Customer Reviews

The Ballad of Peckham Rye (Penguin Modern Classics)

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Dougal Douglas (or Douglas Dougal, depending on who you're talking to) may be a devil, and some people think he seems more Irish than Scottish. Whatever else he is, he is a lot of fun. THE BALLAD OF PECKHAM RYE lacks the sympathetic, possibly autobiographical central character found in many Spark novels (THE COMFORTERS, THE BACHELORS, etc.); however, it doens't fall into the black hole that swallows THE DRIVER'S SEAT or other works consumed by Spark's sense of evil. Instead, Dougal Douglas, the ever-present mischief-maker, takes the place of the sympathetic center. He wreaks havoc, but only by bringing out the devil in others--he himself has a kind of curious innocence in the midst of their scheming and violence, and acts as a (presumable) spokesman for Spark when he categorizes their various moralities (Functional, Emotional, Puritanical and Christian).

Such a summary doesn't begin to capture the delight and wit of one of Spark's most enjoyable and economical (again, not a page too long, which cannot be said for many of even our best writers today) books.

Dougal Douglas, the protagonist of this short novel, is a modern-day trickster, stirring up the sleeping industrial town of Peckham, where secrets and neuroses are in abundance. I loved Ms. Spark's sense of comedy. It makes her books always a fun read, and it's subtle enough so it never becomes an annoyance to distract one from the story.

This novel was new when I first picked it up for a train journey. I had been reading a good deal about Muriel Spark in newspaper notices at the time, so this was the chance to find out for myself. It was love at first read, and I was curious whether the wonder of it all might have survived the decades.

Muriel Spark's work is commonly classified as `satire', and I suppose that's fair. However something that her early admirers, including Evelyn Waugh, stressed was that she is not really like anyone else, and I believe that is true also. Obviously, satire has contemporary themes, so it might seem a likely candidate for early obsolescence, but a few moments' thought suggests otherwise. Juvenal Voltaire Swift and Macaulay have not exactly gone out of fashion, and are still read with enjoyment by people who cannot be bothered to look up their contemporary allusions, and 40 or more years after it was launched the satirical magazine Private Eye seems not only to be still going strong but to have passed on its special vocabulary, originally attached to figures now little remembered, to a new generation of fans. Small wonder in that case that Mrs Spark is still wearing well.

For newcomers to the author, this is as good an introduction as any. It is completely characteristic of her, it does not threaten memory overload with a huge cast of characters as The Bachelors possibly does, it stops short of being downright weird like The Hothouse by the East River, but on the other hand it escapes being lightweight like The Abbess of Crewe or even the immortal Prime of Miss Jean Brodie. Of the standard Spark features, Catholicism is relegated to a brief mention, of much the usual kind, in the last page or two, but two of the characters, including the principal character (hardly qualifying as any `hero') are Scots. Her ear is as acute as ever, and readers old enough to remember the fashion for addressing people with rhyming animal names (`See you later, alligator.' `In a while, crocodile.' etc) must smile at the way the thing is done here.

The book evokes an era, and one that I remember quite well. This was the impoverished post-war Britain of dull clothes and duller food, before we first swang in the Swinging Sixties. Small manufacturing companies were still common, and it was still common for them to be British-owned and managed before automation, globalisation, the EU, MBA's and consultant-speak set in. Mrs Spark is a talented observer and mimic, and as usual there is little or no sense of affection for, or between, any of her characters. She is funny in a wry way rather than any aisles-rolled-in way, and as usual you never quite know where you are with her. Situations can become serious and even lethal in the proverbial twinkling of an optic, and one of her dramatis personae in this book is murdered and there is another attempt at murder or at least serious assault.

There is no outright irrationality this time, at least if you opt as I do for the theory that the bumps on Dougal's head are only sebaceous cysts. However Spark's characters are mainly just marionettes puppets and caricatures, and I'd say that goes for all of them in this book. I'm not sure whether I have been to Peckham in south London or to the Rye, which is an area of parkland or similar, but it features occasionally these days in news items about gang crime, knife crime and gun crime, often with an ethnic basis. It got headlines just a day or two ago when the ineffable current holder of the post of Home Secretary told us that she was afraid to go out at night for a takeaway meal in Peckham, and she has a constant police escort. That was what prompted me to reread the Ballad of Peckham Rye, because the title is a good one - like the ancient ballads this novel captures the feel of a time and place otherwise receding into inexact memory and helps us match it up against what it is like, or what we are told it is like, now. I never met Muriel Spark in person, I may or may not ever have seen Peckham Rye, but in a sense I shall always know her from there.

The Ballad of Peckham Rye (1960) seems more typical Sparkian fare than 1958's Robinson, which is to say more arch, more satirical, and more stylistically bizarre. And yet, while in Robinson Spark uses realism to loosen readers from their moorings so that they founder in the depths of what seemed to be a straightforward story, in Peckham Rye her wry, detached sketches release the reader into a kind of drunken clarity about such Big Ideas as, say, human nature. Reading this short novel, I told a friend at the time, felt like being in one of those whiskey-induced hazes in which certain lines and observations blaze with a delightful, transcendent truth--for example, "Dougal gazed at him like a succubus whose mouth is in its eyes," or "My lonely heart is deluged by melancholy and it feels quite nice"--while the lesser details, like What Is Actually Going On, recede elegantly into obscurity.

Muriel Spark's short novels are so highly polished and carefully wrought that they deserve several readings each before you get the fullest sense of how densely layered they are. This funny satire of sex among the working classes in 1950s London is mostly dialogue (of a very inflected and period sort) that obfuscates its difficulty and density. Dougal Douglas, an Edinburgh-educated young man with a crooked shoulder, comes to the borough of Peckham as an "arts" specialist to study the behavior of the workers in a firm; glib and supremely self-confident, the wicked Douglas begins to seduce everyone he comes into contact with, and then hires himself to other firms in town to play the same tricks there. He so thoroughly disrupts the morals and manners of the town that he might be the devil himself, as he repeatedly hints: but as with all of Spark's fiction, this is more than just a Catholic allegory, and is an unsettling study of why people behave the way they do with regards to sin and propriety. (It's often been argued that Douglas is more properly a figure for the novelist than for the powers of hell, and Douglas is secretly writing a biography of a faded music-hall star on the side.) It's a funny work, though perhaps not as enjoyable as some of the other books Spark wrote near the same time that established her name, such as MEMENTO MORI and THE PRIME OF MISS JEAN BRODIE.

When I wish to remind myself of what good prose is, I pick up this short funny book by Muriel Spark -- witty, dark, and yet somehow lyrical. If you are a reader who is comfortable with irony and satire, this is a book to enjoy -- and if not, definitely not.

Loved the novel and loved the story. There was too much inside British stuff in the novel for a Houstonian like me to get the irony of.

The worst book I've ever read. Not a single page of this book made sense. There is not even a story in these pages just a series of random events that have nothing to do with each other or anything at all. This is as dull as a book can get.