My rating: 5 of 5 stars
This book. This strange and terrifying and amazing book.
The first thing to say is that it sort of defies rating. The five stars I’ve given it reflect, mainly, the outstanding audacity of it. It is supremely constructed in order to reveal very little. It’s a tour-de-force in autobiographical artifice. Written in short, breezy chapters it talks about her house, her pets, “How do you write stories Enid Blyton?”, and everything she wants us to hear and nothing that she doesn’t.
This book is almost propaganda in a way. It propagates a very specific (and very spectacular) image of The Blyton that dominates whatever may actually be said in this book. And what she does say is so very carefully chosen, so very ‘on point’, it sort of reveals a whole lot more than I think it may have ever been intended to.
Don’t fight The Blyton. You will be assimilated. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to go and buy some ginger beer.