Fellow Darkling (an author who writes about the Dark Ages in general and the seventh century in particular) Matthew Harffy interviewed me on his blog. We both, independently, wrote about seventh century Northumbria, and then were both horrified to learn that another writer was trespassing on ‘our’ patch. Read here how we reconciled without recourse to the duelling cloak and then read Matthew’s novel, The Serpent Sword, for his take on King Edwin.
Once upon a time, tales tell of a man, slim of hip and youthful of face, who appeared in the homes of many, many people, speaking to them, face to face, although he was far away. Some said he had already passed into the West, yet his voice was still heard, and the tale of his searchings passed down the generations: the Dark Ages; the Trojan War; Alexander the Great; a pair of jeans that wouldn’t cut off circulation to his nether regions. Were these tales based on truth, was there a real man behind them, distinct from the later accretion of legends? Join me now, as I go In Search of Michael Wood…
The man who would come to be known as Michael Wood first appears in the historical record in a far distant age: the 1970s. To give you some idea of how different the world was then, if you wanted to communicate with someone, the best way to do it was by sitting at a table, getting a piece of paper, covering it with illegible squiggles that was known as ‘handwriting’, wrapping it up and licking a little square of paper to stick on it, and then putting it into one of the magic red boxes that were all over the country in the 1970s. Mind, you had to select the correct red box. The one for this form of communication was round and chest high, with a slot in it; there were other, square, red boxes, taller than a human being, which people disappeared into for varying lengths of time, standing within them immobile while holding a wire attached object to their head. Some archaeologists suggest they were recharging their neural implants, but there are no records of neural implants that early, so it remains mysterious what they were doing in these red boxes.
Now, legend has it that Michael Wood was a historian. Let’s look at the evidence. Here are some pictures of historians through the ages:
And now, here’s a purported photo of Michael Wood:
Clearly, this is not the portrait of a historian.
Then what is he?
Reading some of the other books to which his name was attached, I thought he might be a writer. This hypothesis still might hold true, if we argue that In Search of Myths & Heroes is mainly the work of later redactors, drawing together some common tropes in the Woodian corpus to make a reasonable but not, to the expert eye, totally convincing facsimile: viz, the recurring travel motif, the anecdotes of discomfort, the well-turned phrase. But, being the work of a redactor (or redactors – there may have been many involved in producing this text from within the Woodian community), it lacks the touches that confirm authenticity, in particular the overall sense that this narrative is going somewhere.
But if Michael Wood is a writer, then what to make of these supposed appearances on film and TV? I would like here to propose a hypothesis. What we see on screen is, in fact, a projection of the dreams and desires and hopes of the Woodian community that produced these texts: the shifting image (so like the chthonic world of the subconscious) coalesces to produce, for a fleeting hour, the ideal ‘Michael Wood’, that the Woodian community be reaffirmed in its commitment to its Woodian ideals. And thus the Woodian cult continues.
To see a life upon a page,
A vision of heaven and hell,
Takes us to the edge of life’s stage
And shatters th’enclosing shell.
A prophet graving with studied hand
A world that mocks and scorns
A poet who makes his stand
And people tied in thorns.
Would we all like Blake could see
With fourfold vision divine
Then no matter where we might be
We’d see full and our eyes, shine.
Signs and wonders are tricky things to base decisions upon because by their nature they are amenable to different interpretations. God only rarely issues bullet points (the 10 Commandments were the last I can think of) and He never does Powerpoints.
‘Hm,’ says Jasper Fforde, ‘I’ve set my world up, I’ve introduced my main characters, I’ve got my themes… I know, let’s have some fun.’
And my goodness me, fun he has – as do we, the readers. This is quite, quite wonderful – reaching a crescendo of comic invention allied to an excellent crime fiction plot: it’s no use going all metafiction if you ignore the basics (Stephen King, I’m looking at you and the end of the Dark Tower series).
Jack Spratt, Mary Mary, Ashley the Alien are all back and facing the psychopathic Gingerbreadman (‘Is he a biscuit or a cake?’ On this question rides all). It’s wonderful seeing an author at the height of his powers really letting rip – my only question is when is the third volume going to come out?
It’s not easy being an egg – particularly one that’s nearly five foot tall, with arms, legs, a predilection for sitting on walls and a fondness for alcohol. So, it’s not so surprising when Humpty Dumpty has his great fall – case closed, you’d have thought, for Inspector Jack Spratt of Berkshire’s crack (because that’s about all the space they have) Nursery Crime Division. But Inspector Spratt – who definitely doesn’t eat any fat – smells something rotten, something eggy, and it’s not Humpty…
Quite wonderful. I’ve been reading Jasper Fforde since the first of his Thursday Next novels came out and find him, along with Philip Reeve, the most consistently enjoyable and inventive writer working today, but I think he outdoes himself with the Nursery Crime books. If there’s any criticism I have of the Thursday Next books it is that I find Thursday herself a slightly bland heroine, but the characterisation of Jack Spratt works really well here and, if anything, improves in the next book in the series.
So, if you haven’t already, visit Reading and spend some time with nursery rhymes.
This is a delicious book – in the same manner that taking tea with an extremely well-read, gossipy and slightly camp vicar would be. In fact, it’s not hard to imagine sipping at the cup, with a slice of cake on the table, as Bishop Moorman (he was bishop of Ripon) holds forth on the failings and foibles of his predecessors in ecclesiastical office.
In fact, this might be the best one-volume history of England I’ve read. By using the church as the lens, it magnifies and illuminates history in all sorts of interesting ways; something comparable (although over two much longer volumes) was done by NAM Rodger in his Naval History of Britain, with similarly fascinating results. The history of a country is so multi-faceted that a single volume work can easily either lose itself in distinctions or fall into triviality – Moorman, and notwithstanding his occasionally waspish tone, does neither. The only regret is that the history stops just after the Second World War (although checking the records, there was a revised 1973 edition which would be worth reading – I read the original ’53 printing) and it would be fascinating to know his assessment of the last half century. As it is, Bishop Moorman must be looking at all our goings on with the wry amusement of the dead at the antics of the living.
Give him something else to be amused at: seek out and read his book.
Have you ever seen, while walking at dusk or dawn through a wood, a shape looming from the shadows, irregular, tall, monstrous – reaching high but not a tree? I have, and it’s made me stop and step back, suddenly nervous, until I realise it for what it is: ivy, growing up and round its host, swamping it so much that the original tree is all but lost to view, a few branches and leaves poking out at the top but otherwise smothered in the ivy’s deep green.
Atheism is like that. Essentially, it is parasitic; it requires the support of a religious culture to hold it up – take that away and, like ivy, it will collapse under the weight of its own contradictions.
In this excellent book, Nick Spencer is much politer in his assessments. What he does do is cover, in clear, craftsman prose, the intellectual history of the last five hundred years of Western thought, showing in particular how atheism, as a recognisable school of thought, has arisen in reaction to distortions in theology and, particularly, overwheening religious power when associated with the dominant polity of the time. The greater the identification between religion and repressive state, the greater the fury against God and his ministers – and really, not surprisingly.
The boiled down summaries of complex philosophical and political debates are excellent, and come leavened with an entertaining slice of anecdotes. The philosopher, AJ Ayer, comes out particularly well: a fascinating character, with the chutzpah to run a string of mistresses (he accidentally sent identical love letters to two of them, who compared the missives to check), he once faced down a raging Mike Tyson by answering, when Tyson inquired if he knew who he was – ‘the heavyweight champion of the world’ – with the wonderful reply, ‘And I am the former Wykeham Professor of Logic. We are both pre-eminent in our field; I suggest that we talk about this like rational men.’ Who couldn’t warm to a man with such courage – and I hope and expect that God will show him similar respect. Spencer does an excellent job of keeping his own biases from his writing, dealing fairly with all concerned and showing a particular, and justified, admiration for the working-class atheists who founded the Chartist movement.
In fact, the only group who might be miffed about his assessment is the vocal band of New Atheists but then, once you’ve written about Nietzche, Feuerbach and Marx, the posturings of the new boys become all too clear: they really are not in the same league.
Overall, an excellent survey and highly recommended.
Review: Dead good.
For lovers I’ve short fiction, I have a new story out, published in Page & Spine magazine, called Birthday Boy. (A little secret: Page & Spine, published by the lovely Nancy Wagner, is one of my, if not my absolute favourite, markets: Nancy is a writer as well as a publisher and understands the process from both ends, which shows up clearly when she deals with submissions.)
Here’s an extract from the story:
Martin came in, limping a little, and stopped. He glanced at the table, saw Chrissy looking at him, and nodded.
“Today?”
“I told you this morning.”
“Yes, sorry, I forgot. Bad day.”
“It’s his birthday.”
“Of course. Which is it again?”
“Fifteen,” said Chrissy.
“Fifteen? Already? So long.”
“Yes, you’d never believe it, would you?”
Martin paused. “I would,” he said, quietly.
To read the rest, go here.