Lovely book that can only be described as the literary equivalent of naive art! Comyns recounts episodes from her childhood, brought up in a genteel if debt-laden family. It put me in mind of Nancy Mitford's account of her own family. Irascible Daddy, vague, deaf Mammy and six children who for want of outside company spend much time together.
Comyns writes in a unique childlike style with eccentric spelling and an antipathy for semicolons, so that phrases run into each other.
Mammy had always looked and been rather vague, she had a kind of gypsoflia mind, all little bits and pieces held together by whisps' (sic)
Far from being a sentimental account, Comyns recalls the horrific alongside the magical- villagers are drowned in the flood, Daddy has violent tempers, animals get ill-treated- yet with a childlike acceptance.
I LOVE Comyns' work!