This is the latest book by Mary Webb that I have read; (a couple of others still to add on here.) Since reading "Precious Bane", I have been working through all the others and found none to reach the sublime poetry of "Precious Bane" and have found them variable in their quality. This was one of the better ones, even if the illness that the main character succumbs to after her lover deserts her smacks a little of the self-indulgent, rather than the spirituality it is clearly supposed to represent.
Like all her books, though, the characters are so wonderfully wrought and so real, whether they are given to a spiritual communing with nature, or a meanness of spirit, which delights in the suffering of others. And whether the plot and characters fully engage you or not, you are sure to come across at least ONE paragraph that will stun you with its ability to crystallise a whole narrative into a few lines and will punch you in the gut with its power. Take this, for instance, describing the main character’s simple, amiable brother and the object of his affections, who has been put upon by a puritanical father and, despite being able to hide it underneath a pretty exterior, is envious of all and delights in cutting others down to size:
“Joe gazed at her over his large cup, with love, the white everlasting that grows in simple places, flowering in his face. He did not know that to such as Lily the snapping of flowers – even everlastings – was a matter of course. They were things to pick, use, fling away: only blossoms, not necessary to anyone, like vegetables and meat. So the gospel of the grey-hearted had sunk into Lily’s soul, which was meant to be a thing of colour and fragrance, but had been so frozen and stunted that only a poor little empty crevasse remained.”
My main regret, after reading these books, is that I didn’t also take a notepad and pen to bed with me, to note down each wonderful sentence, or vivid paragraph that captured my imagination as I read them. (The paragraph above came at the end of a chapter and so was the last thing I read before turning out the light and therefore its place in the book was emblazoned on my memory!) Whether brilliant or indifferent, Mary Webb’s books, for me, deliver all the magical power of language that the books of Elizabeth Goodge promised, from the extract in Barbara Cartland’s ‘prayer’ book “The Light of Love”, but failed to deliver in reality.