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233 pages, Paperback
First published September 8, 1932
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'You see, Mary' - and here Flora began to grow earnest and to wave one finger about - 'unless everything is tidy and pleasant and comfortable all about one, people cannot even begin to enjoy life. I cannot *endure messes*.'Somewhat reminiscent of Jane Austen's Emma, Flora nevertheless operates in a manner that seems completely Flora. Her adventure feels less like period chick-lit, more like a timeless fable.
Persons of Aunt Ada's temperament were not fond of a tidy life. Storms were what they liked; plenty of rows, and doors being slammed, and jaws sticking out, and faces white with fury, and faces brooding in corners, and faces making unnecessary fuss at breakfast, and plenty of opportunities for gorgeous emotional wallowings, and partings for ever, and misunderstandings, and interferings, and spyings, and, above all, managing and intriguing. Oh, they *did* enjoy themselves!Equally preposterous are two of my favorite peripheral characters: Mr. Mybug, who is writing a biography of Branwell Brontë - by which he means to prove that it is actually the brother who wrote all of the novels 'wrongfully' attributed to the three famous sisters; and daddy Amos Starkadder - a fire-and-damnation preacher:
For some three minutes he slowly surveyed the Brethren, his face wearing an expression of the most profound loathing and contempt, mingled with a divine sorrow and pity. He did it quite well.- who sermonizes (and, of course, damns) locally until Flora gets the idea to encourage him to 'go international' (in order to get rid of him).
That audience...had sat through a film of Japanese life called 'Yes', made by a Norwegian film company in 1915 with Japanese actors, which lasted an hour and three-quarters and contained twelve close-ups of water-lilies lying perfectly still on a scummy pond and four suicides, all done extremely slowly.This end-of-an-era novel is every bit as delicious as the ones that Flora seems to particularly enjoy:
She liked Victorian novels. They were the only kind of novel you could read while you were eating an apple.