Reviews for The Bodley Head 1887-1987

The average rating for The Bodley Head 1887-1987 based on 2 reviews is 3 stars.

Review # 1 was written on 2010-09-05 00:00:00 Kevin Spataro It is unusual for me to read a memoir without knowing much at all of either the author or her work. Sutcliff is a beloved author for many; a Carnegie award winner, and the writer of many historical novels for children. But for some reason, I never came across her writing when I was a child, and nor have I managed to discover her during my adult years in England. I have managed to fill in many gaps in my childhood reading, but not this one. Occasionally, reading a memoir can be the springboard for exploring an author�s life and work - and I think that will definitely be the case for Sutcliff, as I adored the �voice� of her writing. This memoir is both chronological and coming-of-age: it begins with Sutcliff�s earliest memories (early indeed) and ends with those two major life events, falling in love for the first time, and discovering her true vocation. In one sense, it couldn�t have been predicted that Sutcliff would become a writer. According to her own self-assessment, she was not much of a student and she left school at 14. Art was her �one� talent, and she pursued an art degree between the ages of 14 and 17. But in another sense, perhaps this solitary career was not so unexpected. Her mother, whose colourful presence looms large in the book, was a natural dramatist and storyteller; she also gave Sutcliff a passionate interest in history. The other important strand of her life history was the juvenile arthritis (Still�s disease) which meant that she spent most of her childhood in a wheelchair or nursing home. As an only child, she was nearly always in the company of adults. And by late childhood, her family had moved to a remote part of North Devon. In other words, she must have lived largely in her own imagination. She clearly was a close observer. As she says of herself, �Looking back I think that I was happy with pathetically little.� I read this memoir during the Coronavirus Quarantine, and like any book set during World War II - Sutcliff was an adolescent during that time - it reminds the present-day reader that we really don�t know much about isolation and privation. Sutcliff is no Pollyanna, and as she gets older she certainly becomes aware of much loneliness plagues her. But she has all of the qualities more common to her generation: humour, stoicism, lack of self-pity and amazing bravery. It�s a gem of a memoir. He must have been one of those very special people, beloved of the gods, for whom time is elastic and can always be stretched out to play with a child. Generally speaking, I do not think that one should ever take another person�s advice in the things of life that really matter, but follow the dictates of the still small something in one�s innermost self. There are times when life seems to fall into complete patterns, with all the loose ends neatly darned in. It could be chance, or it could be that Fate has a sense of pattern, or it could be God taking an interest.

Review # 2 was written on 2017-01-05 00:00:00 Kevin Mattingly Recently I read "The Silver Branch," a novel by Sutcliff. I liked it very much and started to explore what else the author had written. I noticed that she had written "a recollection" about her own life. (While in grad school I had done an independent study focusing on authors who wrote their autobiography, memoir, or recollection. It was one of my favorite classes, partly because I chose the topic, but partly because of the books that I discovered). Sutcliff had Still's disease as a child which subjected her to many painful surgical procedures, isolation in hospitals, and general exclusion from mainstream society. Despite her extensive trials I found "Blue Remembered Hills" to contain much charm, historical information, and was a delightful pleasure to read. I will share some of my favorite quotes with you. "Squirrels chittered at us from behind branches, red squirrels lilting from branch to branch in the autumn sunlight like wisps of wind-torn flame." "...and the crowing of a cock in the green first-light of my first morning, every first morning of every leave we spent there, was part of Mrs. Penhorwood to me. On later mornings it would be a nice sound, but not especially magical. But in that first dawn it would fall on my town-dulled ears, as something very magical indeed, something to shiver at with delight and something stranger than mere delight. It was the perfect sound to enter through magic casements opening wide on perilous seas and fairylands forlorn. It was a sound with a blossom on it, like dew, and shaped like a fleur-de-lys." "We were happy, sharing a kind of peace at being together again. It seemed strange that I could be so happy. It was a broken-winged happiness that could not fly any more, but it was there, all the same,..."