The Pursuit of Love (and Something Greater)

Having just finished Nancy Mitford’s The Pursuit of Love, I must confess that, once again, I have been thoroughly charmed by the Brits.  To be more exact, I should say that I have been won over by a well written story with equal parts wit and wicked humor.  As with the last two novels I’ve read, the narration style, the characters, and the ever-present humor were all entirely, blissfully British to the very core.

Cool house I found in Portland that looked
vaguely Victorian so I included it...and it's my
blog, so I can!

The early chapters, which illustrate the more humorous aspects of childhood and growing up, are delightful. These chapters describe Linda Radlett and her colorful family, adventures at the family home, Alconleigh, and small stories of growing up in pastoral England.  I was particularly amused by the annual “child hunt,” a family tradition at Alconleigh where two or three children, selected by their father, set out across the family property, running wildly to create a trail for the hounds to follow.  Some time later their father would set out with his pack of well-trained, friendly hounds to track the children.  The “hunt” ended when the hounds caught up to the children and set about licking faces and receiving well-earned doggie treats.  The neighbors and friends thought this tradition barbaric (and indeed, it does sound…odd to say the least), but, I, like the Radlett children, thought it delightful and ingenious.
As the title suggests, the main story arc follows Linda as she searches for true love.  Besides describing “child hunts” and other similarly outrageous stories, the early chapters detail Linda’s obsession with love.  This obsession led her to marry the first man who charmed her; determined to find love, Linda convinced herself that she loved an utterly boring Tory named Tony.  Some time later, still a true believer in love, Linda left Tony to marry Christian the Communist.  Christian, too, proved a disappointment, and, alone at a train station in Paris, Linda finally met Fabrice.  She quickly became enthralled with Fabrice, experiencing real love and romance for the first time.  These are the chapters that ultimately won me over.  For the first time in the novel, Linda committed herself to something, throwing herself entirely into her new life with Fabrice.  She seemed to finally take interest in life and in love, giving the story greater weight and importance.  I invested myself in the story because Linda finally invested herself in her own story.
Although the story revolves around Linda and her quest to find happiness, I didn’t find her an entirely likeable character.  The narrator, her cousin Fanny grew up close to Linda, and the love Fanny felt for Linda makes Fanny a less-than-reliable narrator.  Where an objective observer would see a foolish, shallow, and self-centered (but certainly well-meaning) young woman, Fanny was more charitable, forgiving Linda her faults and shortcomings and, in general, portraying Linda in a favorable light.  Like Fanny, most characters in the novel instantly adored Linda, won over by her charm.  It took me most of the novel, though, to find myself truly invested in Linda’s story.  After Linda’s failed attempts at love, her absolute joy and happiness with Fabrice charmed me where her silliness and amiable nature couldn’t.  In spite of myself, I was so intrigued in Linda’s story that I was tempted to skip to the end to discover whether or not Linda found a happy ending.

This horse has absolutely no relation to any-
thing, but it's inherently beautiful (like the
novel) and I like pictures in my blog.  Deal.

As I said in my introduction, I have been charmed by the Brits.  This time it was Mitford’s quirky British humor that so appealed to me, as well as the fascinating clash of old attitudes and new, the Victorian versus Edwardian.  This was most notable in the various characters’ responses towards relationships.  On the one hand, most of the characters were appalled when Linda left her first husband, Tony; Linda’s parents stoutly refused to recognize Linda’s subsequent divorce and marriage to Christian.  No one looked harshly on Fanny’s mother, though, for repeatedly leaving her husbands for her next fling.  Though they called her “the Bolter,” the nickname was given with affection and everyone treated the Bolter with the same bemusement they would a mischievous child.  This coexistence of attitudes, this social hypocrisy, could have been present in America and American literature as well (and I’m sure that a perusal of twentieth century lit would reveal several instances), but the flair with which this story is presented is, to me at least, inherently, beautifully British.
I was also deeply touched by a small exchange between Linda, Fanny, and their uncle Davey.  The three, huddled together, discuss the Great War and the resumption of war in Europe.  Linda laments belonging to a “lost generation,” convinced that history would count the two wars as one, discounting entirely the inter-war years.  Davey contends that the era may not be entirely forgotten; instead, it will be portrayed as a “literary curiosity” as future generations become interested in the fashions and furniture of the 1920s and ‘30s.  The exchange is brief, taking up only a couple of paragraphs before slipping back into a lighter tone, but it’s striking nonetheless.  The discussion is notable in part because it is one of the few times that Linda adopts a serious tone.  More importantly, though, writing in 1944 or 1945, Nancy Mitford would not know how history or society would view the Lost Generation.  Nor did she know how the inter-war period would be portrayed, and yet she displays brief but keen insight.  Knowing how both the novel and the war resolve, this moment is memorable and touching.
I admitted in my last post that I can be rather pretentious at times.  I can now admit that, while I undertook this project in an effort to find some unknown element that my life is lacking, I have another motive.  I want to be one of those elevated figures who can wax on about the literary strengths and weaknesses of Dickens or Dostoyevsky, et al.  My heavy bookshelves would somehow enrich my life.  Thus far it has.  I have developed a better appreciation for the world of spy novels, having encountered two of its great foundations, and I have discovered several new points of interest for the historian and scholar in me.  More than that, though, I have found books that truly delight me.  I expected to like The Way We Live Now because I enjoyed the Masterpiece Theater production.  Being already acquainted with the characters and plot, I could focus on the various storylines and better appreciate Trollope’s themes and his critique of British society.  Novels like The Riddle of the Sands and The Pursuit of Love, however, were completely new to me.  Had I not undertaken this endeavor, I’m afraid I probably would have remained ignorant of their existence.  So while I look forward to reencountering old favorites like To Kill a Mockingbird or The BFG, and finally reading novels like Emma, I am also eager to discover more literary gems as I continue this project.

Harry Potter and the Academic Snob

So I have a confession: I’m something of a snob.  I scorn popular literature.  I refuse to read best sellers like Water for Elephants or the latest novel by Tom Clancy.  I have nothing against Clancy or popular literature in general, they just don't jive with my inner snob.  I like to think that my bedroom bookshelves, now brimming with works by such esteemed authors like Dickins, Austen, and Faulkner, distinguish me as a reader with great taste and class.  Further, I like to pretend that I am not easily swayed by popular trends; that I am above reading a book because it tops The New York Times’ list of bestsellers or because it will soon be a movie starring Robert Pattinson.

Last week's Carrot Cake Muffins

This is, of course, mostly my own personal delusion.  Not only do I deign to read popular literature, but I just finished a novel whose front cover informs me that it spent some time at the top of the bestsellers lists.  Furthermore--I liked it.  I have thoroughly enjoyed each of the novels I’ve read for this project, delighting in the beautiful prose and intricate plots, but I must confess that I do derive some pleasure from being able to pick up a novel and speed through it with an ease that is not possible when reading Dickens or Faulkner.  And one of my greatest secrets is that I am a true, dyed in the wool, sincere fan of Harry Potter.  I’ve read all the books, seen all the movies, and when the film opens on July 15, I intend to be in line waiting for the midnight showing.  I try to muster a bit of dignity when I admit this fact by clinging to the fact that I liked Potter before he was famous.  As an avid reader in the eighth grade, I was recommended an obscure but charming novel called Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.  Naturally I was delighted when, months later, the rest of the world discovered the irresistible charm of J.K. Rowling’s magical world of wizarding.  When, years later, the world was obsessed and anxiously awaiting the release of the next book, I returned to my snobbish tendencies to brag that I loved Potter before everyone else loved Potter.

Tonight's chocolate cake

As I return this week to my list of great novels (and, in particular, to The Pursuit of Love by Nancy Mitford) I am also eagerly awaiting the premier of the final Harry Potter film.  To prepare, my friends and I have been watching a Potter film a week, slowly counting down to the grand finale.  Each week we gather at my house, drinks in hand and a sampling of culinary delights in front of us, and we watch/critique the week’s film.  Each week the films get longer and darker and each week I get bolder with my baking.  I started with homemade pizza, then moved to fresh mojitos and homemade blueberry muffins, and last week I baked carrot cake muffins.  This week I served Ste. Chapelle’s Special Harvest Reisling (a wine for which I have quite a soft spot) and I made chocolate cake topped with granache.  I like to think that classy treats and good company make up for the fact that I dedicate a night each week to watching a badly adapted version of a much-loved novel.  I also like to (secretly) think that the good company and a keen sense of humor and wit will allow me to maintain my much-loved snobbery.  And if nothing else, at least I have cake and sarcasm to keep me warm as I work my way through The Pursuit of Love.

Fa D'Accordo

I needed an image to go with this post (because
an imageless post seemed so very wrong, and
because I LOVE this picture from a recent trip to
Portland AND because there are no decent
images of "fa d'accordo," I posted this.  Hey,
it's my blog, right?!

So it would appear that I have taken another hiatus from writing.  This time it is largely because I have also taken a mini break from my reading project.  I recently discovered that my absence from academia (and the world of history in particular) has renewed my interest in and my fondness for the study of history.  Much of this realization came to me as  I was helping a good friend study for an intense history exam.  As she explained various books and studies of women and gender in American history, I found myself more and more intrigued and I quickly compiled list of ten or so books that I wanted to read.  I have justified keeping this blog to myself because I like to think that I might have a unique (or at least interesting) perspective.  I believe that literature is greatly affected by history--authors like Trollope, disillusioned by the world around him, constructed a scathing social commentary, and as I noted in my last post, authors like Buchan and Childers were affected by the patriotic fervor that swept Britain in the years preceding the Great War.  Literature, too, can affect history (I’m thinking of novels like Harriet Beecher Stowe's Uncle Tom’s Cabin).  I see the two subjects as interconnected.  I wouldn’t say that the two are two sides of the same coin--as I have often said in an effort to explain the idea of my college major, political economy--but the idea is similar.  In Italy, the Italians say “fa d’accordo” to show agreement; they are of the same mind.   When they do this, they often bring their extended forefingers together, side by side.  I was told by an old political economy professor that, when paired with the phrase “fa d’accordo,” this gesture is meant to symbolize two legs in the same pair of pants.  When I think of history and literature, I often conjure up images of the two working together as a pair in a three-legged-race.  When I started this blog, I named it "cercando di" because I was searching for...something.  I'm still searching, but as I write, I realize that the essential harmony that I was seeking seems less elusive.  Like my scholastic interests, the elements in my life seem to be more fa d'accordo.
All of this is to say that I’m taking a break from great novels to read a work of history.  More specifically, I’m reading Damned Women: Sinners and Witches in Puritan New England by Elizabeth Reis.  This is a remarkable analysis of the Salem Witch Trials that I have been absolutely loving.  I won’t offer any analysis here (primarily because my analytical skills are not up to par after a year’s absence from academia, but also because my two years of grad school cured me of any desire to write another critical response), but I hope that this post explains my most recent absence from this blog.  My greater hope, though, is that in time I will be able to incorporate more history into my writing and my analysis of the books I read, whether they’re novels from my list or other studies of history that I sneak into my reading from time to time.

The Riddle of the Sands and The Thirty-Nine Steps: Pre-War Literature

In my absence from writing, I have:

The 2009 Sweet Cheeks Viognier and thefabulous Fontina
Cheese Plate we enjoyed while wine tasting

• Partied like an undergrad in San Francisco with my best friend and a whole crew of new best friends; 
• Spent entirely too much time curled up in old pajamas watching Grey’s Anatomy;
• Embraced the beauty of living in Eugene by spending an afternoon wine tasting at local wineries;
• Celebrated spring’s arrival with gelato on the patio and the first barbecue of the year (both of which were fantastic);
• Listened to Dan Brown’s latest book, The Lost Symbol (which made it something of a relief to return to my list of great novels);
• And I finished The Riddle of the Sands and The Thirty-Nine Steps, both of which I thoroughly enjoyed.

A view of San Francisco from my recent trip

Overall I loved The Riddle of the Sands for the reasons I outlined in my last post.  Throughout the novel the narrative style and the main characters remained charming, personable, and endearing.  For me it was the characters who drove the story, moving the plot forward and, ultimately, making this novel a great one.  Davies and Carruthers were so genuinely likable and determined in their quest that they made the story enjoyable, even when the action dragged a bit in places. 

As I noted in my last post, Childers had a background in sailing and service, which greatly affected his writing.  His descriptions of movements and actions on the sailboat were incredibly detailed.  He embraced the use of jargon, which lends the story an additional level of authenticity, but it also makes the story a bit more difficult to read for anyone who is not familiar with sailing.  The plot, too, lagged a bit in places for anyone who is not familiar with sailing.  A majority of the story takes place in the regions around the North Sea as Davies and Carruthers work to map and plot the progress of the tides and the depths of troughs and sandbars around the fjords and bays of the Frisian Islands.  During these sections there is not much action, but Carruthers describes their progress in a good-natured tone that makes the slow story more enjoyable and more readable.

In addition to granting the story authenticity, Childers’ background and his experience give the story purpose and give the characters their motivation.  In one important chapter, Chapter X: “His Chance,” Childers, through Davies, discusses the need for an extended navy; he also discusses at length the benefits of mobilizing the general population during a war.  Men like Davies--men who knew the ins and outs of every port and bay along the English coast--could be of use to the country by helping the Navy defend each vulnerable spot.  Childers seemed to believe that anyone, regardless of training or background, was capable of being a national hero, of saving his country like Carruthers and Davies did.  Childers also strongly believed in being prepared for the impending war with Germany.  By the time that he wrote The Riddle of the Sands, it was becoming apparent that Europe would soon become engulfed in a great war.  England had not been invaded since 1066, a fact which created a false sense of comfort and quelled fears of a foreign invasion.  Davies and Carruthers, who represent typical English men, puzzle throughout most of the novel over what their German counterparts  are planning and thus spend a majority of their time preparing for a British invasion of Germany; they never consider the possibility of a German invasion of England.  Childers wrote a fun spy adventure, but he also drafted a warning to the English government: “We Must Be Prepared.”  

Whereas The Riddle of the Sands is a spy novel written with a purpose, The Thirty-Nine Steps is an action-packed adventure written to entertain and amuse.  The novel tells the story of Richard Hannay, a Scottish mining engineer recently returned from the Matabele Wars in South Africa.  Hannay is initially bored with the London society until he is approached by a man named Scudder who claims to have faked his own death for matters of personal and national security.  This launches Hannay into a world of espionage and intrigue as he becomes single-handedly responsible for attempting to prevent the outbreak of an international war (a war that we would later call World War I).  Hannay is pursued by a ruthless group of people known as The Black Stone and he is forced to undergo several hardships as he works to alert the British government and save the world from war.  Unlike The Riddle of the Sands, the action in The Thirty-Nine Steps starts relatively early and literally keeps up until the final page.  Despite the focus on action, though, the hero Hannay is amiable and his good nature and strong moral sense make him an ideal hero; like Davies and Carruthers, Hannay is an instantly likeable character whose personality helps to drive the plot.

I chose to read these two novels back-to-back for a couple of reasons.  First, these two are acknowledged as being two of the first spy novels, laying the groundwork for later stories of espionage by writers like Ian Fleming, Robert Ludlum, and others.  Though I am not a spy novel aficionado, I can appreciate this fact.  The second reason I blame on the scholar in me.  Although the Great War was not my focus as a historian, the war and its cultural effects have fascinated me for years.  I am particularly interested in the shift in attitudes that occurred during the war.  I spent a semester in undergrad studying this shift as it is seen in the poetry of the era.  The shifts in attitude was remarkable: before the war young British men believed that they would easily win the war in a month or two and then would return victoriously.  This is reflected in most pre-war poetry with its optimism, bravado, and naiveté.  Once the war began, though, and young men experienced the horrors of modern warfare, the attitude shifted.  Men no longer believed in the phrase “Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,” instead they are bitter and jaded, irrevocably changed by their experiences.  The literature that came after the Great War is darker, deeper than what preceded the war.

The Riddle of the Sands and The Thirty-Nine Steps are prime examples of British mentality before the Great War.  Richard Hannay, Davies and Carruthers are ordinary men, former English school boys and products of the best English public schools.  All three characters find themselves embroiled in dangerous affairs of state and thus transform themselves into spies to save their country from war.  Each character is driven by a staunch patriotism and the belief that he can save the country from sure destruction.  This belief--both bold and naïve--is the same attitude that was so characteristic among young men in the years leading up to the war.  I find this pre-war innocence fascinating, and, after spending so much of my scholastic career focusing on the works of disillusioned writers like the so-called Lost Generation, returning to that innocence is interesting and a tad refreshing.  For me, this blend of history, culture, and literature made both novels fascinating and rewarding.

Musings on a Snow Day

The view from my window as
 I attempted to drive to work

We have a snow day today, an occurrence which, though frequent in my hometown of Blackfoot, Idaho, is more rare here in Eugene.  The snow started sometime around midnight and has continued to softly but continuously dust the trees, hills, and houses with white powder.  The world outside is quiet, unusually hushed by the presence of snow.  I confess that I hate snow--I hate the cold, I hate how it leaves the once-green world brown in its aftermath, and I hate how dangerous it makes the roads.  But from my spot, curled up on the couch with coffee in hand and the curtains pulled back so I can see the snowglobe vista outside, I enchanted with the winter wonderland outside.

I am also grateful for the snow day because it means that as I continue reading The Riddle of the Sands, I can keep my laptop open and ready for notes, rather than scribbling my ideas on napkins and old receipts that I shove into pockets or the black hole that is my purse.  It also means that I can read for long lengths of time, rather than sneaking in five or six pages on my work breaks and during lunch.

As I have confessed that I dislike snow, I must now add a second confession: I love everything British.  I love English accents, I love their at-once old fashioned and yet modern system of governance (the maintenance of a monarchy alongside their Parliament), I love their teas, I love the way they add a “u” to words like color and favorite.*  I am fascinated by British culture and British history--I could go on for days on the importance of the British monarchy and its influence on America and American law, or on the truly intriguing evolution of culture and attitude that transformed inhabitants of England from being “English” to being “British.”  In short, I am an anglophile. 

Webster's Dictionary
Noah Webster was the revolutionary
patriot who sought to distinguish
American English from proper
English

*Along with several other subtle distinctions, the “u” was intentionally dropped from particular words like color and favorite not long after we ceased to be British-America, as a way to distinguish the British from the American.  I find this historical tidbit fascinating.  As a child, though, I spent a year in Ireland and to this day I struggle to remember if it’s favorite or favourite, realize or realise.

This is, in large part, why I am so thoroughly loving The Riddle of the Sands--because it is so delightfully British.  In my last post I tried to qualify this assessment, but I find it difficult.  Both Davies and Carruthers have habits and mannerisms that set them apart as particularly British (as opposed to American or even ambiguously European).  Their speech is peppered with stereotypically English phrases like “I say” and “old chap,” but more than that, it’s their attitude that marks them as British.  The story’s plot is driven by their outrage that Herr Dollmann, an Englishman, would betray king and country to become a spy for Germany.  Davies’ feelings are understandable, particularly once one takes into account the time period (this was published in 1903) and the increasingly tense political climate throughout Europe.  While Davies and Carruthers seem to correctly sense that war is inevitable, they bear no ill will towards Germany, and, in fact, Davies holds some level of admiration for the German Emperor Wilhelm II.  Nor do they direct any outrage towards Germany for hiring spies and for secretly amassing naval power; instead, their anger is directed solely at Dollmann for turning his back on England and spying for another country.    Both men are infuriated at the thought of an Englishman betraying his own country.  Their duty, as Englishmen, is to expose Dollmann and prepare Britain for war.  Above all, this constant awareness of themselves as Englishmen (and their similar villainization of Dollmann the Traitor) is what makes Davies and Carruthers so decidedly British.  

I find this inherent British-ness charming.  Davies and Carruthers are rallied by a love of “King and Country.”  Disregarding their own safety, these two men are compelled to brave the harsh seas to unmask Dollmann; they are transformed by  patriotism from two yachting enthusiasts into bona fide spies, and I find myself swept up in their patriotic fervor.  As much as I adore this American republic with its three branches of government and its delightful system of checks and balances, we lack such a stirring cry as “For King and Country.”  “For Congress and Country” just doesn’t have the same ring.

I also find the British nature of this novel rather ironic.  Though born in England, Erskine Childers is best known for his involvement with the nascent Irish Republican Army, a body which was inherently and unmistakably anti-British.  This involvement with the Irish Free State movement, of course, came later in Childers’ life, and over a lifetime a person’s political views are likely to change.  All the same, though, it’s ironic that the same man who published this charmingly British novel was later executed for being too radically Irish. 

*****

The sun is shining now, so I must turn away from my musings to move to a spot where I may read in the sun and enjoy both this momentary break in snow showers and my thoroughly wonderful book.

The Riddle of the Sands

Erskine Childers, The Riddle of the Sands (London: Penguin Books, 1952).

I am about 90 pages into The Riddle of the Sands and, thus far, I love it.  Childers writes with a easy, laid back tone.  His descriptions and characterizations are so well developed that, from page one, I’ve become engulfed, completely drawn in and enthralled by the story.

The consummate English
gentlemen (though a bit more
 formal than I picture our heroes

The story is narrated by Carruthers, a young Englishman who, bored by a dull season in London, accepts an invitation from an old friend to go yachting in the Baltic Sea.  Though I admit that I have limited knowledge of British gentlemen from the late nineteenth/early twentieth century, Carruthers fits all my notions.  He is an affable character--smart, pleasantly sardonic, and he is refreshingly honest, particularly when addressing his own thoughts and emotions.  Carruthers instantly likeable; he is easygoing and observes things with a keen and perceptive eye.  His observations are phrased with such frank honesty and overt irony that one cannot help but like him; on the first page he dryly compares his solitude in London to a sort of martyrdom and goes on to (correctly) observe that to feel oneself a martyr is a pleasurable thing.  Carruthers, though a bit immature at times, is capable of recognizing his own weaknesses and makes no move to hide them.

The other main character is Carruthers’ old school friend Davies.  Where Carruthers is likeable for his witty and keen observations, Davies is thoroughly loveable for his idiosyncrasies and his perpetual good mood.  Davies refuses to be affected by Carruthers’ initial bad moods, and quickly charms both Carruther and reader with his jovial nature and his delightful penchant for throwing items overboard.  Like Carruthers, Davies is quintessentially British with his “I says” and “old chaps” and his dogged determination to observe as many gentile practices as possible (like always washing up before dinner).  Davies and Carruthers both maintain such a genuine geniality that they seem as perfectly British as Austen’s Charles Bingley or Oscar Wilde’s Earnest Worthing that it is almost jarring to remember that they’re on a boat.  One can as easily picture these two characters in a smoky club, savoring their brandy and cigars, as picture them cramped and (I think) somewhat uncomfortable on their miniature yacht. 

A map of the Baltic Sea Region,
the area Carruthers and Davies
set out to explore

Childers’ descriptions of his characters, though, pales in comparison with the passages in which he (as Carruthers) describes the various aspects of their adventure.  Childers’ prose is so vivid and so beautifully phrased that one can easily picture the aquamarine waters, one can feel the soft rich sands of the ocean floor and can revel in the beauty of the summer sun beaming over a calm ocean.  His passages are rich in detail and are punctuated with beautiful turns of phrase. I can completely relate when he writes of the “unique exultation” that follows a day of hard work, “when, glowing all over, deliciously tired and pleasantly sore, you eat what seems ambrosia, be it only tinned beef; and drink nectar, be it only distilled from terrestrial hops or coffee berries, and inhale as culminating luxury balmy fumes which even the happy Homeric gods knew naught of.” (Childers, 54).  Not only can I relate, but I relive those glorious moments.  Childers’ passages flow easily, effortlessly, and I have found myself just breezing through the novel.

The one drawback is Childers’ attention to nautical terms and activities.  This is an inevitable aspect when a novel is set on any type of seafaring craft, and is a particular danger when the author has spent any significant time as a sailor.  Childers, with his background in sailing, devotes some attention to various activities on deck--jibing and folding sails, etc.  It appears, though, that Childers was aware that not all of his readers would possess a knowledge of sailing, and so when Davies discusses (or carries out) these activities, they are met by Carruthers with a sense of bewilderment; at one amusing point Carruthers even dismisses all Davies’ nautical jargon.  While the reader may not appreciate all the technicalities that Childers includes, therefore, she can definitely appreciate the author’s awareness and his sense of humor.

At page 90, I have now just entered the real heart of the story: Davies has revealed to Carruthers that he believes the Germans are developing naval strength and that the safety of the British Empire depends on these two gentlemen discovering (and later relating) as much as they can.  I have enjoyed the exposition and rising action, and I am excited for the real action to begin.

More soon.

The Riddle of the Sands, by Erskine Childers

After much deliberation, a prolonged perusal of dust jacket summaries, and a snap judgment of cover art (yes, I do judge my books by their covers, but I am willing to admit when I judge too hastily), I have picked my next book.  According to The Times, as quoted on the front cover, The Riddle of the Sands by Erskine Childers is “The first and best of spy stories.”  The back cover promises a story of youth and adventure, espionage, and the fate of the British Empire.  In many ways it sounds strikingly similar to an arguably more well known spy novel, The Thirty-Nine Steps by John Buchan.  This is of particular interest to me because I studied the early modern mystery and thriller in British literature and I also studied the impact the Great War had on modern literature.  The Thirty-Nine Steps fell into both genres of study, so I have read The Thirty-Nine Steps a couple of times--as a casual reader and as a scholar.   I am, therefore, quite interested to see how Erskine’s spy novel compares to Buchan’s.

Childers had experience with sailing,
and I expect that his experiences
helped to shape the novel

I confess to holding a second reason for being drawn to this novel.  According to my internet searches, Erskine Childers was an Irish nationalist who was executed during the Irish Civil War.  Although I spent the last two years of my life formally studying Constitutional history and Supreme Court decisions, American history is not my only passion.  I have also spent several years casually studying Irish history, studying the Irish Nationalist movement in particular.  Childers’ politics, his connection to other Irish Republicans like Michael Collins and Eamon de Valera, and his role in this fascinating period of Irish history appeals to me.  Although this novel was written before Childers was an ardent supporter of Irish Home Rule, my curiosity is piqued, so now I will leave the relatively tranquil world of Trollope’s Victorian England for the excitement and fast pace of a pre-World War I spy thriller.