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Muriel Spark: An Odd Capacity for Vision
By imparting a metaphysical element of mystery to the facts of her fiction, Muriel Spark has become well-known as one of the most enigmatic writers of her time. She has never been satisfied with photographic naturalism and even her realistic descriptions have an atmosphere of illusion. A self-conscious stylist, she always seems to sense a spiritual presence behind a physical substance. Mrs. Spark's international reputation as a writer of wit, perception and (sometimes supernatural) power is subjected to a sustained examination in analytical essays. This book gives an overall image of Mrs. Spark as a remarkably gifted writer.
208 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1986
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About the author
Alan Bold
94 books1 followerAlan Norman Bold was a Scottish poet, biographer, and journalist. He was educated at Broughton High School and the University of Edinburgh.
He edited Hugh MacDiarmid's Letters and wrote the influential biography MacDiarmid. Bold had acquainted himself with MacDiarmid in 1963 while still an English Literature student at Edinburgh University. His debut work, Society Inebrious, with a lengthy introduction by MacDiarmid, was published in 1965, during Bold's final university year. This early publication kick-started a prolific poetic career with Bold publishing another three books of verse before the end of the decade, including the ambitious book-length poem The State of the Nation. He also edited The Penguin Book of Socialist Verse (1970) and published a 1973 biography of Robert Burns.
A lifelong heavy drinker who dealt with the boozy life of the poet in such collections as A Pint of Bitter, Bold suffered a heart attack in early 1998 and died in a hospital in Kirkcaldy at the age of 54.
He edited Hugh MacDiarmid's Letters and wrote the influential biography MacDiarmid. Bold had acquainted himself with MacDiarmid in 1963 while still an English Literature student at Edinburgh University. His debut work, Society Inebrious, with a lengthy introduction by MacDiarmid, was published in 1965, during Bold's final university year. This early publication kick-started a prolific poetic career with Bold publishing another three books of verse before the end of the decade, including the ambitious book-length poem The State of the Nation. He also edited The Penguin Book of Socialist Verse (1970) and published a 1973 biography of Robert Burns.
A lifelong heavy drinker who dealt with the boozy life of the poet in such collections as A Pint of Bitter, Bold suffered a heart attack in early 1998 and died in a hospital in Kirkcaldy at the age of 54.
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Displaying 1 of 1 review
April 1, 2013
I’ve been waiting for the right time to review this book. I chose today since it was exactly 35 years ago that something very memorable happened to me – the sort of first occasion that sticks with a guy. If you don’t mind indulging me, I’ll set the stage. It was spring break during my semester abroad and a couple of buddies and I were in Paris. While my friends were taking an afternoon nap to get ready for another long night out, I had to break away to the local Laundromat to deal with pommes frites grease and a splotch of vin rouge. I was struggling to apply my less than sufficient French to a long set of directions when a nice English-ish-speaking lady helped explain that the coin slots were on the opposite wall. She had a strong accent that I couldn’t immediately place (though later learned was Scottish). I guessed she was around 60, but spirited, with a friendly face and lively eyes.
As I waited for my load to finish, I started reading a copy of Ship of Fools that a girl on the train gave me in exchange for the Hemingway I’d finished earlier. When I looked up from the page, my kind helper was making eye contact. I gave her a little smile and she took that as a cue to join me. Her first comment was about how much she enjoyed Katharine Anne, like she knew her personally. She then proceeded to tell me all about the context for this book. Evidently the Ship of Fools allegory has been a fixture in Western art and literature for centuries. Crazy and oblivious passengers on a boat without a captain can represent any number of things. When I remarked on how impressive her knowledge of this was, she said it was her business to stay up on all things literary. At that point I knew there was no way this could be a two-sided exchange, but to my credit, I was genuinely curious. She introduced herself as Muriel Spark, author of numerous books. Since I couldn’t very well fake having heard of her, I asked which one was her best known. When she mentioned The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, I was happy that I at least knew of the movie they’d made of it. “Didn’t Maggie Smith win an Academy Award for that,” I asked?
“Yes, dear lad, she did. Ha, I should have known that an American would connect to my work, if at all, by way of Hollywood.”
I don’t think she meant this as a dig, so I didn’t take it that way. She chuckled with droll self-deprecation, saying that she was enjoying quite an extended prime herself. Then she went on to tell me some stories about Maggie Smith that she knew would entertain me. (Maybe I’ll save those for a review of Miss Brodie someday.) Anyway, at that point she realized that I might appreciate a chance to break in to what was turning out to be a monologue.
"Have you seen the Père Lachaise Cemetery yet? Jim Morrison’s grave is quite the popular site, you know."
When I said that it was on the list, she correctly figured me for a Doors fan. She tied this back to our previous conversation by mentioning that “Ship of Fools” was a song on the Morrison Hotel album. It was impressive that she knew so much about popular culture, which I figured was consistent with the fact that she was in Paris soaking up their version of it. Not wanting to be left behind entirely, I mentioned The Grateful Dead song of the same name. This, in turn, launched me into a story of the Dead concert I’d seen earlier that year. While it may be true that almost any story about seeing The Dead is at least slightly interesting, she was hanging on my every word. It was flattering in a not-quite-to-be-believed way. We continued in the same vein, both trying to impress the other by the overlap in our worlds until our laundry was done. She then asked in a slightly shy tone of voice if I’d like to join her for tea. Her hotel was nearby, and they served a version of it that was nearly up to her British standards, she said with a grin.
Before we sat for tea, she joked that in the civilized world we’d have aperitifs beforehand. The specialty of the house was some brandy concoction that I have to admit was pretty good. Then at tea, I could see why we were meant to stimulate our appetites with aperitifs. What a spread! I thought it would essentially be, you know, tea, with maybe a wafer for dunking. But this was scones, petit fours, and all kinds of stuff I’d never seen before (or since for that matter). This was going to make quite a story when I got back with my buds: semi-famous British author invites me to a fancy feast all from a chance encounter at the Laundromat. Little did I know what I would later not be telling them.
Anyway, the tea was superb and Muriel was great at carrying the conversation, drawing me out my shell on occasion, never once making me feel the fool. I was beginning to believe that my charm had somehow magically doubled. It might have helped, too, that over the previous year or so my pizza face was finally losing most of its pepperonis. Maybe I wasn’t so unpleasant to look at anymore. Then a minor faux pas – a crumbly bit of scone I had loaded with clotted cream fell off as I took a bite. Muriel did her best to set me at ease saying it was part of the tea tradition for a first-time participant to lose a bit of scone. She then helped point out spots where the cream had gotten on me. One I couldn’t see was on my collar. When she reached over with her wetted napkin to help me, it seemed like she might have taken greater care than necessary. Embarrassment for my accident gave way to embarrassment for what I began to feel – embarrassment mixed with excitement. With Muriel so close, and nowhere to look but in her sparkling eyes as she attended to me, turning my head with her soft, confident hands on my cheeks, presumably looking for more cream, it was almost impossible to fight an impulse. How much of this was she picking up on? How much of this was she perpetrating? If I was April and she was September, did it matter?
Muriel passed away in 2006. I told myself that day, April 1, 1978, that I’d never cause her one moment’s anxiety over what transpired after that. Even now, after her death, and with virtually no chance that anyone she knew would see this, I’m reluctant to say much. What I will allow myself to divulge is something I’ll hide under a spoiler. It’s your choice whether to avoid or participate in my little confession.
As I waited for my load to finish, I started reading a copy of Ship of Fools that a girl on the train gave me in exchange for the Hemingway I’d finished earlier. When I looked up from the page, my kind helper was making eye contact. I gave her a little smile and she took that as a cue to join me. Her first comment was about how much she enjoyed Katharine Anne, like she knew her personally. She then proceeded to tell me all about the context for this book. Evidently the Ship of Fools allegory has been a fixture in Western art and literature for centuries. Crazy and oblivious passengers on a boat without a captain can represent any number of things. When I remarked on how impressive her knowledge of this was, she said it was her business to stay up on all things literary. At that point I knew there was no way this could be a two-sided exchange, but to my credit, I was genuinely curious. She introduced herself as Muriel Spark, author of numerous books. Since I couldn’t very well fake having heard of her, I asked which one was her best known. When she mentioned The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, I was happy that I at least knew of the movie they’d made of it. “Didn’t Maggie Smith win an Academy Award for that,” I asked?
“Yes, dear lad, she did. Ha, I should have known that an American would connect to my work, if at all, by way of Hollywood.”
I don’t think she meant this as a dig, so I didn’t take it that way. She chuckled with droll self-deprecation, saying that she was enjoying quite an extended prime herself. Then she went on to tell me some stories about Maggie Smith that she knew would entertain me. (Maybe I’ll save those for a review of Miss Brodie someday.) Anyway, at that point she realized that I might appreciate a chance to break in to what was turning out to be a monologue.
"Have you seen the Père Lachaise Cemetery yet? Jim Morrison’s grave is quite the popular site, you know."
When I said that it was on the list, she correctly figured me for a Doors fan. She tied this back to our previous conversation by mentioning that “Ship of Fools” was a song on the Morrison Hotel album. It was impressive that she knew so much about popular culture, which I figured was consistent with the fact that she was in Paris soaking up their version of it. Not wanting to be left behind entirely, I mentioned The Grateful Dead song of the same name. This, in turn, launched me into a story of the Dead concert I’d seen earlier that year. While it may be true that almost any story about seeing The Dead is at least slightly interesting, she was hanging on my every word. It was flattering in a not-quite-to-be-believed way. We continued in the same vein, both trying to impress the other by the overlap in our worlds until our laundry was done. She then asked in a slightly shy tone of voice if I’d like to join her for tea. Her hotel was nearby, and they served a version of it that was nearly up to her British standards, she said with a grin.
Before we sat for tea, she joked that in the civilized world we’d have aperitifs beforehand. The specialty of the house was some brandy concoction that I have to admit was pretty good. Then at tea, I could see why we were meant to stimulate our appetites with aperitifs. What a spread! I thought it would essentially be, you know, tea, with maybe a wafer for dunking. But this was scones, petit fours, and all kinds of stuff I’d never seen before (or since for that matter). This was going to make quite a story when I got back with my buds: semi-famous British author invites me to a fancy feast all from a chance encounter at the Laundromat. Little did I know what I would later not be telling them.
Anyway, the tea was superb and Muriel was great at carrying the conversation, drawing me out my shell on occasion, never once making me feel the fool. I was beginning to believe that my charm had somehow magically doubled. It might have helped, too, that over the previous year or so my pizza face was finally losing most of its pepperonis. Maybe I wasn’t so unpleasant to look at anymore. Then a minor faux pas – a crumbly bit of scone I had loaded with clotted cream fell off as I took a bite. Muriel did her best to set me at ease saying it was part of the tea tradition for a first-time participant to lose a bit of scone. She then helped point out spots where the cream had gotten on me. One I couldn’t see was on my collar. When she reached over with her wetted napkin to help me, it seemed like she might have taken greater care than necessary. Embarrassment for my accident gave way to embarrassment for what I began to feel – embarrassment mixed with excitement. With Muriel so close, and nowhere to look but in her sparkling eyes as she attended to me, turning my head with her soft, confident hands on my cheeks, presumably looking for more cream, it was almost impossible to fight an impulse. How much of this was she picking up on? How much of this was she perpetrating? If I was April and she was September, did it matter?
Muriel passed away in 2006. I told myself that day, April 1, 1978, that I’d never cause her one moment’s anxiety over what transpired after that. Even now, after her death, and with virtually no chance that anyone she knew would see this, I’m reluctant to say much. What I will allow myself to divulge is something I’ll hide under a spoiler. It’s your choice whether to avoid or participate in my little confession.
Displaying 1 of 1 review