Book Review: Meetings with Remarkable Manuscripts by Christopher de Hamel

Meetings with Remarkable Manuscripts by Christopher de Hamel

This is a remarkable book about remarkable books.

There are many joys and discoveries to be made within its pages but perhaps the single most notable aspect of the book is de Hamel’s appreciation of books as physical objects: even the way the pages are stuck together (their ‘collation’ as I learned from de Hamel) provides insights into how the book was made and its subsequent history. But even more, there is the joy that de Hamel so wonderfully transmits in holding a book, turning its pages, examining it and even smelling it. You won’t get any of this with a Kindle!

Perhaps my favourite chapter is the second, the one on the Codex Amiatinus. This is a complete edition of the Bible, a pandect as it’s called in the language of scholars, that was made in the twin monasteries of St Peter and St Paul in Wearmouth and Jarrow in the 7th century, under the direction of the Venerable Bede and Abbot Coelfrith. It’s a huge book, and one that I had a privilege to see at the British Library a few years ago. In fact, it’s as close to being physically intimidating as a book can be – and weighs, as a scholar famously remarked, as much as a female Great Dane. De Hamel got to open it, to read it and to examine it himself – there’s a wonderful description of how he managed to penetrate Italian bureaucracy to get to the book – and that examination revealed details that no reproduction could show, such as the titles on the spines of the books in the famous painting of Ezra in the scriptorium. The chapter also includes the extraordinary history of the Codex, of how it was taken by Abbot Coelfrith as a gift to Rome but ended up in the monastery at Amiatinus in Italy with its dedicatory preface forged to give legitimacy to its new home, and how the forgery was discovered and the book’s true provenance revealed.

For book lovers, Meetings with Remarkable Manuscripts is essential reading. But this is one book that repays investment: buy the hardback – it’s worth it!

The Resting Place of Queen Æthelburh

Queen Æthelburh is a major character in my novel, Edwin: High King of Britain (she was Edwin’s wife and the instigator of his conversion to Christianity) so I was delighted to visit the church of St Mary and St Ethelburga in Lyminge, Kent, where she founded a monastery and where she was later buried.

It’s a lovely, atmospheric church with an excellent display inside about the extensive archaeological discoveries that have been made in and around the church. Well worth a visit.

Book review: The Beast of Bethulia Park by Simon Paul Caldwell

The Beast of Bethulia Park by SP Caldwell

Real life doesn’t imitate art. In real life, stories get cut off half way through, or sometimes hardly begin at all. Others seem to drag on for far too long. The reason for this is that ‘real life’ only tells part of the story. It’s like reading a book but not being able to read to the end, although exactly how far into the story you can go is random; sometimes a long way, on other occasions to half way, sometimes just a few pages.

This is why, to make art, particularly in the written form of stories, we have to change ‘real life’, we have to tell the whole story so that we, as writers, can create a coherent work of art. We have to ensure that all the story occurs within the confines of the story on the page. But, again, real life isn’t like that.

If it ends at death, then the stories we tell ourselves are just that, polite fictions coined to paper over the bleak reality that there are no stories, that the coherence and the meaning we create with them are of less import than a passing dream that wakes us briefly before we collapse back into the night.

If the story continues after death, then our stories of this world do have meaning, for they acknowledge the incompleteness of our normal human stories by completing them in this world whereas in most cases, the stories are completed only later, their meaning made clear and their climax reached.

In The Beast of Bethulia Park, Simon Caldwell tells a story of this life with reference to the later life, and leaves the events of this life unfulfilled. As such, it’s a story true to the real nature of things but, in one sense, it does not work completely as a narrative because its denoument is, ultimately, off the page of time and beyond the ability of any writer to convey. But in another sense, it does work remarkably well as a story, embodied in time but directed towards the consummation of time.

It’s also a fascinating thriller about doctors with a belief that they alone can deliver life and death – a belief that the current passage of the Assisted Dying Bill throws into an all too believable light.

Book review: Carrying the Fire by Michael Collins

Carrying the Fire by Michael Collins

On 17 December 1903, Orville and Wilbur Wright took to the air in their Wright Flyer, a flimsy contraption of wire, wood and canvas.

On 20 July 1969, Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin climbed out of the Lunar Module and walked on the Moon. It had taken 65 years, 7 months and 3 days to go from a 12-second flight above the sands at Kitty Hawk to blasting up through the atmosphere and travelling a quarter of a million miles through the vacuum of space to the moon.

It still seems unbelievable. I can think of no other feat that matches it in terms of technological progress in so short a time.

I was six when Armstrong and Aldrin landed on the moon and I was allowed to stay up late to watch it. But even at the time, I wondered what it was like for the other member of the team, Michael Collins, alone in the Command Module, as lonely as a man has ever been when his spacecraft orbited to the far side of the moon, taking him out of communication, and out of sight, of earth.

Well, this book tells us. And it does so brilliantly. It brings home the sheer amount of work, perseverance and bravery went into the Gemini and Apollo missions, and how many hurdles they had to overcome on the way to the moon. Read it, and marvel at what we were capable of.

Book review: The Land of Laughs by Jonathan Carroll

The Land of Laughs by Jonathan Carroll

We writers, we reckon we have a big job to do. We tell stories, and stories, we believe, are the bones on which the events of people’s lives are strung. We are, in effect, writing the framework of life’s histories. You’ll agree that is a pretty big deal.

Unfortunately, not many other people actually agree: they think writers just string some words together to provide a few hours entertainment when people can’t get reception on their phone, there’s nothing they want to watch on Netflix or they need some help winding down before going to sleep. This helps to explain why the median income for writers is less than £10,000 per year.

The Land of Laughs is a book for writers who don’t feel sufficiently appreciated. It takes all the deepest, darkest fantasies of creation, those moments when everything comes alive in your mind and on the page and your characters breathe and move and live, and puts them into a story. For in this story, writers, in particular one writer, really matters: the powers of creation, which we all suspect are real at some level, here actually do become real. His characters live, and breathe – and he is their god.

How much more wish fulfilment could you have as a writer? So if you’re a writer, if you feel underappreciated and underpaid, then read The Land of Laughs and enjoy the power! (It’s also a very fine story in its own right.)

Book review: The Time Machine by HG Wells

The Time Machine by HG Wells

Reading this book is, in its own way, to take a ride on a time machine myself, for I first read The Time Machine many years ago, as a teenager. Re-reading it now, as when Proust ate a tea-soaked madeline cake, returned me to my own youth. And the first thing I realised was the way we approach time travel is a function of our age. As a teenager, if given a time machine, I, like the protagonist of Wells’ story, would unhesitatingly have set the dial to the future. After all, what’s past is done and dusted – who’s interested in the dead and gone?

Turns out, the answer is older me. Now, if sat upon the time machine, I would just as unhesitatingly turn the handle in the other direction and travel into the past, to my own younger self to give him a stern talking to, and further back, to the mysteries and wonders, to the origin rather than the end.

I remember the impact the unrelieved bleakness of Wells’ vision of the future had on me: the degenerate Morlock and Eloi were bad enough, but the final vision, of the failing earth under the dying sun, haunted me. What is all the stranger is that vision was promulgated by one of the most devoted apostles of human progress. In that, Wells’ art was greater than his philosophy.

Read it to contemplate the abyss of time when all there is, is time itself, and the slow death of all that is good.

Book review: Autism by Uta Frith

Autism by Uta Frith

Reading some of the reviews of this book, you might think that Uta Frith is an example of neurotypical prejudice against autistic people. There are lots of 1-star reviews, decrying her for using language unacceptable to today’s autism advocates. But what those reviewers appear to fail to realise is that Uta Frith is one of the most important scientists in the history of research into autism. She has been at the leading edge of research for almost as long as there has been research into autism. Frith was one the people responsible for taking autism out of mental hospitals and into everyday life. To see her traduced by reviewers ignorant of her role is annoying.

But it’s worth making this clear: if you’re committed to a view that autism is purely a pyschological difference and never a disability, then this book is not for you. However, it might just be because Frith’s experience of dealing with autism is wider than most peoples. There are cases, in particular those without any language, when it’s pretty well impossible to see autism as solely a difference and not a deficit. Yes, it’s part of that person’s fundamental character but an amelioration of some aspects of that character would make life richer not just for the autistic person but also for those who have to care for him.

Read this book if you want to have a clear overview of autism and autism research from a scientist who has been involved with the subject for forty years. Don’t read it if you’re committed to a view of autism as an invariably an unrecognised blessing.

Book review: The Islander by Chris Blackwell

The Islander by Chris Blackwell

Although it’s subtitled ‘My Life in Music and Beyond’ the ‘Beyond’ gets barely a look in beyond a bit of a plug for Blackwell’s later business interests in hospitality and distilling rum; there’s not many autobiographies which you finish with no idea how many wives the subject has had or how many children. But, really, in this case that doesn’t matter. None of the potential readers are that interested in Blackwell’s personal life (from the odd comment, I suspect that the wives are not mentioned because they rarely lasted for long and probably left with substantial alimony and water tight NDAs); what we want to know about is the gossip.

What was it like to discover Bob Marley? Is Grace Jones as weird as she seems? How can you work with Bono without wanting to smack him? These are the questions we really want to answer and Blackwell, with Paul Morley, doesn’t disappoint. Really, for someone who grew up in the 1970s and ’80s, it’s the tale of the soundtrack to your growing up, as well as a memoir of someone who was there when the record industry was still figuring what sort of industry it was going to be.

Blackwell was brought up on Jamaica, the child of wealthy socialite parents whose friends included Noel Coward, Errol Flynn and Ian Fleming. It was a gilded childhood but Blackwell took the best of it, married it with the self assurance produced by a public school education, and set about flogging records, and then musicians to the public. He’s clearly a man who suffers boredom badly. The buccaneering days of the music industry was a perfect fit for Blackwell, and he takes the reader into that time, and the making – and unmaking – of those artists. One of the most moving chapters is devoted to Nick Drake. Blackwell’s commitment to the artists he believed in is commendable. And the artist he believed in above all others was Bob Marley. These chapters are the centre of the book and, clearly, the highlight of Blackwell’s life, marrying his great loves, Jamaica and music, into a single package: one of the very few 20th century artists who will still be listened to in a hundred years’ time.

Book review: The Canterbury Tales retold by Peter Ackroyd

The Canterbury Tales retold by Peter Ackroyd

Read the retelling or try the original?

It’s certainly quicker and easier to go for Ackroyd’s retelling, and he brings across the gusto and the sheer vigour of the original well, but he does lose the poetry. Curiously, he also misses out on a lot of Chaucer’s wordplay, putting through one meaning and ignoring the other meanings that Chaucer hints at in his original text.

So if you want a quick, down and dirty (lots of four-letter words) retelling of the original, read this version.

But if you want the poetry, and the vulgarity too with all the double and triple meanings that Chaucer manages to inject into them, then invest in the original and bookmark one of the online Middle English dictionaries to help with the most difficult words.