{"id":4929,"date":"2016-12-13T16:08:37","date_gmt":"2016-12-13T16:08:37","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/damesnet.com\/?p=4929"},"modified":"2016-12-13T16:08:37","modified_gmt":"2016-12-13T16:08:37","slug":"five-gold-reads","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/damesnet.com\/?p=4929","title":{"rendered":"Five Gold Reads"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"Bauble\/Matt<\/a>

Bauble\/Matt Ryall\/flickr<\/p><\/div>\n

There\u2019s something about Christmas scenes in books that makes them particularly unforgettable. Perhaps it\u2019s because you can\u2019t help comparing them with your own experience, and finding them wanting, or else magically different. Anyway, here are five that come to mind whenever this time of year comes around.<\/p>\n

\"alcottsmall\"<\/a>Little Women<\/em><\/strong>, Louisa May Alcott<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201c\u2019Christmas won\u2019t be Christmas without any presents,\u2019 grumbled Jo, lying on the rug.\u201d must be one of the most famous openings in literature. Of course, despite their straitened circumstances there are presents after all: each daughter receives a different-coloured Bible from Marmee, and they spend all their own money to give her slippers, hankies, perfume and gloves. Oh, and they all give their breakfast to a destitute local family . . .<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole aged 13 <\/em><\/strong>\u00be,<\/em><\/strong> Sue Townsend\"adrian-mole\"<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n

The festive season in the Mole household is far from harmonious, not least because Adrian has taken it upon himself to invite bolshie courting pensioners Fred and Queenie round for Christmas dinner without telling anyone. Adrian\u2019s mother does not cope well with the strain: \u201cI went up to the bathroom and found my mother crying and running the turkey under the hot tap. \u2018The bloody thing won\u2019t thaw out, Adrian. What am I going to do?\u2019\u00a0 I said,\u00a0\u2018Just bung it in the oven.\u2019 So she did.\u201d<\/p>\n

South Riding<\/em><\/strong>, Winifred Holtby<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"south-ridingsmall\"<\/a>This brilliant 1936 novel has it all: an astute portrait of society in a small\u00a0town in the north, an expos\u00e9 of council corruption, and a\u00a0fiery protagonist way ahead of her time. Holtby\u2019s wry humour is also evident when Mrs Beddowes, a big-hearted alderwoman, confronts the problem of having large numbers of people to give Christmas presents to but not much money, so all gifts have to be recycled: \u201cAunt Ursula\u2019s plant pot might do for the Rectory, but Mr Peckover\u2019s framed verse (A Garden Is a Lovesome Thing, God Wot) must not be sent to Dr Dale \u2026 consternation reigned in Willow Lodge if it were found that Cousin Rose, who had sent a cut-glass vase, had been rewarded only by three coat-hangers in a cretonne case.”<\/p>\n

Testament of Youth<\/em><\/strong>, Vera Brittain<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"testament-of-youth\"<\/a>A Christmas of a more sombre mood appears in this memoir by Holtby\u2019s great friend and fellow feminist Vera Brittain. Vera\u2019s anticipation reaches fever pitch when she hears from her fianc\u00e9, Roland, that he will be back from the front: \u201cShall be home on leave 24th Dec\u201331st. Land Christmas Day.\u201d She discovers that a boat train arrives at 7.30 in the evening on Christmas Day, and eagerly waits for his call. \u201cI was putting the finishing touches to the blue-pastel cr\u00eape-de-Chine blouse when the expected message came to say that I was wanted on the telephone \u2026 I dashed joyously into the corridor. But the message \u2026 was not to say that he had arrived, but to tell me had died of wounds at a Casualty Clearing Station on December 23rd.\u201d<\/p>\n

The Blue Flower<\/em><\/strong>, Penelope Fitzgerald<\/strong><\/p>\n

Penelope Fitzgerald\u2019s fictional recreation of the life of the 18th century German poet Novalis contains a dazzling evocation of a very different Christmas traditions, but from the country that has contributed more to our festivities than any other: \u201cIn the library candles had been attached \u2026 on every spring of the heaped up fir branches. The tables were laid with white cloths, a table for each soul in the household. On each table was placed a name, made out of almond paste and baked brown \u2026 the myriad shining points of light threw vast shadows of the fir branches onto the walls and even across the ceiling. In the warmth the room breathed even more deeply, more resinously, more greenly. On the tables the light sparkled across gold-painted walnuts, birds in cages, dormice in their nests, dolls made of white bread twisted into shape, hymn-books, Fritz\u2019s needle cases and little bottles of K\u00f6lnischwasser<\/em>, Sidonie\u2019s embroidery, oddments made out of willow and birch, pocket knives, scissors, pipes, wooden spoons with curious handles which made them almost unusable, \u00a0religious prints mounted on brilliant sheets of tin.\u201d<\/p>\n

*\u00a0\u00a0 *\u00a0\u00a0 *<\/p>\n

I\u2019m sure I\u2019ve only scratched the surface of Christmas lit. \u00a0Are there any particular books that come to mind for you at Christmas? Let is have your nominations.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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