Just how much more literary is it possible to get? I’ve written a feature for the Granta website. About the only things I can think of with more literary kudos would be writing something for the Granta magazine or winning the Booker Prize! The artice is called ‘Dem Bones, Dem Bones, Dem Dry Bones’ and you can read it here.
The History Bros (in Law) temporarily split and this History Bro goes solo on Thursday 24 October at Haslemere Bookshop in, yes, Haslemere, talking Warrior and all things Anglo-Saxon. It’s the only stop on the Warrior tour in the south, so I hope you’ll be able to join me. The evening starts at 7.30pm and tickets are available direct from Haslemere Bookshop.
The metres used by the skalds, the court poets of the Norse chieftains, were among the most complex and difficult metres ever used regularly by poets. As such, the success of a translation of the Elder Edda should maybe be best judged by how well it conveys the complexity of the original. Andy Orchard’s version is vigorous and contemporary, doing a good job of conveying the meaning of the original verse without attempting much in the way of replicating their structure. This may be an inevitable trade-off – I am not able to read the originals – but the ideal of course would be a translation that does both.
They live in the Void, in the dark beyond the Galaxy’s light, hunting the enemies of the Imperium before they even reach it. There be monsters there, in the dark. But as monstrous as those monsters are the silent hunters, the Space Sharks, the Carcharadon chapter of the Space Marines. For ten thousand years they have cruised the Void, going deep into great silence, on an eternal crusade.
So, yes, they’re pretty weird. Ten thousand years fighting the sort of monsters that inhabit the 40th millennium would make anyone a little bit strange: the Carcharadons are off the scale strange. Perhaps that could have come across a little more strongly in these novels, but Robbie MacNiven does a great job of setting up this chapter of solitary hunters of the abyss in these two novels, the first pitting the Sharks against the Night Lords, the second taking on the Tyrannids.
Another favourite of mine in the incomparable Flashman series, this volume bowled your attentive reader over by Flashman’s role in codifying the game of cricket – first hat trick ever bowled – and introducing me to some of the great early characters of the game. Then it won me over completely by including extracts from the diary of Elspeth, Flashie’s golden tressed, air head wife, forever puzzling our hero with the question of whether she is as unfaithful to Flashie as he is to her. Throw in South Seas pirates, the extraordinary James Brooks, the White Rajah of Sarawak, whose exploits would beggar credulity if they were not actually true, and mad Queen Ravalona of Madagascar, whose brutality really does beggar belief, and you have all the elements for classic Flashman. It is.
All the Flashman books are good but this might possibly be the very best of a remarkable bunch (although Flashman at the Charge and Flashman’s Lady run it close by my reading). But with Otto von Bismarck as the villain and the extraordinary Lola Montez as the lust interest, and with a plot that plays homage and tribute to The Prisoner of Zenda, this is as good as historical fiction gets.
A political chancer cast out into the outer dark through one too many gambles that had fallen through. An egomaniacal gloryhound. A man in love with language and the sound of his own rhetoric. Winston Spencer Churchill was the last, extraordinary, flourishing of the Victorians who, through the 1930s, looked like a man born out of his time, a man born too late to seize the glory that he most earnestly desire. And then history came to his rescue, and he came to the rescue of history. Carlyle’s Great Man theory of history is very much out of fashion – modern historians prefer the minutiae of economic theory and feminist grievance mining – but the 20th century stands in bloody rebuke to this. If ever a century – and in particular the paroxysm of the Second World War – was a story of history-bending individuals it was the 20th century. Imagine a century in which young Adolf Hitler had succeeded as an artist and the young Josef Stalin had stayed in the seminary. Would the 20th century have become the bloodbath it became without them? I think not.
But then imagine a century in which the young Winston had blocked one of the bullets that flew past his head during the Boer War. That is what this book forces one to imagine: and in the fractious comfort of our 21st century it really brings to life the dark abyss that we – the whole world – stared down into and that we so narrowly escaped. Indeed, for those parts of the world that fell under Soviet sway, the escape postdated the end of the war by half a century.
Winston Churchill almost single-handedly held the line against what seemed inevitable defeat. He had the belief, the drive and, in a national context, most importantly the words to define and solidify the national response to onrushing disaster: unremitting defiance.
As such, this book is excellent. It reminds the reader just how close we came and what a debt we owe to Churchill and those others who stood firm beside him. Unfortunately, the writing itself never rises to the heights that Churchill himself regularly scaled, both on the page and in speeches. It’s workmanlike: honest stuff but nothing more.
What responsibility does the writer of historical fiction have to the historical record? This tautly written, rather bleak thriller of Imperial Roman politics raises that question for the reader. In his author’s note, David Barbaree inform the reader that The Exiled is a work of fiction and that he has taken liberties that a novelist is allowed. But since many readers of historical fiction read the genre to be informed as well as to be entertained, it behoves the writer to inform his reader where he has taken these liberties. Unfortunately, Barbaree does not. So the unsuspecting reader might believe that Domitilla, the sister of the Emperor Titus, was alive and a key player in the events of his reign, including the aftermath of the eruption of Mount Vesuvius, when in fact so far as we know she died a decade before all the events of this story took place. Barbaree’s entertaining fancy as to the true fate of the Emperor Nero, which was the focus of his first novel, The Deposed, continues in The Exiled, and its inclusion is more understandable given the world he has constructed. Perhaps the book is best taken as an imaginative working out of the ‘What if?’ scenario that Nero did not die, but lived on, working behind the scenes of Imperial politics. As such, the book might perhaps be best thought of as historical fantasy, sans dragons and gods and nymphs, but with similar scant regard for what probably happened. Readers allergic to the use of the present tense and modern-day vocabulary in historical fiction might also want to be wary.
Although marketed – and sold as – three separate books, this is really one rougly 500 page story split into three. A bit cheeky that – you end up paying, even for the Kindle edition, significantly more than you would if it was sold as what it really is, a single novel.
Still, I’ll forgive the marketing – it’s not as if writers are coining it (average wage £10,000 per annum), so if this gets John Wright a bit more in royalties, I can’t cavil – as the story itself is such a magnificently over the top piece of space opera. For you older SF fans out there: if you thought nothing could top EE Doc Smith’s Lensman stories, think again. To give an idea of the scales involved, Superluminary has War Dysons as one of its minor conceits! Arthur Clarke famously said that any sufficiently advanced technology is indistiguishable from magic: so it is here. Quantum physics, Aristotelian teleology, and every possible variant on the space-time continuum are employed to give an exhilirating veneer of plausibility to a ride that takes the reader to the galaxy’s core (engineered by Space Vampires as the ultimate weapon) all the way through to galactic ramming. This is SF on a scale so massive that it inspires smiles of awe at Wright’s sheer chutzpah. Can he possibly top this, you ask at the end of Book 1? The answer is, yes.
Now, after the praise, the criticism. Given that the book is quite expensive, the editing on it is far too sloppy. There are far too many typos, incorrect words and word order and sundry other editing errors. It does not look like it has been checked much beyond a spell check. That is sloppy, and takes the reader out of the story quite unnecessarily.
But it’s worth it for the ride.
Next stops on the History Bros (in Law) Warrior road tour are two book festivals this weekend in Galloway, Scotland, and Carlisle, England.
At 1.30pm on Saturday 5 October, Paul and I are appearing at the Wigtown Book Festival in, of course, Wigtown. Tickets available here.
Then at 3.30pm on Sunday 6 October we are at the Borderlines Festival in Carlisle. Tickets here.