Sophia y Charles tienen veinte años cuando se conocen en un tren. Los dos son artistas, alegres y cándidos, y al cabo de un año deciden casarse en secreto. A la boda, sin embargo, va todo el mundo, quizá un primer indicio de que no siempre sabe uno bien dónde se mete. La novia cree que el control de natalidad consiste en ponerse «muy seria» y decir: «No tendré hijos». La madre del novio cree que su hijo «es un genio y se merece respeto».
En el Londres bohemio de los años 30, de mudanza en mudanza, entre niños y amantes inesperados, la inocencia y la esperanza tendrán que afrontar duras pruebas. Antes de conocer a su verdadero príncipe azul, Sophia se habrá convertido en la dulce heroína de un extraño cuento de hadas, en el que el hada madrina es una pequeña herencia imprevista y el ogro adopta la forma de cortes de gas y de luz, trabajos perdidos, comidas magras y una parentela entrometida y mezquina.

This writer, a Brit, is a new one for me, as is the case with many of us as our new feminist awareness is putting many literary women back in the forefront of a domain that previously ignored them. Our primary character herein, one Sophia, is a naive but apparently attractive young woman (I say this as she is constantly being 'rescued' by reprobates) who finds herself enmeshed in a horrific mariage, terrible in-laws and a laggard husband (aren't they all -- and let's not forget the 'manolescent' boyfriends of today, a plague upon the land!), a pregnancy and delivery from hell (thirties style!), and the class-ridden society of class conscious pre-war Britain. I intend to read more works from B Comyns, a true luminary! ( )

In this mostly depressing novel, a young woman recounts her early adulthood. She married way too young and had a baby right away, lived in poverty, gets ill, husband is unsupportive and leaves her, etc. It was sort of like a first person Hardy novel set in the mid-1900s.

I liked it, but not as much as the other Comyns novel I've read (The Vet's Daughter). I mainly liked the voice of the narrator in this one. She is very straightforward and matter of fact about all the terrible things happening to her. I actually found it sort of funny at times. ( )

Interesting. Author Barbara Comyns writes a semi-autobiographical novel set in the 1930s (she cautions that nothing in the book is true except a few chapters; I won’t mention what those are about to avoid spoilers). The protagonist, Sophia, marries in haste and repents at leisure; she’s breathtakingly naïve, and her husband is a callous jerk – but can be slightly forgiven because he’s also breathtakingly naïve. The couple have no idea of how to support themselves, and unfortunately don’t seem to realize how reproduction works (Sophia volunteers to the reader that she thought if you firmly believed you wouldn’t get pregnant, you wouldn’t. This turns out not to be the case). The main charm of the book is the writing style; simple declarative sentences narrating their descent into genteel poverty – and continuing into pretty ungenteel poverty – somehow turns the commonplace into grand tragedy. Still, Sophia manages to muddle through being unable to afford clothes and furniture and heat and food and medical care and ends up reminding the reader that simple joys – enough to eat, a new pair of shoes, a pet – are the best. ( )

A vivid, melancholy and poetic novel about poverty in mid-20th century England by a woman who is quickly becoming my favourite new writer (new to me, I mean). This is pitched somewhere between the quirky, self-conscious voice of a Muriel Spark protagonist and the depictions of working class life from one of Orwell's social novels, maybe Keep The Aspidistra Flying or one of those. Comyns should be much better-known than she is. ( )