ride in order to reach her goal …’
This is…
There are no…
Profane and shameless stuff from a nun posing in a state of grace. This woman is a set of wings, she is a suit of armour, with the black habit she dons and discards as her nefarious behaviour demands.
‘ God deliberately created some of us to be evil. It is not for us to question why. It is up to us to worship; and on bended knee to give thanks for what we are .’
Her first reaction is shock and confusion, before being drawn in by appalled fascination. She has to read on, breathless, excited. Some of this is outrageous, vile, she cannot believe it is here, in print, and that she could be so absorbed by such evil.
One hour passes. This is no good. Kirsty has to get up in the morning; if she reads any more she’ll be exhausted, but she can’t carry on reading in bed, cosy with the light on, without disturbing Avril and Bernie. Nor can she put this book down. So she creeps to the recreation room in her nightdress and her parka and curls up on a battered chaise longue; she can’t put Magdalene down.
For these are no ordinary words.
This is not writing, this is witchcraft.
Everything in the world is forgotten as if it never existed.
‘ I started my writing wearing gloves in a quiet corner of my room, covering each page with a hand as I went in case someone came up on me and learned the abominable secrets of my soul… like stone gargoyles on churches they were, be-winged devils straight out of hell… ’
Tense and taut through the weird experience, one moment Kirsty is laughing out loud, the next she is breaking her heart as she unconsciously curls up tighter, pulling her feet up under her and wrapping her arms round her knees, a variation of the foetal position because she feels in need of protection.
‘ He who killed me with his smile had to die. I hated him for his treacherous tenderness. I loved him with the terrible burden of my own desire …’
There is chaos in her brain as flash flash flash goes the book, connecting with Kirsty’s most inner fears, speaking thoughts only she understands, riveting with its terrors, blood-curdling with its dangers. From blackmailer to martyr, one moment loving, the next depraved; the author terrifies, comforts and laughs like a close but alarming friend. No no no, yes yes yes, why why why, be careful ! The book turns Kirsty lost and cold, as if she has wakened alone in a dark, strange room. ‘ Evil is not without purpose. I am a subterranean monster thrusting its head and mouth out of the earth in search of prey. Killing him is so sweetly easy… ’ Occasionally Kirsty looks up, blinks and shakes her head like an owl, exhausted by emotional bombardment, but tenderness, humour and pity twist like wild roses through this blitzed landscape. Kirsty flies through the night on wings of exultation and courage, with a bigness in her head that is awesome.
Who is this person?
Kirsty is forced to pause, to wrench herself from the plot to find out.
Ellen Kirkwood.
Never heard of her.
This edition, in pristine condition save for the musty smell, was printed in 1913. The publishers, Bryant, list no other titles under the author’s name. There is no biography, no photo, no clues.
The underlying story is simple, a tale of a woman and her awesome revenge, a black-veiled woman, a bride of Christ.
‘ My entire being is filled by an awareness of him, trembling uncertainly between existence and annihilation …’
If the force of this books grips Kirsty so violently then what about everyone else? The most incredible part is that a novel written all those years ago can strike the perfect chord today. It would only have to be slightly altered…
By the time Kirsty has finished, daylight is flooding through the streaky windows.
And all that makes the ending endurable is the knowledge that Kirsty can start at page one and read the whole lot over again.
Five
T HIS COULD BE DISHEARTENING. No decent person would
This is…
There are no…
Profane and shameless stuff from a nun posing in a state of grace. This woman is a set of wings, she is a suit of armour, with the black habit she dons and discards as her nefarious behaviour demands.
‘ God deliberately created some of us to be evil. It is not for us to question why. It is up to us to worship; and on bended knee to give thanks for what we are .’
Her first reaction is shock and confusion, before being drawn in by appalled fascination. She has to read on, breathless, excited. Some of this is outrageous, vile, she cannot believe it is here, in print, and that she could be so absorbed by such evil.
One hour passes. This is no good. Kirsty has to get up in the morning; if she reads any more she’ll be exhausted, but she can’t carry on reading in bed, cosy with the light on, without disturbing Avril and Bernie. Nor can she put this book down. So she creeps to the recreation room in her nightdress and her parka and curls up on a battered chaise longue; she can’t put Magdalene down.
For these are no ordinary words.
This is not writing, this is witchcraft.
Everything in the world is forgotten as if it never existed.
‘ I started my writing wearing gloves in a quiet corner of my room, covering each page with a hand as I went in case someone came up on me and learned the abominable secrets of my soul… like stone gargoyles on churches they were, be-winged devils straight out of hell… ’
Tense and taut through the weird experience, one moment Kirsty is laughing out loud, the next she is breaking her heart as she unconsciously curls up tighter, pulling her feet up under her and wrapping her arms round her knees, a variation of the foetal position because she feels in need of protection.
‘ He who killed me with his smile had to die. I hated him for his treacherous tenderness. I loved him with the terrible burden of my own desire …’
There is chaos in her brain as flash flash flash goes the book, connecting with Kirsty’s most inner fears, speaking thoughts only she understands, riveting with its terrors, blood-curdling with its dangers. From blackmailer to martyr, one moment loving, the next depraved; the author terrifies, comforts and laughs like a close but alarming friend. No no no, yes yes yes, why why why, be careful ! The book turns Kirsty lost and cold, as if she has wakened alone in a dark, strange room. ‘ Evil is not without purpose. I am a subterranean monster thrusting its head and mouth out of the earth in search of prey. Killing him is so sweetly easy… ’ Occasionally Kirsty looks up, blinks and shakes her head like an owl, exhausted by emotional bombardment, but tenderness, humour and pity twist like wild roses through this blitzed landscape. Kirsty flies through the night on wings of exultation and courage, with a bigness in her head that is awesome.
Who is this person?
Kirsty is forced to pause, to wrench herself from the plot to find out.
Ellen Kirkwood.
Never heard of her.
This edition, in pristine condition save for the musty smell, was printed in 1913. The publishers, Bryant, list no other titles under the author’s name. There is no biography, no photo, no clues.
The underlying story is simple, a tale of a woman and her awesome revenge, a black-veiled woman, a bride of Christ.
‘ My entire being is filled by an awareness of him, trembling uncertainly between existence and annihilation …’
If the force of this books grips Kirsty so violently then what about everyone else? The most incredible part is that a novel written all those years ago can strike the perfect chord today. It would only have to be slightly altered…
By the time Kirsty has finished, daylight is flooding through the streaky windows.
And all that makes the ending endurable is the knowledge that Kirsty can start at page one and read the whole lot over again.
Five
T HIS COULD BE DISHEARTENING. No decent person would
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