I’ve spent the past few years researching and writing my latest novel Psykhe, which is a retelling of the ancient Greek myth of Eros and Psykhe. It’s the source of one of the world’s best-known and most beloved fairy tales, ‘Beauty and the Beast’, and so is romantic, fantastical and full of wonder. It also presented me with a difficult challenge. How do you reimagine such a well-known story and still create a captivating and compelling narrative?
Whenever I want to learn how to do something in my fiction, I turn to the works of writers whose work excites and inspires me, and moves me in some way. And it’s an added bonus if they are stupendously successful in their field too, for this is a competitive and demanding industry that we work in, and people do not become international bestsellers in this industry without being very good at what they do.
So I was reading a great many favourite books, and feeling again that wonderful sensation of being utterly immersed in a story, unable to put the book down. I knew that is is what I wanted my readers to experience when they read Psykhe – that feeling of narrative transportation, of the book being so good, so real, that you forget that you are reading. But I needed to know how to create that in my own work.
Around the same time, Valerie Khoo of the Australian Writers Centre came to me and suggested we develop one of my most successful series of workshops - History, Mystery and Magic – into an intensive, online course that could be undertaken at the participants’ own pace. So I began to overhaul the workshops in the course, deepening and enriching them and bringing them up to date.
And because I was engaged myself in writing a novel, with all the pitfalls and problems that entails, I focused very much on making the course as practical and useful as I could.
My idea was to study five of the world’s most popular genres of fiction, and learn as much from each of them as I could, then apply those lessons to my own writing. And so tonight I want to share with you five essential lessons I learned while undertaking this careful in-depth analysis.
Historical Fiction has the power to transport the reader to a different time and place, making us feel we are time travellers. The best historical fiction is built on meticulous research, presented in a vivid and compelling manner to create a seamless blend of history and story. It illuminates history in a different way than textbooks, and gives the reader a deeply immersive reading experience. It is this sensation of being utterly engrossed in the story that draws me so powerfully to the genre. I think its absolutely crucial. But how do you do it? Here are my 3 best tips:
The second genre of fiction I delved into is Crime and Mystery. This is not a genre I write, but I knew I had a lot to learn from it about narrative tension, suspense and pace. It was also very useful to me because crime fiction is one which has a set conventional structure:
And so writers in that genre must seek other ways to make their narrative compulsively readable.
I too was working with a set narrative structure – the well-known story of Psykhe’s descent to the underworld – and so any techniques I could pick up from crime writers about making my book a page-turner going to be of use to me.
I also realised that the primary appeal of mystery and suspense novels is the triumph of good over evil, right over wrong, order over chaos. In other words, resolution. To deliver a pleasurable reading experience, we must give the reader a sense of closure, a feeling that order has been restored. And so reading crime helped me think about my own novel ending, and how I could best resolve the action and themes of my story.
Here are my 3 best tips on how to achieve that big happy sigh of satisfaction you get when you finish a beautifully resolved novel:
I wanted to learn from the best how to give readers the kind of comfort reading they yearned for, while still making my story feel fresh and unique. Romance is not a genre driven by suspense. Readers generally know how the book will end (and can be made very unhappy if they are cheated of their Happy Ever After). So romance writers need to be very adept at creating new stories on tried-and-true plot patterns, which is what I was doing with my retelling of the myth of Psykhe and Eros, one of the oldest romances known.
Fantasy fiction deals in ideas of the impossible. Readers must willingly suspend their disbelief if they are to become fully emotionally engaged with the story – this is called ‘poetic faith’. The fantasy writer has to make it easy for the reader to suspend their disbelief – and they do this by inviting the reader to actively bring their intelligence and imagination to the task of co-creating the world and all that exists within it.
A writer can do that by:
Originally, History, Mystery and Magic only concentrated on four genres, but so many people asked me about magic realism that I extended the course to five modules, so that I could deconstruct and decipher that little-understood genre as well.
Basically, Magic Realism is a genre of fiction in which strange, magical or uncanny events happen in a narrative that is otherwise grounded in reality.
It is a genre which often employs poetic devices to heighten and intensify mood, atmosphere and meaning.
The use of symbol, imagery, metaphor and archetype connects us to the subconscious and so to the dreaming mind. It means that words and images have both a literal meaning, readily understood by the reader, but also deeper, more mysterious meanings
A lot of aspiring authors focus so much on the mechanisms of character, plot, and setting that they forget the importance of using archetype, metaphor and symbol to create layers of hidden meaning in your work.
Remember, prose is like music, it is driven by rhythm and sound dynamics. The more consciously you work on creating a powerful recurring beat, the more the reader will be drawn into the story and be unable to put it down.
To wrap up, I want to read you a quote from Ursula le Guin, one of the ten authors whose work I examine in History, Mystery and Magic. She said:
“To make something well is to give yourself to it, to seek wholeness, to follow spirit. To learn to make something well can take your whole life. It’s worth it.”
I am always hungry to learn as much as I can about the art and craft of writing – I hope to spend the rest of my life learning and trying to be the very best writer I can be.
Thank you.
You can find links to my works on my website or learn more about my writing process from my blogs.
My books are available for purchase at your local bookstore or online retailers: Goodreads, Amazon
Paul Morgan is the author of two previous novels, The Pelagius Book and Turner's Paintbox, both published by Penguin. He was born in London, educated at the University of Wales, where he studied Philosophy and English, and lives in Melbourne, Australia. His most recent novel is The Winter Palace.
In 1939, Anton, a captain in the Polish army, says goodbye to his wife, Elisabeth, and goes to defend his country. They make a vow that – whatever happens, however much time passes – they’ll meet again at the Winter Palace, their stately home in the Polish countryside.
The winds of war draw them far apart. Anton is captured and sent to Siberia as a POW. He eventually joins a lost army that battles through snowstorms and scorching deserts in Central Asia to find freedom. Anton survives, driven by his determination to join Elisabeth again. She, meanwhile, is forced to be the ‘mistress’ of a Nazi officer before escaping to join the Polish resistance.
As the war ends, Anton and Elisabeth are at the opposite ends of the world. Anton is in Australia. Elisabeth is in Poland, awaiting his return for months and then years. Will they ever meet again at the Winter Palace?
The novel is based on the true story of the abduction of thousands of Polish people by Russia, to work as slaves, and their subsequent odyssey before finding freedom.
The seed was planted long ago, possibly in childhood. When I was ten years-old, my family moved from London to a remote village in Wales, far from my friends and familiar streets, south of the river. With time, I learned to speak Welsh and love that land in the far west of Britain. Years later, I emigrated to Australia. Melbourne is where I’ve long been happily settled, yet I still feel at home in Llanfihangel Genau’r Glyn or in Wandsworth.
There’s a Welsh word – ‘hiraeth’ – which has no exact English translation, but evokes a mixture of homesickness, longing, and a painful, sweet yearning for a place far away or long ago – a place or a time to which you can never return. Once you leave somewhere, you can never really go back. It changes. You change. The world changes.
I feel this deeply myself. It’s an emotion shared keenly by all emigrants and refugees, of course. And around one in three Australians were born overseas, after all. It has even wider relevance because we are all exiles, in time. The past is lost to us. Remember those precious childhood moments? The day you moved into your first-ever home? The last time you spoke with a family member before they died? All gone. How is it possible to move on in the present while our hearts are bound to the past?
This is the dilemma I gave to my characters in The Winter Palace, set against the incredible true story of the wartime Polish odyssey, spanning the world from Poland to Siberia, Palestine, and eventually Australia.
The first spark was reading about how Stalinist Russia kept prisoners-of-war long after the conflict ended. Many were not released until the mid-1950s, with their families ignorant of whether they were dead or alive. I imagined them waiting for year after year, not wanting to give up on their loved one. This chimed with my own feelings about time passing and the importance of memories and art to make sense of the past, to reconcile it with the present. When I then discovered an account of the Polish exile and odyssey, I knew I had my story.
I played with the idea for over ten years, but only started work in earnest after spending time in Poland to do research. And then there was all the rewriting; it took three major drafts before it was ready for submission.
The great challenge with any historical fiction is to be ruthless about cutting material that’s you find personally interesting (especially if you’ve invested a great deal of effort uncovering it) but which will clog up the story for the reader. You wouldn’t believe how much fascinating material I uncovered but thankfully left unused about Polish fashion in the 1930s, Soviet machine guns, and the politics of Palestine during the war!
I start by drawing a great arc on a piece of paper with a texta, a line of the story as it swoops up and down and up again. I then attach key episodes to this line . . . after that I start writing, scene by scene, chapter by chapter. After a first draft written by hand, Scrivener is a great help in keeping the mountains of research under control and maintaining discipline over the text. Keeping a timeline from the start is essential too, to avoid having a spring day follow summer, or jumbling up historical events when sections are moved.
The protagonists of The Winter Palace are a recently-married couple: Anton, a Polish aristocrat, landowner, and cavalry officer, and Elisabeth, his wife. He is idealistic, patriotic, and somewhat naïve. She is clever but happy to spend her life looking after their country house. Spoiler alert: things go catastrophically downhill for them after that, with many adventures, before they emerge, still alive, at the end of the war. Both change and grow dramatically after what they have experienced. Anton ends up as a penniless refugee in Australia, while Elisabeth . . . well, you’ll have to read the book!
I find it relatively easy to imagine and ‘inhabit’ a character – to become them as an actor becomes someone on stage, taking on their mannerisms and a way of speaking. As Flaubert famously wrote, ‘Madame Bovary, c’est moi’. It’s true. I guess I unconsciously draw on how I’ve felt at different times in my own life as well.
Guilty as charged.
I spent many years analysing how texts work, but didn’t dare to submit any of my own writing for publication. It was fear of criticism and rejection, I suppose. You can only progress when you learn to shrug your shoulders at rejections, and to welcome criticism from people you respect. I’ve been very lucky with my agent and editors.
I wish I was one of those people who can write in a busy café. To be really productive, though, I need isolation and silence. This means getting away regularly to spend time alone without distraction. House-sitting for generous friends makes a big difference. I don’t need much: just enough room for my Macbook and a kettle for the dozen cups of tea I make during the day (some of which I actually remember to drink).
The first part and the last. The excitement of the first carefree days when inspiration starts to flow. The final days when working with an editor to perfect the text. Why we put ourselves through the agony of the middle part – actually writing a book – is a mystery.
I don’t know that feeling.
Daydreaming. Watching people. Reading incessantly, and keeping my eyes open.
A clear desk. A big Rhodia notebook. My Pelikan fountain pen full of ink and ready for action. My Macbook fully charged.
Choosing just ten is tough. Among Australians, the wonderful Patrick White, Shirley Hazzard, and David Malouf. Then the masters, Proust, Tolstoy, and Nabokov. I’m away from my library, but names that jump to mind are Georges Simenon, James Baldwin, Michel Houellebecq, and Zadie Smith. A sure sign of a good writer is when I feel a spurt of jealousy after reading a particularly effective sentence.
The model of good writing I keep in mind is curiously a Hitchcock movie script. The characters are so lightly drawn yet so memorable. The action keeps you famously on the edge of your seat. There’s humour alongside the horror. And yet beneath the expert storytelling there are dark tides of emotion which tell a more subtle tale. This is the case with all good writing – including your own, of course.
Read a lot. Twice. First for pleasure, and then again to analyse how the text works. Why did the author do this or that? How are they economically creating characters and tension? How do they handle time passing? Could anything have been left out? How does that compare with your own writing? Are you clogging your stories’ arteries with too much detail?
I’m well into writing a new spy novel. Like The Winter Palace, it’s based on a true but little-known episode in the Second World War, and set in the neutral countries, the ‘ghost Europe’ that existed alongside the countries at war. In Sweden, Ireland, Iceland, Portugal, Spain, and Switzerland, life continued peacefully while battles raged across the continent. All was not what is seemed, however, and the Germans and the allies both vied for influence and resources in the neutral countries. The people of countries like Sweden also faced the moral dilemma of whether to take up arms against the horrors of Nazism or to save themselves by acquiescing in the occupation of Europe by the Germans. My heroes, another couple, are at the centre of this maelstrom.
You can connect with Paul and learn more about his beautiful book through his website & social media:
Website: www.paulmorgan.com
Instagram: paulmorganwriter
Facebook: paulmorganwriter
The Blurb:
If he had died, I would know it in my heart.
In 1939, Anton, a captain in the Polish army, says goodbye to his wife, Elisabeth. He is leaving to defend their homeland against the invasion by Nazi Germany and Russia. They make a vow that – whatever happens, however much time passes – they’ll meet again at the Winter Palace, their stately home in the Polish countryside.
The winds of war draw them far apart. Anton is captured and sent to Siberia as a POW. He eventually joins a lost army that battles through snowstorms and scorching deserts in Central Asia to find freedom. Anton survives, driven by his determination to join Elisabeth again. She, meanwhile, is forced to be the ‘mistress’ of a Nazi officer before escaping to join the Polish resistance.
As the war ends, Anton and Elisabeth are at the opposite ends of the world. Anton is in Australia. Elisabeth is in Poland, awaiting his return for months and then years. Will they ever meet again at the Winter Palace?
From 1930s Europe to present-day Australia, this is a sweeping story of love that cannot be broken by time, distance, war or even death.
My thoughts:
I have always been drawn to novels set during the Second World War, perhaps because I grew up hearing the stories of my grandfathers and great-uncles who all fought in different ways and who all suffered as a result. I’m also interested in stories of courage and defiance. I often wonder what I would have done if I had lived in those times. Would I have been brave? Would I have resisted?
Poland is one theatre of war that I think has been unjustly overlooked. I have written a story called ‘The Blessing’ about the Battle of Warsaw and its terrible cost (published in The Silver Well). I love Kelly Rimmer’s two books set there, The Things We Cannot Say and The Warsaw Orphan and wept buckets over Sophie’s Choice as a teenager, and so I am always on the lookout for books that bring that tragic period of history to life.
As soon as I heard about Paul Morgan’s new novel, I was keen to read it. A haunting tale of love, loss, and new beginnings, The Winter Palace tells the story of a young husband and wife torn apart by fate whose love for each other sustains them through all the horror and heartbreak of the Second World War. Deftly and sensitively written, this is a book about the valour of ordinary people in extraordinary times and about the importance of hope and resilience when it seems all is lost.
Told in alternate chapters between Anton, a young Polish officer, and his wife Elisabeth, The Winter Palace draws on the fascinating true story of Anders’ Army, named for Władysław Anders, the commanding officer of the Polish army who had to fight the forces of both Hitler and Stalin on two fronts. Anton is part of that force and, like many Polish soldiers, ended up as Russian prisoners-of-war, used as slave labour in Siberia. After the German invasion of the Soviet Union in 1941, Russia swapped sides and so the Polish prisoners-of-war were eventually released. A new Polish army was created on Soviet soil, and then marched hundreds of miles to the Middle East and Italy, where they fought bravely and with great honour. It's a fascinating story, and Paul Morgan brings it vividly to life. I was just as interested in Elisabeth’s story, which is equally compelling. Left behind in Warsaw, she is forced into sexual slavery and tattooed with a number preceded by the letters FH (meaning feld-hure or ‘field whore’). It’s an aspect of life in occupied Poland I did not know about. These two narrative threads are woven together to create a story that feels so real and urgent, I wondered if it was based on a true story, perhaps even on family history. But as Paul explains in his interview with me (link to interview), he was inspired by stories of people who lost their loved ones in the war, not knowing if they were dead or alive or what had happened to them, and how they must have waited, hoping always for news. It’s a heart-wrenching situation, and one that I have not seen explored in fiction before.
Here is an old German tale about he first Christmas tree, retold by me:
A long time ago, in a small kingdom in Germany, there lived a young and handsome count, named Stoneheart by his people because he never fell in love, not once, no matter how pretty the girls brought to his notice.
One snowy Christmas Eve, Count Stoneheart and his court rode out to hunt in the great forest that surrounded his castle. They galloped deep into the forest, deeper than they had ever ridden before, till they were far from home. A white hart leaped through the forest, and Count Stoneheart whipped up his horse and raced after it, his courtiers streaming behind him. The hart ran so fast and so far that the hunt could not keep up; soon only Count Stoneheart was still in pursuit.
Then the hart leapt through a hedge of thorns and disappeared. Count Stoneheart found himself alone in the forest, with no idea of the way home. For as far as the eye could see, the trees stretched, black against the white. A raven called. Twilight fell.
In the clearing ahead was a pool of green water, somehow free of the ice that hung from every twig and thorn. Count Stoneheart dismounted and knelt by the pool to drink. To his surprise, the water was warm. He dipped both hands in, so he could wash his face, and felt a small, soft hand grasp his, slipping from his finger the ring he always wore.
Amazed, the count sat back on his heels, staring into the pool. He saw a quick glimpse of the most enchantingly beautiful face he had ever seen, surrounded by swirling tendrils of black hair. The woman in the pool smiled at him, then turned and dived, with a flash of small bare feet.
In the distance, Count Stoneheart heard the call of the hunting horns and the baying of the hounds. He sat still, however, staring into the pool, calling to the woman to return.
It was not long before his courtiers found him, sitting in the twilight by a pool that steamed gently in the freezing air. Together they rode back to the castle, all filled with amazement at his story of the mysterious woman in the pool who had taken his ring.
‘You must have found the Fairy Well,’ said the oldest and wisest of his councillors. ‘It has been a long time since I have heard of it.’
‘You must be careful,’ said his old nursemaid. ‘One shouldn’t meddle with the Fair Folk. Nothing good will come of it.’
‘We shall ride to the well in the morning and drain it dry,’ cried the castle constable. ‘How dare those fairies steal your ring!’
‘I didn’t mind,’ the count said, feeling again that soft hand in his.
When Count Stoneheart retired to bed that night, he could not sleep. He lay twisting and turning till midnight, when suddenly he heard the sound of the most beautiful music. He leapt up from his bed and, drawing his velvet cloak about him, ran down the stairs. A great hammering on the front doors resounded through the castle.
Count Stoneheart flung open the doors and saw before him a crowd of the strangest and most beautiful creatures he had ever seen. Some were tall and dressed in leaves, with flowers twined in their hair. Others were short and hairy, with squashed noses and eyes like slits. Some fluttered about in the air like huge butterflies, while others slithered in, their scaly bodies undulating like snakes. Leaping musicians played pipes and drums, and Count Stoneheart found himself standing in the midst of a wild and joyous dance, as his unexpected visitors twirled and whirled in through the door.
The fairy folk carried in a tall fir tree and set it in the centre of the hall, and then, holding hands, they danced about it. The tree was hung with glittering icicles and frost flowers that shone like stars in the candlelight. Count Stoneheart stood speechless, gazing at all this beauty and wonder.
Then the most beautiful woman Count Stoneheart had ever seen danced towards him, laughing. Dressed in a flowing mantle of green, she wore a crown of holly berries on her flowing, raven-black hair. ‘I am Elfrieda, the Queen of the Fairies,’ she said. ‘I have come to return your midwinter visit, and to give back to you what was lost in the Fairy Well.’
She held out her hand and there in her palm was the lost ring. Count Stoneheart took back his ring and bent his head to kiss her soft palm, and she smiled and drew him into the dance.
All night the count and the fairy queen danced about that mysterious glittering tree, the haunting music keeping all weariness from him. At last, at dawn, the singing and dancing stopped, and the fairy folk turned to flee. But Count Stoneheart seized Elfrieda’s hand and would not let her go.
‘Please stay with me,’ he begged. ‘I have fallen in love with you. Stay and be my bride.’
‘I will stay with you,’ Queen Elfrieda replied, holding both his hands in her own. ‘For I too have fallen in love with you. However, you must make me a faithful promise. You must never say the word “death” in my presence. Can you swear that for me?’
‘Of course,’ the Count replied, filled with joy.
They were married the very next day.
A year passed happily, and the Queen gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. Winter once again mantled the land with snow, and Count Stoneheart decided to go hunting in the forest on Christmas Eve, as he had done the previous year.
The horses were saddled and bridled and brought to the gate, but his wife was not ready. Count Stoneheart waited impatiently, the horses stamping their hooves and blowing white steam through their nostrils. Still the Queen was not ready. The dogs shivered and whined, and the huntsmen rubbed their hands together and blew into them. Still the Queen was not ready.
At last, as the last of the daylight slipped away, the Queen came down, looking very beautiful in her green velvet riding dress and feathered hat.
Count Stoneheart cried, ‘As slow as you are, you’d be a good messenger to send for Death!’
As soon as his wife heard the forbidden word on his lips, she gave a wild cry. A whirlwind caught her up and bore her away. Desperately she caught at the stone archway above the castle gate, trying to stay, but the wind was too strong. She disappeared into the dusk, only the sound of her scream lingering in the air.
Although Count Stoneheart searched all through the forest and all through the land, he never saw her again. All that was left of her was the imprint of her small hand in the stone archway.
Every Christmas Eve till he died, Count Stoneheart set up a fir tree in his great hall, and decorated it with sparkling jewels and lighted candles, to try and recapture the magic of the fairy tree. He would sit beside it with his son and tell him the story of how he had first met his mother, and how he had lost her through his pride and impatience. When his son grew up, he too celebrated Christmas with a fir tree from the forest, and the practise slowly spread throughout the land, till every house had its tree hung with shimmering lights each Christmas Eve.
Count Stoneheart’s castle lies in ruins now, though the archway still stands, with the shape of a small, desperate hand still imprinted upon it.
The story was originally published around 1866 as ‘The Christmas Fairy Of Strasburg’ by J. Stirling Coyne, said to be adapted from an old German folktale. My retelling of the story was first published in ‘Gramayre’ (Issue 2, Winter 2012), but as since been republished in Once Upon A Christmas, edited by Beattie Alvarez, First Christmas Press (2014) and translated into German and published in Hinter Dornenhecken und Zauberspiegeln, Drachenmond Verlag, (2016).
Kate Forsyth – keynote speech at the Historical Novel Society Australasia conference, October 2023
When I was a little girl, the two things I loved most in the world were gardens and stories.
I had lots of the second. My mother and my grandmother made sure of that.
But I didn't have a garden. We lived in my father's vet hospital and all it had was a concrete yard and a hills hoist contained within high stone walls.
But a jacaranda tree grew on the other side of the wall. Every spring it dropped a magic carpet of soft purple flowers over the wall for me. I thought they looked like fairy ballgowns. I used to collect the fallen petals - and leaves and sticks and stones - and I created little enchanted gardens for myself. Whoever planted that tree never knew what joy it brought into my life. Indeed, they might never have seen its beauty for themselves as jacaranda trees take many years to grow.
Many of you will know that a savage attack by a dog when I was a toddler meant that I had a childhood confined by chronic illness. My world was bounded by the metal bars of my hospital bed. But I discovered something that changed my life. I discovered that it did not matter how sick I was, or how sad, or how mad … if I opened the pages of a book I'd be transported to another time and another world and for a while I'd be someone else, living a very different life. Stories taught me how to imagine myself into other people’s skins, how to be someone other than myself.
As a little girl, I had a particular love of those stories of enchantment and peril and transformation that we call fairy tales. And, unsurprisingly for a girl cursed to be sick and kept in stasis, one of my favourites was Sleeping Beauty. It is a story in which a girl is struck down by a terrible spell and must sleep for 100 years. When the curse is broken and the Sleeping Princess awakens, the whole world wakes with her.
As a writer, I am always drawn to stories that carry mystery in their heart. For me, the unanswered question at the heart of Sleeping Beauty is - what would it be like to sleep for 100 years and then wake up?
This question is so central to my fascination with Sleeping Beauty that when I came to engage with it in my novel ‘Beauty in Thorns’, it became my opening line:
‘Imagine falling asleep for 100 years. Would it not be awful?’ Georgie McDonald whispered to her sister.
Carrie gave her a quick crooked smile but the shabby young man who sat at Georgie’s feet laughed. ‘Why? I think it would be marvellous. … just think of it ! What new discoveries would have been made, what new inventions?’
That shabby young man was Ned Jones who would grow up to be the Pre-Raphaelite artist Edward Burne-Jones. He painted many different versions of Sleeping Beauty, including a monumental series called ‘The Legend of Briar Rose’ which caused a public sensation and was sold for 15,000 guineas, the most money a British artist had ever been paid.
My novel ‘Beauty in Thorns’ tells the story behind this painting, told mainly from the point of view of Georgie Macdonald, who grew up to be Edward Burne-Jones’s wife, and their daughter, Margot, who was the model for the sleeping princess in the painting.
The lives of women can be hard to research. Often they are invisible in the historical record. This is true of Margot Burne-Jones. Her artist-father has reams written about him, but his daughter is just the face of his most famous painting.
One thing I found very difficult to discover was the date of Margot's birthday. It took me absolute ages digging through parish records and the like. But on the day I discovered it, I felt the most extraordinary chill all over my body.
You see Margot Burne-Jones was born on the 3rd of June 1866 and I was born on the 3rd of June 1966 - exactly 100 years later. This discovery illuminated so much for me. It made me realise just how much the world had changed in those 100 years - how far we had come, how much we had won.
When Margot was seventeen and began to pretend to be a sleeping princess so her father could paint her, women’s lives were rigidly restrained physically and psychologically. There were no public lavatories for women, so they could never travel far from home. The fashion of the day kept them hobbled and the laws of the day kept them utterly subservient.
Women could not gain a university degree in Great Britain – they were first allowed to attend university in 1868, when Margot was two, but they could not graduate with a degree until 1920 at Oxford University and 1947 at Cambridge University.
Women could not work as doctors or lawyers or engineers. The first woman ever to qualify as a doctor was Dr James Barry, who was born female but dressed as a man from the age of twenty to attend medical school. He was only revealed to be she when they died in 1865, the year before Margot was born.
In that same year, Elizabeth Garrett Anderson became the first woman to openly qualify as a doctor, after exploiting a loophole in the rules. These rules were immediately tightened to stop other women from qualifying. The British Medical Association only accepted female doctors in 1892.
Women could not own property or sign contracts, and if they worked, they could not keep their own wages.
And, of course, women had no right to vote. Margot and her mother Georgie marched in the streets for women’s suffrage. Two years before Georgie died, she saw the law changed so that rich women over the age of 30 could vote. She proudly did so. Margot saw the passing of universal suffrage in 1928, when she was 62 years old.
However, her brother Philip - who was gay – was still facing the threat of criminal prosecution for his sexuality. The year he was born, the law was changed so that gay men were not executed for their so-called crime, but faced ten years’ hard labour instead. One of Philip’s friends, Oscar Wilde, suffered this punishment in 1895. Homosexuality was only decriminalised in the UK in 1967, one hundred and one years after Margot was born.
Here in Australia, we are proud of the fact that we were one of the earliest to grant the right to vote to most Australian men and women. The key word here, of course, is most. Because, as we all should know, Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander men and women had to fight until 1962 to be granted that right to vote. 1962! Only four years before I was born. And the Aboriginal Land Rights Act which finally recognised the dispossession of our First Nations people was not passed until 1983, when I was 17.
That is the year that Margot would have woken if she had pricked her finger on a spindle and been cursed to sleep for 100 years.
What would she have seen when she woke up?
What marvellous inventions, what wonderful new discoveries?
Cars, trains, planes, robots, computers, mobile phones, antibiotics, artificial hearts, X-rays, the contraceptive pill, public toilets, miniskirts, bikinis, sneakers, daycare centres, abortion clinics, civil rights marches, the Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras, the Aboriginal Tent embassy, women in space.
Right now it feels as if we are all stuck in stasis, that it’s impossible to change the world for the better. We fear for the future of this beautiful planet of ours, we fear what kind of world we have made for our children. We face immense challenges – climate change, genocide, massacres, pandemics, prejudice and intolerance, refugees, terrorism, war.
When will we learn from the mistakes of the past? People ask.
To learn from the past we need to know it. And that is why historical fiction is so important. Historical fiction illuminates both the past and the way forward, it shows us how far we have come and it teaches us how change can occur.
We can learn from the past. We can change the world.
Small acts can lead to profound transformations.
In 1866, the year Margot Burne-Jones was born, the first petition for the right for women to vote was presented to Parliament. John Stuart Mills, the man who carried that scroll of 149 signatures into the House of Commons, famously said: "Bad men need nothing more to compass their ends than that good men should look on and do nothing."
In 1930, Gandhi led the Salt March in India, saying: ‘We need to be the change we wish to see in the world.’
In 1955 in Alabama, Rosa Parks refused to stand for a white man on a bus. ‘Stand for something or you will fall for anything,’ she said. ‘Today’s mighty oak is yesterday’s nut that held its ground.’
In 1989, an unknown man stood his ground before a tank in Tiananman Square in China. We shall never hear his words.
In 1995, Dolly Parton founded the Imagination Library which has now given more than 200 million books to children around the world. She says: “When I was growing up in the hills of East Tennessee, I knew my dreams would come true. I know there are children in your community with their own dreams. They dream of becoming a doctor or an inventor or .. maybe there is a little girl whose dream is to be a writer and singer. The seeds of these dreams are often found in books and the seeds you … plant in your community can grow across the world.”
So let us be the change we want to see in the world, let us stand our ground, let us plants seed that might one day grow into mighty trees, let us bear witness, let us imagine a better future and work to make it come true.
Beauty in Thorns by Kate Forsyth
Chapter 2
Pretending to Be Drowning
Spring 1852
Lizzie floated in water, pretending to be drowning.
She had to stay absolutely still. If she moved even a little, the bath water rippled and the fabric of her silver-embroidered dress billowed. Then Mr Millais would heave a great sigh. She would hear the scrape of his palette knife, followed by a long silence, in which she knew he was staring at her, measuring her, finding her wanting.
Lizzie could not see Mr Millais. She had to look up towards the windows at the far end of the studio. He had coloured the panes so that the light fell through in shades of green and gold. She had watched those panes slowly darken, a single star pricking out in the sky above the dark geometry of rooftops. She had watched the panes turned to black, and still Mr Millais kept on painting.
The studio was cold, the water in the bath even colder. His mother had lit candles under the bath, to warm the water, but they must have blown out.
Lizzie could not afford to lose this job. She earned seven shillings in an afternoon, just for lying in a bath full of water. In her old job, sewing flowers on hats for twelve hours a day, six days a week, she had earned only nine shillings a week.
Since Charlie’s death, her family needed her wages more than ever before.
Her brother had died of consumption. In just a few months, he had wasted away and died. He had been only twenty-two years old.
Lizzie had never seen anyone die before. She had been so cold afterwards. She felt it in her bones, in the hollow of her stomach. She would have liked to crawl into bed and stay there till the bitter winter of his death had passed.
But she could not. She had to help support the family. Her younger sister Lydia was working two jobs, in her aunt’s candle shop during the day and sewing at night, helped by her mother and the two youngest girls, Mary and Clara. Her brother Jimmy was labouring with his father in his cutlery workshop, and even poor daft Harry, who was only nine, was doing what he could.
So, two weeks after Charlie’s death, with her grief still as sharp as it had been the day her brother had died, Lizzie had written to Mr Millais and told him she was ready to come back and model for him again. He was grateful indeed, for he was keen to finish his painting in time for the Royal Academy Exhibition in April. He had nothing left to paint but her face and figure, having finished the rest of the scene down at the Hogsmill River in Surrey.
‘I don’t want to waste all that work,’ he had told her. ‘I had to stay for months, sitting on the banks of that infernal swamp, swatting away the most muscular flies you’ve ever seen. The farmer who owned the field threatened to drag me before the magistrate for walking over his hay. Then, once the hay was taken in, he put his most ferocious bull in the field, just to punish me.’
Lizzie had laughed, imagining the beautifully dressed young man running away from a bull, his easel and paints and brushes shoved under his arms.
Then Mr Millais had sobered and said gravely, ‘But it is you who are the crux of my painting, Miss Siddal. Your face and your hair, and the dress billowing out into the water. All the rest of it is just there to frame you.’
Lizzie knew the painting had already been sold for an astonishing three hundred guineas. She could not let Mr Millais down. If she failed him, she would have to go back to working in that dark little hat-shop, with no hope for any other life.
Ever since Lizzie had found a fragment of a Tennyson verse wrapped about a pat of butter as a little girl, she had loved to draw and write poetry. Her mother had not approved, thinking it a waste of time, and so Lizzie had always done her scribbling, as her mother called it, in secret.
‘You’re a dreamer,’ her mother had scolded. ‘Bad as your pa, always building castles in the air.’
Mr Siddal had been born in Sheffield and trained as a cutler, but was sure he was born to better things. By rights, he said, he should have inherited the family’s ancestral home of Hope Hall, in the Peaks of Derbyshire. ‘Mr Charles Siddal o’ Hope Hall, Derbyshire, sounds right respectable!’
‘It’s not called Hope Hall anymore,’ Charlie would cry. ‘It’s a coaching inn called The Cross-Daggers, and if we lived there we’d be serving ale to yokels.’
As long as Lizzie could remember, her father had been pursuing his right to the property through the courts. One day, in a temper, Lizzie’s little sister Clara had thrown his legal papers on to the fire and her father’s dreams had gone up in smoke. After that, the Siddals had no choice but to live in the crowded slums of Southwark, breathing in the stench of the tanning yards every day.
Perhaps, if Clara had not burned the legal papers, Lizzie would be Miss Siddal of Hope Hall instead. Sitting under an oak tree in a silk gown, painting the grand landscape of the Peaks while a butler poured her tea.
Perhaps Charlie would not have gotten sick and died.
One day, Lizzie heard that a delivery of hatboxes was to be made to a well-to-do lady called Mrs Deverell, and had at once begged permission to take them herself. Her employer, a sharp-faced, sharp-eyed woman named Mrs Tozer, stared at her in surprise. Messenger-boys were normally employed for such tasks. Lizzie was, however, one of her best milliners, having a real eye for how to place a silk rose, and so Mrs Tozer had unwillingly given permission.
Instead of a bonnet, one of the hatboxes Lizzie carried contained some of her best drawings. For Mrs Deverell was married to the Secretary of the London School of Design, where women were permitted to take drawing lessons for two hours each day. Lizzie had already been to the school’s premises in Somerset House, in the hope of gaining admission, but the tuition cost one shilling and sixpence a month, which was well beyond her means. She was hoping against hope that – if she showed Mr Deverell her drawings – he would find enough merit in them to recommend her and, perhaps, even sponsor her.
It was as unlikely as her Pa inheriting Hope Hall, but Lizzie had to try. She was twenty years old already, and life was narrowing upon her.
As she was shown into the drawing-room of the Deverells’ grand house in Kew, Lizzie’s mouth was dry and the bones of her corset seemed too tight. She showed the bonnets to Mrs Deverell and her daughters, teaching them how to tie the ribbons to best advantage. They were surprised, but pleased, at the extra service. Finally, at the very last moment, Lizzie summoned up enough courage to lift out her drawings and show them to Mrs Deverell, who raised her eyebrows in surprised affront.
‘Please, ma’am, forgive me for being so forward,’ Lizzie said. ‘I didn’t know who else to turn to. I know they’re not that good, but, indeed, I want to learn to do better.’
Mrs Deverell’s air of icy hauteur did not thaw. ‘My dear girl, what is the point? A woman cannot become a professional artist. Such a thing would not be seemly. That is why women are not permitted to join the Royal Academy schools.’
‘Which is why the School of Design began classes for women, Mama,’ Miss Deverell said. She was a round-faced young woman with a profusion of dark ringlets. ‘Remember, Papa says the school seeks to find a practical application for an artistic bent. And surely this young woman should be commended for trying to better herself.’
Her mother gave a harrumph that seemed to indicate otherwise. Miss Deverell took up the sheaf of Lizzie’s drawings. ‘My brother Walter is studying at the Royal Academy. If you like, I can show him your sketches. Perhaps he can give you some advice.’
On the train back to London, Lizzie sat with her gloved hands clenched, her eyes smarting with tears. She deeply regretted the loss of her sketches. She could imagine Miss Deverell forgetting all about them, and the skivvy using them to light the fire the next day.
A few days later, Mrs Deverell swept into Mrs Tozer’s millinery shop, a handsome young man by her side. Lizzie stood behind the counter, adjusting the bow on a fetching bonnet of tulle and rice straw. Lizzie quickly put the hat back on its stand. If Mrs Tozer found out what she had done, Lizzie would lose her job and then she’d really be in the suds.
Mrs Tozer bustled forward, begging to know Mrs Deverell’s pleasure. The young man came forward, smiling. ‘I can see by your hair that you are the girl who visited my mother this week. My sister tells me you have an interest in art.’
Lizzie gave a quick nod, not daring to glance in Mrs Tozer’s direction to see if she had overheard.
‘Then I have a proposition for you.’
Lizzie’s colour deepened.
The young man flushed also, and said, ‘That is, I mean to say … I need a red-headed girl … to paint, I mean. I’ve had the devil of a time finding the right kind of girl. But then my sister told me about your visit and said that your hair was the most glorious shade of copper and that, really, you could easily pass as a boy if we tied it up …’
A swift procession of emotions passed through Lizzie. For a while she lost the thread of his words.
‘… I’ll pay you, of course, and you can sit at a time that suits you, since I know you’re a working girl … I mean, a girl that works … and my sister can sit with us, to chaperone you, I mean, and maybe the extra blunt will be of use to you, in paying for your art schooling, and so on. Because, you know, it just seems like such a stroke of luck! You coming just when I was at my wits’ end …’
‘How much?’ Lizzie asked.
When he told her, she drew a deep breath and said, ‘Your ma will need to come and tell my ma that no impropriety is intended.’
Walter Deverell cast an unhappy look at his mother, who was looking over lace caps and stockings with a very hard-done-by air.
Lizzie said firmly, ‘My ma’s a stickler for propriety. And don’t even think of asking me to take my clothes off, because I won’t do it.’
Mr Deverell coloured to the roots of his air. ‘Of course not. I mean, it is better if we can do a life study … to try and get the drapery right, you know … but my mother wouldn’t allow such a thing anyway …’
‘When do you want me?’ Lizzie had said.
That was how she found herself modelling for Water Deverell’s painting of Viola, the heroine of Shakespeare’s play Twelfth Night, who disguised herself as a pageboy to work for the man she loved.
Then all Mr Deverell’s friends wanted her to model for them too.
It was intoxicating – and bewildering – to suddenly be sought out by these sophisticated young men, with their quick wit, their easy manners and their strong opinions. William Holman Hunt with his button nose and sudden temper, whom the others called the Maniac. Ford Madox Brown, nicknamed Bruno, who was conducting a not-so-secret affair with one of Lizzie’s childhood friends, a plump young woman called Emma. Johnny Millais, who everyone thought some kind of child prodigy for he had been only eleven when he was admitted into the Royal Academy schools. And Dante Gabriel Rossetti, the handsomest of them all, who had tried to kiss her more than once and promised to write a sonnet to her eyes.
Being asked to model for an artist had seemed like the most remarkable chance to be part of a world where the things Lizzie loved most were celebrated. Perhaps, if she pleased them, they would show her some of their secrets. Sitting quietly in one pose after another, Lizzie had watched and listened and tried to learn. They had shown her their sketches, let her look through their folios of the work of great masters, and given her books of poetry to read.
If she failed them, these idealistic young men would no longer wish to paint her. All the beauty, all the poetry, would be lost; the newly kindled light in her snuffed out.
So Lizzie lay in the freezing dark water and focused all her thoughts on Ophelia, the young woman she was pretending to be. Betrayed in love, her mind broken, Ophelia had wandered the water-meadows, singing and gathering weeds and wild flowers. A branch had broken. She had slipped into the river and had let herself sink away. Lizzie imagined her numb despair, the grief that dragged her down like water-weeds …
Tears seeped from the corner of her eyes and ran down her cold cheek. It was hard to breathe. The weight of the silver dress dragged at her. Everything ached, her neck, her arms, the bones of her cranium. She set her jaw, and willed herself to stay still.
Lizzie could not go back. She would not go back.
‘Johnny, darling, should you be keeping Miss Siddal so long?’
Then a rush of feet, the rustle of silken skirts.
‘Johnny! The candles have gone out. Miss Siddal must be freezing.’
Johnny Millais jumped up. ‘The time just ran away with me. I didn’t realise how late it was …’
Water gushed all over the floor as they lifted her out. Mrs Millais wrapped her in an old blanket. Lizzie could scarcely feel the touch of their hands. Tremors shook her from head to foot. Her teeth chattered. Someone chafed her hands. ‘Look, her lips are quite blue!’
Johnny gave her a glass of something, but she could not close her fingers about the tumbler. When they held it to her lips, it clattered against her teeth.
‘Johnny, what were you thinking? Five hours she’s been in that bath!’
Nothing could warm her. Johnny ran for hot water bottles, while his mother struggled to draw off the sodden gown.
‘That boy,’ Mrs Millais cried. ‘He forgets the world when he is painting. It’s like he’s under a spell!’
Lizzie looked at the painting on its easel. She saw her own pale face gleaming out from the dark swallowing water, the glint of the silver embroidery, the red blur of a poppy floating by her hand. Then, in the configuration of light and shade at the edge of the canvas, she suddenly saw – staring at her – the white bones and dark hollows of a skull.
Georgiana Burne-Jones
(b. 21 July 1840 – d. 2 February 1920)
Georgiana Burne-Jones is one of the central characters in my novel of the Pre-Raphaelites, Beauty in Thorns, along with her daughter Margaret, Lizzie Siddal and Jane Morris, all writers and artists in their own right.
The daughter of a God-fearing Methodist minister, Georgie met Edward Burne-Jones when she was ten. He awoke her to a new world of art and poetry and beauty, and she was the model for his first ever drawing of the “Briar Rose” fairy tale, which was to inspire him for the ret of his life. Georgie married Burne-Jones at the age of nineteen, after a four-year engagement.
“I wish it were possible to explain the impression made upon me as a young girl whose experience so far had been quite remote from art, by sudden and close intercourse with those to whom it was the breath of life. The only approach I can make to describing it is by saying that I felt in the presence of a new religion. Their love of beauty did not seem to me unbalanced, but as if it included the whole world and raised the point from which they regarded everything. Human beauty especially was in a way sacred to them, I thought; and of this I received confirmation quite lately from a lady … “I never saw such men,” she said, “it was being in a new world to be with them. I sat to them and was with them, and they were different to everyone else I ever saw. And I was a holy thing to them.” …
Lady Georgiana Burne-Jones
Memorials of Edward Burne-Jones, Volume I
The early years of their marriage was idyllic, but in 1864 Georgie contracted scarlet fever, which brought on the premature birth of her second child, who consequently died. Her third child – a daughter named Margaret – was born in 1866, the same year as Burne-Jones began a passionate and ultimately calamitous affair with his model, the beautiful and fiery Maria Zambaco.
Georgie supported her husband steadfastly through every crisis of faith, ill health, and infidelity, putting aside her own dreams of art and creativity. The scandal of Ned’s affair with Maria Zambaco tested her courage and faithfulness to the utmost. Her friend Rosalind Howard wrote in her diary: ‘her love is the deepest I ever met with. She is centred in her husband, the whole romance of her life is bound up with him from when she was eleven years old – more than romance, every feeling she has. She longs for him. He cannot know what she has endured.’
Maria Zambaco as ‘Summer’
Georgiana Burne-Jones as ‘Winter”
Edward Burne-Jones (c. 1870)
Yet Georgie was by no means the passive, long-suffering wife that she is sometimes painted to be.
Georgiana Burne-Jones as ‘Cinderella’
Edward Burne-Jones (1863)
She pursued her own interests, and had many strong friendships with intelligent and forward-thinking women such as Rosalind Howard and Marian Evans (better known as George Eliot). She became a Socialist, against her husband’s inclinations, and was voted in as a parish councillor in Rottingdean at a time when women still did not have any voice or votes in politics.
Most interestingly, the Memorials she wrote of Ned’s life are, I think, the most readable and engaging biography of Victorian times. Wherever possible in Beauty in Thorns, I have tried to let Georgie speak in her own voice. For example, when Georgie speaks of ‘the cloven hoof of fashion’, that is a direct quote from her book.
Elsewhere she describes the ‘brown sugar’ of a beach, or Ned’s ‘cloud-scattering laugh’. Her nephew Rudyard Kipling once said that ink ran in the veins of the Macdonalds. I think that he was right, and that it is a shame that Georgie never wrote that novel she dreamed of creating.
Portrait of the Artist’s family
By Edward Burne-Jones (c. 1880)
The best books on the life of Ned and Georgie are A Circle of Sisters: Alice Kipling, Georgiana Burne-Jones, Agnes Poynter and Louisa Baldwin by Judith Flanders (2001), The Last Pre-Raphaelite: Edward Burne-Jones & the Victorian Imagination (2011) by Fiona MacCarthy, and the two volumes of Memorials of Edward Burne-Jones by Lady Georgiana Burne-Jones (1904).
Every year, as a Christmas present to myself, I re-read the work of one of my favourite childhood authors. It's a kind of gift of wonder and magic to myself, a reminder of the time when being given books for Christmas was my greatest joy.
This tradition began with my decision a few years ago to re-read the works of Susan Cooper, a British author who was born on 23 May 1935. The five books in ‘The Dark is Rising Sequence’ are among my most treasured books from my childhood. I have the old Puffin paperbacks, which cost my aunt $2.75 each when she bought them for my 11th birthday. I have read them so many times they are battered and creased and faded. Here is a brief precis for those of you who have never had the pleasure of reading these wonderful books:
Over Sea, Under Stone is the first book in the series, and was written by Susan Cooper in response to a publishing contest organised to honour the memory of Edith Nesbit, one of the great Golden Age children’s writers. She did not finish the manuscript in time to enter, and the book was subsequently turned down by more than twenty publishers, before being accepted by Jonathan Cape and published in 1965.
It tells the story of Simon, Jane and Barney who go to Cornwall on a holiday with their family and end up being caught up in a quest to find the lost Holy Grail. Drawing on Arthurian mythology but set in contemporary times, the book introduces the children’s Great-Uncle Merry, a professor at Oxford who ends up revealing mysterious powers. The book is more like an old-fashioned mystery than a traditional fantasy, except with eerie unsettling moments of darkness and magic, particularly towards the end.
The second book in the series, The Dark is Rising, was published in 1973. It tells the story of Will Stanton, seventh son of a seventh son, who turns 11 on Midwinter Eve, and finds his safe and comfortable world threatened by strange and eerie events. For Will is, he discovers, an Old One, destined to fight on behalf of the Light against the ancient and malevolent forces of the Dark. Merriman Lyon – the character of Great-Uncle Merry – returns as the Oldest of the Old Ones, and becomes Will’s guardian and mentor. Will needs to find Six Signs if he is to defeat the forces of darkness this midwinter and help fulfil a mysterious prophecy:
“When the Dark comes rising six shall turn it back;
Three from the circle, three from the track;
Wood, bronze, iron; Water, fire, stone;
Five will return and one go alone.
Iron for the birthday; bronze carried long;
Wood from the burning; stone out of song;
Fire in the candle ring; water from the thaw;
Six signs the circle and the grail gone before.
Fire on the mountain shall find the harp of gold
Played to wake the sleepers, oldest of old.
Power from the Green Witch, lost beneath the sea.
All shall find the Light at last, silver on the tree.”
Of all the books in the series, The Dark is Rising is my favourite, perhaps because it was the first I ever read, perhaps because of the vividness of the setting (a small snow-bound English village that seems outwardly normal but is still shadowed with magic, menace and danger), perhaps because I loved the idea of an ordinary boy who finds himself the carrier of an extraordinary destiny. The book as a ALA Newbery Honor Book in 1974, and is often named on lists of the best books for children ever published.
Greenwitch, the third in the series, brings Simon, Jane and Barney back to the little Cornish village where they had discovered the lost Holy Grail. Jane watches an ancient ritualised offering to the sea and makes a wish that then helps the Light unlock the secrets of the Grail. Greenwitch is the favourite of many female readers of this series, because the key protagonist is a girl and she triumphs not because of any battle of strength, but because she is compassionate and empathetic.
The Grey King, the fourth book, returns to the point-of-view of Will. He wakes after a long and terrible illness with no memory of his role as an Old One and at risk from the forces of the Dark who seek to strike him own while he is vulnerable. Sent to Wales to recuperate, Will meets an albino teenager called Bran who has a strange dog like a wolf. Guided only by snatches of memory, Will and Bran must find the golden harp that will waken the Sleepers under the hill. This is my favourite second of the series, again because of the setting – the wild mountains and moors of Wales is brought so wonderfully to life – and also because of the sense of the great struggle between the forces of good and evil. The Grey King won the 1976 Newbery Medal.
Silver on the Tree is the final book in the series, and brings Will and Bran together with Simon, Jane and Barney and their mysterious Great-Uncle Merry. They are searching for a magical crystal sword which will enable them to cut the mystical mistletoe, the ‘silver on the tree’, in the final battle against the Dark. Drawing on Welsh mythology and stories of a drowned land, the suspense is heightened by the presence of a hidden enemy, someone who is trusted but betrays them in the end.
It was truly wonderful to re-read this series, which had such a powerful shaping force upon my imagination as a child.
Want to read more about my lifelong love of Susan Cooper and her work?
Here is an essay I wrote many years ago about my desire to write books that haunt a child forever
Here is another essay on why books are dangerous
My Favourite Books Set in Venice
I don’t remember the first time I read about Venice. I seem to have longed to go there all of my life. The combination of enchanting beauty, ancient stones steeped in story, and the whiff of danger was irresistible. A book only needs a picture of Venice on its cover, or the mention of its name in its title, and I will want to read it.
I have always wanted to set a book in Venice, partly to give me an excuse to travel there again, and so my latest novel Bitter Greens is set partly in Renaissance Venice and partly in France in the 17th century. And yes, the cover has a gorgeous picture of Venice on it ...
Here are my favourite books set in Venice:
In the Company of the Courtesan by Sarah Dunant
An absolutely fabulous historical novel, In the Company of the Courtesan tells the story of the escape of a courtesan from the pillage of Rome in 1527 – she flees to Venice and hopes to start a new life there. The story is told from the point of view of her dwarf. Sarah Dunant features the painter Titian and his most famous painting ‘The Venus of Urbino’, which is something I do in my own novel Bitter Greens, but we have completely different explanations for the story behind the painting. One of my all-time favourite books from one of my all-time favourite authors.
The Rossetti Letter by Christi Phillips
Another parallel narrative, moving between contemporary times and the early 17th century, The Rossetti Letter is a fabulous read. Claire Donovan is doing her Ph.d on the Venetian courtesan, Alessandra Rossetti, who wrote a letter to the Council of Ten warning of a Spanish plot to overthrow the Venetian Republic in 1618. The narrative moves smoothly back and forth between the two protagonists, and is filled with romance, intrigue, mystery and suspense.
A Venetian Affair: A True Tale of Forbidden Love in the 18th Century by Andrea di Robilant
A long-lost packet of letters, found by the author's father in the attic of a palace on the Grand Canal, reveals a passionate and forbidden love affair between a Venetian nobleman and a half-English commoner. The world of 1750s Venice is brought vividly to life - masked balls, gondolas on the canals, gambling, dancing, making love in secret gardens. I really loved this book.
The Glassblower of Murano by Marina Fiorato
This novel has a parallel narrative, with one story taking place in 17th century Venice and the other taking place in contemporary times. Much of the story is set on Murano Island where the glassblowers worked and lived. It’s a quick-paced, vivid and absorbing historical mystery, with some fascianting details about the art of glass-blowing.
The City of Falling Angels by John Berendt
John Berendt is best known for Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. This book works in the same way, being a non-fiction book that uses fictive devices and a strong personal voice to bring to life a place, a time, and the people who inhabit them. It describes the events following the burning of the historic La Fenice opera theatre in 1996, as well as charting the stories of other writers and artists who were fascinated by Venice, including Henry James, John Singer Sargent, and Ezra Pound. A really fascinating, colourful book.
The Four Seasons: A Novel of Vivaldi's Venice by Laurel Corona
This novel is set in the Pieta, a Venetian hospital for founding children, during the time when Vivaldi was choir master. I had never heard of the Pieta before, and was so inspired by this novel that I decided to set a section of my own book Bitter Greens there. Abandoned babies were taken in by the nuns, and trained to be exquisite singers and musicians.
Many of them would never leave the Pieta in their lifetime, singing in the church behind high wooden screens. A really intriguing look at an unknown part of Venetian history.
Vivaldi's Virgins by Barbara Quick
This is another book set in the Pieta during the time of Vivaldi. I really loved this book – the writing was fluid and vivid, and the characters came dancing to life. The story about how the author came to write the book is just as fascinating – I’d really recommend this book too.
A Thousand Days in Venice by Marlena de Blasi
One day, in Venice, Marlena de Blasi fell in love with a stranger. She decides to move to Venice to be with her new love, and this book charts (with lots of wonderful recipes and descriptions of food) her romantic adventures thereafter.
Miss Garnet’s Angel by Salley Vickers
After her dearest friend dies, retired history teacher Julia Garnet does something completely out of character: she rents an apartment in Venice for six months.
An atheist, a Communist, and a virgin, Julia finds herself falling beneath Venice’s spell. She makes friends and falls in love for the first time in her life. Interwoven with her journey of self-discovery is the tale of Tobias and the Archangel Raphael, which she sees painted on a fresco in a church. A really beautiful, unusual novel.
Death at La Fenice by Donna Leon
Donna Leon is an American crime writer who lives in Venice, and has written a whole series of books featuring the endearing, food-and-wine loving detective Guido Brunetti. Death At La Fenice is the first in the series, and it’s really worth reading them in order because the book is as much about Brunetti’s wife, family, and friends as it is about solving crimes in modern-day Venice. I love this books and buy them religiously – I have never once been disappointed.
Then, just quickly, my favourite children’s books set in Venice:
The Thief Lord by Cornelia Funke
Absolutely wonderful, a must read book!
The Madman of Venice by Sophie Masson
A marvellous romantic adventure set in 1602, and filled with all sorts of unexpected twists and turns. Sophie Masson is an Australian writer too, though her imagination is never bound by geographic limitations.
Daughter of Venice by Donna Jo Napoli
My favourite novel by Donna Jo Napoli, this slim book bring the life of 16th century Venice vividly to life
Stravaganza – The City of Masks by Mary Hoffman
A time travel book to a magical city very much like Venice ...
