From The Valley Of Dreams:
a review of 'Transcendental Wild Oats' by Louisa May Alcott
In the summer of 1843, a group of New England Transcendentalists, including the Alcott family, formed a small farming community to be called 'Fruitlands', on a dilapidated farm in a vale of Nashua, Massachusetts, close to the hamlet of Stillriver and the village of Harvard. By the winter, the community had collapsed in desertion and starvation. These pioneers, in common with all community pioneers of the time, dreamed that in the Nashoba Valley they would forge a new destiny that rejected industrial modernism in favour of innate wisdom, naturalism and an enduring relationship with God, but confronted with the reality of Nature and their own flaws, the noble plans of the Transcendentalists turned to dust. 'Transcendental Wild Oats', one of the more obscure works of Louisa May Alcott, is a parody, in novel form, of the Alcott family's Fruitlands adventure. One point that remains unclear is what 'Transcendentalism' (or, indeed, transcendentalism) is exactly. I suspect I am not the only one who bears that confusion. It's a confusion that existed even among the leading figures of Transcendentalism, but something proximate to an understanding is found in this book, which - in typical Louisa May Alcott style - is full of clever literary devices that allude to the Transcendentalist belief tradition and its derivative Puritan roots: from mention of William Penn and a bust of Socrates to cuttingly eloquent and incisive flights of poetic prose like the following passage:-
[quote]"This prospective Eden at present consisted of an old red farm-house, a dilapidated barn, many acres of meadow-land, and a grove. Ten ancient apple trees were all the "chaste-supply" which the place offered as yet; but, in the firm belief that plenteous orchards were soon to be evoked from their inner consciousness, these sanguine founders had christened their domain Fruitlands."[unquote]
The bitterness of those apples can almost be tasted, can't it, but my suspicion is that this sad and cynical account of noble and Romantic failure serves as a mere fog. I would suggest 'Transcendental Wild Oats' is not so much a book about Transcendentalism as about women: specifically, the travails of women in a patriarchy. The Fruitlands community of this novel is a microcosm of wider society at that time and the social relations between men and women. In particular, the concern here is the way - as Alcott saw it - women were exploited by men. Alcott actually penned her views on the themes of women, work, social justice and the family on a more serious basis in the better-known - and superior - novel, 'Work', published at about the same time as 'Wild Oats', but the social allegory in both novels is similar. Alcott's views presage modernist feminism in that she saw women as an oppressed class in society and men as a kind of work-shy, rentier aristocracy. Any Transcendentalism there might be in this book serves merely as a proscenium for the real social issues that Alcott wants to tackle.
Alcott is an author I admire, but not for her social views, which I find inimical. I admire her because she was a sublime wordsmith, with a rare ability to craft her prose towards metaphor and allusion. I find reading and discovering her work always reveals a gem here and there. In 'Wild Oats', we have some tellingly clever allusions to the beliefs of Transcendentalists and an exploration of their significance in the author's life-forming views and experiences, but the real issues on the table are dealt with by Alcott directly, with ruthlessness and clarity: it is the men who desert the community and let everyone down, and it is the women who keep the community going and, in the end, save everyone. Against that background, I am conscious that my admiration for Alcott might seem a little incongruous. I am an ordinary Englishman in the 21st. century, and I dislike feminism. What's the attraction of the life and works of a female, proto-feminist, New England writer of the early to mid-19th. century? Well, aside from Alcott's literary skills, I have always had a liking for American literature, partly because of what I see as its rawness and expansiveness and the literary potential this gives, but also because it speaks to an earlier time in Britain when its people were the major source for migration to the New World and British society was much less settled than now and not the sinisterly consensual place it is today. This little book is from a period when America was still a beginning with ideals that had resonance for disaffected British and other Europeans and in which pioneer communities were emerging to experiment with new modes of living. It was an exciting time, especially for those who were willing to experience discomfort for their beliefs, a quality that is rare or non-existent today.
In that sense, Bronson Alcott, Louisa's father and a leader of Fruitlands, emerges from this book as a confusing figure. On the one hand, he lived for his beliefs, and he was willing to die for them, which is admirable. On the other hand, under Louisa's unforgiving, scolding glare, he failed, not out of the unfavourable turn of chance or luck, but unquestionably due to his own failings and the failings of those around him. Alcott ascribes this failure to dysfunctional social relations: the men in the community, Bronson included, installed themselves as a kind of Socratic elite, while the women and children went about most of the labouring, and so the community teetered on the brink and eventually collapsed. "The best laid schemes of mice and men, Go often awry", the poet Robert Burns lyricised, and so they do, but I do not quite share Burns' sadness, Steinbeck's cynicism or Alcott's despondency. Better to be Steinbeck's 'George' and 'Lennie' and have that dream, even if unfulfilled, and even if painful. Indeed, better to be one of Alcott's parodied characters here, with the 'grief and pain', because sometimes it is worth it, if only for a dream of the 'promised joy'. That is perhaps how we can rationalise poor old Bronson Alcott and resolve the confusion. He had a dream, he pursued it, he failed, and in the best American tradition, he paid the price. Beliefs and dreams are not enough on their own: as Louisa May Alcott rightly reminds us in this book, social change is a reflection of economic need, though Alcott's determinism does not explain all. There is history as well. The migrants who crossed a great ocean to live in the New World sought to build new 'castles'. It wasn't a grubby money dream. It was, rather, an adventure of 'being', an existential mission, the Saxon pursuit of freedom far and away from figurative Norman castles and away from the literal constraints of a land-based class system. In many cases, these dreams were also motivated by a yearning for freedom of thought and conscience. These people were the original, true American Dreamers, social pioneers who had no time for Burns' wistful pathos. They would tame a raw but fertile land and build their own 'castles'. The Dream is still there, in both the Old and New Worlds, but the apples are sour and bitter because men have not turned their minds to Socrates.
T. T. Rogers
Friday, 17 May 2013
Monday, 13 May 2013
'The Day Of The Jackal'
Anatomy Of A Kill:
a review of 'The Day Of The Jackal' by Frederick Forsyth
A professional killer is hired by dissidents to assassinate a French statesman. Alerted, the authorities set out to find the would-be assassin. Put simply, that manhunt is the subject of Frederick Forsyth's acclaimed novel, 'The Day of the Jackal'. What is truly 'novel' is that the author tells us - or rather, anatomises - the assassin's story, and in doing so, encourages in the reader a sense of sympathy, or at least fraternity, with the killer, if only fleeting. We are inside his head and by-stander to his nefarious machinations, and we cannot help but feel a sneaking admiration for his intelligence, guts and guile.
In the end, we, the readers, know that there must be a 'kill'. The question is not 'if' but 'when' - and more importantly, 'who'? The answer is, perhaps, predictable, but the ride to get there is no less thrilling, fascinating and enjoyable. That is why, among the popular thrillers of the last century, 'The Day of the Jackal' ranks as a genre classic, and represents Frederick Forsyth at his best. In this, his first novel, Forsyth produced a literary idiomatic icon, 'the Jackal', who mediated into reality and the common lexicon in the more pitiable form of Illich Ramirez Sanchez. The author's prose is at the high-quality end, and stylistically, this novel reminds me of some of the best of John le Carré, except that Forsyth has a refreshing directness and alacrity that most other espial and thriller writers of the time lacked. His style is fundamentally journalistic: he emphasises factoid and detail above character. The result is disturbing in that the narrative guides us, meticulously and matter-of-factly, through the plans, preparations and actions of a professional assassin, and Forsyth journalises the experience almost to the point that one might say this novel is amoral, even disgusting. But this 'method' approach does grip you.
I would suggest that while Forsyth's 'journalistic' literary attribute has not always served him well in his novels, in 'The Day of the Jackal' it works perfectly. By removing the dead weight of such awkward and flaccid things as human relationships, character and compassion, Forsyth creates - especially for the Anglophone reader - a kind of European 'hyper-reality' that is the epitome of English middle-class escapism. All the typical hooks and idioms are here: the sanguine and charming English country vicar; the false papers; the quaint, faintly amusing identikit shenanigans at various airports; the seedy Belgian backstreet underworld; the flash car speeding along Alpine mountain roads; the innocuous but ever-so-suspicious border guards; the astute but unlucky Parisian detectives chasing their quarry around the Hexagon; the obscure French country house and the wanton lady; and so on. The would-be assassin is a cold, unfeeling killer who also happens to be an English gentleman. His suits are expensively-tailored and he talks in the 'right' way, using his voice and projected manner - in that typical English way - to conceal his rustic and provincial insecurities. The various and crude juxtapositions work perfectly, precisely because Forsyth's apt journalistic grasp of the material makes it all so uncannily life-like, yet we know that the author is gently poking fun at us. There are facts here, but the story can only be fiction.
a review of 'The Day Of The Jackal' by Frederick Forsyth
A professional killer is hired by dissidents to assassinate a French statesman. Alerted, the authorities set out to find the would-be assassin. Put simply, that manhunt is the subject of Frederick Forsyth's acclaimed novel, 'The Day of the Jackal'. What is truly 'novel' is that the author tells us - or rather, anatomises - the assassin's story, and in doing so, encourages in the reader a sense of sympathy, or at least fraternity, with the killer, if only fleeting. We are inside his head and by-stander to his nefarious machinations, and we cannot help but feel a sneaking admiration for his intelligence, guts and guile.
In the end, we, the readers, know that there must be a 'kill'. The question is not 'if' but 'when' - and more importantly, 'who'? The answer is, perhaps, predictable, but the ride to get there is no less thrilling, fascinating and enjoyable. That is why, among the popular thrillers of the last century, 'The Day of the Jackal' ranks as a genre classic, and represents Frederick Forsyth at his best. In this, his first novel, Forsyth produced a literary idiomatic icon, 'the Jackal', who mediated into reality and the common lexicon in the more pitiable form of Illich Ramirez Sanchez. The author's prose is at the high-quality end, and stylistically, this novel reminds me of some of the best of John le Carré, except that Forsyth has a refreshing directness and alacrity that most other espial and thriller writers of the time lacked. His style is fundamentally journalistic: he emphasises factoid and detail above character. The result is disturbing in that the narrative guides us, meticulously and matter-of-factly, through the plans, preparations and actions of a professional assassin, and Forsyth journalises the experience almost to the point that one might say this novel is amoral, even disgusting. But this 'method' approach does grip you.
I would suggest that while Forsyth's 'journalistic' literary attribute has not always served him well in his novels, in 'The Day of the Jackal' it works perfectly. By removing the dead weight of such awkward and flaccid things as human relationships, character and compassion, Forsyth creates - especially for the Anglophone reader - a kind of European 'hyper-reality' that is the epitome of English middle-class escapism. All the typical hooks and idioms are here: the sanguine and charming English country vicar; the false papers; the quaint, faintly amusing identikit shenanigans at various airports; the seedy Belgian backstreet underworld; the flash car speeding along Alpine mountain roads; the innocuous but ever-so-suspicious border guards; the astute but unlucky Parisian detectives chasing their quarry around the Hexagon; the obscure French country house and the wanton lady; and so on. The would-be assassin is a cold, unfeeling killer who also happens to be an English gentleman. His suits are expensively-tailored and he talks in the 'right' way, using his voice and projected manner - in that typical English way - to conceal his rustic and provincial insecurities. The various and crude juxtapositions work perfectly, precisely because Forsyth's apt journalistic grasp of the material makes it all so uncannily life-like, yet we know that the author is gently poking fun at us. There are facts here, but the story can only be fiction.
Sunday, 12 May 2013
'The History Man'
The Present Man:
a review of 'The History Man' by Malcolm Bradbury
The prevaricating qualities of introspection and uncertainty - even insecurity - can be useful if engaged in the fulfilment of knowledge and self-awareness. As we grow, intellectually and emotionally, we realise how we can be beholden to a mere idea; how notions of justice, change and improvement in society can arrest us and become almost an extension of the ego and part of our identity; and how this can lead us into the pit of ruthless, soulless inhumanity, often unintended - and almost always unexceptional - even if that inhumanity exists only in our unspoken thoughts, merely a voice in our heads. The young are perhaps specially susceptible to this, but not exclusively so. There are people involved in politics today, mainly at the demagogic margins, who have a social and political understanding equivalent to that of a 15-year old. They rationalise their certainty of mind, purpose and message, and its inflexibility, as one of the inevitable hindrances of a principled life. Human dignity is subverted to a superior moral equation that sees the fortunes of individuals as merely dust for blowing. It is but a short leap from there to the routinisation of debasement on the grounds of wish-thought and vacant idealism.
Right at the centre of Malcolm Bradbury's finest novel is a cruel man. 'The History Man', 'Howard Kirk', is an idealist - he would say 'materialist' - who sees others as dust for blowing and who routinely destroys those who will not serve as 'grist to the mill', a cog in the wheel of his teleological 'History' of 'inevitable progress' in which human beings must march for an idea. Kirk repeatedly runs into people who would much rather march for themselves. What he does about that is, essentially, the subject of this novel. Kirk serves as a kind of clever metaphorical device for the author as we are shown, horrifyingly, how a social and cultural revolution unfolds, in miniature, at a plate glass university campus. Kirk, and his wife, have fallen into the radical politics of this novel's period and Bradbury narrates its debasing and disintegrating effects on them and everyone else. More than a mere genre work - that is to say, not just a period novel or a 'campus novel' - 'The History Man' is an unappreciated classic of general importance that still has, or ought to have, a chilling resonance today, and deserves greater attention, especially among the 'Howard Kirks' of this world. We all know a 'Howard Kirk', for despite Bradbury's brilliant prescience here, his important message was unheeded. 'Howard Kirk' is, sadly, the Present Man, and growing in number.
T. T. Rogers
a review of 'The History Man' by Malcolm Bradbury
The prevaricating qualities of introspection and uncertainty - even insecurity - can be useful if engaged in the fulfilment of knowledge and self-awareness. As we grow, intellectually and emotionally, we realise how we can be beholden to a mere idea; how notions of justice, change and improvement in society can arrest us and become almost an extension of the ego and part of our identity; and how this can lead us into the pit of ruthless, soulless inhumanity, often unintended - and almost always unexceptional - even if that inhumanity exists only in our unspoken thoughts, merely a voice in our heads. The young are perhaps specially susceptible to this, but not exclusively so. There are people involved in politics today, mainly at the demagogic margins, who have a social and political understanding equivalent to that of a 15-year old. They rationalise their certainty of mind, purpose and message, and its inflexibility, as one of the inevitable hindrances of a principled life. Human dignity is subverted to a superior moral equation that sees the fortunes of individuals as merely dust for blowing. It is but a short leap from there to the routinisation of debasement on the grounds of wish-thought and vacant idealism.
Right at the centre of Malcolm Bradbury's finest novel is a cruel man. 'The History Man', 'Howard Kirk', is an idealist - he would say 'materialist' - who sees others as dust for blowing and who routinely destroys those who will not serve as 'grist to the mill', a cog in the wheel of his teleological 'History' of 'inevitable progress' in which human beings must march for an idea. Kirk repeatedly runs into people who would much rather march for themselves. What he does about that is, essentially, the subject of this novel. Kirk serves as a kind of clever metaphorical device for the author as we are shown, horrifyingly, how a social and cultural revolution unfolds, in miniature, at a plate glass university campus. Kirk, and his wife, have fallen into the radical politics of this novel's period and Bradbury narrates its debasing and disintegrating effects on them and everyone else. More than a mere genre work - that is to say, not just a period novel or a 'campus novel' - 'The History Man' is an unappreciated classic of general importance that still has, or ought to have, a chilling resonance today, and deserves greater attention, especially among the 'Howard Kirks' of this world. We all know a 'Howard Kirk', for despite Bradbury's brilliant prescience here, his important message was unheeded. 'Howard Kirk' is, sadly, the Present Man, and growing in number.
T. T. Rogers
Saturday, 11 May 2013
'A Very British Coup'
A Very British Thriller:
a review of 'A Very British Coup' by Chris Mullin
Among politics junkies nowadays, Chris Mullin is best remembered for his laudable campaigns against miscarriages of justice. That's when he is remembered at all, for he was an obscure politician. What many don't know is that he also once wrote a rather good novel. 'A Very British Coup' is one of the most fun thrillers you will ever read, though it does help if you have a general interest in politics. Not real politics, but the type of counterfeit that requires you to vote tribally and thoughtlessly, placing an 'X' in a box once every few years.
In truth, politics is quite a dry business. In a way, Mullin succeeds here because he portrays the political game in a way that we would like to believe it is but which, deep down, we know it isn't. Here there are 'goodies' and 'baddies' of the type that resemble the cynical cut-outs portrayed in the popular media and from the demagogic margins. Real politics isn't like that, but the fantasy world depicted by the media eschews reality for false dichotomies, moral outrage, construed conflict and manufactured confrontation. The central character in 'A Very British Coup', and the hero, is 'Harry Perkins', a populist left-wing politician who somehow becomes Prime Minister. Perkins has campaigned in poetry and plans to govern in overt, hard-left prose. Railed against him are the shadowy forces of the Establishment: in the main, certain rogue figures in the intelligence community who do not want to see Britain transformed into what, presumably, Perkins would consider a 'fair' society. The plot charts the machinations of Perkins' enemies and the hero's fight against them. The plans to thwart Perkins get nastier as the story progresses.
The naiveté and political illiteracy of the premise doesn't matter. Mullin is working 'in-house' here, writing an Establishment novel for an audience that is, variously, priggish and credulous. It's not great literature, either stylistically or in its insight, but it's clever. There are those who think the Establishment is conspired against the Left. Then there are those who think Labour is part of the Left, but only with a Perkins knight-like figure who will assail instituted injustice and leaven, imperceptibly, the mores of socialites and 'elitists' alike towards ever-more egalitarian ends and objects. And there are some who even delude themselves that they are part of one of these conspiracies. These are people who are all on the same side, whether they realise it or acknowledge it, and whether or not they like it. They are all, also, wrong. 'A Very British Coup' is a novel about those people and their wrongness. It's a very British thriller in that it is largely clueless in its subject-matter, and knows it, but manages to be entertaining anyway, and reserves right for the end a brief flash of insight and reflection. Perkins - and therefore, by extension, the author - is asking us: 'Does the staged version of politics that we see each day played-out in the media actually do anything for us? Is it real?' What was lucky for me is that I read the book before I saw the TV adaptation, and so I managed to recognise that poignant side of it. The televised version is excellent, I might add, but the book has a much superior ending. Mullin, a politician formed in the satire boom and writing this during a period of increasing Realpolitik and cynicism, wraps up the answer in Perkins' fate.
T. T. Rogers
a review of 'A Very British Coup' by Chris Mullin
Among politics junkies nowadays, Chris Mullin is best remembered for his laudable campaigns against miscarriages of justice. That's when he is remembered at all, for he was an obscure politician. What many don't know is that he also once wrote a rather good novel. 'A Very British Coup' is one of the most fun thrillers you will ever read, though it does help if you have a general interest in politics. Not real politics, but the type of counterfeit that requires you to vote tribally and thoughtlessly, placing an 'X' in a box once every few years.
In truth, politics is quite a dry business. In a way, Mullin succeeds here because he portrays the political game in a way that we would like to believe it is but which, deep down, we know it isn't. Here there are 'goodies' and 'baddies' of the type that resemble the cynical cut-outs portrayed in the popular media and from the demagogic margins. Real politics isn't like that, but the fantasy world depicted by the media eschews reality for false dichotomies, moral outrage, construed conflict and manufactured confrontation. The central character in 'A Very British Coup', and the hero, is 'Harry Perkins', a populist left-wing politician who somehow becomes Prime Minister. Perkins has campaigned in poetry and plans to govern in overt, hard-left prose. Railed against him are the shadowy forces of the Establishment: in the main, certain rogue figures in the intelligence community who do not want to see Britain transformed into what, presumably, Perkins would consider a 'fair' society. The plot charts the machinations of Perkins' enemies and the hero's fight against them. The plans to thwart Perkins get nastier as the story progresses.
The naiveté and political illiteracy of the premise doesn't matter. Mullin is working 'in-house' here, writing an Establishment novel for an audience that is, variously, priggish and credulous. It's not great literature, either stylistically or in its insight, but it's clever. There are those who think the Establishment is conspired against the Left. Then there are those who think Labour is part of the Left, but only with a Perkins knight-like figure who will assail instituted injustice and leaven, imperceptibly, the mores of socialites and 'elitists' alike towards ever-more egalitarian ends and objects. And there are some who even delude themselves that they are part of one of these conspiracies. These are people who are all on the same side, whether they realise it or acknowledge it, and whether or not they like it. They are all, also, wrong. 'A Very British Coup' is a novel about those people and their wrongness. It's a very British thriller in that it is largely clueless in its subject-matter, and knows it, but manages to be entertaining anyway, and reserves right for the end a brief flash of insight and reflection. Perkins - and therefore, by extension, the author - is asking us: 'Does the staged version of politics that we see each day played-out in the media actually do anything for us? Is it real?' What was lucky for me is that I read the book before I saw the TV adaptation, and so I managed to recognise that poignant side of it. The televised version is excellent, I might add, but the book has a much superior ending. Mullin, a politician formed in the satire boom and writing this during a period of increasing Realpolitik and cynicism, wraps up the answer in Perkins' fate.
T. T. Rogers
Friday, 10 May 2013
'Perilous Play, and, Lost in a Pyramid or The Mummy's Curse'
Try These Bonbons...
A review of 'Perilous Play, and, Lost in a Pyramid or The Mummy's Curse' by Louisa May Alcott
These stories are a good, gentle introduction to the works of author, Louisa May Alcott (best known for 'Little Women'). Alcott can be a little hard-going for the uninitiated, but 'Perilous Play' and 'Lost in a Pyramid' are mercifully short while also full of the most wonderful 19th. century language, showcasing the very best of Alcott's literary style. We begin with 'Perilous Play', an engaging story about a group of young socialites who try some 'special' bonbons, infused with hashish. Two of the characters, 'Done' and "a very thorny" 'Rose', go on a short but dramatic sailing adventure under the influence of the bonbons. Interestingly, their travails seem to have a very loose parallel with the relationship between Hamlet and Ophelia, except that Alcott, something of a feminist, has Rose save the day and rescue the latter-day 'Hamlet' from his blinding, drug-addled madness.
I like all things Ancient Egypt, so I also enjoyed 'Lost in a Pyramid'. This story, one of Alcott's last published thrillers, is typical of her: a weak narrative, but superb descriptive writing and a poignant, Romanticist ending. Its fervid, sensationalist theme presages some of the later, better-known thriller writing from the likes of Sir Arthur Conan-Doyle and Bram Stoker. With its thesis concerning the perils of empirical knowledge and temptation, 'Lost in a Pyramid' reminds me vaguely of the Book of Genesis, particularly Adam and Eve, but more superficially, I suppose this (and 'Perilous Play') could also be seen as an exploration of the impact of drugs, both positive and negative, on the consciousness. Alcott was a complex person with a familial background in East Coast transcendentalism and a very 19th. century attitude to 'magical brews'. Both influences seem to permeate her writing and career as a writer, and these stories are no exception. She unquestionably did use drugs - particularly hashish, which was more acceptable in her time than opium - and she might well have been an affected drug abuser, but at the same time she publicly condemned drugs, especially opium.
T. T. Rogers
A review of 'Perilous Play, and, Lost in a Pyramid or The Mummy's Curse' by Louisa May Alcott
These stories are a good, gentle introduction to the works of author, Louisa May Alcott (best known for 'Little Women'). Alcott can be a little hard-going for the uninitiated, but 'Perilous Play' and 'Lost in a Pyramid' are mercifully short while also full of the most wonderful 19th. century language, showcasing the very best of Alcott's literary style. We begin with 'Perilous Play', an engaging story about a group of young socialites who try some 'special' bonbons, infused with hashish. Two of the characters, 'Done' and "a very thorny" 'Rose', go on a short but dramatic sailing adventure under the influence of the bonbons. Interestingly, their travails seem to have a very loose parallel with the relationship between Hamlet and Ophelia, except that Alcott, something of a feminist, has Rose save the day and rescue the latter-day 'Hamlet' from his blinding, drug-addled madness.
I like all things Ancient Egypt, so I also enjoyed 'Lost in a Pyramid'. This story, one of Alcott's last published thrillers, is typical of her: a weak narrative, but superb descriptive writing and a poignant, Romanticist ending. Its fervid, sensationalist theme presages some of the later, better-known thriller writing from the likes of Sir Arthur Conan-Doyle and Bram Stoker. With its thesis concerning the perils of empirical knowledge and temptation, 'Lost in a Pyramid' reminds me vaguely of the Book of Genesis, particularly Adam and Eve, but more superficially, I suppose this (and 'Perilous Play') could also be seen as an exploration of the impact of drugs, both positive and negative, on the consciousness. Alcott was a complex person with a familial background in East Coast transcendentalism and a very 19th. century attitude to 'magical brews'. Both influences seem to permeate her writing and career as a writer, and these stories are no exception. She unquestionably did use drugs - particularly hashish, which was more acceptable in her time than opium - and she might well have been an affected drug abuser, but at the same time she publicly condemned drugs, especially opium.
T. T. Rogers
Thursday, 9 May 2013
'Nineteen Eighty-Four'
Do We Love Big Brother?
a review of 'Nineteen Eighty-Four' by George Orwell
George Orwell's 'Nineteen Eighty-Four' is the classic twentieth century dystopian novel. Based on a society under the totalitarian control of something called the 'Inner Party', the story depicts the travails of two main characters: Winston, a lowly 'Outer Party' worker, and 'Julia', his love interest. This novel was part of my formative experience, though inevitably my critical appraisal of the book has evolved with time. In my eyes, Orwell - always a controversial figure - was a kind of 'bourgeois socialist'. I think the words of Robert Barltrop (a real socialist) aptly summarise the problem: "In many ways, Orwell is like a man marching to throw open some pearly gates and abolish mendicancy, who never gets near the gates because he keeps stopping to tell beggars he is on their side." I think this nails it. Actually, I think Barltrop was being too kind. Orwell wrote well, but lacked a deep comprehension of what he was writing about.
A common criticism of 'Nineteen Eighty-Four' is that there is a feeling of plainness and ordinariness about the plot, narrative and characterisation. Admittedly, we are not in the presence of great writer, just a good one. Even so, Orwell was special: the vocabulary of 'Nineteen Eighty-Four' has entered the Western political and social lexicon. The flat feel of the plot and characters here hits just the right note. I would not expect the main love interest, 'Julia', for instance, to be anything more than a shadow and I happen to think she is well-depicted.
What of the novel's political message? You might say Orwell was latently a socialist in that he manifests the ethics of someone who believes, vaguely, in a kind of social equity and egalitarianism. However, in common with most applications of the word 'socialism', the 'IngSoc' - "English Socialism" - of the ruling Party is pseudepigraphal, merely an abstract representation of a relatively benign governing philosophy that has been twisted to totalitarianism, rather than an attempt to tell us anything about socialism itself. Despite this clever touch, Orwell's understanding of socialism is incomplete and his grasp of the dynamics of social change non-existent. In fact, 'Nineteen Eighty-Four' is actually quite a reactionary novel. It is based on an extreme vision of the future extrapolated from the complaints and observations of Orwell's present, and in doing so attempts not so much to predict the future as to hold a mirror-up to the society that existed in the War era and in the aftermath of the War. The material issues that prompt social change are ignored. Society is assumed to be static with no evidence of unrest or discontent at its obvious and blatant injustices, yet Orwell thinks the answer to the predicament lies with the "proles", society's underclass. It is not explained how the "proles" might rebel, something which would require a conscious understanding of their position as a class and a conscious understanding that their social environment is shaped by economic forces. In fact, the only dynamic force in the novel appears to be the 'Inner Party', who - one would assume - are embarked on a continual quest for greater and greater power for its own sake and who will always accumulate and concentrate power to themselves, there being no structures for the diffusion of power among the rest of society. As an analogy and commentary on reality, I would think this is useful to some extent, but the 'boot stamping on a human face' idea can only extend so far and does not fully-explain why surveillance societies such as the old DDR or contemporary North Korea existed or still exist. It's a thesis that ignores the more important driving force of social change, economic need, and also the dynamics of capitalism itself.
Overall, Orwell's message in this novel appears to be negative and pessimistic. In spite of all the Party's attempts at indoctrination and conditioning, two of the 'Outer Party' members, 'Winston' and 'Julia', are able to actualise their humanity and express their love for one another, thus standing in defiance of Big Brother. However, this 'love' is ambiguous and 'Winston' and 'Julia' constantly feel the pressures of the authoritarian forces around them chipping at their burgeoning individualism. Does the existence of the love between them nevertheless signal the inevitability of the Party's ultimate demise? Is it axiomatic that totalitarian conditions cannot be sustained in human societies? Is there something in human nature that will not allow repression to last for very long? I think all those questions might well have been on Orwell's mind as he wrote this great novel and they can be rolled into this: is there, within human beings, an innate desire for freedom or do we just want to be led? Or, to put it a different way: do we love Big Brother? I think that is the dilemma at the heart of 'Nineteen Eighty-Four'.
My own thoughts? At the moment I think we do love Big Brother, whether we realise it or not. One way of looking at this is through the lens of psychology and how the human mind has evolved to function in a way that both enfranchises us and impedes us. Using that perspective as our starting-point, it makes sense to suggest that we are still in our psychological and sociological infancy as a species. There was a time in early human history when men in their tens of thousands could be corralled as slaves to do the bidding of their masters. I would suggest those men had not only a quite different and alien lived-experience, but also very different minds to the people of today. Their minds were most probably of a hive-like character. The human mind has evolved somewhat since - a source of hope and (false) expectation - but alas I do not think we have evolved a significant extent in our basic patterns of thinking, and in support of this assertion I would point to everyday evidence of our continued obsession with, or tacit acceptance of, cruelty and war and our child-like understanding of politics.
Humanity is not yet sociologically-ready for a leaderless society, and while I think we are edging closer to the collapse of this hierarchical social system, we still show a discernible psychological reliance on leaders that will be difficult to shake-off. Like 'Winston', we need only switch on the TV and Big Brother stares back at us, but perhaps the more profound truth of this novel is the way it holds up a mirror to ourselves as much as our external reality. While the means and modes of suppression of thought and expression, totalitarianism, and authoritarian government can be a tangible burden on societies and ruin lives, it seem to me that they are more properly considered to be conditions of consciousness that are surmountable - and ultimately only surmountable - by force of will. To state it plainly: if enough people oppose what is going on, then it should not happen, but effective political action first requires consciousness of strength and purpose among those in opposition. In my view, it is this collapse of consciousness and awareness that is the central failing of our present society. Who'd have thought that otherwise intelligent people would obsess over, write books about, and believe-in a man because he is black/half-black and that millions of otherwise sane people will think that one single man can resolve society's problems? It sounds crazy but that is the society we live in. That is the political understanding that prevails - even in the academy, even in the elite universities. That is the material we have to work with. Future generations will laugh at us - most of all because they will see that Big Brother was not on the TV after all, but staring back at us in the mirror.
T. T. Rogers
a review of 'Nineteen Eighty-Four' by George Orwell
George Orwell's 'Nineteen Eighty-Four' is the classic twentieth century dystopian novel. Based on a society under the totalitarian control of something called the 'Inner Party', the story depicts the travails of two main characters: Winston, a lowly 'Outer Party' worker, and 'Julia', his love interest. This novel was part of my formative experience, though inevitably my critical appraisal of the book has evolved with time. In my eyes, Orwell - always a controversial figure - was a kind of 'bourgeois socialist'. I think the words of Robert Barltrop (a real socialist) aptly summarise the problem: "In many ways, Orwell is like a man marching to throw open some pearly gates and abolish mendicancy, who never gets near the gates because he keeps stopping to tell beggars he is on their side." I think this nails it. Actually, I think Barltrop was being too kind. Orwell wrote well, but lacked a deep comprehension of what he was writing about.
A common criticism of 'Nineteen Eighty-Four' is that there is a feeling of plainness and ordinariness about the plot, narrative and characterisation. Admittedly, we are not in the presence of great writer, just a good one. Even so, Orwell was special: the vocabulary of 'Nineteen Eighty-Four' has entered the Western political and social lexicon. The flat feel of the plot and characters here hits just the right note. I would not expect the main love interest, 'Julia', for instance, to be anything more than a shadow and I happen to think she is well-depicted.
What of the novel's political message? You might say Orwell was latently a socialist in that he manifests the ethics of someone who believes, vaguely, in a kind of social equity and egalitarianism. However, in common with most applications of the word 'socialism', the 'IngSoc' - "English Socialism" - of the ruling Party is pseudepigraphal, merely an abstract representation of a relatively benign governing philosophy that has been twisted to totalitarianism, rather than an attempt to tell us anything about socialism itself. Despite this clever touch, Orwell's understanding of socialism is incomplete and his grasp of the dynamics of social change non-existent. In fact, 'Nineteen Eighty-Four' is actually quite a reactionary novel. It is based on an extreme vision of the future extrapolated from the complaints and observations of Orwell's present, and in doing so attempts not so much to predict the future as to hold a mirror-up to the society that existed in the War era and in the aftermath of the War. The material issues that prompt social change are ignored. Society is assumed to be static with no evidence of unrest or discontent at its obvious and blatant injustices, yet Orwell thinks the answer to the predicament lies with the "proles", society's underclass. It is not explained how the "proles" might rebel, something which would require a conscious understanding of their position as a class and a conscious understanding that their social environment is shaped by economic forces. In fact, the only dynamic force in the novel appears to be the 'Inner Party', who - one would assume - are embarked on a continual quest for greater and greater power for its own sake and who will always accumulate and concentrate power to themselves, there being no structures for the diffusion of power among the rest of society. As an analogy and commentary on reality, I would think this is useful to some extent, but the 'boot stamping on a human face' idea can only extend so far and does not fully-explain why surveillance societies such as the old DDR or contemporary North Korea existed or still exist. It's a thesis that ignores the more important driving force of social change, economic need, and also the dynamics of capitalism itself.
Overall, Orwell's message in this novel appears to be negative and pessimistic. In spite of all the Party's attempts at indoctrination and conditioning, two of the 'Outer Party' members, 'Winston' and 'Julia', are able to actualise their humanity and express their love for one another, thus standing in defiance of Big Brother. However, this 'love' is ambiguous and 'Winston' and 'Julia' constantly feel the pressures of the authoritarian forces around them chipping at their burgeoning individualism. Does the existence of the love between them nevertheless signal the inevitability of the Party's ultimate demise? Is it axiomatic that totalitarian conditions cannot be sustained in human societies? Is there something in human nature that will not allow repression to last for very long? I think all those questions might well have been on Orwell's mind as he wrote this great novel and they can be rolled into this: is there, within human beings, an innate desire for freedom or do we just want to be led? Or, to put it a different way: do we love Big Brother? I think that is the dilemma at the heart of 'Nineteen Eighty-Four'.
My own thoughts? At the moment I think we do love Big Brother, whether we realise it or not. One way of looking at this is through the lens of psychology and how the human mind has evolved to function in a way that both enfranchises us and impedes us. Using that perspective as our starting-point, it makes sense to suggest that we are still in our psychological and sociological infancy as a species. There was a time in early human history when men in their tens of thousands could be corralled as slaves to do the bidding of their masters. I would suggest those men had not only a quite different and alien lived-experience, but also very different minds to the people of today. Their minds were most probably of a hive-like character. The human mind has evolved somewhat since - a source of hope and (false) expectation - but alas I do not think we have evolved a significant extent in our basic patterns of thinking, and in support of this assertion I would point to everyday evidence of our continued obsession with, or tacit acceptance of, cruelty and war and our child-like understanding of politics.
Humanity is not yet sociologically-ready for a leaderless society, and while I think we are edging closer to the collapse of this hierarchical social system, we still show a discernible psychological reliance on leaders that will be difficult to shake-off. Like 'Winston', we need only switch on the TV and Big Brother stares back at us, but perhaps the more profound truth of this novel is the way it holds up a mirror to ourselves as much as our external reality. While the means and modes of suppression of thought and expression, totalitarianism, and authoritarian government can be a tangible burden on societies and ruin lives, it seem to me that they are more properly considered to be conditions of consciousness that are surmountable - and ultimately only surmountable - by force of will. To state it plainly: if enough people oppose what is going on, then it should not happen, but effective political action first requires consciousness of strength and purpose among those in opposition. In my view, it is this collapse of consciousness and awareness that is the central failing of our present society. Who'd have thought that otherwise intelligent people would obsess over, write books about, and believe-in a man because he is black/half-black and that millions of otherwise sane people will think that one single man can resolve society's problems? It sounds crazy but that is the society we live in. That is the political understanding that prevails - even in the academy, even in the elite universities. That is the material we have to work with. Future generations will laugh at us - most of all because they will see that Big Brother was not on the TV after all, but staring back at us in the mirror.
T. T. Rogers
Wednesday, 8 May 2013
'Swastika Night'
On the burdens of knowledge:
a review of 'Swastika Night' by Katharine Burdekin
I have long felt that Katharine Burdekin's 'Swastika Night' surpasses the other dystopian science fiction of its time, in what was perhaps the most fertile era for the genre. It is a great book and deserves to stand among the classics. How tragic that this author is not popularly known! I think the final insult for this author, as if to rub salt into an already painful wound, is that it is incredibly difficult to get hold of her more obscure works, either at an affordable price or at all.
'Swastika Night' presents a harsh social world some seven centuries into the future. It is a world dominated not so much by men but by maleness, but the men have superior status and the women are - for the most part - submissive and penned in the most horrendous conditions. The only criticisms I have of this novel are, first, that Burdekin's extrapolation seems a little esoteric and not fully-believable - though her perception is undeniable - and second, I also think that perhaps too much time is spent in static dialogue between two of the leading characters. Nevertheless, the story is well-written and once the central issues are resolved, it moves along at a pace. I really cannot add any more without exhausting the superlatives available (which would be well-deserved). The rest of this review is a more detailed summary of my thoughts on the meaning and messages in the story, and in particular how I think this novel transcends a strictly gender and class critique. I will try not to reveal too much here, but be warned there are some clues as to the plot so don't read the rest of this if you could do without spoilers.
Like most, on first reading I took the novel itself as a gender and class critique but having re-read it more recently and reflected on my own experiences, I think the author is also trying to tell us something about knowledge - specifically, political knowledge. Burdekin was not just extrapolating, in a sense - like Orwell some years later in Nineteen Eighty-Four - she was also commenting on the present and society as it is. In our determination not to recognise wrongs and injustices around us, we like to construct spatial and temporal buffers: "that sort of thing happened long ago but wouldn't be allowed here" and "that sort of thing happens over there but not here." These are ways to promote a kind of 'coerced contentment' - which has its own totalitarian quality - and in that sense, I think the characters of 'Swastika Night' are in some ways freer and luckier - even more human - than we are. We may not suffer Hermann's illiteracy or Alfred's frustrations, but for all that, Hermann and Alfred at least have seen down the rabbit hole, have experienced adventure and have lived - which is more than can be said for many in our society, in our time.
The Knight, the crucible of the story, holds in his hands the font of all knowledge, literally in every sense. What does he do with it? He hides it, sharing the knowledge only with his issue. Unlike Alfred, he sees knowledge as an unmitigated burden, but unlike Hermann, he also recognises the power of knowledge, its ultimate ability to help a person become himself. What is interesting is that Alfred, too, is ambivalent about knowledge. While recognising its spiritual power, he treats the knowledge that is imparted to him as dynamite, hiding it in a cave as if it is something explosive and dangerous not to be touched except with the greatest care. And haven't we all seen and recognised this tendency even in the Potemkin village of contemporary politics? People really do not like political knowledge - they prefer to be lied to - and they will hoot and wail at any politician, or other public figure, who attempts to impart real knowledge to them. That is the truth. Burdekin, I feel, is incredibly astute in this respect.
And here is where I respectfully disagree with Daphne Patai (who wrote the Foreword and has studied Burdekin's work extensively). I think Alfred's reaction, in hiding the book and following the Knight's instructions to the letter, represents not the capitalisation of his rebellion, but rather his own tragic submission to the Knight and to Germany. All political systems need mechanisms of controlled opposition and intellectual suppression. By hiding the knowledge, Alfred himself becomes a 'conservative' - he makes his peace with the system, so to speak - even if he does not know it himself. It is a preface of Orwell's literary device, doublethink. That said, the Knight's own motives were as ambivalent as Alfred's. He takes the aeroplane ride with Alfred and puts his life in Alfred's hands. He is submitting wildly to chance, knowing that without issue he is very much in the lap of the gods anyway. The 'democratising' gesture of handing the book to Alfred - the 'lower class man' - is also a proverbial roll of the dice. There is every chance that knowledge will die out in the hands of Alfred or his issue, but there is also the possibility it won't, that Alfred will pass on the knowledge successfully.
What a great novel, but I suspect - sadly - Burdekin's other works will be hard to find other than through a specialist publisher.
T. T. Rogers
a review of 'Swastika Night' by Katharine Burdekin
I have long felt that Katharine Burdekin's 'Swastika Night' surpasses the other dystopian science fiction of its time, in what was perhaps the most fertile era for the genre. It is a great book and deserves to stand among the classics. How tragic that this author is not popularly known! I think the final insult for this author, as if to rub salt into an already painful wound, is that it is incredibly difficult to get hold of her more obscure works, either at an affordable price or at all.
'Swastika Night' presents a harsh social world some seven centuries into the future. It is a world dominated not so much by men but by maleness, but the men have superior status and the women are - for the most part - submissive and penned in the most horrendous conditions. The only criticisms I have of this novel are, first, that Burdekin's extrapolation seems a little esoteric and not fully-believable - though her perception is undeniable - and second, I also think that perhaps too much time is spent in static dialogue between two of the leading characters. Nevertheless, the story is well-written and once the central issues are resolved, it moves along at a pace. I really cannot add any more without exhausting the superlatives available (which would be well-deserved). The rest of this review is a more detailed summary of my thoughts on the meaning and messages in the story, and in particular how I think this novel transcends a strictly gender and class critique. I will try not to reveal too much here, but be warned there are some clues as to the plot so don't read the rest of this if you could do without spoilers.
Like most, on first reading I took the novel itself as a gender and class critique but having re-read it more recently and reflected on my own experiences, I think the author is also trying to tell us something about knowledge - specifically, political knowledge. Burdekin was not just extrapolating, in a sense - like Orwell some years later in Nineteen Eighty-Four - she was also commenting on the present and society as it is. In our determination not to recognise wrongs and injustices around us, we like to construct spatial and temporal buffers: "that sort of thing happened long ago but wouldn't be allowed here" and "that sort of thing happens over there but not here." These are ways to promote a kind of 'coerced contentment' - which has its own totalitarian quality - and in that sense, I think the characters of 'Swastika Night' are in some ways freer and luckier - even more human - than we are. We may not suffer Hermann's illiteracy or Alfred's frustrations, but for all that, Hermann and Alfred at least have seen down the rabbit hole, have experienced adventure and have lived - which is more than can be said for many in our society, in our time.
The Knight, the crucible of the story, holds in his hands the font of all knowledge, literally in every sense. What does he do with it? He hides it, sharing the knowledge only with his issue. Unlike Alfred, he sees knowledge as an unmitigated burden, but unlike Hermann, he also recognises the power of knowledge, its ultimate ability to help a person become himself. What is interesting is that Alfred, too, is ambivalent about knowledge. While recognising its spiritual power, he treats the knowledge that is imparted to him as dynamite, hiding it in a cave as if it is something explosive and dangerous not to be touched except with the greatest care. And haven't we all seen and recognised this tendency even in the Potemkin village of contemporary politics? People really do not like political knowledge - they prefer to be lied to - and they will hoot and wail at any politician, or other public figure, who attempts to impart real knowledge to them. That is the truth. Burdekin, I feel, is incredibly astute in this respect.
And here is where I respectfully disagree with Daphne Patai (who wrote the Foreword and has studied Burdekin's work extensively). I think Alfred's reaction, in hiding the book and following the Knight's instructions to the letter, represents not the capitalisation of his rebellion, but rather his own tragic submission to the Knight and to Germany. All political systems need mechanisms of controlled opposition and intellectual suppression. By hiding the knowledge, Alfred himself becomes a 'conservative' - he makes his peace with the system, so to speak - even if he does not know it himself. It is a preface of Orwell's literary device, doublethink. That said, the Knight's own motives were as ambivalent as Alfred's. He takes the aeroplane ride with Alfred and puts his life in Alfred's hands. He is submitting wildly to chance, knowing that without issue he is very much in the lap of the gods anyway. The 'democratising' gesture of handing the book to Alfred - the 'lower class man' - is also a proverbial roll of the dice. There is every chance that knowledge will die out in the hands of Alfred or his issue, but there is also the possibility it won't, that Alfred will pass on the knowledge successfully.
What a great novel, but I suspect - sadly - Burdekin's other works will be hard to find other than through a specialist publisher.
T. T. Rogers
Tuesday, 7 May 2013
'The Thirty-Nine Steps'
Always One Step Ahead:
a review of 'The Thirty-Nine Steps' by John Buchan
John Buchan's 'The Thirty-Nine Steps' is a terrific spy story. Fast-paced, characterful, atmospheric and well-written, this classic is the exemplar for genre thriller writing. The plot device is that the central character, somewhat a dilettante in the spying game but no blunderer, always seems one step ahead of his pursuers, if by chance or accident as much as skill.
There is an interesting paradox in that the characters and story are quintessentially English, yet most of the real action is set in Galloway and the central character 'Richard Hannay' (clearly modelled after Buchan himself) is a Scotsman brought-up in South Africa. I loved the beautiful, evocative way in which Galloway is described. It is clear this is a part of the world that Buchan loves. I also admire the refreshing succinctness of this novel: at just over one hundred pages, it's relatively short and can be read in one sitting.
Just one word of warning about the Penguin Popular Classics edition that I read: what could mar the experience slightly for a first-time reader is that the blurb on the back cover of this edition does give the game away somewhat.
T. T. Rogers
a review of 'The Thirty-Nine Steps' by John Buchan
John Buchan's 'The Thirty-Nine Steps' is a terrific spy story. Fast-paced, characterful, atmospheric and well-written, this classic is the exemplar for genre thriller writing. The plot device is that the central character, somewhat a dilettante in the spying game but no blunderer, always seems one step ahead of his pursuers, if by chance or accident as much as skill.
There is an interesting paradox in that the characters and story are quintessentially English, yet most of the real action is set in Galloway and the central character 'Richard Hannay' (clearly modelled after Buchan himself) is a Scotsman brought-up in South Africa. I loved the beautiful, evocative way in which Galloway is described. It is clear this is a part of the world that Buchan loves. I also admire the refreshing succinctness of this novel: at just over one hundred pages, it's relatively short and can be read in one sitting.
Just one word of warning about the Penguin Popular Classics edition that I read: what could mar the experience slightly for a first-time reader is that the blurb on the back cover of this edition does give the game away somewhat.
T. T. Rogers
Welcome!
Welcome!
In this blog, I will post my considered reviews of (predominantly Western) literature and other quality fiction.
I hope you enjoy reading my thoughts and impressions, and I welcome constructive comment.
Thank you,
T. T. Rogers.
In this blog, I will post my considered reviews of (predominantly Western) literature and other quality fiction.
I hope you enjoy reading my thoughts and impressions, and I welcome constructive comment.
Thank you,
T. T. Rogers.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)