A Very Long Silence

It’s been quiet – the snow muffles most sounds. I’ve been reading Susanna Clarke’s Ladies of Grace Adieu and Other Stories. She writes so well, such perfect pitch, so meticulous; it all makes me wish she wrote more. She reminds me of what a good writer can accomplish – a good reminder at a time when I often just hunt for the kindest, gentlest books. Clarke is not exactly gentle; rather, she is exquisite and always walking the line between the bright, colourful fairytale and the sinister one. I love and respect fairytales, their variety, their subtext, their occasional brutality in achieving a happy end as much as in reaching an unhappy conclusion. I also love good nineteenth century fiction, and well-researched historical fiction, so Clarke, who captures those styles so perfectly, was always a likely candidate for my affections. She does her own thing with it, and I respect her for that too; she is never content just to be Austen or Dickens or Tolkien. Yes, it will do for a cold day, and I am sad enough to finish these stories that I may just start over right now, especially since they take a while to acclimate to. I might even take on Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell again; Clarke, like Oscar Wilde’s cigarette, provides the perfect pleasure – always unfinished, always leaving the reader wanting just a little more – and wanting tea and scones.