I think that Mary Ann knew, before she died, that her book was going to be well received, but no one could ever be entirely prepared for the avalanche of acclaim that greeted its publication. As first the booksellers, then the reviewers, and finally actual readers got their hands on the book, we noticed that their praise often took the same form: the book was ‘quirky’, ‘unlike anything else’, ‘charming’, ‘vivid’, ‘witty’. In other words, it was like Mary Ann herself Suddenly, the rest of the world had a seat at the table where I had been feasting my whole life, and, as with any family party, they clustered around Mary Ann, weeping with laughter—or sorrow—as her stories billowed forth.
The only flaw in the feast is that it ends. If I could have anything I wanted, I would choose story without end, and it seems that I have lots of company in that. I have received many, many letters from readers all over the world bemoaning the fact that the book comes to an end. ‘I want it to go on forever,’ they say. ‘I want to go to Guernsey and join a book club.’
‘I want to be a member of the Society.’ The good news is that as long as we don’t get too caught up in the space-time continuum, the book does still go on, every time a reader talks about it with another reader. The membership of the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society increases each time the book is read and enjoyed. The wonderful thing about books—and the thing that made them such a refuge for the islanders during the occupation—is that they take us out of our time and place and understanding, and transport us not just into the world of the story, but into the world of our fellow readers, who have stories of their own.
In the months since the book was published, I have heard from readers who were reminded of their own wartime experiences. One Guernsey native told me of his evacuation to England, along with hundreds of other children, the week before the Germans invaded. The most thrilling moment, he said, was his first glimpse of a black cow. He hadn’t known that cows came in black. Another woman, a child in Germany during the war, told of bringing food to the French soldier hiding in her attic—she was the only member of the family small enough to squeeze through the trapdoor. It’s not all war stories, either. I’ve heard from people who want to know if Mary Lamb really stabbed her mother with a carving knife (yes!) and people who want to make potato peel pie (I advise against this) and people who want to read another book written in letters (Daddy Long Legs).
This profusion of questions, exclamations, and tales is the new version of the Society. Its members are spread all over the world, but they are joined by their love of books, of talking about books, and of their fellow readers. We are transformed—magically—into the literary society each time we pass a book along, each time we ask a question about it, each time we say, ‘If you liked that, I bet you’d like this.’ Whenever we are willing to be delighted and share our delight, as Mary Ann did, we are part of the ongoing story of The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society.
Annie Barrows,
April 2009
Mary Ann Shaffer, The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society
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