‘When You Are Engulfed In Flames’, David Sedaris

First, an apology to riders of the Red Line, direction Alewife, on Friday night. Yes, I was the obnoxious woman travelling in an iPod bubble, sporadically stifling giggles in a semi-snorting manner. I’m not entirely sure of the external effect, but I’m sure it wasn’t pretty. But what can you do? David Sedaris can be funny. Bizarrely, not always so: I didn’t think very much of ‘’Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim’’, and I thought ‘’Me Talk Pretty Some Day’’ was alright. But he slid his way back on to my shelf courtesy of an NPR review (the thinking American’s Radio 4; bless them for trying), a cool dust jacket picture and my fledgling Barnes & Noble Members card (20% off Hardbacks! 10 cents off B&N Starbucks!).

It’s probably a tautology to say that observational comedy can be a bit hit or miss; in fact it was a running joke recently with a friend who was visiting from the UK (and there’s a lot of mileage in that one, given you only have to… observe, to get a laugh). And if your living is made from this sort of thing, there’s the inevitable second-album effect. You’ve been building up to your first release all your life, saving up your best material, and distilling it into the perfect essence of your message, man. As for the second, well, you’ve seen a lot of hotel rooms and junkets and you’d better deliver by July. Lucky, then, that Sedaris got a bit of new material by moving abroad, variously to Tokyo, London, Paris and Normandy. I have no doubt that the moves were contrived entirely for this reason; he claims the move to Tokyo was for the purpose of quitting smoking, but you can imagine the conversation with the publisher: ‘Quitting smoking eh? There’s something in that…. But what about you also go somewhere where people speak funny?!’ The whole lost-in-translation thing was actually not particularly amusing (the title of the book comes from a Japanese fire prevention sign or some such) but there were plenty of other expatriate tales to keep me chuckling along in recognition. Attempting to learn the local language without feeling like a total numpty, hopelessly attempting to fit with the locals and yet being constantly entertained amused by your environment are all part of the joy of being a permanent alien. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to give it up, or if I’ll continue living my life led by a search for random adventures. Perhaps there’s a book in it.

Overheard in the Women's Studies section

American woman in her early twenties: 'So I'm not sure if I can really ask you this, but what exactly is your relationship with them?'

Slightly scruffy English woman: 'Well yes, I used to date both of them. But I have two boyfriends at the moment and I just don't have time for a girlfriend as well right now.

That's why I love Brookline Booksmith.

''Uncommon Arrangements: Seven Marriages'', Katie Roiphe

Sometimes, context is everything. Writing this whilst intermittently rubbing aloe vera gel into my sunburn halo (a rare achievement, and one I believe shows I am destined for holiness) I can’t quite separate Katie Roiphe’s book from the memory of lounging on a beach on Cape Cod this weekend. Provincetown must be one of the few places in the world where twee-ly quaint white-washed 1950s style ice cream bars and fishing-themed antique shops provide the backdrop to sights such as wobbly cycling drag queens cackling down the street, incredibly tiny dogs dragging even more incredibly tiny billboards advertising art galleries, and innumerable, undeniably euphemistic, ‘tea parties’ (over 21s only). The beach as you may well imagine is a consistently lovely extension of this most peculiar of all-American towns. Despite the presence of a half-German in our gang, we were prudish enough to skirt the nudist beach (who knew such things existed in Massachusetts?) but our stretch of sand nonetheless provided a sprinkling of family arrangements which may be common in Provincetown, and perhaps even Massachusetts, but are certainly uncommon in most of this great country.

And thus, by way of seamless segue, to today’s subject. Roiphe’s book chronicles all kinds of uncommon arrangements, although an interest in one’s own gender was just a basic starting point for this set of Londoners. As a series of interconnecting vignettes, Roiphe has written an account of seven marriages among the Bloomsbury set: H.G. Wells, Katherine Mansfield, Vanessa Bell and Radclyffe Hall among them. As with much of my general knowledge, I’d vaguely heard of most of these people, perhaps read an article or two but never really engaged. Now, I’m on a mini quest to find out more (this will probably involve an Amazon binge and then the collecting of dust on my bedside table for a while, but as always it’s the effort and illusion of high-minded intellectual investigation that counts).

At a time when Britain was moving out of Victorianism, this tight group of friends were experimenting with what relationships, and in particular, marriage, could be. Of particular interest was how new feminist thinking could be reconciled with the patriarchal institution of marriage, and a lot of this book recounts the tension that arose as gifted women tussled their fierce need for independence with their inevitable wish for close relationships. So much of this is still relevant today, re-lived among my friends and in the agony pages of women’s magazines. Particularly striking was a quote to the effect that women’s tragedy is that they devote so much time and effort to thinking about their relationships, whilst men devote somewhat less and are thus free to achieve and be wonderful. This set developed all kinds of possible solutions including countless ménages, open relationships, ‘trial’ marriages (co-habitation – who’d have thought!), whilst generally adhering to a hedonistic philosophy that the only way to be truthful and honest was to act on one’s romantic impulses. Inevitably, to the modern mind familiar with the basics of psychoanalysis, much of this ended in disaster. But being able to learn of and understand the motivations of this peculiar bunch is fascinating – it’s incredibly rare to have so much insight into other people’s relationships, but the group were obsessive letter and diary writers, and it’s there for all to see, with literary flourish. These flashes of alternate lives left me with a great deal of admiration for the women involved, trying to forge a new society through their personal relationships, but also a twinge of anxiety that so little seems to have changed. These radical sorts would still stir up opprobrium from the Daily Mail, whilst the milder, everyday versions of their lifestyle choices remain politically sensitive. Plus ca change.

Remind me what I was talking about again?

Oh yes, books (or for the more astute of you, random things that pop into my mind, masquerading as incisive and illuminating commentary on the literature of the day). Best get back to that, then.