Posts Tagged ‘charlottembraeme’


The Tragedy of Chain Pier

September 20, 2010

I doubt anyone has been reading this blog for that long, but if you’ve poked around in the archives, you may remember Charlotte M. Brame and her less than aptly titled Everyday Life series. I really will finish reading it some day, and I am now one book closer to that goal.

The Tragedy of the Chain Pier is actually a little less ridiculously removed from everyday life than The Coquette’s Victim and Coralie. There’s only one wealthy young aristocrat and one unexpected succession to an estate, and both are fairly peripheral. Read the rest of this entry ?


One Year of Redeeming Qualities

March 10, 2008

Last week was the one-year anniversary of this blog. I still enjoy writing about weird old books. I’m a little bit impressed that I’ve managed to keep it going for so long. I don’t know that there’s much else to say about it, but I thought I should do something to celebrate, so here’s a list of my favorite finds since I began writing Redeeming Qualities, in order of discovery.

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March 8, 2007

I’ve spent too long reading poetry, and now I’m taking a break to talk about bad prose. I mean, I like Tennyson, but In Memoriam is kind of long. And Coralie, by Charlotte M. Braeme, is neither long nor complex.

Coralie is narrated by Edgar Trevelyan, a poor young man of good family who works as a clerk to support himself and his invalid sister Clare. They’re barely making ends meet, and Clare has one of those mysterious fictional illnesses: a spinal ailment that can only be cured by expensive food and freedom from worry.
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The Coquette’s Victim

March 7, 2007

A few days ago, I read a couple of truly terrible novellas by Charlotte M. Braeme, a writer of love stories for the English lower classes in the mid to late 19th century.

The first was called The Coquette’s Victim, and it starts with an aristocratic-looking young man being brought before a judge and charged with attempting to steal a watch. The judge is surprised, because it is well known in this kind of fiction that people with aristocratic faces never commit crimes. The guy also gives his name as John Smith. Why do these people bother? Can’t they come up with anything less obviously false?

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