Smith may be best known for her children’s book The Hundred and One Dalmatians (1956), but I Capture the Castle, now considered a Young Adult classic, a very English comedy, a touching romance, and, as it has been repeatedly called, a comfort read, remains her most charismatic work. Yet it has never received the critical treatment Smith hoped for. The cultural conflict that defined its reception—between “lightweight and unimportant” middlebrow writing and the highbrow literary fiction that emerged in the 1920s and 1930s—is one of the central preoccupations of the novel itself. Beneath its surface charm is a metaliterary inquiry into form, style, and merit, as well as an affecting portrait of the artist as a young girl.
Three years ago, I fell out of love with food. I didn’t want to shop, I didn’t want to cook. I ate for necessity, not pleasure. The ends of a loaf of bread. An apple. A glass of oat milk. Whatever leftovers were in the fridge.
It wasn’t just food; everything around me had transformed into shades of monochrome. I couldn’t get out of bed most days, yet I couldn’t sleep. I was wired, tired and scrolling. I didn’t care much for whether the morning turned to night.
In an act of rebellion against the numb world he finds himself in, Caveney feels deeply, observes his altered inner life so meticulously. Humour blends abruptly with the most insightful and vulnerable of reflections. Ingenious turns of phrase guide us through even the most difficult topics with the lightest touch.
The result is a story at once achingly familiar and utterly, courageously personal. A chronicle of a writer attempting to reckon with unfathomable, but one that has me chuckling to myself every couple of pages. I feel sure that I will feel the need to return to this book in future. And while it won’t claim to have all of the answers, it might just have what I need.