was yet another dilemma: to drive straight across 20 miles of open ice as the shortest path to Nome, or farther inland along the coast. The latter was the safest, but also cost more in time, a fee Seppala could not afford. People were dying, some were already lost, and an epidemic was raging across a city of people under quarantine, people whose greatest support had always been each other. Now their foundation was a mortal danger, owing to the ease of transmission amongst close contact. 

The wind had reached gale velocity and the driving snow was blinding. Seppala fully realised the awful danger inherent in the northeast gale. The ice of the bay could break up at any moment and be blown out to sea. In this dark, wind-filled world, he might not see or hear the open channels forming from the crumbling ice in time to avoid being trapped. He was familiar with the horrifying prospects of that possibility: drowning, freezing, or if he were very fortunate, being stranded on floating ice that later might be swept against shore ice.

Seppala thought of his daughter, Seigrid, who had contracted diphtheria and recovered. He considered his friends and their children waiting for what he carried, and quickly made his decision. "He would take the short route to Isaac's Point and trust in God and the speed of his dogs to get him across before the ice went out." Reaching the dwelling where he had spent the previous night, Seppala fed his team, warmed the serum and tried to wait out the storm. He rested a bit, but in his anxiety he could sit no more and started again to Nome. His trail of the previous day contained open water; the ice had broken up and gone out to sea. 

Though not according to the plan set out for schedule of relays, Gunnar Kaasen picked up the last leg of the race, an element sadly later to be the subject of bitter disputes and accusations regarding the musher's intentions. Kaasen, however, had his own demons on the journey, for when he reached Solomon a gust of wind--Alaskan sized to match the country: huge--flipped the sled, emptied it of its contents and tangled the team in a gnarling mess. Kaasen panicked. Feeling around for the most important item, what he feared was so horrifying a prospect it made him physically ill. Tearing off his gloves in the frozen dark, he tried to feel around the area where the sled overturned, until he finally, filled with gratitude, lifted the package from the snow, and continued on his way to Nome. 

The Iditarod Sled Dog race commemorates the great race to Nome, a mission of mercy carried out by courageous men and sled dogs to come to the aid of those in distress. As race finishers do today, Kaasen came in on Front Street to claim a victory for Nome, the serum delivery and defeat of raging diptheria. By February 2 inoculations had begun and the epidemic was broken. On February 21 the city's quarantine was lifted and life began to return to normal--except for a few small changes. In less than six days 20 mushers and nearly 200 dogs accomplished what the mail run generally took five times that to achieve. This could not be forgotten, and indeed it was not. People across the world sent letters, poems and pictures. When it was later discovered that some of the sled dogs (who had been sold) were being treated cruelly, a group of Cleveland schoolchildren raised $2,000.00 to buy their freedom. The race also contributed to more widespread inoculation and airmail routes, following improvement in technology, were established in Alaska. Today air routes are so frequently trafficked Alaska is referred to as "the flyingest state." 

Alaskans still talk of the great serum race, ever grateful to the men and dogs, as well as all those who assisted without receiving any sort of attention or praise. Though I told much of this from memory, I also used three sources for other details, one of which is a long standing favorite: Kenneth A. Ungermann's The Race to Nome. 

Two others continue to tell the story for future generations with stunning artwork and magnificent text:

Debbie S. Miller
Illustrations John Van Zyle

Robert J. Blake

                           

These are just three of perhaps hundreds of books about the people and places surrounding the events that occurred in that frightful month in 1925. Posters, paintings, poetry and other art forms commemorate the run and one of its most famous participants, Balto. 

                

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Lisl can also be found at before the second sleep. If you would like Lisl to review your book or conduct an interview, please see our submissions tab.

Lisl's Bits and Bobs: "Paul's Case: A Study in Temperament"

Willa Cather (1873-1947)

Willa Cather took me by surprise. 

As a voracious reader in high school I was fortunate to have an English teacher--unlike Paul, whose story is discussed below--who shared with me the fruits of her twenty-plus year collection of literature and its study: medieval, classic, contemporary, literary fiction, essays on Baroque art and passion plays, luxurious reference books with rich, bold paintings and images to help me envision the worlds I studied in my free time. I immersed myself in private study and thought life was grand.

Hence my surprise when the world I inhabited was taken by storm following the reading of a short story introduced in class--"Paul's Case" or, as I have also seen it titled, "Paul's Case: A Study in Temperament." Paul is a dissatisfied high school student living in the early twentieth century Pittsburgh, a boy with great passion but little direction, who sneers at his teachers and loathes his neighborhood. His father wishes for him to aspire to the life of a family man and a respectable job, but Paul longs for music, art, the culture he was born to live. He ushers at the symphony, longing to live the life of luxury experienced by the German singer but "trapped" in a week-long suspension and meant to answer for it as the story opens. Leaving school for the working world, Paul soon after makes off to New York City--a glamorous town and the height of culture--financed by stolen money and lives for several days the life he feels he is meant to live.

Cather weaves words through Paul's experiences with such finesse that at some moments I was taken aback with the sudden realization I had somewhere transitioned to another scene or moment; and mused at how the author used this ability to reflect the manner in which persons sometimes exist from one moment to the next until the understanding dawns that an entire lifetime has gone by. She also writes with a nostalgia overflowing with deft observations of human inclinations--especially impressive for an adult female as she portrays a teenage boy discontented with his life and the failures he already sees in his father's aspirations for him. 

"Paul Case" is perhaps the first I'd read up until then in which his story--or "case," as the teachers reference his attitude--simultaneously depicts the examination of an individual temperament. Indeed, the entire work is a literary case study wrapped in layers of guise, motifs and escape, perpetrated by protagonist and author alike, each playing their respective parts in the world's immense design. Through our shared love of art (albeit in different forms) and dedication to its continuity in our lives (though a different means of expression), I saw how we were a bit alike, that having been a very solitary year for me. But we were also so very different and the manner in which Paul's art influences him and winds its way through the story awed me into a number of further readings following another realization that I had acquired a new favorite author. I was later moved to put to paper my own analysis of Paul, so fascinated and disturbed as I was by this boy who in life might be quite unlikeable, but under Cather's direction bestowed with a quality rendering him unforgettable. 

Willa Cather is also the author of My Antonia and Death Comes to the Archbishop. She grew up in Nebraska, an environment that was to have a great influence upon her outlook and writing. Initially working as a journalist, she later won the Pulitzer Prize for One of Ours. "Paul's Case" was published in 1905 as part of The Troll Garden.

“Paul’s Case”

“Paul had his secret temple. . .his bit of blue-and-white Mediterranean shore bathed in perpetual sunshine.”

            It perhaps would be easy to sympathize with a boy such as Paul, who is moved by “starry apple orchards” and who feels a zest come into his life at first sight of the instruments that set free his inner spirit. However, those intoxicants with which Paul is able to forget his dreadful English teacher are the same that enable him to dismiss the inconsistencies, the contradictions of both his resentments and desires.

            Upon first encountering Paul, we recognize the duality of his nature: rebellious, yet sensitive to the criticisms of others. He is somehow able, at least to a certain degree, to hold the teachers under his sway; his behavior unsettles them. One instructor feels that he senses a boy who is haunted, not strong. Perhaps the teacher—significantly, the drawing-master—sees him as somewhat of an adolescent Keats, burdened with an image of “feminine” sensitivity and weakness. Another likens him to a helpless cat, tormented by a group as vindictive as their own gathering.

            The flip side is, of course, that of a Paul who seemingly bounces back without exerting much effort. He runs, after all, with a light-heartedness he hopes will enrage his teachers. So self-sure is he that it takes being sat upon to calm him of his glee. The boy seems to possess a glee that might take him to the fine places he desires to be in if he applies himself. He by no means is lacking in some artistic gift, for he only needs a spark, a thrill “that ma[kes] his imagination master of his own senses, and he could make plots and pictures enough of his own.” Perhaps he misapplies himself; he denies the drive toward acting and music, yet nothing is made of writing, to which his natural abilities seem to point.

            Unfortunately, Paul fails to progress beyond this stage of rebelliousness, as he is far too undisciplined and lacks the drive with which to challenge himself. Although his teachers believe him to be perverted by racy books, Paul’s sensitivity is not a result of absorbing fanciful stories, for he rarely reads at all. He is dissatisfied with his life, but his preferred alternative is to exist in a world of “glistening surfaces and basking ease.” He has the desire to partake of such a fine existence, but has “no mind for the cash-boy stage.” He would like the status of “Saint” Andrew but, as we see, desires not the martyrdom of the twelve-hour toilers.

            Paul therefore escapes into the romantic world of the symphony—at least as he views this world to be. For him it is not a world that includes indolent husbands and the necessity for skillfully stretching a Mark or a dollar. Nor is it a world where limited season subscriptions or an ordinary sore throat might send one spiraling downward. Indeed, this universe is one of endless champagne bottles and mysterious dishes (brought to him, naturally) in warm, lighted buildings. This is Paul’s temple, the wishing-carpet in which will lead him to all these grandly decorated concert halls peopled only by individuals of superior taste—no English teachers—and succulent dishes to soothe his palate.

            For all of its grandness, however, Paul fails to reside on his “Mediterranean shore bathed in perpetual sunshine” for the black motif running through the story, invading his world. A secreted temple with subterranean halls shades his sunbath, and we see him attempting to elude this reality throughout. It is perhaps his pretentiousness, which fools even himself, if at least, for a time: a red carnation in his buttonhole, violet water tucked away in his drawer, his self-consciousness and contrived gestures. Later these will be replaced by a parching dryness, dying flowers and the succumbing to the lurking blackness.

            For the time being, however, Paul lives his days (in consolation?) with hysteria and lies. His wild eyes are suggestive, but not indicative, of drug addiction, and he utilizes his facial expressions for shock value. His gestures are also used in this manner, as we see when he bows to the assembled teachers in farewell. Given his self-consciousness we may also wonder whether his latest face-pulling and evil gestures at artwork are designed for this purpose as well.

            Running throughout “Paul’s Case” also is a flower motif. Following the surface assumption that the youngster, in his fancies, equates flowers perhaps with his romantic bent, we are given to realise that these delicate beings are very much Paul himself. As his bow is a repetition of the carnation cheekily perched upon his coat, the various flowers are symbolic of Paul in separate stages, and not only of his frailty.

            Like the flowers in the shop window bravely defying fierce winter, Paul looks out from his eighth-floor window into a raging snowstorm. As he resides in the hotel by way of stolen funds, by artificial means, so too do the flowers in the park. Violets, roses, carnations, lilies-of-the-valley, all behind the glass, “blossom thus unnaturally in the snow.” Later, dressed for supper, the floral images are reflected: actual flowers, many-colored wine glasses, the rosy tinge of his champagne.

            Although Paul attempts to balance himself equally in the opposing elements of his world, the sunbath of the Mediterranean blinds him, as did the lovely German soloist, to any possible defects. On the other hand, perhaps he spends too much time in the dankness of his secret temple, his subterranean paradise, the darkness of which is not conducive to the growth of a delicate flower. Even memories of the sunny sands were, after a time, of no use. These become overtaken by memories he wishes to be rid of, memories that repulse him and “f[all] upon him like a weight of black water.” Like the black thing in the corner, which threatens him at every turn, the memories come rushing at him as a tidal wave, crushing him with their blackness and superior strength.

            “The thing was winding itself up. . . .” The whole world is the street he hates so, containing the cooking smells, and horrible yellow wallpaper; there seems no escaping it, and to only this “reality” has Paul now resigned himself. As he makes his way to his final destination, the scenery reflects Paul’s own inner landscape: dead grass and dried weeds are scattered about, and even the once-lively, gleefully scandalous red carnation in the boy’s coat clings to the button with what little life it has left.

            Once more, the beautiful array of flowers in the park is as Paul. From the safety of their respective protective devices do Paul and the arrangement of flowers mock the world that threatened each of them. Now he subjects the carnations a black fate; by covering them with snow, he smothers them with the darkness he himself has feared for so long. As they have parallel existences in life, so too will flowers in death, again reclaiming their space in the earth, once more becoming part of “the immense design of things.”

Lisl can also be found at before the second sleep. If you would like her to review your book or conduct an interview, please see our submissions tab above. 

         

PAULA'S PEOPLE: DAPHNE FARROW, 91 YEAR OLD AUTHOR

Today I'd like to welcome young Daphne Farrow who is only 91 years young to my blog as a guest.   I first met Daphne in John Pye's The Bookshop bookshop in the lovely Sussex medieval High St of  East Grinstead. I was doing a book signing in the week running up to the Christmas of 2012 and Daphne, who is a regular feature in The Bookshop, was there to hand sell her book, Funny Things Happened to Me on the Way to Old Age. At first I was perturbed by this competition; after all, I had the privileged 'signing' table and thought that a little charming old lady would be more likely to win customers than I was going to. But soon my fears began to melt away as we somehow molded into a double act. If someone bought Daphne's book, I would look at them and smile and say, "Well, there's no point in me telling you about mine is there?" Instead of running up to the till in an effort to avoid me, I found that they would stop and ask me what I was selling and after giving them my carefully rehearsed spiel, they'd buy one of my books as well! It may have had something to do with it being Christmas but both Daphne and I sold quite a few copies that day, mostly as a tag team and we both struck up a lovely friendship. Daphne is a lovely lady who has a wealth of wisdom and history to share with us 'young 'uns'. It's been a privilege to meet her and have her as a guest on The Review.

Daphne's book is a collection of stories about her life. It is a fantastic insight into life in the 20's, 30's and surviving the Plymouth blitz and serving as a WAAF officer. I was so intrigued by Daphne and her story that I wanted to let my friends and readers know about this wonderful sweet lady who had put her fond memories of her experiences down on paper. In two years, Daphne has managed to sell over 600 copies purely through The Bookshop and I thought I would introduce her to a wider audience by inviting her to be a guest on my blog.

So please welcome the lovely Daphne Farrow!

So tell me where you were born, Daphne? 

I'm from Plymouth, a Devonshire lass. 

What made you decide to write your book, Daphne?  

 My daughter Annie kept nagging me to and I gave in because I wanted to make people laugh. 

How would you describe your book?

Light-hearted and exact!

What was it like in the RAF?

I was a staff driver at HQ and later commissioned to become a technical officer.  I had to go on a 6 week course that would have normally taken 3 years! We had to cram a lot of learning into those 6 weeks.  There was a camaraderie and friendship and we all had one thing in common, the determination to survive and fightback. 

What was the most exciting moment of your life? 

Meeting my husband. I had always wanted to fly and he was a pilot and took out in a Halifax Bomber over the field and I was so worried we weren't going to get above the trees. He just told me to hang on to the compass so i didn't fall over! It was the most exhilarating, heart stopping moment of my life but it was wonderful as we flew above the trees!

What or who are your inspirations?

I love music, Big Band music like Victor Sylvester, Classical music : Mozart's piano concerto no 23 and I loved dancing to the music of Strauss. My husband used to teach ballroom dancing so I loved that sort of music.

What have been your favourite books?

I love Agatha Christie books, they keep you in suspense

What is your favourite part of your book?

Absolutely no question, the part where I tell about the day Clifford, my husband flew me through the Northern Lights. As we flew by the beautiful chiffon colours I felt like the luckiest girl in the world. Not even the Queen could have done better! 

Me and the lovely Daphne in The Bookshop

Many thanks to Daphne for allowing me to interview her and tell the world about her wonderful book which can be bought on line here or on Amazon or The Bookshop


If you would like to know more about Daphne check out her website at  http://www.funnythingshappened.co.uk/

Linda Reviews: Kiss of the Concubine by Judith Arnopp

Kiss of the Concubine
by Judith Arnopp, a review by Linda Root

My acquaintance with Anne Boleyn has developed over sixty years, from the time I was a romantic teenager enthralled by the movie Young Bess. I was sufficiently captivated by Elizabeth Tudor to want to know more about her disgraced mother, and over a lifetime of voracious reading, I have devoured a small library’s worth of  histories seeking the real Anne Boleyn.

This has been a landmark year for Anne and me, what with Susan Bordo’s excellent award winning analysis, The Creation of Anne Boleyn, and one would think that my personal Anne would have been put to rest. Thus, when I volunteered  to review Kiss of the Concubine, I wondered why I was so anxious to explore another fictionalized account of Queen Anne when I already knew her intimately. Thus I made a vow to approach Judith Arnopp’s book as if Henry Tudor’s second wife was a total stranger and I was a fledgling Tudorphile. Reading The Kiss of the Concubine  from that perspective, I am delighted to report that there is a new historical novel about Henry VIII’s most sensationalized queen worthy of a spot on the reading list of anyone who appreciates meticulously researched and artfully crafted historical novels, whether new to the queen’s story or anxious to revisit it from a different point of view—her own.

The relationship between Anne and Henry, as Judith Arnopp paints it, is intriguing and complex.  It is not ‘love at first sight’ that grows less arresting with the passage of time. Like fine tea, it took some time to brew. Judith’s Anne is not a beautiful woman, but she is a bright one and every bit as capable of manipulation as Henry.

The Anne in the paintings is not a beauty, but she is sufficiently captivating to warrant a second look. High-born men like Henry Percy and romantics like the poet Tom Wyatt had one thing in common—they were willing to take substantial risks to gain the lady’s favor. The king knew who she was, but he did not immediately recruit her for a bed-partner as he had her sister Mary. It was after several confrontations between the two of them that he noticed qualities more compelling than her looks— her confidence and wit. Those were the attributes that allowed this less-than-beautiful commoner to hold off Henry’s advances for seven years during which the king put aside his queen, his relationship with God and the Roman Church, and the status quo of the ranking nobility. In Judith’s book Anne plays him very well. Never naïve, she recognizes the risks, and on occasion looks wistfully back upon the days when Henry Percy and Tom Wyatt were leaping over hedge rows and falling at her feet for the pleasure of her company.

Ms. Arnopp places Anne in an accurate historical setting which exposes much of the character who has been maligned by historical novelists and historians in the past. She is a woman of an age when women were not supposed to adopt politically controversial causes or to influence events by employing means more direct than the lifting of the hem of a kirtle. Anne is indeed a seductress, but she is not subtle, and that makes  enemies of men like Woolsey, and later, Cromwell. All of those characters are significant in Anne’s story. Of the supporting characters, the one who plays a major role is Anne’s brother George, but he is not alone. His wife Jane, Lady Rochford, is one of the significant women in the story, and while she is no less jealous of her sister-in-law than in other accounts, she is viewed more sympathetcally, not just by Judith Arnopp, but by Ms. Arnopp’s Anne.  When Henry is encouraged to believe the worst about the queen, George’s behavior toward his sister gives credibility to the whispers of her enemies, both male and female. In Kiss, Anne and George truly love one another, but not carnally. There are hints in Arnopp’s novel that George would have overlooked the taboo, but not Anne. And in Kiss, as Anne becomes reconciled to the inevitability of her execution, it is not Henry whose support and advice she craves. It is George's.

As the author conveys in her end notes, she does not try to solve the mystery of just what occurred to turn Henry away from Anne so quickly. She acknowledges that there has to have been more than Anne’s inability to provide Henry with a son to precipitate so violent a change.  In The Kiss of the Concubine, Anne herself remains perplexed. Many historical novelists would have been tempted to answer that question with the same caprice as a parade of traditional historians have done,  either blaming it on infidelities of the queen or by laying it all at Henry’s feet and attributing it to his lust for the more obiesant Jane Seymour and an overdose of midlife crisis. By telling the story in the first person, the author sidesteps that temptation neatly. The reader can only know what Anne knows.
By choosing her subject well, Ms. Arnopp avoids some of the problems other fine writers have encountered in creating a historical novel through the eyes of protagonists who played major historical roles but did not come across as especially interesting in print. Arnopp’s Anne, like Hilary Mantel’s Cromwell of Wolf Hall, is intriguing enough to carry it off. 

It is interesting that in the fantasy scene that frames the story, Henry seems to be less afraid of death and the consequences of his excesses  and abuses, less terrified of the possibility that the Pope might truly hold the keys to Heaven’s Gate, than he is afraid of Anne, who dared to reach beyond her grasp, and at his death, is still reaching. Judith Arnopp’s Anne Boleyn reminds me of Stendall’s Julien Sorel in my favorite classic, The Red and the Black. Her crime, like Julien’s, is that she dared.

Reading Kiss of the Concubine is a fine precursor to settling in with a glass of excellent white wine and perusing an entire library shelf that tells Anne’s story less eloquently and less well than Arnopp’s whispering masked woman shown on the cover of her novel. And yes, Arnopp’s Anne dares to wear a mask. The rather ingenious scene that gives the novel its title and frames the story is not the essence of the book, although it adds to a reader’s pleasure. We never meet the obese tyrant who Henry becomes in his later years, and we are not tempted to speculate as to what impression Henry and Anne’s stillborn son might have had on the history of the Tudors had he breathed. The denouement of the Tudors is written by the childless queens Mary and Elizabeth and is not the story told in Kiss of the Concubine. Kiss, in essence, is a politically motivated love affair, fraught with pragmatisms which overwhelm the passions of the lovers.  We see Henry as Anne saw him. Just as Anne was Henry’s prize, Henry was Anne’s, and for both of them, winning comes with a price. Anne is not portrayed as a martyr, and she is allowed her human flaws. She is jealous and resentful, often judgmental and ambitious, but not arrogant.
For a reader who would like to know the woman who caused all the fuss and died in Fortune’s afterglow, I can think of no more entertaining way to meet her than in the pages of this well-researched and brilliantly written book.

Judith Arnopp

The Kiss of the Concubine by Judith Arnopp and edited by Cas Peace, is available on Amazon and at Amazon UK.

Linda Root is the author of four books of the Queen of Scots Suite, with a fifth pending. 

Emma Powell reviews Miracle by Phillipa Vincent-Connolly

Review for Miracle by Phillipa Vincent-Connolly

Teenage girls.  Boys.  Homework.  Hormones.  Not my usual genre and nothing out of the ordinary you may think, but this book very cleverly takes these ‘ordinary’ ingredients, shakes them up and throws a very extraordinary story at you. The resulting story centres around a seventeen year old girl - Orianna - coping with all of the above and much more. All whilst coping with cerebal palsy.

The writer conveys, rather succinctly, that cerebal palsy doesn’t mean a limited lifestyle.  Orianna is intelligent, popular and independent. She has an iron will but her vulnerability shows through; she has a confident attitude but her self-esteem regularly nose-dives, her confidence wavers and this keeps her, as the main character, jumping off the page at you. In a sense, she is both the antagonist and protagonist of her own story and it is this element which keeps you turning the pages. 

Orianna’s supporting characters are totally believable and deal with Orianna’s condition from different ends of the spectrum. Support comes from treating her like normal to the point of nonchalance, to being over-protective to the point of suffocating. They unwittingly cross boundaries felt acutely by Orianna. There are a few scenes that deal with these emotions wonderfully - scenes I won’t discuss for fear of ruining a good read! Her family is typical of today with an absent father figure but the twist here is Orianna frequently takes on the role of ‘mother’ as her own mother is out dating a lot, much to Orianna’s disgust! So that’s another dimension to this story and to Orianna’s personality, how she copes with being the ‘grown-up’ out of her younger sister and her mother. This aspect of the story actually works really well, blending in with the overall story and just adds that normality feel to the book; you really feel you’re reading someone’s diary who could easily live in your street.  I imagine quite a few readers will know someone similar or be able relate to this book.

The myriad of emotions that thread their way through this story took me straight back to my teenage years - the Saturday shopping with the girls, fancying boys who you prayed every day would fancy you back, being with friends.  Dealing with how you look, mood swings and finding your way in the world.  The author has juxtaposed the struggles and rewards of someone who doesn’t see why she should be different but alternately sees herself as someone who is.  And it works, very well.  It is the talent of this story-telling that makes this book a page turner.

Grammatically, the writing flows well in a modern style although occasionally, more paragraph breaks may have helped when dealing with situations. This does not, however, detract from an enjoyable read and the words thread their way through emotional highs and lows that keep you reading and caring about Orianna. You can almost feel her self-doubt, determination and vulnerability that are at war within herself. 

The climax of the story comes somewhat out of the blue, again, making a good read but it was such a good scene, I feel a tad more of a build-up would have enriched the whole situation a little more. I found it quite dramatic and suprising but this only adds to the depth of the book - it’s good to be taken by surprise when reading a book; the less you see coming, the better the experience! Also, perhaps more of the story in the aftermath of this climax would have enriched it, too, but perhaps I’m just just trying to expand the story and make it last a bit longer.  It is definately a tale that would suffer no harm from being longer and the character of Orianna is not one easily worn out.  It would even be good to see a sequel ...

 A much recommended read that reiterates that old adage - what you see, isn’t necessarily what you get!  This book opens your eyes to the fact that everybody has a tale to tell no matter how ordinary you may think they are. It shows how people see, feel and act on the same things in different ways and just how rewarding, testing and satisfying life can be when you overcome obstacles in your path. 

For more information on Phillipa Vincent-Connolly, check out her webpage. She can also be found at Facebook and Goodreads.

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Louise Discusses - Book Covers

LOUISE DISCUSSES - BOOK COVERS

It has long been a passion of mine, book covers; they are the window to the author's imagined world, or they are the representation of the author's nonfictional Magnus Opus. I feel that it is important for the book cover to not only hook the potential reader to pick the book up and flick through the pages, but also it should represent in some way what hides between the covers.

I would like to discuss three books today. They are Imperium by Robert Harris, The Oracles of Troy by Glyn Iliffe, and Undreamed Shores by Mark Patton. These three books are from my own Kindle bookshelf.

When you purchase a Kindle version of a book, the back cover is not evident, there is no 'blurb' to read. This is a pet peeve of mine, although I know that it is possible to download a 'Try a Sample' option before you decide to purchase, or not. I always do this; it is worthwhile. Sometimes the title comes across as exciting, but reading the sample can show otherwise, equally the opposite can be true.

So I am going to have three categories by which to judge the covers; THE BEST, THE GOOD, and THE ENIGMATIC.

THE BEST

Imperium by Robert Harris

The tag line at the top of the book tells any potential reader that the book that has just been selected is The Worldwide Bestseller, black against a muted grey. This is a simple no-frills statement full of confidence. For the most part all of Robert Harris' book covers are dominated by his name. The font is always the same, large, uncompromising and with great impact. The only thing that changes here is the colour, so that it stands proud of the picture. Here it is in bold red. To me this signifies assassination, but of whom? interest has been ignited.

In the mid-line of sight there is placed a single strap-line review in black:

'Truly gifted, razor-sharp' Daily Telegraph

Gritty modern language juxtaposed with the Latin title.

Imperium, a strong title, is predominantly white, again entirely in capitals with the initial letter set larger than the rest. Then the eye drifts across the title and stops abruptly at the figure of a Roman soldier resting against the letter 'U' - signifying the military, trouble, war. There are muted grey columns supporting a roof, which are placed in the centre of the picture - so, we are in the Roman Senate. There are two silhouetted figures, one of whom is addressing a multitude of raised hands. The figure placed in the centre is portrayed in the quintessential pose of a senator, arm outstretched. With the raised hands of the senators, you can imagine the noise, nobody is listening; all have something to say.

Below the title there is a caveat also in white, small capitals, stark against the blackness: In the deadly game of power, one man will risk it all. This is the final thing that the eye drifts to as the reader peruses the cover. The cover is complete. The job is done. There is nothing more to do, but read the book.

THE GOOD

The Oracles of Troy by Glyn Iliffe

When the potential reader first looks at the book it is evident even if it were without a title that it is going to be about Greece and Troy simply because of the wooden horse.

I love the dynamic way in which the horse is rearing over the title. It is strong, in charge; the construction is imaginative, artistic. The title is in a font that pays homage to the Greek alphabet without going overboard, set in a bright yellow bold font for impact. The author's name is in capitals giving the author status, but kept white and smaller and set beneath the title, letting the title take pride of place. In the top right hand corner, also in white capitals but smaller still, is a sub-heading, letting the reader know that the book is a part of a series.

The picture has a supporting role in this title. The picture shows castellated buildings, giving a sense of place, whose colouring is in dark muted sunset tones pushing the yellow of the title forward, while the muted blue sky highlights the Trojan Horse emphasising its enormity. The Trojan Horse has been imaginatively conceived. It is not at all clichéd. The wood that it is constructed from is old and battered, dry like driftwood, and if you look closely you can even see a hint of an eye, adding to the impressive image.

For me, the book doesn't have to try hard, the cover beckons, daring the reader to look inside and satisfy their curiosity.

THE ENIGMATIC

Undreamed Shores by Mark Patton

For me this is one of the most uninspiring book covers that I have come across. What does it have going for it? What does it tell the potential reader? It has a title, and it has the author's name. Initially, you think there is nothing else to talk about. So let's look deeper.

The background resembles a stormy sky, a dark navy blue/grey, perhaps representing conflict. Against this image the title sits unsteadily, set in a lowercase font which looks as though it has been written with a brush pen. The initial line is smaller, almost inferior, shy, sitting behind the larger line below. I think that it is small because it represents the 'thing' undreamed. 'Shores' in a larger font may represent the extent of what is to be yet dreamed. This is all arbitrary of course, as it is all in the author's mind. It is up to the reader to unravel this conundrum of a title, which is taken from Shakespeare's A Winter's Tale Act 4, Scene 4. The author's name is smaller still, and placed at the bottom of the cover, almost unimportant, a happenstance. All the information is in white, stark against the dark background. Does the cover invite you to open the book and read it? Merely through curiosity at first, I think.

The cover actually belies what is inside. The story is intriguing and well imagined, but because there is a lack of information on the book cover there is absolutely no clue to this fact or that the story starts in circa 2400 BC. I bought this book because I had enjoyed a previous book by this author, and just for the record, I also enjoyed this one.

Louise E. Rule

Louise is the author of Future Confronted 
Louise's Blog can be found here
Louise's Facebook Page can be found here

This post was inspired by  Lorri Covers It  two previous posts here on The Review Blog