Archive for December, 2012

Book recommendations

If all goes well, this post, which I am writing in early December, will appear as if by magic in my blog on Christmas Day in the Morning.

As I explained in an earlier post, I am to recommend two books for Brian Joseph, c/o Babbling Books.

My choices are:

1. Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner by James Hogg
2. Happy Moscow by Andrey Platonov

Brian may be relieved to learn they are both reasonably short books!)

The first I have chosen because I love it (although I hope that admission doesn’t prevent Brian from panning it, should he disagree!) and can’t for the life of me understand why it’s so little known; and the second I have chosen because although I think it is the work of a very original and remarkable talent, I don’t think I really understood it, and would be pleased to have, as it were, a second opinion. There’s a very interesting review of it here.

Well, I’m offline till some time in the New Year. See you all then.

Season’s greetings

I shall now start on my customary end of year break, and so, apart from a post already written and due to appear on Christmas Day, I do not expect to be posting till some time in early January.

So may I extend my warmest festive greetings to you all. To all who are Christians, or who aren’t but are happy to receive Christian greetings, may I wish you a very merry Christmas. To all others, may I extend my best wishes for the festive season. And to everyone, may I wish a happy and peaceful New Year.

And may I finish this year, blogging-wise at least, with this very beautiful late painting by Caravaggio of the Adoration of the Shepherds, on display in in the Museo Nazionale in Messina.

See you next year.


“A Christmas Carol” questionnaire

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As I mentioned in an earlier post, Caroline (Beauty is a Sleeping Cat) and Delia (Postcards from Asia) have very kindly organized the inter-blog event “Dickens at Christmas”. I have written two posts (here and here) as contributions to this. And today is a “readalong” of A Christmas Carol.

In preparation, Caroline had sent me a questionnaire about this book. Here it is, with my answers:

Is this the first time you are reading the story?
It’s part of my Christmas tradition to read this every year.
Did you like it?
I think I can safely answer “yes” to that!
Which was your favorite scene?
Sorry about this, but there are at least three scenes I must mention. The first is Christmas dinner at the Cratchits’ house: some find this sentimental, but I don’t. Dickens believed in human goodness, and here, we see a convincing picture of people who actually love and care for each other. The next scene I should mention is the other scene set in the Cratchits’ house: this is set in the future, after their child has died. Scrooge had asked the Ghost of Christmas to Come to show him some real human feeling, some “tenderness”: and here, we get it. This is an utterly convincing depiction of how people grieve for those whom they have loved. (Incidentally, at the very end of Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov, Alyosha makes a speech at after the funeral of Ilyusha, and this speech is a very close reprise of what Bob Cratchit says to his family at the end of this scene in A Christmas Carol.) And finally, I must mention that scene where the Ghost of Christmas Present shows Scrooge those two hideous children, and when Scrooge asks whose children they are, replies “They are Man’s”. It’s a scene that still horrifies me: no sentimentality here.
Which was your least favorite scene?
I love every line of this novella.
Which spirit and his stories did you find the most interesting?
All in their different ways are interesting, and vital. But if I had to choose, I’d go for the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. It starts with a glimpse into the abyss: we are shown a world devoid of human feeling, of human love. This is, indeed, Hell. If there is joy at the end of this story, this joy is hard won: it had required a glimpse into the abyss. (Previously, I had mentioned Dostoyevsky’s debt to this novella, but Tolstoy too was indebted: there is a scene in A Christmas Carol where some business associates of Scrooge talk about his death in indifferent and uncaring terms; this scene reappears at the start of Tolstoy’s The Death of Ivan Illych.) And then, of course, when Scrooge, in despair, begs to be shown some evidence of human “tenderness”, the Spirit obliges. Whatever anguish the Cratchits are going through, they are not in that Hell in which human feelings don’t exist.
Was there a character you wish you knew more about?
I think we are told as much about each of the characters as we need to know.
How did you like the end?
Wonderful. It is a joyous ending, and this being Dickens, the joy is expressed in whimsical terms. But the joy has been very hard won.

Did you think it was believable?
Literally, no: this is intended as a fairy story. But psychologically, and morally, yes.

Do you know anyone like Scrooge?
Scrooge is obviously a caricature, so no, I don’t know anyone exactly like him. But there are people aplenty who think that paying their taxes is enough, that they don’t need to consider those in society who are less fortunate. (Some even stop short of paying taxes!) There are people aplenty who feel that following the rules of business is enough (“Mankind was my business!” says Marley’s ghost). I still hear people speak of the “surplus population”. The depiction of Scrooge still hits home- very strongly, I think. Often, to my shame, I can find elements of Scrooge in myself also.

Did he deserve to be saved?
Yes. Scrooge’s redemption comes through his own effort. It is not a gift.



Many thanks to Caroline and to Delia for arranging this.

My Ideal Bookshelf

It’s nearly Christmas. Let’s indulge ourselves a bit.

There is a book, and, inevitably, a website, called “My Ideal Bookshelf”. In this book, various celebrities are asked to list up to twelve books that are particularly important to them for various reasons. Now, as I like to think I am something of a celebrity myself, I was a bit miffed at not being asked to contribute to this. Sure, we lesser mortals are invited to contribute our ideal bookshelves to the website mentioned above, but I am loftily ignoring this: it’s celebrity or nothing for me!

Fair enough, nothing it is…

If you are thinking that this is an excuse for yet another dreary list, you’d be perfectly correct. But as I say, it’s nearly Christmas. Let’s indulge ourselves a bit!

Here’s my ideal bookshelf:


The reasoning behind the choices of most of the titles is self-explanatory. First of all – going from left to right – comes the Complete Works of Shakespeare. I was eleven when my parents took me to see King Lear at the Edinburgh Festival: Timothy West, then only in his 40s, played Lear on the bare stage of the Assembly Rooms in Edinburgh. Obviously, at that age, I took in but a fraction of it, but I was so excited by what I had seen, that I remember I could not get to sleep that night. That Christmas, I asked my parents for the Complete Works. There are at least a dozen or so of these plays that remain a constant presence in my mind. To celebrate – if “celebrate” is indeed the word I am looking for – my 50th year, I read through all these plays, in the order (as far as can be ascertained) in which they had been written. And I try to read at least one play each month. Life without these works would be unimaginable.

Then comes Rabindranath Tagore. Someone asked me once whether, given my obviously Bengali name, I knew the works of Tagore. Some of it, I replied: he wrote prolifically for decades, and I certainly haven’t ploughed through it all. Did I like his work? Well, I replied, as an educated Bengali, I don’t really have an option. His songs were probably the first music I ever heard; that extravagantly bearded visage was as familiar to me in my earliest childhood years as were pictures of my own family. Later in life, it did, I admit, come as a surprise to discover that, despite all the idolatry – which for many years put me off – his works actually are rather good. Extraordinarily good, indeed. Despite translations (which I am not qualified to judge, as they are not intended for me), the true extent of his literary greatness will be accessible only to native speakers. And for those native speakers who have come under his spell (and it is hard not to), a volume of Tagore’s poems is virtually a mandatory choice on the Ideal Bookshelf. But which volume? Even restricting oneself to poetry, his vast output cannot be contained in a single volume. After much thought, I chose Geetbitan, a collection of all his song lyrics. Literally thousands of them, covering just about every shade and nuance of human feeling imaginable. Tagore was among the greatest of songwriters (he composed the melodies as well as writing the words), and even when you don’t have the tune running round your head when reading them, these exquisite lyrics stand up perfectly well as poetry. There aren’t many song lyrics that do that.

Then comes Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, which I won’t write about here as there is already a fairly long and recent series of posts in this blog about this extraordinary novel. And speaking of extraordinary novels, there’s also Dickens’ Bleak House: I won’t write about this either, as I have done so only quite recently. Tolstoy and Dickens are the two novelists whose works mean most to me personally.

Next, I have chosen the Collected Ghost Stories of M. R. James. I have always wondered why it is I so dislike fantasy literature, find myself bored by science fiction, and yet enjoy the unreality of a creepy ghost story. Not any type of ghost story, though: the ones I like are the ones in which the solidity of the real world is very strongly projected, so that that the intrusion of the irrational, when it appears, is transgressive. The sort of story, indeed, of which M. R. James was the master. Why do I enjoy these stories so much? Well, let’s not go too deeply into self-psychoanalysis: that sort of thing is bound to be a load of simplistic tripe anyway. But the Collected Ghost Stories of M. R. James remains a constantly on my bedside table.

Piled on top of these books in my picture are six paperback volumes of the major plays of Ibsen, in the translations by Michael Meyer. Yes, I know, it’s cheating: they’re six volumes. But each volume is so indispensible that I couldn’t leave any of them out. And in any case, these volumes could easily be stitched up together into a single large volume.

I came to Ibsen in my twenties, and was fascinated by the strange world he created. He is known primarily as a “social dramatist” – i.e. as a dramatist who dealt mainly with social issues. That is indeed how I used to think of him myself. But reading his plays, I found myself transported into the deepest and most mysterious regions of the mind itself: worlds opened up that were new to me, and which fascinated me. I still probably don’t understand what many of them are about, but, perhaps for that very reason, they continue to fascinate.

Then come two more novels – Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov (which I read again some two years ago, and on which I have written a series of posts on this blog) and Joyce’s Ulysses. The latter is widely considered a sort of High Altar of Modernism, and has a reputation of being excessively difficult: that’s rather unfortunate, since, quite apart from anything else, it’s about as fun as any book I have read. I can still dip into it and read passages purely for enjoyment. Dostoyevsky, on the other hand, I have rather a difficult relationship with. I first encountered his works as a teenager, and was overwhelmed: the impact these novels had on me was almost visceral. But as I became older, doubts started to creep in: Are these novels not merely hysterical? Aren’t they unstructured, rambling, undisciplined? Was not my love of these novels merely a consequence of my teenage immaturity? And yet … and yet, scenes and themes and characters and images from these novels remained seared into my mind when other novels, apparently much better-written, had vanished without much trace. These novels, in other words, left behind the strongest of aftertastes. So I started, rather guiltily I suppose, to re-enter Dostoyevsky’s world. And I realised that these novels have to be taken on their own terms, and that there is no other novel that is even remotely comparable. Yes, I still frequently find myself wondering what the hell certain passages are about; I still find myself shaking my head at other times and thinking this won’t do. But that excitement I had experienced as a teenager remains. And I’m not sure why,

I suppose if I love Tolstoy because his vision of the world I find enriching; if I like Dickens because I love entering into that idiosyncratic fictional world of his; then I love Dostoyevsky because I enjoy having a fight with him. And I have had some good fights with him, and have come away from them bloodied but invigorated. Dostoyevsky’s novels are exploratory rather than declamatory, and, as with the plays of Ibsen, they explore regions that, had it not been for these works, would have been completely closed to me.

Now, the Sherlock Holmes stories. In the picture above, these appear in a lavish three-volume set (a birthday present from my wife on my 50th birthday); but since they can also be found contained in a single volume, I’m claiming this as one choice. I still have vivid memories of checking out The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes from Bishopbriggs Public Library when I was about 12 or so, and it was love at first sight; and this love hasn’t flagged since. These stories have been a constant companion to me for many, many years now, and, as with the ghost stories of M. R. James, have become the best of old friends, and lifelong companions. I tried in this post to explain why I love these stories, but I think I gave up after a while: there are certain things that resist explanation.

I finish with two volumes of poetry – by Yeats, and by Wordsworth – sandwiching Eugene O’Neill’s play Long Day’s Journey Into Night. It strikes me writing this post that a great many of the books that mean most to me reach back into my late childhood, and my teenage years: I suppose those are the years during which my literary taste was formed. And I certainly remember watching on television, aged twelve, the National Theatre production of Long Day’s Journey Into Night featuring Laurence Olivier in one of his legendary roles. I was mesmerised. That play has a hold on me still that I cannot explain: even other plays by Eugene O’Neill don’t resonate with me the way this one does. Once again, I am not sure I understand why.

And, of course, I want some poetry on by ideal shelf. I already have the song lyrics of Tagore, and the plays and poems of Shakespeare; add to these Wordsworth and Yeats, and I think that would keep me happy. As I explained in an earlier post, I like Wordsworth’s tone of voice – civilised and eloquent, the voice of someone conversing with me rather than of someone declaiming to me. But with that conversational tone, he can depict emotions and states of mind that seem transcendent, and contain intimations of immortality. Yes, we all know that we wrote much, especially in his advanced years, that was mediocre and worse; but we should judge each writer by their best, and the best of Wordworth – “Tintern Abbey”, “Ode on the Intimations of Immortality”, “The Solitary Reaper”, the 1805 text of The Prelude, some of the finest sonnets since Shakespeare, etc. etc. – would quite easily fill a good-sized volume. And despite their apparent plainness of diction, they affect me more than I think I can explain.

I do not write much about poetry on this blog, and that is mainly because I am not sure how to write about it. Poetry tends to affect me like music: I know what it makes me feel, but am not sure why. I suppose the only way to write about poetry is to provide close analysis of the rhythms, the sounds, the imagery, etc. – but there are many who can do that sort of thing far better than I possibly could. I did try to write about some poems by Yeats once on this blog, but I’ll not provide a link to it: it wasn’t, shall we say, among my best posts on here. So I will restrict myself here to giving some rough impressions of what Yeats’ poetry makes me feel. There’s the early stuff, of course – the “Celtic twilight” poem: these are products of the fag-end of Romanticism, with their alluring sensuality and the infectious folk rhythms. But even here, those rhythms aren’t always what one would expect from folk poetry: they are considerably knottier; and the themes became increasingly complex and ambiguous, the mythology more arcane. And it is fascinating tracing the development of Yeats’ poetic style as it moves almost seamlessly from a youthful Romanticism into a personal and very passionate form of modernism. For the older Yeats got, the more passionate he became. “Give me an old man’s frenzy,” he says at one point; and there is indeed a sort of frenzy in his poetry, a passionate striving and longing for he knows not what. Perhaps he remained a Romantic after all.


Well, that’s it folks – that’s my pre-Christmas indulgence done with. Now, the real indulgence starts: I already have bottles of malt whisky and Armagnac lined up for a most convivial and alcoholic festive season, and am looking forward to two idyllic weeks with the family.

And with my books, of course!

“The Chimes” by Charles Dickens

A Christmas Carol was a hard act to follow. Festive season, human suffering and redemption, spirits guiding humans, supernatural visions, all leading to warmth and cheer at the end …yes, these are all present and correct; but somehow, that imaginative spark that had lit A Christmas Carol isn’t really there. Of course, one can’t merely repeat oneself: so, instead of Christmas, Dickens focussed on the New Year; and instead of the Spirits of Christmas Past, Present, and Yet to Come, Dickens gave us the spirits of the Chimes, the church bells that mark the passing of time.

And this time, the central character taught a lesson by the spirit world is not a rich miserly businessman, but a poor and somewhat feeble-minded old man. This is, perhaps, part of the problem: for Trotty Veck is decidedly not amongst those most in need of lessons. True, he does begin to subscribe to what he hears from the mouths of the rich for whom he runs errands: the poor are poor, he comes to believe, because they deserve to be so; they are naturally vicious, born to be bad; there is really no justification even for their existence. However, though he has come to believe this things true, he doesn’t act upon them: he loves his daughter dearly, delights in whatever happiness she may have, and, poor though he is, displays charity and kindness to those even more unfortunate than himself. Why should the spirits pick on someone like him? one wonders. Go pick on those more deserving of being taught a good lesson. Alderman Cute, for instance. A man of the people, is Alderman Cute:

“You are going to be married, you say,” pursued the Alderman. “Very unbecoming and indelicate in one of your sex! But never mind that. After you are married, you’ll quarrel with your husband and come to be a distressed wife. You may think not– but you will, because I tell you so. Now, I give you fair warning, that I have made up my mind to Put distressed wives Down. So, don’t be brought before me. You’ll have children — boys. Those boys will grow up bad, of course, and run wild in the streets, without shoes and stockings. Mind my young friend! I’ll convict ’em summarily, every one, for I am determined to Put boys without shoes and stockings, Down. Perhaps your husband will die young (most likely) and leave you with a baby. Then you’ll be turned out of doors, and wander up and down the streets. Now, don’t wander near me, my dear, for I am resolved to Put all wandering mothers Down. All young mothers, of all sorts and kinds, it’s my determination to Put Down. Don’t think to plead illness as an excuse with me; or babies as an excuse with me; for all sick persons and young children (I hope you know the church-service, but I’m afraid not) I am determined to Put Down. And if you attempt, desperately, and ungratefullv. and impiously, and fraudulently attempt, to drown yourself, or hang yourself, I’ll have no pity for you, for I have made up my mind to Put all suicide Down! If there is one thing,” said the Alderman, with his self-satisfied smile, “on which I can be said to have made up my mind more than on another, it is to Put suicide Down. So don’t try it on. That’s the phrase, isn’t it? Ha, ha! now we understand each other.”

Or there’s Alderman Cute’s friend, Mr Filer, who has the entire world reduced to statistics, and can prove to Trotty Veck that in eating the small piece of tripe his loving daughter has brought him for lunch, he is, in effect, taking food out of the mouths of hundreds of others. Or Sir Joseph Bowley, the Poor Man’s Friend: he, good man, clears his accounts and settles his debts before the end of the year, and can only disapprove of the likes of Trotty Veck who is sufficiently improvident to be behind in his rent. What can be done with such people? Born bad, they are, born bad.

These caricatures are crude, admittedly, but they have about them a certain vigour: the very real anger in Dickens’ voice is unmistakable. This is not mere social commentary: this is Dickens’ passionate anger at the inability of humans to feel each others’ woes, his anger at the human readiness to condemn without understanding, without compassion.

This anger, powerful as it is, seems to drown out everything else. Dickens’ characteristic sense of whimsy seems to go missing somewhere along the way: he seems too angry to care much about such matters. The moral purpose overrides all: the story is too close for comfort to a sermon. To our modern sensibilities, of course, a sermoniser is about the worst thing a writer could be. But perhaps some sermons are worth hearing: much depends, of course, on the extent to which the reader likes Dickens’ voice, but for me, he carries it off. Even if only just.

The theme is soon introduced of suicide. Trotty Veck reads of an impoverished woman who has murdered her own child and thrown herself into the river; and he reflects, once again, that he and his class are simply born bad: there can be no other explanation for so hideous a crime. But that night, New Year’s Eve, he is drawn by the chimes up into the church tower. And the spirits of the chimes show him visions of the future. In this future, he, Trotty, is dead; he had fallen off the church tower one New Year’s Eve when he had been sleep-walking. And this future he is shown is grim indeed. Promising young men turn to alcohol, and become hopeless drunks; beautiful young women turn to prostitution. And , in the final terrible vision, Trotty sees his own beloved daughter driven by desperation to commit that most hideous of crimes – infanticide, and then suicide. Our modern taste may not take too well to sermonising, but it could be that, at times, it’s our modern taste that is at fault: this is powerful, passionate stuff.

The story ends happily, of course – or, rather, as happily as possible given that the people in the story remain poor, and, indeed, still on the edge of starvation. Dickens was maturing as a writer: there is no benevolent Mr Pickwick or the Cheeryble Brothers or even the reformed Scrooge who can put everything right by throwing money around. Life is dark, and will continue to be so. Under the circumstances, it is perhaps understandable that the good cheer at the end is somewhat muted.

A Christmas Carol it ain’t: that extra turn of genius that has made that earlier work into perhaps the most potent of modern fairy tales is not really to be seen here. What has replaced it is a tremendous sense of anger, of passion; and also a deep sorrow in the contemplation of the depths to which humans sink.

“Bleak House” by Charles Dickens

*** Spoiler warning: this post may reveal some elements of the plot ***

Most readers who love literature would, I’d guess, have, some time or other, imagined themselves as writers. Well, Dear Reader, imagine yourself a writer now. And imagine that you are creating a location in your novel that is dark and desolate, filthy and poverty-stricken and diseased. What appropriate name would you give it? Something like, say, Acacia Gardens would certainly be out of place, unless one is trying one’s hand merely at heavy-handed sarcasm. I suppose I would come up with something like Barebones Alley: readers possessing richer imagination than mine would, no doubt, come up with names more richly imaginative. But I doubt anyone would be able to come up with Tom-All-Alone’s. Once you hear it, you realise that this has to be the name – that nothing else will do: that this name alone removes the location from a mere physical hell-hole into some region set deep within the dark interior of the mind itself. But who else other than Dickens could have thought up such a name?

The fictional world of Dickens had always presented us with a stylised version of reality – grotesquely disfigured either for comic purposes, or to inspire horror: the mirror it holds up to nature is a distorting mirror. But in Bleak House, these distortions create an effect new in Dickens – and new, I think, in any fiction: it gives us access to a world that is not merely physical. But it is difficult to describe the exact nature of this world. Psychological? Metaphysical? Perhaps. Dickens does not describe Tom-All-Alone’s in physical detail, as, say, Zola might have done: he gives us instead a powerful sense, an impression, of the desolation of the place, of a degradation of the soul that is more than merely physical. It strikes terror to the very heart.

Similarly with that famous opening chapter, describing the fog: what we get is not so much a description of the fog, but, rather, a sense of something far more overwhelming, and all-embracing. The fog of wintertime London soon envelops the entire novel. And similarly with the filth: the mud on the streets almost immediately becomes transformed to “M’Lud” of the law-courts. Words themselves become malleable: later in the novel, the hospital becomes “horse-spittle”; the inquest becomes “inkwhich”; and the little boy Jo, whose horizons have never extended beyond the degradation of Tom-All-Alone’s, knows “nothink”. All literature is constructed, after all, out of language, out of words, and it is hard to think of any novelist other than Joyce who took such delight in transforming language, distorting it as he distorts reality itself, for expressive ends.

Take, for instance, that opening chapter, which is but a series of fragments. No sentence is grammatically complete: most are missing subjects and verbs. And yet, such is Dickens’ ear for rhythms and cadences, not one of these grammatically faulty sentences could be improved upon. Let us consider that first paragraph, starting with a sentence consisting of a single word:

London. Michaelmas Term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting in Lincoln’s Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. As much mud in the streets as if the waters had but newly retired from the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill. Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snow-flakes — gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun. Dogs, undistinguishable in mire. Horses, scarcely better; splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers, jostling one another’s umbrellas in a general infection of ill-temper, and losing their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke (if the day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating at compound interest.

Let us now try to correct the grammar, as unobtrusively as we can:

The scene is London. Michaelmas Term is lately over, and the Lord Chancellor is sitting in Lincoln’s Inn Hall. The November weather is implacable. There is as much mud in the streets as there would have been if the waters had but newly retired from the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill. Smoke is lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snow-flakes — having gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun. Dogs can be seen in the mire, undistinguishable from each other. The horses are scarcely better; they are splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers are jostling one another’s umbrellas in a general infection of ill-temper, and losing their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke (if the day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating at compound interest.

Every point where a “correction” has been made dilutes the effect absurdly. One may set oneself an exercise to re-write this passage in any way one wants, and we would see merely the same dilution. Dickens’ idiosyncratic syntax, his choice of words and images, are all so precise, so carefully calculated, that not the slightest detail could be changed without weakening the whole. And it continues like this for page after page.

It is a virtuoso piece of writing that sets the scene of the novel – and not merely in physical terms. It presents a deep gloom and an almost primeval murk out of which the characters eventually emerge. And it is quite not a real world they emerge into: it is a world in which metaphor can become reality – a world that can accommodate even a death by spontaneous combustion.

This world is dominated by the law-courts, and, in particular, by the Jarndyce vs Jarndyce case. It has dragged through the courts for generations, and there is still no sight of an end. Nobody really knows what this case is about. It has brought in its wake suffering and madness and death. There are documents a-plenty, but there isn’t time enough in the world for anyone to go through all these documents, and get to the bottom of it all. And in any case, these documents are in the possession of Krook – he who is later visited with spontaneous combustion – who cannot read. All of these seem like symbols in search of interpretations, but, as in the works of Kafka (who was surely the spiritual heir of Dickens), they seem to embody a mystery that is greater than the sum of all possible interpretations. It is a world that simultaneously invites and defies interpretation. Indeed, the very issue of interpretation seems to be at the heart of it all.

Miss Flite, a woman driven mad by the case of Jarndyce vs Jarndyce, awaits the judgement of the court. And, once again, we are not merely talking about the physical: “I expect a Judgement”, she says, “on the Day of Judgement”. And on that Day of Judgement, she will release all her caged birds. She names these birds in a monstrous Rabelaisian list: “Hope, Joy, Youth, Peace, Rest, Life, Dust, Ashes, Waste, Want, Ruin, Despair, Madness, Death, Cunning, Folly, Words, Wigs, Rags, Sheepskin, Plunder, Precedent, Jargon, Gammon, and Spinach.” As ever, Dickens was a man in love with words, and the sheer linguistic plenitude of this list, words toppling over one another in mad profusion, opens the door to a world that appears, like Miss Flite herself, to have lost its sanity; a world that is simultaneously terror-stricken and absurd – a world that is, by the end, merely “gammon and spinach”.

This gammon-and-spinach world is presented to us through two very different but intertwining voices. There is the voice of Esther Summerson, principled and courageous but also mannered, and, to many readers, self-satisfied and coy; and there is also a third-person (though by no means impersonal) voice that we hear at the very start of the novel, speaking throughout in the present tense. Esther is illegitimate: she has grown up having had it hammered into her head that her very existence is an abomination. She finds herself ward to the kindly Mr Jarndyce, a man, who, for all his benevolence, is subject to bouts of such extreme depression that he has to shut himself away into what he calls his “growlery”: Esther is grateful to him, not merely for his adoption of her, but also for the love he offers. Indeed, so starved has she been of love, that any expression of affection she encounters she cherishes. And she tries her utmost to bring order into the world around her. But even as she congratulates herself for doing so, the other voice presents us with a world in which no order can ever be established. Esther’s view of the world is, necessarily, a limited one, and her narrative is only partly reliable: that other voice that counterpoints hers gives us a somewhat different perspective.

It is up to the reader to balance the different perspectives, to judge between the different voices. And it is up to the reader also to piece together the very many seemingly disparate elements of the narrative. For, amongst other things, Bleak House is also a detective novel – possibly the first of its kind: Dickens presents us with a bewildering maze of different characters and different milieux, and challenges us to find the connections. These connections, though intricate and well hidden, are very closely plotted. And the reader has to work at it: there is no Poirot to give us a lucid exposition at the end of this immensely tangled web.

The character who comes closest to untangling the web is a comic character – Guppy, the legal clerk, in love with Esther and determined to unearth the mystery of her birth. By the time he is close to the solution, Esther herself has come to know it, and this knowledge, she realises, is a terrible secret. With commendable moral integrity and sense of purpose, she instructs Guppy not to enquire further; and the truth she now knows she does not reveal to anyone – not even to her trusted guardian Mr Jarndyce. But there are other wheels already in motion over which Esther has no control: the order she brings to the world can only be limited.

There is also the lawyer, Tulkinghorn. He is lawyer to the crusty old aristocrat Sir Leicester Dedlock. Out in the stately home of Chesney wold in Lincolnshire, Lady Dedlock is bored; Sir Leicester, on the other hand, is never bored, for “when he had nothing else to do, he can always contemplate his own greatness”. But when Tulkinghorn presents him with legal documents, Lady Dedlock, for all her immense self-composure, nearly faints. Sir Leicester is solicitous for his wife’s health, but attaches no particular significance to this; Tulkinghorn, however, is more suspicious: he knows what has brought on Lady Dedlock’s discomfiture – the handwriting on the document. So he, like Guppy, starts digging.

That handwriting was the work of a man who is now dead. His work it was, towards the end of his life, to copy legal documents – those signifiers that may, if one has the time to pursue them, lead one to the truth. He had died in poverty, and was known merely by a pseudonym – Nemo, “nobody”. Soon, a strange lady appears in Tom-All-Alone’s, heavily veiled. And she instructs Jo, the little street-sweeper who “knows nothink”, to show her around all those places that this Nemo had once frequented. She tells Jo she is a servant, but Jo has never seen a servant before with such sparkling rings on her fingers. And she is shown all these terrible places, so far removed from her own bored existence. Finally, in a scene that haunts the rest of the novel, Jo points to the awful place where Nemo is buried:

“There!” says Jo, pointing. “Over yinder. Among them piles of bones, and close to that there kitchin winder! They put him wery nigh the top. They was obliged to stamp upon it to git it in. I could unkiver it for you, with my broom if the gate was open. That’s why they locks it, I s’pose,” giving it a shake. “It’s always locked. Look at the rat!” cries Jo, excited. “Hi! Look! There he goes! Ho! Into the ground!”

The servant shrinks into a corner — into a corner of that hideous archway, with its deadly stains contaminating her dress; and putting out her two hands and passionately telling him to keep away from her, for he is loathsome to her, so remains for some moments. Jo stands staring, and is still staring when she recovers herself.

“Is this place of abomination, consecrated ground?”

“I don’t know nothink of consequential ground,” says Jo, still staring.

“Is it blessed?”

“WHICH?” says Jo, in the last degree amazed.

“Is it blessed?”

“I’m blest if I know,” says Jo, staring more than ever; “but I shouldn’t think it warn’t. Blest?” repeats Jo, something troubled in his mind. “It an’t done it much good if it is. Blest? I should think it was t’othered myself. But I don’t know nothink!”

The mystery at the heart of this novel goes further and deeper than the mystery at the heart of the intricate plot. But Dickens, being Dickens, overlays these mysteries with his characteristic exuberance – eccentrics, comic grotesques, scoundrels and madmen, all depicted in his idiosyncratic prose. Here’s Chadband, for instance, the lay preacher, “a large yellow man with a fat smile and a general appearance of having a good deal of train oil in his system”. And this is how he talks:

‘My friends,’ says he, ‘what is this which we now behold as being spread before us? Refreshment. Do we need refreshment then, my friends? We do. And why do we need refreshment, my friends? Because we are but mortal, because we are but sinful, because we are but of the earth, because we are not of the air. Can we fly, my friends? We cannot. Why can we not fly, my friends?”

Or there’s Mrs Jellyby, unconcerned with her own chaotic family (whom she leaves to take care of themselves), but obsessed with charity, though not out of love: love is a concept alien to her; but, rather, out of a desire for self-aggrandisement. Or the loathsome loan shark Smallweed. Or the demented Miss Flite, with her cage of captive birds. The sinister lawyer Tulkinghorn. The boisterous Mr Boythorne. And so on. Perhaps no other novel, not even by Dickens, is so full of such a vivid gallery of characters, for whom the term “caricature” seems somehow inadequate: these grotesques, for all their grotesqueness, are living people. Even Sir Leicester Dedlock, the contemplator of his own greatness: when the truth is revealed, and the assumptions on which his entire life had rested disintegrate, he can redeem himself morally – and, hence, take on a tragic dimension – by forgiving. But this moral redemption does not, can not, bring him happiness, or even help salve his wounds: we are far here from the simpler world of Dickens’ earlier novels in which goodness resulted in happiness. But it does allow Sir Leicester to develop into a character possessing nobility, though not the nobility that Sir Leicester had previously imagined for himself. When he had thought himself noble merely on account of his birth, he was but a caricature; but when his entire life collapses, he becomes real. Ordinary caricatures do not have the scope for development: those of Dickens do.

Perhaps best of all is Skimpole. In a novel filled with pictures of childhood betrayed, childhood abused, and childhood brutalised; of children forced by cruel circumstance to become adults; Dickens presents us with an adult who pretends to be a child. Skimpole doesn’t understand the world, not he: it is far too complex for a soul as simple and as innocent as his. Skimpole, we find, had actually trained as a doctor, but he does not practice medicine: he is far too childlike. Esther is, at first, charmed by Skimpole, but, as she matures, sees him for what he is – as yet another manifestation of the moral corruption that surrounds them all. At a strategic point in the novel, we are taken into Skimpole’s house, where he introduces Esther to his own children:

“Here I am, you see!” he said, when we were seated: not without some little difficulty, the greater part of the chairs being broken. “Here I am! This is my frugal breakfast. Some men want legs of beef and mutton for breakfast; I don’t. Give me my peach, my cup of coffee, and my claret; I am content. I don’t want them for themselves, but they remind me of the sun. There’s nothing solar about legs of beef and mutton. Mere animal satisfaction!”

“This is our friend’s consulting room (or would be, if he ever prescribed), his sanctum, his studio,” said my guardian to us.

“Yes,” said Mr Skimpole, turning his bright face about, “this is the bird’s cage. This is where the bird lives and sings. They pluck his feathers now and then, and clip his wings; but he sings, he sings!”

Quiet unexpectedly, Dickens combines here the adult-child motif with a rather different one from earlier in the novel – that of Miss Flite’s captive birds, waiting for the Day of Judgement to be set free. Entire theses can be written – and, I’m sure, have been written – about Dickens’ use of symbols and motifs.

For all its comic exuberance, Bleak House remains a tragic novel. There can be no entirely happy ending. Yes, young lovers do get to marry each other – as they had done at the end of Dickens’ earlier works – but there can be no happy-ever-after: life is too complex to allow for that. It is too inscrutable. There are signs and symbols a-plenty – if only we knew how to interpret them.

On copinautes and other matters

There will be some fun and games in LitBlogLand this Christmas.

Firstly, there’s a celebration of Dickens this Christmas (see here and here), kindly organized by Delia at the blog Postcards from Asia, and by Caroline at the intriguingly named blog Beauty is a Sleeping Cat. There are quite a few points in all that, which I won’t bother to summarise (it’s much easier clicking on the links above!) – but amongst other things, I have signed up to write a post about any book by Dickens, or to do with Dickens; and also write a review of a film based on a work by Dickens. A pleasure. Somehow, this season seems made for this writer: some time over the next week or two, I shall find an afternoon to sit by the open fire in my local pub with a drink in hand, and read A Christmas Carol. There really isn’t a better Christmas treat.

Meanwhile, over at Guy’s blog (His Futile Preoccupations) and at Emma’s blog (Book Around the Corner), there’s another fun idea: “copinautes”. (Emma explains here what this means.) Once again, without going into details, I am to make a virtual Christmas present of two books to a fellow book blogger – in my case, Brian Joseph of Babbling Books. And he has similarly to make a virtual present of two books to me. And we have undertaken to read these books over the course of the coming year – and, presumably, to comment on them. Meanwhile, both Guy and Emma will be making virtual presents to each of us. The titles will, I believe, appear on our respective blogs on Christmas Day. And, since I have no intention of logging in on that day, I shall have to use the facility developed by those lovely people at WordPress, whereby one may publish posts at a specified date and time. I hope it works!

In the words of Joe Gargery – what larks!

I need a proof-reader

I wish I were a bit better at proof-reading. Take, for instance, my recent post on Tennessee Williams’ play Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. I had initially started with this:

Among my reading projects for this year, I had meant to acquaint myself with the plays of Tennessee Williams, a dramatist with whose works I have never felt particularly comfortable.

On revising, I decided this wasn’t quite what I had meant to say: there is no reason, after all, to expect comfort from a work of literature. Quite the contrary: much of the finest literature challenges, and is distinctly uncomfortable. So I changed “comfortable” to “close”: I have never felt close to the plays of Tennessee Williams. However, I neglected to change “with” to “to”. As a consequence, I ended up with the utterly nonsensical sentence:

Among my reading projects for this year, I had meant to acquaint myself with the plays of Tennessee Williams, a dramatist with whose works I have never felt particularly close.

I have now spotted the error, and have corrected it. But not before it had already been up for a couple of days, with various readers no doubt thinking to themselves: “Why should I pay any attention to the literary judgements of some illiterate who can’t even string together a simple sentence?”

It’s a fair point. So may I just assure readers that I really am not really illiterate: merely slapdash!

“Joseph Andrews” by Henry Fielding

I had been putting off reading Fielding’s Joseph Andrews until I had read Richardson’s Pamela, the object of its satire; but eventually, I decided I didn’t have the patience. True, I have read the 1700 or so often excruciatingly slow pages of Richardson’s later novel Clarissa, but that was a masterpiece, and, despite its very slow tempo, utterly engrossing: but Pamela, quite frankly, promised to be a stinker. Maidservant Pamela Andrews resists for some 500 pages the sexual advances of her employer Mr B, and, as a “reward” for her virtue, gets to marry the very man who had harassed her, abducted her, imprisoned her, and had even attempted to rape her: both morally and psychologically, this seems dubious stuff. Maybe if I were to read the entire novel, I would find various moral and psychological nuances that a mere summary of the plot could not hope to convey; but frankly, even armed with the conviction that something written by the author of a masterpiece such as Clarissa could not be entirely without merit, I found the idea of sinking my teeth into Pamela (pardon the image) entirely resistible. The main reason I felt I should read it was that I would then be able to appreciate all the better Fielding’s satire of Pamela in Joseph Andrews: while I had little desire to read Pamela, I desperately wanted to read the jolly comic romp promised by Joseph Andrews. Eventually, I decided to by-pass the Richardson novel and move straight to the parody. After all, I reasoned, one need not have read the various chivalric romances to enjoy Don Quixote. Did I really have to wade through Pamela before I could come on to this, the first novel of the writer who later went on to produce such marvels as Jonathan Wild, Amelia, and, of course, Tom Jones?

Fielding decides to give us the full name of Pamela’s employer, Mr B: it is, he insists, Mr Booby. That name takes on a somewhat different comic complexion when applied to his aunt – Lady Booby. This good lady, newly widowed, sets out to seduce her young servant, Joseph Andrews, just as Squire Booby had set out to “seduce” Joseph’s sister, Pamela; but Joseph is as chaste as his sister, and, indeed, as his Biblical namesake, and, despite Lady Booby displaying to him her well-endowed charms, resists heroically. For this, he is turned out, penniless. And now, Fielding has a problem: while he was taking the no doubt well-deserved piss out of Richardson’s Pamela, he was on safe comic ground; but he could not keep this going for an entire full-length novel. Once Joseph is turned out, Fielding is forced to move away from parody and pastiche, and invent comic material that is more, as it were, free-standing. And in this, it must be admitted, he succeeded only partially: the comic genius that is consistently in view in the later Tom Jones is apparent here only intermittently.

Fielding soon realises that the virtuous, strait-laced Joseph Andrews could not carry off the central role in a comic romp; and so he introduces Parson Adams, one of his finest comic creations. Parson Adams is an impoverished, other-worldy curate, unimpeachable in his moral integrity, but not quite equipped to negotiate the various vicissitudes of the material world. In some ways, he even recalls Nazarin of Benito Pérez Galdós; but while Nazarin rejects violence under any circumstances, and ends a tragic figure, Parson Adams is quite prepared to take up cudgels, quite literally, when there are villains to be disposed of and innocents protected. (And this being a Fielding novel, there is no shortage of mock-heroic fights and severe beatings.) Fielding resists any temptation to provide Parson Adams even with overtones of the tragic: while he clearly admires his incorruptible moral probity, he allows Parson Adams to remain throughout a gloriously comic figure. And, also, one of those rare believable portraits of a completely good man. Fielding laugh at him even as he admires him, and so do we. The laughter is never superior, and there is in it not the slightest hint of malice or of condescension.

Fielding introduces also a love interest for Joseph – the delightfully named Fanny Goodwill. (Tony Richardson’s 1977 film version came with the tagline: “The story of a young, English footman who served the Lady Booby but loved the little Fanny.”) There isn’t really much in the way of characterisation either of Joseph or of Fanny: they’re merely stock figures in a generally rumbustious romp.

However, for all the rumbustiousness, Fielding’s moral compass is very firmly established. His principal argument with Richardson is not, after all, that Richardson was too serious in his morals, but that he wasn’t serious enough – that allowing Pamela to be “rewarded” for her virtue with marriage with her former tormentor made virtue itself but a commodity. As in his other novels, Fielding is, throughout, an intrusive narrator: he addresses the reader directly, comments, delivers lectures, tells jokes, and does all those things that modern literary theory tells us authors should not do (unless they are being postmodern or something). And, as in his other novels, it works: it works because Fielding’s authorial presence is so very engrossing. His is a very distinctive voice, and holds our attention. It is a voice of great charm – the voice of a man who values virtue and admires selflessness and generosity, but who is also sympathetic and humane, and tolerant of human failings. We often read books for the companionship of the author, and there can be few authors as companionable as Henry Fielding.

But despite many fine things, Joseph Andrews does, it must be admitted, have its longueurs. In the later Tom Jones, the better qualities of Joseph Andrews are consistently in view, and the flaws entirely absent. For one thing, Fielding, when he came to writing Tom Jones, realised that the kind of novel he was attempting required an interesting plot: otherwise, the final chapters would merely provide resolution for a plot that the reader has long lost interest in, and become merely tedious; and the rest of the novel would become merely a sequence of more or less unrelated set pieces. Joseph Andrews suffers on both these points. But its high points are high enough, and while I don’t think I’ll re-read the entire novel again, I will be more than happy to dip into it from time to time to renew my acquaintance both with Parson Adams, and, indeed, with Henry Fielding himself.

(As a footnote, when Clarissa was published, Fielding had acknowledged it a masterpiece, and sent Richardson a warmly worded letter of congratulation. It is good to know that the generosity of spirit apparent in the authorial figure in Fielding’s novels was present also in Fielding the man.)

“Cat on a Hot Tin Roof” by Tennessee Williams

Among my reading projects for this year, I had meant to acquaint myself with the plays of Tennessee Williams, a dramatist to whose works I have never felt particularly close. I can see, looking back over the year, that I have failed miserably in this reading project. I read and quite enjoyed The Night of the Iguana earlier this year, but, for whatever reason, haven’t really felt the urge to go back and read more of his plays.  And I am not entirely sure why. After all, the dialogue is superb, depicting economically the characters’ inner lives, and their relations with each other, and yet sounding entirely spontaneous and natural; the pacing is masterly, with the dramatic climaxes placed perfectly; the characters are intriguing, and depicted with a vivid theatricality; and so on. What’s not to like? – as they say. So, I picked up Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, one of Williams’ most famous dramas, and I found the same fine qualities I had found in The Night of the Iguana. And yet… and yet, there seemed something missing, something I find difficult to pinpoint.

Before going on to examine why this may be so, let me first of all rule out of court the criticisms I used to make of Tennessee Williams: I used to dismiss his work as “overheated melodrama”. This really won’t do, for various reasons. First of all, beyond what point does a drama become “overheated”? Is there some point at which it is correctly heated? Is it underheated if we fail to reach this point? How does one heat a drama anyway, come to that? And in any case, what do we mean by “melodrama”, and why precisely is it a bad thing? “Overheated melodrama” is one of those meaningless pieces of criticism that get bandied around unthinkingly: so let’s not go there.

One may, perhaps, object the level of hysteria in Williams’ plays – all those people at the end of their tether, losing their touch with reality, and so on. Once again, I do not see why this should be a reason for criticism: there do exist people who are hysterical, or on the edge of hysteria; there do exist people who lose touch with reality. So why should a dramatist not depict such people? Extreme psychologies do exist, and there is no reason why the creative writer should consider them out of bounds. Or even, as Williams does, focus on these extreme psychologies: writers are entitled, after all, to choose and to focus on whatever most concerns them. That the reader may not necessarily share the writer’s concerns is hardly a shortcoming of the writer. If Tennessee Williams chooses to focus on extreme psychologies and extreme behaviour, then that is his privilege: our appraisal must concern not the choice of subject, but how he deals with it.

And I am not necessarily out of sympathy with his subject. After all, I rate Dostoyevsky among my favourite novelists (despite often immense reservations), and his novels are full of hysterics and emotional cripples. No – if there is something in Tennessee Williams’ plays that I can’t quite latch on to, it is not that he depicts extreme characters, and extreme behaviour. There is something other than that that I find difficult.

As with many plays by Williams, the characters and the dramatic situation – the plot, such as it is – is familiar to most who watch Hollywood films from the 50s and 60s: it was through these bowdlerised versions that I, and many others I guess, first came into contact with these works. I must admit I remember little of the film version of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof starring Paul Newman and Elizabeth Taylor, and with Burl Ives famously reprising his stage role as Big Daddy. From what I gather, this version was quite heavily bowdlerised, and Tennessee Williams was himself unhappy with it. Admittedly, it’s hard to see how the play’s openness on sexual matters could have been depicted in a mainstream film of the late 50s, but equally, it’s hard to see what can be left of the drama once this sexual openness is taken out. For sex is at the very heart of everything here. Early in the play, Big Mama asks her daughter-in-law if she makes her husband happy in bed, and says, pointing to the bed: “When a marriage goes on the rocks, the rocks are there – right there.” Of course, the sheer inappropriateness of this, especially coming as it does from mother-in-law to daughter-in-law, is squirm-inducingly comic: but this sentiment seems to be at the centre of the play itself. It’s not just marriage: in the world of Tennessee Williams, when any human relationship goes “off the rocks”, the reasons are sexual. Characters are depicted almost entirely in sexual terms: any neurosis, any hysteria, is, at bottom, sexual in nature.

Margaret – Maggie – is the cat on the hot tin roof of the title. Her husband Brick has his leg in plaster, and appears on stage throughout the play with a perhaps too blatantly symbolic a crutch. And, yes, he and his wife have not been having sex at all, and this has become the talk of the entire family. As the play progresses, the reasons for this lack of sexual activity emerge: Maggie had been jealous of her husband’s friendship with Skipper, believing it to be essentially homosexual in nature; Skipper had tried to have an affair with Maggie, to prove her wrong, but on being unable to complete the act, had been forced to face the truth about himself; but when he had declared himself to Brick, Brick was merely shocked and disgusted, and had rejected him; subsequently, Skipper had committed suicide, and Brick, ever since, has been living a life of guilt and alcoholism, unable either to be sexually attracted to his wife, or to come to terms with his own homosexual leanings. All very torrid and tumultuous, but, inevitably, no longer as shocking as it must have seemed some sixty or so years ago at its first performance. And now that we are no longer shocked by this (indeed, if we are shocked at anything at all now, it would probably be Brick’s rejection of Skipper!) we must ask ourselves how well this holds up on purely psychological and dramatic terms.

Perhaps it does: I am no psychologist, and am in no position to judge. But it does bother me, I admit, that the inner lives of these characters, and of the relationships between them, are depicted purely in sexual terms: take out the sex, and there seems little if anything left. Now, I really don’t think I am prudish (although maybe I am – who knows?) but I really do find it hard to believe that our sexuality is the sole, or even the principal, driving force determining our psychologies and our behaviour. And perhaps this is why I find it so difficult to enter into the world of Tennessee Williams: here, all states of mind, all neuroses, all hysteria, are essentially sexual in nature.

Apart from Brick and Maggie, we have the famous character of Big Daddy, a still vigorous figure in his 60s, but, unknown to himself, dying of cancer. He is in many ways a quite monstrous figure: when we see him, he is under the impression that he is physically healthy, and, this being a Tennessee Williams play, the only way he can express his vigour and zest for life is to express his desire to have more sex. He is casually dismissive of his ageing wife, who remains, pathetically, devoted to him. And there is Brick’s brother and sister-in-law – mean, grasping schemers, straight out of Balzac, desperate to lay their hands on Big Daddy’s estate, and cut out Brick and Maggie. I hesitate to describe these characters as “mere caricatures”, since, as anyone who has read Gogol or Dickens will testify, caricatures can be tremendously subtle and sophisticated; but here, they aren’t: they are merely crude, and, as a consequence, tiresome. A dramatist more interested in aspects of characters other than sex could have made something more of Gooper’s jealousy of his brother Brick, who, despite his general irresponsibility and lack of hard work, has remained his father’s favourite; but Tennessee Williams appears to make very little of this, since, it seems, he is not interested in any aspect of human character that is not sexual in nature. And it is for this reason that, for all the many fine dramatic qualities of this play, I come away from it feeling I have witnessed a somewhat reduced view of humanity.

As ever, I do not mean to put anyone off. Those more in sympathy with Tennessee Williams’ view of humanity, or who are more prepared to be convinced than I was, will find much more to like in this play than I did. As for me, I’ll read a few more of his works in time, but at the moment, I can’t say I’m in a rush to race through them all. I think I may be prudish after all!