Frederica Potter, a smart, spirited 33-year-old single mother, lucks into a job hosting a groundbreaking television talk show based in London. Meanwhile, in her native Yorkshire where her lover is involved in academic research, the university is planning a prestigious conference on body and mind, and a group of students and agitators is establishing an “anti-university.” And nearby a therapeutic community is beginning to take the shape of a religious cult under the influence of its charismatic religious leader.
A Whistling Woman is a brilliant and thought-provoking meditation on psychology, science, religion, ethics, and radicalism, and their effects on ordinary lives.
|Publisher:||Blackstone Audio, Inc.|
|Product dimensions:||6.38(w) x 9.68(h) x 2.35(d)|
About the Author
Hometown:London, England; France
Date of Birth:August 24, 1936
Place of Birth:Sheffield, England
Education:B.A., Newnham College, Cambridge, 1957; graduate study at Bryn Mawr College and Somerville College
Read an Excerpt
... “This is the last tree,” said the thrush. The last tree was a dwarf thorn, its black branches shaped one way by the wind, pointing back the way they had come. “Formerly,” said the thrush, “there was a last tree further out. And in earlier times there was a stunted wood, the Krumholz. The waste is advancing.”
They looked into iron twilight. They could barely make out the bluff where the wood had once been rooted.
“No one goes out there,” said the thrush. “In former days, there were travellers, until winter set in. But now they are afraid of the Whistlers. The winters have lengthened. And in the light days the land is infested by the Whistlers.”
“The place we seek is on the other side,” said Artegall. “According to the maps and the histories. We must go, and quickly, before winter sets in.”
“And before the hunters catch up with us,” said Mark.
“No one has set out, or come from there, in my life-time,” said the thrush, fluffing out his spotted feathers. His life-time was not very long, and his territory was small. He was a wiry, thick-quilted thrush.
“What is the land like?” asked Artegall.
“Scrub and stones, mosses, and lichens, deep pools with ice-covers, frozen rivers. There are white creatures there, I've been told, that scutter in the snow and hide in holes. And slick, grey efts, in the pools. They used to say the lichens were edible, if not palatable. All hearsay. I haven't been there.”
“And the Whistlers?”
“No one has seen them and lived,” said the thrush. “Indeed, to hear them is mostly fatal. They fly or glide like grey shadows and make a sound--a sound--”
“So it is said, a high, whistling sound, at the extreme edge of what any creature can hear, yet all must hear it. A dog can hear whistles that you hear as disturbed silence. But these creatures have the power to pierce any ear--bird and man, bear and snowcock, even your sleeping stone reptile who appears to be lifeless.”
Artegall looked at Dracosilex, who had shown no sign of life since the Bale Fires of the last village.
“I could do with his counsel,” said Artegall. “If he could be wakened.”
“If the Whistlers woke him,” said the thrush, “you would not live to hear his counsel. And your bones would be picked in an instant.”
They built a shelter near the last tree, and set up their tents, before night fell. Noises howled and hummed round them, fine, glassy sounds and a regular quavering boom, and the icy blasts of the wind, blowing and flowing over the dry rattling twigs of the last tree. There were also shrill notes that could have been whistling, human or inhuman. Mark said that he had heard that the porpoises and the dolphins sang to each other in the blue summer waters of the south, from which they had come. “There is needles and knives in this wind,” said Dol Throstle. “And talons and claws.” They chewed dried meat, and sweet dried grapes, too few, gone too quickly.
In the morning a fine dry snow fell, gusting and eddying in the wind. They could not see very far. They discussed who should scout and who should stay. Mark asked if Artegall's geography books had contained maps of this land. There were a few maps of the Northern Empire, he said, vague shapeless spaces with a few rivers and many drawings of fabulous beasts, with twenty legs, or curving claws. It was written, White Waste. I remember one or two trails without issue, and arrows pointing out of the page, To the North. The pages were very richly decorated, bordered with golden apples and crimson cherries and emerald vine-leaves. And iron axes, and flakes of fire.
Dol Throstle remembered how Mark the page-boy had mocked the young prince at the outset, with his stories of the books of venery, history, geography, dutifully committed to memory in the study-prison of his white tower in the south. And how Artegall's knowledge had led them through forests, and his languages had made it possible to speak to strangers, and his books of tracking and stalking had found food in hard places. And Mark for his part had taught Artegall the knack of tickling trout, and stealing from bees, and chattering like a naif lad to soldiers in inns. And now they were no longer prince and whipping-boy and nursemaid, but three leathery, weathered creatures, all muscle and quickened eyes, bundled in borrowed skins. A snake had taught Artegall the language of the beasts, but they were all, Dol thought, part of the animal kingdom now, they could melt into woodland like foxes, lie lost in grassland like hares, they could flow along hillsides like wolves.
Mark said they could not travel at night, using the stars, because of the cold.
And then they heard, for the first time, in the noises of the wind and the clack of the twigs, the whistle, that rose and fell and then rose and rose, out of pitch, so they knew they were still hearing it though the sound disturbed only their brains. And Dol's courage failed, and she thought she was a fool and a madwoman to bring two mere boys so far, in search of a kingdom that was perhaps only a fantasy out of legend. And Mark thought, numbed, that this time maybe there was no way forward, only snow-blindness and frost-bite, and behind were the steady hunters, beating them out of cover like fowls. And Artegall thought that the voices were terrible, and would destroy the brain in the skull. And then the sound died down, and released them. Artegall had the idea of making little balls of lambswool to put in their ears, under their skin hoods.
In the morning the two boys set out, leaving Dol under the thorn. “If we do not come back within three days,” said Artegall, “you must turn back. The soldiers may not harm you if I am not there.”
“Nonsense,” said Dol. “I will come after you, whatever may befall. I am no mean tracker, by now.”
They found, after a mile or two of careful advance over characterless scrub and crackling frost, that they needed their ears in the ice-gloom, both to test brittle crusts over deep crevices and to listen to the land, for footfalls, for the snap of branches, for the beat of wings. They found a kind of goat-path, among the little junipers and ling, which widened into a track. They stumped steadily on; Mark singled out prominent stones along the track which might be pointers, put there by human hands. The cloud-cover was lowering and thickening. They examined the stones, and found scratches--an arrow perhaps, a bird's-foot, three-toed, on one, and then on another. They decided if they found a third to turn back, and fetch Dol, and their provisions, and try this road. A little wind got up, and blew ice in their faces, in sharp splinters. They could hear singing in this wind. At first they did not speak of it, taking it for an interior humming, that kept time with their footsteps and the beat of blood. Mark said, in the end,
“Do you hear sweet voices in the wind?”
“So you hear them too. Voices, thin and high, and a kind of flute, or maybe another voice.”
“Maybe an ice equivalent of a mirage in a desert.”
“Maybe the voices of the Whistlers.”
“Or the spirits of their victims.”
They struggled on, and the track became less definite. There were no more markers. The wind pelted them with frozen snow. Mark said
“The singing is unbearably sad, unbearably--” and fell over in the snow behind Artegall. As Artegall turned, the perfectly-pitched music in his head turned to an undulating whistle. He reached to put the bulb of wool in his ears, fumbling with his fur-gloved fingers, before he knelt by his friend. The wool did not wholly exclude the whistling, but reduced it to a whisper of a shriek. And he saw them coming at him through the gloom, one, two, three, five, eight, thirteen of them, sailing on outstretched grey wings, almost indistinguishable from the cloud, their long, slender necks held out before them like swans', their thin legs trailing like herons', their bright beaks like curving scimitars, pale red-gold. They landed in a circle round the two, and Mark saw with horror that their faces above their beaks were human, that they had dark, human, forward-looking eyes under arched eyebrows, that their feather-hoods covered, or flowed into, long hair, which they shook out over their shoulders, that the legs above the bird-talons that struck and gripped the icy stones were human above the feathered ankles, that the bodies inside the great cloaks of grey pinioned wings were human, female, with high breasts and slender waists, but covered in white down. Artegall found that he could not move, though he could see and hear.
The Whistlers began a kind of strutting dance, moving stiffly on their claws, winding their long necks gracefully like charming serpents, bowing and pointing and singing at the two humans, on the white earth in the gathering darkness. Artegall understood that they were singing, over and under the terrible whistle, but he could make no sense of the words. He tried to listen as he listened to the speech of birds, and heard cackle and hiss; he tried to listen as he would listen to women, and heard meaningless babble of airy syllables. He saw then that their song was somehow spinning a cocoon of icy threads round and over his friend's body, like a glassy shroud hardening into a coffin. His own hands and feet were threaded with filaments which he was powerless to cast off. It came numbly to him, he must understand their language, or speak to them, or he must die. He listened as he had never listened in his life, and began to make out that their language, like their bodies, was a dreadful hybrid, feather-words and skin-words grown into each other, beak-words and tongue- and teeth-words fused. He could hear it, he could even construct it, by some terrible operation inside his own skull of simultaneous separation and stitching, so that he was, as it were, dividing the two fronts of a leather jerkin and then, between the two parts of his brain, threading them together with a thong of thought. “Pity,” he said, in this strange new speech, his tongue like leather. “Pity, women-birds, bird-women--kind--creatures--this--man--too--is--kind.” No hurt, he cried, small, promising and asking, no hurt. And one Whistler said
“He hears us.”
“I hear you.”
“He hears words in whistling.”
“I hear your words, Whistlers. I hear, I speak.”
He said, in bird speech, “The King of the snakes taught me this speech.” He said, in human speech, “Do not hurt us, we are lost, we mean good.” He repeated, in their speech, “I hear you, you hear me.” It was like a blade in the brain, dividing and touching both divided parts.
They stopped singing, then, and moved together in a circle, whistling to each other with bowed heads. They came back, and one, whistling hesitant and low, said
“We will carry you to a safe place for the night. We will not harm you. Do you hear me?”
“I can hear you.”
“We will carry your friend, too. He is not harmed. He will wake.”
They snatched up Mark, three pairs of claws, and flew away. Then Artegall felt the scaled grip, through all his furs, and the cold air inside his hood as they rose, and wheeled north, into the gathering dark and the blast of the wind. He knew no more.
He woke by a glowing fire, deep in a cave. Mark slept beside him, the ice-cocoon melted. The bird-women roosted on rocky ledges, preening grey wings with wicked beaks. They brought him soup, grey, bitter, gluey, in a tall jar. They gathered round and asked who he was, where he was going? He told them, for he saw no help in concealing it, who he was--Artegall, prince of Harena--and of his escape from the South when the black ships poured into the harbour, and of his companions, Dol Throstle, who was his nurse, and Mark, and some others, who had not survived. And he spoke of Hamraskir Kveld-Ulf, his father's legendary northern cousin, whom Dol had told him might provide a sure refuge from the spies and assassins sent out from Mormorea by Barbasangue. He said doubtfully that maybe the Northern Kingdom was only legend. Dol had spoken of it with certainty when she hid him in the laundry-cart, but the certainty had diminished with the rough journey. Maybe there was nothing north of the wasteland except ice-floes, and cold dancing lights.
“It is there,” said one of the Whistlers. Her name was Hvanvit. “In a valley in the ice-mountains, beyond this land. It goes by many names. Hofgarden, Harreby, Veralden. We call it Veralden. The kings of Veralden have always been powerful wizards. They are shape-shifters, who can become wolves, or bears, at will, and travel out into the badlands, watching the borders, talking to the wind-spirits, listening to the advances and retreats of the ice. In Veralden, only men were shape-shifters. Women stayed in the valley, spinning and teaching, tending fruit-trees and flowers. They never left the valley. We wanted to go out, we wanted the speed and the danger of the wind and the snow and the dark. We charmed a young student into parting with his knowledge, and we made feather-coats, as you see, and rode the storm-winds at night. We flew in, over the mountain-wall, before dawn, plaited our wild hair, put on gown and slippers, and went to sing sweetly to the fruit-trees. But we were spied on, by a traitress, and shamed. And an angry crowd burned our women's clothes outside the gates of Veralden, and almost burned us. But we put a little fear into them, and whistled in their minds, so that they merely drove us away like a flock of geese, calling us evil, and unclean. So we have lived here, where nothing lives, riding the winds, evading hunters and snow-eagles. We have grown angry because no one could hear our speech. Until you came.”
They talked into the night. Artegall listened courteously to their tales of grief and exile, and only then did he return to his own quest, and ask whether the king in Veralden was his kinsman, Hamraskir Kveld-Ulf. They said they believed so. They dared not approach the city. “But we will set you on your way,” said Hvanvit, “we will carry you over the wasteland and bring food for you. For we are not the most terrible danger you will meet on this journey--more terrible still are the ancient enemies, cold and dark and hunger. In all the time we have circled and swept over this land we have seen no one come across safely. We could show you bones, and men preserved in ice as though they slept, and proud horses, and sledge-dogs. When we tried to speak to them, our song proved mortal to their ears, until you came. Maybe you will speak of us, and our wanderings, to Hamraskir Kveld-Ulf when you come to him, if indeed you come there.”
Reading Group Guide
FROM THE BOOKER PRIZE–WINNING AUTHOR OF POSSESSION
“Rich, acerbic, wise. . . . [Byatt] tackles nothing less than what it means to be human.” —Vogue
The introduction, discussion questions, suggested reading list, and author biography that follow are intended to enhance you group’s reading of A. S. Byatt’s A Whistling Woman, the final novel in the quartet, which includes The Virgin in the Garden, Still Life, and Babel Tower.
1. Frederica celebrates and explores the sexual and social freedom women experienced in the 1960s in her television broadcast entitled: “Free Women” [pp. 144–152]. How do the three “free” women in the novel, Frederica, Agatha, and Jacqueline, experience and express their freedom, sexual and otherwise? How is their freedom limited? How do the resolutions regarding the two pregnancies in the novel reflect on women’s (sexual) freedom? Why do the women in the novel all keep their relationships secret, and how does this secrecy reflect on their freedom? Does the novel ever answer Frederica’s question, “What do women want?” [p. 153]? What about her later question, “Who is it that can tell me who I am?” [p. 336]?
2. How do the subjects of Frederica’s television shows amplify certain events or themes of the novel? For example, what is the significance of the images of light and mirrors that appear throughout the novel, such as in the theme of Frederica’s television show (Alice in Wonderland) or, as the first broadcast is entitled, “Through the Looking-Glass” [pp. 140–41] and again in the Manichaean religion as interpreted by the Dun Vale Hall cult [see pp. 234-240, for example]?
3. Would Frederica’s television shows be successful in contemporary society? Would they have even been successful in the United States? What do the reactions of the different characters in the novel to Frederica’s shows reveal about television’s role in society? What view of television does the author intend to convey by having the cult members join Joshua Lamb to watch the static on television on his so-called “Night Watches” [pp. 317–18]?
4. Why does Byatt go into such great depths to develop the evolution of Joshua Ramsden/Lamb’s character? How is religion both his salvation and his downfall? What is Byatt’s commentary on religion, and is religion effective as a tool to make people’s lives better? What is Byatt’s commentary on psychology, and its effectiveness as a tool to cure mental illness?
5. How does religion differ from cult ideology in the novel? How does group behavior differ from individual behavior? What do Brenda’s and Elvet’s letters reveal about cult mentality? Is there an implied parallel between the camp set up by the Anti-University on one side of the University, and the cult being established at Dun Vale Hall on the other side? Why do certain characters remain outside of these “groups” while others are drawn into them? How is group behavior juxtaposed with the intellectual life of Luk or Jacqueline or Frederica?
6. In the debate between genetic determinism and free will that runs through the novel, what does the Ottokar twins’ symbiotic existence prove or disprove? Why does John Ottokar object to Luk Lysgaard-Peacock’s studies of the “cost” of normal sexual reproduction [p. 330]? What impact might Luk’s studies have on contemporary views on genetics and reproduction?
7. Does the syllabus for the Conference on Body and Mind demonstrate that science and humanities subjects are interrelated? Does Byatt’s interweaving of plot and characters support the argument that art, science, religious life, and intellectual life are all interwoven and interconnected? How are the scientists compared to and contrasted with the artists in the novel? Which group is better situated to understand or comment upon human behavior? How does Frederica’s television show compare to the Body and Mind Conference as a forum for ideas?
8. Frederica meditates, “All the recent movements—the student Left, the dreamier counter-culture, the religious communities, had seen the nuclear family as a static thing, a source of oppression, the wrong kind of social form and structures. Who is the father was an outdated Victorian question” [p. 422]. Does the resolution of A Whistling Woman affirm or denounce these counter-family movements of the 1960s or affirm a traditional family structure or neither? Is it significant that the seemingly perfect new “family” formed by Agatha, Saskia, Frederica, and Leo [p. 13] dissolves by the end of the book with Agatha forming a more traditional family with Gerad Wijnnobel [p. 423]?
9. The lecture schedules of the Anti-University participants were blown from the marquees and shredded, and the shreds were blown into trees. Of these scraps, Byatt writes, “Some of the more mystical Anti-Universitarians thought these bleaching strips represented Tibetan prayer-rags. Others thought they were not nice and represented the last vestige of capitalist conspicuous waste. No one fetched a ladder to take them down” [p. 287]. And of student protestor Nick Tewfell, Byatt writes that many years later he became a cabinet minister in Tony Blair’s cabinet [p. 377] What is the tone of these passages and does it convey the author’s opinion of the student protestors? How do the University administrators and mainstream academics view the Anti-Universitarians? Can one body exist without the other?
10. Who are the Whistlers in Agatha’s fable and what do they symbolize? Is it significant, in light of Luk’s studies of bower birds, that the Whistlers chose the bodies of birds, rather than some other animal? Why does Luk tell Frederica to “whistle harder. Louder” [p. 417]?
11. In what ways is Byatt’s novel stylistically both traditional and contemporary? How does Byatt use different voices, both in letters and in dialogue, to vary the texture of the novel and move the plot along? Is Frederica a modern heroine?
12. Daniel gives Frederica his opinions about the ending of Shakespeare’s late comedies: “The human need to be mocked with art—you can have a happy ending, precisely because you know in life they don’t happen, when you are old, you have a right to the irony of a happy ending—because you don’t believe it” [p. 401]. Is the reader to interpret the ending of the novel in this light, or is Daniel just being a pessimist? Does the novel have a “happy ending”?
13. Does Vincent Hodgkiss experience homosexuality in a university setting differently than he might have outside of a university [p. 297]? Is Byatt’s description of his ascetic life [p. 298] uniquely homosexual or could it also describe a heterosexual life? Does it apply to any of the other characters in the novel? Is this type of life fulfilling on either an intellectual or an erotic level?
14. The list of names of Byatt’s characters is amusing and ironic: Elvet Gander; Avram Snitkin; Paul-Zag; Joshua Ramsden/Lamb; Lyon Bowman; Waltraut Ross; Jonty Surtees; Luk Lysgaard-Peacock; Gideon and Clemency Farrar; and on it goes. How do the characters’ names reflect their personalities and their role in the novel? Does the explanation of the origin of Ramsden’s name prove its significance or its absurdity [p. 116]?
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
This beautifully written novel packed with characters becomes a bit much by its midpoint and I did not want to read the second half. Readers who loved Byatt's "Possession" will not necessarily enjoy this book, which is almost in the style of Iris Murdoch, but not quite. This is a revisiting of the Sixties, British style, and it's a trip which some may not want to take. Nontheless, reading even a portion of this book was a rewarding experience which I recommend.
I first began reading Byatt's Potter quartet almost ten years ago for a final year English seminar for my undergraduate degree. We studied the third of the series, Babel Tower, and having started at the third, with the fourth not yet released, I decided to read the books in reverse order. And so it passed that I read Babel Tower, Still Life then Virgin in the Garden before eventually coming to the final instalment, The Whistling Woman.Byatt is undoubtedly amongst my favourites of contemporary authors. The texture of her books is simply magnificent, the many layers, the references and symbolism that I know I do not even yet understand the full breadth thereof, but will enjoy discovering when reading her books again in the years to come.In examining the changing times of the 1960s, Byatt succeeds in providing a critical account of the changes wrought to the world by contemporary processes of globalisation; what we are experiencing now, Byatt seems to say, is nothing new. The difficulties in the university were, for this university worker, utterly chilling - although it did make me yearn for the days when students did actually care about, well, anything.The Whistling Woman was an odd finale to the quartet, both satisfying and unsatisfying. I have never understood, however, why people in the novels dislike Frederica so much. I've always quite liked her and will miss her very much.
It's the fourth book in the family saga, this is one of the things the series is. In book 1- Virgin inthe Garden, we meet Frederica Potter and then follow her and her family through the years. The first book is solidly rooted in this idea, but by book three, and then definitely in book four, we wander into much less structured novel, something that Frederica herself would undoubtedly call "laminations". There are bits and pieces of different writing forms: poems, letters, newspaper articles, novels inside novels, fragments of religious texts, philosophy piecesall united by the theme of the changing life of the 50s, 60s, and 70s, but much less focused on one main character. It all beautifully comes together though.