Books read this week: The Great Outsider: David Lloyd George (Roy Hattersley) 7/10
This is the second best biography of a Liberal prime minister written by a former Labour frontbencher called Roy I have ever read. Lloyd George is one of the two or three most influential and important British politicians of the 20th Century; Churchill (obviously) comes first, and Attlee and Lloyd George fight it out for second place. The modern Welfare State and modern cabinet government both owe their genesis to the Welsh Wizard. And yet Lloyd George is a far more divisive figure than either Churchill or Attlee; Hattersley notes on the very first page that Roy Jenkins (author of the brilliant biography of Gladstone which is the best biography of a Liberal prime minister written by a former Labour frontbencher called Roy) suggested to him that a new biography of Lloyd George was needed, but that he (Jenkins) bore such an animosity towards a prime minister who left office before he could walk that he could never write it himself.
There are a number of reasons why Lloyd George is so polarising; his fondness for vicious personal attacks on his political opponents; his brilliance ("When a true genius appears in the world, you may know him by this sign, that the dunces are all in confederacy against him."); the way in which any novus homo has to tread on toes to get ahead. I think the most important reason however is that if you could sum up Lloyd George in a single word, it would be "devious". If you could use two it would be "devious" and "unprincipled". Hattersley does a good job of showing that whilst these attributes made Lloyd George an unpleasant individual, they also made him a first class political operator - the man who broke the House of Lords, established old age pensions and unemployment benefit and won the First World War. It was said of Gladstone that if he had been a worse man he would have been a better politician; that reproach could never be made to Lloyd George.
The comparison with Gladstone is an interesting one; Gladstone created the Liberal Party, and Lloyd George destroyed it. They were both electrifying orators, and both profoundly shaped by their early religious experiences. They were at their best when heading gigantic popular campaigns, and made their mark as Chancellors before ascending to Number 10. Although Gladstone was a devout Anglican, there is something very puritanical about his outlook; Lloyd George, on the other hand, although a non-conformist was far more relaxed in his dealings with others. And both engaged in behaviour which, whilst well known to their political colleagues, would have destroyed their careers had it become more widely know; in Gladstone's case, self-flagellation and the frequenting of prostitutes; in Lloyd George's his numerous affairs. By the by, I have often thought that Gladstone's case is a clear example of how politics has changed for the better over the last hundred years or so; in the present day, it is inconceivable that if the Prime Minister's favourite pastime was wandering London's red light district in the early hours of the morning, picking up prostitutes that (a) this information would remain secret and (b) that the Prime Minister would keep his job. Both also showed a willingness to take advantage of those around them, with a disregard for others that verges on callousness, motivated by a sense of their own personal destiny, to which the destinies of everyone around them were to be subordinated. The crucial difference between them was this; Gladstone would never allow politics to get in the way of his principles. Lloyd George never allowed his principles to get in the way of his politics. That said, I'd choose to spend an evening talking with Lloyd George over Gladstone any day; there is something very priggish and unattractive about Gladstone; as his wife said "William, if you weren't such a great man, you'd be a terrible bore.". Whereas Lloyd George (despite his commitment to temperance) would be very entertaining company.
Lloyd George was a cottage born Welshman. He was (I believe) the first and only British Prime Minister not to speak English as his first language. He was also the first working class Prime Minister the United Kingdom ever had; unlike Gladstone, Lloyd George got into parliament without patrons, without mentors and without family money. And he did this at a time when MPs were unpaid (a restriction on working class participation in politics with Lloyd George himself lifted). It is this which is behind many of the less reputable aspects of Lloyd George's career; his exploitation of his brother's business, his shady investments and his sale of honours; Salisbury and Balfour could draw on the enormous Cecil family wealth, and the Chamberlains on their father's millions. Lloyd George had to make his own way.
One thing which distinguishes Lloyd George from both Churchill and Attlee was that his best, and most enduring work was done when he was Chancellor of the Exchequer, rather than Prime Minister. The People's Budget of 1909, and its political fallout, still have ramifications today. The Welfare State and the National Health Service both originate in the idea first put forward by Lloyd George in 1909 that the state has a duty not just to ameliorate the effects of poverty, but to actually eliminate it. Meanwhile, Asquith, the Liberal Prime Minister at this juncture, spent most Cabinet meetings composing love letters to his mistress, one of his daughter's school friends. Lloyd George was also sleeping with one of his daughter's school friends, but had the good grace not to write to her during cabinet (although he did form a one-sided suicide pact with her, so I think the points for this round go to Asquith. Go Asquith!). Hattersley's description of this period suffers because of the inevitable comparison with Dangerfield's The Strange Death of Liberal England, which is a superb book, and one of the very best (and funniest) books I have ever read.
Lloyd George's tenure as Prime Minister was less successful; he was unable (or thought himself unable, which amounts to the same thing in politics) to fire Douglas Haig, despite his gross incompetence and disregard for human life. He therefore bears a significant responsibility for the massacre in the mud at Passchendaele. Although the prosecution of the war was hideously botched, this was nothing compared to the utter disaster that was the Versailles treaty. And for that, Lloyd George carries a heavy burden of blame. However, he did revolutionise the office of the Prime Minister, creating the cabinet office and instituting the taking of minutes at cabinet meetings (I was amazed that minutes were not already being taken; just one sign of how backward the government of this country was at the outbreak of war). Both of these innovations have had far reaching consequences and shape British government to this day.
After Lloyd George left office, to be replaced by Bonar Law (The Man Formerly Known As The Unknown Prime Minister; we really need a new one - Lord Rosebery perhaps?) both Lloyd George and the book enter a slow decline; as is so often the case, Lloyd George was burned out when he left office, and displaced by younger, hungrier men. Towards the end of his life we have the unedifying spectacle of Ramsay Mac (not one of the sharpest Prime Ministers we've ever had) stringing the aging Lloyd George along with a promise of AV. It is quite amusing; there is a passage in John O'Farrell's history of Britain (which I reviewed a couple of months ago) where he says, basically, 1918: Liberal Party is defeated in a general election and immediately begins whining about electoral reform. I though that was a joke.
There is lots more to say here about the suffragettes and the People's budget; about the relationship between Lloyd George and the trade unions and about the death (I should say euthanasia) of the Liberal Party; about how the Liberals chose to die rather than to change. But it is getting late, and this post is already very long. I'm sure I'll return to these topics again.
One last, and very strange thing: Lloyd George's love child with his secretary (and later second wife) was adopted by her birth mother, and then told that her parents were murdered African missionaries. Who does that to a child?
My final verdict on Lloyd George: fun guy to have a (suitably non-alcoholic) drink with, but I wouldn't trust him with my wallet.
Monday, 28 March 2011
Monday, 21 March 2011
A Roaring Rampage Of Revenge
Books read this week: The Count Of Monte Cristo (Alexandre Dumas) 7/10
Dumas' masterpiece is probably my favourite piece of revenge fiction. The Count of Monte Cristo may be lacking in ninjas and current pop culture references (although I'm sure it was cutting edge at the time), but it more than makes this up with humour and the wonderfully cerebral nature of Edmond Dantes' revenge. My favourite example of this comes very early in the book; Edmond Dantes' enemies are sat in a bistro, plotting to have him incarcerated for a crime he did not commit, and one of them says "You know guys, I think we should think this over - Edmond Dantes strikes me as the kind of man who will come back in twenty five years and wreak a bloody vengeance on us all - I'm just saying."
It is interesting to contrast the popular perception of the Count of Monte Cristo with the novel itself. As the introduction notes, it is generally seen as a children's book. A tale of daring do and cunning escapes. Today however, we would generally consider a double infanticide, incest, domestice poisoning and slavery to not really be suitable for children. Although, as society has become more liberal, the lesbian characters are probably more acceptable now than they were then.
I think the contrast can most clearly be seen in popular culture in the graphic novel V For Vendetta (itself a perfect step-by-step guide to dismantling a fascist regime) and it's rather inferior film adaptation. V in the comic is modelled very clearly on the literary Count of Monte Cristo. A very scary man, with a dark and troubled past, a thirst for (ironic) vengeance and a set of fairly nebulous, extraordinary (and possible superhuman) abilities. But not a nice man. A terrorist, in the purest sense of the word; a man who uses terror as a weapon to destroy his enemies. The V of the film, on the other hand, is explicitly modelled on the black and white movie - a far more cheerful affair.
What I like most about Edmond Dantes' revenge however is the subtlety of it; he could, we are shown, easily kill all of his tormentors. He could fight duels, he could have them assassinated; he is a master chemist and could strike them down with traceless poison. He chooses to do none of these things; his weapon is the truth. He exposes their crimes, and destroys their families; he annihilates their fortunes, and exposes them to public ridicule. And then he has only to speak the four words "I am Edmond Dantes." to completely destroy them; of his three enemies, by the end one is dead, one is mad, and the Count lets the third one live. It is very elegant, very subtle, and very French. It is precisely because the truth is his weapon that we are able to empathise with Dantes; you have to admire a man who takes his revenge on the banker, Danglars, by arranging for his lesbian daughter to elope with her lover before an arranged marriage can take place.
In many ways the book is not really about the Count of Monte Cristo; Edmond Dantes the man was sympathetic; the Count is almost a force of nature; most of the drama lies in the reactions of the people aroudn him - much like in a disaster film; we do not ask about the motivation of the iceberg, or how it feels, we ask how people respond to the ship sinking.
It is the peripheral characters that make the book - whether it is Eugenie Danglars at the opera, when every other head is turned towards the mysterious Count saying "that woman with him is really, really hot." or Maximillien Morrel, who, because someone saved his father's life on the 5th September, goes out on that anniversary every year and performs a random act of heroic bravery or even little Luigi Vampa, the cultured Roman bandit. My absolute favourite however has to be Monsieur Noirtier. The only character in the book even close to being an intellectual match for the Count, an old Jacobin and professional revolutionary - paralysed from the eyes down. Capable of communicating only by blinking, he can still frustrate all of his son's evil schemes, reducing the villainous Crown Prosecutor to impotent shouting (I see him, a la Steptoe and Son, yelling "You dirty old man!" (in French, obviously)). When people start dying in the house, who solves the mystery? Monsieur Noirtier! When Valentine's evil stepmother tries to poison her, who saves her? Monsieur Noirtier! Is there anything he can't do?
It is interesting to me how many of the adaptations of the Count of Monte Cristo see the need to change the ending; there is a tendency to inject a discordant note of romance, by pairing Edmond Dantes with his original sweetheart Mercedes. The problem with this (as Mercedes herself points out in the book) is that she has spent twenty four years married to the Count's arch nemesis and has a twenty year old son. The book ends with Mercedes in a convent, and the Count with Haydee, the Greek slave girl/princess, when Haydee convinces the Count not to follow through with his original plan of suicide after taking his revenge. Although there are unfortunate implications from the relationship between the Count and Haydee (the book does it's best to deal with them by having all the pressure come from Haydee, but is not entirely successful) I like this ending better; mainly because Edmond Dantes and the Count of Monte Cristo are different people. Dantes was a simple sailor, and the Count is a cultured, sophisticated and utterly implacable incarnation of the human need for justice. Fundamentally, I like the ending because it recognises that people change; that twenty years is a long time, and that love generally isn't forever. It is a reassuringly realistic message in what is quite a melodramatic book. A further point against Mercedes is her somewhat inappropriate relationship with her son (can you say Oedipus complex?).
A final note: as is my custom, I read the Penguin Classics translation, by Robin Buss, and a very fine translation it is too. The introduction and notes are also excellent.
Dumas' masterpiece is probably my favourite piece of revenge fiction. The Count of Monte Cristo may be lacking in ninjas and current pop culture references (although I'm sure it was cutting edge at the time), but it more than makes this up with humour and the wonderfully cerebral nature of Edmond Dantes' revenge. My favourite example of this comes very early in the book; Edmond Dantes' enemies are sat in a bistro, plotting to have him incarcerated for a crime he did not commit, and one of them says "You know guys, I think we should think this over - Edmond Dantes strikes me as the kind of man who will come back in twenty five years and wreak a bloody vengeance on us all - I'm just saying."
It is interesting to contrast the popular perception of the Count of Monte Cristo with the novel itself. As the introduction notes, it is generally seen as a children's book. A tale of daring do and cunning escapes. Today however, we would generally consider a double infanticide, incest, domestice poisoning and slavery to not really be suitable for children. Although, as society has become more liberal, the lesbian characters are probably more acceptable now than they were then.
I think the contrast can most clearly be seen in popular culture in the graphic novel V For Vendetta (itself a perfect step-by-step guide to dismantling a fascist regime) and it's rather inferior film adaptation. V in the comic is modelled very clearly on the literary Count of Monte Cristo. A very scary man, with a dark and troubled past, a thirst for (ironic) vengeance and a set of fairly nebulous, extraordinary (and possible superhuman) abilities. But not a nice man. A terrorist, in the purest sense of the word; a man who uses terror as a weapon to destroy his enemies. The V of the film, on the other hand, is explicitly modelled on the black and white movie - a far more cheerful affair.
What I like most about Edmond Dantes' revenge however is the subtlety of it; he could, we are shown, easily kill all of his tormentors. He could fight duels, he could have them assassinated; he is a master chemist and could strike them down with traceless poison. He chooses to do none of these things; his weapon is the truth. He exposes their crimes, and destroys their families; he annihilates their fortunes, and exposes them to public ridicule. And then he has only to speak the four words "I am Edmond Dantes." to completely destroy them; of his three enemies, by the end one is dead, one is mad, and the Count lets the third one live. It is very elegant, very subtle, and very French. It is precisely because the truth is his weapon that we are able to empathise with Dantes; you have to admire a man who takes his revenge on the banker, Danglars, by arranging for his lesbian daughter to elope with her lover before an arranged marriage can take place.
In many ways the book is not really about the Count of Monte Cristo; Edmond Dantes the man was sympathetic; the Count is almost a force of nature; most of the drama lies in the reactions of the people aroudn him - much like in a disaster film; we do not ask about the motivation of the iceberg, or how it feels, we ask how people respond to the ship sinking.
It is the peripheral characters that make the book - whether it is Eugenie Danglars at the opera, when every other head is turned towards the mysterious Count saying "that woman with him is really, really hot." or Maximillien Morrel, who, because someone saved his father's life on the 5th September, goes out on that anniversary every year and performs a random act of heroic bravery or even little Luigi Vampa, the cultured Roman bandit. My absolute favourite however has to be Monsieur Noirtier. The only character in the book even close to being an intellectual match for the Count, an old Jacobin and professional revolutionary - paralysed from the eyes down. Capable of communicating only by blinking, he can still frustrate all of his son's evil schemes, reducing the villainous Crown Prosecutor to impotent shouting (I see him, a la Steptoe and Son, yelling "You dirty old man!" (in French, obviously)). When people start dying in the house, who solves the mystery? Monsieur Noirtier! When Valentine's evil stepmother tries to poison her, who saves her? Monsieur Noirtier! Is there anything he can't do?
It is interesting to me how many of the adaptations of the Count of Monte Cristo see the need to change the ending; there is a tendency to inject a discordant note of romance, by pairing Edmond Dantes with his original sweetheart Mercedes. The problem with this (as Mercedes herself points out in the book) is that she has spent twenty four years married to the Count's arch nemesis and has a twenty year old son. The book ends with Mercedes in a convent, and the Count with Haydee, the Greek slave girl/princess, when Haydee convinces the Count not to follow through with his original plan of suicide after taking his revenge. Although there are unfortunate implications from the relationship between the Count and Haydee (the book does it's best to deal with them by having all the pressure come from Haydee, but is not entirely successful) I like this ending better; mainly because Edmond Dantes and the Count of Monte Cristo are different people. Dantes was a simple sailor, and the Count is a cultured, sophisticated and utterly implacable incarnation of the human need for justice. Fundamentally, I like the ending because it recognises that people change; that twenty years is a long time, and that love generally isn't forever. It is a reassuringly realistic message in what is quite a melodramatic book. A further point against Mercedes is her somewhat inappropriate relationship with her son (can you say Oedipus complex?).
A final note: as is my custom, I read the Penguin Classics translation, by Robin Buss, and a very fine translation it is too. The introduction and notes are also excellent.
Tuesday, 15 March 2011
Of Crowns and Commonwealths
Books read this week: The Glorious Revolution of 1688 (Maurice Ashley) 7/10
It is surprising, considering how successful England (and later the United Kingdom) has been over the centuries, how amazingly dim so many of our monarchs have been. Even if you eliminate the actually deranged (Henry VI), the syphilitic yet successful (Henry VIII) and the incompetently evil (Richard III) there's still a rich well of stupidity to be drawn from. And yet even amongst this select band, James II (James VII for any Scottish readers out there) stands out, equalled only by Richard II in his ability to look at a recent example of What Not To Do, and then go ahead and do it anyway. Although he lost his crown, unlike Richard II (and indeed the two exemplars, Edward II and Charles I), James was at least able to keep his head.
The Glorious Revolution of 1688 chronicles the last successful foreign invasion of British soil (although not the last invasion - several hundred French soldiers landed in Wales in 1797, where they surrendered after being beaten with frying pans by the local women), which resulted in the replacement of James II by his son-in-law (and also nephew - the genealogy of the royal family isn't so much a tree as a twisted shrub attempting to consume itself) William III. It is a decently written book, and fairly clear, although with the odd peculiarity of phrase which might make one suspect that the book was a translation (it isn't). Although I do find myself forced to slightly disagree with Ashley's final verdict on James II; "it is not entirely true that James was a bully who proved a coward".
The most interesting argument put forward by the book was that there were three possible outcomes of the trainwreck that was James II's reign; the two that are usually discussed - success by James II in establishing an absolute monarchy on the French model or success by William III which ultimately led to the constitutional monarchy* we know and... well, know today. The third option was reestablishing a Republic (or Commonwealth) - basically a return to the system Cromwell had tried. That William III had a genuine fear of republican sentiment in England is a fascinating counterpoint to the conventional view that Cromwell made himself so unpopular that by 1660 the entire country was massively enthusiastic in it's welcome of Charles II (a man who was just as treacherous and untrustworthy as his brother - just much, much smarter). It is also fascinating that William III made absolutely sure that his father-in-law was able to flee the country unhindered; even going so far as to let him go when captured by Williamite forces. He obviously felt that it was better that James flee, even at the cost of more battles later, than force him to fight with his back to the wall (a lesson that could well be applied in the Middle East today).
The overall picture that emerges of James II is really quite pathetic; it is quite telling that even the people fighting a civil war on his behalf couldn't come up with a more affectionate sobriquet than "James the Shite". As he fled the country, he threw the Great Seal into the Thames - being under the impression that the government couldn't function without a big stamp to stamp things with. Not only was he really that stupid - he also missed the river, allowing the seal to be retrieved easily. FAIL.
It is true however that James was trying to establish an absolute monarchy at least partly so that he could guarantee religious freedom - which does leave me a little torn. Ultimately, I think religious freedom guaranteed by despotism is really no freedom at all - especially not if entrusted to someone as untrustworthy as James II. That said, anti-Catholic bigotry is the dirty little secret of English history - and sometimes the present as well. It is, for example, very common for history books to contrast the reign of "Bloody" Mary, where Protestants were executed for Heresy, with that of Elizabeth I, who "did not seek to make windows into men's souls". They usually forget to mention that whilst being a Catholic priest wouldn't get one executed for Heresy under Elizabeth, it would get you executed for Treason - the only difference being you'd be hung, drawn and quartered rather than burnt alive. Not sure that's much of an improvement myself.
And we shouldn't think that anti-Catholic bigotry is entirely gone; they burn the Pope in effigy in Lewes every year, there was a huge fuss over the Pope's visit to the UK over the summer (name another head of state who could visit the UK and have the papers complain about taxpayers' money being spent on security), and, most importantly, no Catholic is allowed to marry Prince Charles (tragic, isn't it?).
The other major figure in the book is, of course, William III. Not a particularly nice man, or a pleasant one - although very smart. He was, in fact, a direct descendant of William the Silent, whose biography I read a little while ago. I would like to read more about him, but my view at the moment is that, much like Oliver Cromwell, he was one of those nasty people who, whilst we might not like them, were essential to the development of modern democracy (although neither Cromwell nor William III would have like to see anything like it).
As an aside, I think people often misunderstand why there is a gigantic statue of Oliver Cromwell outside the Houses of Parliament; it's not because he was a democrat (he wasn't), or because he introduced religious toleration to England (although he did: note - England and not Ireland) or even because he founded the modern Royal Navy (although it wasn't Royal at the time). There is a huge statue of Cromwell outside Parliament as a not-very-subtle reminder to the monarch, every time they pass by, of exactly what the consequences would be should they choose to overstep the bounds that the British constitution places on them.
* Albeit indirectly and primarily because the Hanoverians couldn't organise a piss up in a brewery.
It is surprising, considering how successful England (and later the United Kingdom) has been over the centuries, how amazingly dim so many of our monarchs have been. Even if you eliminate the actually deranged (Henry VI), the syphilitic yet successful (Henry VIII) and the incompetently evil (Richard III) there's still a rich well of stupidity to be drawn from. And yet even amongst this select band, James II (James VII for any Scottish readers out there) stands out, equalled only by Richard II in his ability to look at a recent example of What Not To Do, and then go ahead and do it anyway. Although he lost his crown, unlike Richard II (and indeed the two exemplars, Edward II and Charles I), James was at least able to keep his head.
The Glorious Revolution of 1688 chronicles the last successful foreign invasion of British soil (although not the last invasion - several hundred French soldiers landed in Wales in 1797, where they surrendered after being beaten with frying pans by the local women), which resulted in the replacement of James II by his son-in-law (and also nephew - the genealogy of the royal family isn't so much a tree as a twisted shrub attempting to consume itself) William III. It is a decently written book, and fairly clear, although with the odd peculiarity of phrase which might make one suspect that the book was a translation (it isn't). Although I do find myself forced to slightly disagree with Ashley's final verdict on James II; "it is not entirely true that James was a bully who proved a coward".
The most interesting argument put forward by the book was that there were three possible outcomes of the trainwreck that was James II's reign; the two that are usually discussed - success by James II in establishing an absolute monarchy on the French model or success by William III which ultimately led to the constitutional monarchy* we know and... well, know today. The third option was reestablishing a Republic (or Commonwealth) - basically a return to the system Cromwell had tried. That William III had a genuine fear of republican sentiment in England is a fascinating counterpoint to the conventional view that Cromwell made himself so unpopular that by 1660 the entire country was massively enthusiastic in it's welcome of Charles II (a man who was just as treacherous and untrustworthy as his brother - just much, much smarter). It is also fascinating that William III made absolutely sure that his father-in-law was able to flee the country unhindered; even going so far as to let him go when captured by Williamite forces. He obviously felt that it was better that James flee, even at the cost of more battles later, than force him to fight with his back to the wall (a lesson that could well be applied in the Middle East today).
The overall picture that emerges of James II is really quite pathetic; it is quite telling that even the people fighting a civil war on his behalf couldn't come up with a more affectionate sobriquet than "James the Shite". As he fled the country, he threw the Great Seal into the Thames - being under the impression that the government couldn't function without a big stamp to stamp things with. Not only was he really that stupid - he also missed the river, allowing the seal to be retrieved easily. FAIL.
It is true however that James was trying to establish an absolute monarchy at least partly so that he could guarantee religious freedom - which does leave me a little torn. Ultimately, I think religious freedom guaranteed by despotism is really no freedom at all - especially not if entrusted to someone as untrustworthy as James II. That said, anti-Catholic bigotry is the dirty little secret of English history - and sometimes the present as well. It is, for example, very common for history books to contrast the reign of "Bloody" Mary, where Protestants were executed for Heresy, with that of Elizabeth I, who "did not seek to make windows into men's souls". They usually forget to mention that whilst being a Catholic priest wouldn't get one executed for Heresy under Elizabeth, it would get you executed for Treason - the only difference being you'd be hung, drawn and quartered rather than burnt alive. Not sure that's much of an improvement myself.
And we shouldn't think that anti-Catholic bigotry is entirely gone; they burn the Pope in effigy in Lewes every year, there was a huge fuss over the Pope's visit to the UK over the summer (name another head of state who could visit the UK and have the papers complain about taxpayers' money being spent on security), and, most importantly, no Catholic is allowed to marry Prince Charles (tragic, isn't it?).
The other major figure in the book is, of course, William III. Not a particularly nice man, or a pleasant one - although very smart. He was, in fact, a direct descendant of William the Silent, whose biography I read a little while ago. I would like to read more about him, but my view at the moment is that, much like Oliver Cromwell, he was one of those nasty people who, whilst we might not like them, were essential to the development of modern democracy (although neither Cromwell nor William III would have like to see anything like it).
As an aside, I think people often misunderstand why there is a gigantic statue of Oliver Cromwell outside the Houses of Parliament; it's not because he was a democrat (he wasn't), or because he introduced religious toleration to England (although he did: note - England and not Ireland) or even because he founded the modern Royal Navy (although it wasn't Royal at the time). There is a huge statue of Cromwell outside Parliament as a not-very-subtle reminder to the monarch, every time they pass by, of exactly what the consequences would be should they choose to overstep the bounds that the British constitution places on them.
* Albeit indirectly and primarily because the Hanoverians couldn't organise a piss up in a brewery.
Tuesday, 8 March 2011
Two Out Of Three Ain't Bad
Books read this week: The Decameron (Giovanni Boccaccio) 8/10
I had intended to read and review Graham Greene's The Quiet American this week, but I started reading the Decameron and found that I couldn't stop. Boccaccio's ribald classic is one of the three great short story collections of the middle ages - the other two being the Arabian Nights and the Canterbury Tales. I must admit that I've never succeeded in finishing Chaucer's work; I am determined to read the Canterbury tales in the original, which makes for slow going. I will start again sometime soon. Not being conversant in either Arabic or Italian, I'm spared that necessity for both the Decameron and the Arabian Nights, and so I have read, and enjoyed, both.
The Decameron differs from the Canterbury tales in that it is complete, and that containing so many more stories (100 rather than 25) each tale is perforce shorter (although Chaucer did borrow quite liberally from the Decameron). The framing device is superficially similar (travellers passing the time by telling tales), although in Boccaccio's case more extraordinary; rather than a pilgrimage, the storytellers are brought together by the need to flee the ravages of the Black Death. This is vital to the plot, as it both explains the loosening of social conventions which allows seven young women to travel with three men they aren't related or married to and gives the noble ladies of the party an excuse to tell bawdy stories. The prologue does stress how totally cataclysmic the Black Death was to Italian society; for a modern analogue, think zombie apocalypse.
The stories of the Decameron are also more focused than Chaucer's; each day has a theme (such as "Generosity" or "Tricks Wives Have Played On Their Husbands") and (with the exception of Dioneo), everyone's tale must fit the theme. Dioneo, who tells the last story of the day, is exempt from this restriction, and his tales usually provide a counterpoint to the overarching moral of the nine previous stories. They're also usually the most enjoyable tales. I think it's no coincidence that when the Decameron is over, Dioneo is the only one of the storytellers who is individually memorable; the other Laurettas and Pompineas and Filostratos all blend into one another.
The comparison with the Arabian Nights is also an interesting one; the main difference here is that the Arabian Nights as we have it now is the product of hundreds of years of collaboration, oral transmission and extrapolation, and so any trace of the original author has disappeared; thus although we can see some themes in common with the Decameron, it is hard to say whether they were in the "original". Another product of the collaborative nature of the Arabian Nights is the intricate tales within tales within tales within tales we find, unfolding like a set of russian dolls. Boccaccio does not give us anything so delicate.
That said, the fundamental message of the Arabian Nights is also one of the messages of the Decameron. This message can be summarised in three clauses: (a) Your wife is smarter than you. (b) Your wife is cheating on you. (c) Due to (a) you should not try to do anything about (b). The Decameron's world is far more humdrum and mundane than that of the Arabian Nights, with fewer Djinn and Demons and Magic Carpets and more people tricking other people out of their pigs, and so this is shown less fantastically; my favourite passage of the Arabian Nights is early in the prologue, when the Sultan is travelling and he sees a beatiful woman sitting on a beach next to a hideous and enormous demon, who is snoring loudly. The woman tells the Sultan that the demon is her husband, and that he keeps her in a box, inside another box, at the bottom of the sea. And she has nevertheless committed adultery with no less than 100 different men. The equivalent in the Decameron involves Madonna Beatrice convincing her husband to put on one of her dresses and go into the garden so that her lover can beat him with a stick; rather more prosaic, but no less amusing.
As I said, this is one of the messages of the Decameron, but by no means it's only one; other important messages are: never trust a friar, always be hospitable, never trust a friar, don't marry a woman much younger than yourself, never trust a friar and sleeping with the mother of you godchild is not a sin. This last one is the focus of one of the very few tales involving the supernatural; the ghost of Tingoccio the Sienese claws his way out of hell, just to deliver that one message to his best friend Meuccio: "It's not a sin!"
The morality of the Decameron is also fascinating; I would call it a peasant morality, but I think that might be offensive to peasants; I will settle by calling it Odyssian. It has it's roots in that hearty, loud and often cruel but sometimes extremely witty humour one associates with football crowds. It's a world of elaborate practical jokes, where we admire the cunning and the crafty because they are cunning and crafty and they make us laugh and they are designated the heroes of this particular tale. I can understand this, and certainly one has to admire the audacity of rogues like Friar Cipolla, using a quick wit and a silver tongue to sell a lump of coal as a holy relic, but occasionally the tales do come across as mean spirited; in particular every story that features the painters Buffo and Buffamalco just feels cruel. Sexual mores have also changed, and so there are quite a few tales which were presumably considered screamingly hilarious in the 14th Century, but today would be prosecuted as serious sexual assaults. (Although some of the scenarios become so convoluted that it is hard to work out which party would be prosecuted; for example - A intending to have sex with B disguises herself as C. D intending to have sex with C disguises himself as B. If A and D have sex, each believing the other partner to be someone else, who is in the wrong?).
It is the religious allegories which are most alien to a modern audience however; the tale of Griselda which ends the book, for example, is (according to the notes) intended to be read as an allegory for the total submission to the Lord's will that a Christian should aim for. Instead, it comes across as a series of sadistic power games ("You know I said I murdered your daughter twelve years ago? Well, I didn't; wasn't that a funny jape?"). Likewise, most of the stories on generosity come across bizarre if not downright demented to a modern audience, especially those where women are involved, as Boccaccio seems to ignore the fact that the women are individuals and should be allowed to make their own choices; they're not property and they shouldn't (and can't) be given as 'gifts'.
Now, this type of thinking might not seem unusual in a 14th Century man (in fact, there are probably a large number of 21st Century men who thing that way), but it is still surprising considering how sympathetic towards women trapped in unhappy (arranged) marriages; a sizable proportion of the stories revolve around women who are harassed by unreasonably jealous husbands, or left sexually unsatisfied because their husbands are geriatric and senile (or, in the case of the wife of Pietro di Vinciolo, as gay as a treeful of monkeys on nitrous oxide). The women in these cases are usually treated sympathetically; but Boccaccio also includes that traditional, but singularly vile fable which also appears in the Arabian Nights, with the moral if your marriage is unhappy, you should beat your wife more. The variation in tone almost makes me wonder if Boccaccio was actually recording stories, rather than inventing them.
The Decameron as a whole shows a surprisingly cosmopolitan outlook; the Jewish and Muslin characters are treated just a well (and just as badly) as the Christian ones, and although it is a plot point that Pietro di Vinciolo is gay, he is no less sympathetic than any of the other cuckolds in the book (and ends up rather happier than most of them). Boccaccio reserves most of his bile for the Church; as the book was written before the reformation, it's not really correct to talk of the Catholic Church, because there weren't any others, and the Christian religion provides a constant background to all the tales; whether it is the necessity of a deathbed confession which moves the plot of the very first tale or the constant preoccupation with the morality of sleeping with the mother of your godchild, religion is pervasive. The unreformed church is however massively corrupt at every level, and all the characters are well aware of this; yet (with individual exceptions) this does not reduce their respect for the church as an institution. Partly, I think this arises from the concepts of original sin and forgiveness central to the message of the medieval church; all people are fallible, and all sins can be forgiven, so we should just try to do our best and keep up appearances. And if we can have a laugh along the way, all the better. Boccaccio reserves most of his anger for hypocrites, and, of course, the friars. For some reason, Boccaccio really doesn't like friars.
For all I've said about the alien mindset exhibited by some of the tales, the thing I like best about the Decameron is how recognisable many of the situations are, especially in the more down to earth tales; in fact, the less "noble" the tale, the more familiar it seems. In my mind's eye I can see Friar Cipolla as a fast talking used car salesman; there is also something very relatable about the story of the Abbess storming from her bedchamber to scold a disobedient novice, having in her haste put the priest's breeches on in place of her wimple. There is something very reassuring about how familiar these stories sound; I guess it's just a reminder that no matter where they are (or when they are) people are still people.
A final note: I have the Penguin Classics edition of the Decameron, which I found was a very readable and clear translation. I find this is usually the case with the Penguin Classics editions; I always try and seek them out when reading literature in translation. I don't know why the Penguin translations are more readable than the OUP ones, but they always are (a particularly inspired translation: "I know it's true - the Arseangel Bagriel told me!).
I had intended to read and review Graham Greene's The Quiet American this week, but I started reading the Decameron and found that I couldn't stop. Boccaccio's ribald classic is one of the three great short story collections of the middle ages - the other two being the Arabian Nights and the Canterbury Tales. I must admit that I've never succeeded in finishing Chaucer's work; I am determined to read the Canterbury tales in the original, which makes for slow going. I will start again sometime soon. Not being conversant in either Arabic or Italian, I'm spared that necessity for both the Decameron and the Arabian Nights, and so I have read, and enjoyed, both.
The Decameron differs from the Canterbury tales in that it is complete, and that containing so many more stories (100 rather than 25) each tale is perforce shorter (although Chaucer did borrow quite liberally from the Decameron). The framing device is superficially similar (travellers passing the time by telling tales), although in Boccaccio's case more extraordinary; rather than a pilgrimage, the storytellers are brought together by the need to flee the ravages of the Black Death. This is vital to the plot, as it both explains the loosening of social conventions which allows seven young women to travel with three men they aren't related or married to and gives the noble ladies of the party an excuse to tell bawdy stories. The prologue does stress how totally cataclysmic the Black Death was to Italian society; for a modern analogue, think zombie apocalypse.
The stories of the Decameron are also more focused than Chaucer's; each day has a theme (such as "Generosity" or "Tricks Wives Have Played On Their Husbands") and (with the exception of Dioneo), everyone's tale must fit the theme. Dioneo, who tells the last story of the day, is exempt from this restriction, and his tales usually provide a counterpoint to the overarching moral of the nine previous stories. They're also usually the most enjoyable tales. I think it's no coincidence that when the Decameron is over, Dioneo is the only one of the storytellers who is individually memorable; the other Laurettas and Pompineas and Filostratos all blend into one another.
The comparison with the Arabian Nights is also an interesting one; the main difference here is that the Arabian Nights as we have it now is the product of hundreds of years of collaboration, oral transmission and extrapolation, and so any trace of the original author has disappeared; thus although we can see some themes in common with the Decameron, it is hard to say whether they were in the "original". Another product of the collaborative nature of the Arabian Nights is the intricate tales within tales within tales within tales we find, unfolding like a set of russian dolls. Boccaccio does not give us anything so delicate.
That said, the fundamental message of the Arabian Nights is also one of the messages of the Decameron. This message can be summarised in three clauses: (a) Your wife is smarter than you. (b) Your wife is cheating on you. (c) Due to (a) you should not try to do anything about (b). The Decameron's world is far more humdrum and mundane than that of the Arabian Nights, with fewer Djinn and Demons and Magic Carpets and more people tricking other people out of their pigs, and so this is shown less fantastically; my favourite passage of the Arabian Nights is early in the prologue, when the Sultan is travelling and he sees a beatiful woman sitting on a beach next to a hideous and enormous demon, who is snoring loudly. The woman tells the Sultan that the demon is her husband, and that he keeps her in a box, inside another box, at the bottom of the sea. And she has nevertheless committed adultery with no less than 100 different men. The equivalent in the Decameron involves Madonna Beatrice convincing her husband to put on one of her dresses and go into the garden so that her lover can beat him with a stick; rather more prosaic, but no less amusing.
As I said, this is one of the messages of the Decameron, but by no means it's only one; other important messages are: never trust a friar, always be hospitable, never trust a friar, don't marry a woman much younger than yourself, never trust a friar and sleeping with the mother of you godchild is not a sin. This last one is the focus of one of the very few tales involving the supernatural; the ghost of Tingoccio the Sienese claws his way out of hell, just to deliver that one message to his best friend Meuccio: "It's not a sin!"
The morality of the Decameron is also fascinating; I would call it a peasant morality, but I think that might be offensive to peasants; I will settle by calling it Odyssian. It has it's roots in that hearty, loud and often cruel but sometimes extremely witty humour one associates with football crowds. It's a world of elaborate practical jokes, where we admire the cunning and the crafty because they are cunning and crafty and they make us laugh and they are designated the heroes of this particular tale. I can understand this, and certainly one has to admire the audacity of rogues like Friar Cipolla, using a quick wit and a silver tongue to sell a lump of coal as a holy relic, but occasionally the tales do come across as mean spirited; in particular every story that features the painters Buffo and Buffamalco just feels cruel. Sexual mores have also changed, and so there are quite a few tales which were presumably considered screamingly hilarious in the 14th Century, but today would be prosecuted as serious sexual assaults. (Although some of the scenarios become so convoluted that it is hard to work out which party would be prosecuted; for example - A intending to have sex with B disguises herself as C. D intending to have sex with C disguises himself as B. If A and D have sex, each believing the other partner to be someone else, who is in the wrong?).
It is the religious allegories which are most alien to a modern audience however; the tale of Griselda which ends the book, for example, is (according to the notes) intended to be read as an allegory for the total submission to the Lord's will that a Christian should aim for. Instead, it comes across as a series of sadistic power games ("You know I said I murdered your daughter twelve years ago? Well, I didn't; wasn't that a funny jape?"). Likewise, most of the stories on generosity come across bizarre if not downright demented to a modern audience, especially those where women are involved, as Boccaccio seems to ignore the fact that the women are individuals and should be allowed to make their own choices; they're not property and they shouldn't (and can't) be given as 'gifts'.
Now, this type of thinking might not seem unusual in a 14th Century man (in fact, there are probably a large number of 21st Century men who thing that way), but it is still surprising considering how sympathetic towards women trapped in unhappy (arranged) marriages; a sizable proportion of the stories revolve around women who are harassed by unreasonably jealous husbands, or left sexually unsatisfied because their husbands are geriatric and senile (or, in the case of the wife of Pietro di Vinciolo, as gay as a treeful of monkeys on nitrous oxide). The women in these cases are usually treated sympathetically; but Boccaccio also includes that traditional, but singularly vile fable which also appears in the Arabian Nights, with the moral if your marriage is unhappy, you should beat your wife more. The variation in tone almost makes me wonder if Boccaccio was actually recording stories, rather than inventing them.
The Decameron as a whole shows a surprisingly cosmopolitan outlook; the Jewish and Muslin characters are treated just a well (and just as badly) as the Christian ones, and although it is a plot point that Pietro di Vinciolo is gay, he is no less sympathetic than any of the other cuckolds in the book (and ends up rather happier than most of them). Boccaccio reserves most of his bile for the Church; as the book was written before the reformation, it's not really correct to talk of the Catholic Church, because there weren't any others, and the Christian religion provides a constant background to all the tales; whether it is the necessity of a deathbed confession which moves the plot of the very first tale or the constant preoccupation with the morality of sleeping with the mother of your godchild, religion is pervasive. The unreformed church is however massively corrupt at every level, and all the characters are well aware of this; yet (with individual exceptions) this does not reduce their respect for the church as an institution. Partly, I think this arises from the concepts of original sin and forgiveness central to the message of the medieval church; all people are fallible, and all sins can be forgiven, so we should just try to do our best and keep up appearances. And if we can have a laugh along the way, all the better. Boccaccio reserves most of his anger for hypocrites, and, of course, the friars. For some reason, Boccaccio really doesn't like friars.
For all I've said about the alien mindset exhibited by some of the tales, the thing I like best about the Decameron is how recognisable many of the situations are, especially in the more down to earth tales; in fact, the less "noble" the tale, the more familiar it seems. In my mind's eye I can see Friar Cipolla as a fast talking used car salesman; there is also something very relatable about the story of the Abbess storming from her bedchamber to scold a disobedient novice, having in her haste put the priest's breeches on in place of her wimple. There is something very reassuring about how familiar these stories sound; I guess it's just a reminder that no matter where they are (or when they are) people are still people.
A final note: I have the Penguin Classics edition of the Decameron, which I found was a very readable and clear translation. I find this is usually the case with the Penguin Classics editions; I always try and seek them out when reading literature in translation. I don't know why the Penguin translations are more readable than the OUP ones, but they always are (a particularly inspired translation: "I know it's true - the Arseangel Bagriel told me!).
Tuesday, 1 March 2011
Dead Presidents II
Books read this week: Abraham Lincoln: A Biography (Benjamin P Thomas) 6/10
People like to have heroes, and a hero is what Abraham Lincoln: A Biography gives us. It is, the foreward assures me, the definitive single volume life of that most inspirational of presidents. Lincoln, like Grant was a product of the great social ferment of the middle years of the 19th Century in America - those years when anyone could reach the top, because there wasn't anyone already there to stop them. The years when the American dream was actually real. Lincoln does have an inspirational life story - born in a log cabin, he rose to the top of his field both in law and later in politics with virtually no formal schooling. It is the early part of the book, before Lincoln reached the White House, which is most interesting and entertaining. The picture of Lincoln that emerges is of a deeply compassionate, extremely smart and very cunning man with a broad sense of humour.
It is unfortunate that Thomas seeks to present something of a whitewashed image of Lincoln, as I think the real man is far more interesting (and I like my heroes flawed). It is even more unfortunate that, writing in the 1950s, many of the flaws that Thomas tries to explain away are, to the modern reader, no flaws at all; he tries to apologise for the fact that, when a young man, Lincoln occasionally drank whisky. He has to reassure us that although Mrs Lincoln occasionally took a glass of wine, that this was customary for women of her class in that age. It is a little odd.
The book has aged particularly badly when it comes to race relations; it was written before the civil rights movement, and that shows. Whether it is the throwaway line where Thomas claims slaves in the deep south were happy, contented and eager to serve, or the general condemnation of the "extremist" abolitionists who take a lot of flak for wanting slavery abolished quickly because, well, three million human beings were being kept in slavery, there is an unpleasant institutional racism running through the book. This is most apparent when discussing the Dred Scott decision; a ridiculous piece of legal legerdemain by the US Supreme Court, and particular Chief Justice Roger Taney, which held that the phrase "All men are created equal" meant exactly the opposite of what it actually said. Any balanced discussion of the decision should begin by pointing out that it is flat out wrong, and twists the law into a pretzel (the Dred Scott decision, is, to my mind, one of the primary arguments against giving major legislative power to any branch of the government not directly subject to democratic review). We are instead told that Taney's decision that "All men are created equal" means "But some are more equal than others" was "in contradiction of Lincoln's belief". A more thorough condemnation would be nice.
Nevertheless, I found the book interesting, and the picture of Lincoln's family life heartwarming. It does finish very abruptly; a little more detail on the immediate aftermath of (*SPOILERS*) Lincoln's assassination and a chapter on his legacy would have greatly improved the book.
Next week: Graham Greene.
People like to have heroes, and a hero is what Abraham Lincoln: A Biography gives us. It is, the foreward assures me, the definitive single volume life of that most inspirational of presidents. Lincoln, like Grant was a product of the great social ferment of the middle years of the 19th Century in America - those years when anyone could reach the top, because there wasn't anyone already there to stop them. The years when the American dream was actually real. Lincoln does have an inspirational life story - born in a log cabin, he rose to the top of his field both in law and later in politics with virtually no formal schooling. It is the early part of the book, before Lincoln reached the White House, which is most interesting and entertaining. The picture of Lincoln that emerges is of a deeply compassionate, extremely smart and very cunning man with a broad sense of humour.
It is unfortunate that Thomas seeks to present something of a whitewashed image of Lincoln, as I think the real man is far more interesting (and I like my heroes flawed). It is even more unfortunate that, writing in the 1950s, many of the flaws that Thomas tries to explain away are, to the modern reader, no flaws at all; he tries to apologise for the fact that, when a young man, Lincoln occasionally drank whisky. He has to reassure us that although Mrs Lincoln occasionally took a glass of wine, that this was customary for women of her class in that age. It is a little odd.
The book has aged particularly badly when it comes to race relations; it was written before the civil rights movement, and that shows. Whether it is the throwaway line where Thomas claims slaves in the deep south were happy, contented and eager to serve, or the general condemnation of the "extremist" abolitionists who take a lot of flak for wanting slavery abolished quickly because, well, three million human beings were being kept in slavery, there is an unpleasant institutional racism running through the book. This is most apparent when discussing the Dred Scott decision; a ridiculous piece of legal legerdemain by the US Supreme Court, and particular Chief Justice Roger Taney, which held that the phrase "All men are created equal" meant exactly the opposite of what it actually said. Any balanced discussion of the decision should begin by pointing out that it is flat out wrong, and twists the law into a pretzel (the Dred Scott decision, is, to my mind, one of the primary arguments against giving major legislative power to any branch of the government not directly subject to democratic review). We are instead told that Taney's decision that "All men are created equal" means "But some are more equal than others" was "in contradiction of Lincoln's belief". A more thorough condemnation would be nice.
Nevertheless, I found the book interesting, and the picture of Lincoln's family life heartwarming. It does finish very abruptly; a little more detail on the immediate aftermath of (*SPOILERS*) Lincoln's assassination and a chapter on his legacy would have greatly improved the book.
Next week: Graham Greene.
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