Pymland Fantasy Revisited- A New Year's Card

 My post for the new year 2019 contains additions to a previous one, "Pymland and the Great Escape." Part re-print, part re-stated fantasy,  part plea for a quieter, kinder, more civilized world, minus all the bad stuff that always existed at the edges of such an imagined "simpler time." This is an updated version of that post.

Previously I posted about having dived in twice-  wholeheartedly and shamelessly- to the novels of Barbara Pym, despite already having read the whole lot down to the last Pymful word the first time. It was the perfect escape from our media maddened, crazed planet. Quietly and happily I re-wallowed in the ironic coziness of village life in the mother country a la Pym- the bucolic settings a mere bus ride from the bustle of London tea shops.

Barbara Pym, revered in the 1950’s, rejected as stodgy in the swingin’ sixties, rediscovered and restored to literary Valhalla in the seventies, and from then on anointed the undisputed queen of quaint English country life-  with an early feminist, decidedly wicked twist. Her work is an elixir against the crap of modern living. Her locales are devoid of yahoo news but brimming with sharp, hilarious observations-  places short on suitable men, amply supplied with unmarried ladies, and long on irony. The subdued mayhem happens amid a nice cup of tea, the occasional attendance at evensong and some truly splendid floral arrangements

It went on for the better part of a year, this second time around Pym obsession, in part to honor the memory of a lost friend and Pym aficionado whom I still miss. Will I be tempted to try a third reread at some point? What would provoke such a reactionary move? Well, specifically the giant, pixel flickering, 24/7, bellowing spectacles we see and hear each day hogging up hours of crowd manipulation and our attention, selling things and ideologies; the complicity of being online and/or voluntarily streaming the stuff into our homes at all hours. . . .

As it turns out, Orwell had it wrong- it really does not take only two minutes a day to control the populace, but requires ongoing, repetitive exposure, such as now we practice; then again, to be fair, we are long past that iconic date and there was no internet in ’84. We still read then. And talked.

The people of Pym's mid twentieth century stories are cyber free but convention bound, up to a point. They are women no longer young, yet tied contentedly and a tad philosophically to their routines and friendships. Often single, they live in flats, neat little houses or drafty rectories and attend church often, sometimes or never- but we always know to which category of church going (or not) they subscribe; their work is in libraries or offices or they don't work at all and have small but adequate private incomes.

Alongside are the men, some attractive and some not, a few pompous clerical types, elderly bachelors, younger, eligible bachelors, cute and flirty C of E priests, middle aged gay men, youngish academics, the occasional designing, though usually well attired woman who arrives in town to upset the mix. . . a small suburban contingent adept at shaking up cocktails. . . a species known as "gentlewomen," some of whom have fallen down a peg or two in their standard of living as shown by the quality of their hats.

There is a minimum of intrigue, much sharp satire and all is revealed through drily hilarious character observation, mostly tongue in cheek. Yet the entire tempest in a teapot seems quite orderly and downright pastoral amid overtones of subtle social mischief and Pym's deft style. Even the seasons are improved by the Queen Pym's writerly touch. In Pymland you know summer is giving way to autumn for example not simply because the evenings are starting to darken sooner, but because “the days inexorably are drawing in.”

Do autumn days still draw in?? Of course they do! But who says or even thinks that anymore? And when is the last time you used the word "inexorably??" Drawing in is redolent of some velvet encased Edwardian parlor with mild social suspense and lord knows what shocking social faux pas in the offing. . . .

Sensibly, almost shabbily dressed and sensibly, seriously shod, but quite comfortable in their eccentricities, the women sometimes prefer making bramble jelly of an evening to enduring a boring cocktail party with the town’s eligible bachelors. There are abundant allusions to Austen with a modern, clever take as Pym slices and serves with the shiniest of cake knives. 

The Emmas and Daphnes, Mildreds and Dulcies, the splendid dahlias and bursting chrysanthemums, a soothing bouquet tinged with all sorts of sly snorts and knowing smiles. Friday evening meetings of the history society. . . eligible vicars and doting, unmarried sisters,  anthropologists, seductive waiters and the occasional, irresistible military cad or cunning vixen, mischievous subtexts looming. . .  contrived solutions to catastrophic social gaffs, over tea.

Legendary British bland cooking is on full display as her hostesses limp heroically toward one of many, many casserole recipes. Or a solitary dinner may be “tinned” or even a meal so sparse tha a boiled egg and some leftover wine suffices. . . conversely she may present us with a richly trifled chocolate, perhaps a sweet plate of creamed biscuits to be presented and consumed at an equally pungent and unusually spicy jumble sale at the local vicarage.

This paean to Pym may seem overstated, superfluous, the average, informed anglophile reader already having long ago succumbed to her siren song (or not) of tea cozies and a nice chicken dinner when guests are expected and one is really not sure what to serve. . . . and in the service of full disclosure, when needing a respite from stark reality, or the quick & easy Brit fix, I have alternated her sharp, though gentlewoman irony with the wickedly wickedly clever, dark humor of another witty lady of letters from the sceptered isle, the ineffable Muriel Spark.

But aaah, to live- even for a short while-  as a character in one of those marvelous tales of angsty, muted guffaws, in a mythical village of shepherd’s pie and equally savory, gentle intrigue. No ubiquitous screens or facebook, no upsetting politics or bad vibes, only authentic, cute birdies providing the background twitter. In such a charming if imperfect world of small troubles, smart quips and clever character revelations will you find me, tending quite contentedly to my field of summer roses and chatting amiably if a bit cautiously with the neighbors. 

Several years down the road  I'm still in admiration of Pymland, tuning in now and again to those imaginary sensibilities, suspense laden garden parties, silly intrigues, at least in my escapist, bookish, dream world. Just to be clear though, I have in no way abandoned the more complex delights of Brit (or any other) lit. Henry James still is the master, along with the other great word magicians of all time and languages. It's just that occasionally I need a break from life's hard themes. So no New Year's resolutions for me, now or ever, just cake! Preferably with a sweet and light though subtly delicate icing, perhaps just a hint of lemon for tartness. Bon apetit!