In Re-Covered, Lucy Scholes exhumes the out-of-print and forgotten books that shouldn’t be.

Photo: Lucy Scholes.

In 1935, Graham Greene spent four weeks trekking three hundred fifty miles through the then-unmapped interior of Liberia. As he explains in the book he subsequently published about the experience, Journey without Maps (1936), he wasn’t interested in the Africa already known to white men; instead, he was looking for “a quality of darkness … of the inexplicable.” In short, a journey into his own heart of darkness, to rival that of Conrad’s famous novel. As such, he knew that his recollections—“memories chiefly of rats, of frustration, and of a deeper boredom on the long forest trek than I had ever experienced before,” as he recalls in Ways of Escape (1980), his second volume of autobiography—weren’t enough. What he wrote instead was an account of this “slow footsore journey” in parallel with that of a psychological excursion, deep into the recesses of his own mind. Rather ironically, though, in 1938, his traveling companion published her own record of their expedition, and it was precisely the kind of account—what he’d looked down on as “the triviality of a personal diary”—that Graham himself had taken such pains to avoid.

Even if you’ve read Journey without Maps, you might struggle to remember Graham’s co-traveler. Understandably so, since she’s mentioned only a handful of times, and always only in passing. It’s easy to forget she’s there at all. But she was: his cousin, twenty-three-year-old Barbara Greene, who’d gamely agreed to accompany him after one too many glasses of champagne at a family wedding. “Liberia, wherever it was, had a jaunty sound about it,” she endearingly recalls. “Liberia! The more I said it to myself the more I liked it. Life was good and very cheerful. Yes, of course I would go to Liberia.” Such innocent, rose-tinted enthusiasm obviously doesn’t last, but as she goes on to explain, “By the time I had found out what I had let myself in for it was too late to turn back.”

Originally published as Land Benighted, it’s the later edition—published in 1981, with the catchier title Too Late to Turn Back and a new foreword by the author, as well as an introduction by the acclaimed travel writer Paul Theroux—that’s probably better known. Even so, it’s been out of print now for nearly forty years, something that most likely wouldn’t upset Graham: although Barbara proved “as good a companion as the circumstances allowed,” where she did “disappoint” him, he admits in Ways of Escape, was in writing her book. Read More

In her column, Re-Covered, Lucy Scholes exhumes the out-of-print and forgotten books that shouldn’t be.

Like many readers, I suspect, I first came across the name Mohammed Mrabet in relation to Paul Bowles. Throughout the sixties, seventies, and eighties, everyone from Life magazine to Rolling Stone sent writers and photographers to Tangier—where Bowles had been living since 1947—to interview the famous American expat, author of the cult classic The Sheltering Sky. “If Paul Bowles, now seventy-four, were Japanese, he would probably be designated a Living National Treasure; if he were French, he would no doubt be besieged by television crews from the literary talk show Apostrophes,” wrote Jay McInerney in one such piece for Vanity Fair in 1985. “Given that he is American, we might expect him to be a part of the university curriculum, but his name rarely appears in a course syllabus. Perhaps because he is not representative of a particular period or school of writing, he remains something of a trade secret among writers.” This wasn’t to say that Bowles was reclusive. In fact, he kept open house for one and all, whether they be curious tourists, his famous friends—Tennessee Williams, William S. Burroughs, and Allen Ginsberg among them—or the crowd of Moroccan storytellers and artists he’d befriended over the years. And of these, one man in particular stands out: Mohammed Mrabet.

Bowles and Mrabet met in the early sixties, and they remained close until Bowles’s death four decades later in 1999. Mrabet worked for Bowles in various capacities: as a driver, a cook, general handyman, and sometime traveling companion. But theirs was much more intimate a relationship than that of employer and employee. They were friends—and it’s assumed, at one time or other, lovers, too—but most importantly, artistic collaborators. Throughout the sixties, Bowles increasingly turned his attention to translating. His wife, the novelist Jane Bowles, suffered a stroke in 1957, from which she never fully recovered. From then until her death in 1973, she was plagued by depression, impaired vision, seizures, and aphasia—health problems that also had a notable impact on her husband, depriving him of the “solitude and privacy” that he needed to write. “The real reason I started translating, was that Mrs. Bowles was ill and I couldn’t write, because I would only have twenty minutes and then I would be called downstairs,” he explained to McInerney.

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In her column, Re-Covered, Lucy Scholes exhumes the out-of-print and forgotten books that shouldn’t be.

Here’s a question: Can you name the debut novel, originally published in Britain in September 1965, that became a more or less immediate best seller, and the fans of which included Noël Coward, Daphne du Maurier, John Gielgud, Fay Weldon, David Storey, Margaret Drabble, and Doris Lessing? “A rare pleasure!” said Lessing. “I can’t remember another novel like it, it is so good and so original.” Coward, meanwhile, described it as “fascinating and remarkable,” admiring the author’s “strongly developed streak of genius.” Du Maurier—a writer whose own work is famously mesmerizing—declared it “compulsive reading … Endearing, exasperating, wildly funny, touching and superbly amoral.” Gielgud thought it “full of fascinating characterisation and atmosphere.” Never not in tune with the times, Weldon deemed it “a magical mystery tour of the mind,” Storey “a superb piece of confectionery,” while Drabble described it as “strange and unforgettable … Highly original and oddly haunting.”

Yet despite such heaped adulation, I’m willing to bet that hardly anyone reading this will have heard of the novel in question, though some might be familiar with its author. It’s called The Sioux, and was the work of sixty-six-year-old Irene Handl, a famous British actress beloved for her roles on both stage and screen, rock ’n’ roll superfan (and member of the Elvis Presley fan club), fellow of the Royal Geographical Society, not to mention a devoted Chihuahua owner and for many years president of the British Chihuahua Club.

The blurb on the British first edition describes the book as “a sustained tour-de-force, one of the most unusual and remarkable novels of recent years.” Unusual and remarkable is spot-on. “The Sioux” is the nickname the Benoir family call themselves, on account of their fierce tribalism. They’re French—their ancestors escaped Paris during the Revolution, fleeing first to Martinique then, during a slave insurrection, from there to Louisiana—feudal, and astronomically rich. Both The Sioux, and its sequel, The Gold Tip Pfitzer (1973)—which is dedicated to Noël Coward—are two of the maddest novels I’ve ever encountered. The Benoirs themselves are among the most appalling and repugnant, monstrously overprivileged, egomaniacal psychopaths ever created.  To be absolutely honest, I’m not sure these books should actually be republished—the misplaced cultural appropriation of their chosen soubriquet is, if you can believe it, one of the Benoir family’s least egregious crimes—but, just like Drabble before me, now that I’ve read them, I simply haven’t been able to stop thinking about them. Read More

In her column, Re-Covered, Lucy Scholes exhumes the out-of-print and forgotten books that shouldn’t be.

When I began writing this column two years ago, I initially restricted myself to discussing only titles that were out of print. But over the past year, as publishers continue to increase their efforts to resurrect lost classics, I’ve begun including pieces about previously neglected books that have been rediscovered and repackaged for a new generation. There are many success stories: the unexpected triumph of the Vintage Classics edition of John Williams’s Stoner, a book that sold less than two thousand copies when it was first published in 1965 before falling swiftly out of print, but as a reprint went on to become the Waterstones Book of the Year in 2013; or Lucia Berlin’s unforeseen posthumous literary stardom in 2015 after her selected short stories, A Manual for Cleaning Women (edited by Stephen Emerson for Farrar, Straus and Giroux), became a New York Times best seller. But there’s no more interesting tale of neglect and rediscovery than that of Bette Howland.

Howland was a working-class Jewish writer from Chicago who in a single prolific decade published three books—a memoir, W-3 (1974), and two short-story collections Blue in Chicago (1978) and Things to Come and Go: Three Stories (1983)—and won both Guggenheim and MacArthur Fellowships, then all but disappeared from view. She resurfaced briefly, sixteen years later, in 1999, with the publication of what would be her final work, the novella-length story “Calm Sea and Prosperous Voyage” in TriQuarterly, but it garnered scant attention. If it hadn’t been for an editor’s fortuitous discovery in a secondhand bookshop shortly before Howland died in 2017, at the age of eighty, hardly anyone would have been familiar with her name, or her incredible work.

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In her column, Re-Covered, Lucy Scholes exhumes the out-of-print and forgotten books that shouldn’t be.

FSG’s forthcoming edition of the Copenhagen Trilogy.

It was the Danish writer Dorthe Nors who first introduced me to the work of her countrywoman, the poet, novelist, and memoirist Tove Ditlevsen. This was in spring 2018, when I was commissioning features for the first issue of The Second Shelf: Rare Books and Words by Women, the rare books catalogue–cum–literary magazine of which I’m the managing editor. “She is loved by generations of women and put down by generations of men,” Nors wrote in an email. “She was also nuts and quite extraordinary in her personal life. Many men, drug addictions, often submitted to mental institutions, and LOVED by women readers. I mean: LOVED!”

This was more than enough to intrigue me, but Nors’s finished piece, “The Suicide of Tove Ditlevsen,” only left me all the more fascinated. In it, Nors describes Ditlevsen—who was born in Vesterbro, a working-class district in Copenhagen, in 1917, and killed herself at age fifty-eight in 1976, after many years battling depression and addiction—as “the Billie Holiday of poetry, accessible, complex, and simple all at the same time. There’s a special mournful sweetness in the earlier poems that belongs to the girlish. Later, her prose turned the dreams and disappointments of life as a woman inside out.”

I was keen to read anything of Ditlevsen’s that I could, but despite what seemed to be her relatively steady popularity in Denmark, few of her books had been translated into English, and those that had were out of print and hard to track down. Then, in one of those joyfully serendipitous moments that do somehow seem to happen in the world of publishing, less than a year after we’d published Nors’s essay, I found myself having lunch with a publicist from the Penguin Classics list here in the UK who was raving about their forthcoming reissue of the forgotten Danish writer Tove Ditlevsen’s “astonishing” three-volume memoir, the Copenhagen Trilogy.

The minute the galleys arrived I fell on them greedily, hoping I wouldn’t be disappointed. I needn’t have worried. Ditlevsen’s autobiographical series—comprised of Childhood (Barndom; 1967), Youth (Ungdom; 1967), and Dependency (Gift; 1971)—is an absolute tour de force, the final volume in particular. They’re as brilliant as I’d been led to expect, but also surprisingly intense and elegant. Ditlevsen’s writing (Childhood and Youth are translated by Tiina Nunnally, and Dependency by Michael Favela Goldman) is crystal clear and vividly, painfully raw. Together, the trilogy tells the story of Ditlevsen’s journey as a writer; as a woman, wife, and mother; and, most candidly of all in that piercing final volume, as an addict. As the trilogy progresses, it becomes clear how deeply intertwined these three different threads of her life were.

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In her column, Re-Covered, Lucy Scholes exhumes the out-of-print and forgotten books that shouldn’t be.

If the Australian writer and critic Thelma Forshaw is remembered for anything today, it’s most likely the hatchet job that she gave Germaine Greer’s The Female Eunuch in 1972. Of the many reviews the book received, Forshaw’s—published in the Age, a newspaper based in Greer’s own hometown of Melbourne—was by far the most disdainful: “King Kong is back. The exploits of the outsized gorilla may have been banned as too scary for kids, but who’s to shield us cowering adults? To increase the terror, the creature now rampaging is a kind of female—a female eunuch. It’s Germ Greer, with a tiny male in her hairy paw (no depilatories) who has been storming round the world knocking over the Empire State Building, scrunching up Big Ben and is now bent on ripping the Sydney Harbour Bridge from its pylons and drinking up the Yarra.” Understandably, Forshaw’s slam piece caused quite a stir, and it was reprinted in a number of papers across the country, often alongside carefully chosen photographs of Greer looking suitably unkempt.

Forshaw’s summation of Greer’s feminist manifest as “a blood-curdling gorilla scream,” full of “over-the-back-fence grizzle,” was, by and large, seen for what it was: “a scurrilous personal attack masquerading as a book review,” as one of the Age’s readers, J. Morton, wrote to the paper to complain. Forshaw became briefly notorious, and the following week the Age ran an interview that allowed “this feminine pillar of male chauvinism”—as John Lewis jestingly described his colleague—to explain herself:

 I’m a housewife because I want to, I write because I want to, I love my husband who is a male, chauvinist pig and I love my two children—and it all adds up for me.

Trying to learn more about the woman behind the misogyny, I fell down an internet rabbit hole, but then I found myself intrigued by Forshaw’s forthright, unrepentant voice.

 I’m a loner, I can’t take the group performances at all. I’d probably be an asset to the Women’s Lib. Movement, I suppose, but I don’t want to get caught up and be used just because I’m articulate.

Had she not laid out her beliefs quite so clearly, one could be forgiven for pronouncing her unapologetic self-assuredness as downright feminist!

I’m really a funny lady, a funny, bawdy lady. Read my book of short stories—An Affair of Clowns—you’ll see what I mean.

I decided to do as she suggested and read her stories, so I tracked down a secondhand copy of An Affair of Clowns.

Published in 1967, five years before the damning review, it’s a slim volume; twenty-two “short stories and sketches” in less than two hundred pages. “I’ve always been fascinated by people, to the point, sometimes, of being paralysed with fascination,” Forshaw told the pioneering oral historian Hazel de Berg in an interview conducted in 1969. “I can’t see scenery, I can’t see interiors, I can’t see where I am if there’s a person with me. I’m only aware of that person, almost entirely. And, I think this is the basis of my writing.” And indeed, all other detail is incidental; from setting to storyline. Plot is entirely by the by, and in this Forshaw’s work reminded me of the working-class Jewish American writer Bette Howland, whose own stories—which bring to life her fellow Chicagoans and were written mostly in the seventies and early eighties—have recently been republished to notable critical acclaim. But where Howland deals in grittiness, Forshaw was attracted to gaudiness. There’s something showy, almost carnivalesque about her characters, though they’re always eminently believable. The book is separated into three sections: “Some Customs of My Clan” consists of pieces about a working-class Irish Catholic family, as narrated by the young daughter, an aspiring writer; “The Melting Pot” takes a slightly broader view, encompassing Sydney’s midcentury, working-class international milieu; and finally, “Outsiders” then draws the collection to a close with a selection of stories about people living on various margins. Each individual is far too idiosyncratic to be termed archetypal, but An Affair of Clowns is a charismatic portrait of the mid-twentieth-century, urban, white Australian working class. “Thelma Forshaw sees human beings with a penetrating and unsentimental eye,” reads the blurb on the book’s dust jacket, “yet with profound sympathy, and with an irresistible humour that is never superficial, but deeply rooted in life.”

Some of the pieces in “Some Customs of My Clan” are little more than vignettes, but others are more substantial. Take the searing portrait of the narrator’s parents’ troubled marriage in “The Widow,” in which Forshaw’s father—who died only a week after her eleventh birthday—looms especially large: “Hellenic body. Gladiatorial mind. Vital, violent, sudden. A wife-beater. A mountain swooping to leather his child.” In another story, “Rom: Bride of Christ,” the narrator bumps into an old classmate from her Catholic school days, who tells her that one of their ex-teachers wishes to read the stories that the narrator had recently published in a magazine. This embarrasses the narrator, and she hopes her friend hasn’t passed them on as requested. “They were about Real Life,” she worries, “not fit reading for nuns.” This in itself, no doubt, was Forshaw writing from firsthand experience.

“I do write almost straight from life,” she told de Berg. Earlier in the same interview, when describing her childhood, Forshaw confirms the particulars of “The Widow”: “Both parents drank, and the atmosphere was violent a lot of the time.” Love and violence often go hand in hand in this family; aggression, it sometimes seems, is almost a form of affection, and family members—described en masse in “The Wowser” as “a small flock of black sheep”—are drawn together for one of three reasons: to drink, to gamble, or to gossip. Even a Mother’s Day trip to the cemetery to pay tribute to the narrator’s dead grandmother is an opportunity to nurse both hangovers and stories of family scandal.

One of the most mesmerizing and intricately drawn characters here is Aunty Dee, a cleaning lady who’s the subject of some of the best writing in the book. “Like most women of her occupation, she basks in the material glory of her employers,” Forshaw writes in “The Ladies’ Parlour Clique,” one of the shortest pieces in the book. At less than three pages, it’s little more than a tableaux really, a snapshot of life in the bar where her aunt spends her hard-earned cash each afternoon.

Forshaw admits to de Berg that she borrows from those around her “perhaps more undisguisedly than most writers,” and that it got her into trouble. This passage from “The Wowser” prompted the son of the aunt upon whom Aunty Dee was based to threaten to sue Forshaw for libel:

Aunty Dee was a true criminal type, who corrupted at a touch. She was the evil genius of her clan, the witch doctor who presided over orgy and wake, broken marriage and psychopathic child. She loved the young as the rake loves a virgin. Now and again she arranged for me, just turned seventeen, to meet the wealthy or influential men whose flats she serviced. But they always went away quietly after treating me to a paternal lunch, daunted, I think by the passionate purity I wore like an amulet. A purity not of innocence, but formidable with witnessed knowledge. I shall always believe that Aunty Dee tried to launch me as a courtesan—with an eye to a percentage, naturally.

We find similar stings in the tail throughout the collection; Forshaw doesn’t mince her words. Paragraphs of intrusive commentary like this one, ruminative but pithy, are dotted throughout the book. Although they ostensibly interrupt the narrative, the reader swiftly learns that they’re actually the jewels in the collection. Forshaw intuitively understands what makes people tick. In “The Pawn,” for example, she ponders the many suitors who turned up to flirt with her newly widowed mother. “I suspect now that much of her charm lay in her knack of winkling out a man’s secret sorrow and, no matter how petty the grievance, making him feel he bore the burdens of a King Lear. She was a dab hand at giving a man stature.” To describe Forshaw’s tone as loving would go too far, but there is a tenderness in the way she depicts her demonic, riotous, scandal-mongering family; the accompanying wry wink and shoulder shrug always implicit.

*

“I’ve had a hell of a life,” Forshaw told Lewis when defending her attack on Greer, “but I’m still free, I’m buoyant—that’s why I don’t go in for all this whingeing.” The stories in An Affair of Clowns echo this. Forshaw dips her toe into life’s darker corners—whether it’s the violence of her parents’ marriage, or the alienation and loneliness felt by immigrants—but it’s not a depressing collection and she doesn’t seem to believe in victimhood, either. As she promised, her humor wins out in the end. I’m not the only one who thought so. “Listen, Forshaw,” wrote her friend, the prize-winning writer Thea Astley, in 1963, “I read your letters and they are literally flashing opal mines of wit. You are seriously one of the funniest, no, THE funniest woman I have ever met.”

But Forshaw’s life wasn’t all fun and games. The cockiness she expressed in the Age fell away when she told de Berg about the “divided loyalty” she felt “between caring for my children to the fullest extent and the claims of writing” that  “dogged” her. Her conclusion is not an especially liberating one (though undoubtably it owes much to both the era and the environment in which she came of age)—“I think that no woman can achieve true greatness because of this conflict. If she has children, she hasn’t got a hope.” In reality, the situation, it seems, was not anywhere near as cut and dry as she implies in the Age. “Perhaps I want too much,” she tells de Berg, “I want to be better than, perhaps, I’m capable of being.”

Forshaw is astonishingly candid throughout this entire interview, even when detailing her flaws. She knows, for example, that a critic should be “dispassionate, and judge a work purely on what it sets out to do,” but, she admits, she finds this impossible. Instead, she explains, she finds herself reacting to a book “as if it was a person,” becoming “madly involved with the author and what he’s doing and his personality […] Sometimes I’m very angry, and sometimes I’m amused, sometimes I’m contemptuous, and I think I get this emotion into my reviews.” This, of course, is exactly what happened with Greer’s book. Perhaps feminism came too late for Forshaw—she was sixteen years older than Greer, thus forty-nine years old when The Female Eunuch was published, and had been a wife and mother for the past twenty-four years, which was half of her life. She knew what she’d given up in making the choices she had, but her ambition was still there. “I don’t want to be mediocre; I don’t want to be just another writer. I want to be one of the best, and I don’t think you can be if your heart is elsewhere,” she told de Berg. But though she lived for another two and a half decades—she died at age seventy-two in 1995—An Affair of Clowns was the only book Forshaw published.

Read earlier installments of Re-Covered here. 

Lucy Scholes is a critic who lives in London. She writes for the NYR Daily, The Financial Times, The New York Times Book Review, and Literary Hub, among other publications.