On a recent visit to Wrest Park in Bedfordshire, we saw this quote, in the Bowling Green House, from Jemima, Marchioness Grey: ‘Have been strolling most of the morning with my book, and my dog and my fawn.’ 1744.
Now that is the quote of a proper aristocrat! And here she is – Jemima, Marchioness Grey (9 October 1723 – 10 January 1797):
While the beginning was a Word, spoken by God to and of himself, what are we to do in an age when words – the packets of meaning that carry the dim, refracted reflection of the original Word of creation – are being systematically devalued and drained of meaning? Think on it: from the inversion of meanings in slang and street talk to the complete draining of sense and colour and, sometimes, even logic that occurs in business speak, our language is having the sense drained from it, so that the awareness of power that once existed in speaking and reading, the belief, sometimes inchoate sometimes explicit, that words carry power and that that power might be made concrete in arenas as different as the working of a spell or the raising of a crowd, that sense of the power of words has diminished and in places disappeared. After all, look around you. Everywhere, people looking at screens but, for the most part, they’re watching cat videos or, thumbs blurring, they’re playing some graphics heavy game.
Our words have grown old and tired. Maybe it’s the penalty of centuries of civilisation. Maybe it’s a consequence of hearing ourselves speak so much that we have grown sick of the sound of our own voices. Or, more likely, it’s the response to the flashy new toys of the video kid. After all, movies are only a century old, TV just over half a century, and the new era of instant visuals is barely a decade old. No wonder people are dazzled by them – they still carry the flash and dazzle of movement, the deeply laid instinct to look towards something that catches our eye. Words, in comparison, are static: you have to seek them out. So no wonder then the Bible, the source of so many of the words, and most of the ideas, that underpin our creaking civilisation is passed over: it’s all just words on a page.
One way of facing this visual deficit is exactly what Lion have done with this brilliantly produced and richly conceived book: turn words into pictures – to be precise, the sorts of pictures that were the precursors of much of the film and gaming entertainment of today: comic-book art.
Siku (Old Testament) and Jeff Anderson (New Testament) draw the Word, and do so with a richness, immediacy and strangeness that kindles the Secret Fire of life back into words and stories grown old with repetition. I particularly liked Siku’s take on the Old Testament – the stylisation of his work marrying perfectly with the mythological strands of the Pentateuch.
I can think of few better ways to gain a new and fresh take on the Bible – or to have a crash course in the major aspects of biblical history. The Bible has a lot of words – the Lion Comic Book Hero Bible has a lot less!
In a culture that is rapidly losing its cultural roots, I’d also hugely recommend this book to any RE teachers looking for a quick and accessible and engaging way to introduce the Bible to a class of de-facto heathens.
Writing, as I do, about the seventh century AD, you’d think there would be precious little left in the way of physical connections to this time. After all, the Romans built in stone and stone endures, but the Angl0-Saxons were master carpenters, rejecting stone and brick-built dwellings for great halls made of wood – and wood decays, or burns.
So, yes, there is on one level much less left from the seventh century than from the four centuries of Roman rule. However, in writing the Northumbrian Thrones, I’ve been surprised at what there is to be found: places, buildings, structures and artefacts that have survived the vicissitudes of the centuries to bring into the present the witness of the past.
Of these, the Bamburgh Sword (which I wrote about for History Today here) is possibly the most evocative. Excavated by Brian Hope-Taylor from the castle grounds in the 1960s, it was forgotten and, after Hope-Taylor’s death, was put into a skip when his home was emptied – it was only the quick thinking of some pHD students that saved it. The Bamburgh Sword was forged in the seventh century of six strands of pattern-welded iron, making it possibly the finest weapon ever made, well, anywhere. It was wielded, in battle and rite, for three centuries before, finally, it broke and the shards were interred in the grounds of the stronghold it had helped to protect. Such an extraordinary weapon was fit for a king – given where it was buried and when it was forged, the extraordinary possibility arises that the Bamburgh Sword was the very weapon wielded by Oswald, the Lamnguin, the White Hand, the king who returned from over the sea.
After centuries under ground, the blade itself is a corroded shadow of its once self but it is on display in the Archaeology Room in the castle. This is what it looks like now (in the hands of Graeme Young, co-director of the Bamburgh Research Project):
And this is a newly forged reconstruction of what the sword would have looked like when it was wielded in defence of the kingdom of Northumbria:
Far away from Bamburgh, on the isle of Anglesey, is another, much-less known, connection with the seventh century. Back then, the kingdom of Gwynedd was the proudest and strongest of the kingdoms of the Britons that continued to resist the slow conquest of Britain by the Angles and the Saxons. The kings of Gwynedd had their fortresses and strongholds in the mountains of Snowdonia, but the ancient island over the Menai Strait served both as the breadbasket for the kingdom and its political centre, with the royal court based in what is now the small village of Aberffraw. Just two miles east of Aberffraw is an even smaller village, Llangadwaladr, and set into the wall of the parish church is a gravestone. But not just any gravestone. This stone marked the grave of Cadfan ap Iago, king of Gwynedd and father of Cadwallon, the nemesis of Edwin of Northumbria.
Go to the quiet, serene church of St Cadwaladr and there, embedded in the far wall, is the stone. It reads, ‘Catamanus rex sapientisimus opinatisimus omnium regum’, which means, ‘King Cadfan, most wise and renowned of all kings’. This is what it looks like:
And here I am, touching this direct link to the world of seventh-century Britain, when we visited Anglesey last summer.
It is extraordinary to think that these, the sword and the gravestone, have managed to survive when so little else has. If people are interested, I’ll write about other places and things that bring the past into the present in further articles for this new series.
Most books and most writers are forgotten. No less than yesterday’s news wraps today’s chips, the flavour-of-the-month writer of a decade ago is landfill now. It’s a melancholic thought. As a writer, I spend a great deal of time and effort trying to create something of value, something that will resonate with readers and cast a light (albeit refracted through the lens of the past) on the human condition. But a visit to a second-hand bookshop is enought to tell me that, despite my efforts, everything I do will be forgotten, left to gather dust on an obscure shelf until the last page cracks and moulders into dust.
So my appreciation of what Faber is doing with its new imprint, Faber Finds, where the publisher republishes worthwhile work and writers that had otherwise slipped from view, is redoubled: not only have they rescued from the obscurity of the second-hand bookshop some excellent writers but someday, after I am dead, a future editor browsing through some dusty shelves will stumble across one of my books and think, ‘Hang on, this is worth a fresh audience.’
The first book I read from Faber Finds was Susan Brigden’s London and the Reformation, one of the most enjoyably scholarly books I’ve ever read and one certainly worth republishing. Now, I’ve started on Faber Finds’ repackaging of Showell Styles’ Mr Fitton series: adventures at sea in the Napoleonic era and, I think, as good a series as CS Forester’s Hornblower. They are a delight to read. Showell Styles died in 2005. Most writers, ten years after death, have been long forgotten. He does not deserve to be and, through Faber Finds, will I hope find a whole new generation of readers.
Edoardo,
Listen up, I’ve got this great idea for a book. It goes like this: for two thirds of the book I write about my commute to and from work, throwing in some stuff about the history of the underground to fill things out a bit, and then for the final third I write about my summer holiday. There, what do you think? Reckon I could get a publisher to stump up 20k in advance?
Sadly, probably not (although, if you’re a publisher and you like the idea and, more importantly, are willing to give me a 20k advance then let me tell you about my other idea for writing about my school run and the weekly shop).
But that’s pretty well what Tim Parks does in this book. To be fair to him, he’s a fine writer and he argues, reasonably convincingly, that any human enterprise is necessarily so conditioned and embedded in its culture that to look, in detail, at that enterprise is to potentially understand the whole culture that produced it. However, he really is writing about his commute in to work (from Verona to Milan, so a long way) and what he did on his summer holidays (go and visit the south of Italy). This can’t help but strike me as a writer blagging his way towards a subsidised holiday – and good luck to him, there’s few enough perks to being a writer nowadays. Well done, Tim! Now, if you read this, could you let me know which editor you sold this to at Vintage. I need to tell him just how fascinating the Piccadilly Line is.
He wasn’t. Miguel de Cervantes that is. But he was almost as elusive a figure as Shakespeare, right down to the doubt as to whether they really did die on the same day (23 April 1616). There’s a bit more flesh on his life story: Cervantes fought at the Battle of Lepanto, rising from his sick bed to take part and receiving a wound that left his left hand permanently maimed; he was captured by Barbary Coast pirates and kept as a slave in Algiers for five years; he served the king of Spain as official and tax collector. But there are as many blanks as filled-out pages. McCrory does a good job of telling what we know and makes reasonable guesses as to what we don’t. He’s also good at setting Cervantes’ world in context. But it is, unlike Cervantes himself, a trifle worthy and just a little bit dull. Still, an excellent introduction to the man behind the man from La Mancha.
I’m delighted to say that I’m now being represented, for my non-fiction work, by the Robert Dudley Agency. So I’ll finally have the chance to say: speak to my agent!
It’s worth pointing out as well, to any would-be writers, that despite what it says in all the How to Get Published books about an agent being absolutely vital, I’ve got this far (nine books published by five different publishers) without an agent, and I still represent myself for my fiction work. So, while I’m hoping being with Robert Dudley will help move me into a higher division, having an agent is certainly not necessary when starting a writing career.
Why don’t they smile?
You see, it went like this. I was into my fifth decade, I was sitting at a desk all day, and gravity was beginning to win in its battle against the flesh. So, to fight back, I decided to try running. After all, it only required me to step out the door. There are some lovely parks nearby. And running – unlike pretty well every other form of exercise – doesn’t require any money (as a dirt-poor writer, this latter was a major consideration).
So, one morning not so long ago, I put on my trainers and stepped out the door. It was a lovely morning. The sun was out, the birds were singing and, what’s more, having expected on my first run only to be able to puff my way once round the park, I found that I could run quite a bit further. There’s few things more flattering to a middle-aged man’s vanity than to find he’s fitter than he thought he was.
Running was fun. Running was great. Everyone should do it.
But then, I started passing other runners. Heads down, staring at the pavement, or looking glazedly ahead. What was going on here?
Maybe it was down to the time I was running. After all, people aren’t usually at their best early in the morning. So, I thought I’d try going out when lots of runners were around, when everyone would have had the chance to wake up properly and enjoy the day – and the run.
Good Friday was a bank holiday, it was sunny, it felt like the first day of spring and the park was so crowded with runners that traffic lights where paths crossed would have been useful (the green man would be shown jogging on the spot). In fact, it’s got so busy, the council is running a consultation on creating jogging paths. But not a single runner I passed even made eye contact, let alone acknowledging another runner. I had expected some sort of fellowship among runners but it seems that sharing a moment of (slightly breathless) camaraderie, or even giving a rueful (if you’re middle aged and slightly spreading, like me) or smug (if you’re young, fit and full of breath) grin to someone else pounding the pavements simply does not happen. So, what is the matter with runners? Are they all so caught up in a dopamined, iPodded solipsism that they are simply unaware of anyone or anything around them? Or is there some mysterious runners’ etiquette, of which I am unaware, which precludes any contact with other runners?
Come on, runners, smile! Let the world know you’re enjoying it, and this is not some form of modern self-flagellation. (Or maybe it is. After all, we’re a civilisation so fallen away that we now worship our own physical form rather than any god. Self-torture in expiation for crimes against the ideal body; future ages will look at us with the aghast amazement we regard early medieval anchorites, perched on pillars in the desert.)
But if there is some sort of running omerta, could someone tell me. Please. You’ll know me. I’m the chap who grimaces as he passes. That’s me, trying to smile.