Archive for the Literature Category

Prophet Song by Paul Lynch

Posted in Literature, Maynooth with tags , , , on January 23, 2024 by telescoper

My ongoing quest to keep up with the literature brings me to the winner of the 2023 Booker Prize, Prophet Song by Paul Lynch. Before writing a few comments on this extraordinary work I should mention the Maynooth connection: the book was written during the writer’s tenure as Writer-in-Residence at Maynooth University which involves teaching creativity and novel-writing, on the MA in Creative Writing, which is now in its second year.

So to the book, which is a grimly compelling novel set in an alternative Ireland after a far-right takeover revolving around Eilish Stack and her family. Her husband, Larry, a trade unionist, is detained by the state police and her efforts to find him get tangled up in the disintegration of society into civil war during which she tries desperately to keep herself and her family together as anarchy descends. We learn little of what goes on in the wider world, except what Eilish herself sees and rumours she picks up from others, but eventually, her home engulfed by the fighting, she is forced to attempt to flee with what remains of her family and cruelly exploited by human traffickers.

I won’t give away any details, but the story is bleak and at times is truly harrowing. I had to stop reading at one point – when Eilish visits a military hospital in the penultimate chapter, for those of you who have read it.

I have to admit that it took me a while to get the hang of Lynch’s writing style, with no conventional division into paragraphs and minimal punctuation. For example, speech is not included in quotation marks but embedded into the often very long sentences that blur the distinction between Eilish’s inner thoughts and the outer reality. Once I got used to it, however, I found it gripping despite the relentless horror of Eilish’s situation: Lynch conjures up an atmosphere of dread and hopelessness as effectively as George Orwell does in Nineteen Eighty-Four, with which this book has been rightly compared, but the prose also seems to me to be heavily influenced by James Joyce.

This is not an easy read, but is an important novel that should be read. I don’t think it will be long before it is on the syllabus for Leaving Certificate English.

I’ll just make further comment. Many of the reviews I have read of this book describe it as an “alternative future” and a warning about the rise of the fascism, but that’s only a part of the story. To me, it’s not really an alternative future, but an alternative present. The point is all the horrors described in this book – the murders, the abductions, the torture, the indiscriminate slaughter of innocent civilians, the people trafficking are actually happening right now elsewhere in the world, but those of us living in safer places can view them from a safe distance or, more likely, just ignore them. The novel’s power is that it makes such things happen on the familiar streets of Dublin, making the unthinkable an alternative reality.

You have to wait until near the very end of the book for Paul Lynch to explain the title, which he says far more eloquently, essentially what I said in the preceding paragraph.

…and the prophet sings not of the end of the world but of what has been done and what will be done and what is being done to some but not others, that the world is always ending over and over again in one place but not another and that the end of the world is always a local event, it comes to your country and visits your town and knocks on the door of your house and becomes to others but some distant warning, a brief report on the news, an echo of events that has passed into folklore…

Paul Lynch, Prophet Song

The tale ends with a crowd of refugees – Eilish and her young children among them – getting into small boats to attempt to reach safety across the sea. Frail as it is, that’s their only hope of survival and a better life…

Storm on the Island – Seamus Heaney

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , on January 22, 2024 by telescoper

We are prepared: we build our houses squat,
Sink walls in rock and roof them with good slate.
This wizened earth has never troubled us
With hay, so, as you see, there are no stacks
Or stooks that can be lost. Nor are there trees
Which might prove company when it blows full
Blast: you know what I mean – leaves and branches
Can raise a tragic chorus in a gale
So that you listen to the thing you fear
Forgetting that it pummels your house too.
But there are no trees, no natural shelter.
You might think that the sea is company,
Exploding comfortably down on the cliffs
But no: when it begins, the flung spray hits
The very windows, spits like a tame cat
Turned savage. We just sit tight while wind dives
And strafes invisibly. Space is a salvo,
We are bombarded with the empty air.
Strange, it is a huge nothing that we fear.

by Seamus Heaney (1939-2013)

Storm Isha passed overnight, bringing down many trees and leaving many thousands of households without power.

Is it a truth universally acknowledged?

Posted in Literature with tags , , , on January 15, 2024 by telescoper

For reasons that may or may not be revealed shortly, I am currently re-reading the novel Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen:

My old copy of Pride and Prejudice, dated 1986.

Among many other things, this has one of the most famously ironic opening lines in all English literature:

It is a truth universally acknowledged that, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.

I recently came across this discussion of this sentence by the philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein, which I thought it would be amusing to share:

Let us ask what it is when we say “It is a truth universally acknowledged” that something is the case. Isn’t this a queer thing to say? How can we possibly understand it? At first sight it may appear that “it” is simply the something that is the case (ie that a man possessed of a certain degree of wealth will always feel the lack, or perhaps, without feeling it, be in need, of a wife). This “it”, however, can be no more than a pronominal anterior reference to the “truth” that is being claimed, without as yet there being any evidence for it, even though it is later stated to be acknowledged as a truth by everyone. In such a case it seems to us that the truth has been claimed a priori, since nothing can be acknowledged until it is proposed, although once proposed, such a supposed truth may be further tested through opinion and behaviour. Consider the much simpler proposition: “A man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife”. We might reply “How do you know?”, a response that immediately raises the idea of possible exceptions to such a generalisation, such as (among other more complex forms of exception) that he may have a wife already, or may be a secret lover of men. To claim universal acknowledgement of a truth is to claim that a probable “truth” is undeniably true, which can be no more than a specious tautology. Moreover, as we have seen, the “it” with which we began has already laid claim to the existence of something (a kind of truth, as it soon turns out) that can only be assumed through this insistent and superfluous pronoun, which is a form of private acknowledgement by the speaker alone, and is by no means obviously universal. That this “it” is true, and that truth is also true, is what is being claimed here, and the double tautology becomes a distinct puzzle. To be induced to assent to an “it”, when there may be ample reason to doubt its very relation to the proposition which follows, is to be invited not to understand it.

I hope this clarifies the situation.

Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind

Posted in Jazz, Literature with tags , , , , on December 27, 2023 by telescoper

With gale force winds, torrential rain and hailstones, the weather is pulling out all the stops today; so here, from the album Shakespeare and all that Jazz by Cleo Laine with a band led by John Dankworth, here is a lovely version of the song Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind from As You Like It by William Shakespeare

I always loved how Cleo Laine sang Jazz without trying to put on an American accent!

And here are the words, if you want to sing along at home:

The Return of Halley’s Comet…

Posted in Art, Literature, The Universe and Stuff with tags , , , on December 11, 2023 by telescoper

I was reminded at the weekend that Halley’s Comet has just passed its aphelion (furthest distance from the Sun) and is now falling back into the Solar System towards its next perihelion (closest distance to the Sun) in 2061, by which time I will almost certainly be retired.

Halley’s Comet last visited us in 1986 when I was 23 and living in Brighton. It will next appear in 2061, when I shall be 98 and lucky to be living at all.

This reminded me of a rather poignant cartoon I found a while ago on Facebook. I don’t know the name of the artist. If anyone does please let me know.

The comet’s orbital period of 75 years or so is brief by astronomical standards, as is the duration of a human life. As Quintus Horatius Flaccus (Horace to you and me) put it in one of his Odes (Book I, Ode 4, line 15):

Vitae summa brevis spem nos vetat incohare longam

The Magician by Colm Tóibín

Posted in History, LGBTQ+, Literature with tags , , on November 17, 2023 by telescoper

Continuing my attempt to catch up on a backlog of reading I have now finished The Magician by Colm Tóibín. A couple of years ago I attended a Zoom event featuring the author Colm Tóibín talking about this book, which is a fictionalised account of the life of Thomas Mann. It’s taken me a ridiculous long time to get round to it, but it was worth the wait.

The life of Thomas Mann was colourful, to say the least. Born in the German city of Lübeck in 1875, Mann’s father was a wealthy merchant and his mother was from Brazil. His elder brother Heinrich Mann was also a novelist essayist and playwright of considerable reputation. Despite his barely concealed homosexuality, Thomas Mann married Katia Pringsheim in 1905, his wife seemingly not minding about his sexual orientation. He led a comfortable life until he began to see the signs of the coming descent of Europe into the First World War. He was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1929 and went into exile from Nazism in 1933, becoming an American citizen in 1944. In the post-War McCarthyite era he was made to feel less welcome in the USA for having visited East Germany and consequently under suspicion for communist sympathies. Not wanting to return to Germany, he spent most of the last years of his life in Zurich. He died in 1955 at the age of 80.

In some ways this work is reminiscent of The Dream of the Celt which I reviewed a few weeks ago, in that it’s a fictionalised biography, based partially on material found in diaries and with a theme of (partly) suppressed same-sex desire; several of his six offspring were gay or bisexual too. On the other hand I don’t think it’s accurate to think of this book so much as a biography of Thomas Mann but more of a biography of the late 19th and early 20th Century with Mann as the lens. In fact I finished the book without feeling that I knew very much at all about Thomas Mann’s character and personality. That’s probably deliberate as he seems to have cultivated an air of mystery surrounding himself. We follow Mann and his large family through the events leading up to both World Wars, and the effect these tumultuous times had on his siblings and offspring. His family endured more than its fair share of tragedy, with multiple suicides and other heartbreak.

An interesting aspect is the collection of little character sketches this book gives us of famous people with whom Mann interacted in his life. Mann was himself very famous indeed both in Europe and America. Tóibín gives us (not always flattering) views, through Mann’s eyes of, among many others: Gustav Mahler, Albert Einstein, Eleanor Roosevelt, Arnold Schoenberg, Christopher Isherwood and W.H. Auden. Incidentally, Auden married Mann’s daughter Erika so she could get British citizenship; the marriage was never consummated.

It’s a beautiful book, written in a style that frequently seems to mimic Mann’s own prose. Juxtaposing the ideas in his novels with the events happening when they were being written, both within his own family and in the wider world, provides fascinating insights. I have only read a couple of Thomas Mann’s books: Death in Venice and The Magic Mountain. Knowing more about his life, I now want to read these again and also read the others.

And so as one book disappears from my reading list, several more appear…

P.S. This is the novel in which the Mann family sits around listening to a gramophone record of In fernem Land sung by Leo Slezak I mentioned a few days ago.

In fernem Land – Leo Slezak

Posted in Literature, Opera with tags , , , on November 13, 2023 by telescoper

The book I’m currently reading in the evenings contains a scene in which members of a family listen to a gramophone record of Leo Slezak singing In fernem Land from the opera Lohengrin by Richard Wagner. Being the anorak I am I searched around the many recordings made by Slezak and I reckon it must be this one. The sound quality isn’t great, but then it was recorded way back in 1907 and it always amazes me that you can hear anything at all from over a century ago. It’s an interesting performance because it’s taken at quite a slow tempo and Slezak’s voice sounds to my ears more like a lyric tenor than the Heldentenor one normally associates with Wagnerian roles. Anyway, it’s well worth a listen as there’s much to appreciate and it’s very different from modern renditions.

Now that you’ve heard the record, I wonder if you can guess the book I’m reading? Answers through the comments box please!

To the Warmongers – Siegfried Sassoon

Posted in History, Poetry, Politics with tags , , on November 6, 2023 by telescoper

As we approach Remembrance Sunday in a time of rising conflict, it seems apt to post the following poem written by Siegfried Sassoon, called the To the Warmongers:

I’m back again from hell
With loathsome thoughts to sell;
Secrets of death to tell;
And horrors from the abyss.
Young faces bleared with blood,
Sucked down into the mud,
You shall hear things like this,
Till the tormented slain
Crawl round and once again,
With limbs that twist awry
Moan out their brutish pain,
As for the fighters pass them by.
For you our battles shine
With triumph half-divine;
And the glory of the dead
Kindles in each proud eye.
But a curse is on my head,
That shall not be unsaid,
And the wounds in my heart are red,
For I have watched them die.

Modern Ireland 1600-1972 by R. F. Foster

Posted in History, Literature with tags , , , , on October 30, 2023 by telescoper

My attempt to catch up with a backlog of reading while on sabbatical has now brought me to Modern Ireland, by R.F. Foster, the paperback version of which, shown above, I bought way back in 2018 but have only just finished reading. In the following I’ll describe the scope of the book and make a few observations.

The book was first published in 1988 so it obviously can’t deal with more recent events such as the Good Friday Agreement. The narrative stops almost 50 years ago in 1972, the year of Bloody Sunday and just before Ireland joined the European Economic Community in 1973, but since it starts way back in 1600 one can forgive Roy Foster for not covering such recent events. The start is in what is usually termed the early modern period, but if truth be told much of Irish society at that point was still organized on mediaeval lines.

To set the scene, Foster starts with a description of the three main sections of the population of Ireland in 1600. These were the (Gaelic and Catholic) Irish, the “Old English”, descendants of the 12th Century conquest of part of the country, who were also Catholic, and the Protestant “New English” who arrived with the Tudor plantations. There were tensions between all three of these groups.

The rest of the book is divided into four parts, roughly one per century: Part I covers the continued Elizabethan plantation of Ireland, rebellions against it, the devastation caused by Cromwell’s so-called “pacification”, and the Penal Laws that basically outlawed the Catholic faith. In Part II Foster discusses a period often called The Ascendancy which showed the consolidation of power in the hands of a Protestant – specifically Anglican – ruling class, though there was a sizeable community of non-conformist Protestants, chiefly Presbyterians, who were regarded by Anglicans with almost as much suspicion as the Catholics. This Part ends with yet another failed rebellion, involving Wolfe Tone and the United Irishmen, against the backdrop of the French revolution. Up until the Act of Union of 1800, Ireland had its own Parliament; after that Irish MPs were sent to the House of Commons in Westminster. The century covered by Part III includes the Irish Famine, rising levels of rural violence, and issues of land reform, and various attempts to deliver some form of Home Rule; it ends with Charles Stewart Parnell. Part IV covers the Easter Rising, War of Independence, Civil War, Partition, the creation of the Irish Free State, and the eventual formation of the Irish Republic. A running theme through all four Parts is a recognition of how historical forces – and not only religion – shaped Ulster in a different way from the rest of Ireland.

As I’ve said before on this blog, it disturbs me quite how little of this history I was taught at school in England so I found it valuable to read a detailed scholarly work whose main message is that everything is much more complex than simple narratives – those peddled by politicians, for example – would have you believe. This is primarily a revisionist history, calling much of received wisdom into question. That said, it’s probably not the best book for a newcomer to Irish history. Foster does assume knowledge of quite a few of the major events and, while reading it, I did have to look quite a few things up. Much is said in the jacket reviews of the author’s writing style. To be honest, I found it sometimes rather mannered and self-conscious, though with some enjoyably arch humour thrown in for good measure. It’s thoroughly researched, as far as that is possible when primary sources are sketchy and contemporary records usually written by someone with an axe to grind. It does seem to rely mainly on documents written in English, however, so one might argue that introduces quite a bias. I gather that there is much greater emphasis among contemporary Irish historians on records written in Irish (Gaelic).

The book is rather heavy on footnotes, too. Usually I dislike these, but in this case they are mostly little biographical sketches of important figures which would have disrupted the flow if included in the main text, and I found many of them valuable. Just to be perverse, I have to say I liked his liberal use of semicolons. Though dense, the books is as accessible as I think a scholarly work can be and although I am not so much a scholar of history as an interested bystander, I learnt a lot. It also made me want to learn more, especially about the period between the death of Parnell in 1891 and the Easter Rising of 1916.

It seems apt to finish with an excerpt that illustrates a theme that crops up repeatedly during the 23 chapters of the book:

Irish history in the long period since the completion of the Elizabethan conquest concerned a great deal more than the definition of Irishness against Britishness; this survey has attempted to indicate as much. But that sense of difference comes strongly through, though its expression was conditioned by altering circumstances, and adapted for different interest-groups, as the years passed. If the claims of cultural maturity and a new European identity advanced by the 1970s can be substantiated, it may be by the hope of a more relaxed and inclusive definition of Irishness, and a less constricted view of Irish history.

Modern Ireland, R. F. Foster, p596

I hope that too. It may even be happening.

Yellowface, by Rebecca F. Kuang

Posted in Literature with tags , on October 17, 2023 by telescoper

Continuing with my aim of reading more books while on sabbatical, I’ve just finished Yellowface by Rebecca F. Kuang. The story, told in the first person, revolves around June Hayward, an unsuccessful young white author, who is present at the accidental death of Athena Liu, a Chinese-American author, a hit in literary circles, who chokes on a pancake. Athena has just finished a complete draft of a novel about Chinese laborers in World War I and while waiting for emergency services to arrive, June purloins the manuscript and passes it off as her own. She is immediately welcomed by publishers and offered a large advance, but that’s only the start as she has to then contend with accusations of plagiarism and racism as well as being haunted by what appears to be Athena’s ghost. I won’t spoil the read by telling you how it ends, but it did remind me a little bit of Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment.

The author describes this as a “horror story about loneliness” in the highly competitive world of publishing, I found much of it resonates with academia too, but it’s really more of a satire about plagiarism and marketing hype than a horror story per se. I found it very readable, and interesting for someone who has recently quit Twitter to see how social media play such an important – and negative – role in the story. I was gripped by the story and read it in just two evenings, which is quick for me. Recommended.