David Lurie is a 50-something university professor, twice divorced. He's not particularly skilled at relationships. Perhaps he doesn't even understand what a relationship truly is, since early on he assumes that weekly encounters with a prostitute constitute some kind of more permanent bond. When the prostitute leaves town, David finds himself without female companionship and makes the even more egregious error of striking up an affair with a student. Of course this is discovered, and David leaves the university in disgrace. He visits his adult daughter Lucy, who runs a small farm and dog kennel in a rough and sometimes dangerous part of rural South Africa. At first it seems David will ease into the slower pace of country life, come to terms with the wrong he has done to others, and potentially make peace. But Coetzee has other plans, and visits upon David and Lucy an horrific act of violence resulting in even more disgrace, this time affecting both of them. Their emotional recovery -- individually and collectively -- is at the center of this novel.

David is not a particularly likable character. He is so interpersonally inept that he nearly always makes the wrong choice. I didn't really care whether he recovered from his ordeal; in many cases he got what he deserved. Lucy, on the other hand, was a more sympathetic figure. A lesbian abandoned by her partner just before David's arrival, she is fiercely independent. She is committed to making her farm successful, despite the danger of being a woman alone in that part of the country. She resists David's attempt to protect her (a natural response for a father, but still unwelcome). And yet despite her independence and strong will, when faced with a situation requiring legal action, she prefers to give in and try to make peace herself. She succeeds to some degree, but with tremendous personal sacrifice.

Disgrace raised up many ethical and moral issues, prompting me to consider how I might handle similar situations. Interesting reading. ( )

She usually contrived to avoid being at home during the season of domestic renewal. ... She had so long been accustomed to pass from one country-house to another, till the close of the holidays brought her friends to town, that the unfilled gaps of time confronting her produced a sharp sense of waning popularity. It was as she had said to Selden -- people were tired of her. (p. 149)

Such is the plight of Lily Bart, the tragic heroine of The House of Mirth. At twenty-nine, Lily finds herself unmarried and, upon her mother's death, left without visible means of support. She realizes a husband would provide much-needed security, not to mention the income required to maintain her lavish lifestyle. Yet Lily is so self-absorbed, she unknowingly ruins just about every marriage opportunity presented to her. Lily is terribly naive about the effects of her behavior on others. When she slights a potential suitor, she brushes it off as a matter of little consequence. She is both surprised and hurt when the gentleman abruptly leaves the party. Lily is also completely ignorant of financial matters. After losing a large sum of money at bridge, she allows a friend's husband to invest what was left of her money in the stock market. The investments are profitable, but Lily's appetite for luxury still exceeds the available funds. And, to make matters worse, the investor has definite ideas as to how Lily should "repay" him. Lily has only a couple true friends, notably a young man named Lawrence Selden. Selden's love for Lily is obvious to the reader, but not to the characters. Lily treats him more like a big brother, dismissing thoughts of marrying Selden and setting her sights on wealthier prospects.

In the second half of the novel Lily's relationship and financial difficulties only get worse, and while Lily has a vague idea that things are not as they should be, she prefers to keep her head in the sand. This made for difficult reading; many times I wanted to take Lily by the shoulders and shake some sense into her. Then, about 50 pages from the end there was a juicy bit of foreshadowing. The rest of the book was like watching a horror film with partially-covered eyes. Was Wharton really going to do what I thought she'd do? Well, I won't say any more on that ... I'll just say that the ending was fitting.

Edith Wharton is known for her portrayal of New York society at the turn of the 20th century. Much of her work also addresses the rights of women, and in particular the impact of divorce. In House of Mirth, Wharton echoes Virginia Woolf's message that a woman must have "a room of her own and 500 pounds." Lily lacked both, making her extremely vulnerable. And, she had virtually no ability to change her circumstances. Add to that a frivolous attitude, and you have a cautionary tale indeed. ( )

The Siege of Krishnapur
J.G. Farrell
314 pages

Looking at the Prime Minister the Collector was overcome by a feeling of helplessness. He realized that there was a whole way of life of the people in India which he would never get to know and which was totally indifferent to him and his concerns. 'The Company could pack up here tomorrow and this fellow would never notice ... And not only him ... The British could leave and half India wouldn't notice us leaving just as they didn't notice us arriving. All our reforms of administration might be reforms on the moon for all it has to do with them.' The Collector was humbled and depressed by this thought. (p.210)

This is a fictional account of one town held siege during the Indian Rebellion of 1857, when sepoys from the British East India Company's army staged a mutiny which then spread across a significant portion of the country. As the novel opens, the Collector (head of the British settlement in Krishnapur) is concerned about potential unrest. But author J.G. Farrell takes his time painting a picture of the British colonial lifestyle first, and spares no one. He captures western arrogance and superiority quite well. The Great Exhibition of 1851 is cited by many characters as an example of superior British science and intellect. Farrell also pokes fun at the Victorian fondness for possessions, describing the Residency's decor in vivid detail, and the impractical fashions worn by both men and women.

Eventually the inevitable happens and the British settlement finds itself under siege. At first the community tries to maintain some sense of normalcy, holding fast to their class structure and enjoying the odd brandy now and then. But as casualties mount and supplies dwindle, conflict inevitably arises. The Protestant and Roman Catholic clergy debate openly with each other and with certain members of their "flock." The two physicians engage in verbal sparring over the causes and cures of cholera, and members of the community take sides. Through it all the Collector attempts to remain in command, with varying degrees of success. The reader can only watch the situation deteriorate, and try to absorb the tragedy.

I struggled a bit with this book. In the opening portion I was enjoying what I considered a satirical view of British colonials. And then suddenly the satire stopped, and war took over. Yet the characters continued to behave according to the satire. My emotions were very much in conflict, until a friend hit on just the right word: sympathy. Yes, that's it. Farrell presents a very sympathetic portrait of the colonials and a situation gone very, very wrong. It was written at a time when people were beginning to re-examine the importance of empire. I suspect its message hit home, which is why it won the Booker Prize in 1973. So many years later, the impact is not quite the same but it is still an interesting story and a pretty good read. ( )

The Remains of the Day
Kazuo Ishiguro
245 pages

It is sometimes said that butlers only truly exist in England. Other countries, whatever title is actually used, have only manservants. I tend to believe this is true. Continentals are unable to be butlers because they are as a breed incapable of emotional restraint which only the English race are capable of. (p. 43)

Thus does Stevens, a butler on a fine English estate, describe the dignity and restraint he sees as essential elements of the truly great butlers -- a title he will not allow himself to claim, although it is probably deserved. Stevens spent 30 years in service at Darlington Hall, beginning in the 1920s. He did all his master asked of him, with complete decorum and the much-admired restraint. He was assisted by a housekeeper, Miss Kenton, who left after many years to marry and have a family of her own. The novel begins with Stevens taking a rare holiday, a trip across the country to visit Miss Kenton. A recent letter from her led him to believe she would be interested in returning to service at Darlington Hall. The letter resurrected memories and emotions; long suppressed in the interest of dignity and restraint. During Stevens' journey, he relives his years serving Lord Darlington, and his relationship with Miss Kenton.

The story is told entirely in Stevens' voice. Ishiguro has a way of making the situation perfectly plain to the reader, even though much is left unsaid. The reader sees a side of Lord Darlington that Stevens himself was unable to acknowledge. And his feelings for Miss Kenton are crystal clear, even though they never break through his reserved exterior. I nearly cried when he and Miss Kenton parted company the first time, and their reunion was heavily laden with missed opportunity and dashed hopes that once again were quite moving.

I was worried that this book would be spoiled by having seen the film many years ago. And while I couldn't help envisioning Stevens just as he was portrayed by Anthony Hopkins, I still found myself immersed in this book as if experiencing the story for the first time. Wonderful, emotional, reading. ( )

A Severed Head
Iris Murdoch
205 pages

It was later that the pain came, a pain unutterably obscure and confused like that induced by some deprivation in childhood. The familiar world of ways and objects within which I had lived for so long received me no more; and our lovely house had put on suddenly the air of a superior antique shop. The things in it no longer cohered together. It was odd that the pain worked first and most immediately through things, as if they had at once become the sad symbols of a loss which in its entirety I could not yet face. (p. 33)

In the first pages of A Severed Head, Martin Lynch-Gibbon is lying in the arms of his mistress, basking both in her beauty and affection, and in the belief that he has both a young attractive lover and a strong marriage. Later that evening his wife Antonia returns home and announces she is leaving him for her psychoanalyst, Palmer. Martin is outraged, while still holding fast to the "correctness" of his own infidelity. He maintains a stiff upper lip with Antonia and Palmer, who seem to delight in his continued friendship. Martin hangs on his much younger mistress, Georgie, expecting her continued adoration without commitment. Then Palmer's half sister, Honor Klein, comes on the scene and Martin finds himself alternately repulsed by and attracted to her. Here is a man completely destroyed and terribly confused.

As in her other novels, Murdoch seems to enjoy giving the arrogant male his comeuppance, and playing with him as a cat plays with a mouse. I found it difficult to like Martin or, for that matter, any of the characters, but enjoyed the way Murdoch tore down Martin's defenses, exposed his arrogance and weakness, and revealed the soft vulnerable center inside. A Severed Head is both painful and fascinating reading. ( )

Marcia, Letty, Norman, and Edwin are four 60-something London co-workers, a quartet in the autumn of their lives. Each lives alone; their contact with one another is their primary social interaction. Each character has developed odd habits, sometimes to combat loneliness, and sometimes as an unwanted side effect of solitude. Edwin spends his free time attending services at churches all over the city, obsessing about various holy days and the quality of clergy. Marcia hoards canned food and used milk bottles, and compulsively organizes the items on her shelves. Despite their need for each other, each person maintains a certain distance, reluctant to intrude or interfere.

One day, both Letty and Marcia retire. This event affects each character in remarkable ways. Norman and Edwin are expected to take on Letty and Marcia's work, and it is clear that their department is being phased out. Letty chooses to move out of her current rooms when a new landlord arrives. She rents a room from an even older woman, recommended by Edwin. Marcia continues to live independently, despite some health issues. The four colleagues all live close enough to keep in touch, and yet all feel too uncomfortable to "force" the relationship. They meet once for lunch and yet, despite warning signs, do not adequately look out for each other

This is a quiet story of aging and friendship, accented by Pym's trademark gentle wit and satire. Her portraits of each character often had me snickering, even during the more poignant parts of the story. And yet I also found myself thinking about the characters as I went about my day ... almost as if they were real people. This is a departure from Pym's more light-hearted, humorous work, but the kind of satisfying read that takes over your thoughts for a while. ( )