In my short acquaintance with Muriel Spark, I have managed to fall in love with her sheer cleverness and black humour, and that continues here. Well, for the most part, it does. Her writing has a careful balance of wit and gravitas, cruelty and empathy (though I love the cruel parts especially), the ordinary and the surreal. Every sentence seems just right, so tightly wrought and alive. Bringing characters alive in a few paragraphs, so much so that you gain a sense of their eccentricities, vulnerabilities, and failings with almost uncomfortable clarity. You don’t always realise where you are being led; sometimes you become almost too cosy while reading her, and then suddenly you are shocked into silence. And she does this so smoothly.
Now to the other part. Muriel Spark spent some time in South Africa, and some of these stories set there explore the colonial hypocrisy and sheer brutality of the ‘white civilised’. While this is admirable for a woman of her time, Spark’s writing also reveals her own ‘benevolent imperialistic’ attitude towards the locals. Even the most brutal white characters are fully fleshed out with empathy, while the Africans are largely written through the lens of a white observer studying an exotic creature in a laboratory.
I have encountered this across Austen, Dickens, and now Spark, and as much as I admire them, I think it is also critical to point out that these authors, while critiquing social attitudes, were still largely prone to orientalism and racism. One can love these authors (as people of colour) and criticise them at the same time. So yes, I will definitely return to Muriel Spark and continue loving her, but with an awareness of her limitations.