Wolf Hall – Book Review

Hilary Mantel, Wolf Hall (London: Fourth Estate, 2009)

The term ‘historical novel’ covers a broad range of writing. If it is not actually an oxymoron, it nevertheless contains a certain amount of tension between fidelity to the historical context on the one hand, and the demands of pure fiction on the other. This tension leaves open the possibility for varying degrees of truthfulness in both historiographical and fictional narratives (as previously discussed in this blog).

Mantel resolves this potential problem by opting for character, dialogue, and atmosphere, rather than plot. Character, because her story is told entirely from the perspective of Thomas Cromwell; dialogue, in a variety of registers from the familiar to the formal (and occasionally in smatterings of French, German, Spanish, Latin, and Italian – as befits the context); and from atmospheric intrigues at court to light-hearted situations at home. The tone of these scenes varies from the cynical to the comical, and from the heart-warming to the gut-wrenching.

Given the nature of her subject, Henry VIII and his ‘great matter’, the plot is involved and always changing. Yet due to its relative familiarity and recent treatment on the stage, screen, and page (not least in the HBO television series ‘The Tudors’), it holds few surprises. The more familiar the reader is with the English Reformation, the more characters, quotations, and allusions he or she will recognise. Mantel’s hints and Cromwell’s premonitions grow clearer and more blatant as the tale progresses. The book ends, deftly but predictibly, with a chapter entitled ‘To Wolf Hall’.

So it is character that carries this novel, and Mantel has chosen an interesting and unusual one. Her account of Cromwell is analysed very capably in Colin Burrow’s article, ‘How to Twist a Knife’ (London Review of Books, Vol. 31 No. 8 (30 April 2009), pp. 3-5). Burrow suggests that Wolf Hall is ‘less a historical novel than an alternative history novel. It constructs a story about the inner life of Cromwell which runs in parallel to scenes and pictures that we thought we knew’.

And so it does. Cromwell comes across as a well-rounded character with desires, ambitions, memories, and a conscience. He is capable of political ruthlessness, but also of compassion. Mantel offers imaginative insights into the inner workings of the mind of a powerful man, whether of the sixteenth or of the twenty-first century. The only criticism I would raise is that Cromwell’s cynicism – especially about religious questions – occasionally seems closer to the twenty-first than to the sixteenth century. The greatest pitfall in both history and historical fiction is anachronism.

Scarcity or plenty? – Book Review

Lewis Hyde, The Gift: How the Creative Spirit Transforms the World (Edinburgh: Canongate, 2007; first publ. 1983)

Like Marcel Hénaff’s Le Prix de la Vérité (see forthcoming review), Hyde’s book is a reworking of the concept of gift, as analysed by Mauss (‘Essai sur le don’, 1923-24), Lévi-Strauss (Les Structures élémentaires de la parenté, 1949), and others.

In this case, Hyde focuses on the arts, making characteristically bold claims for the scope of his work. To give him his dues, The Gift is a a wide-ranging treatment of the topic. Beginning from the classic starting point in social anthropology, Hyde goes on to offer a detailed analysis of usury in the Christian West, including some good points with regard to Calvin and Luther. The latter, for example affirms ‘a scarcity of grace and gift’. Scarcity becomes a dirty word when Hyde contrasts it with plenty in this section. Furthermore, he identifies that in a gift-based system any surplus is passed forward to the recipient, while in usury the surplus is retained by the creditor.

There are also fascinating chapters on Walt Whitman and Ezra Pound, and insights into the workings of political and business economics in 1970s and 80s Capitalism.

Certain themes recur throughout Hyde’s study. The most prominent of these is the grouping of money, Logos, and commerce over and against gift, Eros, and imagination. It is easy to see which grouping Hyde finds most attractive, and only in the final chapter does he begin to ask how the two groups can interact. It is here that more thinking is required, to see how the arts – and society at large – can reincorporate the idea of plenty into our scarcity-driven thinking.

Treasured – A Secret Journey: Theatre Review

As a finished piece of work, ‘Treasured – A Secret Journey’ (performed at MAC, Birmingham 9-27 June 2010) is dramaturgically convincing. Having previously seen ‘Treasured’ (The Other Way Works, 2006), from which the current performance has been developed, I particularly appreciated the introduction of a narrative thread to accompany the jewellery which nevertheless remains the real star of this show.

In its new form, the show has come to be structured around the promise of a story. The audience member happens upon an isolated yurt on a stormy evening and is welcomed in. Tea is made, and one is invited to choose a story.

Already at this point the theme of choice comes as a shock. To choose one story is to reject another (although there is nothing to stop you from going around again, if you enjoy the first one). But to choose is also to embrace a limitation and to celebrate a thing in its particularity.

Whichever piece of jewellery and corresponding story one chooses, one still gets to see the other pieces. And this is both frustrating and exciting, because it heightens one expectations for the piece one has chosen. Next, the audience member is led through an enactment of their chosen story. Each of these has been specially written for the show, and while each has its own ‘feel’, there are commonalities.

Depending on the story one has chosen – and without wanting to give too much away – the audience member experiences another choice, but this time it is not their own. Standing in the place of a girl or a young man, whichever is the main protagonist in the chosen story, the audience member witnesses a moment of decision and its consequences. The decisions enacted all seem to have a moral, although in one case this is darkly ambiguous. The effect is to see desire and temptation ‘in slow motion’, as it were, and from the outside. This is both troubling and cathartic. It helps that one is encouraged to linger and reread ones story again at the end of the performance.

Alongside the narrative core of the show are powerful nonverbal elements. At one point one is mesmerised by a flower opening, or by the sound of distant thunder. One runs in pursuit, or is chased, hunted down. This is exhilarating. Lighting, set, and soundscape work together to create a magical atmosphere, while the cast use touch, voice, tone, and movement gently and persuasively. The effect of the whole experience is to make one feel immensely privileged – treasured.

Federal Liberty – the seed of an idea?

‘The Swiss Reformed Protestants in the sixteenth century, following the Bible, defined liberty as federal (from the Latin foedus, meaning covenant) liberty (i.e., the liberty to live according to the terms of God’ s covenant with humanity entered into), rather than individual liberty as natural liberty.’

This quotation from Daniel J. Elazar’s article, ‘Communal Democracy and Liberal Democracy: An outside Friend’s Look at the Swiss Political Tradition’ in Publius, Vol. 23, No. 2, Communal and Individual Liberty in Swiss Federalism (Spring, 1993), pp. 3-18 (p. 13) links the theological concept of ‘covenant’ with the political concept of ‘liberty’ in a potentially fruitful way.

We tend to think of liberty exclusively in terms of the individual, and have learned to dismiss communal ideals as idealistic. But ideals are not necessarily unrealistic, and a communal form of liberty may well prove far more workable and sustaining than our bankrupt individualism, which in the light of the banking crisis and the disintegration of society, is clearly an unworkable idealism.

An observer of trees and characters – Book Review

Michaël Viscoli, Le signe de l’arbre: L’Horoscope celtique – votre arbre de naissance, trans by Walter Weideli (Paris: Actes Sud/Babel, 1996; first published in German as Der Keltische Baumkalender, Zürich: Migros, 1988)

The key word here is ‘arbre’, as opposed to ‘horoscope’ or ‘celtique’. Like other horoscopes, the characterisation of personality types and their attendant destinies is bland, vague, and easily applicable to almost anyone. And as a historical study of Celtic culture and beliefs, it is woefully lacking in any critical analysis, discussion, or reference to sources.

What Viscoli is good at is the observation of trees. For example, he explains how to distinguish a chestnut tree from a horsechestnut on the basis of its leaves, blossoms, and fruit (p. 79f.). He notes the medicinal properties of the birch tree (p. 34) and the culinary potential of beech-tree oil (p. 44).

The problem with Viscoli’s project is that he tries to extrapolate general truths from his observation of trees, in order to apply them directly to human life. Only occasionally does this manage to convince, as in the case of the olive tree and its ‘three secrets for a balanced life’ (p. 38):
- be frugal
- do not be afraid of transplantings
- seek the light

How Myths are Made – Book Review

Aurelio Ramos Cabellero, ‘The Spanish Civil War in Contemporary Spanish Fiction: Soldados de Salamina, Los Girasoles Ciegos, and La Mula’ (unpublished MPhil thesis, University of Birmingham, 2009) – Book Review

‘Each author creates meaning in a unique way’. So concludes the author of this thesis, drawing together two themes (the creation of meaning and the unique/particular/individual) that run throughout his analysis of three recent works of fiction relating to the Spanish Civil War.

On the subject of meaning and its creation, this thesis shows a great deal of sensitivity to the processes, and in particular the literary techniques, by which history and other stories are constructed.

With relation to ‘the individual and the particular’ (as the author phrases it in one plance), these three works are shown to focus their attention on the effects of the war in one location, or one moment in time. This is the case, for example, with the single incident investigated by the narrator/protagonist of Soldiers of Salamis, Javier Cercas. This character shares his name with the author of the novel, without necessarily being the same person – as is rightly pointed out in this thesis.

The upshot of this is that the reader’s understanding of the Civil War becomes nuanced. Things that may once have seemed certain no longer are. The Republicans are no longer totally good. The Right is no longer totally wrong. There are good and bad people on both sides, their humanity redeemed and gently mocked at the same time. Meanwhile the horrors of war in general are exposed. The authors of these three texts are sceptical of totalising narratives.

Paradoxically, these authors create new myths even as they deconstruct others. Tentatively and self-consciously, the author of Soldados de Salamina gives us a new hero figure. Yet his very reluctance to do so is itself an effective narrative technique. There is no way out of this trap.

In the works discussed, as in Ramos Caballero’s analysis of them (in which he quotes Ricoeur to good effect – see blog entry for 26 January 2010), the boundaries between history and fiction begin to blur. We are firmly in the realm of critiques of narrative such as Mark Day also offers.

Food for thought 2010 – Book Review

Lilo Göttermann (ed), Denkanstösse 2010: Ein Lesebuch aus Philosophie, Kultur und Wissenschaft (Munich: Piper, 2009)

Excerpts from recent publications in the natural sciences, history, politics, and philosophy/religion/psychology (the latter grouping is a category created by the editor or publisher), the title of this collection of essays means something along the lines of ‘food for thought, 2010′.

Topics covered range from the use of smell in parts of the body other than the nose (Hanns Hatt and Regine Dee) to Islamic fundamentalism post-9/11 (Gilles Kepel). Along the way there are three biographical studies, including one on the life of Darwin (David Quammen) and another on Kepler’s discoveries regarding planetary orbits (Thomas de Padova).

Clearly there is a limit to how much of an author’s thought can be communicated in such short excerpts from larger works. And a significant chunk of each contribution is taken up with scene-setting and basic introductory material, which gives the collection the popularising feel of a Reader’s Digest. The real problem with this collection, however, is its underlying assumption about the world. I discern a secularist European neoliberal agenda lurking just below the surface (and not very far below the surface in the case of Friedrich Merz or Gilles Kepel’s contributions).

Each of the political and psychological/theological/philosophical contributions touches on the subject of individual freedom in one way or another. Merz’s ‘Was ist gerecht?’ argues that a properly Platonic understanding of justice means that the individual choices of each person contribute to the overall justice or injustice of a given society. We only get the politicians we deserve (p. 121). It follows, then, that individual responsibility is the key to a well-ordered society. The state should only provide a minimum level of support (p. 124), along with the opportunities for work that will enable each person to work towards their own individual fulfilment. Merz does not ask what kind of work this is likely to be, especially in the kind of competitively capitalist society he envisages.

Similarly, Kepel argues that trade and economic development around the whole of the Mediterranean basin represent the only solution to the current problems of the Middle East and Gulf regions (p. 133).

Liberty and equality are the watchwords here, while fraternity is redefined as ‘solidarity’ by Ulrich Wickert, in his contribution ‘Weshalb Tugenden modern sind’ (p. 171). The virtues of faith, hope, and love barely get a mention by Wickert, who elides all the virtues – including progress, individualism, and profit-maximisation – into one, contemporary virtue of ‘Freiwilligkeit’, the freedom to choose (p. 173). Even Walter Jens and Hans Küng prefer to speak of God as ‘der solidarische Bundesgott’ in their article ‘Menschenwürdig sterben’ (p. 145, emphasis mine). Again, the point is that solidarity speaks more of personal responsibility than of love.

Perhaps the most interesting article is the one by Jonah Lehrer, ‘Wie sir entscheiden’. First he outlines the view, shared by Plato, Descartes, and Freud, that reason should be made to rule over the affects. Lehrer then quotes a study by António Damásio to show that people who have suffered brain damage to their orbitofrontal cortex (the seat of the emotions) may be fully rational and yet unable to make decisions. It would seem that desire and emotion are more integral to the decision-making process than a dualistic/rationalist system allows for.

From one man’s journals to a communal aesthetic? – Book Review

Mathieu Simonet, Les carnets blancs (Paris: Seuil, 2010)

On the face of it, the most self-indulgent project since Tracy Emin’s bed. Yet it has produced a piece of work that convinces both aesthetically and psychologically.

The concept is simple: to document the destruction or transformation of the author’s personal journals, written over a period of years and filling over 100 notebooks. Mathieu begins by rereading his old notebooks and disposing of them himself, in a variety of novel and inventive ways. So far, so self-indulgent.

But gradually other people are drawn into the project. There is a blog, on which Mathieu records the stories of his journals. One is sent around the world, where it inspires other people to share their own thoughts along the way. A young man in Lebanon takes a notebook of Mathieu’s poetry with him when he goes to the airport to meet a stranger for the first time. The notebook accompanies him and he feels a sense of presence, that he is not alone (pp. 77-78).

Simultaneously, Mathieu shares excerpts from his old journals, which turn out to be as much about other people as they are about himself. He talks about his mother and her illness, the unique personality of his grandmother, his lovers and life with his partner. These stories are updated and reflected upon throughout the book too.

Eventually, Mathieu asks other artists and members of the public to transform his journals into pieces of work. The result is an explosion of paintings, sculpture, fashion, food, and even a perfume made from pieces of a journal and inspired by its contents.

In this way, Les carnets blancs is less the memoir of one person than the story of a family and a network of relationships over a period of time. That some of the relationships are short-lived, difficult, or disappointing only makes their written traces all the more poignant. This is how the text works psychologically.

Undergirding the stories and reflections that Mathieu builds up, layer upon layer, is one simple aesthetic principle. This is something he learned from his father, who told him when he first began to keep a journal that ‘il ne fallait rien inventer, juste écrire les faits, et attendre que ça prenne de l’ampleur’ (p. 21f.). Truth is poetry.

Of course, the kind of ‘truth’ recorded in a journal is likely to be one-sided. I asked Mathieu about the ethics of writing about other people (and especially their intimate secrets) from such a subjective perspective. His response: it makes you a bastard (‘salaud’); so the goal is to minimise your bastardliness. This is why he removes some characters from the story entirely, or hides their identity. For such a self-indulgent project, Les carnets blancs is very considerate of other people and very creative in terms of community, friendship, and artistic endeavour.

Perhaps this is because it has the courage to acknowledge its own selfishness and bastardliness, opening up a space for honest encounter?

To be a Pilgrim: An experiment in inclusive language

Let’s take the text of a favourite hymn, and subject it to a grammatical/linguistic experiment.

In the original version, the first verse of Bunyan’s ‘To Be a Pilgrim’ goes:

‘He who would valiant be ’gainst all disaster,
Let him in constancy follow the Master.
There’s no discouragement shall make him once relent
His first avowed intent to be a pilgrim.’

Of course, the words ‘he’, ‘him’, and ‘his’ are problematic, as the pilgrim could just as easily be a woman:

‘She who would valiant be ’gainst all disaster,
Let her in constancy follow the Master.
There’s no discouragement shall make her once relent
Her first avowed intent to be a pilgrim.’

But this is just as exclusive as the first version. So we try a version that does not specify gender:

‘They who would valiant be ’gainst all disaster,
Let them in constancy follow the Master.
There’s no discouragement shall make them once relent
Their first avowed intent to be a pilgrim.’

Or, in what I am told is the emerging feminist consensus:

‘Zie who would valiant be ’gainst all disaster,
Let hir in constancy follow the Master.
There’s no discouragement shall make hir once relent
Hir first avowed intent to be a pilgrim.’

On balance, the slightly dodgy grammar of the third option wins over the sheer strangeness of the fourth. So the third person plural comes to be treated as if it were a gender-inclusive form of the second person singular.

A fifth and final option:

‘If one would valiant be ’gainst all disaster,
Let one in constancy follow the Master.
There’s no discouragement shall make one once relent
One’s first avowed intent to be a pilgrim.’

While it has the virtue of being grammatically consistent, this version has little warmth or vigour!

To you to decide…

St Joseph of Nazareth, 19 March

“Did they tell you stories about the saints of old?
Stories about their faith?
They say stories like that make a boy grow bold
Stories like that make a man walk straight”
- Rich Mullins

The story of Joseph is not heard often enough. Here is a man overshadowed by his wife and his children, and neglected throughout most of Church history. Yet Joseph speaks with fresh relevance to all of us, and especially to twenty-first century boys and men…

Ironically, Joseph never actually speaks at all. Not one word of his is recorded in the gospels. He simply hears and thinks and acts.

In a world of sound-bites and marketing and mass-communication, words rule.

But how often is there a disconnect between our words and our actions?

Joseph shows us the difficult path of action. St Matthew calls him ‘a righteous man’. We might say he was a man trying to do the right thing. And in weighing up the right thing, Joseph considers the demands of his conscience and of his society, as well as the needs of those he loves. He was a caring man, unwilling to expose Mary to public disgrace, but we can tell that he agonised over this decision for his sake and for her’s.

Because Joseph was a faithful man. He tried to keep his commitments. He only had to hear God’s difficult call and he obeyed without question. He received God’s last-minute instructions and responded, even when it meant risking death and becoming a refugee!

And in all of this, Joseph is a model of strength and generosity. His model of fatherhood has never been more relevant than in our times of broken and re-combined families.

What about us? Are we men and women of righteousness and faith? What thoughtful and caring action can we carry out today, inspired by the example of St Joseph?

Lectionary readings for today:
2 Samuel 7.4–16
Psalm 89.26–36
Romans 4.13–18
Matthew 1.18–end