The Researcher's Tale

War On Film: The American Civil War, by Ken Burns

2011-02-08T12:13:00.000-08:00

Hailed everywhere as a masterpiece it took me long enough to watch a copy of Ken Burns' monumental documentary on the American Civil War. The approach is deceptively simple at first sight: instead of adopting an educational, omniscient tone in telling the history of the civil war Burns lets the protagonists of the story talk themselves, through voiceovers of letters, newspaper articles, diaries, and witness' accounts. The result - rather like in my favourite non-fiction book, Tristram Hunt's The English Civil War: At First Hand - feels much more authetic and direct to the audience, who feels included in the story, like standing at the centre of these events.

The accumulation of documents in the film is impressive: thousands of newspaper cuts, declarations, photographs, litographts, etc, are paraded in front of the viewer's eyes while the voices of familiar actors like Derek Jacobi, Julie Harris and Sam Waterson bring out the characters of hundreds of mayor and minor players in the combat. From Abraham Lincoln's views on what freedom means to the poignant letter of a soon-to-be-killed private to his wife, The American Civil War (1990) leaves nothing out, its fastidious obsession with detail make for 680 fascinating minutes. This is an in-depth work, not a general lecture of the subject. It's a balanced view, giving voice to both parts, the Union and the Confederates, with sympathy and rigor.

And it is a beautiful film as well. It becomes apparent in the first few minutes of the first episode ("The Cause", in which we see how the growning division on the slavery debate poised the North states against the South) that Ken Burns is filmmaker with a brilliant eye. Almost the whole documentary consists on archive material and yet Burns' (and his editor Paul Barnes) genius manages to make these still images and their rhythm seem absolutely stunning.

There's also the nice choice of David McCullough - one of the best and better respected writers of American history books - as the narrator. If the expression "a must see" still retained some meaning I'd say this is a must see.

Inspiration: Christopher Logue's translations of Homer

2010-09-07T07:36:00.000-07:00

All Day Permanent Red [To Welcome Hector To His Death]
by Christopher Logue

To welcome Hector to his death
God sent a rolling thunderclap across the sky
The city and the sea
      And momentarily—
The breezes playing with the sunlit dust—
On either slope a silence fell.

   Think of a raked sky-wide Venetian blind.
   Add the receding traction of its slats
   Of its slats of its slats as a hand draws it up.
   Hear the Greek army getting to its feet.
   
   Then of a stadium when many boards are raised
   And many faces change to one vast face.
   So, where there were so many masks,
   Now one Greek mask glittered from strip to ridge.
   Already swift
Boy Lutie took Prince Hector's nod
And fired his whip that right and left
Signalled to Ilium's wheels to fire their own,
And to the Wall-wide nodding plumes of Trojan infantry—

   Flutes!
   Flutes!
Screeching above the grave percussion of their feet
Shouting how they will force the savage Greeks
Back up the slope over the ridge, downplain
And slaughter them beside their ships—

   Add the reverberation of their hooves: and
   "Reach for your oars. . ."
T'lesspiax, his yard at 60°, sending it
Across the radiant air as Ilium swept
   Onto the strip
   Into the Greeks
   Over the venue where
Two hours ago all present prayed for peace.
   And carried Greece
Back up the slope that leads
   Via its ridge
   Onto the windy plain.

Inspiration: The Poetry of Richard Stanyhurst

2010-07-24T12:20:00.000-07:00

Richard Stanihurst (or Stanyhurst) was an Irish poet and alchemist, 1547-1618.

He was a controversial figure - Catholic, born in Dublin but completed his studies in Oxford. He was a translator of Virgil. He worked for some time in the court of Philip II of Spain, studying alchemy in the laboratory in El Escorial.

As a poet he was sometimes critizised (even mocked) for his extravagant vocabulary and meter. But I picked up an anthology of 16th century at the Southbank's Poetry Library (wonderful place, visit it if you are in London) and I found his version of The Aeneid full of energy and strange and wondruous sounds.

I that in old season wyth reeds oten harmonye whistled
My rural sonnet; from forrest flitted (I) forced
Thee sulckīg swincker thee soyle, thoghe craggie, to sunder.
A labor and a trauaile too plow swayns hertelye welcoō.
Now māhod and garbroyls J chaunt, and martial horror.

There are not so many poets from Ireland that wrote in English and were accepted in the English literary circles at that time. I'm interested in the Irish experience in those centuries. None of the characters in my novel is Irish but when they arrive in Ireland they encounter a strange land that feels and sounds different to any other place these soldiers have been. I want to hear these sounds in the poetry of the 16th and 17th centuries, through the Irish poets.

REVIEW: A Hero Of Our Time by Mikhail Lermontov

2010-06-22T16:04:00.000-07:00

For the Classics Circuit this month I choose to read Mikhail Lermontov's A Hero Of Our Time. I decided not to be obvious and stay away from my beloved Dostoevsky and ventured into new Russian territories. Many factors were in Lermontov's favour: he was the so-called heir of Pushkin and we all love our Pushkin; one of my favourite films (Un Coeur en Hiver by Claude Sautet) is a loose adaptation of one of the stories in this novella; and finally I was able to find (and afford, always very important) a copy of the translation by Vladimir Nabokov, a hero of mine since I was a teenager, so this would made a nice addition in completing his body of work.

And fortunately it was a great choice. A Hero of Our Time was an entertaining, tremendously cool book to pick up.

A Hero Of Our Time
Mikhail Lermontov (translated by Vladimir & Dmitri Nabokov)
Ardis Publishing
210 pages

Summary
A Hero Of Our Time is not so much what you would expect of a novel but more a collection of five stories surrounding the central, title character. These stories vary in length and genre, are mostly set in the Caucasian frontier and include all sorts of adventures for our hero: skirmishes with enemy soldiers, kidnapping, Russian roulette, duels, tragic love affairs. But the central character, the young officer Grigory Aleksandrovich Pechorin, is less than heroic and throughout the stories the author paints an ambiguous portrait of his hero: he is dissastisfied and bored, unfeeling towards other and often cruel - specially in his love affairs.

In the first story we see Pechorin kidnap a young Princess (in exchange for helping her brother steal a horse), making her fall in love with him only to lose all interest in her shortly, and finally somehow indirectly causing her death. Next we see Pechorin himself make an appearance, crossing paths with the narrator, but Pechorin behaves cruelly and coldly towards Maksim, an older officer who very much loved him and so both narrator and reader are left with the worst possible opinion of our hero. But then the book switches point of view and we read Pechorin's own journals - and far from trying to excuse himself Pechorin openly declares his flaws and vices, glosses over them, and recalls other incidents in which he was at fault, most notoriously a duel with another man for a woman, whom Pechorin did not really love but was merely entertaining himself with. This is a hero of our time.

Review

A Hero of Our Time is a fantastically enjoyable book. I mean, for one it's short and to the point (I completely agree with this review in The Guardian), a quality sadly overlooked by writers these days (I love a good long book when it's called for, but most novels I read overstay their welcome). It's full of adventure and action, but also of introspection and philosophy. It's very well-written, with a clear, speedy prose. And I have to admit I just have a soft spot for Russian literature (except for Tolstoy, I could never get into that) and Lermontov was never going to disappoint.

To start with the writing. I was happy to see that, although a translation, there were traces of Nabokov's style throughout these stories; specially in the descriptions, glossy and honey-sweet, a bit nostalgic, and a bit awkward-sounding - I love that in Nabokov, the way he words a thought so that you have to stop your tongue at how different it sounds. At first you have to wonder if this is not a mismatch, pairing Lermontov with Nabokov as his translator. Lermontov's prose is swift and smooth and manly (Nabokov's expression) and seems at odds with that of his translator. But that doesn't become a problem. Let's see what Nabokov has to say on this, in the very interesting introduction:

In the first place we have to dismiss, once and for all the conventional notion that a translation "should read smoothly" and "should not look like a translation (to quote the would-be compliments, adressed to vague versions, by genteel reviewers who never have and never will read the original texts). In point of fact, any translation that does not sound like a translation is bound to be inexact upon inspection; while, on the other hand, the only virtue of a good translation is faithfulness and completeness. Whether it reads smoothly or not, depends on the model, not on the mimic.

In this introduction Nabokov is also happy to talk about the defects of Lermontov's book. For example the inconsistencies between the stories, as it's clear the author wrote some of them without predicting the others. This might be true but I don't think it detracts from the genius of the work. A Hero of Our Time has some sort of messy, rushed quality, almost boyish, that is one of its most charming virtues.

One of the things that really loved about the book was the structure, so clever but very easy to follow. Very modern, too. A Hero of Our Time is a very modern book in many senses. We approach the character of Pechorin sideways at first, through the account Maksim Maksimich gives to the narrator, and a brief appearance by Pechorin himself in our story, and then through Pechorin's own journals found by the narrator. The stories are out of chronological order, too. This is what I mean by a "cool" book. I mean thoroughly modern, hip, trendy.

It is a wise choice, letting the reader reach her/his own conclusion from various sources: the narrator, Maksim and Pechorin all have different opinions on the subject, and although while we get more introspection from Pechorin, undeinably, that doesn't mean his vision of himself is more accurate than the others.

Pechorin is an atypical hero that embodies qualities of different traditions, of different archetypes that have become commonly known now in literature: he is quintaessentially Russian and yet a Byronic romantic hero (Lermontov was passionate about Byron, and had began reading him at thriteen), infussed with the very French ennui as he himself recognizes. He is bored but not apathic. Lermontov succeeds in making the character not just interesting but also seductive - the novel would have fallen flat if we as readers didn't feel the same for Pechorin as the narrator, Maksim and the hero himself: a mixture of fascination and disgust.

The other characters matter very little; we might have sympathy for Maskim but he doesn't interest us. The women even less so. Only Vera from the story "Princess Mary" (the longest, most memorable of the collection), who represents some kind of chance of redemption for Pechorin, holds fascination. But there are other two characters in the book that are of huge importance: fate and landscape. Fate not as much as material force but in Pechorin's mind, he is obssessed by it and lets it dictate his actions (he doesn't pursue Vera after falling off his horse) - we cannot be sure of the author's take on this, if he believes in this overwhelming force of destiny or if his take is ironic and Pechorin is a fool for following the signs so blindly. Perhaps it's both. And then there's the Caucasian landscape, a territory torn apart by war. Lermontov served in those parts as a young soldier and his descriptions of the landscape are full of love and remembrance. Ironically enough Pechorin does not care for the country and is bored by its landscape, which only makes these lovely descriptions all the more poignant.

Lastly, I'm sure most of the finer political points of the book escape me as I am not so versed in Russian history (at least not of that period) but the point Lermontov somehow is trying to make seems to come across to modern, foreign readers just as well: Pechorin is much a product of his time, and not completely guilty in forming his own, depicable character. He belongs to a class that feels it's not been given the opportinity to live up to all its potential. Young aristrocrats with the means and the intelligence to make their mark on the world but whose ambitions were at odds with the Russian autocratic society of the time. There's an element of social realism to A Hero of Our Time that sets it apart from just a product of the Russian Romaticism, it connects Lermontov with the social worries of the next movement, with Tolstoy and Dostoevsky. Although the book is concerned with Pechorin all the time the reader also comes off feeling the absurd tragedy of those hurt by the hero's actions, the senseless cruelty of it all, the victims.

Lermontov's intentions in drawing a picture not just of a Russian youth but of a state of things in Russia is never clearer than in the (wonderfully playful) words of the book's narrator:

Perhaps some readers will want to know my opinion of Pechorin's character. My answer is the title of this book. "But this is wicked irony!" they will say.
I wonder.

USEFUL & HELPFUL: Arms & Armour of the English Civil Wars

2010-06-17T04:25:00.000-07:00

Arms and Armour of the English Civil Wars, by David Blackmore (Edited by Royal Armouries)

Though its writing style is a bit less than smooth, this book has been indeed useful and helpful for two reasons: the detailed explanation (with figures) of the way firearms worked, with their different locks (match-lock, flint-lock, yadda yadda yadda) and the quoting of contemporary sources to illustrate the examples, which was a nice touch.

At 8.50 pounds second-hand at Waterstones in Bloomsbury it was a bit pricey, I admit, but the book is generous in images and it sure was inspirational, so I'm not really complaining.

REVIEW: The Go-Between

2010-05-21T03:21:00.000-07:00

The Go-Between
L.P Hartley
401 pages
Library copy

Read for the Spotlight On... Series focusing on the New York Review Books.

In the summer of 1900 Leo Colston, a young schoolboy, is invited to spend the holidays at Brandham Hall, the country house of his friend Marcus' family, the Maudleys. Having never been out of his home for such a long time Leo, of a lower class than his hosts, soon becomes entangled with the lives of the adults in Norfolk: he gets infatuated with Marcus' older sister, Marian, and by chance becomes the messenger between the girl and a nearby farmer, Ted Burguess, who is in love with her. Marian and Ted use Leo to carry letters from one to another without the rest of the family knowing - since they have different social status their affair would not be looked upon kindly and needs to be kept a secret.

The danger of this secret relationship increases when Marian gets engaged to a neighbour Viscount, Lord Trimingham, and Leo tries to end his role as a messenger between the illicit lovers but Marian and Ted put too much pressure on him. It all ends tragically when the lovers are discovered, resulting in Ted's suicide.

This is all narrated by Leo in his sixties, upon finding a box containing his old diaries. Traumatized by the events at Brandham that summer, Leo becomes a damaged and detached adult, incapable of intimacy with others.

Review

The Go-Between is a novel about childhood innocence disturbed and lost, and the cruelty of adults towards children, the glimpses that children catch of the adult world and the interactions between the two. Those on the surface it might not seem like a complicated novel the book is a formal masterpiece; for a start the narrator is an old man recalling his childhood days but he puts himself so much in the mind of his past self that the impression of a truly childish narrator emerges, and at the same time the narrator's knowledge of events to come (and what they will do to him as a boy) undercuts the whole story with a feeling of uneasiness and impending doom. The tone sets the reader for a tragedy, but never makes it so explicit that we know what the writing is doing to us.

Despite the scorching-hot summer it is set in The Go-Between is a curiously cold novel. Cold-blooded and cold-headed. Hartley is quite pitiless towards the lovers in the story; rather than the affair the book considerates what it does to Leo, the consequences of two adults selfishly using a child for their own purposes, and while the story critizices the hypocritical society that doesn't let Marian and Ted be together because of class differences, it never excuses the couple for their actions. Everything is told from Leo's point of view so we never see the lovers unless he does, and we have no way of knowing what they are thinking or feeling. This is a clever technical decision that never draws attention to itself, the novel becomes a very disciplinate affair through it. It is contained, almost prude, seen through the eyes of a boy who disapproves of the relationship, in his own peculiar and naive set of values. Despite Leo's obssession with the thermometer and the all-encompassing heat of that summer, the narrative remains cool, rather like a wet rope before it finally snaps -too much pressure on the poor boy- and brings about the anticipated tragedy.

I confess the very own virtues that make me admire Hartley's approach were also what detached me from the story and a more emotional involment with the characters. Childhood feelings and thoughts are recalled with overwhelming detail and at times I think they slow down the story in an undesired way. I loved the portray of conflicting emotions, because like Leo we idolize Marian and Ted at first but unlike the boy we are aware of their manipulation and the nature of their relationship from the start. It's one of the formal joys of the story-telling here, how the reader knows more about the world Leo is entering than he does, but not because we are told but because we are older and wiser and can hint at the truth behind the events that Leo witnesses but does not fully comprehend. But at the same time our knowledge of just how appalling the grown-ups' behaviour towards Leo is makes it hard for us to connect with any of the characters. We are so aware of the narrator's disapproval (as a boy and as an old man scarred by the book's events) of the lovers' actions that we feel guilty for finding their passion alluring at first.

The book's most famous quote, "The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.", can also be applied to childhood. We are imersed in the narrator's boy-ish psyche so complete that we can't help but feel it as a state of otherness, almost alien. This novel has often been compared to one of my favourite books, Ian McEwan's Atonement (McEwan himself has talked about his admiration for it) and while there are many things in common -thematically, and in plot- in both stories the novels are also absolutely contrary: The Go-Between tells us about the cruelty with which two lovers treat a child for their affair's benefit, Atonement show us the other way around: how a child's cruelty can destroy the most beautiful of love stories.

After I finished the book I watched the film adaptation by Harold Pinter, directed by Joseph Losey. It's an amazing work: largely faithful to the book and at the same time a very Losey film. While it is clear that the film is more sympathetic to the love between Ted and Maria like the book the story is told with wonderful restrain. The formality of its shots and camera movements, far from making it seem dated and stuffy, helps make the whole point of the story. If anything, I think the film improves on the original, or at least I found it even more enjoyable, being as it is a completely different medium.

In search of Bunhill Fields and the perfect coffee

2010-05-09T07:22:00.000-07:00

Bunhill Fields is the famous dissenters' cemetery near Old Street and Liverpool Street station in London. What neglect of me to have waited until now (and a Civil War reason for it) to visit. Specially since there lies William Blake, a particular favourite of mine since I was 13 or 14 and in one of my not-so-frequent visits to my father's family I chanced upon a volume of his poetry translated into Spanish. My grandmother gave me the book and I remember the excitement upon reading those lines for the first time. Blake was a revolutionary rebellious methaphysical malcontent, all of which appeal to me.

But this is not why we are here. Neither are the graves of Daniel Defoe or John Buynan, admired as they are. Why I'm here is because this ground is full of puritan's bones, directly or indirectly connected to those who made up a large bulk of the Parlamentarian faction during the English Civil War.

First of all, it is a wonderful, soothing place. I saw many people pass through its avenues (almost in the heart of the City, businessmen and women made their way across its green stillness) but very few paused to take in the calming shadows and earthy smell, the sounds of birds over the background of busy London traffic. There was a man walking his dog, well, more like playing with it extensively, it was a treat for the dog, he spent almost half hour there. I am suspicious of dogs in London parks (last year not once but twice I had my food stolen by dogs while I was picnic-ing in Battersea and Kensington) so I kept my distance. I spent a great deal of time with William Blake and was pleased to see traces of offerings upon and around his gravestone. Still going strong, old Blake.

THE SICK ROSE

ROSE, thou art sick!
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy;
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

Defoe has had not such luck. Better known by the general public, that's for sure (I cannot remember if I had to read Robinson Crusoe for school back in Spain but it's very possible that I did) but maybe he doesn't inspire that kind of dedication or committed fans. Other particular reason for my trip to Bunhill Fields was that Defoe has started to become a friend lately, after a second-hand battered copy of his Tour Through The Whole Islands of Britain made its way to my hands and now I try to use it for my own, much more modest, trips. He is good company in a journey.

Defoe might prove another Civil War connection yet, as I am waiting for Amazon to send me a copy of his Memoirs of a Cavalier which deals, as the title points out, with the sibject, as well as the Thirty Years War.

Lovely as walking around the burial grounds, and sitting on the benches and trying to remember all the words to "The Tyger" was, my final goal was somehow trampled. Wikipedia and the various websites I visited informed that two of the sons of Oliver Cromwell (including the one that succeeded him as Lord Protector, Richard) and his daughter's husband, Charles Fleetwood, high rank in Cromwell's army. I also had my sights on the graves of a couple of Quaker movement founders, George Fox and George Whitehead. This was all in vain. Said graves where in the part of the park not accesible to the public. Most graves were faded and bitten by time so it was impossible to spot any from a distance. Woe was me.

SIDE NOTE: I approached Bunhill Fields via starting at Bank station first. Why? Well, apart from books my other passion is coffee so I decided to treat myself to a breakfast at the Bank branch of Taylor Street Baristas - this cafe has a huge and completely justified fame. I was afraid of the hype but oh, no. Their flat white is an otherworldly experience. If you are ever in the City please do yourself a favour and visit.

A trip to Chichester cathedral

2010-05-09T04:58:00.000-07:00

This past week I was in Chichester for a couple of hours for reasons that had nothing to do with the 17th century but I thought that I might as well keep up my search of all things related to the English Civil War. Or maybe this was an afterthought - for when I stepped inside Chichester's cathedral my only thoughts were for my love of these buildings and of poetry. Maybe one has to be a convinced atheist like me to be as much in love with cathedrals and churches as I am. Because when you take God out of the equation you are left alone with the truth of these beautiful, almost impossible places.

The building of the cathedral started on 1076, after the Council of London decided to move the cathedral from nearby Sesley to Chichester. Small for a cathedral, Chichester was when constructed a typical example of Norman style, but after the fire of 1187 Early Gothic elements were added. We are in Early Gothic country then and I must say that's where I feel most at ease. I like transition art forms and traces of more primitive styles to show up, specially in architecture. Chichester is a weird place, though, in that it mixes this very old enviroment with a lot of nods to modern - indeed modernist - art: there's a stunning tinted window by Marc Chagall, tapestries by John Piper and a painting by Graham Sutherland. All of this resting perfectly besides the Tudor painting of Kings and Queens of England and past bishops by Lambert Barnard that dominate the transepts. Wonderful incongruences. The most famous piece in the cathedral, though, is a medieval tomb for a knight and his wife. This particular sculpture depicts the couple holding hands, an unusual show of public affection for the times (and the status of the knight as well). Even if there has been some controversy around this tomb (is the hand-holding a later addition and not the astonishing medieval rarity all believed it to be?) one can't help to be a little in awe at the sight, specially if one keeps in mind (there's a reproduction by the side of the tomb, in case you forget) Philip Larkin's unbearably beautiful poem:

‘ Side by side, their faces blurred,
The earl and countess lie in stone,
Their proper habits vaguely shown
As jointed armour, stiffened pleat,
And that faint hint of the absurd -
The little dogs under their feet.

Such plainness of the pre-baroque
Hardly involves the eye, until
It meets his left-hand gauntlet, still
Clasped empty in the other; and
One sees, with a sharp tender shock,
His hand withdrawn, holding her hand.

They would not think to lie so long.
Such faithfulness in effigy
Was just a detail friends would see:
A sculptor's sweet commissioned grace
Thrown off in helping to prolong
The Latin names around the base.

They would no guess how early in
Their supine stationary voyage
The air would change to soundless damage,
Turn the old tenantry away;
How soon succeeding eyes begin
To look, not read. Rigidly they

Persisted, linked, through lengths and breadths
Of time. Snow fell, undated. Light
Each summer thronged the grass. A bright
Litter of birdcalls strewed the same
Bone-littered ground. And up the paths
The endless altered people came,

Washing at their identity.
Now, helpless in the hollow of
An unarmorial age, a trough
Of smoke in slow suspended skeins
Above their scrap of history,
Only an attitude remains:

Time has transfigures them into
Untruth. The stone fidelity
They hardly meant has come to be
Their final blazon, and to prove
Our almost-instinct almost true:
What will survive of us is love. ’

(The tomb and the poem got me thinking a lot. I confess to being very shaken by it - I was fascinated by the fact that this very private gesture - the tomb was not meant to be seen by strangers, it was in the knight's house until it was destroyed, never meant to be displayed in a cathedral - ends up being spied on and reinterpreted by those who come upon it. It might as well have been all an invention: love is not there until we invent it. It got me thinking about private affections being transformed by and into stories. Yes, of course, it got me thinking about my novel.)

I would have been perfectly content with all this: it's a small, wonderful cathedral. But I also discovered some Civil War connections that sparked my imagination.

When the Civil War broke out in 1942 Chichester declared for the King but the Parliament being strong in the South the army seiged the city. The cathedral itself was a dramatic site, ocuppied and plundered during the siege. (I already have Model Army soldiers sleeping in a desecrated church in the beginning scenes of my book but I wouldn't be surprised if Chichester cathedral ends up getting its way into my story as well somehow). The leader of the Parliamentarian forces in Chichester was William Cawley, son of a wealthy brewer and three times mayor of Chichester, John Cawley - pictured, remembered in this portrait in the cathedral. Fascinatingly so William Cawley was one of the men who signed Charles I's death sentence, and he had to flee England come the Restoration.

So, Civil War connections indeed. I got more than I bargained for. Thank you, Chichester.

Epilogue: Simon Armitage's new book came out while I was in Chichester, and since I always make a point of buying a book whenever I can if I visit a new city or town, and since I couldn't wait to read my favourite living poet's new volume, I was glad to pick up a copy:

REVIEW: The Good Man Jesus and the Scoundrel Christ, by Phillip Pullman

2010-04-25T04:09:00.000-07:00

Title: The Good Man Jesus And The Scoundrel Christ
Author: Phillip Pullman
Pages: 256
Rating: 3.5/5
Bought/Borrowed/Loaned: Read in one sitting in Foyles

SUMMARY
Joseph and Mary have twins: Jesus, healthy and strong, loved by everyone; and Christ, a sickly child with a wondruous knowledge of the word of God and His Will. They grow up and Christ realizes Jesus is just the man to lead their people to revolution, to an uprising against the invading and unfair rule of Rome. Jesus indeed does that, but the miracles are staged by Christ and his determination to give his brother good press. As Jesus grows in power and Rome begins to see him as a threat both brothers face their doubts about God, and each other.

REVIEW
The Good Man Jesus and the Scoundrel Christ is the latest installment in Canongate's Myth series: books that take a well-known myth and turn in a new retelling. In that sense this is exactly what Pullman has done - he takes the familiar story of Jesus Christ and introduces a variation (Jesus and Christ as two separate people) to illuminate the themes of this myth that he is interested in. Faith and propaganda are the main lifelines of this story and though Pullman's exploration is as straightforward and light-feeted as his language in this book it is enough to pick the interest of any readers.

It's easy to see why the release of this book might have upset some Christian groups; I suggest they start by reading the book before condemning it. Granted, Pullman is an atheist and that was bound to colour the retelling of the myth. Granted, I am a deeply convinced atheist as well so the book obviously didn't hurt any sensibility here. But I also think this is a book that portrays religious faith with a deep respect. There are wonderful passages about Jesus and his love for God, despite the doubts, and of Christ and his belief on the good of the cause, both a political and religious one.

The stranger
A stranger came to Christ and spoke to him privately.
"I'm interested in you," he said. "Your brother is attracting all the attention, but I think you are the one I should speak to."
"Who are you?" said Christ. "And how do you know about me? I have never spoken in public, unlike Jesus."
"I heard a story about your birth. Some shepherds saw a vision that led them to you, and some magicians from the East brought you gifts. Isn't that so?"
"Why, yes," said Christ.
"And I spoke to your mother yesterday, and she told me of what happened when John baptised Jesus. You heard a voice speaking from a cloud."
"My mother should not have spoken of that," said Christ modestly.
"And some years ago, you confounded the priests in the temple at Jerusalem when your brother got into trouble. People remember these things."
"But – who are you? And what do you want?"
"I want to make sure that you have your rightful reward. I want the world to know your name as well as that of Jesus. In fact I want your name to shine with even greater splendour. He is a man, and only a man, but you are the word of God."
"I don't know that expression, the word of God. What does it mean? And again, sir – who are you?"
"There is time, and there is what is beyond time. There is darkness, and there is light. There is the world and the flesh, and there is God. These things are separated by a gulf deeper than any man can measure, and no man can cross it; but the word of God can come from God to the world and the flesh, from light to darkness, from what is beyond time into time. Now I must go away, and you must watch and wait, but I shall come to you again."
And he left. Christ had not found out his name, but the stranger had spoken with such knowledge and clarity that Christ knew, without having to ask, that he was an important teacher, no doubt a priest, perhaps from Jerusalem itself. After all, he had mentioned the incident in the temple, and how else would he have heard about it?

The way Pullam uses language in this book is a very interesting method: the writing is simple and sparse, echoing the Bible stories, with their urgent sense of destiny and the divine. It makes for a short volume, very direct story-telling. That approach is the book's greatest strength and at the same time one of the reasons I could not connect with the character fully: Pullamn makes all his characters archetypes, highlighting the myth to suvert it but most of the characters in the story failed to seem like people to me. They sound like story-devices, which I guess in a way it's fitting for a book that talks to us about the advantages and dangers of storytelling, but I must admit that made it difficult for me to connect emotionally with the book. But this is one a minor quibble - perhaps I was wishing for a different book that does not exist. Christ interested me much more than Jesus (except when Jesus confronted God and His Silence in the Garden of Gethsemane) and I would have liked his issues explored in more length.

I love Pullman's writing, I have for many years (since I was a teenager and Northern Lights came out in a Spanish translation), and here the simple and humble, almost naked style has the loveliness of certain religious painting (I'm think of Murillo and Zurbarán here, the brown tones, the confident brush-strokes, the overwhelming compassion of the images) and although I think this is the weakest book in the Myth series (but then again I love Jeanette Winterson and Margaret Atwood more than I do Pullman) The Good Man Jesus and the Scoundrel Christ is worth a reading, about the power of the Word of God but also about how men create the Word and the purposes it serves.

A story about stories.

More: There is a fantastic and deep review of the book at Things Mean A Lot (a book blog I highly recommend), which made me want to read the book immediately. Visit.

April 23: Favourite Shakespeare Books Post

2010-04-24T03:56:00.000-07:00

I am a compulsive Shakespeare-related reader and over the years my bookshelves have filled and overspilled with biographies of the man from Stratford-upon-Avon and studies about his work, even with manga-like comic adaptations of dubious graphic quality. One has to fill her library with light and there's no light brighter than Will's words. So to celebrate today his 446th birthday I just thought I'd talk about some of my favourite (non-fiction) books about him.

1599: A Year In The Life of William Shakespeare, by James Shapiro.
Most Shakespeare biographies fail because there's so little we know for certain about the man that it all ends being conjecture without the honesty of admitting it. Flights of fancy are welcome, provided you don't try to pass them as academia. Here James Shapiro takes a clever, reductive angle. He writes about just ONE YEAR in the life of the playwright; but with a limited structure he lets his readers navigate the world of Elizabethan London on their own, letting the details of the period come alive and with a clear narrative flair. It also has one of the best opening scenes in any book, fiction or non-fiction: the image of Shakespeare and fellow company actors carrying the wood of their old theatre across a frozen Thames is obviously apocrypha, but unforgettable.

Shakespeare, by Anthony Burgess.
Word-boy and cleverest of the clever, novelist Anthony Burgess wrote the book I love most in the world (Nothing Like The Sun) on this very subject: an imagined life of Shakespeare. But here it's that novel's non-fiction twi - a sharp and concise biography of the poet, accesible to any reader. A thin, wonderful volume. It is a great book to kick off your Shakespeare readings, if you've never picked up a biography of the man.

Will In The World: How Shakespeare Became Shakespeare, by Stephen Greenblatt.
A deep, lyrical, excellently-researched meditation on how the events in Shakespeare's life and the period he lived in could have influenced, coloured and facilitate the writer's work. With a fortunate focus on Shakespeare's language, this is a book to keep near you at all times.

Shakespeare's Language, by Frank Kermode.
If you are a word-geek like me, obsessed with the way Will Shakespeare was obssessed with language, this is the book for you. Kermode has a keen eye and explains things very well, even I - who doesn't have English as my first language - could get through the whole business easily. It explores the peculiar language of each play extensively, but never gets too academic for the average reader.

Simon Armitage @ Swedenborg House

2010-04-23T03:52:00.000-07:00

Last night I went to a reading-plus-talk about the translation of the epic Old English poem Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, by Simon Armitage. For various reasons (you can check the poem of the day at his website if you want to find them) Simon Armitage is my favourite living poet so I could not past up this opportinity to see him read his work live for the first time. I knew nothing about the Swedenborg Society when I arrived at their House in Bloomsbury, nothing about Emanuel Swedenborg, inventor and philosopher of the 18th century. But it was a prettily put event; Armitage not only read from his world-famous translation of Gawain and answered the audience questions but he also talked about the themes in the poem and showed us a bit of the documentary he made for BBC4 about it.

Gawain is a gorgeous poem and Armitage's translation (my introduction to the poem, actually, a couple of years ago) keeps the music of the original Middle-English language, it's a piece full of alliterations and wonderful noise. Armitage insisted in the connection of the poem with nature, the way the language and landscape are entwined. This is particularly interesting for a poet like Armitage, self-confessed Ted Hughes admirer and a worthy heir of England's best nature poet. It is also the most interesting aspect of the translation for me, as well; how the landscape needs to influence the language of your work, specially if you are dealing with a historical period (Gawain was probably written around 1400) where people were more in contact with raw nature on a daily basis than we are now in our technological and man-made society. The writing has to reflect the sound and rhythm of the story's landscapes and that's what Armitage excels at in this translation. That and a very peculiar sense of humour, perfectly fit to the playful original. Armitage confessed to being drawn to the topography of the poem because it's very likely that the original author came from the same area as Armitage comes from, a frontier-land in the south Pennines - somewhere between Cheshire, Derbyshire, Staffordshire and Lancashire.

Gawain is a great mystery - written by a someone contemporary of Chaucer but with a very different language, a whole other dialect indeed, the poem catches the excitement of the English language starting to come together, come alive. We don't know who wrote Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and we might never find out. Simon Armitage, at least, declared his hopes that we should never resolve the riddle of this anonymous author. He'd like to live with the mystery intact.

This is one of my favourite passages, when the Green Knight gets his head chopped off at the Court of King Arthur, but remains alive and well nonetheless:

In the standing position he prepared to be struck,
bent forward, revealing a flash of green flesh
as he heaped his hair to the crown of his head,
the nape of his neck now naked and ready.
Gawain grips the axe and heaves it heavenwards,
plants his left foot firmly on the floor in front,
then swings it swiftly towards the bare skin.
The cleanness of the strike cleaved the spinal cord
and parted the fat and the flesh so far
that that bright steel blade took a bite from the floor.
The handsome head tumbles onto the earth
and the king's men kick it as it clatters past.
Blood gutters brightly against his green gown,
yet the man doesn't shudder or stagger or sink
but trudges towards them on those tree-trunk legs
and rummages around, reaches at their feet
and cops hold of his head and hoists it high,
and strides to his steed, snatches the bridle,
steps into the stirrup and swings into the saddle
still gripping his head by a handful of hair.
Then he settles himself in his seat with the ease
of a man unmarked, never mind being minus
his head!
And when he wheeled about
his bloody neck still bled.
His point was proved. The court
was deadened now with dread.

REVIEW: Music And Silence, by Rose Tremain

2010-04-18T13:15:00.000-07:00

Title: Music and Silence
Author: Rose Tremain
Pages: 464
Rating: 4.5/5
Bought/Borrowed/Loaned: Bought 2nd hand from amazon.co.uk

SUMMARY
Music and Silence is many things, encompasses many stories and moments, fleeting, magical, painful moments. But at its centre is Peter Claire, an English lute player who arrives in the court of King Christian IV of Denmark in 1630. The king soon takes a liking to Peter, calling him his "angel" due to Peter's good looks, and asking the Englishman to be his personal aide and help in times of need. Christian is a contradictory man, haunted by the past, pained by his unrequited love for his wife the Queen Kirsten, who is conducting a not-so-discreet adulterous affair. A mirror image of Peter's role the queen has employed a new lady-in-waiting at the time of Peter's arrival in Denmark: Emilia Tilsen, a quiet and compassionate girl, becomes the queen's confidant. Both Peter and Emilia are escaping from their painful pasts and find themselves, almost inevitably, drawn to each other, seeking love and comfort amidts the royal intrigues and the sorrows of a country in ruin.

REVIEW
The biggest strength of Music and Silence is its kaleidoscopic nature. The accumulation of stories, small in scope or important, like grains of sand that together make up the true landscape of this work. The point of view changes and so do the narrative voices, and the non-chronological plot made me enjoy this book so much, in a way that I had not enjoyed Restoration - maybe the voice in that one was too detached, too clever to begin with, and while that fitted the narrator perfectly, I felt it lacked some heart. There's plenty of heart in Music and Silence, and while occassionally sentimentaly shows its ugly head but otherwise Tremain has an admirable command of her material. Many images will stick to the reader's mind: for me it's the teenage King Christian tending to his best friend Bror during his illness, fighting off Death with the power of writing, the power of names, words.

As a historical novel, which what we are interested in now, this is an example of what should be done: a story told in a shamelessly modern style, which illuminates the 17th century through human detail and lyricism, not dead fact. The gorgeous writing, rather than the predictable character or the thin plot, is what grabs us here. A fine example of literary novel in a historical setting and using history for its own purposes, rather than a historical novel that dispatches literary style as useless, which sadly is what happens with almost every labelled historical novel I've met with.

Read-a-thon: The End

2010-04-11T12:32:00.000-07:00

Title of book(s) read since last update: Tamburlaine Must Die.
Number of books read since you started: 3 and 3/4.
Pages read since last update: 99.
Running total of pages read since you started: 878.
Amount of time spent reading since last update: 1 hour 35 minutes.
Running total of time spent reading since you started: 11 hours 40 minutes.
Mini-challenges completed: The intro one, the nominees, book title sentence and the song one, and one in comments, I can't remember which (it was late, my mind was drifting).
Other participants you’ve visited: I've been out of the house for the last hours, I'll be sure to catch how everybody did.
Prizes you’ve won: One, the soundtrack one.

And now the final survey from Dewey's Read-a-thon:

1. Which hour was most daunting for you? Around 17-18. I was SO sleepy.
2. Could you list a few high-interest books that you think could keep a Reader engaged for next year? I've been reading Blissett's Q lately and that's one page-turner. Also, Virginia Woolf's Orlando I think would be perfect for this kind of situation
3. Do you have any suggestions for how to improve the Read-a-thon next year? I would like to have more mini-challenges, but maybe that's just me and I like to be distracted.
4. What do you think worked really well in this year’s Read-a-thon? The mini-challenges, they were a treat.
5. How many books did you read? 3 and 3/4 of another.
6. What were the names of the books you read? The Magic Apple Tree, Music and Silence, Unthinkable (graphic novel) and Tamburlaine Must Die.
7. Which book did you enjoy most? Music and Silence, hands down.
8. Which did you enjoy least? The Magic Apple Tree, it wasn't a good night opener, the writining wasn't sharo enough.
9. If you were a Cheerleader, do you have any advice for next year’s Cheerleaders? I wasn't a cheerleader - I loved seeing their comments on my blog.
10. How likely are you to participate in the Read-a-thon again? What role would you be likely to take next time? I'm almost 100% I will do the Read-a-thon again, I really enjoyed the challenge. As a Reader.

Hour 13: Update and survey

2010-04-10T17:09:00.000-07:00

Title of book(s) read since last update: Music and Silence.
Number of books read since you started: 1.
Pages read since last update: 201.
Running total of pages read since you started: 450.
Amount of time spent reading since last update: 2 hours 30 minutes.
Running total of time spent reading since you started: 6 hours 10 minutes.
Mini-challenges completed: The intro one, the nominees, book title sentence and the song one.
Other participants you’ve visited: None this round, I've been on full reading mode.
Prizes you’ve won: One, the soundtrack one.

And now a Mid-Event Survey from Dewey's Read-a-thon:
1. What are you reading right now? I'm well into the second half of Music and Silence.
2. How many books have you read so far? Only one.
3. What book are you most looking forward to for the second half of the Read-a-thon? Mark Sable's Unthinkable. It'll be quite a change of pacing.
4. Did you have to make any special arrangements to free up your whole day? No, I had the day off anyway.
5. Have you had many interruptions? How did you deal with those? Many, from football matches to Channel 4's Greatest Comedy Stand-Ups, I'm easily distracted.
6. What surprises you most about the Read-a-thon, so far? How much people blog - and they still have time to read!
7. Do you have any suggestions for how to improve the Read-a-thon next year? Not really, I think it's a pretty smooth ride as it is.
8. What would you do differently, as a Reader or a Cheerleader, if you were to do this again next year? I'd prepare better, pre-event wise.
9. Are you getting tired yet? A bit. I might need a power nap.
10. Do you have any tips for other Readers or Cheerleaders, something you think is working well for you that others may not have discovered? I found that having some good, moody music helps, at least it does me - I've had BBC Radio 3 on all day and it really puts me in a reading frame of mind.

Hour 9: Update and mini-challenge

2010-04-10T13:16:00.001-07:00

UPDATE

Title of book(s) read since last update: Music and Silence.
Number of books read since you started: 1.
Pages read since last update:20 .
Running total of pages read since you started: 249.
Amount of time spent reading since last update: 40 minutes.
Running total of time spent reading since you started: 3 hours 40 minutes.
Mini-challenges completed: The intro one, the nominees, book title sentence and this song one.
Other participants you’ve visited: None this round, I've been distracted by the football match.
Prizes you’ve won:

MINI-CHALLENGE

Excellent books + song challenge over at alita.reads. Here’s how to play:

* Pick up a book that you’ve read today, or are currently reading.
* Choose a song that goes with the book – could be that it fits the overall feel of it or even a certain scene.
* Create a blog post answering the following:

Book title
Soundtrack song
Why you chose that song

My entry then:

Book title: Music and Silence
Song: Heima by Sigur Ros.
Why I chose this song: Sigur Ros always evokes empty, frozen landscapes that go well with the Denmark-set narrative of this books. This song is also full of yearning and subdued tragedy, much like Rose Tremain's sickly-sweet and aching prose here.

Hour 5: Update and challenge

2010-04-10T09:03:00.000-07:00

Title of book(s) read since last update: Still The Magic Apple Tree. Slowly because I'm not liking it much.
Number of books read since you started: None.
Pages read since last update: 49.
Running total of pages read since you started: 143.
Amount of time spent reading since last update: 2 hours.
Running total of time spent reading since you started: 2 hours.
Mini-challenges completed: The intro one, the nominees and the book titles one.
Other participants you’ve visited: Mainly tried to see how people in my blogroll are doing, like kiss a cloud and She Read A Book.
Prize you’ve won:

MINI-CHALLENGE

The Titles challenge over at Bart's Bookshelf (basically you have to make a book title composed of other book titles you have in your bookshelf):

Under the black flag, Mrs Dalloway saved Vermeer's Hat.

Hour 3: Update and mini-challenge

2010-04-10T07:23:00.000-07:00

Not much actual reading done these past couple of hours because I had lunch (& had to go buy it too) but things are starting to pick up now.

UPDATE HOUR 3:

Title of book(s) read since last update: Still going through The Magic Apple Tree.
Number of books read since you started: None.
Pages read since last update: 96.
Running total of pages read since you started: 96.
Amount of time spent reading since last update: 1 hour & 10 minutes.
Running total of time spent reading since you started: 1 hour 10 minutes.
Mini-challenges completed: The intro one, and in this post the nominees challenge.
Other participants you’ve visited: Not many yet. Working on it now.
Prize you’ve won:

And the hour three mini-challenge is the Nominees challenge at 'Til We Read Again:

Favorite Female Character in a book: Villanelle from The Passion.
Favorite Male Character in a book: Raskolnikov from Crime And Punishment.
Favorite Side Kick in a book: William Bush in the Hornblower series.
Favorite Couple in a Book: Howl and Sophie from Howl's Moving Castle.
Favorite Book Series: Pat Barker's WWI trilogy.
Favorite Author: Jeanette Winterson.
Favorite Book Cover: The Vintage editions of Virginia Woolf.
Favorite Book of 2009: The Winter Vault by Anne Michaels.

Hour 1: Mini-challenge

2010-04-10T05:21:00.000-07:00

Read-a-thon has started, and I'm making my way through Susan Hill's The Magic Apple Tree, because it's light and short, a good way to start.

Now, for the first mini-challenge over at Dewey's Read-a-thon:

Where are you reading from today? The west of London.

3 facts about me …

1) I'm allergic to aspirin.

2) I was a football player in my teens.

3) I don't care for plot in books.

How many books do you have in your TBR pile for the next 24 hours? Seven.

Do you have any goals for the read-a-thon (i.e. number of books, number of pages, number of hours, or number of comments on blogs)? I'd like to read all seven books. Some of them are related to the research for my novel, so it's a win-win. And I'd like to use this chance as a way to discover new blogs.

Read-a-thon

2010-04-10T03:20:00.000-07:00

Today I'll be participating in Dewey's Read-a-thon. It's my first time doing this "event" so good luck to me. This is my stack:

Music and Silence by Rose Tremain.
The Earth Made of Glass by Robert Edric.
Tambourlaine Must Die by Louside Welsh.
Auriel Rising by Elizabeth Redfern.
Thurdsbitch by Alan Garner.
Three Power Plays by David Pinner. (theatre)
The Magic Apple Tree by Susanna Hill.
Unthinkable by Mark Sable. (graphic novel)

Henrich Schütz - Psalm 150

2010-04-08T03:40:00.001-07:00

A Visit To Turnham Green

2010-04-01T02:47:00.000-07:00

These glriously sunny days are an invitation for a little trip around the city. All Civil War-related, of course.

Today I decided to venture a journey to the west in search of Turnham Green. It shames me to admit that I do not know the West of London very well, compared to other neighbourhood, which is ironic considering I live pretty much on the west. Research can get you out of your comfort zone and expeditions are literal as well as inner.

From UK Battlefields Resource Centre:

The battle of Turnham Green was fought on the 13th November 1642. Following the battle of Edgehill, and after taking Banbury and Oxford, the royalist army eventually advanced on London along the Thames valley. On 12th a royalist detachment attacked two parliamentarian regiments quartered in Brentford, which were covering the approach to London from the west. The royalists were victorious but their army was delayed by the parliamentarian resistance and halted, probably on Turnham Green at nightfall. This allowed the parliamentary field army and London militia to form-up on Turnham Green and Chiswick common field the next day.
Both armies appear to have deployed in traditional 17^th century style with cavalry on the flanks and infantry in the centre. The parliamentarian line extended further than that of the King’s army on the northern side of the battlefield and the royalists deployed musketeers in the hedgerows there to counter this threat. These were driven out by parliamentarian troops, which then outflanked the royalists on that flank with a march to Acton. Despite this favourable position the parliamentarian commander, the earl of Essex, recalled this detachment due to fear over splitting his army and the battle settled into a stalemate. The royalist army was too small to force its way past the parliamentarian forces and, as night fell, the King had to withdraw.
Recriminations occurred on both sides following the battle. On the royalist side, there were some who judged the King had missed an opportunity to end the war, though in reality had he launched an attack on the parliamentarian lines his own army would probably have been defeated. Others on the parliamentarian side, who saw Turnham Green as a missed opportunity to defeat the royalist army, particularly following the successful outflanking manoeuvre, probably had more of a case.
Turnham Green is now largely encompassed by the urban development of Greater London. However there are limited areas which remain undeveloped – parts of Turnham Green and Acton Green, though now municipal parkland, provide a sense of the open ground, which extended as far south as Chiswick House in the 17^th century.

Turnham Green is one of the few chances to visit Civil War battlefields inside London and since I'm short of cash to make trips to more glamurous locations like Edgehill at least for the moment, I took the bus towards Chiswick with high spirits and a copy of Eliot's The Wasteland in my bag, pen and paper, and my camera. (I always carry poetry with me, it's absolutely balsamic.)

Chsiwick itself is a tranquil and pretty part of the city; an explosion of green and things that scream "local goverment", with that feeling of tight community one finds in a village, not in a metropolis. It also looks tremendously fashionable and unaffordable.

Turnham Green turned out to be a small, flat, humble business of a park, not really atmospheric. This is the closest the Royalists came to London. I tried not to feel too esoteric about it - much as I like the idea of psychogeography I think of it as more of a poetic notion than real phenomena. But the sunlight was generous and the noises were few and I spent a nice morning sitting on benches reading and writing.

Then it was time to change scenery and make the most of a day in the West and in the 17th century but visiting another cultural, if less well-known, spot. After a long stroll along the Thames - strange, unfamiliar sights and moods, like those near the Steam Museum, and the treetops of Kew on the other side - I set off for Boston Manor Park.

The house in Boston Manor Park was built in 1623 and only converted into a house-museum in the early 20th century. The park itself is a mix of the mundane and the wild, with spots you'd find in Regent's or Hyde Park and then dark, untamed corners. (A man walking his dog passed my way and we exchange greetings - that doesn't happen in Spain, you don't exchange greetings at public parks, not in my experience anyway). The Lake was definitely a highlight. It felt refreshing under the shadow of the trees and once again I was reminded of my love of public parks.

I was excited to see the 17th century house - it looked interesting from the outside, not too grand - but alas, I had made a mistake checking the opening times and it was not open today. Oh well. The walk alone was worth it.

More info about the Battle of Turnham Green from the BBC.

Check out the website of the Friends of Boston Manor for history of the house and events.

REVIEW: Saint Thomas's Eve, by Jean Plaidy

2010-03-18T05:05:00.000-07:00

Title: Saint Thomas's Eve
Author: Jean Plaidy
Pages: 352
Rating: 2.5/5
Bought/Borrowed/Loaned: On loan from Kensington Library.

SUMMARY
The rise and (deadly) fall of Thomas More under the reign of Henry VIII is the central spine upon which the story of Jean Plaidy's Saint Thomas's Eve is constructed. More is first seen having left a life in the monastery for the possibility of starting his own family. We follow him from humble but respected lawyer and man of learning untile he becomes one of the King's most trusted advisors. The More family grows and changes as Thomas's first wife dies and he marries - children are born and adopted and we can see the love Thomas has for all of them, but particularly affectionate is his relationship with his older daughter Margaret who becomes his confidant and best friend.

For this is Margaret More's story as much as her father's. She goes from little girl to young woman, a loving and loyal companion to Thomas More. But then Henry begins his battle to divorce Queen Katherina and pursue a relationship with Anne Bolyen. The King becomes obssessed that nothing comes in the way of his desires and Thomas More becomes more and more fanatical in his religious views, the two of them colliding in a clash of faiths and wills that would send More into his unfortunate and infamous end.

REVIEW
Having finally read one Jean Plaidy book I can easily see the appeal of her novels to a wider audience. The simpleness of her prose makes for a quick, swift read and it's easy to devour the book in a couple of days. The story was easy to follow and provided with enough interest to make you want to turn the page.

That said, I must admit this kind of book wasn't my cup of tea. I read it, and I enjoyed it well enough while at it but it also frustrated me. I love historical fiction but too often I despair at how much of it is historical fiction for the sake of historical fiction and there's not enough literature in it. I will always seek literary value and style above anything else in what I read, that's why Jean Plaidy couldn't satisfy me. She is just not that much of a great writer. There is a diference between having an unintrusive voice and being colourless, and this book's prose didn't fly. A fun but underwhelming read.

The other thing that annoyed me was the use of an ommniscient narrator at times; I have real trouble with that sort of point of view, and the novel would have been much more interesting without the added psychology and the paragraphs and paragraphs about the character's inner thoughts. I liked the idea of the switching POVs but sometimes they weren't consistent and the telling of the story slipped into this omniscent narrator.

There are things I enjoyed about the book, nonetheless: I liked the portrayal of Margaret's relationship with her father, and that's the heart of the book. I felt they had good and touching scenes. It was a good thing to see how, while her feeling of devotion towards Thomas More remained untouched in Margaret as he grew up, she started questioning some of his more fanatical actions. As a side note it was a curious read, this book that portrays More as a very likeable and sympathetic character, after having read Hilary Mantel's Wolf Hall, with its view of More as a dangerous extremist. Most of the story is seen through Margaret's eyes and I always have a soft spot for an external-to-the-action point of view and here it really works. The book makes good and constant use of parallel and opposite scenes - for example the scene where Henry VII decides to make Thomas More his enemy out of a grudge and the scene where newly-crowned Henry VIII warmly welcomes More and his poetry.

Bottom line, even though I had a good enough time reading this I'm not very likely to pick any other Plaidy in the future, unless the subject really interests me.

In any case, be sure to check out Jean Plaidy's Royal Intrigue (and its blog), an excellent site dedicated to the author that continues to delight.

Historical Fiction Event Alert

2010-03-18T03:08:00.000-07:00

Today, March 18, you can swing by the Waterstone's bookshop in Notting Hill Gate for an event focused on three writers and their latest books - Adrian Tinniswood, Paul Strathern and Douglas Ronald.

Adrian Tinniswood is also the author of The Verneys: Love, War and Madness in Seventeenth-century England, a really entertaining and fascinating book on the Civil War that has been of great help in my research.

EVENT INFO: (link to Waterstone's website)

WATERSTONE'S NOTTING HILL GATE
Thursday, 18 March 2010, 6:30PM - 8:30PM
£3 redeemable against purchase of a book on the night
Come and meet these three history experts as they discuss their latest books

A Researcher's Weapons

2010-03-17T06:14:00.000-07:00

So my highlighting pencils have arrived from Amazon.co.uk; it's not that I've become so dependent of internet shopping that I couldn't just go to a normal stationery shop and just buy them. It's that none of the Ryman or WH Smith or Paperchase or such places near me stock them. That was surprising but I guess in Spain we are much fonder of the pencils than here, where people seem to use only highlighter pens.

Now I can go about doing the rest of my research with a little more method to my madness.

News: New Shakespeare

2010-03-16T02:43:00.000-07:00

Double Falsehood; or, the Distrest Lovers had been thought a "false Shakespeare", a hoax, for over two centuries. Now the Arden Shakespeare has decided to publish a complete version, placing it in the Shakespeare canon, and the Royal Shakespeare Company will stage a version of it this next summer at Stratford-upon-Avon. The version is being developed by associate director Gregory Doran. The story is based on parts of Cervantes' Quixote.

Read the whole article in The Times.

Library loot.

2010-03-15T06:59:00.000-07:00

- Lindsay Davis, Rebels and Traitors.
- Jean Plaidy, Saint Thomas' Eve. (my first Plaidy)
- Elizabeth Redfern, Auriel Rising.
- Richard Tames, Shakespeare's London.
- Malcolm Airs, Tudor & Jacobean country house.
- John Banville, Kepler.

REVIEW: Havoc, in its Third Year, by Ronnan Bennett

2010-03-10T04:24:00.000-08:00

Title: Havoc, In Its Third Year
Author: Ronnan Bennett
Pages: 320
Rating: 4/5
Bought/Borrowed/Loaned: Bought at Waterstone's Notting Hill

SUMMARY

Set during the very tense times of 1630s in England Havoc opens with its protagonist, John Brigge, coroner and governor of a small, tight community in the cold north, is called to examine the case of a baby murdered by its mother, a helpless Irish woman. Brigge's own wife is about to give birth for the first time and the character is assaulted by fears and bad premonitions. The town is on the brink of war with itself, the Puritans taking over the goverment of the place and becoming more restless in their prosecution of Catholics. Brigge himself is of the "old faith" and so he only brings more suspicions upon himself when he appears determined to defend the Irish woman's innocence, searching for the truth of the crime whatever the cost.

REVIEW
A curious thing happened in reading this novel: as I was going through the pages I was liking the book, indeed enjoying it, but I didn't think too much of it in terms of quality, somehow I considere it "minor". But then in hindsight I realized I was more impressed with the book than I thought initially.

Bennett delivers an atmospheric book, easy to read and hard to forget - the sombre mood, the constant hissing of the wind, the feeling of riding in the middle of the night, in complete darkness. The writing, deceptively simple, is very powerful and paints a very believable picture of a world on the edge, a prelude of sorts to what's to come, the open Civil War. This aspect of the book was very relevant to me and my research because I felt like Bennett had succeeded in taking the reader to those years, that soil, the constant threat in the air, the thinly-veiled Puritan inquisitions, the centuries-old prejudices against the Irish... The mystery and thriller elements of the book were less interesting to me, because in general I'm not interested in those genres. It's not a perfect book: it has some false steps (the protagonist predictable relationship with the young maid) and some of the dialogue felt a bit forced in places (the authorities and their threats) but in the end it's a gorgeous book, with sharp, tight language that never makes the mistake of trying to copy 17th century speech but at the same time feels very much of the period. That is the illusion good historical novel writers should be after. That is Ronan Bennett's triumph.

New Adquisition: Ireland 1649-52

2010-03-02T01:07:00.000-08:00

Michael McNally, 1649-52: Cromwell's Protestant Crusade.
Bought in: Waterstone's, Oxford Street.
Price: 25 pounds (pricey, I know, specially for 96 pages, but I had a whim)

Having about a third of my novel set during Cromwell's campaign of Ireland I realized I knew very little about the actual military intricacies of that period of the war. Military strategy is by far my weakest subject so after a really crappy day it felt good to spend an unreasonable amount of money (I could have got the book for less than half at Amazon) on a glossy book. Not to be indulging in clichés but I always enjoy the fish-out-of-the-water feeling I get whenever I spend some time in the Military History section of a bookshop. I look around me and mostly I see middle-age men. Sometimes younger, but definitely always men. I feel like such an impostor, browsing the shelves for ulterior motives and not because of a true passion for German tanks.

Self-conscious bookshop experiences aside, this little book is exactly what it says on the tin, which was what I was looking for. Part of the Osprey Campaign military series, it provides with (mostly) clear information and useful maps and things like list of the officers in the regiments (which is very inspirational if you are trying to pick names for the supporting characters). I did not mind too much that the author's take on the Cromwell campaign in Ireland was so different from mine - he glossed over Cromwell's military skills and overlooks the atrocities he comminted. But I don't get bummed over these things anymore, after reading 20+ books on the subject, I've started to tune those things off.

It is a rather slim and basic volume but since I intended to use it as a tool that was exactly what I was looking for. A good buy, despite the price.

Links: One interesting review at Wikio, where the user summarizes the content in detail.

Summary (from Random House):

ABOUT THIS BOOK
Following the execution of King Charles I in January 1649, the English Parliament saw their opportunity to launch an assault on the Royalist enclave in Ireland. Oliver Cromwell was appointed as Deputy of Ireland to lead a campaign to restore direct control and quell the Confederate opposition.

The first battle in Cromwell's bloody offensive was at Drogheda, where an assault on the city walls resulted in the slaughter of almost 4000 defenders and inhabitants. The Parliamentary troops then proceeded to Wexford where battle once again lead to a massacre. After Cromwell returned to England, his son-in-law, Henry Ireton, continued the operation which ended with the surrender of Galway in 1652 and led to the Act for the Settlement of Ireland, in which Irish Royalists and Confederates were evicted and their lands 'settled' by those who had advanced funds to Parliament.

Pachelbel with original instruments

2010-02-24T02:59:00.000-08:00

INSPIRATION: Gerard ter Borch

2010-02-02T05:59:00.000-08:00

A lady reading a letter.

Women writing a letter.

Woman drinking with sleeping soldier.

The Letter.

The Dispatch.

The Card Players.

A guard room.

Maybe it's an education thing but I have always associated the 17th century with what the Dutch paintings made of it. Those lights and shadows are still the first thing that comes to my mind when I think about the period - and it's a preconception I have to fight against when I'm trying to write about 17th century England.

Still, I find my particular fondness for Early Modern Dutch painting a great help when it comes to mood research; it's easier for me to slip into the lives and minds of these people when I look at these pictures. Rembrandt in particular is a great inspiration, with his poetry of shadows, and his resolve never to compromise.

The National Gallery - my favourite place whether I need to be inspired or simply kill some time - hosts some Gerard ter Borch paintings (most famously The Ratification of the Treaty of Munster). I wasn't familiar with the painter during my college years but lately I've been more and more interested in his work, specially his portrayals of soldiers during their waiting hours, in between battles.

When one is obssessed about a particular subject it's inevitable that in this single-mindness state one finds connections in everything. And I mean everything. But I think that in the case of Borch's paintings I am justified in finding quite appealing how many of his works seem to be Relevant To My Interests. Not only his painting about soldiers in calm moments -a third of my novel is composed of such scenes- but also the recurring theme of letter-writing and letter-reading. And then individual works that strike me and inspire me, such as The Card Players, and particularly the Woman Washing Her Hands, both postratying the same actions as those found in pivotal moments in my story. As I said, maybe obssession, but I like it. Seeing artists from that period take on the same elements as I am strugling with makes me feel in good company, with my feet on the ground.

Link: Gerard Terborch Online.

Woman reading a letter.

Woman washing her hands.

Lady reading a letter.

New Adquisition: Food and Cooking in 17th Century England

2009-12-19T02:27:00.000-08:00

Title: Food and Cooking in the 17th century: History and Recipes by Peter Brears.
Bought at: Amazon.co.uk
Price: 0.01 pounds (+ 2.75 shipping)

I am aware my research method has very little of method. I'm all over the place, to be honest. But it's not just because I'm lazy and with a very limited attention span. I truly believe one does not have to know every little stat of the socio-economic situation of England in the 17th century. Good research does not equal good writing. Specially if you are not trying to write a realistic, 100% accurate novel about the period. And I'm not. From the first line I wrote I knew I wanted a novel that was experimental and subjective, about feelings and perspectives, about the tricks of memory rather than the actual reality of the time. I have not just one but two unreliable narrators - and not-really-veiled 21st century voice carrying the story. There's nothing I hate more than those historical novels with colourless 3rd person omniscent narrators void of personality or style. But I also wanted to do enough research so that any mistakes and anacronisms would be conscious and intended.

Most of my research I want to be focus on "mood research" - that is, I really wanted to experience the world of my characters as much as I could, going to the places of my story, seeing the objects of their everyday lives for myself rather in a picture in a book. I want to hear the music of the time and see the paintings.

This little book helps with that - it's important to know what the people of the 17th century were eating (and who knows, maybe I'll try one of the recipes myself one day, if I'm brave enough to try and cook it), it helps when it comes to putting yourself in their shoes. So that's why this little cute book is a lot of help. Specially because it's easier to find out what the high classes and royalty were eating in those days but not so easy to find depictions of food for the average people. And this is exactly it: everyday, easy recipes of the 17th century. It offers a brief and concise story of cooking during the period and then many examples of traditional recipes.

To make a Shropsheere cake: Take two pound of dryed flour after it has been searced fine, one pound of good sugar dried and searced, also a little beaten sinamon or some nottmegg greeted and steeped in rose water; so straine two eggs, whites and all, not beaten to it, as much unmelted butter as will work it to a paste: so mould it & roule it into longe rouses, and cutt off as much at a time as will make a cake, two ounces is enough for one cake: then roule it in a ball between your hands; so flat it on a little white paper cut for a cake, and with your hand beat it about as big as a cheese trancher and a little thicker than a past board then prick them with a comb not too deep in squares like diamons and prick the cake in every diamon to the bottom; so take them in a oven not too hot: when they rise up white let them soake a little, then draw. If the sugar be dry enough you need not dry it but searce it: you must brake in your eggs after you have wroat in some of your butter into your flower: prick and mark them when thy are cold: this quantily will make a dozen and two or three, which is enough for my own at a time: take off the paper when they are cold.

A really good buy. And economical - it was second hand but in perfect condition.

The author has a bunch of other books on the subject that I'm dying to check out (there's only a couple of them available in the Kensington libraries so tough luck).

Hilary Mantel - Author, Author: Unfreezing antique feeling

2009-11-08T07:25:00.000-08:00

Wonderful article for the Guardian by Hilary Mantel on the presence of the past in our lives, and how some people are more atuned to the traces of time.

I have been reading enthusiatic reviews and raves about Mantel's latest book, Wolf Hall, winner of the Booker Prize. I am anxious to pick up a copy but poor and bohemian as I am I have to wait until second-hand bookshops quench my thirst or my local libraries have some copies available. I loved Mantel's Beyond Black and Thomas Cromwell is a figure I am intrigued by but know little about, so it should be a great ride.

The article is very unassuming but I think it raises a fine point about writers being in synch with the world in stranger ways than other people. I refuse the notion of writers somehow being "special" but I feel understably mystic about my profession sometimes, or at least about myself - being in the business of painting the world with words is an odd affair, moody, and sometimes we find ourselves weeping over ancient stones like fools. That's what I like about the article.

Inspiration: The poetry of Andrew Marvell

2009-10-25T13:21:00.000-07:00

Andrew Marvell is an intriguing one might even say mysterious figure, like some kind of 17th century's answer to Christopher Marlowe. He was a spy and politician, a womanizer, and the author of the famous poem "To My Coy Mistress". But he also witnessed the ups and lows of the English Civil War in first row. He was friend and colleague of John Milton, and together with him, he served under Oliver Cromwell as Latin secretary.

From Parangon Review: "Little is known about Marvell's early life. He was born in 1621 at Winestead, Holderness, where his father was rector. He was probably educated at Hull Grammar School, though there is no firm evidence for this. He went to Trinity College, Cambridge, as a sizar and graduated in 1638. He seems to have stayed at Trinity, but left before the opening of the Long Parliament in 1641. The next ten years of Marvell's life are obscure. He probably spent the years 1642-1646 abroad, but historians are only able to suggest his return to England by 1649 because of the publication of two of his poems in that year. In 1650 he was appointed by Thomas Fairfax as tutor to his daughter, Mary, and so Marvell returned to Yorkshire, spending two years at Nun Appleton. His association with Fairfax brought him into close contact with Cromwell and the political machinations of the Commonwealth. After years on the continent Marvell was a fine linguist and on 21 February 1653 Milton recommended that Marvell be appointed as his assistant (Milton was blind by this stage) in the secretaryship for foreign languages. He was also appointed by Cromwell as tutor to William Dutton, his ward.

Marvell's support for Oliver Cromwell was made most evident in his Horatian Ode upon Cromwell's return from Ireland written in the summer of 1650. However, it has been argued that one stanza of this poem indicates his Royalist rather than Cromwellian sympathies. And the fact that Marvell first became MP during the Interregnum but went on being an MP after the Restoration has kept the debate about his political sympathies alive. Marvell's letters as MP, written to the Hull Corporation, as well as to the masters of Trinity House Hull, survive in far greater number than his personal letters. However, as a source of information about Marvell's political and religious inclinations they are not very revealing. This has made historical research into Marvell's politics and religion difficult and the results are often controversial."

Horatian Ode upon Cromwell's Return from Ireland

The forward youth that would appear
Must now forsake his Muses dear,
Nor in the shadows sing
His numbers languishing.

'Tis time to leave the books in dust,
And oil th' unused armour's rust,
Removing from the wall
The corslet of the hall.

So restless Cromwell could not cease
In the inglorious arts of peace,
But through advent'rous war
Urged his active star:

And, like the three-forked lightning, first
Breaking the clouds where it was nursed,
Did thorough his own side
His fiery way divide.

For 'tis all one to courage high,
The emulous or enemy;
And with such, to enclose
Is more than to oppose.

Then burning through the air he went,
And palaces and temples rent;
And Caesar's head at last
Did through his laurels blast.

'Tis madness to resist or blame
The force of angry Heaven's flame;
And, if we would speak true,
Much to the man is due,

Who, from his private gardens, where
He lived reserved and austere,
As if his highest plot
To plant the bergamot,

Could by industrious valour climb
To ruin the great work of time,
And cast the Kingdom old
Into another mould.

Though Justice against Fate complain,
And plead the ancient Rights in vain:
But those do hold or break
As men are strong or weak.

Nature, that hateth emptiness,
Allows of penetration less;
And therefore must make room
Where greater spirits come.

What field of all the Civil Wars
Where his were not the deepest scars?
And Hampton shows what part
He had of wiser art;

Where, twining subtle fears with hope,
He wove a net of such a scope
That Charles himself might chase
To Carisbrook's narrow case;

That thence the Royal Actor borne
The tragic scaffold might adorn:
While round the armed bands
Did clap their bloody hands.

He nothing common did or mean
Upon that memorable scene,
But with his keener eye
The axe's edge did try;

Nor called the Gods with vulgar spite
To vindicate his helpless right;
But bowed his comely head
Down as upon a bed.

This was that memorable hour
Which first assured the forced pow'r.
So when they did design
The Capitol's first line,

A Bleeding Head, where they begun,
Did fright the architects to run;
And yet in that the State
Foresaw its happy fate.

And now the Irish are ashamed
To see themselves in one year tamed:
So much one man can do,
That does both act and know.

They can affirm his praises best,
And have, though overcome, confessed
How good he is, how just,
And fit for highest trust;

Nor yet grown stiffer with command,
But still in the Republic's hand:
How fit he is to sway
That can so well obey!

He to the Commons' feet presents
A kingdom for his first year's rents:
And, what he may, forbears
His fame to make it theirs:

And has his sword and spoils ungirt,
To lay them at the Public's skirt.
So when the falcon high
Falls heavy from the sky,

She, having killed, no more does search,
But on the next green bough to perch,
Where, when he first does lure,
The falcon'r has her sure.

What may not then our Isle presume
While victory his crest does plume!
What may not others fear
If thus he crown each year!

A Caesar he ere long to Gaul,
To Italy an Hannibal,
And to all states not free
Shall climacteric be.

The Pict no shelter now shall find
Within his parti-coloured mind;
But from this valour sad
Shrink underneath the plaid:

Happy if in the tufted brake
The English hunter him mistake,
Nor lay his hounds in near
The Caledonian deer.

But thou, the War's and Fortune's son,
March indefatigably on;
And for the last effect
Still keep thy sword erect:

Besides the force it has to fright
The spirits of the shady night,
The same arts that did gain
A pow'r must it maintain.

More: Andrew Marvell is the lead character of the wonderful novel The Green and the Gold by Christopher Peachment.

New Book: "Cromwell to Cromwell"

2009-10-01T14:59:00.000-07:00

The History Press has just published "Cromwell to Cromwell: Reformation to Civil War". From their website:

The English reformers of the 1530s, with Thomas Cromwell at their head, continued to have a strong belief in kingly rule and authority, despite their radical approach to the power of the Pope and the Roman Catholic Church. Resisting the king was tantamount to resisting God in their eyes, and even on a matter of conscience the will of the king should prevail. Yet just over 100 years later, Charles I was called the 'man of blood', and Oliver Cromwell famously declared that 'we will cut off his head with the crown on it'. But how did we get from the one to the other? How did the deferential Reformation become a redical revolution? Following on from his biography of Thomas Cromwell, John Schofield examines how the English character and the way it perceived royal rule changed between the time of Thomas Cromwell and that of his great-great-grandnephew Oliver.

It's an interesting concept for a book, and if I had the money I'd run to buy this at the nearest bookshop. Both Cromwells were key figures in the shaping of Modern England, both leaders of religious revolutions that ultimately benefited the land-owning middle-classes.

John Schofield is the author of "The Rise and Fall of Thomas Cromwell: Henry VIII's Most Faithful Servant" (the hyperbolical title almost makes me smirk) to which this "Cromwell to Cromwell" serves as sequel.

Prologue: How did I get here?

2009-09-04T11:17:00.000-07:00

York, Sunday 30 August 2009

It's half past four in the morning and I'm in the train station at York, having just got off the coach from London. There are no lights in the sky and dawn won't break for another hour or two, I'm afraid. I'm tired, I'm cold and I'm slightly scared by being in a strange town in the pitch black night and with nobody in sight. There's nobody in the streets and on top of that it's Sunday. As a Spaniard with a very basic knowledge of British geography right now I could pinpoint York on a map just because I bought a slim tourist guide before I came here.

How did I get here?

By becoming the kind of person who goes to English Civil War battles re-enactments. One year ago I would have been quick to mock the people who spend time in such events. And yet here I am, the last weekend of August, six hours of bus from London, cold and frightened in foreign and dark York, just to check out the annual re-enactment of the Marston Moors Battle, by The Sealed Knot Society.

Of course one year ago I couldn't even begin to predict that I would be writing a novel about the English Civil War myself.

After one hour or so hanging out in the train station - feeling slightly safe in the knowledge that there was a guard patrolling the whole place, but cursing that the cafes wouldn't open until 7 - I decided to venture into the city, suspecting the first lights. As it turns out it's a very beautiful town, and for a couple of hours I had it all to myself. That's the advantage of arriving in the middle of the night. The deserted city looked even more beutiful, ancient and haunting. I spent a great deal of time walking around the York Minster - appealingly gothic - before the cafes opened for a Full English breakfast.

I was trying to get myself all inspired and I had brought along some Ted Hughes volume for its sounds, reading to myself and wandering among the ruins of St.Mary's Abbey. I had always been curious about THE NORTH and since the main characters in my book it was decided would be Northerners, it was a good excercise in place-inspiration to breathe the air of these parts.

From my notebook of those hours (not even a day): "It feels a priviledge (& a small wonder) to be here and feel the air of the centuries, the birds in flight a rustle of feathers louder than the minster's bells. To be here and stare at the decay of things made by men, and their strange resilence too, for nothing is lost here, everything is skin-deep carved into these stones, the sorrows and the joy."

I walked and wandered, searching for clues on the city, hints of why I was there, why I had come to far and was I right in doing so?

Although the place was well signaled - or rather, I had printed out various maps, from Google Maps to the own Sealed Knot Society indications, I must have looked a bit ridiculous walking around checking all those papers - it took me quite a while to get to the site, the York racecourse. For one, I had no idea what an empty racecourse looked like, or what a british racecourse looked like, for that matter. But I turned left on a street and I found some open ground and as gloomy and gorgeous clouds filled the sky, I knew I was in the right place. The horizon started drawing tiny figures of people and tents and cars and there was smoke here and there.

And then I heard drums.

I had arrived.

Thanks to the running commentary (a modern-day solution to the confusion of watching the battles unfold) we could follow the various figures on the battlefield; we had one Cromwell, of course, and we even had a Thomas Fairfax.

"Here learn, ye mountains more unjust,
Which to abrupter greatness thrust,
That do, with your hook-shouldered height,
The earth deform, and heaven fright,
For whose excrescence, ill designed,
Nature must a new centre find,
Learn here those humble steps to tread,
Which to securer glory lead."
Andrew Marvell, UPON THE HILL AND GROVE AT BILLBOROW.

It was an eye-opening journey, but also a confirmation of faith. It was what I had hoped it would be, but in ways I never imagined it would be.