E. V. Lucas (1868–1938)

I can't imagine why this book is so very little known when lesser books are famous and considered British comic classics. I learned of it only because a few pages were reproduced in the catalogue for an exhibition devoted to Bataille's journal 'Documents'; Queneau, I then found, had written an essay about it, and I've the impression that it's received more attention from French thinkers than from the British public. If you pride yourself upon being a John Bull type who considers 'French show more intellectual' a contemptuous term, stick that in your pipe and smoke it. (Mine's a Gauloise, thanks.)

Lucas and Morrow used images from a department-store catalogue to illustrate a cod autobiography. Whilst the book could be read in a few minutes it wants much longer than that to be looked at because, while there's a certain charm and some humour in the words, the appeal of the book lies largely in the illustrations in juxtaposition with the text. The catalogue pictures are used without regard to scale or style: On one page might be a line drawing of an archery target and at the top of the next a fashion plate next to a densely cross-hatched piece of furniture. Flat-irons are used to illustrate swans, a brooch stands in for a bird in flight, and one of the body parts strewn about by a train wreck is a box shaped like a heart. Rum bottles rest on a table that could never support their weight and figures who, given the relative scale, would be giants or midgets pop up often. The story itself seems to be inspired by the pictures, not vice versa--after all, who could resist mentioning a horse with a swollen neck simply in order to point out a strikingly inept drawing of a horse with what seems to be the grandaddy of all goitres?

Off-hand, I can't think of another British book whose overall feel is as surrealistic as this one's. A little treasure. show less

If you think the title sounds dirty... you're probably right. In this 1898 Wells parody, Earth is re-invaded by the fearsome women of the planet Wenus, and it's up to our narrator to spend the entire book not mentioning his wife and restraining his natural inclination to kill curates with meat cleavers. It's surprisingly hilarious; my favorite jokes were the ones poking fun at Wells's attempts at verisimilitude-- the local geography and population is ridiculously overdescribed. Also: even in show more 1898, people were well aware that Wells's depiction of female characters was... problematic. show less

I first came across E.V. Lucas while reading a collection of short stories. The short story, which was indeed a very short one, was called The Face on the Wall. It created quite a deep impression on my mind and I’ve been on the look out ever since for the original collection from which this story came.

After a lot of searching I finally found London Lavender, published in 1912. Now, I expected this to be a short story collection of some sort. But when I started reading it I was show more considerably taken aback. What was this? Shall I call it slice of life? Or is this another one of Lucas’ essay collections with a touch of fiction? I’m not even sure whether to call this fiction or non-fiction. One thing is for sure, this book is definitely not what I had expected.

E. V. Lucas (1868-1938) was an English essayist, biographer, novelist, and journalist among many other things. He was a successful writer of light-hearted non-fiction. His subject matter ranged from sports to paintings to family life. One of his most noteworthy contributions was a series of scholarly works on Charles Lamb. Lucas was known for his easygoing style of narration. But unfortunately his reputation has gone downhill since his own time. Modern readers have mostly rejected his writings as dull. He has been criticized for being impersonal. His biographers maintain that he was very different from his writings and was a bitter man with a taste for the obscene.

In London Lavender a very loosely co-related series of narratives are recounted by the narrator of the story, Kent Falconer. He is the one thing that is common among the various vignettes. The stories are weird if not unrealistic. But of course some of them are not stories at all. There is a peek in to the development of early cinema. A holiday in Italy. At least three evenings spent at the drawing room of a gentleman discussing contemporary politics, literature and supernatural experiences in real life respectively. A day is spent at the races. Various folk songs and dances are recorded. And then there are the various stories recounted by the characters themselves. Of course there are proper conclusions to some of the stories in the end. The readers are not left hanging. But most of the vignettes do not need a conclusion at all.

And then there are the characters. What a vast array of people! Most of them are so interesting. There is a zoo keeper who is unnaturally attached to ‘apes’ (not monkeys, as he firmly states), a family of delightful young girls (I did not know young women in early 20th century were ever allowed to behave that way), a reluctant ‘Knight’, a couple of ‘modern’ young men and women, a movie director/scriptwriter at the dawn of ‘moving pictures’, a man who becomes a thief by stealing his own property and of course the narrator and his wife.

The writing I found very easy to read. I practically flew through the book.

Lucas’ witty insights and often unorthodox way of looking at things really entertained me. In some places I laughed out loud. Like when the narrator asks a young aviator about his experiences while flying (which was, without a doubt, a very novel experiencein 1912),

“What is it like in the air?” I once asked him.

“Ripping," he said.

“But the sensations?” I continued. “How do you feel?"

“Ripping," he said.

“And what does the world look like down below as you rush along?"

“Ripping," he said.

Lucas seems quite liberal towards women. Most of his female characters are strong persons with opinions of their own.

I have only a few complaints about this book. It contains some mild racism and some dull patches. Nothing else really bothered me.

London Lavender was a rather surprising experience for me. Charles Dickens' The Pickwick Papers is the only book I can think of that comes close to the structure of this book. It certainly left me with the same contented feeling that The Pickwick Papers did. London Lavender may easily end up as one of my favourite reads of the year. show less

"My wife, in a nickel-plated Russian blouse, trimmed with celluloid pompons, aluminium pantaloons, and a pair of Norwegian Skis, looked magnificent."

That was stupid.. like Spaceballs levels of dumb... it was kinda awesome :) . So a parody of War of the Worlds that came out only weeks/months after the original book.

"My terror had fallen from me like a bath towel."

Highly recommend reading this as close to War of the Worlds as possible. Even so 100 year old comedy isn't always easy to parse. show more
There's some odd word choices too, it spends a lot of time describing streetnames and stuff which i think are digs at the original.
It breaks the forth wall and does allsorts of absurd parody elements. Its pretty short, certainly worth a look for fans of War of the Worlds.

"I stood there ecstatic, unprogressive, immoderate; while swiftly and surely ungovernable affection for all Wenuses gripped me."

Edit: Made available by the Merril Collection. show less