A Month in the Country (Penguin Modern Classics)

Product Information

I intend to read some novels that are first World War based for this year’s anniversary and this one is the first. It is a novella by a rather eccentric teach The introduction to the book in the NYRB version is written by Michael Holroydand it is excellent. I love it when an introduction fires up the reader to read the book. He talks about his own odd intersection with J. L. Carr, but the most resonating bit he shares is in regards to Carr's funeral. Don’t let the bland cover or blurb lead you to think this is just the charming story of the healing effect of a bucolic month in a quiet village. It is that. But it’s much more. Like Fitzgerald, I believe that A Month in the Country is a nostalgia for something we never had and agree when she suggests the tone “isn’t one of straightforward remembering,” but more about Birkin’s state of mind when he thinks of the people who will “visit Oxgodby church in its meadows and regret that they missed seeing the master painter himself” – the nameless creator of the outstanding artistry concealed beneath centuries of grime. Carr was born in Thirsk Junction, Carlton Miniott, Yorkshire, into a Wesleyan Methodist family. His father Joseph, the eleventh son of a farmer, went to work for the railways, eventually becoming a station master for the North Eastern Railway. Carr was given the same Christian name as his father and the middle name Lloyd, after David Lloyd George, the Liberal Chancellor of the Exchequer. He adopted the names Jim and James in adulthood. His brother Raymond, who was also a station master, called him Lloyd.

And not the Colonel, the surviving brother of the rich widow who left the money for Moon’s search for the remains of one of her ancestors and for Birkin’s work of mural restoration. Birkin tells the reader: And then, God help me, on my first morning, in the first few minutes of my first morning, I felt that this alien northern countryside was friendly, that I'd turned a corner and that this summer of 1920, which was to smoulder on until the first leaves fell, was to be a propitious season of living, a blessed time. To feel pain means to be alive and the resolution to pursue happiness is a courageous vow that Thomas is willing to take.This is what I need, I thought - a new start and, afterwards, maybe I won’t be a casualty anymore.” Birkin’s artistic sensitivity and training make him an excellent describer of furniture, machines, architecture, and even people and the broader context of ancient lives. As I say, Carr’s novel is Birkin’s story, but his finely detailed, finely felt treatment of the other characters as well is a measure of the book’s delicacy, humanity and subtlety. “A casualty anymore” Perhaps It is this simplicity and normality that affects Birken the most profoundly, for his life has been shredded by the war. There is also the mystery of the painting, which Birkin uncovers, and the grave that Moon seeks, to add an extra touch of interest.

And, then, after several weeks, Moon tells him that the twitch has gotten much better, adding, “I don’t suppose you noticed it happening, but Oxgodby’s just about ironed you out.” Brokenness It is the balmy summer of 1920 when Tom Birkin arrives penniless at Oxgodby station with his nerves “shot to pieces.” He has been commissioned under a bequest to carry out restoration work on a Medieval mural in the local church and has an appointment to keep with the Reverend J.G. Keach – a man he describes as having a “cold, cooped-up look about him.” And what Birkin’s left with — some half century later when he is writing this remembrance — is a memory of peace, wonder, something deeply elemental, something deeply beautiful in the art he finds and the place he lived, a still joy and, yes, regret. Not just for lost love, but also for a lost moment.

ACT IV

The garden. Seats to Right and to Left under trees; in the foreground raspberry bushes. KATYA and MATVEY come in on It transpires that an archaeologist, Moon, has also been commissioned by the same bequest to find the grave of an excommunicated ancestor who was said to be buried outside the church yard, and their discoveries eventually converge in a surprising way. Another subplot involves Birkin's mostly suppressed feelings for the vicar's wife. The story is bittersweet though, and as much as my heart swells, it is also anguished. The perfect time comes to its inevitable conclusion. The time, like any other, becomes anthologized into history. That which felt never-ending, ended. Chances ran out. Opportunities untaken. But, the older Birkin is aware that perfect moments can stretch into an imperfect life. Things could have turned out differently, but would they have lasted? Is it better that the memories remain totally untainted, a glimmering reminder that life can be hopeful, warm and gentle? This reader was aching for lovers to kiss in the church belfry, but instead, the fleeting month is chastely frozen in time, like a painting, full of promise and optimism.

Two demons with delicately furred legs clutched him, one snapping his right wrist whilst his mate split him with shears.” The marvelous thing was coming into this haven of calm water and, for a season, not having to worry my head with anything but uncovering their wall-painting for them. And, afterwards, perhaps I could make a new start, forget what the War and the rows with Vinny had done to me and begin where I’d left off. This is what I need, I thought--a new start and, afterwards, maybe I won’t be a casualty anymore. Well, we live by hope. When he realises the full wonder of what he’s revealing, Birkin slows down, like a reader who doesn’t want to finish a brilliant book. He becomesBirkin, a Londoner, discovers a visceral empathy with and appreciation of nature and the countryside from his very first morning. When The Mookse and the Gripes group decided to revisit the 1980 Booker shortlist, this was the book I most looked forward to reading, and it did not disappoint, except that it was over too soon.