Books read this week: Consuming Passions 7/10 (Judith Flanders), Midnight Tides 6/10 (Steven Erikson), The Bonehunters 7/10 (Steven Erikson)
Consuming Passions is subtitled "Leisure and Pleasure in Victorian Britain", but this is really quite misleading: the book spends just as much time discussing leisure activities in the late 18th Century, and the early years of the 19th, as it does on Victoria's reign proper. It's a rather fascinating slice of social history, charting (amongst other things) the rise of the department store and the development of professional football teams. It is the type of social history which is packed full of interesting anecdotes and historical curios, rather than the more serious type which tries to properly explain and understand social trends. I thoroughly enjoyed the book, although I feel it would benefit from a deeper investigation into the less legal side of leisure in 19th Century Britain; an awful lot of Victorian Britain (especially in London and the other big cities) operated in what we would call the grey economy, and there were plenty of dog fighting rings and underground boxing matches, and I would have liked it if there was a little more space devoted to that type of entertainment.
The thing that really struck me, reading Consuming Passions, was the sheer amount of time and effort that the middle and upper classes put into preventing ordinary people from enjoying themselves. Whether it's Brighton, (fruitlessly) objecting to cheap railway tickets letting London workers visit the seaside, or the various government attempts to ban theatre (interestingly, whilst they always say the Charles II reopened the theatres, what they actually mean is that he allowed two (2) theatres in London to operate with a royal licence, as long as all their plays were censored before performance: very merry for him and his actress-mistresses: not quite the major victory for free speech and popular entertainment it's usually seen as), or the massive objections to lowering the price of admission to the Crystal Palace, there seems to be a haunting fear that somewhere, someone with an income of less than £500 a year might be enjoying themselves. It's all a little strange: I can see why, if one was a member of the Victorian bourgeoisie, one might want to prevent riotous gatherings, and I could understand a long standing fear of incipient revolution. But really, trying to stop people visiting the seaside? Of course, the puritan ethos ultimately lost out to the profit motive (as was so often the case in Victorian Britain): once it was understood that working class people could spend money just as well as the middle classes, most of the objections shrivelled away.
One of the most interesting (and informative) anecdotes in the book is about how Blackburn Rovers became the first working class team to win the FA Cup - partly because (due to the backing of a wealthy philanthropist) they were able to afford a special diet for the team before the Cup Final which contained actual protein, unlike their normal diet (their public school opponents, of course, didn't have that problem).
I do find the 19th Century fascinating, in part because it was, for Britain at least, the period when society starts to become recognisable to me. For ordinary people in Britain, life in 1800 was really much closer to life in 1800 BC than it was to life in 1900, and for all the talk about the singularity, and the information superhighway and how computers have revolutionised life, that was the big change. It was shrinking the travel time between London and Edinburgh from ten days to ten hours, it was running telegraph cables across the country, it was building railways and factories and department stores. And yes, the rate of technological development is accelerating, and yes we're now in a post-industrial society and yes we've made strides towards social, racial and gender equality that the Victorians couldn't have dreamed of (well, let's be honest, it's not something they would have wanted to dream of), but it was ultimately that century between 1800 and 1900 when we, as a species, started to do something we'd never done before.
My other two books this week, Midnight Tides and The Bonehunters are the next two volumes in Erikson's Malazan Book of the Fallen series. I'm still enjoying them, although Midnight Tides is a weaker book than the Bonehunters, and I'm still not entirely sure what the plot is, or why it's happening (like I said last week that's not really the point of the books). I'm beginning to think that Erikson has something to say about Christianity (and something that's not very complimentary): I'm beginning to see parallels between the Crippled God and a crucified god, but I think my thoughts on that are going to have to wait until I've read at least one more of the books in the series. What's rather more interesting to me at the moment are the ideas about how one makes and army, and how one breaks one. Erikson's armies are really modern forces with the guns replaced by crossbows, and the artillery with wizards, rather than the more medieval-period-accurate forces Martin describes in the Song of Ice and Fire, although I guess Erikson could also be using the Roman army as a partial blueprint. Erikson does a good job of showing us the essential fragility of an effective fighting force: most effective modern armies have a relatively small cadre of extremely efficient and effective soldiers, and a fairly large group of less effective soldiers. To break the ability of the army to fight, all one has to do is isolate and eliminate that small cadre of very good soldiers (Exhibit A: the battle of Kursk. Exhibit B: Dien Bien Phu): this is something Erikson shows both in The Bonehunters and House of Chains (the fourth book).
Erikson also shows the fundamental strength of the feudal system, or rather, the fundamental weakness of authoritarian regimes without feudal underpinnings, in the relationship between the Empress Laseen and her various subordinates (something which is definitely modelled on the Roman empire). Basically, Laseen (and the later Roman emperors) are confronted with a circle it is very difficult to square: outlying regions of the Empire need competent commanders, otherwise they won't stay part of the Empire. But if you appoint a competent commander, there's nothing to stop them using the army you've just given them to overthrow you. Whilst that's a nasty dilemma from the perspective of the ruler, from the perspective of the state as a whole, obviously having a massive civil war every time the ruler dies (or even if they don't) obviously isn't an efficient use of resources in the long term, even if it does (usually) weed out the more incompetent contenders for leadership. The feudal system ultimately arises as a solution to these two (kind of linked) problems: the ruler needs competent commanders they can trust, and if you can't trust family who can you trust? And if there are clear rules about who gets the kingdom when the current ruler pops his clogs, them there'll be fewer civil wars all round - although more halfwits running the country. Fundamentally, the feudal/monarchical system is a social choice to prize stability over efficiency in government. I think one of the big advantages of a well developed democratic system is that you don't have to make that choice: one can have both a stable and an efficient government.
Saturday, 21 January 2012
Saturday, 14 January 2012
Reaping the Whirlwind
Books read this week: Memories of Ice 7/10 (Steven Erikson), House of Chains 7/10 (Steven Erikson), The Complete Short Stories of Saki 5/10 (H.H. Munro)
Memories of Ice and House of Chains are the third and fourth books in Erikson's Malazan Book of the Fallen series, which I'm really beginning to get into. I won't try and summarise the plot, partly because the plots of these books are enormously complex (they're not short books, and, unlike Tolkien, very little of each volume is dedicated to digressions on the pipe-smoking habits of the lesser spotted tree elf), and also because really the plot isn't the point of these books (I only read them a couple of days ago, and I've already forgotten most of the salient details). The books are written to give an atmosphere; a sense of a world with magical warrens and ancient undead armies and mysterious glacier-controlling hippies that are long extinct. A world where gods can be killed. Erikson does this very successfully, although he does not manage anything quite so memorable or interesting as Coltaine's Chain of Dogs in Deadhouse Gates (the second book in the series). But this might just be cultural bias: to the English I think a heroic defeat, a glorious last stand or a magnificent fighting retreat is always inherently more interesting and memorable than a victory; Dunkirk, Crete, Corunna; the charge of the Light Brigade and Gordon at Khartoum. Erikson does fall into a familar trap for fantasy writers however, and ignores the effects of disease upon the army; in every war fought before about 1900 casualties from disease dramatically outweighed casualties in combat. During a large conflict a general could expect to lose between a quarter and a half of his army every year, without even coming within sight of the enemy; and yet here this is ignored: the general sets out with 10,000 soldiers, and arrives months later with 10,000 soldiers. I'll admit, dysentery isn't very glamorous, but it's effect upon combat operations before modern medicine shouldn't be underestimated. Although I guess in a fantasy series one can always say "a wizard did it".
One of the more interesting things about the Malazan Book of the Fallen, as a series, is the approach it takes to gods; like I said above, gods can die: moreover, gods can sign contracts, and they can be cheated. This is an intriguing approach to take as it runs totally against the prevailing monotheistic framework in Western society; there are, of course, many differences between Christianity, Islam and Judaism, but they do share a common belief in a deity who is both omnipotent and omniscient: not a being that can be comprehended by the human mind, let alone outwitted. Of course, it is a concept familiar from the polytheistic religions of antiquity, and the folk tales of the middle ages are rife with men and women who can trick the devil out of his due (the classic tale of the old woman hiking up her skirts and frightening off the devil is a personal favourite of mine), just not one encountered very often in modern Western literature* (I can't claim any deep knowledge of Hinduism, the Sikh faith or the various religions of Africa, China and Japan, let alone their popular folktales, so I don't know if it's an idea seen in that part of the world). Another question that naturally arises here (although not one that Erikson answers) is if a being is not omniscient and omnipotent, just far more knowledgeable and powerful than an ordinary human being, why should we call it a god? Obviously the natural answer is that when a being that can split continents with it's bare hands asks you to call it a god it's quite dangerous not to, but the underlying philosophical question of the necessary and sufficient conditions for godhood remain.
The Complete Short Stories of Saki are an interesting study of British high society in the years immediately preceding the Great War. The stories are very much set in that Evelyn Waugh/Jeeves and Wooster/Downton Abbey world of shooting parties, London clubs and unspeakable maiden aunts. Much like Downton Abbey, it shows that there was a considerable proportion of the upper classes in the Edwardian era who had absolutely nothing better to do with their time than come up with increasingly extreme and witty ways in which to be extremely unpleasant to each other - it is like Liasions Dangereuse in that regard. Pretty much every story Saki ever wrote was either a description of a mean-spirited or cruel practical joke, or a condemnation of the suffragettes. The sheer misanthropy of the collection, taken as a whole, is quite shocking, as is the reactionary, bullying nature of most of the interactions: basically, what we have here is an book of stories where every main character is a slightly wittier variation on Jeremy Clarkson. There are individual stories here which I would consider both extremely misogynistic and anti-semitic, were they not embedded within a collection of such deep and abiding misanthropy: Munro does not appear to like women or Jewish people, but he's also hateful towards men and Christians and Muslims. One gets the feeling that Munro has just as sharp a wit as Wilde's, but he lacks the outsider's view that Wilde had (Wilde was a socialist, after all), and so his work has an undercurrent of bullying meanness which is absent from Wilde.
* Goethe's Faust is the exception that proves the rule here, I feel.
Memories of Ice and House of Chains are the third and fourth books in Erikson's Malazan Book of the Fallen series, which I'm really beginning to get into. I won't try and summarise the plot, partly because the plots of these books are enormously complex (they're not short books, and, unlike Tolkien, very little of each volume is dedicated to digressions on the pipe-smoking habits of the lesser spotted tree elf), and also because really the plot isn't the point of these books (I only read them a couple of days ago, and I've already forgotten most of the salient details). The books are written to give an atmosphere; a sense of a world with magical warrens and ancient undead armies and mysterious glacier-controlling hippies that are long extinct. A world where gods can be killed. Erikson does this very successfully, although he does not manage anything quite so memorable or interesting as Coltaine's Chain of Dogs in Deadhouse Gates (the second book in the series). But this might just be cultural bias: to the English I think a heroic defeat, a glorious last stand or a magnificent fighting retreat is always inherently more interesting and memorable than a victory; Dunkirk, Crete, Corunna; the charge of the Light Brigade and Gordon at Khartoum. Erikson does fall into a familar trap for fantasy writers however, and ignores the effects of disease upon the army; in every war fought before about 1900 casualties from disease dramatically outweighed casualties in combat. During a large conflict a general could expect to lose between a quarter and a half of his army every year, without even coming within sight of the enemy; and yet here this is ignored: the general sets out with 10,000 soldiers, and arrives months later with 10,000 soldiers. I'll admit, dysentery isn't very glamorous, but it's effect upon combat operations before modern medicine shouldn't be underestimated. Although I guess in a fantasy series one can always say "a wizard did it".
One of the more interesting things about the Malazan Book of the Fallen, as a series, is the approach it takes to gods; like I said above, gods can die: moreover, gods can sign contracts, and they can be cheated. This is an intriguing approach to take as it runs totally against the prevailing monotheistic framework in Western society; there are, of course, many differences between Christianity, Islam and Judaism, but they do share a common belief in a deity who is both omnipotent and omniscient: not a being that can be comprehended by the human mind, let alone outwitted. Of course, it is a concept familiar from the polytheistic religions of antiquity, and the folk tales of the middle ages are rife with men and women who can trick the devil out of his due (the classic tale of the old woman hiking up her skirts and frightening off the devil is a personal favourite of mine), just not one encountered very often in modern Western literature* (I can't claim any deep knowledge of Hinduism, the Sikh faith or the various religions of Africa, China and Japan, let alone their popular folktales, so I don't know if it's an idea seen in that part of the world). Another question that naturally arises here (although not one that Erikson answers) is if a being is not omniscient and omnipotent, just far more knowledgeable and powerful than an ordinary human being, why should we call it a god? Obviously the natural answer is that when a being that can split continents with it's bare hands asks you to call it a god it's quite dangerous not to, but the underlying philosophical question of the necessary and sufficient conditions for godhood remain.
The Complete Short Stories of Saki are an interesting study of British high society in the years immediately preceding the Great War. The stories are very much set in that Evelyn Waugh/Jeeves and Wooster/Downton Abbey world of shooting parties, London clubs and unspeakable maiden aunts. Much like Downton Abbey, it shows that there was a considerable proportion of the upper classes in the Edwardian era who had absolutely nothing better to do with their time than come up with increasingly extreme and witty ways in which to be extremely unpleasant to each other - it is like Liasions Dangereuse in that regard. Pretty much every story Saki ever wrote was either a description of a mean-spirited or cruel practical joke, or a condemnation of the suffragettes. The sheer misanthropy of the collection, taken as a whole, is quite shocking, as is the reactionary, bullying nature of most of the interactions: basically, what we have here is an book of stories where every main character is a slightly wittier variation on Jeremy Clarkson. There are individual stories here which I would consider both extremely misogynistic and anti-semitic, were they not embedded within a collection of such deep and abiding misanthropy: Munro does not appear to like women or Jewish people, but he's also hateful towards men and Christians and Muslims. One gets the feeling that Munro has just as sharp a wit as Wilde's, but he lacks the outsider's view that Wilde had (Wilde was a socialist, after all), and so his work has an undercurrent of bullying meanness which is absent from Wilde.
* Goethe's Faust is the exception that proves the rule here, I feel.
Monday, 9 January 2012
A Thousand Words
Books read this week: Years of Wrath 8/10 (David Low), Deadhouse Gates 7/10 (Steven Erikson), D.O.A. Extreme Horror Anthology 5/10
They say a picture is worth a thousand words: for David Low, that's an enormous underestimate. Years of Wrath is subtitled "A Cartoon History 1932-1945", and is composed entirely of David Low's magnificent cartoons. Low is often compared to Gilray, but Low is both a far superior artist and a much sharper political commentator; in fact many of his cartoons verge on the prescient. That said, I would dearly love to own a book of Gilray's prints, and perhaps I would appreciate them more were I as deeply familar with the politics of the 1790s and early 1800s as I am with the 1930s and 40s. Still, the sheer amount of information, nuance and humour that David Low is able to cram into a simple monochrome drawing is absolutely phenomenal: his summary of the Nazis 1942 summer campaign in three words ("Stalingrad or bust") cannot be bettered, and his assessment of the V1 offensive (casting Hitler as a naughty schoolboy, launching "mad Adolf's pilotless planes for planless devilment" across the channel) is also pitch perfect.
I think Low's cartoon celebrating the liberation of Paris is a perfect example of why he was both a great artist and a great political cartoonist (needless to say the two don't necessarily go together). There must have been a strong temptation to draw the Eiffel Tower, or the Arc De Triomphe, or some other stereotypically Parisian landmark, but instead we get this masterpiece. We have a view of what is unmistakeably Paris, without the need to overemphasise the landmarks: just the spires of Notre-Dame in the far background. And we have the population of France, represented not by De Gaulle, or some other major political figure, but rather personified in the anonymous, jubilant Resistance fighter. Low seems to say: this is not a day for celebrating individual generals or politicians, but rather the liberation of an entire people. It's a cartoon that makes you want to get up out of your chair and start singing the Marseillaise.
Of course, I approach Low's cartoons as historical record - and I have tended to assess them as such - but one also needs to consider their impact at the time. And in this, I think Low's most important contribution was that he made the Nazis look ridiculous: to paraphrase the Godfather a man in Hitler's position can't afford to look ridiculous. This was something that Hitler knew, of course, and that's why David Low was on the Nazi death list, had the invasion of Britain succeeded. Low is such a gifted artist that we never forget the horror under the surface of the Nazi regime: consider this cartoon from 1942 or (one of my personal favourites) this one from late 1944. I think the use of humour as a weapon is often underestimated. I remember reading, years ago, a social history of Nazi Germany, and in the chapter on humour there was a section on the jokes the inmates of the concentration camps and the death camps told to each other, and I remember thinking then, and indeed I still think now that it was the most magnificently, astoundingly courageous thing I had ever come across. To stand in the closest place to hell on earth human ingenuity has been able to devise, to refuse to be afraid, and to laugh at your tormentors is an incredible thing to which words really can't do justice.
Fond as I am of Low, I do feel that, before finishing my review of Years of Wrath I have to acknowledge that his cartoons about the war with Japan are problematic. Of course, all cartoonists deal in caricatures, and the essence of a caricature is the exaggeration of characteristics to the point of parody. But, even allowing for that, to a modern eye his portrayal of the Japanese is quite racist, although Low does nevertheless deserve credit for his longstanding support of Indian independence, and his objections to racial discrimination in Britain (although that last cartoon does not appear in Years of Wrath). And there was, of course, a war on.
I find I have said rather more about Low's book than I originally intended, and my other two books are both quite lightweight, so I will deal with them briefly. Deadhouse Gates is the second book in Erikson's Malazan Book of the Fallen series, and just as good as Gardens of the Moon, the first book. I still find that Erikson sacrifices world-building to the demands of an ever more convoluted plot, although Deadhouse Gates was better in that respect than Gardens of the Moon. I am also slightly worried that the series may become infected with philosophy (a recurring risk for long fantasy series). I think Erikson has some interesting points to make about the inefficiency of a feudal society, but that may be my reading on the Thirty Years War bleeding in; as I have now read most of the third book in the series (and most of the book on the Thirty Years War), I think discussion of that can wait until next week. D.O.A Extreme Horror Anthology is (as one would expect from the name) an anthology of horror stories. Unfortunately it's not particularly frightening - for much the same reason that most of the video nasties from the 70s are not very good movies: the authors concentrate on the "extreme" and neglect the more basic elements of plot, characterisation and suspense which is necessary to create a truly chilling tale. Of course, the cardinal rule of horror fiction should be "don't show, don't tell" - an imagined horror is always worse that one you can see, just as a mystery is always more fascinating than it's solution - which is a requirement which comes into conflict with the whole idea of the "extreme" as if you don't show anything, it wouldn't be extreme. The anthology is therefore hoist by it's own petard somewhat, although I guess allowances should be made for the very, very high tolerance I have for sex, gore, violence and the just plain wrong in books: a less jaded reader might have found the stories in this book more shocking, and therefore more horrific.
They say a picture is worth a thousand words: for David Low, that's an enormous underestimate. Years of Wrath is subtitled "A Cartoon History 1932-1945", and is composed entirely of David Low's magnificent cartoons. Low is often compared to Gilray, but Low is both a far superior artist and a much sharper political commentator; in fact many of his cartoons verge on the prescient. That said, I would dearly love to own a book of Gilray's prints, and perhaps I would appreciate them more were I as deeply familar with the politics of the 1790s and early 1800s as I am with the 1930s and 40s. Still, the sheer amount of information, nuance and humour that David Low is able to cram into a simple monochrome drawing is absolutely phenomenal: his summary of the Nazis 1942 summer campaign in three words ("Stalingrad or bust") cannot be bettered, and his assessment of the V1 offensive (casting Hitler as a naughty schoolboy, launching "mad Adolf's pilotless planes for planless devilment" across the channel) is also pitch perfect.
I think Low's cartoon celebrating the liberation of Paris is a perfect example of why he was both a great artist and a great political cartoonist (needless to say the two don't necessarily go together). There must have been a strong temptation to draw the Eiffel Tower, or the Arc De Triomphe, or some other stereotypically Parisian landmark, but instead we get this masterpiece. We have a view of what is unmistakeably Paris, without the need to overemphasise the landmarks: just the spires of Notre-Dame in the far background. And we have the population of France, represented not by De Gaulle, or some other major political figure, but rather personified in the anonymous, jubilant Resistance fighter. Low seems to say: this is not a day for celebrating individual generals or politicians, but rather the liberation of an entire people. It's a cartoon that makes you want to get up out of your chair and start singing the Marseillaise.
Of course, I approach Low's cartoons as historical record - and I have tended to assess them as such - but one also needs to consider their impact at the time. And in this, I think Low's most important contribution was that he made the Nazis look ridiculous: to paraphrase the Godfather a man in Hitler's position can't afford to look ridiculous. This was something that Hitler knew, of course, and that's why David Low was on the Nazi death list, had the invasion of Britain succeeded. Low is such a gifted artist that we never forget the horror under the surface of the Nazi regime: consider this cartoon from 1942 or (one of my personal favourites) this one from late 1944. I think the use of humour as a weapon is often underestimated. I remember reading, years ago, a social history of Nazi Germany, and in the chapter on humour there was a section on the jokes the inmates of the concentration camps and the death camps told to each other, and I remember thinking then, and indeed I still think now that it was the most magnificently, astoundingly courageous thing I had ever come across. To stand in the closest place to hell on earth human ingenuity has been able to devise, to refuse to be afraid, and to laugh at your tormentors is an incredible thing to which words really can't do justice.
Fond as I am of Low, I do feel that, before finishing my review of Years of Wrath I have to acknowledge that his cartoons about the war with Japan are problematic. Of course, all cartoonists deal in caricatures, and the essence of a caricature is the exaggeration of characteristics to the point of parody. But, even allowing for that, to a modern eye his portrayal of the Japanese is quite racist, although Low does nevertheless deserve credit for his longstanding support of Indian independence, and his objections to racial discrimination in Britain (although that last cartoon does not appear in Years of Wrath). And there was, of course, a war on.
I find I have said rather more about Low's book than I originally intended, and my other two books are both quite lightweight, so I will deal with them briefly. Deadhouse Gates is the second book in Erikson's Malazan Book of the Fallen series, and just as good as Gardens of the Moon, the first book. I still find that Erikson sacrifices world-building to the demands of an ever more convoluted plot, although Deadhouse Gates was better in that respect than Gardens of the Moon. I am also slightly worried that the series may become infected with philosophy (a recurring risk for long fantasy series). I think Erikson has some interesting points to make about the inefficiency of a feudal society, but that may be my reading on the Thirty Years War bleeding in; as I have now read most of the third book in the series (and most of the book on the Thirty Years War), I think discussion of that can wait until next week. D.O.A Extreme Horror Anthology is (as one would expect from the name) an anthology of horror stories. Unfortunately it's not particularly frightening - for much the same reason that most of the video nasties from the 70s are not very good movies: the authors concentrate on the "extreme" and neglect the more basic elements of plot, characterisation and suspense which is necessary to create a truly chilling tale. Of course, the cardinal rule of horror fiction should be "don't show, don't tell" - an imagined horror is always worse that one you can see, just as a mystery is always more fascinating than it's solution - which is a requirement which comes into conflict with the whole idea of the "extreme" as if you don't show anything, it wouldn't be extreme. The anthology is therefore hoist by it's own petard somewhat, although I guess allowances should be made for the very, very high tolerance I have for sex, gore, violence and the just plain wrong in books: a less jaded reader might have found the stories in this book more shocking, and therefore more horrific.
Thursday, 29 December 2011
Died to Make Men Free
Books read this week: The Killer Angels 7/10 (Michael Shaara)
As is usually the case over Christmas, I've been pretty busy, and as I've received quite a few books over the holiday period, I've been dipping into several of them, with the net result that I've only finished one of them so far. The Killer Angels is a historical novel about the battle of Gettysburg; it was adapted (very faithfully) into the film Gettysburg, and it's a fairly entertaining read, if you can get past the bombastic pomposity that seems to afflict a huge proportion of American historical works; it's almost as if they feel that because they don't have very much history, it all has to be treated with massively exaggerated respect, and they have to make palpably absurd claims about it (like calling the American Civil War "one of the greatest wars the world has ever seen" - a statement which is self-evidently false to anyone with even a passing knowledge of European or Chinese history).
What I found most irritating about the book was that it buys into the (unfortunately very popular) narrative that the Confederacy were somehow worthy and noble opponents fighting for a way of life, rather than the Nazis v 0.1. This is a common flaw in treatments of the American Civil War, but I was surprised to see it pop up in such an (otherwise very well researched) book: the sequence where the Joshua Chamberlain, the Union colonel and the escaped slave is particularly infuriating - the African-American is presented as having been recently brought across the Atlantic, and therefore having no command of English. Not only is this extremely improbable (the Royal Navy had swept the slave traders from the seas thirty years prior, and any slave trader bringing slaves into the South would have to evade not only the Royal Navy, but also a (very efficient) Union blockade), but it is a literary sleight of hand designed deliberately to deprive the slave of a voice: we get a lot of white men telling us what they think he thinks, or what he should think, or why what he thinks doesn't matter, but we can't actually hear his voice. Of course, the reason for this is very simple: once you have read the histories of ex-slaves it's impossible to feel even the slightest sympathy for the Confederacy, in much the same way that once you've seen pictures of Bergen-Belsen you can't feel any sympathy for the Nazi regime.
As is usually the case over Christmas, I've been pretty busy, and as I've received quite a few books over the holiday period, I've been dipping into several of them, with the net result that I've only finished one of them so far. The Killer Angels is a historical novel about the battle of Gettysburg; it was adapted (very faithfully) into the film Gettysburg, and it's a fairly entertaining read, if you can get past the bombastic pomposity that seems to afflict a huge proportion of American historical works; it's almost as if they feel that because they don't have very much history, it all has to be treated with massively exaggerated respect, and they have to make palpably absurd claims about it (like calling the American Civil War "one of the greatest wars the world has ever seen" - a statement which is self-evidently false to anyone with even a passing knowledge of European or Chinese history).
What I found most irritating about the book was that it buys into the (unfortunately very popular) narrative that the Confederacy were somehow worthy and noble opponents fighting for a way of life, rather than the Nazis v 0.1. This is a common flaw in treatments of the American Civil War, but I was surprised to see it pop up in such an (otherwise very well researched) book: the sequence where the Joshua Chamberlain, the Union colonel and the escaped slave is particularly infuriating - the African-American is presented as having been recently brought across the Atlantic, and therefore having no command of English. Not only is this extremely improbable (the Royal Navy had swept the slave traders from the seas thirty years prior, and any slave trader bringing slaves into the South would have to evade not only the Royal Navy, but also a (very efficient) Union blockade), but it is a literary sleight of hand designed deliberately to deprive the slave of a voice: we get a lot of white men telling us what they think he thinks, or what he should think, or why what he thinks doesn't matter, but we can't actually hear his voice. Of course, the reason for this is very simple: once you have read the histories of ex-slaves it's impossible to feel even the slightest sympathy for the Confederacy, in much the same way that once you've seen pictures of Bergen-Belsen you can't feel any sympathy for the Nazi regime.
Tuesday, 20 December 2011
Inquisitors, Skeletons and Angry Glaswegians
Books read this week: The Grand Inquisitor 5/10 (Fyodor Dostoyevsky), Gardens of the Moon 7/10 (Steven Erikson), Devil Bones 5/10 (Kathy Reichs), My Shit Life So Far 6/10 (Frankie Boyle)
Bit of an odd mix of books this week. The Grand Inquisitor is, of course, an extract from the Brothers Karamazov; a sort of strange story within a story where Christ returns to earth for a day to visit Spain at the height of the Inquisition. I didn't find it particularly interesting, or, indeed, in any way enlightening; possibly because the translation I was reading was abysmal (littered with "thees" and "thous" which, unless you're transliterating the speech of someone with a strong Yorkshire accent is either an unforgivable attempt to sound olde timey or a lazy attempt to translate from a language which maintains the formal and informal second person pronoun distinction). It also possesses a common flaw in alternate history works in that Dostoyevsky doesn't know his history (this is why I tend to avoid alternate history like the plague): the Spanish Inquisition was entirely subordinated to the needs of the Spanish monarchy - had he written about the Roman Inquisition his points might be more valid - which further increases the irony of the piece, as the Tsarist government (which Dostoyevsky supported at this stage of his career) had a very similar relationship with the Russian Orthodox church at this point in time (in fact, it is the total subordination of the church to a tyrannical regime which led to both the Catholic Church in Spain and the Orthodox Church in Russia taking such a pasting when the tyrannical regimes were overthrown). Perhaps the story would make more sense in context (and it would definitely make more sense in a better translation).
Gardens of the Moon is the first installment in Erikson's gigantic Malazan Book of the Fallen series. Erikson says in the introduction he set out with the aim of writing something like Dune. In this he has definitely failed; Dune is a stupendous book, with fascinating multifaceted characters and a deeply strange, but also comprehensible and believable universe. Gardens of the Moon is a fairly good and decently well written fantasy novel; but Erikson has failed (thus far; obviously there are nine more books to go in the series) to construct a world that I find complete and immersive: that said Erikson does avoid the cardinal sin of fantasy and science fiction writing, which is over-explanation and over reliance on a single concept.
I can generally divide fantasy and science fiction books into two categories: the fantasy/sci-fi novel and the novel in a fantastic or science fiction setting. It's not a hard and fast distinction, but basically the fantasy/sci-fi novel skates by on elves, magic or spaceships: the science fiction drives the plot (because the characters can't); the novel in a fantastic setting on the other hand is more about well developed characters who face interesting dilemmas (which just happen to involve elves, magic and/or spaceships). Basic questions that can be used to separate the two: would I still want to read this if the characters were transplanted to present-day Slough? (If yes then it's a novel in a fantastic setting) Can the plot of the novel be reduce to "What if XXXX"? (If yes then it's a sci-fi novel) Does the world feel complete? (If yes then it's a novel in a fantastic setting) Does the author explain exactly and explicitly how the setting differs from the everyday world in the first chapter (If yes then i) it's a sci-fi novel and ii) it's a bad sci-fi novel). So I would label Dune, The Song of Ice and Fire, and everything Richard Morgan has ever written as novels in a fantastic/sci-fi setting, whilst Charles Stross and David Weber write sci-fi novels (this is not to say Stross' work is bad, quite the contrary, but that he puts the emphasis on the science fiction rather than the novel).
Gardens of the Moon seems to me to fall very close to the boundary. Erikson doesn't fall into the sin of over-explanation, which means it does take about a quarter of the book to work out what's going on, but I do feel that in this novel at least the fantasy McGuffin was driving the plot overmuch (which is partly why it took so long to work out what was going on; the more transparent motives of greed, ambition and self aggrandisement in a Song of Ice and Fire, for example, are much more transparent), and I certainly didn't feel like there was a complete world and that I'm just seeing flashes of it, the way I do with the Song of Ice and Fire and the Takeshi Kovacs books (and even with the Lord of the Rings). Partly this is because we don't really see anything that isn't immediately plot relevant; in many ways I think the needs of writing a tight, sparse plot are in direct opposition to those of developing a fully realised fantasy world (not that Gardens of the Moon is a short book): all those discussions of types of pipe-weed and elvish languages in the Lord of the Rings and the fragments of the Butlerian Jihad and the Bene Gesserit mantras in Dune don't actually add much to the plot directly, but they do create the impression that there's a whole world out there, and we are just seeing one very small part of it: this is something Erikson doesn't manage in the Gardens of the Moon. That said, I did enjoy the book, and I'm certainly going to keep working my way through the series (and I always like to have a nice long series to plough my way through ahead of me)
Devil Bones was a disappointing book. It's one of those crime stories where the main detective doesn't seem to do much detecting, and also seems (for someone who's supposed to be a top rank forensic anthropologist) to be extremely dense. I dislike mysteries that are solved in the last chapter by Deus Ex Machina; it seems very much to defeat the point of a detective novel. I also dislike detectives who are less perceptive than me (because, frankly, I'm not that perceptive). I think Reichs intended the book as packaging for a message that Santeria and Wicca are legitimate religions; this is, of course, true, but I doubt anyone is going to be convinced of that by reading a mediocre crime novel: frankly, if actual reality can't dispel your delusions, an train station shop thriller isn't going to do the job.
My Shit Life So Far is Frankie Boyle (of Mock the Week fame)'s autobiography. He is a very angry man. It's not a brilliantly good book, but it's not an awful book either. Obviously there's a fair amount of material recycled from his standup routines: I do find it interesting that some comedians (Mark Steel springs to mind) write excellent books, but are somewhat lacklustre on stage: Boyle is in many ways the opposite. Partly I think it's that black rage and bile are excellent in small doses (which is why he was so excellent on Mock the Week), but are somewhat overwhelming when repeated continuously for 300 pages.
Bit of an odd mix of books this week. The Grand Inquisitor is, of course, an extract from the Brothers Karamazov; a sort of strange story within a story where Christ returns to earth for a day to visit Spain at the height of the Inquisition. I didn't find it particularly interesting, or, indeed, in any way enlightening; possibly because the translation I was reading was abysmal (littered with "thees" and "thous" which, unless you're transliterating the speech of someone with a strong Yorkshire accent is either an unforgivable attempt to sound olde timey or a lazy attempt to translate from a language which maintains the formal and informal second person pronoun distinction). It also possesses a common flaw in alternate history works in that Dostoyevsky doesn't know his history (this is why I tend to avoid alternate history like the plague): the Spanish Inquisition was entirely subordinated to the needs of the Spanish monarchy - had he written about the Roman Inquisition his points might be more valid - which further increases the irony of the piece, as the Tsarist government (which Dostoyevsky supported at this stage of his career) had a very similar relationship with the Russian Orthodox church at this point in time (in fact, it is the total subordination of the church to a tyrannical regime which led to both the Catholic Church in Spain and the Orthodox Church in Russia taking such a pasting when the tyrannical regimes were overthrown). Perhaps the story would make more sense in context (and it would definitely make more sense in a better translation).
Gardens of the Moon is the first installment in Erikson's gigantic Malazan Book of the Fallen series. Erikson says in the introduction he set out with the aim of writing something like Dune. In this he has definitely failed; Dune is a stupendous book, with fascinating multifaceted characters and a deeply strange, but also comprehensible and believable universe. Gardens of the Moon is a fairly good and decently well written fantasy novel; but Erikson has failed (thus far; obviously there are nine more books to go in the series) to construct a world that I find complete and immersive: that said Erikson does avoid the cardinal sin of fantasy and science fiction writing, which is over-explanation and over reliance on a single concept.
I can generally divide fantasy and science fiction books into two categories: the fantasy/sci-fi novel and the novel in a fantastic or science fiction setting. It's not a hard and fast distinction, but basically the fantasy/sci-fi novel skates by on elves, magic or spaceships: the science fiction drives the plot (because the characters can't); the novel in a fantastic setting on the other hand is more about well developed characters who face interesting dilemmas (which just happen to involve elves, magic and/or spaceships). Basic questions that can be used to separate the two: would I still want to read this if the characters were transplanted to present-day Slough? (If yes then it's a novel in a fantastic setting) Can the plot of the novel be reduce to "What if XXXX"? (If yes then it's a sci-fi novel) Does the world feel complete? (If yes then it's a novel in a fantastic setting) Does the author explain exactly and explicitly how the setting differs from the everyday world in the first chapter (If yes then i) it's a sci-fi novel and ii) it's a bad sci-fi novel). So I would label Dune, The Song of Ice and Fire, and everything Richard Morgan has ever written as novels in a fantastic/sci-fi setting, whilst Charles Stross and David Weber write sci-fi novels (this is not to say Stross' work is bad, quite the contrary, but that he puts the emphasis on the science fiction rather than the novel).
Gardens of the Moon seems to me to fall very close to the boundary. Erikson doesn't fall into the sin of over-explanation, which means it does take about a quarter of the book to work out what's going on, but I do feel that in this novel at least the fantasy McGuffin was driving the plot overmuch (which is partly why it took so long to work out what was going on; the more transparent motives of greed, ambition and self aggrandisement in a Song of Ice and Fire, for example, are much more transparent), and I certainly didn't feel like there was a complete world and that I'm just seeing flashes of it, the way I do with the Song of Ice and Fire and the Takeshi Kovacs books (and even with the Lord of the Rings). Partly this is because we don't really see anything that isn't immediately plot relevant; in many ways I think the needs of writing a tight, sparse plot are in direct opposition to those of developing a fully realised fantasy world (not that Gardens of the Moon is a short book): all those discussions of types of pipe-weed and elvish languages in the Lord of the Rings and the fragments of the Butlerian Jihad and the Bene Gesserit mantras in Dune don't actually add much to the plot directly, but they do create the impression that there's a whole world out there, and we are just seeing one very small part of it: this is something Erikson doesn't manage in the Gardens of the Moon. That said, I did enjoy the book, and I'm certainly going to keep working my way through the series (and I always like to have a nice long series to plough my way through ahead of me)
Devil Bones was a disappointing book. It's one of those crime stories where the main detective doesn't seem to do much detecting, and also seems (for someone who's supposed to be a top rank forensic anthropologist) to be extremely dense. I dislike mysteries that are solved in the last chapter by Deus Ex Machina; it seems very much to defeat the point of a detective novel. I also dislike detectives who are less perceptive than me (because, frankly, I'm not that perceptive). I think Reichs intended the book as packaging for a message that Santeria and Wicca are legitimate religions; this is, of course, true, but I doubt anyone is going to be convinced of that by reading a mediocre crime novel: frankly, if actual reality can't dispel your delusions, an train station shop thriller isn't going to do the job.
My Shit Life So Far is Frankie Boyle (of Mock the Week fame)'s autobiography. He is a very angry man. It's not a brilliantly good book, but it's not an awful book either. Obviously there's a fair amount of material recycled from his standup routines: I do find it interesting that some comedians (Mark Steel springs to mind) write excellent books, but are somewhat lacklustre on stage: Boyle is in many ways the opposite. Partly I think it's that black rage and bile are excellent in small doses (which is why he was so excellent on Mock the Week), but are somewhat overwhelming when repeated continuously for 300 pages.
Tuesday, 13 December 2011
Candles In The Dark
Books read this week: The Demon-Haunted World 8/10 (Carl Sagan)
I first read The Demon-Haunted World twelve or thirteen years ago. There was a (rather battered) copy in the local library, rather ironically filed with the books on alien abductions and the razor-blade sharpening properties of pyramids (I've always wondered why it is that pyramids are supposed to sharpen razor blades specifically - why not knives or forks?). The Demon-Haunted World had a profound effect upon me; it is probably one of the two or three most influential books I have ever read and I very much doubt I would have studied science at university had I not read it. There is a certain symmetry then, in returning to it now, when my thesis is almost done and I'm nearly done with the scientific part of my life.
The Demon-Haunted World is Carl Sagan's plea for better scientific education as a buttress against superstition and stupidity and for teaching sceptical thinking as a tool for preserving democracy. I remember that it moved me when I was young - but I am older and more cynical now. Not that I don't still think scientific thinking and scepticism are important things to learn' in fact, I think one chapter of this book - "The Baloney Detection Kit" - should be compulsory reading for all school children, as it contains the best and most succinct summary of the ways in which people (let's be honest, primarily politicians) try to lie to us. Of course, that is why, the world being as it is right now, no one is going to give it to them. This is why I find the book less impressive than I did when I first read it: yes it would be nice if the general level of scientific education was higher. Yes it would be nice if fewer people believed in astrology/homeopathy/etc. Yes it would be nice if people were more sceptical and less willing to take pronouncements from authority on faith. But what we really need is a way in which to make that happen, and Carl Sagan comes up a little short on policies. Partly this is a matter of timing: the book was written in 1996, during that brief, odd, hopeful decade between the fall of the Berlin Wall and 9/11 when economic growth was high and international politics were relatively quiet (insert the obvious caveat about Rwanda and Yugoslavia) - it's a decade when we could have fixed the world's problems and chose not to. I'm sure that in the future historians will look back on the 1990s as the Wasted Decade and ask why we didn't do more about poverty and climate change and whatever other crises are hurtling towards us. But as I said, it was a hopeful time, and I think that's why I saw it so positively back when I first read it - it seemed like all we had to do was identify the solution, and then implement it. Now I recognise that you also need to work out how to implement the solution.
Looking at the book with a more critical eye, I also notice now how American-centric the book is: it was rather surprising, for example, to be told that the concept of a trial by jury was an invention of the Founding Fathers, when we've been using it in one form or another in England since at least 1100, and probably since before the Norman Conquest. Also, were I constructing a list of "Fathers (and Mothers) of Democracy" I have to say that not only would Thomas Jefferson not be at the top of the list, I doubt he'd be on the list at all. Certainly Cleisthenes, Pericles, the Gracchi and John Lilburne come above Jefferson. I'd also rate Robespierre, Danton and Saint-Just as well as Marx and Tom Paine far above Jefferson. I'd also take issue with any description of the USA as a "democracy" before about 1965 (in the same way that the UK can't really be described as a democracy until at least 1918 (universal male suffrage and women's suffrage) and probably, really 1928 (when women were granted the vote on the same universal terms as men)).
That said I am forever endebted to Sagan for introducing me to both Frederick Douglass and Tom Paine, both of whom are heroes of mine. I have relatively few heroes, but I have always found Frederick Douglass, in particular, an enormous inspiration: a testament to the power of human determination and the indomitable human spirit. His autobiography is a brilliant account of the power of literacy and knowledge (the message Carl Sagan takes) and also of the way in which absolute power corrupted the slave owning aristocracy of the antebellum south absolutely: Douglass' description of a previously pleasant woman turning slowly into a monster when she inherited slaves is one that has always stayed with me. I have often been struck by the similarities between the Confederacy and the Nazi regime - both were essentially regimes of bullies, and fundamentally cowardly ones at that, and both had a strongly antagonistic relationship with the truth.
Ultimately, for all the imperfections I found reading The Demon-Haunted World again after all these years it remains a fascinating book, and an excellent introduction to Science (with a capital S) and to sceptical thinking, and it has a brilliant dissection of the alien abduction and witch hunting crazes that swept the world. The book is worth reading just for "The Baloney Detection Kit" alone. I just wish I could still be as optimistic as I was the first time I read it.
I first read The Demon-Haunted World twelve or thirteen years ago. There was a (rather battered) copy in the local library, rather ironically filed with the books on alien abductions and the razor-blade sharpening properties of pyramids (I've always wondered why it is that pyramids are supposed to sharpen razor blades specifically - why not knives or forks?). The Demon-Haunted World had a profound effect upon me; it is probably one of the two or three most influential books I have ever read and I very much doubt I would have studied science at university had I not read it. There is a certain symmetry then, in returning to it now, when my thesis is almost done and I'm nearly done with the scientific part of my life.
The Demon-Haunted World is Carl Sagan's plea for better scientific education as a buttress against superstition and stupidity and for teaching sceptical thinking as a tool for preserving democracy. I remember that it moved me when I was young - but I am older and more cynical now. Not that I don't still think scientific thinking and scepticism are important things to learn' in fact, I think one chapter of this book - "The Baloney Detection Kit" - should be compulsory reading for all school children, as it contains the best and most succinct summary of the ways in which people (let's be honest, primarily politicians) try to lie to us. Of course, that is why, the world being as it is right now, no one is going to give it to them. This is why I find the book less impressive than I did when I first read it: yes it would be nice if the general level of scientific education was higher. Yes it would be nice if fewer people believed in astrology/homeopathy/etc. Yes it would be nice if people were more sceptical and less willing to take pronouncements from authority on faith. But what we really need is a way in which to make that happen, and Carl Sagan comes up a little short on policies. Partly this is a matter of timing: the book was written in 1996, during that brief, odd, hopeful decade between the fall of the Berlin Wall and 9/11 when economic growth was high and international politics were relatively quiet (insert the obvious caveat about Rwanda and Yugoslavia) - it's a decade when we could have fixed the world's problems and chose not to. I'm sure that in the future historians will look back on the 1990s as the Wasted Decade and ask why we didn't do more about poverty and climate change and whatever other crises are hurtling towards us. But as I said, it was a hopeful time, and I think that's why I saw it so positively back when I first read it - it seemed like all we had to do was identify the solution, and then implement it. Now I recognise that you also need to work out how to implement the solution.
Looking at the book with a more critical eye, I also notice now how American-centric the book is: it was rather surprising, for example, to be told that the concept of a trial by jury was an invention of the Founding Fathers, when we've been using it in one form or another in England since at least 1100, and probably since before the Norman Conquest. Also, were I constructing a list of "Fathers (and Mothers) of Democracy" I have to say that not only would Thomas Jefferson not be at the top of the list, I doubt he'd be on the list at all. Certainly Cleisthenes, Pericles, the Gracchi and John Lilburne come above Jefferson. I'd also rate Robespierre, Danton and Saint-Just as well as Marx and Tom Paine far above Jefferson. I'd also take issue with any description of the USA as a "democracy" before about 1965 (in the same way that the UK can't really be described as a democracy until at least 1918 (universal male suffrage and women's suffrage) and probably, really 1928 (when women were granted the vote on the same universal terms as men)).
That said I am forever endebted to Sagan for introducing me to both Frederick Douglass and Tom Paine, both of whom are heroes of mine. I have relatively few heroes, but I have always found Frederick Douglass, in particular, an enormous inspiration: a testament to the power of human determination and the indomitable human spirit. His autobiography is a brilliant account of the power of literacy and knowledge (the message Carl Sagan takes) and also of the way in which absolute power corrupted the slave owning aristocracy of the antebellum south absolutely: Douglass' description of a previously pleasant woman turning slowly into a monster when she inherited slaves is one that has always stayed with me. I have often been struck by the similarities between the Confederacy and the Nazi regime - both were essentially regimes of bullies, and fundamentally cowardly ones at that, and both had a strongly antagonistic relationship with the truth.
Ultimately, for all the imperfections I found reading The Demon-Haunted World again after all these years it remains a fascinating book, and an excellent introduction to Science (with a capital S) and to sceptical thinking, and it has a brilliant dissection of the alien abduction and witch hunting crazes that swept the world. The book is worth reading just for "The Baloney Detection Kit" alone. I just wish I could still be as optimistic as I was the first time I read it.
Tuesday, 6 December 2011
This Is How The World Ends
Books read this week: The Mammoth Book of Apocalyptic SF 6/10, The Book of Were-Wolves 7/10 (Sabine Baring-Gould)
Not a cheerful set of books this week. The Mammoth Book of Apocalyptic SF is exactly what it says on the tin: an anthology of short stories divided fairly equally into stories about the end of the world as we know it, and stories set after the end of the world. I found the former generally more interesting than the latter: how people behave under extraordinary circumstances is fascinating, whilst predictions of life in the far future often aren't (especially when you suppose that as we've used up all our fossil fuel reserves any post-apocalyptic society will be necessarily neolithic, something which flies in the face of all human experience: it's not like the Romans or the ancient Greeks made extensive use of fossil fuels - certainly not to the extent that their societies couldn't function without them). Particular highlights include "The Clockwork Atomic Bomb", which is probably the best story in the book, but not really about an apocalypse per se: more about the years leading up to it: it's also one of the few stories here that isn't based entirely on a European or American perspective of the apocalypse, which made of a bit of a change. "When Sysadmins Ruled the Earth" and "Fermi and Frost" were also pretty good. "A Pail of Air" was memorable, but stretched my suspension of disbelief. "World Without End" is a fairly nice updating of the old myth of the Wandering Jew and the curse of immortality; the tale of an immortal London street walker with a vagina capable of mass-to-energy conversion. I wonder if the author drew from the sections of the Gilgamesh epic on Shamhat the Harlot for that story (I've always felt that Shamhat got a very raw deal).
It is also interesting the range of scenarios for the end of the world we have here: we have nuclear and biological as well as nanotechnological ragnaroks here, as well as out of control global warming and cosmic disasters. I wonder had this book been written twenty or thirty years ago, would we have so many different ways to destroy ourselves? Generally I'm very pro-technology, but it has to be said that as well as all manner of good things, science has also given us an ever-increasing variety of ways to destroy ourselves: as is so often the case, David Low put it perfectly: http://www.cartoons.ac.uk/record/LSE1258
Armageddon is depressing enough; somehow what people do when the world isn't about to end is that much more depressing. The Book of Were-Wolves is a fascinating 19th Century monograph: in theory it is an examination of the werewolf myth across the world, which would be interesting enough, but it is actually an examination of the way in which pre-enlightenment societies dealt with the kind of people we call serial killers today: Baring-Gould makes a very convincing argument that (unlike the various folk beliefs surrounding witchcraft) folk belief in werewolves is based upon the observation that occasionally individuals turn up who kill (and sometimes eat) other people for no readily apparent reason. With the knowledge of psychiatry we have today, we can begin to understand what can go wrong with someone, and how mental illness can lead them to commit otherwise inexplicable acts, but obviously if you're a medieval peasant and you find your neighbour eating your other neighbour you're probably just going to blame the devil and burn them. There is some discussion of the triggers for what we would call a psychotic break, and one gets the feeling that the first hesitant steps towards modern psychiatry are being taken.
The last part of the book is an interesting, although not very relevant digression into the history of some of the more famous mass murderers of the middle ages; there is a section on Elizabeth Bathory, which isn't particularly interesting, mainly because her crimes are sufficiently titillating that there's plenty of information about her life scattered across libraries, bookshops and the internet. However, the chapters on Gilles de Rais are far more interesting - not for the details of the crime themselves (horrific though they were; the descriptions of the silent villages where all the children had been stolen are like something out of a twisted fairy tale - except they were real and there was no happy ending) but rather for the way in which the investigation was conducted, and the efforts the secular authorities made to cover things up: in many ways the case reads like a lot of the child abuse scandals that hit the news today (although thankfully these usually end with a lower body count). First there is a reluctance to investigate such a high profile figure at all, then there is a failure to believe the evidence that is presented, and then, finally, there is an attempt to cover things up, because otherwise it'll be embarrassing. One also gets the feeling that de Rais found that, being part of the French aristocracy, most of the laws and conventions that ordinary people had to abide by didn't apply to him, and all he did really was to push the limits of what a rich aristocrat could get away with: he didn't realise that there were some actions so heinous that even his fellow aristocrats would (eventually) turn on him: one sees something similar in the Elizabeth Bathory's case. That said, the Duke of Brittany consistently tried to hush things up: it is to the eternal credit of the Bishop of Nantes that he refused to allow de Rais to creep away into a monastery, even when it would have been financially advantageous for him to do so. I almost wonder if there was a class aspect to this: the Duke of Brittany was (obviously) part of the French aristocracy, and displayed their typical contempt for the ordinary people of France. The Church, on the other hand, has always had a far more meritocratic structure, and so the Bishop may well have come from a relatively poor family himself (compare Henry II's early life with that of Thomas a Becket). Either way, it is fascinating how little the response of a large and powerful institution to a crime of this nature has changed over the centuries.
Not a cheerful set of books this week. The Mammoth Book of Apocalyptic SF is exactly what it says on the tin: an anthology of short stories divided fairly equally into stories about the end of the world as we know it, and stories set after the end of the world. I found the former generally more interesting than the latter: how people behave under extraordinary circumstances is fascinating, whilst predictions of life in the far future often aren't (especially when you suppose that as we've used up all our fossil fuel reserves any post-apocalyptic society will be necessarily neolithic, something which flies in the face of all human experience: it's not like the Romans or the ancient Greeks made extensive use of fossil fuels - certainly not to the extent that their societies couldn't function without them). Particular highlights include "The Clockwork Atomic Bomb", which is probably the best story in the book, but not really about an apocalypse per se: more about the years leading up to it: it's also one of the few stories here that isn't based entirely on a European or American perspective of the apocalypse, which made of a bit of a change. "When Sysadmins Ruled the Earth" and "Fermi and Frost" were also pretty good. "A Pail of Air" was memorable, but stretched my suspension of disbelief. "World Without End" is a fairly nice updating of the old myth of the Wandering Jew and the curse of immortality; the tale of an immortal London street walker with a vagina capable of mass-to-energy conversion. I wonder if the author drew from the sections of the Gilgamesh epic on Shamhat the Harlot for that story (I've always felt that Shamhat got a very raw deal).
It is also interesting the range of scenarios for the end of the world we have here: we have nuclear and biological as well as nanotechnological ragnaroks here, as well as out of control global warming and cosmic disasters. I wonder had this book been written twenty or thirty years ago, would we have so many different ways to destroy ourselves? Generally I'm very pro-technology, but it has to be said that as well as all manner of good things, science has also given us an ever-increasing variety of ways to destroy ourselves: as is so often the case, David Low put it perfectly: http://www.cartoons.ac.uk/record/LSE1258
Armageddon is depressing enough; somehow what people do when the world isn't about to end is that much more depressing. The Book of Were-Wolves is a fascinating 19th Century monograph: in theory it is an examination of the werewolf myth across the world, which would be interesting enough, but it is actually an examination of the way in which pre-enlightenment societies dealt with the kind of people we call serial killers today: Baring-Gould makes a very convincing argument that (unlike the various folk beliefs surrounding witchcraft) folk belief in werewolves is based upon the observation that occasionally individuals turn up who kill (and sometimes eat) other people for no readily apparent reason. With the knowledge of psychiatry we have today, we can begin to understand what can go wrong with someone, and how mental illness can lead them to commit otherwise inexplicable acts, but obviously if you're a medieval peasant and you find your neighbour eating your other neighbour you're probably just going to blame the devil and burn them. There is some discussion of the triggers for what we would call a psychotic break, and one gets the feeling that the first hesitant steps towards modern psychiatry are being taken.
The last part of the book is an interesting, although not very relevant digression into the history of some of the more famous mass murderers of the middle ages; there is a section on Elizabeth Bathory, which isn't particularly interesting, mainly because her crimes are sufficiently titillating that there's plenty of information about her life scattered across libraries, bookshops and the internet. However, the chapters on Gilles de Rais are far more interesting - not for the details of the crime themselves (horrific though they were; the descriptions of the silent villages where all the children had been stolen are like something out of a twisted fairy tale - except they were real and there was no happy ending) but rather for the way in which the investigation was conducted, and the efforts the secular authorities made to cover things up: in many ways the case reads like a lot of the child abuse scandals that hit the news today (although thankfully these usually end with a lower body count). First there is a reluctance to investigate such a high profile figure at all, then there is a failure to believe the evidence that is presented, and then, finally, there is an attempt to cover things up, because otherwise it'll be embarrassing. One also gets the feeling that de Rais found that, being part of the French aristocracy, most of the laws and conventions that ordinary people had to abide by didn't apply to him, and all he did really was to push the limits of what a rich aristocrat could get away with: he didn't realise that there were some actions so heinous that even his fellow aristocrats would (eventually) turn on him: one sees something similar in the Elizabeth Bathory's case. That said, the Duke of Brittany consistently tried to hush things up: it is to the eternal credit of the Bishop of Nantes that he refused to allow de Rais to creep away into a monastery, even when it would have been financially advantageous for him to do so. I almost wonder if there was a class aspect to this: the Duke of Brittany was (obviously) part of the French aristocracy, and displayed their typical contempt for the ordinary people of France. The Church, on the other hand, has always had a far more meritocratic structure, and so the Bishop may well have come from a relatively poor family himself (compare Henry II's early life with that of Thomas a Becket). Either way, it is fascinating how little the response of a large and powerful institution to a crime of this nature has changed over the centuries.
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