The Washington Post
The Children's Bookby Rosalyn Landor
When Olive Wellwood's oldest son discovers a runaway named Philip sketching in the basement of the new Victoria and Albert
A spellbinding novel, at once sweeping and intimate, that spans the Victorian era through the World War I years, and centers around a famous children's book author and the passions, betrayals, and secrets that tear apart the people she loves.
When Olive Wellwood's oldest son discovers a runaway named Philip sketching in the basement of the new Victoria and Albert Museum—a talented working-class boy who could be a character out of one of Olive's magical tales—she takes him into the storybook world of her family and friends.
But the joyful bacchanals Olive hosts at her rambling country house—and the separate, private books she writes for each of her seven children—conceal more treachery and darkness than Philip has ever imagined. As these lives—of adults and children alike—unfold, lies are revealed, hearts are broken, and the damaging truth about the Wellwoods slowly emerges. But their personal struggles, their hidden desires, will soon be eclipsed by far greater forces, as the tides turn across Europe and a golden era comes to an end.
Taking us from the cliff-lined shores of England to Paris, Munich, and the trenches of the Somme, The Children's Book is a deeply affecting story of a singular family, played out against the great, rippling tides of the day.
The Washington Post
Byatt's overstuffed latest wanders from Victorian 1895 through the end of WWI, alighting on subjects as diverse as puppetry, socialism, women's suffrage and the Boer War, and suffers from an unaccountably large cast. The narrative centers on two deeply troubled families of the British artistic intelligentsia: the Fludds and the Wellwoods. Olive Wellwood, the matriarch, is an author of children's books, and their darkness hints at hidden family miseries. The Fludds' secrets are never completely exposed, but the suicidal fits of the father, a celebrated potter, and the disengaged sadness of the mother and children add up to a chilling family history. Byatt's interest in these artists lies with the pain their work indirectly causes their loved ones and the darkness their creations conceal and reveal. The other strongest thread in the story is sex; though the characters' social consciences tend toward the progressive, each of the characters' liaisons are damaging, turning high-minded talk into sinister predation. The novel's moments of magic and humanity, malignant as they may be, are too often interrupted by information dumps that show off Byatt's extensive research. Buried somewhere in here is a fine novel. (Oct.)Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
“Majestic . . . Dazzling . . . Wonderful . . . . What you see here . . . is the strength and fire of Byatt’s imagination.” —The San Francisco Chronicle
“Bristling with life and invention. . . . A seductive work by an extraordinarily gifted writer.” —The Washington Post
“[Byatt’s] magnum opus. . . . Lushly detailed. . . . Every stitch of this tapestry is connected to the whole.” —The Seattle Times
“[A] masterpiece. . . . Her best yet.” —Newsday
“[A] ravishing epic. . . . This is a classic Byatt fusion of fact and uncannily luscious imagery, mixed in the ideal proportions: not too hot, not too cold—just right.” —Salon
“A stunning achievement: a novel of ideas that crackles with passion, energy and emotive force. . . . I did not want The Children’s Book to end . . . I wanted more of this ambitious, compelling novel, certainly Byatt’s best since Possession, and possibly her best ever.” —Patricia Hagen, Minneapolis Star Tribune
“Unforgettable. . . . Eloquent. . . . Majestic and immensely ambitious . . . with masterly skill and literary tact. . . . A monument of a novel.” —The New York Review of Books
“Supremely fulfilling . . . wondrous . . . rich with period detail and sublime storytelling. . . . A mesmerizing exploration of, well, everything: families, secrets, love, innocence, corruption, art, the desire for knowledge, nature, politics, war, sex, power. Even puppetry.” —The Miami Herald
“Spellbinding. . . . Alive . . . Potent. . . . Byatt is a master storyteller.” —O, The Oprah Magazine
“Sweeping. . . . A literary feast. . . . Byatt fills a huge canvas with the political and social changes that swept the world in those years . . . She elicits great compassion of the individual beings caught in that tableau. It’s not a tale you’ll soon forget.” —USA Today
“Intricately crafted, deeply satisfying. . . . Encompassing in scope and watch-maker precise in detail. . . . Fans of Possession, you’ve got yourself a new bedtime story.” —Yvonne Zipp, The Christian Science Monitor
“Rich, expansive. . . . Byatt is a spinner of multiple tales, adding gorgeous layers and dimensions to this fictional world.” —The Los Angeles Times
“Engaging and rewarding.” —The New Yorker
“A rich and ambitious work, steeped in ideas and capped with a lacerating final act. . . . Byatt’s penetrating, unsentimental style hits its mark. [The period] details are never less than fascinating.” —Time
“A complete and complex world, a gorgeous bolt of fiction. . . . The magic is in the way Byatt suffuses her novel with details, from the shimmery sets of a marionette show to clay mixtures and pottery glazes.” —The Atlantic Monthly
“Only Byatt could stuff this massive book so full of detail, character, and history while never losing track either of human feelings or of the sweeping, precipitous decline of the culture she documents.” —The Onion A.V. Club
“Fascinating . . . An exhilarating panorama . . . Passionate, intelligent. . . . A richly peopled narrative that encompasses an unusual breadth of artistic, intellectual, social, and political concerns . . . [Byatt is] a master builder, laying each brick of her tower with consummate skill. Here is a novel in which everything matters.” —Boston Sunday Globe
“Uncompromisingly erudite. . . . Like Possession, The Children’s Book is a tour de force of literary chameleonism and social history. . . . [It] brings to vivid life the often irreconcilable demands of being an artist and being a human being.” —The Wall Street Journal
“Wonderful, engaging. . . . A fine, rich, fully accomplished novel.” —The Dallas Morning News
“A kind of tragic fairy tale, and Byatt does fairy tales wonderfully.” —Newsweek
“A fascinating literary achievement. . . . [With a] captivating sense of language and narrative. . . . A more genuine look at young adulthood than any teenage wizards could hope to provide.” —Richmond Times-Dispatch
"Riveting. . . . As this complex novel builds toward its finale, it forgoes one of Olive's enchanting endings in favor of something closer to life." —Time Out New York
"Stunning . . . . Magnificent. . . . Intricate. . . . Matching and arguably surpassing Possession in breadth and ambition." —Bookforum
“So well-researched that The Children’s Book could well have been a consummate history of the [Edwardian] era. . . . The book brims in rich pictorial description . . . But more than that, Byatt’s book is an astute moral lesson.” —Chicago Sun-Times
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Read an Excerpt
Two boys stood in the Prince Consort Gallery, and looked down on a third. It was June 19th, 1895. The Prince had died in 1861, and had seen only the beginnings of his ambitious project for a gathering of museums in which the British craftsmen could study the best examples of design. His portrait, modest and medalled,was done inmosaic in the tympanum of a decorative arch at one end of the narrowgallery which ran above the space of the South Court. The South Court was decorated with further mosaics, portraits of painters, sculptors, potters, the "Kensington Valhalla." The third boy was squatting beside one of a series of imposing glass cases displaying gold and silver treasures. Tom, the younger of the two looking down, thought of Snow White in her glass coffin. He thought also, looking up at Albert, that the vessels and spoons and caskets, gleaming in the liquid light under the glass, were like a resurrected kingly burial hoard. (Which, indeed, some of them were.) They could not see the other boy clearly, because he was on the far side of a case. He appeared to be sketching its contents.
Julian Cain was at home in the South Kensington Museum. His father, Major Prosper Cain, was Special Keeper of Precious Metals.
Julian was just fifteen, and a boarder at Marlowe School, but was home recovering from a nasty bout of jaundice. He was neither tall nor short, slightly built, with a sharp face and a sallow complexion, even without the jaundice. He wore his straight black hair parted in the centre, and was dressed in a school suit. Tom Wellwood, boyish in Norfolk jacket and breeches, was about two years younger, and looked younger than he was, with large dark eyes, a soft mouth and a smooth head of dark gold hair. The two had not met before. Tom's mother was visiting Julian's father, to ask for help with her research. She was a successful authoress of magical tales. Julian had been deputed to show Tom the treasures. He appeared to be more interested in showing him the squatting boy.
"I said I'd show you a mystery."
"I thought you meant one of the treasures."
"No, I meant him. There's something shifty about him. I've been keeping an eye on him. He's up to something."
Tom was not sure whether this was the sort of make-believe his own family practised, tracking complete strangers and inventing stories about them. He wasn't sure if Julian was, so to speak, playing at being responsible.
"What does he do?"
"He does the Indian rope trick. He disappears. Now you see him, now you don't. He's here every day. All by himself. But you can't see where or when he goes."
They sidled along the wrought-iron gallery, which was hung with thick red velvet curtains. The third boy stayed where he was, drawing intently. Then he moved his position, to see from another angle. He was hay-haired, shaggy and filthy. He had cut-down workmen's trousers, with braces, over a flannel shirt the colour of smoke, stained with soot. Julian said
"We could go down and stalk him. There are all sorts of odd things about him. He looks very rough. He never seems to go anywhere but here. I've waited at the exit to see him leave, and follow him, and he doesn't seem to leave. He seems to be a permanent fixture."
The boy looked up, briefly, his grimy face creased in a frown. Tom said
"He never talks to anyone that I can see. Now and then the art students look at his drawings. But he doesn't chat to them. He just creeps about the place. It's sinister."
"Do you get many robberies?"
"My father always says the keepers are criminally casual with the keys to the cases. And there are heaps and heaps of stuff lying around waiting to be catalogued, or sent to Bethnal Green. It would be terribly easy to sneak off with things. I don't even know if anyone would notice if you did, not with some of the things, though they'd notice quickly enough if anyone made an attempt on the Candlestick."
"The Gloucester Candlestick. What he seems to be drawing, a lot of the time. The lump of gold, in the centre of that case. It's ancient and unique. I'll show it to you. We could go down, and go up to it, and disturb him." Tom was dubious about this. There was something tense about the third boy, a tough prepared energy he didn't even realise he'd noticed.
However, he agreed. He usually agreed to things. They moved, sleuthlike, from ambush to ambush behind the swags of velvet. They went under Prince Albert, out onto the turning stone stairs, down to the South Court. When they reached the Candlestick, the dirty boy was not there.
"He wasn't on the stairs," said Julian, obsessed.
Tom stopped to stare at the Candlestick. It was dully gold. It seemed heavy. It stood on three feet, each of which was a long-eared dragon, grasping a bone with grim claws, gnawing with sharp teeth. The rim of the spiked cup that held the candle was also supported by open-jawed dragons with wings and snaking tails. The whole of its thick stem was wrought of fantastic foliage, amongst which men and monsters, centaurs and monkeys, writhed, grinned, grimaced, grasped and stabbed at each other. A helmeted, gnomelike being, with huge eyes, grappled the sinuous tail of a reptile. There were other human or kobold figures, one in particular with long draggling hair and a mournful gaze. Tom thought immediately that hismotherwould need to see it. He tried, and failed, to memorise the shapes. Julian explained. It had an interesting history, he said. No one knew exactly what it was made of. It was some kind of gilt alloy. Itwas probable that it had been made in Canterbury—modelled in wax and cast—but apart from the symbols of the evangelists on the knop, it appeared not to be made for a religious use. It had turned up in the cathedral in Le Mans, from where it had disappeared during the French Revolution. A French antiquary had sold it to the Russian Prince Soltikoff. The South KensingtonMuseum had acquired it from his collection in 1861. There was nothing, anywhere, like it.
Tom did not know what a knop was, and did not know what the symbols of the evangelists were. But he saw that the thing was a whole world of secret stories. He said his mother would like to see it. It might be just what she was looking for. He would have liked to touch the heads of the dragons.
Julian was looking restlessly around him. There was a concealed door, behind a plaster cast of a guarding knight, on a marble plinth. It was slightly ajar, which he had never seen before. He had tried its handle, and it was always, as it should be, since it led down to the basement storerooms and workrooms, locked.
"I bet he went down there."
"What's down there?"
"Miles and miles of passages and cupboards and cellars, and things being moulded, or cleaned, or just kept. Let's stalk him."
There was no light, beyond what was cast on the upper steps from the door they had opened. Tom did not like the dark. He did not like transgression. He said "We can't see where we're going."
"We'll leave the door open a crack."
"Someone may come and lock it. We may get into trouble."
"We won't. I live here."
They crept down the uneven stone steps, holding a thin iron rail. At the foot of the staircase they found themselves cut off by a metal grille, beyond which stretched a long corridor, now vaguely visible as though there was a light-source at the other end. The passage was roofed with Gothic vaulting, like a church crypt, but finished in white glazed industrial bricks. Julian gave the grille an irritated shake and it swung open. He observed that this, too, should have been locked. Someone was in for trouble.
The passage opened into a dusty vault, crammed with a crowd of white effigies, men, women and children, staring out with sightless eyes. Tom thought they might be prisoners in the underworld, or even the damned. They were closely packed; the boys had to worm their way between them. Beyond this funereal chamber, two corridors branched. There was more light to the left, so they went that way, negotiated another unlocked grille, and found themselves in a treasure-house of vast gold and silver vessels, croziers, eagle-winged lecterns, fountains, soaring angels and grinning cherubs. "Electrotypes," whispered the knowledgeable Julian. A faint but steady light rippled over the metal, through little glass roundels let into the brickwork. Julian put his finger to his lips and hissed to Tom to keep still. Tom steadied himself against a silver galleon, which clanged. He sneezed.
"Don't do that."
"I can't help it. It's the dust."
They crept on, took a left, took a right, had to force their way between thickets of what Tom thought were tomb railings, surmounted by jaunty female angel-busts,with wings and pointed breasts. Julian said they were cast-iron radiator covers, commissioned from an ironmaster in Sheffield. "Cost a packet, down here because someone thought they were obtrusive," he whispered. "Which way now?"
Tom said he had no idea. Julian said they were lost, no one would find them, rats would pick their bones. Someone sneezed. Julian said
"I told you, don't do that."
"I didn't. It must have been him."
Tom was worried about hunting down a probably harmless and innocent boy. He was also worried about encountering a savage and dangerous boy.
Julian cried "We knowyou're there. Come out and give yourself up!"
He was alert and smiling, Tom saw, the successful seeker or catcher in games of pursuit.
There was a silence. Another sneeze. A slight scuffling. Julian and
Tom turned to look down the other fork of the corridor, which was obstructed by a forest of imitation marble pillars, made to support busts or vases. A wild face, under a mat of hair, appeared at knee height, framed between fake basalt and fake obsidian.
"You'd better come out and explain yourself," said Julian, with complete certainty. "You're trespassing. I should get the police."
The third boy came out on all fours, shook himself like a beast, and stood up, supporting himself briefly on the pillars. He was about Julian's height. He was shaking, whether with fear or wrath Tom could not tell. He pushed a dirty hand across his face, rubbing his eyes, which even in the gloom could be seen to be red-rimmed. He put his head down, and tensed. Tom saw the thought go through him, he could charge the two of them, head-butt them and flee down the corridors. He didn't move and didn't answer.
"What are you doing down here?" Julian insisted.
"I were hiding."
"Why? Hiding from who?"
"Just hiding. I were doing no harm. I move carefully. I don't disturb things."
"What's your name? Where do you live?"
"My name's Philip. Philip Warren. I suppose I live here. At present."
His voice was vaguely north country.Tomrecognised it, but couldn't place it. He was looking at them much as they were looking at him, as though he couldn't quite grasp that they were real. He blinked, and a tremor ran through him. Tom said
"You were drawing the Candlestick. Is that what you came for?"
He was clutching a kind of canvas satchel against his chest, which presumably contained his sketching materials. Tom said
"It's an amazing thing, isn't it? I hadn't seen it before."
The other boy looked him in the eye, then, with a flicker of a grin.
"Aye. Amazing, it is."
Julian spoke severely.
"You must come and explain yourself to my father."
"Oh, your father. Who's he, then?"
"He's Special Keeper of Precious Metals."
"Oh. I see."
"You must come along with us."
"I see I must. Can I get my things?"
"Things?" Julian sounded doubtful for the first time. "You mean, you've been living down here?"
"S'what I said. I got nowhere else to go. I'd rather not sleep on t'streets. I come here to draw. I saw the Museum was for workingmen to see well-made things. I mean to get work, I do, and I need drawings to show . . . I like these things."
"Can we see the drawings?" asked Tom.
"Not in this light. Upstairs, if you're interested. I'll get my things, like I said."
He ducked, and began to make his way back amongst the pillars, crouching and weaving expertly. Tom was put in mind of dwarves in mine-workings, and, since his upbringing was socially conscientious, of children in mines, pulling trucks on hands and knees. Julian was on Philip's heels. Tom followed.
"Come in," said the grimy boy, at the opening of a small storeroom, making a welcoming gesture, possibly mocking, with an arm. The storeroom contained what appeared to be a small stone hut, carved and ornamented with cherubim and seraphim, eagles and doves, acanthus and vines. It had its own little metal gate, with traces of gilding on the rusting iron.
"Convenient," said Philip. "It has a stone bed. I took the liberty of borrowing some sacks to keep warm. I'll put 'em back, naturally, where I found them."
"It's a tomb or shrine," said Julian. "Russian, by the look of it. There must have been some saint on that table, in a glass case or a reliquary.
He might still be in there, underneath, his bones that is, if he wasn't incorrupt."
"I haven't noticed him," said Philip, flatly. "He hasn't bothered me."
Tom said "Are you hungry? What do you eat?"
"Once or twice I got to help in the tea-room, moving plates and washing them. People leave a lot on their plates, you'd be surprised. And the young ladies from the Art School took notice of my drawings and sometimes they passed me a sandwich. I don't beg. I did steal one, once, when I was desperate, an egg-and-cress sandwich. I were pretty sure the young lady had no intention of eating it."
"It isn't much," he said. "I'm hungry, yes."
He was rummaging behind the tomb in the shrine, and came out with another canvas satchel, a sketch-book, a candle stub and what looked like a roll of clothing, tied with string.
"How did you get in?" Julian persisted.
"Followed the horses and carts. You know, they turn in and drive down a ramp into these underground parts. And they unload and pack things with a deal of bustle, and it's easy enough to mingle wi' them, wi' the carters and lads, and get in."
"And the upstairs door?" Julian queried. "Which is meant to be locked at all times."
"I came across a little key."
"Aye. Came across. I'll give it back. Here, take it."
"It must be horribly frightening, down here alone at night."
"Not near so frightening as t'streets in t'East End. Not near."
Julian said "Please come with me now. You must come and explain all this to my father. He's talking to Tom's mother. This is Tom. Tom Wellwood. I'm Julian Cain."
Meet the Author
A. S. Byatt is the author of numerous novels, including the quartet The Virgin in the Garden, Still Life, Babel Tower, and A Whistling Woman; The Biographer's Tale; and Possession, which was awarded the Booker Prize. She has also written two novellas, published together as Angels & Insects; five collections of shorter works, including The Matisse Stories and Little Black Book of Stories; and several works of nonfiction. A distinguished critic as well as a novelist, she lives in London.
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The Children's Book is a collection of fantasies--not just Olive Wellwood's evolving children's stories and Stern's marionette shows, but the fantasies lived out by the adults in the decades leading up to the first World War. The exposé of these fantasies is at the heart of the novel. Olive and Humphrey believe in the fantasy of free love: that it causes no jealousy between spouses, nor that it damages any of the seven children in their household, born from various liaisons yet raised to believe they are true siblings. Love, sad to say, does not conquer all, and some in the novel who give it too freely pay a heavy price. Another fantasy: that freedom allows children to grow up happy and full of potential; but freedom taken too far borders upon neglect, and not all children are by nature independent. Another set of fantasies: that art can change the course of world events, and that genius is always to be indulged for its own sake. The list goes on and on. Like the characters' fantasy lives, Olive Wellwood's stories are delightfully magical on the surface yet dark and dangerous underneath. The novel's style and structure are inseparable, both building on the possibilities and threats in the space between fantasy and reality, between the Victorian age and the new post-world war period. Some readers have complained about excessive details in the first part of the novel; others complain about the brevity of the last. I feel this is intentional on Byatt's part, a verbal realization of the changing cultural and political milieu. The late Victorian period was still addicted to rigid social morés and manners, embellishment of one's person and one's home, etc.--and, as such, it gave birth to a myriad of reactionary movements, most of them equally pompous in their moral (or amoral) certitude. On the other hand, the rapid and extensive devastation of the war, a political killing machine gone amuck, left people back home stunned and empty--as reflected in Byatt's quickfire, almost callous list of the young men, fantasy-world Fludds and Cains and Wellwoods, cut down by a reality beyond their once-imagined control. Like Stern's marionettes, the novel's human characters live in a fantasy world, unaware of the strings that manipulate their actions. Yes, the book is massive and complex, and it takes some concentration to keep track of the various characters and their relations to one another. It's the kind of book that, when you finish it, you need to think about it for awhile, and then you know that you will need to read it again to fully appreciate its genius.
I wanted to read Byatt's new novel about the childhood of the WWI generation, looking forward to her beautiful description and use of multiple voices. "The Children's Book" did not disappoint. Beautiful prose, complete with fairy tales and poems "written" by her characters. A sad novel, too, because there is a sense of the inevitable in the characters but very well-worth the time spent reading.
The Eerie Coterie's first nominated "Dark Pages" selection is one of the best books of 2009. As our fall Conversation Group choice you are in for one breathtaking ride. The Children's Book is a Victorian novel encompassed by the Wellwoods and the Fludds, two families of unending mystery. Olive Wellwood is a children's book writer and creates a different story for each of her own children. A.S. Byatt is one of those rare writers who can tackle themes buffered by fairy tales, supernatural elements, mythology and magic and give you a tale so beautifully entwined with real life moments that it always comes out believable. The Eerie Coterie is proud to have THE CHILDREN'S BOOK by A.S. Byatt be our Fall 2009 featured title. The book jacket alone is worth it for you to pick up.
I was extremely disappointed with this book. It evoked a sense of frustration and confusion. The author introduces a few characters and I honestly don't think there was a main character. For a minute I thought Olive might be the heroine of the story but her story went nowhere. I don't mind the fact that there were so many characters, but I do mind that each character wasn't developed. I didn't fall in love or care deeply about any of them, since the author didn't talk in depth about any of them. She introduced them to me, gave me a glance into their lives, but I didn't feel any connection with any of them, well except for one character who is Tom but he was short lived. The ending was sad, yes, I didn't feel sad or hurt or sympathy or any feeling of loss, I didn't know any of the characters to care so much about what happened to any of them , and I was very very happy that the book was over and done with.
The Children’s Book is the fifth stand-alone novel my British author, Antonia S. Byatt. This novel spans about a quarter of a century, starting in 1895, and tells the story of children’s author, Olive Wellwood, her extended family, friends and acquaintances. Against a backdrop of Victorian, then Edwardian then World War One England, Byatt creates a dynasty that is exposed to Imperialists, Socialists, Fabians, Malthusians, Theosophists, and revolutionaries. Jung, Freud, Oscar Wilde, H.G.Wells, Lalique, women’s suffrage, the Victoria and Albert Museum, and the Grande Exposition in Paris all play their part. This family is involved, not just in children’s literature, but also pottery, jewellery making, puppeteering, fairy mythology, plays and Art and Craft Summer Camps. Byatt intersperses the narrative with Olive’s fiction and, later, poetry by one of the children. As the children of the various families grow and develop, they come to realise that the adults they trust and rely on are not what they seem, and secrets are revealed that change lives. Adultery is rife in this novel, as are births where parentage is suspect; suicides and war deaths take their toll too. Byatt’s descriptions are highly evocative: pottery, puppets and nature are almost tangible. The Lalique brooch on the cover of this edition presages the sumptuous work within. A magical read.
I am about halfway through the book and am thoroughly enjoying the experience. The language is beautiful and the characters engaging. It's one of those books that you can read slowly over time; not a page-turner, but a book that you look forward to going back to every time you put it down for awhile. At first, I had trouble keeping all the characters straight and had to go back into the book to remind myself who everyone was, but now there is more of a focus on three of four characters so it's a bit easier to manage. So far, so good. I recommend the book.
The Children's Book by A.S. Byatt is well written, delightful, informative and fun. At times, A.S. Byatt is a bit pedantic in her need to unfurl the history of Great Britain at the turn of the 19th to 20th Centuries. However, she successfully weaves all the elements of the times into her tale, including: art, politics, theater, music, literature, philosophy, economics and sociology. The book is the story of the Wellwood family and their friends. Olivia Wellwood writes children's tales using her own children for inspiration, as well as encorporating the tales that they invent with her, in their individual books, into her published books and towards the end of the book - her play. The reader watches the children grow as the times change. Lives of light, joy, sensuality, frivolity, fecklessness, darken as the times change and World War 1 approaches, and, in the cases of the individual children, as the realities of adulthood replace the magical childhood that their mother had created for them. The Arts and Crafts movement delightfully whirls around the family, their friends and acquaintances. There are emotional and political dramas; actions have repercussions at times many years later and even at least one suggested repercussion that will occur beyond the scope of the book. There is a lot going on and it is all artfully done, it is never overwhelming. This is a thoroughly enjoyable read!
A web of relationships among several families involved in the arts, science and social movements during England's and Germany's Belle Époche. Children's stories, the Victoria and Albert Museum, craft pottery, puppet theater-Byatt covers an exhaustive range of topics and historical figures from that time. But, to me, she does it flawlessly as always. Her command of subject and her writing is a treasure. Those who have trouble with lots of characters in novels would do well to make a list. The children, particularly, all come and go through the years. It's not just one person's story, but Phillip, the apprentice potter 'rescued' from the museum, and Dorothy, one family's determined-to-be-different daughter, give hope that class and circumstance will somehow give way to something more that transcends this time and this place. Highly recommended. One of the best books I've read this year.
This is a great book in its scope and originality. At least, I've never read anything like it before and it was the first novel by Byatt that I've read. I loved the characters and the various historical figures that come in and out of the novel. I love how Byatt evokes a strong sense of place no matter if we are in England, Germany or France. Her knowledge of England at the turn of the 19th century is astounding. If you like historical fiction than this is for you! Also if you want to learn a few things or simply love art, this is for you! My only criticism of this book is that at times it becomes tedious as Byatt tends to stray away from the action of the story and jumps into page long explanations of background information that tends to bore. I think it could've been a bit shorter and I think the ending wraps up to suddenly and comes off as slightly contrived. I would recommend this to someone who is looking for an intellectual and thought provoking book, not someone looking for a quick read. I read fast and it took me two months while reading other books to get through this dense novel!
This is an extraordinary novel! It is at once a deep and rich narrative of an all too human family in all its darkness and at the same time a breathtakingly scholarly depiction of a period of human history - its politics, its sociology, its arts, its system of education, and especially the struggle of women. One comes away with the same kind of feeling that one might get from hearing a master professor give his [her!] best lecture of the year. I loved Possession, but I found this to be an even richer experience. I will be giving this book to my children and to my friends as one of the best novels I have read in some time! READ THIS BOOK!
For an author with such glowing remarks about her books, I found this a tedious book to read and honestly, could not finish. It was as though Ms. Byatt was trying to impress with her choice of words, descriptions of dress, furniture and locale, but all it did was confuse and wear me out.
An exceptional, involving, complex novel.
This book took me a very long time to read because it is not very gripping. At the same time everytime I went to read The Children's Book I was excited to see what was coming next. Throughout the entire book the reader gets to watch a great variety of people go through life and learn many different lessons and I personally really enjoyed it. I am happy to read any book that can take the reader through the whole spectrum of emotions from happiness to anger and everything in between, and this book definitely does just that. The book starts off a bit slow but once the reader gets to know the characters and connect with some the story becomes really a great read. I definitely recommend The Children's Book to any reader.
AS Byatt presents her readers with a historical panorama full of rich characters. Her story moves through the lives of a Bohemian family and their friends at a pace that is perhaps slow, but it allow breathing room for the characters and has you invest in the lives of the children we watch grow up through the tale. One of Byatt's favorite themes, the idea of fairy stories and passing along inventions and tales comes through very strong. It feels much stronger character and narrative-wise than her novel Possession, which lacked the blood and passion that this novel has more of.
I loved this book and another of her books, not available electronically.