Leonora Carrington died only a month and a half ago at the age of 94, a surrealist and remarkable traveler across the 20th century. Though I only heard about her through a post on the Writers No One Reads tumblr, it seems that she was far from unknown. Here is her epitaph in the Telegraph:

Born in Britain, she eloped with Max Ernst, hung out with Picasso and Dali, fled the Nazis, escaped from a Spanish psychiatric hospital and later settled in Mexico, where she built a reputation as one of the most original and visionary British artists and writers of the 20th century.

And here she is, in 2007:



At the time, she was a couple months from turning 92, the age of Marion Leatherby, the protagonist of The Hearing Trumpet. Though published in 1976 when she was 59, Carrington chose an alter-ego a generation older, a plucky nonagenarian who wants only to retire to Lapland amongst snow and sled dogs, but instead is shipped off to a cultish rest home by a family impatient to have her out of the way at minimal cost, only to become embroiled in unexpected plots.



The book opens with brisk humor in generally everyday setting, but soon unexpected intrigue sets in without warning, the reader is sent off on a long (and fascinating) digression about 18th century feminist cults, and then immediately carried off on into a most exciting and indescribable adventure story at whiplash-inducing pace, dense with mythology and strangeness. This can all seem a little erratic, perhaps, but is perhaps apt to an aging but sprightly mind that still hopes to see Lapland. It's all terribly entertaining, our protagonists are remarkably engaging, considering, and there seems to be quite a bit of social observation strung throughout -- played mostly for humor, but there nonetheless. On the whole, a very weird, very enjoyable bit of storytelling. It could have been drawn out to twice this length and I would have had no objections.



Thanks, Leonora, and rest in peace.