The title of this book refers to a text in the New Testament where it says "...it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter to kingdom of God", and this is the worry of one of the main characters in this novel, Rose Vassiliou, a young woman with a strong social conscience who gives away the bulk of her inheritance to a charity in Africa.
At the start of this novel we meet Simon Camish, an unhappily married but successful barrister, who meets Rose Vassiliou at a dinner party given by friends in their London home. Simon is intrigued by Rose - whom he vaguely remembers reading about in the papers some years before when she had been made a ward of court by her wealthy parents in order to prevent her marrying Christopher Vassiliou, a young Greek whom her parents considered unsuitable and only interested in Rose for her money. After the dinner party, Simon offers Rose a lift home and finds that she lives in a run down part of London with her three children, having married Christopher and later divorced him on the grounds of cruelty. Rose invites Simon into her home, and whilst he is there, she confides in him her worries about her ex-husband who is challenging her for custody of their children.
Although Simon is not a family lawyer, he agrees to help Rose in whatever capacity he can. As he gets to know Rose over the following few weeks, visiting her in her shabby but comfortable home, Simon finds himself admiring her for her honesty, her morals and her nobleness of character - which he feels is in striking contrast to the social pretentiousness and acquisitiveness of his self-centred wife, Julie. And, as the weeks pass, he finds his admiration for Rose develops into something deeper. However, when Simon unexpectedly meets Christopher Vassiliou at a drinks party and they fall into conversation, he sees that Christopher and Rose's relationship is much more complex than he has been led to believe and he starts to have doubts about whether Rose has been entirely honest with him and whether she really is what she appears to be. In fact is it altruism that directs Rose's actions, or has she placed her own moral beliefs above the needs of those close to her?
This is not another novel about marital infidelity and illicit sex - in fact there is no technical infidelity to speak of in this carefully conceived and deftly written story. This is a measured, thoughtful and interesting novel, where the author has given her characters the power of deep introspection and self-analysis to explore themes of identity, idealism, ambition, responsibility and personal morality. I must say that I did wonder at times if there was perhaps just a little too much character analysis taking place, as the author neatly dissects each of her characters, or has them analyse themselves closely, which means the action is mostly restricted to that of the cerebral variety. However, this makes for an intelligent and thought-provoking read, and Margaret Drabble writes so well and with such perceptive observation that, for me, her novels can be nothing other than a pleasure to read.
4 Stars.
| Kindle Price: | £5.99 |
| Sold by: | Amazon Media EU S.à r.l. |
We will pre-order your items within 24 hours of when they become available. When new books are released, we'll charge your default payment method for the lowest price available during the pre-order period.
Update your device or payment method, cancel individual pre-orders or your subscription at
Your Memberships and Subscriptions
Your Memberships and Subscriptions
There was an error. We were unable to process your subscription due to an error. Please refresh and try again.
Download the free Kindle app and start reading Kindle books instantly on your smartphone, tablet or computer – no Kindle device required. Learn more
Read instantly on your browser with Kindle for Web.
Using your mobile phone camera - scan the code below and download the Kindle app.
![The Needle's Eye (Canons) by [Margaret Drabble]](https://m.media-amazon.com/images/I/41Y8EcA5QUL._SY346_.jpg)
The Needle's Eye (Canons) Kindle Edition
Simon Camish, a resentful insecure barrister in a stifling marriage, would not have particularly noticed Rose Vassiliou had he not been asked to drive her home one night after a dinner party. Now, separated from her Greek husband, Rose lives alone with her three children. Despite all the efforts and sneers of her friends, she refuses to move from her crumbling house in a decaying neighbourhood to which she has become attached. Gradually drawn further and further into her affairs, Simon becomes aware that Rose is a woman of remarkable integrity and courage.
‘Though I have admired Miss Drabble’s writing for years, I will admit that nothing she has written in the past quite prepared me for the depth and richness of this book’ – Joyce Carol Oates
‘Though I have admired Miss Drabble’s writing for years, I will admit that nothing she has written in the past quite prepared me for the depth and richness of this book’ – Joyce Carol Oates
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherCanongate Canons
- Publication date2 Jun. 2022
- File size4083 KB
Customers who read this book also read
Page 1 of 1 Start overPage 1 of 1
Product description
From the Back Cover
Simon Camish, an embittered, diffident lawyer in a loveless marriage, would not have particularly noticed Rose Vassiliou had he not been asked to drive her home one night after a dinner party. Yet at one time she had been notorious-her name constantly in the news.
Now, separated from her Greek husband, she lives alone with her three children. Despite all the efforts and sneers of her friends, she refuses to move from her slum house in a decaying neighborhood to which she has become attached.
Gradually, Simon becomes aware that Rose is a woman of remarkable integrity and courage. He is drawn into her affairs when her husband takes legal action to re-open the question of custody of the children-a scheme for getting his wife back. And, while the precise nature of their ties eludes him, Simon comes to realize that Rose and her Greek ex-husband are forever and inextricably bound to each other.
Margaret Drabble is the author of The Red Queen, The Seven Sisters, The Peppered Moth, The Witch of Exmoor, The Millstone, and The Ice Age. She is also the editor of The Oxford Companion to English Literature.
"The Needle's Eye is that rare thing, a book one wishes were longer than it is." -- The New York Review of Books
--This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.
Now, separated from her Greek husband, she lives alone with her three children. Despite all the efforts and sneers of her friends, she refuses to move from her slum house in a decaying neighborhood to which she has become attached.
Gradually, Simon becomes aware that Rose is a woman of remarkable integrity and courage. He is drawn into her affairs when her husband takes legal action to re-open the question of custody of the children-a scheme for getting his wife back. And, while the precise nature of their ties eludes him, Simon comes to realize that Rose and her Greek ex-husband are forever and inextricably bound to each other.
Margaret Drabble is the author of The Red Queen, The Seven Sisters, The Peppered Moth, The Witch of Exmoor, The Millstone, and The Ice Age. She is also the editor of The Oxford Companion to English Literature.
"The Needle's Eye is that rare thing, a book one wishes were longer than it is." -- The New York Review of Books
--This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
HE STOOD THERE AND WAITED. He was good at that. There was no hurry. There was plenty of time. He always had time. He was a punctual and polite person, and that was why he was standing there, buying a gift for his hostess. Politeness was an emotion- could one call it an emotion, he wondered? that was how he regarded it, certainly-an emotion that he both feared and understood.
There was only one woman in front of him in the off-licence, and she was certainly in no hurry either. She had not even got round to asking for anything yet, because she was too busy telling the man behind the counter about her granddaughter. Two weeks old, this child was, and the lady had just finished knitting her a pram-cover in stripes of white and blue: it didn't matter that it was blue and not pink, the daughter had said, she didn't like pink anyway. The man behind the counter was interested in the story: not merely polite, but interested. One can tell the difference. The woman was short and broad and she was wearing bedroom slippers. What raffish districts of London his friends inhabited: NW1, this was, with all its smart contrasts. They depressed him unbearably, the well-arranged gulfs and divisions of life, the frivolity with which his friends took in these contrasts, the pleasure they took in such abrasions. It appalled him, the complacency with which such friends would describe the advantages of living in a mixed area. As though they licenced seedy old ladies and black men to walk their streets, teaching their children of poverty and despair, as their pet hamsters and guinea pigs taught them of sex and death. He thought of these things, sadly.
Though the old lady did not seem sad. On the contrary, she seemed happy enough, this new grandmother: pleased with herself, pleased with her pram-cover, pleased at the prospect of the evening she was just about to set up for herself-for she embarked, now, on the purchase of one bottle of Guinness, two of pale ale, and one of fizzy orange. The man wrapped them up for her carefully in tissue paper, while she thought about other things that she might want. A box of matches, she decided on, and then (curious order of choice) a packet of ten Players: one might have thought that that would be all, but it wasn't, because her eyes then lit upon the plastic display of crisps, and she thought she'd have one of cheese and onion and one of salt and vinegar. Also a bar of chocolate. And while she was at it, a small packet of aspirin. Listening to her, watching her look around this obviously familiar spot for yet more purchases-(nuts? tobacco? small cherries in a jar?)-She felt such violent waves of nostalgia possess him that he nearly spoke. He knew where she came from, this woman: it was a world from which he was forever exiled. But he knew it: he knew its domestic interiors, its pleasures, its horizons. And he knew what she was doing, with her purchases: she was trying to get out of being in that shop the exact experience of being in it, she wanted to exploit it to the full. But imagination failed her: she had to admit defeat. That'll be all, she said, regretfully. In front of them on the counter stood a small gyrating plastic advertisement for a brand of lager: while the man added up her purchases she inspected it, and when he had finished she asked him how it worked. It worked off the light, he said: no battery, no switches, nothing, it just went round and round for ever as long as the shop lights were on. He was proud of it: a new acquisition. She was impressed. She gathered up her bits and pieces and thrust them into her large shabby peeling bag, nodding her approval as she did so. What will they make next, she said. Marvellous, isn't it, said the man. Thanks a lot, Mrs Donovan. Thank you, Mr White. Give my regards to your daughter, Mrs Donovan. She'll be in herself shortly, Mr White, that I'll be sure, said Mrs Donovan, and they both smiled and she shuffled out. Her legs, for so stout a woman, were thin and twiglike, her stockings wrinkled. He felt a pang of loss as she left, and the man turned to him, politely, his expression entirely changed, businesslike, inhuman, obsequious, almost but not quite repudiating the quality of his previous transaction: 'What would you like, sir?' he asked, and Simon, politely, said, 'Could I have a bottle of Vermouth, please, and twenty Gold Leaf?'
There was no point in making any effort: no point in commenting on the weather, or the revolving lager advertisement. He received his purchase in silence, paid in silence, said thank you as one must, and left.Diana and Nick lived just round the corner, but he thought that he might as well take the car right there with him, so he got back into it and drove himself fifty yards and parked. Diana and Nick: Nick and Diana. Perhaps he would enjoy himself after all. Better than eating alone at home, anyway, and that was surely why they had invited him: or was it out of some more positive desire to corrupt? That would be setting their interest in him too high perhaps, but he couldn't conceal from himself the fact that he had noticed that they (and one or two others) were always pretty quick off the mark to ask him round whenever his wife was away. He would have been touched, if he hadn't been slightly shamed by their alacrity: how had he let them in on it, how had they guessed, when had he so carelessly revealed himself? Not at all, maybe, not at all, surely: it was simple goodwill on their part, there was no need to be suspicious, or if they had an intention to corrupt it was so universal, so benevolent, that it implied no particular knowledge of him or of his circumstances. Old friends, they were, and what more natural than that they should invite him round for an evening while his wife was abroad? Julie herself had probably put them up to it: she had probably given Diana a ring and explained that she was off to New York for a fortnight and what about keeping an eye on poor Simon. The rage that possessed him as be thought of this was so acute and so bitter that he wished he hadn't allowed himself to speculate: though it was not rage against her, but a raging defence of her naïveté that so stuck in his throat. How could he protect her, when she was a free and adult woman, quite capable, all too capable, of lifting telephones and ringing up anyone to ask for anything? Ah well, forget it, he said to himself, and lifted his hand to ring the doorbell. He rang it, but there seemed to be remarkably little response: no answering sound within, and only the dullest sensation of indentation, so he decided that the bell was broken and lifted his hand once more to the knocker- an attractive knocker, a new one, a smiling and serene brass woman's face with grapes in her hair, a standard pattern but one that he had always liked. But before he had time to knock, the door opened, and there, silent and noiseless on the polished wooden floor (silent because of small gold cloth slippers) stood Diana, smiling with an equal calm.
'Simon, hello,' she said, and he stepped forward and kissed her on the cheek: a cheek which she offered, always, with no prospect of refusal, and anyway one would not be likely to wish to refuse such a nice brown even surface. A generous attitude, hers.
'I do like your new knocker,' he said, when he had greeted her and handed her his gift: following her up the stairs to their first-floor drawing-room. 'I was going to use it, I thought your bell didn't work.'
'One can't hear the bell from outside,' she said, 'we made it ring upstairs because we could never hear it.' 'How well organised you are,' he said, following her into the room: where their conversation immediately lost itself in faces, drinks, introductions and the soft bright interior of the room itself, which glowed diffusely, elegantly inhabitable, fashionably quaint, modern with a modernity that had no hard edges, no offence, no bravura in it. He had always liked the room, bearing signs, as it did, of so much in both of them, as well as of the hard-earned affluence that kept them together: for who could have guessed, watching the pair of them as they circled attentively with drinks and olives, so blending and agreeably harmonising with their choice in colours, their framed pictures by their own three rather talented small children, that this time a year ago they had parted for ever, with the great and customary acrimony that attends such separations? There had been much speculation both about their parting and their reunion: he himself had always had faith that a genuine affection had brought them back together, an affection supported not too ignobly by a reluctance to abandon so much comfortable bourgeois texture. What would Nick have done, in a horrid little flat away from all these deep piled carpets, or Diana, drifting desolate around a house that did not interest her as a refuge, but only as a meeting place, a place to receive in, a place to display? It was not, he felt, weakness that had brought them back to one another (though he thought this perhaps with bias)- it was more a sense that they augmented rather than diminished each other, they were better, more operative together. He had seen them both, singly, over their months apart, and though neither of them had confided in him (for he knew himself to be too discreet to invite real confidence) he had noticed that there was no sense of relief in either of them, but rather an exasperated self-assertion so unnecessary and so unnatural to both that he was sure it was the responsibility of independence that they had abandoned with a sigh of relief, rather than, in the first place, each other's company. They flourished, in this setting: even Nick, whose impatience at monogamous domestic claims had been real enough, thrived on it. It was not surprising, it was a setting that would encourage most kinds of growth: Simon, sinking into the corner of a deeply-upholstered off-white settee, and resting his feet on a luxuriantly waving, almost grotesquely verdant, silky rug, reflected how much affluence was, quite simply, a question of texture-a point that both he and Nick, with their similar histories of success, and their similar points of origin, were well placed to appreciate. The threadbare carpets of infancy, the coconut matting, the ill-laid linoleum, the utility furniture, the curious upholstery (running his fingers as he reflected, over the dense knobbly undyed tweed of the chair-arm on which his arm, itself softly if soberly clothed, now lay)-they had all spoken of a life too near the bones of subsistence, too little padded, too severely worn. Of gloss there had been a certain amount, for polish had been cheap enough: in Nick's semi-detached it had glowed on trolley and sideboard and peach-coloured mirror, hiding poor quality in ´eclat, and in his own home it had been a veneer, a thin and penetrable barrier against scorn and decay. Cleanliness costs you nothing, his mother used to say: a statement not wholly accurate, as she must have observed herself when adding up her grocery bills. Bleach, disinfectant, furniture polish, shoe polish.
Copyright © 1972 by Margaret Drabble
Foreword copyright © 2004 by Andrea Barrett
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be mailed to the following address: Permissions Department, Harcourt, Inc., 6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.
--This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.
There was only one woman in front of him in the off-licence, and she was certainly in no hurry either. She had not even got round to asking for anything yet, because she was too busy telling the man behind the counter about her granddaughter. Two weeks old, this child was, and the lady had just finished knitting her a pram-cover in stripes of white and blue: it didn't matter that it was blue and not pink, the daughter had said, she didn't like pink anyway. The man behind the counter was interested in the story: not merely polite, but interested. One can tell the difference. The woman was short and broad and she was wearing bedroom slippers. What raffish districts of London his friends inhabited: NW1, this was, with all its smart contrasts. They depressed him unbearably, the well-arranged gulfs and divisions of life, the frivolity with which his friends took in these contrasts, the pleasure they took in such abrasions. It appalled him, the complacency with which such friends would describe the advantages of living in a mixed area. As though they licenced seedy old ladies and black men to walk their streets, teaching their children of poverty and despair, as their pet hamsters and guinea pigs taught them of sex and death. He thought of these things, sadly.
Though the old lady did not seem sad. On the contrary, she seemed happy enough, this new grandmother: pleased with herself, pleased with her pram-cover, pleased at the prospect of the evening she was just about to set up for herself-for she embarked, now, on the purchase of one bottle of Guinness, two of pale ale, and one of fizzy orange. The man wrapped them up for her carefully in tissue paper, while she thought about other things that she might want. A box of matches, she decided on, and then (curious order of choice) a packet of ten Players: one might have thought that that would be all, but it wasn't, because her eyes then lit upon the plastic display of crisps, and she thought she'd have one of cheese and onion and one of salt and vinegar. Also a bar of chocolate. And while she was at it, a small packet of aspirin. Listening to her, watching her look around this obviously familiar spot for yet more purchases-(nuts? tobacco? small cherries in a jar?)-She felt such violent waves of nostalgia possess him that he nearly spoke. He knew where she came from, this woman: it was a world from which he was forever exiled. But he knew it: he knew its domestic interiors, its pleasures, its horizons. And he knew what she was doing, with her purchases: she was trying to get out of being in that shop the exact experience of being in it, she wanted to exploit it to the full. But imagination failed her: she had to admit defeat. That'll be all, she said, regretfully. In front of them on the counter stood a small gyrating plastic advertisement for a brand of lager: while the man added up her purchases she inspected it, and when he had finished she asked him how it worked. It worked off the light, he said: no battery, no switches, nothing, it just went round and round for ever as long as the shop lights were on. He was proud of it: a new acquisition. She was impressed. She gathered up her bits and pieces and thrust them into her large shabby peeling bag, nodding her approval as she did so. What will they make next, she said. Marvellous, isn't it, said the man. Thanks a lot, Mrs Donovan. Thank you, Mr White. Give my regards to your daughter, Mrs Donovan. She'll be in herself shortly, Mr White, that I'll be sure, said Mrs Donovan, and they both smiled and she shuffled out. Her legs, for so stout a woman, were thin and twiglike, her stockings wrinkled. He felt a pang of loss as she left, and the man turned to him, politely, his expression entirely changed, businesslike, inhuman, obsequious, almost but not quite repudiating the quality of his previous transaction: 'What would you like, sir?' he asked, and Simon, politely, said, 'Could I have a bottle of Vermouth, please, and twenty Gold Leaf?'
There was no point in making any effort: no point in commenting on the weather, or the revolving lager advertisement. He received his purchase in silence, paid in silence, said thank you as one must, and left.Diana and Nick lived just round the corner, but he thought that he might as well take the car right there with him, so he got back into it and drove himself fifty yards and parked. Diana and Nick: Nick and Diana. Perhaps he would enjoy himself after all. Better than eating alone at home, anyway, and that was surely why they had invited him: or was it out of some more positive desire to corrupt? That would be setting their interest in him too high perhaps, but he couldn't conceal from himself the fact that he had noticed that they (and one or two others) were always pretty quick off the mark to ask him round whenever his wife was away. He would have been touched, if he hadn't been slightly shamed by their alacrity: how had he let them in on it, how had they guessed, when had he so carelessly revealed himself? Not at all, maybe, not at all, surely: it was simple goodwill on their part, there was no need to be suspicious, or if they had an intention to corrupt it was so universal, so benevolent, that it implied no particular knowledge of him or of his circumstances. Old friends, they were, and what more natural than that they should invite him round for an evening while his wife was abroad? Julie herself had probably put them up to it: she had probably given Diana a ring and explained that she was off to New York for a fortnight and what about keeping an eye on poor Simon. The rage that possessed him as be thought of this was so acute and so bitter that he wished he hadn't allowed himself to speculate: though it was not rage against her, but a raging defence of her naïveté that so stuck in his throat. How could he protect her, when she was a free and adult woman, quite capable, all too capable, of lifting telephones and ringing up anyone to ask for anything? Ah well, forget it, he said to himself, and lifted his hand to ring the doorbell. He rang it, but there seemed to be remarkably little response: no answering sound within, and only the dullest sensation of indentation, so he decided that the bell was broken and lifted his hand once more to the knocker- an attractive knocker, a new one, a smiling and serene brass woman's face with grapes in her hair, a standard pattern but one that he had always liked. But before he had time to knock, the door opened, and there, silent and noiseless on the polished wooden floor (silent because of small gold cloth slippers) stood Diana, smiling with an equal calm.
'Simon, hello,' she said, and he stepped forward and kissed her on the cheek: a cheek which she offered, always, with no prospect of refusal, and anyway one would not be likely to wish to refuse such a nice brown even surface. A generous attitude, hers.
'I do like your new knocker,' he said, when he had greeted her and handed her his gift: following her up the stairs to their first-floor drawing-room. 'I was going to use it, I thought your bell didn't work.'
'One can't hear the bell from outside,' she said, 'we made it ring upstairs because we could never hear it.' 'How well organised you are,' he said, following her into the room: where their conversation immediately lost itself in faces, drinks, introductions and the soft bright interior of the room itself, which glowed diffusely, elegantly inhabitable, fashionably quaint, modern with a modernity that had no hard edges, no offence, no bravura in it. He had always liked the room, bearing signs, as it did, of so much in both of them, as well as of the hard-earned affluence that kept them together: for who could have guessed, watching the pair of them as they circled attentively with drinks and olives, so blending and agreeably harmonising with their choice in colours, their framed pictures by their own three rather talented small children, that this time a year ago they had parted for ever, with the great and customary acrimony that attends such separations? There had been much speculation both about their parting and their reunion: he himself had always had faith that a genuine affection had brought them back together, an affection supported not too ignobly by a reluctance to abandon so much comfortable bourgeois texture. What would Nick have done, in a horrid little flat away from all these deep piled carpets, or Diana, drifting desolate around a house that did not interest her as a refuge, but only as a meeting place, a place to receive in, a place to display? It was not, he felt, weakness that had brought them back to one another (though he thought this perhaps with bias)- it was more a sense that they augmented rather than diminished each other, they were better, more operative together. He had seen them both, singly, over their months apart, and though neither of them had confided in him (for he knew himself to be too discreet to invite real confidence) he had noticed that there was no sense of relief in either of them, but rather an exasperated self-assertion so unnecessary and so unnatural to both that he was sure it was the responsibility of independence that they had abandoned with a sigh of relief, rather than, in the first place, each other's company. They flourished, in this setting: even Nick, whose impatience at monogamous domestic claims had been real enough, thrived on it. It was not surprising, it was a setting that would encourage most kinds of growth: Simon, sinking into the corner of a deeply-upholstered off-white settee, and resting his feet on a luxuriantly waving, almost grotesquely verdant, silky rug, reflected how much affluence was, quite simply, a question of texture-a point that both he and Nick, with their similar histories of success, and their similar points of origin, were well placed to appreciate. The threadbare carpets of infancy, the coconut matting, the ill-laid linoleum, the utility furniture, the curious upholstery (running his fingers as he reflected, over the dense knobbly undyed tweed of the chair-arm on which his arm, itself softly if soberly clothed, now lay)-they had all spoken of a life too near the bones of subsistence, too little padded, too severely worn. Of gloss there had been a certain amount, for polish had been cheap enough: in Nick's semi-detached it had glowed on trolley and sideboard and peach-coloured mirror, hiding poor quality in ´eclat, and in his own home it had been a veneer, a thin and penetrable barrier against scorn and decay. Cleanliness costs you nothing, his mother used to say: a statement not wholly accurate, as she must have observed herself when adding up her grocery bills. Bleach, disinfectant, furniture polish, shoe polish.
Copyright © 1972 by Margaret Drabble
Foreword copyright © 2004 by Andrea Barrett
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be mailed to the following address: Permissions Department, Harcourt, Inc., 6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.
--This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.
From the Inside Flap
EDLE'S EYE is that rare thing, a book one wishes were longer than it is."
THE NEW YORK REVIEW OF BOOKS
Rose Vassiliou and Simon Camish meet at a friend's dinner party. He's a barrister in a loveless marriage, she's divorced, but her ex-husband is now demanding custody. Rose vows to win the savage custody battle to keep her children and needs Simon to help her. Yet as they become emotionally involved, Rose feels Simon could jeopardize her chances... --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.
THE NEW YORK REVIEW OF BOOKS
Rose Vassiliou and Simon Camish meet at a friend's dinner party. He's a barrister in a loveless marriage, she's divorced, but her ex-husband is now demanding custody. Rose vows to win the savage custody battle to keep her children and needs Simon to help her. Yet as they become emotionally involved, Rose feels Simon could jeopardize her chances... --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.
Review
PRAISE FOR THE NEEDLE'S EYE
Though I have admired Miss Drabble's writing for years, I will admit that nothing she has written in the past quite prepared me for the depth and richness of this book. -Joyce Carol Oates, The New York Times
The Needle's Eye is that rare thing, a book one wishes were longer than it is.-The New York Review of Books
--
--This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.About the Author
MARGARET DRABBLE is the author of The Sea Lady, The Seven Sisters, The Peppered Moth, and The Needle's Eye, among other novels. For her contributions to contemporary English literature, she was made a Dame of the British Empire in 2008.
--This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.Review
Margaret Drabble's "The Needle's Eye" is an extraordinary work: It not only tells a story deftly, beautifully, with a management of past and present (and future) action that demonstrates Miss Drabble's total mastery of the mysterious form of the novel, but it succeeds in so re-creating the experiences of her characters that we soon forget they are fictional beings (perhaps they are not... ?) and we become them, we are transformed into them, so that by the end of the novel we have lived, through them, a very real, human and yet extraordinary experience. -- Joyce Carol Oates An extraordinary work: it tells a story deftly, beautifully -- Joyce Carol Oates --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.
Synopsis
Dissatisfied with his marriage to the brittle Julie, Simon Camish allows himself to be drawn into Rose Vassiliou's complex domestic situation. Settled in a decaying house with her three children, Rose has divorced her violent husband and rejected her family inheritance. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.
Book Description
An honest and moving portrait of the everyday messiness of life, and the complications of love --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.
Product details
- ASIN : B09MSDC9VB
- Publisher : Canongate Canons (2 Jun. 2022)
- Language : English
- File size : 4083 KB
- Text-to-Speech : Enabled
- Screen Reader : Supported
- Enhanced typesetting : Enabled
- X-Ray : Not Enabled
- Word Wise : Enabled
- Sticky notes : On Kindle Scribe
- Print length : 497 pages
- Best Sellers Rank: 118,404 in Kindle Store (See Top 100 in Kindle Store)
- 7,668 in Literary Fiction (Kindle Store)
- 15,268 in Literary Fiction (Books)
- 19,923 in Contemporary Fiction (Books)
- Customer reviews:
Customer reviews
3.3 out of 5 stars
3.3 out of 5
84 global ratings
How customer reviews and ratings work
Customer Reviews, including Product Star Ratings, help customers to learn more about the product and decide whether it is the right product for them.
To calculate the overall star rating and percentage breakdown by star, we don’t use a simple average. Instead, our system considers things like how recent a review is and if the reviewer bought the item on Amazon. It also analyses reviews to verify trustworthiness.
Learn more how customers reviews work on Amazon-
Top reviews
Top reviews from United Kingdom
There was a problem filtering reviews right now. Please try again later.
VINE VOICE
7 people found this helpful
Helpful
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 21 July 2014
This is a carefully constructed novel which examines moral questions about class and what to do about personal wealth (or lack of it) in late 1960s Britain (in particular, London).
Most of the "action" takes place in the internal monologues of the two main characters - Simon, a left-leaning labour law barrister who has risen from northern poverty to the trendy end of the metropolitan bourgeoisie through grammar school, Oxford and marriage to the daughter of a successful businessman, and Rose, the barely educated daughter of an extremely wealthy family who chose to dramatically give all her money away, leave the family's country mansion and live the life of the working poor in a not yet gentrified north London suburb.
What little actual action there is revolves around a bitter custody battle between Rose and her ex husband. But it's not a novel based on story. It's about the thoughts and feelings of Rose and Simon: about themselves, their pasts, their relationship with each other, which is based around, ostensibly at least, Simon's informal legal advice to Rose about her problems. After they've had a phonecall, or he's visited her for tea, there are long passages in which one of them sits at home alone and thinks about what they've discussed together, and then thinks in greater detail about their own past, contrasting it with the other's.
Drabble has a tight grip on her narrative. The parallels, the symmetry of the characters pasts and feelings etc are all very carefully developed and are presented with a light touch. She doesn't pander to her readers, you have to put some work in yourself to see what's going on. The sense of time and place are very strong and the characters are developed with depth and sympathy. I found it original, enjoyable and mildly challenging without being a slog.
Most of the "action" takes place in the internal monologues of the two main characters - Simon, a left-leaning labour law barrister who has risen from northern poverty to the trendy end of the metropolitan bourgeoisie through grammar school, Oxford and marriage to the daughter of a successful businessman, and Rose, the barely educated daughter of an extremely wealthy family who chose to dramatically give all her money away, leave the family's country mansion and live the life of the working poor in a not yet gentrified north London suburb.
What little actual action there is revolves around a bitter custody battle between Rose and her ex husband. But it's not a novel based on story. It's about the thoughts and feelings of Rose and Simon: about themselves, their pasts, their relationship with each other, which is based around, ostensibly at least, Simon's informal legal advice to Rose about her problems. After they've had a phonecall, or he's visited her for tea, there are long passages in which one of them sits at home alone and thinks about what they've discussed together, and then thinks in greater detail about their own past, contrasting it with the other's.
Drabble has a tight grip on her narrative. The parallels, the symmetry of the characters pasts and feelings etc are all very carefully developed and are presented with a light touch. She doesn't pander to her readers, you have to put some work in yourself to see what's going on. The sense of time and place are very strong and the characters are developed with depth and sympathy. I found it original, enjoyable and mildly challenging without being a slog.
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 28 February 2017
Inside the heads of two people. Not an easy read. Very little happens until the last fifty pages. Intense. Hard work.
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 14 December 2014
Margaret Drabble is a very competent novelist and it is a delight to read her prose-however,this story was just a little too long for me.
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 18 July 2013
I enjoyed this book. It was an unusual story and at times, a page turner although not an easy read.
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 25 October 2018
Totally waffly, a very hard , uninspiring read.
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 4 December 2018
Rambling boring unreal characters
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on 15 November 2017
As a lover of Margaret Drabble novels I was not disappointed.
