A few weeks back I read Uncle Silas a tale of Bartram Haugh by J.S Le Fanu; I had intended to write a review after finishing it but unfortunately as you may have gathered from an earlier post I’ve not felt up to it. I’ve been totally unable to write lately so I though I’d break the ice with a brief review. Uncle Silas, what is the books about? : The book is the Story of Maud Ruthyn; Maud lives a solitary and quiet life, but a happy one. She lives with her father, a quiet man of unorthodox religious opinions and solitary habits. Her mother died when she was young and so the main female influences in her life are the maid and the housekeeper, both of whom she is very fond of. But Maud’s peaceful life is interrupted suddenly when her father decides she is in need of a finishing governess. The woman he chooses brings terror and mystery to the nervous Maud. Another female influence also enters her life early on, cousin Monica, a wealthy widow who speaks her mind and does as she pleases. Early on in the book we learn of Maud’s fascination with...

The extended family, with its branches sprawling near and far, mostly far, growing further and further away. So much diversity from one common root; yet they have all shed their summer colours in unison and joined in wearing winter black. We don’t come together for Christmas and birthdays; we don’t have family reunions. We gather at gravesides, to show respects that lacked in life. A breeze wafts the rows of black coats and I’m reminded of carrion crows taking flight, swooping on the grave feasting on the fact that they still live, revelling in their hunger for life. I look at the gathering of solemn faces, people who I’ve only ever seen in funereal black, brought out like professional mourners; they cry and moan and then slip away to await the next passing. Here they are the family, the mourners, talking of a person I do not recognise, as though death has rendered a sudden transformation, all past transgressions washed away and leaving behind a newly created idol. Or perhaps they’re at the wrong funeral. I’m surrounded by a dozen cousins, some mere children, picking their noses in bored incomprehension. Someone points out so and so’s son and what’s...