Oh there is a genre of book I do love. Once upon a time at Hastings in Jefferson City, Missouri, a newly licensed 16 year-old braved the two-lane traffic of Missouri Blvd. to make her way to the biggest bookstore within a thirty mile radius. Upon the "HARD BACK NEW RELEASES" there was a lovely book, a photograph in hues of blue with silver writing: By the Shore, by Galaxie Craze. Such a silly name, yes, but the book was amazing, voicing priviate thoughts I'd had and never dared admit to anyone, feelings of abandonment, teenage irritations, terrible sleep-overs and lack of acceptance amoung girls your age--the general terrors of middle school life. It took place in England, in an empty Bed and Breakfast on the shore, with a thoughtful 12 year-old called May and her once self-centered, slightly mad mummy and half brother, Eden, who was afraid of egg yolk. I adored it, and have read it several times since, but not until last week, at a Beverly Hills Borders did I stumble upon Playing with Grown Ups, easily comparable, wonderfully the same and yet fabulously different.
There is, of course, my over all intrigue with Sophie Dahl. Once a plus sized model, the grand daughter of Rhold Dhal and the character of his book, The BFG--the are the one and the same Sophie.
Given her literary royalty status, her beauty seems mildly unncessary, but oh well, it does make for a good story, as it obviously weaves its way into the book. Marina, her mother character is a selfish, mentally ill, ultra-indulgent egoist with a beautiful face and three children she treats more like friends and leaves the partening for an Irish nanny called Nora, who gets them all in trouble for skipping school, eating turkish delight and spending uncomprehensible amounts of money.
The characters jetset between rural England, with a lovely farm house, to boarding Schools, London, New York, an Ashram and finally broke and back to England. Kitty, the main chracter and narrator grows up wearing Vivian Westwood and Missoni, all cast offs from her mother, and knows triva like Jackie O's white house weight. And, although she finds it impossible to NOT fall down the same rabbit hole as her mother, actually beliving their lifestyle might be okay, might exist, might be more than a fantacy, at her core she is always good, she is always pure and utterly uncomfortable in her faux surroundings. She always longs for her parents Hay House, the way things were when she was a child.
The narration frequently flips to Kitty as an adult, visiting her now grown twin siblings and their mother, now old, who's in the mental ward--she is very changed, Kitty, from her excessive, magpie-like adolscence--perhaps slightly more so than is entirely belivable--when one is raised in such shiny luxury it seems difficult to believe it might entirely disapate and leave a thoughtful, loving, pure person in the wake, yet, the book was wonderful, I read it ravenously and enjoyed every part, as well as related--which is the backbone of books like these--the female romain a clef.