I reread after a long time I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith and was struck by just how sensual the book is. Every single sense, and a lot of sex, sex everywhere. Cassandra, the narrator, is one of the great voices in 20th century literature, the grandmother in some ways of the teenaged Alison in The End of the Fucking World, and her awakening to adulthood is a profound pleasure.
As the eldest sister myself, it’s rather sad how we are always beautiful and dim and out to find a man in some way. I was never all three, and certainly identified more with the Elizabeth Bennetts, the Jo Marshes and of course the Cassandra Mortmains.
It has one of the great opening lines in literature: ‘I write this sitting in the kitchen sink’ and one of the great closings as well, that I won’t, however, spoil.
I’m not sure what to make of how it deals with class and gender. It passed me by completely when I first read it, of course, when I was only immersed in British fiction of a certain period which was naturally told from the point of view of gentlefolk. Amazing how easily this entire troupe of well born do-nothings manages during appears to be the Depression, supported only by their servant’s son who does all the handiwork and contributes his wages. But at least he is allowed to be a feasible love interest, has a bright future ahead of him, and Cassandra recognises how they exploit and depend on him. Interesting also that it’s Cassandra herself who feels a responsbility to do the housework for her father and brother, whereas they themselves appear to be perfectly happy managing (or sponging) for themselves.
A story that is very dear to me, though not one that I consider comfort reading unlike, say, Cold Comfort Farm which is mentally filed in the same box.