The composer of music

Sensuous. (Adj.) Of, relating to, or derived from the senses.
Appealing to or gratifying the senses.

I adore sensuous writing, whether it is Lawrence Durrell’s vibrantly visual Mediterranean shores, or tales seductively layered with the textures of silk and fur and crystal-brittleness like Fitzgerald’s, or the soot-encrusted stenches and sounds of Dickens’ London. When I read, I want to feel I am in the book, experiencing the spirit of a place, fully immersed in scents and tastes and sights.

But how exactly do you conjure the sound of piano music, or the fragrance of lavender from words on a page? It seems to me that this is where books really engage the partnership between writer and reader. Because success or otherwise is dependent on the writer studding the prose with enticement enough for the reader to draw on his or her own sensuous memory bank to enrich the story.

Yet even as we reach into our own imaginary reserves of touch and smell and taste, we know that we all react differently to external stimuli. Some people are repelled by the aroma of meat cooking, for example, or actively dislike the sound of a certain musical instrument. Studies have shown that we don’t even all see the same shade of colour in a fixed object. Which, I’m sure, is part of the reason why different books are magical for different readers, but never magical for all.

The joy of film is that it gives a fixed view of a place and characters. The drawback is that these images might not chime with the pictures a reader has already constructed. But it can carry a soundtrack the writer will never be able to pin down in words.

So with that in mind, here are some atmospheric scenes from The Lantern, made (just for fun!) last summer with the help of old friends. Steve Eaton Evans is a playwright and teacher; he and his equally talented wife Jane have run a theatre company, and all three of their sons have acted professionally. Watch out for Jake Evans, the young man with the knife at the lamp-lit table: serious star quality.

And the haunting piano music is written and played by my husband Rob. It captures beautifully the romantic, yearning quality of the pieces that Dom composes, in the book. Sometimes, only sound itself will do.

For a little more background about how we came to Provence, you can click here to The Hungry Writer blog where poet, writer and tutor Lynne Rees invited me to write a guest post this week.

The rocks glow red...

        

               The rocks glow red above the sea, embers of the day’s heat below our balcony at the Hotel Marie.

                 Down here on the southern rim of the country, out of the mistral’s slipstream, the evening drops viscous as liquid: slow and heavy and silent. When we first arrived, the stifling sultriness made sleep impossible; night closed in like the lid of a tomb.

                 Now, in the few hours I do sleep, I dream of all we have left behind: the hamlet on the hill and the whispering trees. Then, with a start, I’m awake again, remembering.

                Until it happens to you, you don’t know how it will feel to stay with a man who has done a terrible thing. Not to know whether the worst has happened or is yet to come; wanting so badly to trust him now.

    

These are the opening seven lines of The Lantern, as the narrator Eve looks out at the distinctive coastal rocks near Cassis, hardly daring to contemplate the hamlet on the hill inland where she has been so happy. But each night she returns in dreams, to a place that is, and is not, itself.  

I’ve posted this today by invitation of romantic suspense writer Anne K Albert (here), author of The Piedmont Island Trilogy among other novels. 

Each Sunday, Anne and other novelists in an online community of mystery and romantic suspense writers post seven enticing sentences from one of their published books, or from a work in progress. The list and links can be found over at Suspenseful Seven Sentence Sunday (here).

Cloudy day reading

Cloudy days can come as a surprise in Provence. Cerulean blue is the usual outlook, despite the knowledge that winters can be harsh. But when the vineyard down the hill takes on these soft grey tones, it means a perfect afternoon for reading.

There’s nothing I like more than a book trail, where one leads on to another, linked in some way. Recently I’ve read three books about the Cévennes, that isolated and  mountainous region on the other side of the stately Rhone to the north-west of Avignon. Travels with a Donkey in the Cévennes (1879) is Robert Louis Stevenson’s classic account of a 120-mile walking trip he made alone with the obdurate donkey Modestine. It’s one of his earliest works, and its enduring popularity is surely to do with his wonderful descriptions of the landscape:

 It was already warm. I tied my jacket on the pack, and walked in my knitted waistcoat.  Modestine herself was in high spirits, and broke of her own accord, for the first time in my experience, into a jolting trot that set the oats swashing in the pocket of my coat. The view, back upon the northern Gévaudan, extended with every step; scarce a tree, scarce a house, appeared upon the fields of wild hill that ran north, east, and west, all blue and gold in the haze and sunlight of the morning. A multitude of little birds kept sweeping and twittering about my path (…), translucent flickering wings between the sun and me.

The other two books are much more recent. Both are novels in which descriptive writing about the countryside is equally lyrical and accomplished.

Trespass by Rose Tremain is a tale as brooding as the peaks and dark valleys she describes. It’s a novel about the outsiders who arrive in the Cévennes, searching for a paradise that exists partly in their own imaginations, and in collusion with each other. A British brother and sister, Anthony and Veronica Verey, begin a search for his perfect new life close to where she lives with her partner, Kitty. They are mirrored by the French owners of the property they fix on, Aramon Lumel and his sister Audrun, whose relationship is as fissured as the large crack in the old family farmhouse he makes a bodged attempt to hide. The dreamy, tragic air of the novel fuses perfectly the contrast between illusion and reality, until it acquires the quality of a fable from La France profonde.

The Tapestry of Love by Rosy Thornton is also beautifully written, building a sensuous picture of the Cévennes, from the dampness of granite flagstones, to the “layer upon layer of blue mountain silhouettes, fading into bluer skies”. Again, it concerns the search for a rural idyll, but Catherine Parkstone, although not so very much younger than Tremain’s Veronica Verey, seems a more contemporary and believable heroine, as she sets about overcoming the nasty surprises and setbacks inherent in beginning a new life abroad - and perhaps even a new relationship. Catherine is a properly-rounded and sympathetic character, who easily engages our affection. Though less of a novel of ideas than Trespass, it is in some ways the more enjoyable for it.

Oranges and lemons

          

           “In the kitchen, sunlight filtered through the movement in the leaves of the courtyard trees outside the window, rendering the white plaster walls inside diaphanous and transitory like fluttering muslin. A bright Christmassy scent of freshly peeled oranges was all around. I couldn’t think where it came from as we had only apples in the fruit bowl.”

                       

                                               From The Lantern



Julian Merrow-Smith is a classically-trained painter, and it shows in every brushstroke. In his small oil Citron de Nice, the lemon seems to glow from within while the light around is sombre. It has a timeless quality, like a beautiful detail from an Old Master.

Likewise, this clementine is so richly evoked that you can almost smell the zesty aroma released by the fruit as its peel is pulled away, and juice trembles on the membrane. Look at that pith, fluffed and exposed, and you can taste its distinctive bitterness. What a gift to be able to engage so many senses with paint on a flat surface!

I wrote about Julian in one of my very first posts on this blog, when I was getting about three visitors a day, and two of these almost certainly accidental. So for those who missed it first time round, here is the link to his Still Life with Figs.

Extraordinarily, he paints a picture of this calibre a day - normally from his studio near Crillon-le-Brave but sometimes from his wider travels. These encompass landscapes and, occasionally, portraits as well as still lives; they are then auctioned online.

So successful have these proved that 140 from the collection have been published as a treat of a book, Postcard from Provence, the dream-like countryside of southern France seen through the eyes of a contemporary yet very traditional artist. It is available here from Amazon, or from the painter’s website here, which also has details of the daily auction.

Pour offrir...

In the absence of grapes in season, here are some French sweets for the lovely - but flu-bound and suffering - llevinso at her incisive and always intelligent blog Sarcastic Female Literary Circle (here) who has sent a One Lovely Blog award my way.

By the power now vested in me, I am now passing it on to the following equally lovely bloggers, not all of them book sites but all worthy winners:

The Reading Life (here) where excellent literary discussion is carefully illustrated with relevant photographs.

Literary Endeavors (here) where Jennifer presides over lively and thought-provoking discussion.

Nature en Couleur (here) where the detailed and quirky photography is such fun you don't need to speak French to get it.

The Slight Detour (here) where Samantha Sotto-Yambao waits for her first novel to come out with excerpts of great charm and originality.

Forest Dream Weaver (here) where visual artist Ruby Elizabeth Littlejohn shares somes amazing images.

Fitzgerald Musings (here) where Laurie gives food for thought and imaginative photographic interpretations of the great F Scott Fitzgerald's oeuvre.

Serendipity's Library (here) for the joy of loving books and more besides.

Bookbelle (here) where I am a newcomer but already know that I will enjoy many literary reviews to come. 



Rosemary for writing

           

             

               Rosemary hedges were pin-bright with pungent flowers. Beyond, a promenade of cypresses, prelude to a field of lavender. And rising at the end of every view, the dominant theme: the creased blue hills of the Grand Luberon.

                                                              
                                                          from The Lantern

A few days ago I saw the first pale flower of rosemary in the garden. The sun is bright and cold but here is a herald of spring, frail and tentative still. As the earth gradually warms and colours deepen, the great hills that hang like a backdrop beyond this tiny hamlet will be so blue they seem to soak up the sky.

Now and then eagles and hawks will hover above, riding the thermals. The thyme and rosemary and lavender patches will release their musky incense under our feet, and the tender south winds will be silk on the skin. We’ll use the herbs in cooking too, releasing and intensifying their fragrance in the kitchen.

What has this to do with writing? Plenty, I think. I take the view that writing is observation, to a large degree. Attention to detail is what makes a novel seem real, whether it is rooted in a real landscape or real emotions and hopes and fears. What the writer needs more than anything is for the reader to recognize some truth in the words on the page.

When I am drafting a new novel, my most important asset is my notebook - just as it was when I was a journalist. A thousand details will go into it. Some will never be used, or will be cut from a later version, but they are the foundations of the story and the prompts to start each writing day.

The scent of memory

“Culture is about human nature, and people who love food and fragrance are acutely aware of the connection between the senses and memory.” So writes Michelle Knell Kydd on her exquisite blog Glass Petal Smoke, dedicated to the olfactory and taste senses. Here she introduces us to osmanthus, the dried blossoms of which "are redolent of apricot, lemon and blonde leather" and uses it to infuse sugar for cakes. 

She has devised a questionnaire about the sense of smell which really does make you think a little deeper. Michelle is collecting responses, so if this appeals to you, do feel free to send her yours. You’ll see how it works by clicking on this link to Glass Petal Smoke. Here, just for fun, are my responses:

What does your sense of smell mean to you?

It adds the final layer of sensory experience, whether you are travelling on the Paris metro, or cooking a lamb tagine full of spices. Imagine walking around a garden and not being able to smell the mineral earth of early spring, or the sudden sweet perfume of a daphne or narcissus. I agree with Michelle that the sense of smell is a memory trigger like no other.

What are some of your strongest scent memories?

When I was quite young, my family went to live in China. The vibrant colours and sense of the exotic in Peking, as it was then, coincided with the age at which I really became aware of my surroundings. The gardens in front of where we lived were full of orange marigolds and every time I smell their sharp, sweet pepperiness, I am five years old again. There was a shop not far away that sold toys and dolls in silk clothes, silk figures in boxes and sandalwood fans. I still have some of these, and they have kept their scent to an extraordinary degree. If I ever come across them, as soon as the box is opened, I am remembering seeing them for the first time.

What are some of your favorite smells in nature, cooking, your environment?

I love the scent of flowers: lilies, the heliotrope, nicotiana, and the dark red cosmos that smells of rich chocolate. Pine trees after rain. Rosemary and thyme growing wild on sunny slopes. Dried Herbes de Provence frying with onion. And wood burning: sweet fallen branches from the fig trees and logs from a dead olive and cherry; bonfires in the evening; fireworks; even the striking and snuffing of a match is delicious.

Do you have any favorite smells that are considered strange?

Old books have a slight mustiness, almost like incense. It’s the perfume of my days as a student, in the library of a Cambridge college, the atmosphere of rooms containing rare manuscipts and ancient tomes. That scent can be powerful in secondhand bookshops, too. It used to be exacerbated by damp cellars in junk shops we used to haunt in Greenwich down by the Thames when Rob and I were renovating out first flat in south London together, but it still carries the scent of the old about to be rediscovered. 

Describe one or more of your favorite cooking smells.

Baking: any biscuits or cakes. And also toffee apples, though in my experience they always smell wonderful, but are a disappointment to eat.

What smells do you most dislike?

Cigarette smoke (though I don’t mind cigar or pipe tobacco), oil and petrol, bad drains, old fishbones, and mice.

What smell did you first dislike, but learned to love?

French cigarettes - Gauloises, but they don't smell the same as they did when I was a teenager and the boys who smoked them were cooler than anyone in England. I've noticed that today's Gauloises and Gitanes have lost that rich, honeyed tobacco aroma and become almost as unbearable as Silk Cut.

What mundane smells inspire you?

Leather: the inside of old satchels and bags. The other day I came across a small leather shoulder bag I bought in Crete, many years ago on my first holiday abroad with friends. It’s a cheap, rough thing – but oh, the perfume of new independence mingled with anxiety!

What scent never fails to take you back in time and why?

I have a whole library of perfumes that will take me to almost any given year! From the Chloe I wore as a seventeen-year-old, to the perfume I wore as a designer-suited journalist in London: Diva by Ungaro, and which remains a great confidence-giver. 

What scents do you associate with memories of loved ones? 

That would be the smell of houses, the unique alchemy produced by lingering cleaning polishes and cooking and perfume of the people who live there. 

What fragrances remind you of growing up?

The strawberries that grew in every garden and field in the village in Luxembourg where I lived as a child (two countries after China – we got around). English sweet shops, fuggy with a combination of Fry’s peppermint chocolate and comics. Germolene, the disgusting pink ointment for cuts and grazes. And TCP for teenage spots: one of the vilest and most lingering pongs known to man.

What fragrance(s) remind you of the places you visited on vacation?

An endless list… I’ll just pick Youth Dew, a whiff of which takes me right back to Singapore, where I used to spend my university vacations with my parents, who were living there by then.

Describe a piece of sensory literature that is very magical for you.

Perfume by Patrick Suskind has one of the best openings I have ever read. It opens with a sensory bang, full of rotting cabbage and other stenches. And Prospero’s Cell by Lawrence Durrell, which is a glorious evocation of Corfu in the 1930s and a treasury of visual riches.