‘Savory’ and ‘gritty’ are not two words that typically go hand
in hand describing a novel. One rich and
full and the other edgy and rough, casting through my thoughts trying to
quantify Angela Carter’s magnificent The
Magic Toyshop (1967), I keep returning to the dichotomy, however. A fleshed out experience with detail that
brings the story to life, the novel nevertheless possesses an edge of quotidian
realism that grounds it in something wiser, more fatalistic, and more human for
it.
Gorgeous prose telling a gorgeously dark story, The Magic Toyshop is a few months in the
life of young Melanie. Eldest daughter
to an upper-middle class British family, she and her younger brother and sister
enjoy the comforts of life, even as her parents are not often around. At fifteen, her body, and her thoughts
regarding her physical self, are changing.
But nothing changes her as much as a tragedy that strikes one day. Forced to leave her home and live with an uncle,
Melanie’s youth takes a drastic, unexpected left turn. The uncle, named Philip, is a surly toymaker
and runs a strict, depressing home. Philip
married to an energetic Irish woman named Margaret, however, Melanie finds
solace in the new situation through her aunt’s kindness. It remains uncertain, however what Margaret’s
two brothers, Finn and Francis, have to offer.








