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Towards Another Summer
A deeply rewarding and beautiful novel' Hilary Mantel, Guardian
Life in England seems transitory for Grace Cleave as the pull of her native New Zealand grows stronger. She begins to feel increasingly like a migratory bird. Grace longs to find her own place in the world, if only she can decide where that is. But first she must learn to feel comfortable in her own skin, feathers and all.
Written in 1963, Janet Frame considered this novel too personal to be published in her lifetime.
'In this deeply personal novel of exile and loneliness, Janet Frame proves the master of nostalgia, beauty and loss. Frame is, and will remain, divine' Alice Sebold
'Exceptional . . . comic, melancholy and piercingly observant' Sunday Telegraph
236 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 2007
40 people are currently reading
1095 people want to read
About the author
Janet Frame
63 books483 followersThe fate befalling the young woman who wanted "to be a poet" has been well documented. Desperately unhappy because of family tragedies and finding herself trapped in the wrong vocation (as a schoolteacher) her only escape appeared to be in submission to society's judgement of her as abnormal. She spent four and a half years out of eight years, incarcerated in mental hospitals. The story of her almost miraculous survival of the horrors and brutalising treatment in unenlightened institutions has become well known. She continued to write throughout her troubled years, and her first book (The Lagoon and Other Stories) won a prestigious literary prize, thus convincing her doctors not to carry out a planned lobotomy.
She returned to society, but not the one which had labelled her a misfit. She sought the support and company of fellow writers and set out single-mindedly and courageously to achieve her goal of being a writer. She wrote her first novel (Owls Do Cry) while staying with her mentor Frank Sargeson, and then left New Zealand, not to return for seven years.
She returned to society, but not the one which had labelled her a misfit. She sought the support and company of fellow writers and set out single-mindedly and courageously to achieve her goal of being a writer. She wrote her first novel (Owls Do Cry) while staying with her mentor Frank Sargeson, and then left New Zealand, not to return for seven years.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 104 reviews
January 13, 2023
This book is divided into two parts; and it was only when I had finished and returned to the beginning and started to skip read through part one that something of what the author was trying to convey really struck. The first part is set in London, where Grace Cleave lives alone, leading an isolated, writerly life in a small flat with a sooty garden and bus-tickets wafting in, covering the 'dead' plants. I understood the basic structure; Grace is invited by a journalist, Phillip Thirkettle, who has interviewed her - an awkward, embarrassing interview - for Grace, about her influences etc, to which she cannot answer. Phillip invites her to spend a weekend at his northern home. His wife Anne is from New Zealand, and her father also a former sheep-farmer. He offers Grace a friendly invite, I suppose, recognizing that she is floundering on her own, away from her native country.
Part two is about the visit to Relham - an invented northern city, I could guess Durham, because Phillip refers to the Cathedral where he goes for a Sunday morning service. Grace is overwhelmed by the family atmosphere, she falls immediately for a sense of Anne and Phillip as her parents, and the two small children bring back a whole string of memories of the domestic details of her parents home. I enjoyed the second part very much - it's titled 'Another Summer', and is full of details that I recognize from several of her other books - which all depend very much on autobiographical material. Her father's job working on the railway in South Island, and their constant moves from one location to another - I recognized her story of the Glenham huts - wooden - where the family had to spend 6 months, and survive a bitter southern winter, while their actual home is moved from Edendale. Those details appear, I think in 'Owls Do Cry'.
At the same time as Grace becomes immersed in the domestic details of Anne's life with her children, the cooking and preparing of meals, lighting fires, making all the arrangements for her family as well as her guest, Phillip tries to pry writerly details from Grace's mind, which is a "private place" - it is impossible for Grace to speak gracefully and eloquently at all - it is only in written sentences that she can convey her complex inner world. Over the week-end she becomes painfully aware of disappointing her hosts and leaves earlier than expected, feeling like an imposter, unable to return the couples' generosity in a way they might wish.
So, as I returned to the first part and flicked through, I realised how it feels cold, disjointed and disconnected and full of the isolation Grace experiences, as a foreigner in London. In contrast, the second part is so interesting and easy to read, full of Graces' remembrances of her earlier life - and I realised as I appreciated this contrast how much she is alone. She is no longer human, and has become a migratory bird. The visit to the family she barely knows in the cold north of England, floods her with longing for her past, of her family - their family language of songs and traditions, her three sisters, and her brother Jimmy - a life of obvious poverty but rich in family lore, history, relatives, sharing and love. I particularly liked how she recalled her sisters, saying "they were Shelley's wife" - a sort of family joke because they had read how Shelley deplored his first wife's love for material things.
Anne's face was flushed with the heat of the stove and the cooking and with feeding and calming Noel and Sarah who were both claiming attention from Philip. He sat on one chair with his feet on another and Sarah was crouched on his knees, her hands in his, being pulled to and fro.
Grace laughed unexpectedly and happily.
-That's trolley works, she said, and instantly regretted saying it; they would ask her to explain.
Philip was looking attentively at her, waiting. Anne paused in her serving of the meal to listen. Grace felt trapped.
-Yes, she said clumsily -that, I mean the way you and Sarah are holding hands like that and pulling . . . that's trolley works . . .
Still they waited for an explanation. A deep despair filled Grace's mind as she watched Philip, Anne, Noel, Sarah, so far away, wanting to understand her language, in this case an ordinary family word- surely they themselves had a family language which they would find difficult to explain to others! What if she were to turn towards Anne and say, smiling -How like Shelley's first wife you are!
Anne would not realise the significance. How often Grace and her sisters had exclaimed to one another, -I'm getting to be like Shelley's wife! Meaning that the material vain affairs of the world were intruding on their imaginative concerns; remembering, from a shared reading of the life of Shelley, that he had complained of Harriet, -When I'm thinking of poetry she's thinking of buying hats!
So much of what Grace observes about herself and the small family she stays with, opens out to much larger considerations. And yet all of her story remains rooted with the experiences of her family and those happy years of her childhood. I realised as I was reading this book, that I had read it before, but as with all of Janet Frame's books they are worth reading again and again and again. Her books overlap and she deliberately blurs the distinction of real or invented, biography or fiction, memoir or philosophy. I love her books - a truly unique and significant writer.
Part two is about the visit to Relham - an invented northern city, I could guess Durham, because Phillip refers to the Cathedral where he goes for a Sunday morning service. Grace is overwhelmed by the family atmosphere, she falls immediately for a sense of Anne and Phillip as her parents, and the two small children bring back a whole string of memories of the domestic details of her parents home. I enjoyed the second part very much - it's titled 'Another Summer', and is full of details that I recognize from several of her other books - which all depend very much on autobiographical material. Her father's job working on the railway in South Island, and their constant moves from one location to another - I recognized her story of the Glenham huts - wooden - where the family had to spend 6 months, and survive a bitter southern winter, while their actual home is moved from Edendale. Those details appear, I think in 'Owls Do Cry'.
At the same time as Grace becomes immersed in the domestic details of Anne's life with her children, the cooking and preparing of meals, lighting fires, making all the arrangements for her family as well as her guest, Phillip tries to pry writerly details from Grace's mind, which is a "private place" - it is impossible for Grace to speak gracefully and eloquently at all - it is only in written sentences that she can convey her complex inner world. Over the week-end she becomes painfully aware of disappointing her hosts and leaves earlier than expected, feeling like an imposter, unable to return the couples' generosity in a way they might wish.
So, as I returned to the first part and flicked through, I realised how it feels cold, disjointed and disconnected and full of the isolation Grace experiences, as a foreigner in London. In contrast, the second part is so interesting and easy to read, full of Graces' remembrances of her earlier life - and I realised as I appreciated this contrast how much she is alone. She is no longer human, and has become a migratory bird. The visit to the family she barely knows in the cold north of England, floods her with longing for her past, of her family - their family language of songs and traditions, her three sisters, and her brother Jimmy - a life of obvious poverty but rich in family lore, history, relatives, sharing and love. I particularly liked how she recalled her sisters, saying "they were Shelley's wife" - a sort of family joke because they had read how Shelley deplored his first wife's love for material things.
Anne's face was flushed with the heat of the stove and the cooking and with feeding and calming Noel and Sarah who were both claiming attention from Philip. He sat on one chair with his feet on another and Sarah was crouched on his knees, her hands in his, being pulled to and fro.
Grace laughed unexpectedly and happily.
-That's trolley works, she said, and instantly regretted saying it; they would ask her to explain.
Philip was looking attentively at her, waiting. Anne paused in her serving of the meal to listen. Grace felt trapped.
-Yes, she said clumsily -that, I mean the way you and Sarah are holding hands like that and pulling . . . that's trolley works . . .
Still they waited for an explanation. A deep despair filled Grace's mind as she watched Philip, Anne, Noel, Sarah, so far away, wanting to understand her language, in this case an ordinary family word- surely they themselves had a family language which they would find difficult to explain to others! What if she were to turn towards Anne and say, smiling -How like Shelley's first wife you are!
Anne would not realise the significance. How often Grace and her sisters had exclaimed to one another, -I'm getting to be like Shelley's wife! Meaning that the material vain affairs of the world were intruding on their imaginative concerns; remembering, from a shared reading of the life of Shelley, that he had complained of Harriet, -When I'm thinking of poetry she's thinking of buying hats!
So much of what Grace observes about herself and the small family she stays with, opens out to much larger considerations. And yet all of her story remains rooted with the experiences of her family and those happy years of her childhood. I realised as I was reading this book, that I had read it before, but as with all of Janet Frame's books they are worth reading again and again and again. Her books overlap and she deliberately blurs the distinction of real or invented, biography or fiction, memoir or philosophy. I love her books - a truly unique and significant writer.
October 9, 2012
Nothing is simple if your mind is a fetch-and-carry wanderer from sliced perilous outer world to secret safe inner world; if when night comes your thought creeps out like a furred animal concealed in the dark, to find, seize, and kill its food and drag it back to the secret house in the secret world, only to discover that the secret world has disappeared or has so enlarged that it's a public nightmare."
Towards Another Summer was a novel that Janet Frame wrote in the 1960s. Biographical and not published until 2007, after her death. I am only making assumptions, of course, because I have not (yet) read her memoirs and other autobiographical works. Frame wrote about being buried in eight years of a mental institution. No will of your own. Misdiagnosed as a schizophrenic, she was subjected to two hundred electric shock treatments. No mind of your own. She was scheduled for a lobotomy that was only circumvented because of the literary prizes that she had won. I feel too sad that her life was saved by literary prizes. If I were looking for a reason to say, "There! Humanity can suck so hard" that would be a contender. That she could save her own life gives me hope. There are passages from some of them that have stirred me (not to mention comments from a couple of goodreads members I respect who have written in high praise of her). I ordered already, with hope, a few of her books from online used book sellers. There are some passages from these that have made me want to read her and find out about this woman with this soul who could write like this about living like that. I don't know yet because I don't have those books. Towards Another Summer was available on ebook so I went ahead and read it. It wasn't until I started feeling this pressure on my chest, trapped in a voice of someone who consistently wishes a take back and words she didn't want to belong to her, that I went online in search of reviews to find out if anyone else felt what I did. Did anyone else feel as if they were going to get locked in this aimless step that's afraid to go inside anywhere? I found out that she had not intended the book to be published at all. It was too personal. I feel some guilt about reading it anyway, if she truly hadn't intended it to be read. I wonder if the reason why this particular book could not be read, while those other books were sent into the world, is that feeling that you're not going to be able to crawl back up this time. Crawling is good if you get somewhere. If you don't mind if anyone knows you crawled then you're doing okay in my book. Have you ever pulled yourself out of something that you don't know how you survived, only to feel so ashamed when you succumb to the same problem again? It steals from the past triumph that's your own "I did that". Maybe sometimes people need you to love them anyway, even when they don't believe that anyone could understand it. I read the rest of the book. Grace the character would have hoped for someone to notice. She would have hoped for them to lift her on their own wings and soar. Not loaned out of pity to be repaid in unmet eyes later, but like how it is okay to borrow money from family, if you have the right kind of family. She might be too afraid to find out if they were the right kind and I feel trapped there because that's something I don't like about me either. Yeah, I've written about social anxiety books before on goodreads. This one is different because the space you crawl to is the one you don't forget about later during the good days when it is easier. I have told people in my life flat out that I didn't want to get into the pain I felt over dropping out twice, that I didn't want to constantly discuss what my "next step" would be. It's worse that I avoid talking to people altogether so that they won't ask me those questions. I don't want to think about it far more than I am reluctant for anyone else to know how much I've quit. It's yourself you're afraid of. It's something about confusion and lack of "I can do that" hope. That's so much worse than social anxiety. You're going to let yourself down. It's not so hard for me now to see how a woman who could be open about those things wouldn't want to admit that it is hard to admit that you're afraid to go home.
Grace is a migratory bird in her convictions. It's undecided what kind of bird (my favorite species from New Zealand are never mentioned as they never leave home). I didn't feel it in spirit that she was the feather and light as air boned specimen, and if she had blurted out to me her truth in one of her the-truth-must-be-uttered-at-least-this-once moments I would not have felt the transforming power in her desires. For me the migratory bird fantasies were the weakest of Towards Another Summer. In my book review search I was really hoping that someone would have written what I had been thinking. No one has mentioned David Grossman's The Book of Intimate Grammar (I'm rereading it as of this writing. This book is so underrated it makes me sad. I'll have to love it more and talk about it now). Young Aron is trapped in his own flesh of a twelve year old boy. Stunted under the weight of the same pressures from unmet eyes if everyone you can see is the wrong kind of family. Would you want to stay twelve in a place like that? Or worse, they'll break your bones like a debt collector when you can't pay up in what is expected of you. Aron stores up words inside of himself. Repeating and polishing them inside until they are "safe" to use and send out into the world. Trying to grow something inside his mind that breaks itself against what it resists. The transformation is a caterpillar to a cocoon. Grace's similar obsession with the meanings of words as a rug ripped out from under her reminded me a lot of Aron. Her mother warns them to stay away from the "magazine" as a dangerous place to play, only to read a periodical she refers to as the same. These words appear on the tip of Grace's tongue like a bitter pill she doesn't want to swallow. It reminded me of the way that one can purposefully hold onto a bad experience, polishing it anew when you need it to remind you not to step too close of what you're afraid of. Grace remembers every time she had ever felt out of place. Was the fault hers. You know that day when everyone else was handed out boyfriends and happy endings? You were sick that day. The dictionary had the proper definitions for what everybody REALLY meant. Too bad you had bad hair that day! (Grace, like Frame, has "bad" frizzy hair.) My heart goes out to her. I do feel what that is like. I also know the unfairness of being like this. The fondness for someone else born from the moment when you felt like you were the person that you wanted to be. Grace would feel as warmly for the person that knew what the right thing to say to her just the same as she can't breathe for fearing what will happen if the wrong thing is what she says. I feel for the person who tries to get close to her.
Recently, Mike Puma wrote a review on goodreads. It was on Emmanuelle Bove's My Friends. He wrote beautifully about this feeling of moving away from home and pining for what you left behind about this book that was not about moving. He could have written that review about Towards Another Summer. I posted a comment in his review. The only thing that stopped me from doing my typical thing of deleting the comment after I posted it was his swift reply addressed to me. Grace agonizes over showing up to breakfast too early. She is afraid of children (because they stare. I've written about feeling this in past goodreads reviews, I am sure). "Yes" is preferred to "No" because the latter requires more of an explanation (in this we differ. I find that I am wholly unwilling to pretend to agree where I do not. I resent more than anything when I am pushed in the slightest after I've already said no. I wonder about Frame's time in the institution where you had not a hope of surviving if you didn't surrender your will entirely. They would have given me a lobotomy and that's that).
The "crushing loneliness" is what happens to Grace. She is homesick for what she will not allow herself. She cannot enjoy the family when she visits Anne (a fellow Kiwi. Meaning New Zealander, not the bird) and her husband Phillip. Anne and Phillip's two little children. The safe age before kids become too scary, when they stare openly as if they can tear down your mental barriers, switching off all the lights that would dawn hope on your deficiencies. Grace is homesick for her home where she sits behind her protective bookcases between her and the window. They would be her barriers from the street that would have cars that would beam their headlights on all of your deficiencies. Geographically speaking, her room may not have been set up that way. I felt that her bookcases protected her. Her books, the words of poets who know her secret places as their own. She is sick for her typewriter. She begs to go home early because she is homesick for her own typewriter, for the two copies of her manuscript hidden away in the home that never once felt as welcoming as this home she has been invited to for the weekend. Please, won't you come again? Grace is homesick for New Zealand.
How can I ever contain within me so much of one land? Was it given to me or have I looked for it, found it, and have I been afraid to return to it?
She is homesick for where she had wandered to as a small child. That secret place she had found and relinquished once she had found it. Search and destroy.
I wish that I had felt in her that she really was no longer a human. That place inside where seh believed it, as opposed to fearing that someone else would think it. To me Grace was not a migratory bird headed towards another summer. She's Aron from The Intimate Book of Grammar who was unable to perform that Houdini escape to fuck off and escape. It's cold in your fridge. I missed her New Zealand for her. I know where she is going to lay down at night. It'll be okay because of this:
Grace remembered a first book by an Australian writer, how the photo on the jacket had been eager, innocent as the photo of Anne; again, it was not only the woman herself, it was her home town, her family, her life. When the writer left Australia to live in England and there published another book with her photo on the jacket, how discreet the camera had been, telling its truth through its small selective lies; freed from the narrow repressive restrictions of home town atmosphere.
I loved Grace for not always being the shy person that is too busy thinking about how they are doing everything wrong that they don't notice that Anne wanted that moment to herself to buy the new sheeting. Sure, she turned it around to guilt about her own presence and Phillip's insistence to show her some sight that Anne didn't get her moment to herself. It hurt so much that the hurt became something to want to get away from. Every encounter is not worth it because of how much agony goes into dissecting everything she could have done differently. She would think that the sun wouldn't set on England again because she had moved to the country and asked a question during a dinner with this couple. My heart went out to Grace but I wouldn't have loved her if she hadn't been able to think about those secret places in New Zealand existing without her. Not for someone who must be accepted without pretenses. That's the hope of being okay anyway. She could and that's what I suspect kept her poet's soul fed. The migratory bird was just the agony. She worried if anyone would notice. No trick words from mama back in New Zealand. How her mother hoarded her own memories to herself as if sharing them with anyone would rob the memories of their power? That would make a person homesick, I think. The kind of homesick that comes from being in the right kind of family and not belonging in it. I feel so much for Grace with her homesickness for her typewriter. She's probably going to write about that kitchen. That's not being able to sleep because when you fly home it's time to be on the move again. I'm wishing that I'd find the poet that knew about the secret place, myself. Poets are the family that you can borrow from, I think.
Towards Another Summer was a novel that Janet Frame wrote in the 1960s. Biographical and not published until 2007, after her death. I am only making assumptions, of course, because I have not (yet) read her memoirs and other autobiographical works. Frame wrote about being buried in eight years of a mental institution. No will of your own. Misdiagnosed as a schizophrenic, she was subjected to two hundred electric shock treatments. No mind of your own. She was scheduled for a lobotomy that was only circumvented because of the literary prizes that she had won. I feel too sad that her life was saved by literary prizes. If I were looking for a reason to say, "There! Humanity can suck so hard" that would be a contender. That she could save her own life gives me hope. There are passages from some of them that have stirred me (not to mention comments from a couple of goodreads members I respect who have written in high praise of her). I ordered already, with hope, a few of her books from online used book sellers. There are some passages from these that have made me want to read her and find out about this woman with this soul who could write like this about living like that. I don't know yet because I don't have those books. Towards Another Summer was available on ebook so I went ahead and read it. It wasn't until I started feeling this pressure on my chest, trapped in a voice of someone who consistently wishes a take back and words she didn't want to belong to her, that I went online in search of reviews to find out if anyone else felt what I did. Did anyone else feel as if they were going to get locked in this aimless step that's afraid to go inside anywhere? I found out that she had not intended the book to be published at all. It was too personal. I feel some guilt about reading it anyway, if she truly hadn't intended it to be read. I wonder if the reason why this particular book could not be read, while those other books were sent into the world, is that feeling that you're not going to be able to crawl back up this time. Crawling is good if you get somewhere. If you don't mind if anyone knows you crawled then you're doing okay in my book. Have you ever pulled yourself out of something that you don't know how you survived, only to feel so ashamed when you succumb to the same problem again? It steals from the past triumph that's your own "I did that". Maybe sometimes people need you to love them anyway, even when they don't believe that anyone could understand it. I read the rest of the book. Grace the character would have hoped for someone to notice. She would have hoped for them to lift her on their own wings and soar. Not loaned out of pity to be repaid in unmet eyes later, but like how it is okay to borrow money from family, if you have the right kind of family. She might be too afraid to find out if they were the right kind and I feel trapped there because that's something I don't like about me either. Yeah, I've written about social anxiety books before on goodreads. This one is different because the space you crawl to is the one you don't forget about later during the good days when it is easier. I have told people in my life flat out that I didn't want to get into the pain I felt over dropping out twice, that I didn't want to constantly discuss what my "next step" would be. It's worse that I avoid talking to people altogether so that they won't ask me those questions. I don't want to think about it far more than I am reluctant for anyone else to know how much I've quit. It's yourself you're afraid of. It's something about confusion and lack of "I can do that" hope. That's so much worse than social anxiety. You're going to let yourself down. It's not so hard for me now to see how a woman who could be open about those things wouldn't want to admit that it is hard to admit that you're afraid to go home.
Grace is a migratory bird in her convictions. It's undecided what kind of bird (my favorite species from New Zealand are never mentioned as they never leave home). I didn't feel it in spirit that she was the feather and light as air boned specimen, and if she had blurted out to me her truth in one of her the-truth-must-be-uttered-at-least-this-once moments I would not have felt the transforming power in her desires. For me the migratory bird fantasies were the weakest of Towards Another Summer. In my book review search I was really hoping that someone would have written what I had been thinking. No one has mentioned David Grossman's The Book of Intimate Grammar (I'm rereading it as of this writing. This book is so underrated it makes me sad. I'll have to love it more and talk about it now). Young Aron is trapped in his own flesh of a twelve year old boy. Stunted under the weight of the same pressures from unmet eyes if everyone you can see is the wrong kind of family. Would you want to stay twelve in a place like that? Or worse, they'll break your bones like a debt collector when you can't pay up in what is expected of you. Aron stores up words inside of himself. Repeating and polishing them inside until they are "safe" to use and send out into the world. Trying to grow something inside his mind that breaks itself against what it resists. The transformation is a caterpillar to a cocoon. Grace's similar obsession with the meanings of words as a rug ripped out from under her reminded me a lot of Aron. Her mother warns them to stay away from the "magazine" as a dangerous place to play, only to read a periodical she refers to as the same. These words appear on the tip of Grace's tongue like a bitter pill she doesn't want to swallow. It reminded me of the way that one can purposefully hold onto a bad experience, polishing it anew when you need it to remind you not to step too close of what you're afraid of. Grace remembers every time she had ever felt out of place. Was the fault hers. You know that day when everyone else was handed out boyfriends and happy endings? You were sick that day. The dictionary had the proper definitions for what everybody REALLY meant. Too bad you had bad hair that day! (Grace, like Frame, has "bad" frizzy hair.) My heart goes out to her. I do feel what that is like. I also know the unfairness of being like this. The fondness for someone else born from the moment when you felt like you were the person that you wanted to be. Grace would feel as warmly for the person that knew what the right thing to say to her just the same as she can't breathe for fearing what will happen if the wrong thing is what she says. I feel for the person who tries to get close to her.
Recently, Mike Puma wrote a review on goodreads. It was on Emmanuelle Bove's My Friends. He wrote beautifully about this feeling of moving away from home and pining for what you left behind about this book that was not about moving. He could have written that review about Towards Another Summer. I posted a comment in his review. The only thing that stopped me from doing my typical thing of deleting the comment after I posted it was his swift reply addressed to me. Grace agonizes over showing up to breakfast too early. She is afraid of children (because they stare. I've written about feeling this in past goodreads reviews, I am sure). "Yes" is preferred to "No" because the latter requires more of an explanation (in this we differ. I find that I am wholly unwilling to pretend to agree where I do not. I resent more than anything when I am pushed in the slightest after I've already said no. I wonder about Frame's time in the institution where you had not a hope of surviving if you didn't surrender your will entirely. They would have given me a lobotomy and that's that).
The "crushing loneliness" is what happens to Grace. She is homesick for what she will not allow herself. She cannot enjoy the family when she visits Anne (a fellow Kiwi. Meaning New Zealander, not the bird) and her husband Phillip. Anne and Phillip's two little children. The safe age before kids become too scary, when they stare openly as if they can tear down your mental barriers, switching off all the lights that would dawn hope on your deficiencies. Grace is homesick for her home where she sits behind her protective bookcases between her and the window. They would be her barriers from the street that would have cars that would beam their headlights on all of your deficiencies. Geographically speaking, her room may not have been set up that way. I felt that her bookcases protected her. Her books, the words of poets who know her secret places as their own. She is sick for her typewriter. She begs to go home early because she is homesick for her own typewriter, for the two copies of her manuscript hidden away in the home that never once felt as welcoming as this home she has been invited to for the weekend. Please, won't you come again? Grace is homesick for New Zealand.
How can I ever contain within me so much of one land? Was it given to me or have I looked for it, found it, and have I been afraid to return to it?
She is homesick for where she had wandered to as a small child. That secret place she had found and relinquished once she had found it. Search and destroy.
I wish that I had felt in her that she really was no longer a human. That place inside where seh believed it, as opposed to fearing that someone else would think it. To me Grace was not a migratory bird headed towards another summer. She's Aron from The Intimate Book of Grammar who was unable to perform that Houdini escape to fuck off and escape. It's cold in your fridge. I missed her New Zealand for her. I know where she is going to lay down at night. It'll be okay because of this:
Grace remembered a first book by an Australian writer, how the photo on the jacket had been eager, innocent as the photo of Anne; again, it was not only the woman herself, it was her home town, her family, her life. When the writer left Australia to live in England and there published another book with her photo on the jacket, how discreet the camera had been, telling its truth through its small selective lies; freed from the narrow repressive restrictions of home town atmosphere.
I loved Grace for not always being the shy person that is too busy thinking about how they are doing everything wrong that they don't notice that Anne wanted that moment to herself to buy the new sheeting. Sure, she turned it around to guilt about her own presence and Phillip's insistence to show her some sight that Anne didn't get her moment to herself. It hurt so much that the hurt became something to want to get away from. Every encounter is not worth it because of how much agony goes into dissecting everything she could have done differently. She would think that the sun wouldn't set on England again because she had moved to the country and asked a question during a dinner with this couple. My heart went out to Grace but I wouldn't have loved her if she hadn't been able to think about those secret places in New Zealand existing without her. Not for someone who must be accepted without pretenses. That's the hope of being okay anyway. She could and that's what I suspect kept her poet's soul fed. The migratory bird was just the agony. She worried if anyone would notice. No trick words from mama back in New Zealand. How her mother hoarded her own memories to herself as if sharing them with anyone would rob the memories of their power? That would make a person homesick, I think. The kind of homesick that comes from being in the right kind of family and not belonging in it. I feel so much for Grace with her homesickness for her typewriter. She's probably going to write about that kitchen. That's not being able to sleep because when you fly home it's time to be on the move again. I'm wishing that I'd find the poet that knew about the secret place, myself. Poets are the family that you can borrow from, I think.
April 20, 2024
Unpublished in her lifetime due to her feeling that it was too personal, Janet Frame's novel Towards Another Summer follows transplanted New Zealand writer Grace Cleave as she navigates a wintry weekend staying with a journalist and his young family at their home in the north of England. Squirm along with Grace as she struggles to carry on basic conversations with these people whom she barely knows while daydreaming back into the days of her childhood in New Zealand. It's a perfect read for the socially awkward and anxious among us, as well as anyone who's ever felt they might have transformed into a migratory bird.
(Trigger warning: multiple uncomfortable social situations)
(Trigger warning: multiple uncomfortable social situations)
May 12, 2023
Grace Cleave - Frame’s fictional alter ego - is a shy, reclusive New Zealand writer living in London, so alienated from the human race that she discovers she is really a migratory bird. (The imagery is vivid and even a bit disconcerting). She’s invited by Philip, a journalist who had interviewed her, to spend a long weekend with his wife Anne and their two young children in the North of England. Their interactions are dogged by Grace’s almost pathological inability to make conversation, yet she yearns to reveal her inner self. In the same contradictory way, she feels at home there, even though she’d much rather be alone.
Something about the family atmosphere triggers strong memories of Grace’s childhood, and which take up much of the second part of the novel. Notably, she experiences flashbacks of extreme anxiety, projecting her own parents’ dysfunctional relationship on to her hosts whenever they have even the most minor of disagreements. In the end she returns to London a day early without ever revealing her true identity to Philip and Anne.
Written early in the sixties, it’s an odd combination of fiction and autobiography. (Yes, all of Janet Frame’s writing is grounded in her own experience but that’s not quite the same thing.) She hadn’t wanted it published during her lifetime, saying it was too personal. But some twenty years later, she had essentially recounted all of those childhood memories in the first volume of her memoir, To the Is-Land. (Well, maybe not all; the horror of her father’s threats and her mother’s deference wasn’t quite so obvious there.) Similarly, the time that she had spent in London was in the third volume, but any Grace-like aspects of her fragile identity were maybe not so apparent either.
I loved Grace’s self-deprecatory voice – at one point, she envisions herself coming downstairs for breakfast, engaging her hosts in brilliant discourse:
… I could go on quoting for ever. It doesn’t sound like much, but oh! It’s a gem.
Something about the family atmosphere triggers strong memories of Grace’s childhood, and which take up much of the second part of the novel. Notably, she experiences flashbacks of extreme anxiety, projecting her own parents’ dysfunctional relationship on to her hosts whenever they have even the most minor of disagreements. In the end she returns to London a day early without ever revealing her true identity to Philip and Anne.
Written early in the sixties, it’s an odd combination of fiction and autobiography. (Yes, all of Janet Frame’s writing is grounded in her own experience but that’s not quite the same thing.) She hadn’t wanted it published during her lifetime, saying it was too personal. But some twenty years later, she had essentially recounted all of those childhood memories in the first volume of her memoir, To the Is-Land. (Well, maybe not all; the horror of her father’s threats and her mother’s deference wasn’t quite so obvious there.) Similarly, the time that she had spent in London was in the third volume, but any Grace-like aspects of her fragile identity were maybe not so apparent either.
I loved Grace’s self-deprecatory voice – at one point, she envisions herself coming downstairs for breakfast, engaging her hosts in brilliant discourse:
—It’s practice. I’ve learned to live edge to edge with Time, fitting each moment as pinked not ragged seams are fitted; no frayed moments. It’s an art, that is, a necessity; don’t you think so? Even for those who are not migratory birds like myself …and so on, for two pages of eloquence. In reality:
Now they were answering, with admiration at her wisdom,
—Yes. True, true, true.
And she was saying, …
When Grace entered the kitchen she found Anne feeding Noel his breakfast while Sarah played with her doll. There was no other food upon the table; nothing was prepared. Philip was nowhere to be seen.
Feeling that retreat was out of the question, Grace sat awkwardly at the table.
—Good morning, Anne said.—Would you like a cup of coffee before breakfast?
—No, no thank you. I’m afraid I’m much too early. I have no sense of time. I thought . . . I don’t know . . . It’s dark at night here isn’t it . . . different from London. By the way, I think I’ll return to London this afternoon instead of tomorrow morning. I think I’m homesick for my typewriter. …
… I could go on quoting for ever. It doesn’t sound like much, but oh! It’s a gem.
August 29, 2022
This novel grew in me the more I read it and the less I expected from it.
It takes place over a weekend, when a young NZ novelist living in London takes a train to spend the weekend with a journalist who had interviewed her, his wife and two young children.
Keen to be with them, she is disappointed to be confronted by her own anxiety once there, her tendency to analyse everything and to express herself so much more articulately in her thoughts (or on paper) than in actual conversation. This makes her feel shameful because she has been invited as a writer, so she feels sure that they expect more from her.
During the visit many instances and objects or utterings remind her of home, so memories of childhood intercede, and brilliant metaphors come to her fully formed.
It is all the more brilliant, having learned that it was published post humously, and is semi autobiographical, but written 20 years before any if her own autobiographical works. The character of Philip was based on a Guardian journalist who did interview her.
Highly recommended for Janet Frame fans.
It takes place over a weekend, when a young NZ novelist living in London takes a train to spend the weekend with a journalist who had interviewed her, his wife and two young children.
Keen to be with them, she is disappointed to be confronted by her own anxiety once there, her tendency to analyse everything and to express herself so much more articulately in her thoughts (or on paper) than in actual conversation. This makes her feel shameful because she has been invited as a writer, so she feels sure that they expect more from her.
During the visit many instances and objects or utterings remind her of home, so memories of childhood intercede, and brilliant metaphors come to her fully formed.
It is all the more brilliant, having learned that it was published post humously, and is semi autobiographical, but written 20 years before any if her own autobiographical works. The character of Philip was based on a Guardian journalist who did interview her.
Highly recommended for Janet Frame fans.
August 30, 2009
It's lovely that we have another novel by Janet Frame. Apparently, she deemed it too personal to publish in her lifetime. Her evocation of the central character, Grace Cleave: her thoughts, anxiety, memories of childhood in New Zealand as she visits a couple and their children in Northern England...well she's brilliant at capturing consciousness as well as self-consciousness. Rich, so rich. Beautifully written.
I should quote a passage or two, but don't have the book at hand--
I should quote a passage or two, but don't have the book at hand--
September 12, 2009
This is a woman who had intense self-awareness. And the pain that she felt due to this must have been overwhelming to her at times. But her book gives the most realistic description of the inner workings of a person painfully shy but at the same time part of her is in all of us. She has put into words the very minute and made them shattering and grounding at the same time.
Yes - there were small sections that I had to read over again and over again. But, unlike many books with this characteristic, it was well worth the time taken to really read this book. Try not to miss a paragraph. If your mind wanders, go back and re-read it. It is worth it.
Janet Frame share with us her human weaknesses. None of what she describes is abnormal or exotic. It is just simply human. How does she make this so interesting? She is so very transparent. The simplest reactions and fears of visiting a family that she does not know very well rang true. Instead of completely denying her true feelings, she gives them to us in her novel with gusto! Thank you Janet Frame and I am so glad I have discovered you.
Yes - there were small sections that I had to read over again and over again. But, unlike many books with this characteristic, it was well worth the time taken to really read this book. Try not to miss a paragraph. If your mind wanders, go back and re-read it. It is worth it.
Janet Frame share with us her human weaknesses. None of what she describes is abnormal or exotic. It is just simply human. How does she make this so interesting? She is so very transparent. The simplest reactions and fears of visiting a family that she does not know very well rang true. Instead of completely denying her true feelings, she gives them to us in her novel with gusto! Thank you Janet Frame and I am so glad I have discovered you.
August 13, 2009
Oí hablar por primera vez de Janet Frame en la maravillosa película 'Un ángel en mi mesa' de Jane Campion, una película preciosa que se basa en la autobiografía de esta escritora neozelandesa. La película me cautivó por su tristeza y por su belleza. Pude palpar el dolor de Janet Frame. En su juventud, una depresión la diagnosticaron erróneamente como esquizofrenia y entonces pasó un largo periplo por psiquiátricos. Cuando estaban a punto de empezar con ella un tratamiento de electroshocks, uno de sus libros ganó un premio y después de esto pudo escapar. Pero su historia es también una historia de supervivencia, de conseguir salir adelante pese a todo. Y es por esto que la película es tan bella. Antes de los títulos de crédito ya intuía que Janet Frame era una escritora para mí. Sin embargo, han pasado años antes que leyera un libro suyo, en parte porque es difícil encontrar obras suyas traducidas y en parte porque tenía algo de miedo que en realidad Janet Frame no fuera para mí y si Janet Frame no era capaz de hablar de mí, ya nadie lo podría hacer.
Se puede decir que durante mucho tiempo he sido fan de Janet Frame sin haber leído nada de ella, pero por fin he leído 'Hacia otro verano' y ha sido maravilloso. Se ve que Janet Frame escribió esta novela en 1963 pero rehusó publicarla en vida porque la consideraba demasiado personal, así que la guardó con cuidado durante toda su vida y se publicó póstumamente. La novela está protagonizada por Grace Cleave, una escritora neozelandesa que desde hace años reside en Londres. Una pareja la invita a pasar un fin de semana a su casa en el norte y ella, después de dudarlo mucho, acepta, pero tan punto ha dejado caer la carta en el buzón se arrepiente de haber aceptado. Grace Cleave es solitaria, introvertida y, por culpa de falta de práctica, torpe en cualquier situación social. Grace Cleave, sin prácticamente amigos, no se relaciona con nadie y vive siguiendo una rutina que es como un refugio. Es invierno y Grace Cleave, incapaz de encajar entre los humanos, siente que se ha convertido en un pájaro migratorio y empieza a añorar su Nueva Zelanda, cuando hacía tiempo que ya ni siquiera pensaba en su antiguo hogar.
'Hacia otro verano' es simplemente la narración de este fin de semana que la protagonista pasa en casa de esta pareja y sus dos hijos pequeños. Y la narración de los esfuerzos, dificultades y pequeños fracasos de Janet Frame por ser lo que se llama un animal sociable y relacionarse con sus huéspedes de "forma normal y satisfactoria" se intercala con la descripción de recuerdos de su infancia que le vienen a la memoria. Es una obra personal (por supuesto), introvertida, intimista, de una sensibilidad exquisita y una sinceridad extrema, con una atención por el detalle preciosa y un estilo poético maravilloso. Por todas estas características puede que no sea un libro para todo el mundo, pero yo he sentido que hablaba de mí como hacía tiempo que no sentía que un libro hablaba de mí. Puede costar entrar en él, pero si lo haces notarás que es un libro que te lo da todo, que te quiere con un amor sin límites. Es un libro para los que más de una vez se han sentido como unos ineptos sociales, para los solitarios que no quieren sentirse tan solos, para los introvertidos que quedan exhaustos después de un intenso intercambio social, para los tímidos que se sienten incomprendidos, para los que se sienten tristes y quieren ser reconfortados. Es magnífico.
Se puede decir que durante mucho tiempo he sido fan de Janet Frame sin haber leído nada de ella, pero por fin he leído 'Hacia otro verano' y ha sido maravilloso. Se ve que Janet Frame escribió esta novela en 1963 pero rehusó publicarla en vida porque la consideraba demasiado personal, así que la guardó con cuidado durante toda su vida y se publicó póstumamente. La novela está protagonizada por Grace Cleave, una escritora neozelandesa que desde hace años reside en Londres. Una pareja la invita a pasar un fin de semana a su casa en el norte y ella, después de dudarlo mucho, acepta, pero tan punto ha dejado caer la carta en el buzón se arrepiente de haber aceptado. Grace Cleave es solitaria, introvertida y, por culpa de falta de práctica, torpe en cualquier situación social. Grace Cleave, sin prácticamente amigos, no se relaciona con nadie y vive siguiendo una rutina que es como un refugio. Es invierno y Grace Cleave, incapaz de encajar entre los humanos, siente que se ha convertido en un pájaro migratorio y empieza a añorar su Nueva Zelanda, cuando hacía tiempo que ya ni siquiera pensaba en su antiguo hogar.
'Hacia otro verano' es simplemente la narración de este fin de semana que la protagonista pasa en casa de esta pareja y sus dos hijos pequeños. Y la narración de los esfuerzos, dificultades y pequeños fracasos de Janet Frame por ser lo que se llama un animal sociable y relacionarse con sus huéspedes de "forma normal y satisfactoria" se intercala con la descripción de recuerdos de su infancia que le vienen a la memoria. Es una obra personal (por supuesto), introvertida, intimista, de una sensibilidad exquisita y una sinceridad extrema, con una atención por el detalle preciosa y un estilo poético maravilloso. Por todas estas características puede que no sea un libro para todo el mundo, pero yo he sentido que hablaba de mí como hacía tiempo que no sentía que un libro hablaba de mí. Puede costar entrar en él, pero si lo haces notarás que es un libro que te lo da todo, que te quiere con un amor sin límites. Es un libro para los que más de una vez se han sentido como unos ineptos sociales, para los solitarios que no quieren sentirse tan solos, para los introvertidos que quedan exhaustos después de un intenso intercambio social, para los tímidos que se sienten incomprendidos, para los que se sienten tristes y quieren ser reconfortados. Es magnífico.
April 25, 2023
İlk defa okuduğum Janet Frame’e hayran oldum…
Bir Başka Yaza Doğru yazar Grace'in Londra dışında misafir olduğu bir hafta sonunu anlatıyor, hikayenin akışında sık sık çocukluğunun geçtiği Yeni Zelanda'ya ve ailesine geri dönüşler var.
İçe dönük bir karakter olan Grace'in sosyal anksiyetesi de üst seviyede. Dolayısıyla her düşüncesi, her hareketi sürekli sorgulamalarla dolu. Söylediği, söyleyeceği her cümle ona dert oluyor, dış dünya ile her temasında kendini neredeyse parçalıyor, durağan görünen ancak alt alta fırtınaların koptuğu bir hayat sürüyor…
Janet Frame'in yaşamından izler taşıyan, bilincin ve bilinç altının birbirinin içinden geçtiği satırlar beni derinden etkiledi. Sosyal anksiyetemiz olsun olmasın biz içe dönük karakterler için dış dünya başlı başına bir sınav ve yazar bunu ustalıkla resmetmiş. Metnin şiirsel akıcılığını ayrıca beğendim…
Her okura hitap etmeyebilir ancak Virginia Woolf, Slyvia Plath seviyorsanız Janet Frame tam size göre derim...
Bir Başka Yaza Doğru yazar Grace'in Londra dışında misafir olduğu bir hafta sonunu anlatıyor, hikayenin akışında sık sık çocukluğunun geçtiği Yeni Zelanda'ya ve ailesine geri dönüşler var.
İçe dönük bir karakter olan Grace'in sosyal anksiyetesi de üst seviyede. Dolayısıyla her düşüncesi, her hareketi sürekli sorgulamalarla dolu. Söylediği, söyleyeceği her cümle ona dert oluyor, dış dünya ile her temasında kendini neredeyse parçalıyor, durağan görünen ancak alt alta fırtınaların koptuğu bir hayat sürüyor…
Janet Frame'in yaşamından izler taşıyan, bilincin ve bilinç altının birbirinin içinden geçtiği satırlar beni derinden etkiledi. Sosyal anksiyetemiz olsun olmasın biz içe dönük karakterler için dış dünya başlı başına bir sınav ve yazar bunu ustalıkla resmetmiş. Metnin şiirsel akıcılığını ayrıca beğendim…
Her okura hitap etmeyebilir ancak Virginia Woolf, Slyvia Plath seviyorsanız Janet Frame tam size göre derim...
May 26, 2010
In this autobiographical novel by the late highly acclaimed New Zealand writer, the invitation to go away for the weekend causes a reclusive writer, Grace Cleave, no small amount of distress. Grace's feelings of dissimilarity and disconnectedness is explained when she realizes she is a "migratory bird." Frame's exquisite language, her poetic sensibility, her psychologically rich descriptions of the currents of Grace's thoughts, the painful (and personal) rendering of social anxiety and the rootless longing for home confirms Frame's reputation and add strength to her nomination for a Nobel. The novel's weighted contemplation reminds me of Virginia Woolf. A rare find; a golden voice.
April 27, 2020
Janet Frame has written some of the most disturbing things I’ve ever read, so I couldn’t imagine what could be “too personal” to publish in her lifetime.
This isn’t disturbing. It’s a sweet, melancholic, and (I know I say this too much) quiet novel. I guess what she meant by “too personal” was that it isn’t proper fiction and she wanted to keep it for herself. It’s lovely.
This isn’t disturbing. It’s a sweet, melancholic, and (I know I say this too much) quiet novel. I guess what she meant by “too personal” was that it isn’t proper fiction and she wanted to keep it for herself. It’s lovely.
November 19, 2014
so introspective and personal author specified it could only be published posthumously. so they did.
a novel about what it is like to be inside janet frame.
a novel about what it is like to be inside janet frame.
July 10, 2010
“I wonder, Grace thought. I’m glad I’m not like those dressmaker’s dummies whose heads are built in the shape of a cage, or my thoughts would fly out through the bars.” (Towards Another Summer, Janet Frame, from page 125.)
Janet Frame is a writer’s writer. Toward Another Summer is a beautifully written book of rare quality...a diamond in the rough I suppose...a classic...a book that I would call a human document. Her generous use of language has its roots in the ordinary, but is magical how the story maintains a life of its own. Although it seems nothing happens in a physical sense of happening, everything that does happen happens internally; it is intense and very personal, her self-awareness is honest, the emotions deeply felt, unsettled, disconcerting. The reality of the inner life of a writer, the anxieties and fantasies, the wealth of memory... she is a migratory bird, flying toward another summer, looking for a safe place to land...to write...but a writer with writer’s block does not know where that will be or when. The loneliness of the solitary life, yet the reluctance to leave behind the familiar, her homesickness for New Zealand and homesickness for her typewriter are keenly felt...homesickness for not just home, but within her skin...sometimes it's a challenge living within one's own skin. There are several pages that I've marked to revisit because the powerful passages are precious. Janet Frame considered this novel to be too personal to publish during her lifetime, but she left no specific instructions about her wishes regarding the two bound copies of the typed manuscript, preserved in two locations to keep them safe. I’m glad that the Janet Frame Literary Trust shepherded it into the light, it’s a book for writers, and a book for readers of writers.
Janet Frame is a writer’s writer. Toward Another Summer is a beautifully written book of rare quality...a diamond in the rough I suppose...a classic...a book that I would call a human document. Her generous use of language has its roots in the ordinary, but is magical how the story maintains a life of its own. Although it seems nothing happens in a physical sense of happening, everything that does happen happens internally; it is intense and very personal, her self-awareness is honest, the emotions deeply felt, unsettled, disconcerting. The reality of the inner life of a writer, the anxieties and fantasies, the wealth of memory... she is a migratory bird, flying toward another summer, looking for a safe place to land...to write...but a writer with writer’s block does not know where that will be or when. The loneliness of the solitary life, yet the reluctance to leave behind the familiar, her homesickness for New Zealand and homesickness for her typewriter are keenly felt...homesickness for not just home, but within her skin...sometimes it's a challenge living within one's own skin. There are several pages that I've marked to revisit because the powerful passages are precious. Janet Frame considered this novel to be too personal to publish during her lifetime, but she left no specific instructions about her wishes regarding the two bound copies of the typed manuscript, preserved in two locations to keep them safe. I’m glad that the Janet Frame Literary Trust shepherded it into the light, it’s a book for writers, and a book for readers of writers.
May 11, 2016
fabulous book; autobiographical apparently, and suppressed until after the author's death. Nothing happens - an exiled writer living in London visits a New Zealand compatriot and his wife in the north of England and has lunch, stays a night, plays with their children, and goes back. And yet it is filled with power and dread as it explores the writer's fragile, depressed mind, as she feels she is not a worthy companion, unable to make witty comments or act like a writer should, make profound statements or even explain how and why she writes (there is an excruciating flashback to a BBC interview). The writer is turning into a migratory bird she feels, is out of place, disconnected. The novel follows her thoughts and stream of consciousness which is filled with childhood memories of her stiff, undemonstrative family, poems and school humiliation. The writing is exquisite. Quote will follow, when I can get back to the book...
here's a bit:
Perhaps when I go to school tomorrow I shan’t be as lucky as the boy who was swallowed by the fox and rescued alive from the fox’s belly. It is dark and mysterious inside a belly. With slimy machinery moving around you and moss growing red like blood upon the walls, and bare knuckles separated from hands and fingers and floating in a green and yellow swamp; knuckles; look at my knuckles, look at my shins; over the railway line, past the clump of wild sweet peas, inside the gorse hedge is a perfect hidey-hole for any fox who wanted to swallow children on their way to school.
We have a new baby.
My grandma is dead.
If you knew you had knuckles and shins wouldn’t you cry and cry?
here's a bit:
Perhaps when I go to school tomorrow I shan’t be as lucky as the boy who was swallowed by the fox and rescued alive from the fox’s belly. It is dark and mysterious inside a belly. With slimy machinery moving around you and moss growing red like blood upon the walls, and bare knuckles separated from hands and fingers and floating in a green and yellow swamp; knuckles; look at my knuckles, look at my shins; over the railway line, past the clump of wild sweet peas, inside the gorse hedge is a perfect hidey-hole for any fox who wanted to swallow children on their way to school.
We have a new baby.
My grandma is dead.
If you knew you had knuckles and shins wouldn’t you cry and cry?
January 24, 2021
Janet Frame wrote frankly about herself in her autobiography (An Angel at My Table) which I read many years ago. So I wondered what it was about this novel that led to her decision that she didn't want it published in her lifetime.
Towards Another Summer didn't really answer that question. Perhaps it was in this novel that Frame felt she could be most honestly herself, through the character of Grace Cleave. It saddened me to read about the intense social anxiety Grace experienced. The novel is tender, delicate and fragile. The language is beautiful. My only reservation was that, although short, the novel does become repetitive. Like Grace herself, I felt trapped in a painful situation.
The central image of the novel is that of the migratory bird Cleave believes herself to be. She is far from her native New Zealand and living in a dreary, grey, sooty London. When she accepts an invitation to visit a family in the north of England she reluctantly accepts but throughout the days she spends there she constantly wishes to take flight. She does so through the memories of a childhood poor in material things but rich in words, song and the freedom to play outdoors. These memories lighten the intensely introspective tone of the novel. The descriptions of an English winter are bleak. Yet there is beauty here. Frame uses language brilliantly to take us fully into Grace's experiences, into the social situations she finds impossible to negotiate and into the 'other summer' where she longs to be.
Towards Another Summer didn't really answer that question. Perhaps it was in this novel that Frame felt she could be most honestly herself, through the character of Grace Cleave. It saddened me to read about the intense social anxiety Grace experienced. The novel is tender, delicate and fragile. The language is beautiful. My only reservation was that, although short, the novel does become repetitive. Like Grace herself, I felt trapped in a painful situation.
The central image of the novel is that of the migratory bird Cleave believes herself to be. She is far from her native New Zealand and living in a dreary, grey, sooty London. When she accepts an invitation to visit a family in the north of England she reluctantly accepts but throughout the days she spends there she constantly wishes to take flight. She does so through the memories of a childhood poor in material things but rich in words, song and the freedom to play outdoors. These memories lighten the intensely introspective tone of the novel. The descriptions of an English winter are bleak. Yet there is beauty here. Frame uses language brilliantly to take us fully into Grace's experiences, into the social situations she finds impossible to negotiate and into the 'other summer' where she longs to be.
July 31, 2024
While I'm a huge fan of Janet Frame's short fiction, I've found her longer works more difficult to get my head around, since the author is much less interested in developing a story than she is in presenting character portraits. That tendency works well at shorter length, but can be a challenge for the reader to engage with over a longer span.
That said, Towards Another Summer is certainly the best amongst the small number of Frame's novels that I've read. As with much of her fiction, this book is at least partially autobiographical, and makes no attempt to disguise the eccentricities and insecurities of the author herself.
At the simplest level, the story is about a weekend visit to friends, and nothing really much happens other than the expected meals, conversations, and small activities. But within the narrator's head, there is a constant sense of doubt and embarrassment at practically everything she does in front of her hosts:
Her discomfort is severe enough that she imagines herself to be a migratory bird. As a New Zealander living in England and visiting fellow New Zealanders who also live in the UK, the narrator is away from home in more than one sense, and struggles to understand if she even has a place that can truly become a home. At times her dislocation births insights, and at other times it's practically disabling. There is a boldness to the author's honesty, even if the length of Towards Another Summer blunts some of impact on the reader.
That said, Towards Another Summer is certainly the best amongst the small number of Frame's novels that I've read. As with much of her fiction, this book is at least partially autobiographical, and makes no attempt to disguise the eccentricities and insecurities of the author herself.
At the simplest level, the story is about a weekend visit to friends, and nothing really much happens other than the expected meals, conversations, and small activities. But within the narrator's head, there is a constant sense of doubt and embarrassment at practically everything she does in front of her hosts:
Philip was silent, still looking at her, waiting, in that disconcertingly persistent manner, for Grace to speak. Why can't he understand, Grace thought, that all my words are platitudes, that when I juggle and empty out a sentence there's nothing left, no sediment of thought or imagination lies in my speech. Why does Philip wait and wait, like an old peasant at the well, for the bucketful of gold?
Her discomfort is severe enough that she imagines herself to be a migratory bird. As a New Zealander living in England and visiting fellow New Zealanders who also live in the UK, the narrator is away from home in more than one sense, and struggles to understand if she even has a place that can truly become a home. At times her dislocation births insights, and at other times it's practically disabling. There is a boldness to the author's honesty, even if the length of Towards Another Summer blunts some of impact on the reader.
June 23, 2024
I have entered into another summer with this read, written by New Zealand author Janet Frame, this one controversially published after her death. During her lifetime, this novel was too personal for her to publish, but she left the manuscript virtually ready and her trust made the decision to share it after she passed away. Even though this is a novel, you can read the torture and struggles that she faced, but you can also appreciate her fine attention to innocence and her original thinking. As a result, one paragraph you might be smiling, and the next moment you are feeling the despair of Grace, who cries into her pillow each night. It’s pure Janet Frame, whose character Grace is really a “migratory bird,” heading towards summer. Not just any bird, the migratory bird is on a dutiful journey and soon will return to its other home. A powerful, thoughtful read about where we come from, how we visit, how we observe, and when to return to our nest.
February 27, 2011
This book was written in 1963 but was only be published after her death, according to her own wish since she considered too personal to be published when she was still alive.
This book reminded with plenty of details of our visit to New Zealand in December 2009, an unforgettable trip.
Page 180, from Book of New Zealand Verse :
Nem a presunçosa celebração,
Ou a mais esmerada historia, pode aliviar
Do descobridor a sede de elação
E silenciar as vozes que dizem,
“Aqui é o fim do mundo, ande as maravilhas vem cessar.”
Somente por uma lembrança mais exata, lançando
Sobre ele a tênue da difidente Gloria,
O Marinheiro vive, e ao nosso lado permanece, espalhando pela onda do nosso tempo
A mancha de sangue que escreve de uma ilha a historia.
Page 243, from Come oh Maidens :
Come oh maidens welcome here
You in all the world most dear
Sweetest voices draw you near
Come oh maidens, come
Gaily our canoe shall glide
Flowing o'er the rolling tide
Twirling pois shall lay beside
'Til we reach our home.
Page 245, from Like to the tide
Deus das Nações a vossos pés,
nos laços do amor nos encontramos,
Escutai nossas preces, vos rogamos,
Deus defendei nossa Terra livre
Guardai a tripla estrela do Pacifico
do peso do ódio e da guerra
Fazei nossas preces serem ao longe ouvidas
Deus defendei a Nova Zelândia!
This book reminded with plenty of details of our visit to New Zealand in December 2009, an unforgettable trip.
Page 180, from Book of New Zealand Verse :
Nem a presunçosa celebração,
Ou a mais esmerada historia, pode aliviar
Do descobridor a sede de elação
E silenciar as vozes que dizem,
“Aqui é o fim do mundo, ande as maravilhas vem cessar.”
Somente por uma lembrança mais exata, lançando
Sobre ele a tênue da difidente Gloria,
O Marinheiro vive, e ao nosso lado permanece, espalhando pela onda do nosso tempo
A mancha de sangue que escreve de uma ilha a historia.
Page 243, from Come oh Maidens :
Come oh maidens welcome here
You in all the world most dear
Sweetest voices draw you near
Come oh maidens, come
Gaily our canoe shall glide
Flowing o'er the rolling tide
Twirling pois shall lay beside
'Til we reach our home.
Page 245, from Like to the tide
Deus das Nações a vossos pés,
nos laços do amor nos encontramos,
Escutai nossas preces, vos rogamos,
Deus defendei nossa Terra livre
Guardai a tripla estrela do Pacifico
do peso do ódio e da guerra
Fazei nossas preces serem ao longe ouvidas
Deus defendei a Nova Zelândia!
February 25, 2020
A challenging read. I liked the parts where Grace/Janet anthropomorphises into a migratory bird, or a woman screeching at her children becomes a magpie; the way she bridges the fine line between sanity and the surreal is really well done and feels creative. I’ve never read such a darkly humorous and accurate insight into an anxious introvert’s mind: Frame really nails the dissociative panic when seemingly simple social interactions are impossible and you sense that you’re about to have all your shortcomings exposed...I was cringing in some passages.
I really respect the writing, but I found Towards Another Summer lacking in plot, which is never usually an issue for me. Maybe I just wanted to be distracted from the bleak, grey mood which permeates this book, and took a toll on my mood as well.
I really respect the writing, but I found Towards Another Summer lacking in plot, which is never usually an issue for me. Maybe I just wanted to be distracted from the bleak, grey mood which permeates this book, and took a toll on my mood as well.
January 25, 2010
After watching the movie made from her autobiography, I checked the library for any books by her and this was the only one, out of the 11 novels and 5 books of short stories my library carries. Published posthumously since she considered it too personal, it is apparently taken from a real-life event. Frame was one of New Zealand's most prestigious authors and won every award but had a strange life, due to her mental illness that kept her in asylums, often voluntarily, for 8 years. In the movie, she comes across as horribly shy but she was diagnosed, later retracted, as schizophrenic. This book exemplifies her shyness but at the same time, her beautiful use of language. She also published 3 books of poetry, and it shows in her word choices. Fascinating book.
July 6, 2008
This is the first Janet Frame novel I have read, and it left me wanting to find more of her books. Frame has an amazing use of language, and wry humour. I found myself aching on behalf of Grace Cleave, her character, in what was clearly a difficult social setting for her.
Towards Another Summer was posthumously published by the Janet Frame Literary Trust. It was a good call on their behalf, as this is a terrific novel.
Towards Another Summer was posthumously published by the Janet Frame Literary Trust. It was a good call on their behalf, as this is a terrific novel.
June 27, 2009
An undiscovered Janet Frame book about social awkwardness? SQUEEEEEEEE!
Read while on a sometimes socially awkward holiday, with hosts and small talk - but nothing like this lovely little muse on home and place and being in your skin and admonishing yourself for being uncomfortable and imperfect and everything connected to the human to human experience that so many people find so easy - Janet, I'm on your side. It ain't easy.
Read while on a sometimes socially awkward holiday, with hosts and small talk - but nothing like this lovely little muse on home and place and being in your skin and admonishing yourself for being uncomfortable and imperfect and everything connected to the human to human experience that so many people find so easy - Janet, I'm on your side. It ain't easy.
June 11, 2009
Dear Janet Frame,
I love you, I really do.
This is a wonderful book. I could start it over again right this second. No one sees the world (and writes about it) quite like Janet Frame does.
I listened to the Bolinda audiobook read by Heather Bolton. There's a lyrical quality to the writing that lends itself well to being read aloud. The reading here is top notch. The whole package is something quite special.
I love you, I really do.
This is a wonderful book. I could start it over again right this second. No one sees the world (and writes about it) quite like Janet Frame does.
I listened to the Bolinda audiobook read by Heather Bolton. There's a lyrical quality to the writing that lends itself well to being read aloud. The reading here is top notch. The whole package is something quite special.
March 13, 2018
This is the best. The humour was top shelf. I wish I knew about Janet Frame when I was younger, so I could have met her whilst we were both alive.
November 27, 2025
My book club challenge this month was to read a book by a New Zealand writer. I have never really enjoyed NZ authors - this one was better and probably warrants 3.5 * . It would have benefitted from me not feeling pressurised to complete it as it’s not really a page turner more contemplative. It’s rather sad and having googled the author it seems to mirror her own very tragic life. I watched the film made about her life last night, which like this book seemed much too long and full of minutia. The novel is actually short but so pedestrian you long for something to happen and yet the over analysis does generate some amusement or sadness. I may try another book by this author.
July 17, 2020
Fonden en weekendresa, berättelsen en beskrivning av en nervös författares oförmåga att vara social, men samtidigt bära underbara världar i sitt inre. Resultatet ett vågspel mellan vardagsskildring, minnen från barndomen eftersom värdarna också kommer från NZ och hemmet påminner om hemlandet, samt den mycket poetiska skildringen av det som sker inuti henne när saker krockar och hur hon upplever sig själv som en flyttfågel. Jag imponeras av sammanslagningen av dessa lager, hur det driver berättelsen framåt. Och jag hittade nog ett motto till min egen berättelse här, som jag sparar med glädje.
March 17, 2023
MADRE MÍA CÓMO SUPERO ESTO!!! qué delicadeza! qué maravilla!!!!
April 19, 2020
Poetic, Simple and Humane. All of us have some part of Grace Cleave within. Never thought the internal thought process can be articulated so beautifully. Albeit, a challenging read.
The essence of the book would be felt more strongly if the reader does not take many breaks in between.
The essence of the book would be felt more strongly if the reader does not take many breaks in between.
March 26, 2011
Feb 6th: I copied the following para onto the whiteboard for my writing class yesterday, offering it as an on-the-button description of what might happen if you don't 'look sharply after your thoughts', as Emerson said. It comes towards the end of the novel, at the beginning of a chapter in which Grace has been invited to view her host's office in the attic:
There were several passages like this one, that made me stop and wish to commit them to memory. Now, of course, I can't really remember what they were about...there's one that describes the subtley shifting expressions on Philip's face as (she surmises) his feelings change. I particularly enjoyed the chapters that deal with the book's present moment, in the cold northern city that Grace is visiting. But those chapters act as coat hangers for the chapters about childhood memories, and after a while, wonderfully evocative as they are, those representations of memory seem somewhat self-indulgent & not to fill any larger purpose in the narrative.
Jan 26th: Having finished Patrick Evan's Gifted, I picked up Towards Another Summer again and took it on our camping trip to the Whangaparoa Peninsula. I bought it when it came out but, at the time, wasn't in tune with Frame despite having loved her writing since first reading her at 20. Evans's wonderful novel has helped, and possibly so have my experiences over the last 18 months. Camping didn't leave much time for reading so I'm still less than halfway through: oh, also, I temporarily put it aside, in the tent, for the more easily accessible stories in The Return by Roberto Bolano. (Must note here that Gifted is still burning in my consciousness.)
Side note: I read the first few paras of Pride and Prejudice on my new Kindle (!!!) this morning, just because it's the only book on there at the moment, and while I'm determined to enjoy the Kindle (cheaper books, portability, special gift from my love, etc) my first five minutes of use freaked me out a little. I noticed myself reading very self-consciously, hearing my voice echo inside my head rather than, as I've been used to since childhood, the text bypassing any inner auditory sense and going directly to my understanding so that I seem to absorb the words rather than having to 'read' them. Also, I appreciate the choice of text sizes but am startled by the wide gaps between paragraphs and the frequency with which I have to turn the pages.
She sat before Philip's huge desk, considering the drawers and pigeonholes crammed with papers...How could he dare to give a stranger permission to enter this room! Or was this room not the repository of his secrets? Perhaps he himself had no access to his treasures; perhaps he hoarded them elsewhere without ever recognising them; perhaps he discarded them one by one without ever having known them?
There were several passages like this one, that made me stop and wish to commit them to memory. Now, of course, I can't really remember what they were about...there's one that describes the subtley shifting expressions on Philip's face as (she surmises) his feelings change. I particularly enjoyed the chapters that deal with the book's present moment, in the cold northern city that Grace is visiting. But those chapters act as coat hangers for the chapters about childhood memories, and after a while, wonderfully evocative as they are, those representations of memory seem somewhat self-indulgent & not to fill any larger purpose in the narrative.
Jan 26th: Having finished Patrick Evan's Gifted, I picked up Towards Another Summer again and took it on our camping trip to the Whangaparoa Peninsula. I bought it when it came out but, at the time, wasn't in tune with Frame despite having loved her writing since first reading her at 20. Evans's wonderful novel has helped, and possibly so have my experiences over the last 18 months. Camping didn't leave much time for reading so I'm still less than halfway through: oh, also, I temporarily put it aside, in the tent, for the more easily accessible stories in The Return by Roberto Bolano. (Must note here that Gifted is still burning in my consciousness.)
Side note: I read the first few paras of Pride and Prejudice on my new Kindle (!!!) this morning, just because it's the only book on there at the moment, and while I'm determined to enjoy the Kindle (cheaper books, portability, special gift from my love, etc) my first five minutes of use freaked me out a little. I noticed myself reading very self-consciously, hearing my voice echo inside my head rather than, as I've been used to since childhood, the text bypassing any inner auditory sense and going directly to my understanding so that I seem to absorb the words rather than having to 'read' them. Also, I appreciate the choice of text sizes but am startled by the wide gaps between paragraphs and the frequency with which I have to turn the pages.
January 17, 2018
I approached this novel with delicacy knowing the author considered it too personal to be published while she was still alive and I was astounded by its honesty and style.
It’s really touching the way Janet Frames reveals herself in this novel, her mental processes and most inner feelings, her sense of inadequacy when she is among other people, her homesickness her longings.
The stream of consciousness flows skillfully while Frame tells us about a weekend she spent as a guest in a family in the north of England, recalling her childhood in New Zealand. We learn a lot about her sensitive personality, her difficulties in talking to other people, engaging in conversation, expressing her feelings through the spoken language. So ironic in a person who literally lives with and of words, this impossibility to utter them through the mouth, the need to use paper as the only means of communication. Through her memory we see how words have always influenced her since childhood when she lived among the poems and songs her parents liked to surround themselves with all the time, the peculiar, almost physical way in which her ear perceives them and her mind understands and sometimes distorts them, creating this way her own unique and personal language.
I suffered with her frustrations, her desires to say things, to tell something relevant while being totally unable to do it. Even with her friends’ little children who made her feel so uneasy. I suffered with her secretly feeling like a migratory bird, not a human being like all the others, but something who is able to fly high while being alone, dreaming of another summer. Frame imagines clever conversations with her friends while all she can say are laconic “yes”, the right words only coming to her later on, while she is in her bedroom by herself, conjuring up the long speeches she is unable to perform for real. Throughout the whole weekend she is struggling to find something to tell, so to impress her guests who know her a successful writer and to be loved by them and overcome the sense of not belonging she feels when looking at them, their family dynamics and relations. Overwhelmed by all this and by the amount of memories they stir in her, in the end she decides to leave earlier and get back to her solitary London apartment and typewriter.
It’s really touching the way Janet Frames reveals herself in this novel, her mental processes and most inner feelings, her sense of inadequacy when she is among other people, her homesickness her longings.
The stream of consciousness flows skillfully while Frame tells us about a weekend she spent as a guest in a family in the north of England, recalling her childhood in New Zealand. We learn a lot about her sensitive personality, her difficulties in talking to other people, engaging in conversation, expressing her feelings through the spoken language. So ironic in a person who literally lives with and of words, this impossibility to utter them through the mouth, the need to use paper as the only means of communication. Through her memory we see how words have always influenced her since childhood when she lived among the poems and songs her parents liked to surround themselves with all the time, the peculiar, almost physical way in which her ear perceives them and her mind understands and sometimes distorts them, creating this way her own unique and personal language.
I suffered with her frustrations, her desires to say things, to tell something relevant while being totally unable to do it. Even with her friends’ little children who made her feel so uneasy. I suffered with her secretly feeling like a migratory bird, not a human being like all the others, but something who is able to fly high while being alone, dreaming of another summer. Frame imagines clever conversations with her friends while all she can say are laconic “yes”, the right words only coming to her later on, while she is in her bedroom by herself, conjuring up the long speeches she is unable to perform for real. Throughout the whole weekend she is struggling to find something to tell, so to impress her guests who know her a successful writer and to be loved by them and overcome the sense of not belonging she feels when looking at them, their family dynamics and relations. Overwhelmed by all this and by the amount of memories they stir in her, in the end she decides to leave earlier and get back to her solitary London apartment and typewriter.
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