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Book review

Youth (1898) and The End of the Tether (1902) by Joseph Conrad

Youth was first published in Blackwood’s Magazine in 1898. Four years later it was republished in novel format in the collection Youth, A Narrative; and Two Other Stories in 1902, best known because one of the ‘two other stories’ is arguably Conrad’s most significant work, Heart of Darkness. These are still published together in the Penguin Modern Classics edition of the collection. The stories are grouped in this way to provide a young/middle-aged/old structure to the seafaring stories, on which more later.

Youth opens with several older merchant navy men sharing stories, very reminiscent of the opening of Heart of Darkness. One of them, Marlow, tells an anecdote about his first voyage to the East on board the Judea. The ship is carrying a load of coal from England to Thailand. The voyage begins to go disastrously wrong almost from the off, with a gale nearly sinking her, followed by a collision with a steamer, which takes weeks to repair. On the next attempted journey another storm hits which almost destroys the ship, leaving the crew having to work at the pumps constantly to keep the ship afloat. After a total refit and a new crew the journey is restarted, and the ship gets as far as the coast of Western Australia, when yet another disaster strikes – the coal they are carrying catches fire and eventually explodes. Although to all intents and purposes destroyed the ship stays afloat. The captain is determined to rescue either some of the cargo, the hulk of the ship, or the ship’s gear to prove to insurers that every effort had been made to save the ship. The Judea is finally abandoned and the crew salvage what they can and decant into the ship’s longboats. Somehow they make it into port and eventually back to England. For Marlow, with the irrepressibility of youth, this has all been an adventure. As such, Youth provides a striking contrast with the ominous, oppressive atmosphere of Heart of Darkness.

The End of the Tether provides the other bookend to HoD, telling the story of an old merchant navy captain, Henry Whalley. He is coming to the end of his career. In his prime he had been famous as ‘dare-devil Harry Whalley’, captain, explorer and adventurer. When we meet Whalley he has just lost all his savings in an unfortunate investment, and is considering his options. A letter from his daughter pleading for help prompts him to sell his ship, sending her most of the money and saving only a modest sum to live on. To provide an income (and I think an occupation) he buys a working share in a steamer, Sofala. This ship’s owner, Massy, is an irascible man who enjoys firing crew members. Massy has a gambling addiction which makes him paranoid, fearing everyone is trying to rob him, but he can’t fire Whalley because of the contract they have signed. However, Whalley begins to lose his sight, and has to hide this fact in case he loses his investment, relying on his knowledge of the route and the help of his crew to navigate safely. When this strategy finally lets him down he faces the most difficult of decisions.

The most difficult of the voyages described in these three stories is undoubtedly that of the Judea in Youth, but Marlow’s youthful fortitude makes it seem a jolly adventure. The journey in Heart of Darkness is for the most part relatively untroubled, but the menacing nature of the setting and the destination is what Marlow finds most challenging. The journey in The End of the Tether is by comparison straightforward and Whalley has made this trip many times before, with the most difficult element being some feats of navigation which he can manage almost literally with his eyes closed. Putting up with the boorish Massy is more difficult, but he can bear it for the sake of his daughter. (Whalley’s strategy for dealing with Massy is to totally and contemptuously ignore him, which of course winds Massy up all the more), These stories form a strong coherent whole and I am really glad that the Penguin Modern Classic series continues to print them together despite Heart of Darkness obviously being the best known stand alone story. Like most works of art, being seen/read in its original context helps with the reader’s understanding of the text. Marlow’s reaction to Kurtz’s descent into madness is easier to understand when seen in this setting.

Originally these stories would have been read as adventure stories of far distant lands and seafaring voyages. While of course they can still be read in this way, on its own Heart of Darkness is an important commentary on imperialism and empire. As a collection however they read in yet another way, as a reflection on age. It is wonderful that texts can be revived simply by reframing (or more correctly by a restoration of the original framing) in this way.

Youth (1898) and The End of the Tether (1902) by Joseph Conrad

Aside
Book review

Red Side Story by Jasper Fforde, 2024

Red Side Story is the sequel to the wonderfully imaginative Shades of Grey (2009), which I should stress straightaway has absolutely no connection with the book with ’50’ in its name. Fifteen years is a long time to wait for a sequel (unless you are George R R Martin) and I was worried that the author had lost interest in the fascinating world of chromatacians (bear with me) that he had created, or couldn’t work out where to take the story. But all our patience has definitely been rewarded.

As we know from Shades of Grey, the story is set in a version of the UK (more specifically, Wales) where every aspect of your position in society depends on your ability to perceive parts of the colour spectrum. Colour vision is extremely limited in this society. Some people – ‘Greys’ – have no colour vision at all and are the equivalent of untouchables; others are divided into the colours they can see with more senior roles given to those with the better colour sensitivity. Society is governed by an extremely rigid set of rules set out in Munsell’s ‘Book of Harmony’. Technology is largely forbidden, with a few exceptions. It is a bizarre, but at the same time recognisable world. It is also quite brutal – people are killed (by being shown a shade of green which acts like a deadly poison) for any small infraction of the rules. There are signs of the civilisation that came before the Something that Happened’ five hundred years earlier, but very little understanding of that society.

The novel picks up where Shades of Grey left off. IN East Carmine on the fringes of Red Sector West, Eddie Russett and Jane Grey, having discovered that there is something profoundly wrong with their society, have determined to do something about it. But first they have to escape the trumped-up murder charges they are due to imminently face. Eddie has also recently found out that his perception of the colour red is very high, meaning he is highly valued in the marriage market. But once his seed has been sown any protection he derives from his colour perception will be gone. Slowly Eddie and Jane piece together clues that show them their society could possibly be a vast social engineering experiment, monitored by drones that they have been taught to think as swans. Everyone carries a bar code imprinted on their fingers, allowing the ‘swans’ to locate them at any time – hence the reason wearing gloves is not allowed.

The novel’s parables aren’t hard to unlock – they aren’t meant to be. Treating people as unequal simply because of their physical characteristics is bad. Dogmatic adherence to out of date rules of dubious authority is stupid. We should be able to love who we want to love, not have to trade our fertility like cattle. And so on. But the novel is at no point preachy – this is just Eddie and Jane’s world, and they are heroic in their struggles to find the truth, risking their lives over and over again. I don’t think there’s ever any doubt they will succeed.

Red Side Story can be read as a standalone novel, but I would recommend reading Shades of Grey first. Not because you really need it to work out what is going on in the later novel, but because it is a great story. Fforde is a unique author – comparisons to Pratchett (in the Independent’s review below) for example are wide of the mark. Possibly the nearest in terms of imaginativeness would be the wonderful Douglas Adams and there really is no higher praise. The inventiveness of Fforde’s stories is just the start – what is really impressive is the way he manages to sustain an idea and populate a believable universe without drawing on folk tales or mythologies as most fantasy authors do. This makes him instantly recognisable as an author. Add to this mix his consistently progressive narratives and some great jokes (and there I will accept a comparison with Pratchett, because some of the puns are a bit painful – for example the menacing Undertoad) and you have an author in superb control of his material and a wonderful, whimsical and at the same time brutal story.

The internet seems to think there will be a third novel in the series – I do hope so, and that we don’t have to wait 15 years!

What other reviews have said: a selection

‘Fforde is one of literature’s most enjoyable visionaries, and his long-awaited Shades of Grey sequel will be eagerly seized upon by his admirers… The jokes are excellent, the pacing breathless and the last line a classic’ ​Observer

‘Fforde’s books are more than an ingenious idea. They are written with buoyant zest and are tautly plotted . . . and are embellished with the rich details of a Dickens or Pratchett’ ​Independent

‘No summaries can do justice to the sheer inventiveness, wit, complexity, erudition, unexpectedness and originality’ ​The Times

Red Side Story by Jasper Fforde, 2024

Aside
Book review

John Ronald Reuel Tolkien was born in 1892 in what is now South Africa. His father died just four years later in 1896 and his mother not much longer after that in 1904. After university Tolkien served in the first World War in which he saw almost all his former school friends die. I rarely have much time for commentators who draw parallels between the personal experiences of authors and the events of their novels, but I am going to make an exception here. Orphaned at such an early age the appeal to him of fantasy worlds must have been compelling. I can picture Tolkien in the trenches of the First World War, covered in mud and lice, looking out at the devastation of no-man’s-land, and remembering spring back in England. This must surely have influenced this poignant scene in The Return of the King in which Sam and Frodo look over the wastes of Mordor and fondly remember the Shire.

“Do you remember the Shire, Mr. Frodo? It’ll be spring soon. And the orchards will be in blossom. And the birds will be nesting in the hazel thicket. And they’ll be sowing the summer barley in the lower fields… and eating the first of the strawberries with cream. Do you remember the taste of strawberries?”

The scenes as the hobbits return to the Shire after their adventures, changed physically and psychologically, and for Frodo never quite fully recovered, can also be seen as an allegory for challenges faced by the troops returning from the front after the war. All the hobbits survive the war, as do all their friends except Boromir and Theoden – in reality the cost of the Great War was far deadlier.

As with The Two Towers, The Return of the King consists of two separate books telling the parallel stories of Frodo’s journey into Mordor, and the battle of Minas Tirith, the principal city of Gondor, the kingdom of men in Middle Earth. These stories are told through the separate and diverging tales of the surviving members of the fellowship. Gandalf and Pippin travel to Minas Tirith to rally the defence of the city from the imminent storm from Mordor. The city is in chaos with Denethor the Steward having to all intents and purposes having abdicated his role, leaving it to Gandalf to rally the defence of the realm. Merry stays with Theoden while he raises the Rohirrim to ride to Gondor’s aid. Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli, accompanied by the Rangers of the North, take the ‘Paths of the Dead’ to recruit the ghosts of Dunharrow, bound by an ancient curse to fight for the King of Gondor, to fight on their side. By this route Aragorn slowly reclaims his throne – the Return of the King. The Army of the Dead defeat the Corsairs of Umbar, Sauron’s fleet, and uses their ships to sail to the relief of Minas Tirith. The arrival of both the Rohirrim and the Southern forces turn the tide of battle against Sauron’s forces, but the critical blow is struck by Éowyn, who having travelled to battle in disguise, kills the Lord of the Nazgûl. There is a short pause for the dead to be buried. Gandalf and Aragorn call a war council, and announce an audacious plan to march on Mordor, to distract Sauron and give Frodo and chance of finishing his quest. It is before the Black Gates that this breathless chapter of the story closes,

In the parallel Ringbearers plot-line, Sam rescues Frodo from Cirith Ungol, where he has been taken after being paralysed by Shelob. Their journey across the barren wastes of Mordor is arduous and exhausting, and they are tracked every step by Gollum. This is where the novel is probably the hardest to read – Tolkien does an astonishing job of conveying the physical difficulties of crossing this wasteland, leaving the reader exhausted. But their luck holds, and the attack on the Black Gates clears their way to Mount Doom, which astonishingly is unguarded. At the last, Frodo is unable to resist the Ring and claims it for himself. Gollum has followed Sam and Frodo all the way, and chooses this moment to bite off Frodo’s finger with the Ring still on it. Celebrating wildly, Gollum stumbles and falls into the volcano, taking the Ring with him. Sauron power is switched off like a light, and is kingdom crumbles. His armies collapse and are swept away by Aragorn’s forces.

Finally the two parallel storyline can combine. Sam and Frodo are rescued from Mordor by the ever reliable eagles, and in the days that follow Aragorn is crowned King. He weds Arwen, daughter of Elrond. Éomer is crowned King of Rohan and Éowyn marries Faramir, Prince of Ithilien. While this might all seem a little trite and convenient, Tolkien handles the material well and it doesn’t seemed forced. The journey back to the Shire is a procession via some of the locations visited on the outward journey, including spending time with a now aged Bilbo in Rivendell. But when the hobbits finally arrive back in the Shire they find it has been taken over by men. Sam had had a vision of this happening when he was in Lothlorien. The hobbits raise a rebellion and scour the Shire of men, who it turns out had been organised by a spiteful and vindictive Saruman. This reveal is a little in the spirit of Scooby Doo, but the damage done to the Shire is easily put right. These final scenes are when the novel is at its most allegorical. The construction of houses and factories, and the cutting down of trees across the Shire are a clear metaphor for the industrialisation of rural England. But the damage done derives not from just Saruman’s evil but by the new comers to the Shire, foreigners with alien ways. It’s hardly surprising that a Oxford professor born in the reign of Queen Victoria would have old-fashioned views on development and immigration, and to be fair to Tolkien there are plenty of other moments in the novel’s where he takes a more progressive stance. In the novel’s final chapters Frodo, Bilbo and Gandalf join the last of the elves to set sail from the Grey Havens across the sea in a metaphor for death.

The Lord of the Rings has come in for some criticism for its portrayal of the role of women. The Fellowship is indeed an all-male boy’s club. You could try and explain this by seeing the LoTR as a dramatisation of the First World War – there were very few women in the front line. But Tolkien appears to notice that the earlier novels are dominated by male characters, and responds by introducing several strong women. Of these Eowyn is the most significant. She subverts the expectations of her family and her people by refusing to accept the submissive role allocated to her by Théoden and later Aragorn:

“A time may come soon,” said he, “when none will return. Then there will be need of valour without renown, for none shall remember the deeds that are done in the last defence of your homes. Yet the deeds will not be less valiant because they are unpraised.”

She answered: “All your words are but to say: you are a woman, and your part is in the house. But when the men have died in battle and honour, you have leave to be burned in the house, for the men will need it no more. But I am of the House of Eorl and not a serving-woman. I can ride and wield blade, and I do not fear either pain or death.”

“What do you fear, lady?” he asked.

“A cage,” she said. “To stay behind bars, until use and old age accept them, and all chance of doing great deeds is gone beyond recall or desire.”

This passionate refusal to accept her traditional gender role of care-giver is moving, and not at all undermined by her eventual choice to become Faramir’s wife – she has by then done great deeds, including riding to war against the direct orders of her king, and slaying the Witch King of Angmar:

“But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Éowyn I am, Éomund’s daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.”

Eowyn is admittedly not the complete feminist role-model. She pines after Aragorn, and at times seems more interested in following him that going to war, the latter being the way of remaining by his side. But this is high fantasy from the 1950’s after all, and a big step forward compared to the female-free zone that is The Hobbit.

I mentioned in my review of The Two Towers that some of the most moving, powerful lines from the Peter Jackson films were taken directly from Tolkien. The same applies to The Return of the King. Sam and Eowyn’s lines quoted above have a huge impact, and Theoden’s speech to the Rohirrim is a genuinely hairs on the back of the neck moment:

“Arise, arise, Riders of Théoden! Fell deeds awake, fire and slaughter! Spear shall be shaken, shield be splintered, a sword-day, a red day, ere the sun rises! Ride now, ride now! Ride to Gondor!”

It’s been a genuine pleasure to return to Middle Earth for a few weeks. I know the length of the novels (over 1500 pages) and the songs can be off-putting for some, but for anyone who has only seen the films the novels will be particularly worth the effort as whole new layers of depth are revealed.

Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, by J R R Tolkien, 1955

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Book review

A while back I wrote a blog post about the different ways one can read a book, trying to answer the question – what does it actually mean to say that you have read a novel? I found ten different flavours of reading, but I missed number 11- possibly the best way of reading a novel is to do so collectively. I don’t mean with other people in a book club (I suppose that would be number 12), where you get together at the end, admit you didn’t finish it, and then drink some wine. Nor do I mean a group reading in a big circle, taking turns (13). No, I am thinking of reading a novel at the same time as your friends, meeting them the next day, and comparing notes. That’s the way I first read The Lord of the Rings many years ago and I recall it as a special experience. My friends had spotted things I had missed, they had read chapters I was yet to reach, they interpreted events differently from one another, and of course we all made wild guesses about what was going to happen. We enthused about Tolkien’s world-building, his characterisation, his descriptive powers, moaned about his poetry, and disagree fiercely about things such as how irritating Tom Bombadil was. There was a freshness and authenticity to our reactions that was precious to me (see what I did there?)

Chances are you are more familiar with the Peter Jackson films than the original Tolkien novels. The films are wonderful, respectful of their source material but at the same time making sensible changes so allow the films to run at a reasonable length. Certainly the film of Fellowship of the Ring is largely consistent with the novel, with the one significant change being the omission of any reference to the slightly creepy Tom Bombadil.

Lord of the Rings epic scale and themes ensure that it is often read as an allegory, but in the novel’s prologue Tolkien goes out of his way to dismiss the idea that it is anything other than a story. He specifically scotches the idea that the novel is about the Second World War, not least because it was conceived and largely written long before the war started.

A few things that struck me on this re-reading. First, it is quite striking just how often Gandalf goes missing. He flits in and out of the narrative time after time, usually for very long periods. He does exactly the same thing in The Hobbit of course, walking out on Bilbo and the dwarves just at the moment his presence is most needed, but here he is missing from the Shire while researching the origins of the ring for several years after Bilbo’s parting, missing again while the hobbits travel to Bree and beyond, only meeting up with them at Rivendell, then finally of course after that unfortunate incident with the Balrog in Moria.

The other thing that struck me, and this is probably because I have just finished re-reading the Harry Potter series, is how influential the Lord of the Rings seems to have been on J K Rowling. The Harry Potter novels borrow fairly relentlessly from a wide range of sources, and a series set in a school for wizards at first seems very dissimilar to an epic quest novel, but dig a bit deeper and the parallels begin to pile up. Dumbledore and Gandalf are almost interchangeable, the one ring seems a lot like Sauron’s one and only horcrux, Nazgul and Dementors look a lot alike, as do Dobby and Gollum.

In the unlikely event you are unfamiliar with the novel, Lord of the Rings is a three part quest novel set in a mythical Middle Earth peopled by Elves, dwarves, wizards, and halfling creatures of Tolkien’s own imagining, hobbits. It follows chronologically around sixty years after the events of The Hobbit. Bilbo has been enjoying the benefits of his comfortable wealth. He has never married, but he has adopted his nephew, Frodo, who now lives with him. On his 111th birthday he throws a party for the whole neighbourhood and announces he is leaving the Shire to go wandering. He leaves the invisibility ring to Frodo, completely unaware of the ring’s significance. Tolkien’s master-stroke is to take something that doesn’t play a major part in The Hobbit – it is a McGuffin to help Bilbo escape from Gollum and the goblin caves, but doesn’t play any significant role in the rest of teh story – and turn it into a powerful dark-magic object which can decide the fate of Middle Earth.

Gandalf eventually works out the ring’s significance, and tells Frodo he must take it away from the Shire. Gollum has revealed that the ring is in The Shire, being held by a hobbit named Baggins, and the Dark Lord Voldemort sorry Sauron has sent his Dementors sorry Nazgul to find it. Gandalf goes to consult the leader of his order, Saruman, leaving Frodo to set out in the company of his sidekick, friend and gardener Sam Gamgee, and his cousin Pippin Took. It is not long before they are intercepted by the Black Riders, but some passing Elves scare them off. Their journey is to be blessed with a series of such fortunate encounters. Meeting up with Merry Brandybuck they leave the Shire, taking a shortcut through the Old Forest, where they are again rescued, this time from the clutches of an aggressive Willow, by Tom Bombadil. In the net stage of their journey that get lost in a fog and caught by barrow-wights, but Tom is on hand to rescue them again.

In Bree they meet Strider who rescues them from the BlackRiders and takes them to Weathertop where they are again attacked by the persistent Black Riders. Although Frodo is wounded with a cursed blade, Strider fights off the Nazgûl, and after a series of close shaves which on the page aren’t repetitive but in summary certainly seem as such, they finally reach Rivendell, an elf-sanctuary and home of Elrond. Gandalf, having escaped the clutches of Saruman, is there to greet them. While Frodo recovers a Council is summoned to decide the fate of the Ring. We learn the history of Sauron and the Ring’s importance is confirmed. The Fellowship of the Ring is formed, nine walkers to mirror the nine Black Riders: Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippin, Strider, now revealed as Aragorn, heir to the kingdom of Gondor, Gandalf, Gimli the Dwarf, Legolas the Elf, and Boromir, son of the Steward of Gondor.

This is an unusual quest – to destroy a found object, not to locate a treasure. Their first challenge is to cross the Misty Mountains. When they prove impassable they decide to go under the mountains, through the Mines of Moria. But these proves equally dangerous and orc-infested, with the added complication of a Balrog, a fire demon, which Gandalf tackles single-handedly. When I first read The Fellowship I was far less cynical than I am now – the usual rule of fiction, that unless you see someone die they aren’t dead, was not so well known in those days. Now I suspect few readers will think Gandalf is gone for good.

Next on the quest is a few days of refuge in the Elven forest of Lothlórien, where they meet the Lady Galadriel. Female characters in the trilogy are few and far between, but those who do appear are significant and powerful. Galadriel permits Frodo and Sam to look into her pensieve sorry fountain to see visions of the past, the present, and a possible future. They leave Lothlorien by river to the hills of Amon Hen. Here the Fellowship is sundered, setting in train the parallel storylines that are followed in the sequel, The Two Towers. It was a bold narrative choice Tolkien made here, having invested so much in creating the fellowship to then break it up before the quest is complete.

Tolkien’s absorption in his world is absolute, and this translates into a compellingly realistic fantasy (oxymoronic, I know) novel on the grandest of scales. His world-building is extraordinary. Some readers may not have the patience to invest so much time in the journey and I confess I often skipped the poems and songs that are such a persistent feature of the novel – does anyone enjoy these I wonder? Lord of the Rings came top of the poll conducted by the BBC in 2003 to find the UK’s most popular novel, helped I am sure by the popularity of Jackson’s trilogy of films. It requires a degree of commitment and the ability to suspend disbelief, but if you can get beyond those barriers Lord of the Rings deserves its place in that poll, and will leave you with memories of adventures in which the weak overcome evil, which after all is really all we ever want, isn’t it?

Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, by J R R Tolkein, 1954

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Book review

Unseen Academicals, (Discworld 37) by Sir Terry Pratchett, 2009

Unseen Academicals - Wikipedia

Yes, Unseen Academicals is ‘the one with the football’ but it is so much more than that. Pratchett’s extraordinary ability to find new heights and depths to his universe was not dimmed by the fact that he was at this point 37 books into the series and that he was using very familiar characters and settings. His power to reinvent Discworld, and Ankh-Morpork in particular, here rests not on his principal theme, football, but on his exploration of the servant underclass that previously has been largely silent. Almost all the characters we have met thus far have been either fairly high-status – lords, ladies, wizards, guild leaders, etc, – or from the criminal underworld (sometimes both of course), but rarely ordinary working people.

The wizards of the Unseen University face disaster – they will lose a significant endowment unless (for reasons that are somewhat contrived) they play a game of football. The loss of income will restrict them to only three meals a day, an unthinkable deprivation, so the game is afoot. Flimsy though this reason is for introducing sport to that most unsporting of environments, the further complication is that Ankh-Morpork football is nothing like the sport we know today, and much closer in spirit to the medieval village game where everyone takes part, the ball is a wooden block covered in rags, and violence is a key part of any match. It becomes clear that the rules will need to be updated to make this more a gentleman’s sport, where the risk of decapitation and death are reduced and where a winner can eventually be determined.

Previously we have been introduced to a few of the higher status servants that keep the Unseen University running, but here for what I think is the first time we actually go into the kitchens and cellars where all the work is done, and are introduced to the people who do it. A key part of keeping the lights on is, well, keeping the lights on, and at the Unseen University all candles must be expertly dribbled for the right medieval aesthetic effect. The university’s master dribbler is Mr Nutt. Mr Nutt, we are told, is a goblin recently arrived from Uberwald. Parts of the story are told through Mr Nutt’s internal narration, and it becomes clear that he has a secret, hidden to even himself. He is extremely intelligent, physically hugely powerful, and constantly suppressing what seems dangerous instincts and dark, violent impulses. At first he is hidden away in the cellars, but the Arch- Chancellor is aware of his presence there, as is Lord Vetenari.

Mr Nutt starts to explore the working class culture of his friend and colleague Trev Likely. Trev has only one obsession – football. They go to a game and see up close the dangers of the rampant football hooliganism which appears to lead to Mr Nutt being killed, only for him to spring back alive before treatment can even begin at the Lady Sybil hospital. (Of the many things I loved about this novel, the way Sam Vimes and his good lady wife have become part of the language and culture of Ankh-Morpork was both touching and wonderful). At the same time we are also introduced to two of the staff who work in the University’s night-kitchens. Glenda Sugarbean bakes the best pies in Ankh-Morpork and is observant and intelligent. Her kitchen-maid friend Juliet yearns for more than can be found in the boring life below stairs.

Like many stories of working class life, the main theme here is escape. Juliet’s transcendent beauty allow her to go on to become a catwalk model of the new dwarven material, micromail; Trev’s skills with a tin can, a substitute football, win the Unseen Academicals a key game, and Nutt – well Nutt comes to terms with his dark secret, which is that he is an orc. This is the first time orcs have been mentioned in the Discworld series. They are fabled creatures, thought long-extinct, and utterly terrifying. While they are recognisably the creatures of Tolkien’s creation, there is a Discworld twist – they were bred by men as creatures of war, and their inner nature is peaceful and artistic. Mr Nutt writes love poetry, and yearns to be a valuable member of society. His relationship with Glenda blossoms into the most unlikely of romances, until finally he is asked to try to discover any surviving members of his species and re-introduce them to society. If trolls and vampires can live amongst men, why not orcs?

“Many bad things were done under the Evil Empire” she said. “The best we can do now is undo them. Will you assist in this endeavor?”
“In every way that I can” said Nutt.
“I would like you to teach them civilized behavior,” said Ladyship coldly.
He appeared to consider this. “Yes, of course, I think, that would be quite possible,” he said. “And who would you send to teach the humans?”
There was a brief outburst of laughter from Vetinari, who immediately cupped his hand over his mouth. “Oh I do beg your pardon,” he said.”

Unseen Academicals is a joy. Pratchett’s trademark silly jokes still abound – one of the wizards is on exchange from a distant university and is called Bengo Macarona – unsurprisingly he is brilliant at football. As always, the game of spot the reference is rewarding. Pratchett wears his learning lightly, and some lines are almost thrown away. One example is a version of the couplet from Andrew Marvell’s To His Coy Mistress , (summarised (if not dismissed) earlier in the novel along with all other love poetry as “as a means to an end, to wit, getting a young lady to take all her clothes off.”)

“The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.”

Which comes out as:

“The crypt’s a handsome place to be, But none, I think leave after tea”

Most obviously Trev and Juliet’s whole storyline is a Ankh-Morpork version of Romeo and Juliet, lovers from two bitterly divided families, fanatical supporters of opposing football teams, but at the same time and rather brilliantly Juliet’s story is also that of both Pygmalion and A Star is Born, a beautiful young woman transformed into a supermodel. Mr Nutt’s unusual training techniques – he takes his team to the ballet, and has them practicising blindfold – also reminded me of How Steeple Sinderby Wanders Won the FA Cup. Someone has done a fantastic job of collecting all these references in one spot at https://wiki.lspace.org/mediawiki/Book:Unseen_Academicals/Annotations but don’t spoil the fun and look them up first. The references are often easy to miss but there is a certain satisfaction to be gained from spotting them unassisted.

Ankh-Morpork is changing. Technology is threatening old ways, and in a most striking illustration of the new times one of the wizards of the Unseen University, the Dean, has taken a job in another university as their Vice-Chancellor, an unheard of move that Ridcully sees as a betrayal. It is probably just because I know that the series was to end after four more novels, but I saw a slight sadness in this event, a recognition that all good things must end. Like this review,

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Book review

The Thief of Time (Discworld 26) by Terry Pratchett, 2001

In Thief of Time Terry Pratchett gives his by now bulging bag of Discworld characters, settings and scenarios a good shake, and comes up with an entertaining story about the end of the world. There are some distinct echoes of Good Omens along the way, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

The Auditors of Reality, who as we know from Hogfather want to end the world, finding humanity unnecessarily messy, are back. The Auditors had the potential to be fairly sinister, dementor-like figures, in their floaty grey hooded-cowls, but their susceptibility to explode when tasting chocolate is a bit of a weakness. They don’t seem to have learnt much from their previous encounter with Death and his grand-daughter, Susan Sto-Helit, who set out to stop their latest attempt. The Auditors’ dastardly plan this time is to hire a clockmaker Jeremy Clockson (yes, this is the standard of the jokes. If you don’t like them then don’t read the book, it’s quite simple really) to build a perfect glass clock. There is at this point what David Tennant’s incarnation of Dr Who called some “timey-wimey” stuff. We are asked to accept that a clock that can measure time perfectly will stop the universe. There are quite lengthy attempts to explain why this might be the case, and these have a sufficient veneer of plausibility to hold the rest of the plot together.

Another reappearing character is sweeper Lu-Tze of the History Monks. Lu-Tze first appeared in Small Gods but here the character is expanded significantly, as is the role and history of the History Monks themselves. Lu-Tze is the only known master of “déjà fu” a martial art in which the hands move in time as well as space. This leaves one’s opponent with ‘the feeling you’ve been kicked in the head this way before‘. Lu-Tze usually relies on the principle that no-one notices a sweeper, which allows him to go anywhere in the monastery, together with ‘Rule One’. Rule One states “Do not act incautiously when confronting little bald wrinkly smiling men”.

Pratchett spotted that as Westerners often draw inspiration from spiritual figures from the East, so seekers of enlightenment from the East may well look for insights into philosophy from the West. The Discworld version of this concept is Lu-Tze’s following of ‘The Way of Mrs. Cosmopilite’, drawn from the everyday sayings of Mrs Marietta Cosmopilite, his landlady when he lodged in Ankh-Morpork. For is it not written that ‘a penny saved is a penny earned’, ‘do you think I’m made of money’, ‘don’t make me come in there’, and ‘because’ and other pearls of wisdom.

To help him track down the doomsday clock, Lu-Tze takes a bright young apprentice, Lobsang Ludd. Lobsang is a relatively new recruit to the History Monks, having previously been raised by the Ankh-Morpork Thieves’ Guild. Lu-Tze quickly learns that Lobsang is (of course) no ordinary apprentice, having powers to manipulate time way ahead of anyone of comparable experience or age. Lu-Tze and Lobsang set out to find the maker of the glass clock, and in part to make repairs for the last time such a clock was made, which caused huge problems with the history of Discworld before breaking. Motifs from road-trip and master and apprentice stories are used as well as a slightly out of place reference to James Bond – they are equipped with special devices by a quartermaster called Qu!

Susan is against her better judgment called in to help Death. This involves her leaving her day job as a teacher (the scenes of Susan teaching her class Geography by magically transporting them to the country concerned are wonderful). She questions Nanny Ogg, given a guest appearance as the world’s best midwife, who eventually reveals she once helped Time herself have twins. As two young men in the novel, Lobsang and Jeremy, have already demonstrated a special relationship with Time, joining the dots by this point isn’t too difficult.

Thief of Time is also a Death novel. As well as commissioning Susan’s help, Death organises a reunion of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, who are joined by the Fifth Horseman, Ronnie Soak, a personification of Chaos and now living in quiet retirement as the world’s most efficient milkman.

This is perhaps not Pratchett at his peak, but not far off. The jokes are, as always, wonderfully terrible, and the pop-culture references come thick and fast. The plot hangs together – just – and while there is little suspense we keep reading because we want to know how it is all resolved. There is even just a hint of romance for Susan, which is nice.

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Book review

The Fifth Elephant (Discworld 24), by Terry Pratchett, 1999

My lock down indulgence reread of the Discworld series continues with another novel featuring the great moral philosopher Duke, Commander and Blackboard Monitor Sam Vimes.

One aspect of Pratchett’s work which is under-appreciated in my opinion is his ability to craft detective stories. Because The Fifth Elephant is, among several other things, detective fiction. The Stone of Scone, an ancient dwarven artefact, is stolen from the Ankh-Morpork Dwarf Bread Museum. Which is suspicious, because the original Scone of Stone, under close guard far away in a mine in Uberwald, is central to the forthcoming coronation of new  Low King of the Dwarves. To further complicate matters the Patrician, Lord Vetenari, has decided to send Sam Vimes as his ambassador to the coronation, suggesting that while there he may wish to negotiate with the Low King on a trade agreement with Ankh-Morpork. Uberwald is rich in underground fat deposits, as a result of the untimely arrival of the titular fifth elephant of legend. Or as Sam puts it:

“Let me see if I’ve got this right,’ …. ‘Überwald is like this big suet pudding that everyone’s suddenly noticed, and now with this coronation as an excuse we’ve all got to rush there with knife, fork and spoon to shovel as much on our plates as possible?’

Überwald, the setting in part of the previous novel in the series (Carpe Jugulum), is a complex kingdom home to dwarves, werewolves, vampires and trolls. Vimes wanders into this maelstrom of political in-fighting rather unprepared. Pratchett tiptoes close to commenting on radical Islamism here – a traditionalist faction of dwarves insists on remaining below ground, and refuse to acknowledge the existence of female dwarves. This faction has allied with the werewolves to undermine the new Low King and secure a more radical successor. Vimes is framed for an attempt on the Low King’s life, and with his bodyguard missing and the clacks down (this is the first explanation of the arrival of the clacks, the telegraph system that is the basis of Going Postal (Discworld 33)) things are not looking good for him.

Back in Ankh-Morpork things are also Going Postal. Captain Carrot has resigned to look for his – well, I suppose the right term is girlfriend, but that really doesn’t cover the complexity of the relationship – Corporal Angua. Angua is a werewolf, and daughter of the ruling werewolves back in Uberwald. This leaves Sergeant Fred Colon as acting captain, which doesn’t work out well.

The usual things that make Pratchett’s novels a continuing joy are all to be found here. There’s the clever references that are so easy to miss. One I patted myself on the back for spotting was when Vimes is considering how clumsy and uneducated he feels in the company of Ankh-Morpork aristocracy “What chance had he got against a tie and a crest“, which is a line from the classic punk anthem Eton Rifles by The Jam. Later the werewolf philosophy of “Uberwald for the werewolves” is characterised as “joy through strength”, an inversion of the Nazi slogan, telling us all we need to know about the werewolves. There’s also plenty of the Vimes philosophy we have come to expect and treasure. It’s really hard to pick a favourite quote from a novel as stuffed-full with them as this is, but try:

“All he knew was that you couldn’t hope to try for the big stuff, like world peace and happiness, but you might just about be able to achieve some tiny deed that’d make the world, in a small way, a better place. Like shooting someone.”

I think this is the first novel where we really get to see Vimes and Lady Sybil as a married couple. The maturity of their relationship, full of compromises and kindness, is worth reading the book for alone:

“Sam Vimes could parallel process. Most husbands can. They learn to follow their own line of thought while at the same time listening to what their wives say. And the listening is important, because at any time they could be challenged and must be ready to quote the last sentence in full. A vital additional skill is being able to scan the dialogue for telltale phrases, such as “and they can deliver it tomorrow” or “so I’ve invited them for dinner” or “they can do it in blue, really quite cheaply“

This is a great addition to the Watch series which sees a few more squares of the complex jigsaw that is Discworld pieced together, and introduces some new themes such as the coming of the clacks. Looking forward to The Truth (DW 25) already.

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Book review

Anansi Boys, by Neil Gaiman, 2005

Anansi Boys tells the story of Charles “Fat Charlie” Nancy. Fat Charlie is an accountant, engaged half-heartedly to Rosie, whose monstrous mother is set on disrupting their engagement. Their wedding preparations are put on hold when Charlie has to travel to the Caribbean to attend his father’s funeral. There Charlie learns that not only was his father an incarnation of the West African spider god, Anansi, but also that he has a brother, and that he can be contacted by asking a spider.

Charlie takes this news relatively well, considering, and returns to his humdrum life in London. Inevitably he can’t resist summoning up his brother, Spider. Spider is everything Charlie is not – confident, charismatic, persuasive. He sets up home in Charlie’s flat, and begins to take over this life, with, as they say, disastrous consequences, losing him both his job and his fiancee.

The supernatural is invoked powerfully in Gaiman’s previous novel, American Gods, because it is taken seriously; here the whimsicality undermines the impact of the narrative. There’s never any genuine threat from the gods who resent Anansi’s status, or from the more earth-bound Grahame Coats, Charlie’s sleazy boss, who has been embezzling his clients for years. Most readers will realise very early on that Charlie is going to end up with the petite officer investigating his case, Daisy, that Charlie and Spider and going to be reconciled, and that Mr Coats is not going to get away with his crimes. This lack of threat, even from the personification of the malevolent tiger god, led to one reviewer describing the novel as “whimsical supernaturalism” which feels about right. The New Your Times review of the novel used a similar phrase, talking of “an Uncle Remus folksiness to the stories that sends the airy blitheness of the farce plummeting down to earth”.  

The other aspect of the novel that I found a little disappointing was the humour. Whimsy is always a tough one to pull off, and stripped of its context just about any joke can fall flat, but the jokes in the novel are consistently weak. Here’s some examples:

Spider: Things came up.
Fat Charlie: What kind of things?
Spider: Things. They came up. That’s what things do. They come up. I can’t be expected to keep track of them all.

More dialogue between Charlie and Spider:

“The ties of blood,” said Spider, “are stronger than water.”
“Water’s not strong,” objected Fat Charlie.
“Stronger than vodka, then. Or volcanoes. Or, or ammonia.”

This isn’t repartee. Ammonia’s not a comedic example of something unexpectedly strong is it?

The narration aims for Pratchett or Adams, but consistently misses.

“It was England in the autumn; the sun was, by definition, something that only happened when it wasn’t cloudy or raining.”

Does this mean anything? Does it say anything about the English weather, or is it just repeating a very tired cliche? Compare how Adams turns that idea completely inside out with the cursed rain god/lorry driver in (I think) Mostly Harmless. 

“There was reality and there was reality; and some things were more real than others.”

“Nothing happened. Nothing continued to happen. More Nothing. The Return of Nothing. Son of Nothing. Nothing Rides Again. Nothing and Abbott and Costello meet the Wolfman…”

Not all the jokes fall flat. Rosie’s mother is a fine portrait of a prospective mother-in-law who could put anyone off the institution of marriage. Here she is allocating guests to tables at the wedding reception, applying the fine judgments of status that matter so much on these occasions:

“I’ll put her down for table H,” said Rosie’s mother. “She’ll be more comfortable there.” She said it in the same way most people would say things like, “Do you wish to die quickly, or shall I let Mongo have his fun first?”

Later there is this fine description of an outraged dragon:

The beast made the noise of a cat being shampooed, a lonely wail of horror and outrage, of shame and defeat.

But these are isolated exceptions of otherwise disappointingly flat

This novel is really aimed at the young adult market. Adults will find it mildly engaging if a bit superficial, but younger readers will be gripped by the story and their hope that it all works out well for Charlie and his family. 

One final quibble – “nancy boy” in idiomatic English is a homosexual slur – was it really necessary to use this phrase in the book’s title?

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Book review

Titus Alone, Mervyn Peake, 1959

This is sometimes a worthwhile exercise – try to imagine what it would have been like to read a novel such as Titus Alone when it was first published. Titus Groan and Gormenghast had been published in 1946 and 1950 respectively, and while the narrative had come to a natural close for many of the characters, Titus’s story is set to continue. You have waited nine long years (almost as long as those waiting for the next book in A Song of Ice and Fire) and finally Mervyn Peake’s sequel is published, picking up almost exactly at the point Gormenghast finished nine years earlier.TA2

But it confounds all expectations. Instead of being another static story set in Gormenghast, it is free roaming. Instead of being set in a quasi-medieval world without mechanisation, it shockingly takes place in a world in which cars and aeroplanes appear, and seem to have existed all along outside the hermetic world of the castle. The novel is as hard to categorise in genre terms as its predecessors, but it is unsettlingly different. 

Unsurprisingly the critical reaction when Titus Alone was published was confused. This was compounded by the editorial decisions made at the time. It was not until several years later that a subsequent editor, reviewing Peake’s original manuscript, noticed serious discrepancies between it and the published version. The original editor had butchered the text, making a bewildering number of unnecessary changes. In its restored form the novel proved far better than critics originally supposed. (Incidentally I wonder if the editor or publisher of the Penguin Modern Classics edition illustrated below had read the novel, because while the drawing of Irma Prunesquallor is a wonderful example of Peake’s draughtmanship, she doesn’t appear in the novel.) 

What readers at the time would not have known is that Peake was in the first stages of the Parkinsonism which would eventually take his life. This undoubtedly had an impact on the text – it could account for some of the surreal elements of the narrative, the comparative lack of structure, and the profound difference between this novel and its predecessors. But what it doesn’t do is make it a bad novel. (Incidentally I can only think of one other example – Terry Pratchett’s The Shepherd’s Crown – of a novel written by a dying author where their condition shows on the page. Other authors died part way through the completion of the text, but their illness doesn’t show through. Edwin Drood for example could have been written by Dickens at pretty much anytime during his career, I would argue.)Irma

Titus Alone follows Titus in self-imposed exile from his hereditary prison. Traveling through a wasteland he comes to a mysterious city where he encounters two faceless, silent figures – police officers? –  who want to take him into custody, or worse. He is rescued and befriended by zoo-owner Muzzlehatch, and goes on to explore his new surroundings. A series of disjointed and surreal incidents and adventures follow. There is a Kafkaesque feel to this narrative – Titus is constantly menaced by ill-defined threats, and never feels fully safe, even when Juno, Muzzlehatch’s former lover, agrees to be his guardian and takes him to live with her.

They become lovers, but it can’t last – Titus has a restlessness that compels him to keep moving. He is followed by a mysterious floating orb which he smashes with his piece of Gormenghast flint (his only token of home). The dark adventures continue culminating in an intense scene of destruction which is some of the most intense writing I think I have ever read. It’s certainly impossible to do it justice in a synopsis. The novel’s conclusion has haunted me for years. Escaping the city Titus wanders the wasteland alone for months, until he comes across a outcrop of rock that he recognises from his childhood. Hearing the guns of Gormenghast saluting the missing Earl, he knows he is home. But that knowledge is enough.

If Peake had only written Titus Alone we would of course judge the novel differently, rather than it always being assessed by its differences to its predecessors. It is less claustrophobic and faster paced than the previous two novels, more disjointed and in many ways lighter. Titus is lost without the structure of life in the castle, and bemused by the menace of the wider world, and many readers will share his post-Gormenghast reaction.

Titus Alone is in the words of one blogger “a jewel that possesses more facets than Titus Groan and Gormenghast yet will be elusive to some readers precisely for that reason”. Extremely well put.  It’s also worth looking out Michael Moorcock’s comments on Titus in the introduction to a recent edition from which I have borrowed the information above about the novel’s editorial history. Moorcock knew the Peakes at the time the novel was being written, and has some interesting observations on the creative process involved and the novel’s place in 1950’s Britain.

Titus Alone was Peake’s attempt to take his character and method out of the hermetic world he had created in Gormenghast and Titus Groan and make it confront not only issues of identity, time and human interaction but the problems of modernity and even post‐modernity — the world as it emerged from terrible, unprecedented conflict, confronting the Cold War, nuclear weapons and new forms of authoritarian dictatorship springing up like weeds from the ruins of the old world. In following this path Peake recognized the limitations of the form he had developed with such genius and was consciously seeking a means by which he could expand it to expose his protagonist to the 20th century.

There are certain books you will always love, no matter whatever else you read, and to which you will always return; these three novels would be my desert island choice. They are of such scope and ambition that they reward many, many rereadings. Together they represent an extraordinary achievement and I cannot recommend them highly enough.

 

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Book review

Gormenghast, by Mervyn Peake, 1950

The second novel in the series, Gormenghast picks up where Titus Groan left off, returning to the castle where the new earl, 77th of his line, grows up in his vast crumbling demesne into a life governed by strict and stifling ritual. Peake reintroduces his cast of extraordinary characters in a leisurely manner – he is in no rush to get the action underway. Titus, who had just turned one when the first novel ended, has to grow up before he can confront the demons that threaten him. 

The florid language that characterised Titus Groan also returns, not least in the descriptions of the castle itself:

Withdrawn and ruinous it broods in umbra: the immemorial masonry: the towers, the tracks. Is all corroding? No. Through an avenue of spires a zephyr floats; a bird whistles; a freshet bears away from a choked river.

Readers will either luxuriate in prose like this, or be irritated by it. I don’t think one can have Gormenghast the adventure story without Gormenghast the prose poem, and I am very glad we have both.

Once the scene is set, and the characters are re-introduced, Peake can spend time on showing Titus’s childhood. He is wonderful at capturing the joy as well as the boredom of infancy: in a phrase that has stayed with me since reading it some 40 or more years ago, Titus is wading through his childhood. 

Or to put it another way

Drear ritual turned its wheel. The ferment of the heart, within these walls, was mocked by every length of sleeping shadow. The passions, no greater than candle flames, flickered in Time’s yawn, for Gormenghast, huge and adumbrate, out-crumbles all. The summer was heavy with a kind of soft grey-blue weight in the sky – yet not in the sky, for it was as if there were no sky, but only air, an impalpable grey-blue substance, drugged with the weight of its own heat and hue. 

Titus begins to chafe at the crippling conventions of castle life and the impositions of the daily rituals he has to undertake. I always read these rituals as Peake’s commentary on the meaningless conventions we surround ourselves with in life. Yes, this novel is thought provoking as well.

Sooner or later an Earl needs to go to school, and here Peake introduces new characters to his cast: the Professors. Professor Bellgrove is elevated to the headmastership following a fatal and grotesque accident which disposes of his predecessor. The other teachers are, as one by now expects, a collection of grotesques, not one of whom should be within a mile of a classroom. Peake is in no hurry with the adventure element of his tale, and introduces a new element to his narrative – romance, albeit a comedy romance between lovers who are getting on in years. The angular spinster Irma Prunesquallor, sister of the castle’s doctor, decides to get married, and throws a party to help her secure a groom from among the eligible teachers of the castle. Bellgrove rises to the occasion and begins to pay her court:

“His staff had shaken hands with her as though a woman was merely another kind of man. Fools! The seeds of Eve were in this radiant creature. The lullabyes of half a million years throbbed in her throat. Had they no sense of wonder, no reverence, no pride?”

I have an immense fondness for the chapters featuring the professors – they add little if anything to the plot, but they flesh out the world of Gormenghast wonderfully.

Meanwhile Steerpike, now assistant to the Master of Ritual, Barquentine, watches and waits for his opportunity. He decides that Barquentine stands in his way of advancement and has to be disposed of. However the plan doesn’t go smoothly – Barquentine puts up an unexpectedly fierce fight. Steerpike is severely injured, suffering extensive burns and almost drowning. As he lies recovering his delirious mutterings give rise to concerns in Dr Prunesquallor’s mind that he was involved in the mysterious disappearance and presumed deaths of Titus’s aunts, the twin sisters Ladies Cora and Clarice. Steerpike is now under suspicion, and from this point the novel races to a tragic and bitter conclusion in a chase scene that repays any and all the patience the reader has invested up to this point. An epic manhunt through the rapidly flooding castle ends with Titus having to make the most difficult decision of his young life.

I’ve praised Peake’s use of language, his character creation, his descriptive powers, but really at the heart of this novel is an adventure story. It takes a while to get there but the payoff at the end is extraordinarily exciting.

The question is, however, what happens next?

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