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The Thirteenth Tale: A Novel Paperback – October 9, 2007
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“Readers will feel the magnetic pull of this paean to words, books and the magical power of story.”—People
“Eerie and fascinating.”—USA TODAY
Sometimes, when you open the door to the past, what you confront is your destiny.
Reclusive author Vida Winter, famous for her collection of twelve enchanting stories, has spent the past six decades penning a series of alternate lives for herself. Now old and ailing, she is ready to reveal the truth about her extraordinary existence and the violent and tragic past she has kept secret for so long. Calling on Margaret Lea, a young biographer troubled by her own painful history, Vida disinters the life she meant to bury for good. Margaret is mesmerized by the author's tale of gothic strangeness—featuring the beautiful and willful Isabelle, the feral twins Adeline and Emmeline, a ghost, a governess, a topiary garden and a devastating fire. Together, Margaret and Vida confront the ghosts that have haunted them while becoming, finally, transformed by the truth themselves.
- Print length432 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherAtria/Emily Bestler Books
- Publication dateOctober 9, 2007
- Dimensions5.31 x 1 x 8.25 inches
- ISBN-109780743298032
- ISBN-13978-0743298032
- Lexile measure840L
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Editorial Reviews
Review
"Pitch-perfect." ― Entertainment Weekly
"A book that you wake in the middle of the night craving to get back to . . . . Timeless, charming, a pure pleasure to read . . . . The Thirteeth Tale is a book to savor a dozen times." ― The San Diego Union-Tribune
"A wholly original work told in the vein of all the best gothic classics. Lovers of books about book lovers will be enthralled." ― Booklist
"The shared literary landscape that The Thirteenth Tale re-creates with lush precision takes us back to a time when reading could seem more compelling than life." ― The Columbus Dispatch
"A spellbinding story that grabs the reader from the opening pages." ― Toronto Sun
"Setterfield proves a mistress of the craft of storytelling, and her musings about the pleasures of reading are most beguiling." ― The Guardian
"Readers will feel the magnetic pull of this paean to words, books and the magical power of story." ― People
"This will without a doubt be one of the best books published this year." ― Daily American
"Readers will be mesmerized by this story-within-a-story tinged with the eeriness of Rebecca and the willfulness of Jane Eyre. The author . . . . leaves no strand untucked at the surprising and satisfying conclusion." ― Booklist
"Enchanting." ― Kirkus Reviews
"Setterfield is remarkably gifted, and the book is a page-turner. Readers should heed one warning: Prepare to be so captivated by the story that you cannot put it down. Not even for a cuppa tea." ― The Roanoke Times
"A novel for book lovers." ― Reader's Digest
"A novel brimming with atmosphere and labyrinthine plotting that recalls the gothic-like chillers by Daphne du Maurier and Joyce Carol Oates, spiced with flavors reminiscent of Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights. The language is rich, the elements intriguing." ― The Sacramento Bee
"A compelling and emotional mystery about family secrets and the magic of books and storytelling, and it captures you right from the very first page." ― The Financial Times
"Cleverly plotted, beautifully written . . . . A remarkable first novel, a book about the joy of books, a riveting multi-layered mystery that twists and turns, and weaves a quite magical spell." ― The Independent (UK)
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
The Letter
It was November. Although it was not yet late, the sky was dark when I turned into Laundress Passage. Father had finished for the day, switched off the shop lights and closed the shutters; but so I would not come home to darkness he had left on the light over the stairs to the flat. Through the glass in the door it cast a foolscap rectangle of paleness onto the wet pavement, and it was while I was standing in that rectangle, about to turn my key in the door, that I first saw the letter. Another white rectangle, it was on the fifth step from the bottom, where I couldn't miss it.
I closed the door and put the shop key in its usual place behind Bailey's Advanced Principles of Geometry. Poor Bailey. No one has wanted his fat gray book for thirty years. Sometimes I wonder what he makes of his role as guardian of the bookshop keys. I don't suppose it's the destiny he had in mind for the masterwork that he spent two decades writing.
A letter. For me. That was something of an event. The crisp-cornered envelope, puffed up with its thickly folded contents, was addressed in a hand that must have given the postman a certain amount of trouble. Although the style of the writing was old-fashioned, with its heavily embellished capitals and curly flourishes, my first impression was that it had been written by a child. The letters seemed untrained. Their uneven strokes either faded into nothing or were heavily etched into the paper. There was no sense of flow in the letters that spelled out my name. Each had been undertaken separately -- M A R G A R E T L E A -- as a new and daunting enterprise. But I knew no children. That is when I thought, It is the hand of an invalid.
It gave me a queer feeling. Yesterday or the day before, while I had been going about my business, quietly and in private, some unknown person -- some stranger -- had gone to the trouble of marking my name onto this envelope. Who was it who had had his mind's eye on me while I hadn't suspected a thing?
Still in my coat and hat, I sank onto the stair to read the letter. (I never read without making sure I am in a secure position. I have been like this ever since the age of seven when, sitting on a high wall and reading The Water Babies, I was so seduced by the descriptions of underwater life that I unconsciously relaxed my muscles. Instead of being held buoyant by the water that so vividly surrounded me in my mind, I plummeted to the ground and knocked myself out. I can still feel the scar under my fringe now. Reading can be dangerous.)
I opened the letter and pulled out a sheaf of half a dozen pages, all written in the same laborious script. Thanks to my work, I am experienced in the reading of difficult manuscripts. There is no great secret to it. Patience and practice are all that is required. That and the willingness to cultivate an inner eye. When you read a manuscript that has been damaged by water, fire, light or just the passing of the years, your eye needs to study not just the shape of the letters but other marks of production. The speed of the pen. The pressure of the hand on the page. Breaks and releases in the flow. You must relax. Think of nothing. Until you wake into a dream where you are at once a pen flying over vellum and the vellum itself with the touch of ink tickling your surface. Then you can read it. The intention of the writer, his thoughts, his hesitations, his longings and his meaning. You can read as clearly as if you were the very candlelight illuminating the page as the pen speeds over it.
Not that this letter was anything like as challenging as some. It began with a curt "Miss Lea"; thereafter the hieroglyphs resolved themselves quickly into characters, then words, then sentences.
This is what I read:
I once did an interview for the Banbury Herald. I must look it out one of these days, for the biography. Strange chap they sent me. A boy, really. As tall as a man, but with the puppy fat of youth. Awkward in his new suit. The suit was brown and ugly and meant for a much older man. The collar, the cut, the fabric, all wrong. It was the kind of thing a mother might buy for a boy leaving school for his first job, imagining that her child will somehow grow into it. But boys do not leave their boyhood behind when they leave off their school uniform.
There was something in his manner. An intensity. The moment I set eyes on him, I thought, "Aha, what's he after?"
I've nothing against people who love truth. Apart from the fact that they make dull companions. Just so long as they don't start on about storytelling and honesty, the way some of them do. Naturally that annoys me. But provided they leave me alone, I won't hurt them.
My gripe is not with lovers of the truth but with truth herself. What succor, what consolation is there in truth, compared to a story? What good is truth, at midnight, in the dark, when the wind is roaring like a bear in the chimney? When the lightning strikes shadows on the bedroom wall and the rain taps at the window with its long fingernails? No. When fear and cold make a statue of you in your bed, don't expect hard-boned and fleshless truth to come running to your aid. What you need are the plump comforts of a story. The soothing, rocking safety of a lie.
Some writers don't like interviews of course. They get cross about it. "Same old questions," they complain. Well, what do they expect? Reporters are hacks. We writers are the real thing. Just because they always ask the same questions, it doesn't mean we have to give them the same old answers, does it? I mean, making things up, it's what we do for a living. So I give dozens of interviews a year. Hundreds over the course of a lifetime. For I have never believed that genius needs to be locked away out of sight to thrive. My genius is not so frail a thing that it cowers from the dirty fingers of the newspapermen.
In the early years they used to try to catch me out. They would do research, come along with a little piece of truth concealed in their pocket, draw it out at an opportune moment and hope to startle me into revealing more. I had to be careful. Inch them in the direction I wanted them to take, use my bait to draw them gently, imperceptibly, toward a prettier story than the one they had their eye on. A delicate operation. Their eyes would start to shine, and their grasp on the little chip of truth would loosen, until it dropped from their hand and fell, disregarded, by the wayside. It never failed. A good story is always more dazzling than a broken piece of truth.
Afterward, once I became famous, the Vida Winter interview became a sort of rite of passage for journalists. They knew roughly what to expect, would have been disappointed to leave without the story. A quick run through the normal questions (Where do you get your inspiration? Are your characters based on real people? How much of your main character is you?) and the shorter my answers the better they liked it. (Inside my head. No. None.) Then, the bit they were waiting for, the thing they had really come for. A dreamy, expectant look stole across their faces. They were like little children at bedtime. And you, Miss Winter, they said. Tell me about yourself.
And I told. Simple little stories really, not much to them. Just a few strands, woven together in a pretty pattern, a memorable motif here, a couple of sequins there. Mere scraps from the bottom of my ragbag. Hundreds more where they came from. Offcuts from novels and stories, plots that never got finished, stillborn characters, picturesque locations I never found a use for. Odds and ends that fell out in the editing. Then it's just a matter of neatening the edges, stitching in the ends, and it's done. Another brand-new biography.
They went away happy, clutching their notebooks in their paws like children with sweets at the end of a birthday party. It would be something to tell their grandchildren. "One day I met Vida Winter, and she told me a story."
Anyway, the boy from the Banbury Herald. He said, "Miss Winter, tell me the truth." Now, what kind of appeal is that? I've had people devise all kinds of stratagems to trick me into telling, and I can spot them a mile off, but that? Laughable. I mean, whatever did he expect?
A good question. What did he expect? His eyes were glistening with an intent fever. He watched me so closely. Seeking. Probing. He was after something quite specific, I was sure of it. His forehead was damp with perspiration. Perhaps he was sickening for something. Tell me the truth, he said.
I felt a strange sensation inside. Like the past coming to life. The watery stirring of a previous life turning in my belly, creating a tide that rose in my veins and sent cool wavelets to lap at my temples. The ghastly excitement of it. Tell me the truth.
I considered his request. I turned it over in my mind, weighed up the likely consequences. He disturbed me, this boy, with his pale face and his burning eyes.
"All right," I said.
An hour later he was gone. A faint, absentminded good-bye and no backward glance.
I didn't tell him the truth. How could I? I told him a story. An impoverished, malnourished little thing. No sparkle, no sequins, just a few dull and faded patches, roughly tacked together with the edges left frayed. The kind of story that looks like real life. Or what people imagine real life to be, which is something rather different. It's not easy for someone of my talent to produce a story like that.
I watched him from the window. He shuffled away up the street, shoulders drooping, head bowed, each step a weary effort. All that energy, the charge, the verve, gone. I had killed it. Not that I take all the blame. He should have known better than to believe me.
I never saw him again.
That feeling I had, the current in my stomach, my temples, my fingertips -- it remained with me for quite a while. It rose and fell, with the memory of the boy's words. Tell me the truth. "No," I said. Over and over again. "No." But it wouldn't be still. It was a distraction. More than that, it was a danger. In the end I did a deal. "Not yet." It sighed, it fidgeted, but eventually it fell quiet. So quiet that I as good as forgot about it.
What a long time ago that was. Thirty years? Forty? More, perhaps. Time passes more quickly than you think.
The boy has been on my mind lately. Tell me the truth. And lately I have felt again that strange inner stirring. There is something growing inside me, dividing and multiplying. I can feel it, in my stomach, round and hard, about the size of a grapefruit. It sucks the air out of my lungs and gnaws the marrow from my bones. The long dormancy has changed it. From being a meek and biddable thing, it has become a bully. It refuses all negotiation, blocks discussion, insists on its rights. It won't take no for an answer. The truth, it echoes, calling after the boy, watching his departing back. And then it turns to me, tightens its grip on my innards, gives a twist. We made a deal, remember?
It is time.
Come on Monday. I will send a car to meet you from the half past four arrival at Harrogate Station.
Vida Winter
How long did I sit on the stairs after reading the letter? I don't know. For I was spellbound. There is something about words. In expert hands, manipulated deftly, they take you prisoner. Wind themselves around your limbs like spider silk, and when you are so enthralled you cannot move, they pierce your skin, enter your blood, numb your thoughts. Inside you they work their magic. When I at last woke up to myself, I could only guess what had been going on in the darkness of my unconsciousness. What had the letter done to me?
I knew very little about Vida Winter. I was aware naturally of the various epithets that usually came attached to her name: England's best-loved writer; our century's Dickens; the world's most famous living author; and so on. I knew of course that she was popular, though the figures, when I later researched them, still came as a surprise. Fifty-six books published in fifty-six years; they are translated into forty-nine languages; Miss Winter has been named twenty-seven times the most borrowed author from English libraries; nineteen feature films have been based on her novels. In terms of statistics, the most disputed question is this: Has she or has she not sold more books than the Bible? The difficulty comes less from working out how many books she has sold (an ever-changing figure in the millions) than in obtaining solid figures for the Bible -- whatever one thinks of the word of God, his sales data are notoriously unreliable. The figure that might have interested me the most, as I sat there at the bottom of the stairs, was twenty-two. This was the number of biographers who, for want of information, or lack of encouragement, or after inducements or threats from Miss Winter herself, had been persuaded to give up trying to discover the truth about her. But I knew none of this then. I knew only one statistic, and it was one that seemed relevant: How many books by Vida Winter had I, Margaret Lea, read? None.
I shivered on the stairs, yawned and stretched. Returning to myself, I found that my thoughts had been rearranged in my absence. Two items in particular had been selected out of the unheeded detritus that is my memory and placed for my attention.
The first was a little scene involving my father. A box of books we are unpacking from a private library clearance includes a number of Vida Winters. At the shop we don't deal in contemporary fiction. "I'll take them to the charity shop in my lunch hour," I say, and leave them on the side of the desk. But before the morning is out, three of the four books are gone. Sold. One to a priest, one to a cartographer, one to a military historian. Our clients' faces, with the customary outward paleness and inner glow of the book lover, seem to light up when they spot the rich colors of the paperback covers. After lunch, when we have finished the unpacking and the cataloging and the shelving and we have no customers, we sit reading as usual. It is late autumn, it is raining and the windows have misted up. In the background is the hiss of the gas heater; we hear the sound without hearing it for, side by side, together and miles apart, we are deep in our books.
"Shall I make tea?" I ask, surfacing.
No answer.
I make tea all the same and put a cup next to him on the desk.
An hour later the untouched tea is cold. I make a fresh pot and put another steaming cup beside him on the desk. He is oblivious to my every movement.
Gently I tilt the volume in his hands so that I can see the cover. It is the fourth Vida Winter. I return the book to its original position and study my father's face. He cannot hear me. He cannot see me. He is in another world, and I am a ghost.
That was the first memory.
The second is an image. In three-quarter profile, carved massively out of light and shade, a face towers over the commuters who wait, stunted, beneath. It is only an advertising photograph pasted on a billboard in a railway station, but to my mind's eye it has the impassive grandeur of long-forgotten queens and deities carved into rock faces by ancient civilizations. To contemplate the exquisite arc of the eye; the broad, smooth sweep of the cheekbones; the impeccable line and proportions of the nose, is to marvel that the randomness of human variation can produce something so supernaturally perfect as this. Such bones, discovered by the archaeologists of the future, would seem an artifact, a product not of blunt-tooled nature but of the very peak of artistic endeavor. The skin that embellishes these remarkable bones has the opaque luminosity of alabaster; it appears paler still by contrast with the elaborate twists and coils of copper hair that are arranged with such precision about the fine temples and down the strong, elegant neck.
As if this extravagant beauty were not enough, there are the eyes. Intensified by some photographic sleight of hand to an inhuman green, the green of glass in a church window, or of emeralds or of boiled sweets, they gaze out over the heads of the commuters with perfect inexpression. I can't say whether the other travelers that day felt the same way as I about the picture; they had read the books, so they may have had a different perspective on things. But for me, looking into the large green eyes, I could not help being reminded of that commonplace expression about the eyes being the gateway to the soul. This woman, I remember thinking, as I gazed at her green, unseeing eyes, does not have a soul.
Such was, on the night of the letter, the extent of my knowledge about Vida Winter. It was not much. Though on reflection perhaps it was as much as anyone else might know. For although everyone knew Vida Winter -- knew her name, knew her face, knew her books -- at the same time nobody knew her. As famous for her secrets as for her stories, she was a perfect mystery.
Now, if the letter was to be believed, Vida Winter wanted to tell the truth about herself. This was curious enough in itself, but curiouser still was my next thought: Why should she want to tell it to me?
Copyright © 2006 by Diane Setterfield
Product details
- ASIN : 0743298039
- Publisher : Atria/Emily Bestler Books; First Trade edition (October 9, 2007)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 432 pages
- ISBN-10 : 9780743298032
- ISBN-13 : 978-0743298032
- Lexile measure : 840L
- Item Weight : 12.1 ounces
- Dimensions : 5.31 x 1 x 8.25 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #43,519 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #302 in Gothic Fiction
- #411 in Contemporary Literature & Fiction
- #3,567 in Literary Fiction (Books)
- Customer Reviews:
About the author
Diane Setterfield is a former academic, specializing in twentieth-century French literature. She lives in Yorkshire, England.
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I will read this book again and again.
But then this one was on sale for $3 and that's cheaper than a sushi lunch and would take me longer to digest, so I bought it. And I'm glad I did.
The story is certainly well crafted and grabs you. It is well written and lyrical. It has a plethora of well-fleshed out characters that keep you interested, and the ending is neat and tidy.
Things that bugged me (note: I'm easily bugged):
- The inter-generational abuse and neglect presented as normal.
- Esoteric words chucked in there where simpler ones would do. .... Ok, OTOH, maybe the author fell in love with those particular words and needed to put them somewhere in homage. I can understand that. But it was still vaguely irritating.
- The twin thing. Yes I know it was a major theme of the book, but really, I was happily truckling along, completely immersed in the story universe, and then there would be this whine about the twin and it totally yanked me out of the tale and plonked me firmly back into reality. Like seriously, maybe it's time to get over yourself, girl? This obsession is maybe not quite healthy? In that regard the very end had me rolling my eyes so far back in my head I nearly fell over.
- There was something else but with my irritation about the twin thing I've forgotten what it was. Curses.
The characters: I find it interesting that most of the male characters, barring Charlie, were extremely comfortable to be around. I liked Dr. Clifton very much. His amusement delighted me. I loved Aurelius not only because his name reminded me fondly of Marcus Aurelius, but because he was so caring and safe. Also the cake. That's pretty important. I liked John because he kept on doing the best he could.
Charlie and Charlie's Dad, of course, both needed to be put out of their misery.
Of the women, most of them were flawed. Even Hester, who brought cleanliness and order, also brought chaos. Missus cared and loved, but was inadequate. Isabella needed to be put out of her misery. And Margaret whined.
I wonder what that was all about? The gender thing? Was it deliberate? Surely not. OH hey...Mrs. Love wasn't flawed. She was just lovely. <3
OH! I remembered what the other thing was that irritated me. The vague hints that this was going to be a ghost story. My mind stamped a firm "NOPE" on that one and I got inwardly snarly whenever it came up.
Anyway, I recommend this book. It's a good one. Interesting, compelling, no bad language or explicit sex. Just a really good story.
The novel consists largely of Vida Winter's narration of her past telling the story of a house in Angelfield and of her parents, Isabelle and Charlie, and the staff The Missus and John-the-Dig. Miss Winter's narration of her past and Angelfield is juxtaposed with Margaret's own musings about her own twin sister. Told with the pace of the mystery, The Thirteenth Tale expertly weaves ends of several stories into a wonderful tapestry of sisterhood and friendship with books being the epicenter of this lovely novel.
The book reads much like a work of classic literature with a setting that reminded me of an old estate and a large garden and the absence of any modern day technology to draw away from the drama and feeling of the story. In a sense the little aspects of this book are so subtle and slight that once the story concludes and the mystery of Vida Winter's wife is solves, the tiny insignificant things seem to have a greater purpose in the plot. In this fashion, The Thirteenth Tale remains a page turning experience while at the same time keeping the simple yet sophisticated narrative voice of reluctant Margaret Lea.
In retrospect, it is hard for me to find anything at fault with the story, while some chapters did seem to rage on about certain niche areas of literary history, in hindsight, most of the prose and the theoretical games posed by Miss Winter's narrative are worthwhile and in the end leave the reader looking at symbols that are so slight and delicate that a reader with a cursory glance would never even register that they were there.
I have to say that I was very sorry to see this book end. The story was so original and crafted so beautifully that I am looking forward to see what else Diane Setterfield has up her sleeve in her future literary efforts. In the meantime as we await another literary masterpiece by Setterfield, I recommend picking up a copy of Her Fearful Symmetry by Audrey Niffenegger for another story of twins and ghosts that is sure to please those with insatiable appetites for books about sisters and ghosts.
Final Grade: A-
Top reviews from other countries
I subsequently saw the TV film (which wasn't a patch on the book and I urge you to read the book first) which explained everything in a concise and abbreviated way, but it needed all the ramblings of the book to recreate the atmosphere properly. I couldn't work out from the book when it was set, I'd guessed the early 1900s but the TV film seems to be set after the war, so I'd guess maybe 1940s. There are no clues in the book relating to the time frame.
I'd read Once Upon a River, which although not gothic, was similarly mysterious and again absolutely beautifully written, like a river meandering through the tale. The Thirteenth Tale, in my opinion, was even better and I can't wait to read her third book. This is a talented author for sure.
A perfect book for book lovers. As a bibliophile you might have met a lot of people asking you questions and reasons behind your love for books, well this book sums it up beautifully. What Diana Setterfield has given to us is a protagonist who shares a deep and moving relationship with books, her love for the written word really shines through the pages, she is a protagonist who lives and breathes her father's antiquarian books.
Margeret lea, though an amateur biographer has been called on by the famous and elusive writer Vida Winter to write her biography, Vida after decades of deception about her life has finally decided to tell "Her Story" which is a tale that is grotesque and haunting with a very eerie quality. The story is written with a dual timeline which the author handles effortlessly going back to the dark, victorian Angelfield and coming to the present day. The setting of the story reminds me of Jane Eyre and Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier (two of my favourites). The story has disturbing aspects like incest and self harm, a theme pretty common in gothic literature.
This book is unputdownable and makes an impact on you with the beautiful prose. If you are a lover of words and a tale that is dark, this one is for you.
Thank you for reading the review.