Published in 1983, My Search for Warren Harding is one of only two novels written by American author Robert Plunket. It tells the story of third-rate (and deeply flawed) academic Elliot Weiner’s quest for a cache of letters written by Warren G. Harding, president of the United States from 1921 to 1923, to his mistress, Rebekah Kinney, now well into her eighties living in her crumbling Hollywood Hills mansion.

On publication the Houston Post described it as “an exhilarating, brutal, comedic masterpiece.” It was recently republished as a Penguin Modern Classic, and, having just finished reading it, I can only agree. It’s a rollercoaster ride from start to finish, laugh out loud funny, I really can’t recommend it enough.

My Search for Warren Harding is a retelling of Henry James’s 1888 novella The Aspern Papers. I knew this before I started reading it, but only on reaching the end did I remember that I had also read the original. Possibly I was trying to erase the memory, these my notes from 15 years ago:

The Aspern Papers by Henry James is possibly the dullest book that I have ever read. It is the tale of a flower-obsessed American publisher trying to get his hands on some letters written by long dead romantic poet Jeffery Aspern. The letters are in the possession of a strange woman who lives with her niece in a dilapidated villa in Venice. You can almost smell la monotonia. It's only 98 pages long but having got as far as page 64 I'm wondering if I can be bothered finishing it. I'll hazard a guess that a) the publisher doesn't actually get to see the letters (or if he does they are a grave disappointment, perhaps "remember to buy milk") and b) one or hopefully both women die unexpectedly. A happy ending seems unlikely.

I did, of course, push through to page 98, and my synopsis was broadly speaking correct. Miss Bordereau did die, not so much unexpectedly, more a case of just when no one was looking. And the American never got to see the dead poet's letters. But in an unexpected twist (or at any rate, a twist) Miss Bordereau's niece Tina did have the letters, but set fire to them, leaving the American "scarcely able to bear his loss" before promptly returning to London, The End.

Despite this, having read and thoroughly enjoyed My Search for Warren Harding, I thought should give The Aspern Papers a second chance (perhaps I missed something?) but, in a strange mirroring of the novel’s plot, my copy of the book is now nowhere to be found in one of three places it might conceivably be. However, I did recently buy a battered Penguin Modern Classics edition of Henry James’ 1897 novel The Spoils of Poynton. In truth, it had caught my eye in the Amnesty bookshop because of the cover, a drawing by French writer and illustrator Philippe Jullian, but, in the absence of The Aspern Papers, I decided to read that instead.

Set in the south of England, Owen, only son of the widowed Mrs Gereth is engaged to Mona Brigstock, a “barbarian” according to Mrs G., although that seems a bit unfair, and pot calling kettle black. The Gereth family home of Poynton with all its furniture, paintings, knickknacks - the spoils of the title - has been left in Colonel Gereth’s will to Owen. A chance meeting at a dinner party introduces Owen and his mother to Fleda Vetch who falls in love with Owen and - unlike Mona - appreciates the spoils for what they are, rather than the status attached to them.

This is all written in Henry James’ usual garrulous style, take this description of Fleda on a rare excursion with her sister

Picking her way with Maggie through the local puddles, diving with her into smelly cottages and supporting her, at smellier shops, in firmness over the weight of joints and the taste of cheese, it was still her own secret that was universally interwoven. In the puddles, the cottages, the shops she was comfortably alone with it; that comfort prevailed even while, at the evening meal, her brother-in-law invited her attention to a diagram, drawn with a fork on too soiled a tablecloth, of the scandalous drains of the Convalescent Home.

Nevertheless, the plot does fairly rollick along. It wasn’t until 40 or so pages from the end that I paused, sensing that a repeat of The Aspern Papers might be on the cards. This time though, not the death of a person, but the death of a love affair, Fleda and Owen, although in truth that had seemed on shaky ground from the off. My prediction was that - despite Mrs Gereth’s best efforts - Mona and Owen would get married, thus depriving Owen’s mother of seeing out her old age surrounded by her beloved furniture and paintings. But then, in the final chapter, Poynton and its spoils would be burnt to the ground.

And so it came to be.

‘Poynton’s on fire?’

‘Gone, miss. Some rotten chimley or one of them portable lamps set down in the wrong place.’

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