doing thisit's when "Listening to Jack" play the trumpet that Sandra "perceived all of a sudden that there might well perhaps be another way" to live, otherthat isthan duty or madness (pp. 9697). And, finally, it's clearly Sandra's attempt to recover at least the memory of her father from his own monstrosity that turns her from flight to life: "if you are determined to be proud of your father. Forget your mum.... the stains are gone" (p. 107). Can a Weldon novel really turn on getting back in touch with Dad, "the Bastard" (p. 155) that he is now, always has been, and probably ever shall be? Can such a Mum-refusing heroine really come from the pen that inscribed the She-Devil, that told the Fat Woman's Joke, that wondered and wandered Down and Out Among the Women? Remember Greta Garbo's response to the end of Cocteau's Beauty and the Beast ? Watching Prince Charming's pretty face emerge, she was heard to sigh: ''Give me back my beast." Do we, even the men among us, really want a responsible, reasonable heroine in the pages of a Weldon novel? Surely not. And that's not what we get. We get Sandra, "tough and frivolous." Which brings me back to where I began: my title.
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Admit. Reader, you felt put off, finding frivolous in the title. (If I were more modish I'd win you at once with discipline or surveillance or scrutiny, or just plain police.) It won't help if I say that by frivolous I don't mean minor, silly, insignificant, or slight, as in the traditional usage: having little weight or importance, trifling, having no basis in law or fact. That is merely melodrama's way of reading and deflating what it means to be frivolous. And it's unlikely to ameliorate your distaste if I add that I mean frivolous as a compliment. Or even that I'm pretty sure Fay Weldon herself would accept the compliment.
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But, in Leader of the Band, Sandra does define herself as hero with just that term: "I have become both tough and frivolous" (p. 34). That frivolity, that particular toughness of mind and feeling combined, is what I search for in fiction. Rarely do I find it; in fact, I don't find it in recent work by men. Sandra talks about that when she asks if we: "remember Sophie, of the Styron novel, who was told to decide by a Nazi officer which of her two children was to live? It was seen (by a man) as a hard and beastly choice, but if you ask me it was better than none. Why didn't she just grit her teeth and get on with it, or kill herself and both children with the material at hand if she couldn't bear it? Moan, moan, moan, Sophie!" (p. 105). The recent male imagination can't seem to avoid melodrama. (Perhaps because it's generally women's bodies, even in men's fictions, that
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