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Nesta’s New School: Angela Brazil. Blackie, inscribed 1926.

You have to struggle through the first chapter, as it’s important to the plot. It also proves that writing about girls is Brazil’s metier, while writing a believable conversation between adults about serious matters is not. After that, you will meet Nesta Meredith. ( Read more... )

The Jolliest Term on Record: Angela Brazil, Blackie

I’ll begin, inevitably, by listing some of the names that appear in this book: ( Read more... )

The Head Girl at the Gables: Angela Brazil Blackie (the inscription on my copy suggests that this was published in 1931 or earlier)

The story begins with the headmistress of the Gables and her lieutenant considering who to appoint to the titular post of head girl of the school. ( Read more... )

The School at the Turrets: Angela Brazil
Blackie (Reprint from the 1954 or earlier)

This is familiar territory and would be even if this wasn’t a reread – this hardback copy was an upgrade from an Armada paperback for me. ( Read more... )

I am so behind, I finished reading this last weekend and meant to post this then!

The New Girl at St Chad’s: Angela Brazil Blackie.

Three ‘bookmarks’ were found in this book – a pressed flower, which will stay, a picture of E.R.T. Holmes, a cricket player, cut out from a newspaper, and a sentimental verse, cut out of a girls’ magazine based on what is on the back.

( ”Then, with a look of utterly crushing scorn, she burst out:'You needn't think that what you have done is at all clever. It's not the place of a new girl to show off in this way, and you'll gain nothing by it. I am responsible for St. Chad's, and I don't mean to have this kind of nonsense going on there; so please understand Honor Fitzgerald, that if you give any more trouble, you may expect to find yourself thoroughly well sat upon.' p.56 )

I have been feeling a bit abashed recently. I only think of myself as a book collector on sporadic occasions, such as when I see the fruits of my collecting in piles, or on shelves, or in piles by shelves. It would be more correct to call me a reader, I collect books for the stories they contain. I was made more aware of this in London the other day when I tramped into really, really posh book shops with books I didn't dare even touch on their shelves, the first edition dust jackets protected by reverent plastic. I have no idea what the asking prices were, but I knew I couldn't afford them, as I have plans to travel, eat and drink over the summer. And I remain haunted by a couple of prices from my Hay trip last year.

But I suppose now is the time to make the admission that I write my name inside books. I'm also more likely to eat when reading a hardback than a paperback, because it's easier, which means that a book from 1913 is more likely to get stained or dirtied than a paperback that isn't even in double digits. I've moved on from the phase I had where I had to underline the name of every proper Chalet School girl who appeared in the series (don't have a heart attack, we are talking about the Armada paperbacks, which I suppose I should replace for the proper versions someday).

I like reading the names, dates and occasional messages when the book was a gift on the flyleaf. I love the random bookmarks you can find in books too. They all give me the sense of the history of 'my book', and a feeling that the book was loved before being handed on to me. That sort of attitude probably wouldn't do at those shops.

And then, last weekend I read 'You're A Brick, Angela', because it was about time. It's a very informative book, and one has to remember that it was an overview of a much neglected field. so it covers a lot of ground. But I did feel rather contrary regarding some of its assumptions, and wished the authors had gone into further depth into the power of series and a strong contingent of readers wanting more of the same, although I suppose it's unfair to expect everyone to share that particular preoccupation, but I do think it would have been fruitful to raise that aspect when comparing with writers of several non-serial books and books that didn't get a sequel and their popularity and influence.

Anyway, why did this book make me feel abashed? Because apparently I'm no critical reader. (In fairness, I kept reminding myself that I'd been introduced to Blyton very young and Pamela Brown, Lorna Hill and Elinor M. Brent-Dyer when I was at the latter end of primary school. So there. I was also critical reader enough to prefer the Famous Five to the Secret Seven.) And now, as an adult, when I should know better? I like the escapism of light reading and the certainties of genre, the nostalgia for my childhood and the one that never existed in these books.

Having said that, I found I did have a critical reader, actually when I read Angela Brazil's The New School at Scawdale ( Read more... )

Whether I am a critical reader or not, it's true to say that last weekend I went away with three books, which I read, and returned with another shopping-bags full.