"But at least it made one realise that life still held infinite possibilities for change."
A masterclass in subtle, thoughtful characterization. Not a "fun" read, not an exciting read, but something that makes you think, about your own life, and the hidden currents of the lives of those around you.
Part of the fascination of this novel is the balance that it strikes between being an insight into the past (mid-1970s London), and its relevance for today. The four protagonists live lives that -- for us today -- are almost unimaginably limited. The line quoted above is priceless irony, because the only change that Letty, Marcia, Norman and Edwin can imagine, or tolerate, is microscopic, incremental and very, very frightening. At the age of early-to-mid 60s, they think of themselves as "old." Families have died or drifted away (cousins not seen in 40 years are a recurring motif), old friends have been lost, and they haven't bothered much to make new ones. They live and work in the center of London, then (as now) one of the exciting and vibrant cities in the world, and their idea of a pleasant lunch hour to to nip into the local library, to get out of the cold. They fondly remember a time when "... hymn singing was confined to Sundays and no one was fired with enthusiasm."
So, you say, great, fascinating: things were rough for soon-to-be retired clerical workers in London, in the mid-1970s. People boiled an egg for their tea, and settled down to eat it while listening to the BBC World Service on the radio, and put a shilling in the gas meter ... What does this have to do with me, here and now?
That's Pym's real triumph, for while Quartet in Autumn is firmly embedded in its time and place, its message about loneliness, and how people can hold each other at arm's length, seems very relevant today. One thing that hasn't changed is how easy it is, even in this age of constant inter-connectedness, for people to fall through the net ("that dreaded phrase," as one of the characters puts it), and be left with no one. In 2019, a Letty, a Marcia, Norman or Edwin might have different problems, and different ways of expressing them from their 1970s versions, but they are all to familiar types. They might even be you, or me. Pym leaves us with slender ray of hope that those "infinite possibilities for change" are available to all of us, if we're willing to be open to them.
A masterclass in subtle, thoughtful characterization. Not a "fun" read, not an exciting read, but something that makes you think, about your own life, and the hidden currents of the lives of those around you.
Part of the fascination of this novel is the balance that it strikes between being an insight into the past (mid-1970s London), and its relevance for today. The four protagonists live lives that -- for us today -- are almost unimaginably limited. The line quoted above is priceless irony, because the only change that Letty, Marcia, Norman and Edwin can imagine, or tolerate, is microscopic, incremental and very, very frightening. At the age of early-to-mid 60s, they think of themselves as "old." Families have died or drifted away (cousins not seen in 40 years are a recurring motif), old friends have been lost, and they haven't bothered much to make new ones. They live and work in the center of London, then (as now) one of the exciting and vibrant cities in the world, and their idea of a pleasant lunch hour to to nip into the local library, to get out of the cold. They fondly remember a time when "... hymn singing was confined to Sundays and no one was fired with enthusiasm."
So, you say, great, fascinating: things were rough for soon-to-be retired clerical workers in London, in the mid-1970s. People boiled an egg for their tea, and settled down to eat it while listening to the BBC World Service on the radio, and put a shilling in the gas meter ... What does this have to do with me, here and now?
That's Pym's real triumph, for while Quartet in Autumn is firmly embedded in its time and place, its message about loneliness, and how people can hold each other at arm's length, seems very relevant today. One thing that hasn't changed is how easy it is, even in this age of constant inter-connectedness, for people to fall through the net ("that dreaded phrase," as one of the characters puts it), and be left with no one. In 2019, a Letty, a Marcia, Norman or Edwin might have different problems, and different ways of expressing them from their 1970s versions, but they are all to familiar types. They might even be you, or me. Pym leaves us with slender ray of hope that those "infinite possibilities for change" are available to all of us, if we're willing to be open to them.
