Two Very Different Holidays

It seems a bit unfair to feature these two books in the same blog post, as they couldn’t be more different if they tried. And yet… it’s not just because of time constraints that I am comparing and contrasting them. Both of these books are (at least partially) about people failing to understand another culture and being judged for it.

Stella Gibbons: The Swiss Summer was published in 1951 and already shows the desire for escapism of postwar British culture which culminated with Ian Fleming’s James Bond. Lucy Cottrell is observant, good-tempered and diplomatic, and at the age of 40+ she suddenly finds herself invited to a Swiss chalet for the summer. Although the people she gets to spend the summer with are not always the most compatible, she is nevertheless overcome by the beauty of the landscape and not at all put off by the Swiss over-reliance on tourism. She is, however, often embarrassed by the antics of her fellow countrymen, as spotted in some of the hotels and restaurants she visits.

It is a pity that they have to behave like that… because the Swiss do still like us, even though we have no money nowadays…

The entanglements (romantic and otherwise) of the people who visit the chalet over the course of the summer are amusing, and Lucy ties herself into knots trying not to lie but also not to reveal too much to the owner of the chalet back home in England. I haven’t read any Stella Gibbons other than Cold Comfort Farm, and there is none of that exuberant satire here. This is gentle fun, reminiscent in some ways of Elizabeth von Arnim’s Enchanted April, although without quite such a pleasing resolution. Above all, the descriptions of nature really resonated with me – it’s clear how much the author loved this area. Here Lucy is, unable to sleep on a full moon night.

The soft, sad, brilliant light poured into her eyes as she looked up towards the Jungfrau’s snows, which it blanched to unearthly whiteness; the waterfall spilled out of the radiance down into the vast shadow below the massif; the slopes by Murren were lost in rich brown mists. She looked down and saw patches of shut, colourless flowers scattered up the white slopes; she saw the dizzy precipices of the Monch muffled in motionless milky clouds, and the drifts of thinnest mist twisting and winding down over the highest ridges; they seemed to trail after them long wreaths of dimly glittering stars. There was silence except for the waterfall’s sound, and the air smelled of dew.

Olivia Sudjic: Asylum Road has only just come out, and is the first novel I’ve read by her. I heard her debut novel Sympathy garnered good reviews, but it was the subject matter that attracted me to this one: the heavy spectre of the Balkans and the possibilities of cultural misunderstandings. I understand that, although Sudjic is of Serbian descent, this is not based on her personal experience – she was born and raised in the UK as a third-generation immigrant and only experienced the Yugoslav war from a distance. This book also takes place over the course of a summer, although in three different locations: France, Cornwall and Croatia/Bosnia.

Nevertheless, I suspect that there is quite a bit of Olivia in her main protagonist, Anya, who was sent as a child to live with her aunt in Scotland to escape the war. Anya is engaged to the rather cool and distant Luke, who comes from a well-off and emotionally detached family with pro-Brexit tendencies. Although Luke proposes to her near the beginning of the book, their relationship is fraught with silence and resentment, and is utterly undone after their visit to Anya’s parents and old home in Sarajevo.

The war has obviously touched Anya’s family directly, but the book shows that you do not need to have experienced the trauma at first-hand to inherit its consequences. The inferiority complex that Anya seems to suffer in front of Luke and his family (while secretly despising or making fun of them) is something I have seen very frequently in East European migrants, including myself. This quote, for instance, struck such a chord:

Of the things I cared too much about then, one was appearing civilised. In ethical terms but also in aesthetic ones. I had read the right books, bought thrifted designer clothes, gained several degrees at elite institutions and, in Luke;s flat, arranged an elegant mise-en-scene that in fact held no emotional resonance. They were props, these objects I combed from life, smooth pebbles that had once been cliffs.

They meet Anya’s dead brother’s girlfriend, Mira, who, despite a successful career in publishing, is fed up with stagnation and pro-Putin posters in Belgrade, and wants to move abroad.

It’s only a shame, that’s all. To still be stuck talking about this. Even some of the publishing people I know say that we should move on, stop making art about it, they say we’re in paralysis, which is true, politically, economically, everything. That the worst books coming out of the Balkans are the ones still going on about war… But it seems impossible not to talk about it when these people, these revisionists, still exist, even if we’d prefer to forget it.

This made me smile, because it’s one of the conversations I often have with people about whether there is a tendency to ‘typecast’ a country’s literary output and only a particular type of book gets translated into English. For Croatia and Bosnia, it might be about the war, for Romania it seems to be about the Communist dictatorship in a terribly surreal or experimental or earnest prose etc. etc. Yet, at the same time, the attention span of the reading public in the West is very limited. I’ll never forget the American journalist who told me: ‘Can’t you people just draw a line under the past and look to the future?’

Yes, it is frustrating, yes, we do wish we could escape the burden of the past. ‘The past keeps intruding. We are sick to death of it.’ Anya says at one point. I like the way the author make the narrator ashamed of her family’s rhetoric, how she tries to tone down her emotions, how she endeavours to describe everything without melodrama or fuss. Underneath it all, there is a sense of disquiet, of tension building up… Better to be the crushed victim – or the destroyer doing the crushing? And if this carapace that Anya has carefully built around herself is no longer capable of protecting her – what price tearing it down and starting from scratch?

You have to admire the control with which Sudjic navigates the story of trauma, search for identity and breakdown, and the (not always physical) violence we wreak upon others and ourselves. Certainly not a comfortable read, but an accomplished one, with echoes of Penelope Mortimer and Leonora Carrington.

23 thoughts on “Two Very Different Holidays”

  1. These do sound like very different books, Marina Sofia! I’m intrigued by the points you make about cultural differences and that feeling of insecurity when in contact with another culture. What counts as ‘the right books,’ ‘the right décor,’ and so on are so different depending on culture, which of course makes fitting in and developing confidence so difficult. It’s sad, too, because my experience has been that each culture has its own richness (and, of course, its own tragedies). What an interesting topic!

    1. The unequal relationship with her boyfriend mirrors so well the unequal relationship between ‘small’ and ‘big’ cultures and the fundamental lack of curiosity the big cultures usually have towards the smaller ones, while expecting the smaller ones to be fully conversant with theirs. I thought it was done quite subtly, in layers.

  2. I’m very attracted by the Sudjic, and I like the issues you draw out from it. At times I too feel like an outsider, albeit one with my feet straddling different borders: brought up in Hong Kong, I was regarded as ‘other’ in England; and now I feel a different kind of ‘other’ despite having lived in Wales for the last seventeen years. The ‘burden of the past’ I feel is England’s cavalier treatment of its smaller neighbour over many centuries.

    1. I cannot quite explain why it appealed to me more than Conversations with Friends or Exciting Times, but it did. The cool detachment vs. bubbling trauma under-the-surface felt truer in this book, somehow.

  3. I love the sound of that Stella Gibbons, Dean street have done a great job bringing back some of her novels. I have read several of her books published by vintage and she is entertaining.

  4. The Olivia Sudjic caught my eye when I first heard of it – I think it was mentioned in a list of “new releases to watch” in one of the big UK newspapers. You’ve just confirmed that this is one I definitely should get.

    Really interesting to see the comment about topics coming up over and over again from certain countries. I get the same frustration when I read some of the twentieth century “classics” from wales – they all seem to be about hardship in the coal mining areas. There’s no getting away from the fact this was a defining characteristic of life at those times – to pretend otherwise would be misleading.

    1. Yes, I just saw something on Twitter yesterday from someone (whom I hugely respect for their reading) saying that clearly the 20th century in Romania must have been grim, after reading 20 Romanian novels from that century. And it is true historically that it was a very difficult century, more so than perhaps for other countries, but it is equally as true that there is an element of ‘pre-selection’ as to what gets translated.

      1. Good point – we do get a version of the truth from the books that are published but have to remember its only one version and not necessarily the whole truth

  5. It’s always fun to try to connect books, although my links are usually limited to the country 🙂

  6. These are such enticing reviews and make me want to read both books.

    As an English-born person who has lived in Scotland for 30+ years now, I certainly know what you mean about the assumptions of the dominant neighbour country. It’s a mixture of condescension and cliche most of the time.

    I’m also interested in the Stella Gibbons, as I’ve never been able to ‘get’ Cold Comfort Farm, but this one sounds great. The description of the waterfall is beautiful.

    Thanks for introducing me to both of these.

    1. I’m not a huge fan of Cold Comfort Farm either – it’s fine, but it is quite an exuberant youthful piece of work. I suspect Stella Gibbons might get more subtle after that.

  7. I like the way you’ve paired these books, two very different takes on a loosely connected theme. Of the two, it’s The Swiss Summer that really appeals to me, particularly given your comparison with the von Arnim…and I love the quote you’ve included, such a beautiful depiction of the natural world.

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