Bring Up The Bodies (Hilary Mantel)

Hilary Mantel's Bring Up The Bodies is a study - continued from Wolf Hall - of drawing out empathy with a character whom history has despised enough to denigrate and even almost eradicate.

In Thomas Cromwell we have a brute of a man, born of bare-knuckle origins; an autodidact and polymath who is charming, cunning and covetous, who will wield power at all costs even as he knows his empire of influence must eventually come crashing down, who will avenge the suffering of those he himself has loved and betrayed, and whose basic normality and humanity stripped bare of the intrigue of his own bidding and enmeshment is glimpsed in conversations in the kitchen with his cook.

Cromwell comes alive on the page because his is the only character written in 3D, his the only heart and mind we're able to penetrate, he is the sole source of empathy in a cast of hundreds because he alone gifts us his reflexive as well as his public self. And then of course he is written into a language and landscape of modern politics so irrefutably aligned with our received understanding and consumption, via mass media and cable television, of the back-stabbing and intrigue-laden corridors of power.

Personally, I'm not looking forward to Cromwell's demise in the third and final instalment of Mantel's trilogy. And while I believe that it's absolutely correct that we don't judge how good a book is, don't measure it's quality and durability, in terms of our empathy with the protagonist - even, perhaps, our sympathy - you really do only think a book good is it speaks to you: whether in the form of a character, a theme, an issue, a narrative defined by a perspective or an idea with which you feel capable - interested - enough to interact.

When The Prodigy met the Catcher in the Rye, and bumped into Lessing while fishing

I read Hermann Hesse's "The Prodigy" on a recent trip to India. I hadn't visited India in almost three decades; when, eventually, I did, The Prodigy was my night-time reading companion. It seemed fated.

Hans is a young rural boy whose intellect defines him to the world beyond his own private fishing spot. Groomed for a career in the Church, he wins a scholarship, befriends a renegade, is sparked by a frisson of profound feeling and friendship never before tasted, struggles to maintain academic excellence when life in all its meaningful incoherence comes a-calling, crashes from his pedestal like so many misunderstood 'fallen' angels before him, loses his identity and value in a world that knows only to worship his intellect at the expense of his very soul, and kills himself.

Hans' life is an indictment of the West's deep well of iniquitous dichotomies. Such is the popular reading of Hesse's attitudes, his affinity with the holism of the East and the diabolism of the West well commented upon.

But broaden it out, and you have the tale of a young man on whom the world and its expectations and structures weighs down like an oversized and heavy woolen winter coat, dragging the body down and into itself, causing fissures of the soul that only death seems to assuage.

Enter: Holden Caulfield. J.D. Salinger's "Catcher in the Rye". Holden is a poster boy for superior, privileged, disaffected youth. But burning brightly is his overwhelming desire to preserve the innocence of youth. It's an impulse the world doesn't comprehend and so Holden struggles against the expectation and structure of a world that has no affinity for the likes of him.

Hans and Holden. Creations so disparate yet so similar: Hesse writes from the vantage point of a champion of holism, Salinger from the perspective that the world is a cynical and cruel place.

But for all this seeming difference, the pounding of your ribcage against the impiety of duality, against the poisoning of polyvalence, is the same whether you read "The Prodigy" or "Catcher in the Rye". Because you're reading about self and society. You're reading about yourself and your society. You're reading about the courage to stand up, to not be moulded by, to not be forced to divide against yourself within the prison of false dichotomy (Doris Lessing "The Golden Notebook").


Post-script: This blog differs in many respects from what I had drafted in my diary: not in terms of what I wanted to say, but in how to say it. In that draft I touched on society as a structural-functional behemoth, whipping the individual or the self (your preference will depend on whether you've been socialised in the East or West, since these attest to very different things) for its temerity in seeking meaning, in seeking to exist outside the structure and function that fathomed it. I think that analysis remains true, though it didn't make it into the body of my post.

 

Transmission (Hari Kunzru)

Hari Kunzru’s Transmission shines a satirical and oftentimes farcical – as in the development of some ridiculously cartoonish characters that are all stereotype and no depth – spotlight on how Western states respond to the dilemmas of globalisation. On one hand, there is the boon of cheap immigrant labour; and for anybody with even a passing grasp of the indenture system, Kunzru’s rendering reads like a twenty-first century update on those indignities: paid pittance, left to subsist in a state of squalor, without family or comfort, unable to return home because of the shame it will confer on one’s family, unwilling to return home because there yet persists a dream of something better if only you hang on in there. On the other hand, is the impulse to close borders, malign those who don’t belong, cast them out like so much unwanted human detritus.

I felt so much impotent rage and Kunzru was so alarmingly spot-on in deflecting that anger, making me need to almost laugh out loud through the rising bile, that I think he wrote Transmission as a straight-up drama, gave it out to test audiences, and then sat inserting just the right amount of pith and humour into the text in counterbalance to reader expressions of outrage and sadness and, yes, tears at some point.

There are other things too that spoke to me in Kunzru’s book, a nod to the overlapping identities that are written into us but are too rich and diverse and chaotic, and ultimately that are simply too useless in the zero-sum power games that characterise the vast swathe of state and political activity in the twenty-first century. I identified with the Indian immigrant when he chooses to stand up for his rights as an employee, with the Bollywood actress whose worth is measured in terms of how good she looks and her happiness be damned, with the flamboyantly rich and egotistical PR man who gets beaten and trafficked like those he despises. Quite an achievement, this multilayered identification, given that many of the characters are so sparsely drawn that you imagine it was a deliberate tactic on Kunzru’s part, that he’s goading you into fleshing these characters out using the basic stereotypical characteristics he provides as a springboard.

My lasting impression of Transmission  - and it was a compulsive read, aided by flowing language – is that when mapped along the postmodernist continuum Kunzru emerges as the London Oratory School-educated cousin of Ben Elton’s more grizzly wideboy satirist. And the prep-school polish pays off.

The Woman Destroyed (Simone De Beauvoir)

The Mandarins was my first foray into Simone de Beauvoir's writings - a thwarted foray, as it turned out, because my charity shop copy was already worse for wear, and was worsened yet further by its own forays in a steamy bathroom, which is often the most serene place to devour a book but not an atmosphere much beloved of paper!

Yet, I knew from my meagre sampling of The Mandarins that I wanted to delve further into de Beauvoir's literary contributions. I was to wait some years before the opportunity presented itself... in one of those non-coincidental happenings, I came upon the second volume of her autobiography, and was settling down to learn about her early life with Sartre in Paris, only to then find a copy of The Woman Destroyed some weeks later.

Comprising three short stories, of which the opening and closing ones are the most accessible, The Woman Destroyed opens a dystopic window onto the lives of middle-aged women. That at least seems to be its intention. Certainly, the stories are moving: charting the desperation to cling on to past life, love and vigour, they bring to mind a sympathetic image of fingernails clinging on to a crumbling cliff side that is inexorably falling into the yawning abyss of post-menopausal life.

Goodness, the stories are sad. But "woman destroyed"? No, not really. Ultimately, the significant others of these women come off no better, no less destroyed by the loss of past certainties, the loss of youth. Here then, is a version of how some of us may face advancing age.

And in fact, this tracing of a particular milieu, this fictionalised spotlight on the observed realities of her times - fictionalised ethnography, if you like - is ultimately what makes Simone de Beauvoir so accessible and so very worth reading.

What's going on? The meanderings of a comic mind in confusion (Mark Steel)

Steel's comedy comes from a place that only fellow socialists have visited. But it's nice to know that staunch Thatcherites like Bob Monkhouse found it engaging, raging political gulf notwithstanding.

I came to Steel's "Reasons To Be Cheerful" in my late twenties, by way of an inspiring socialist mentor who, to my great chagrin and inconsolable disillusionment, was exposed as a champagne socialist... luckily only after they also turned me on to Dylan and Gramsci.

RTBC felt like speaking with an old friend - the best friend who knows your heart and your mind, and can finish off your sentences with pleasing accuracy while saying much more than you were even able to formulate in your own head. I think that I owe my ability to look back with wryness on my Thatcher-infested youth to...well, Mark Steel.

And with "What's Going On?" he releases the same genius: managing to make a very astute social and political point, while giving it depth through irrefutable argument and fact, and drawing you to tearful laughter. But what really blew me away is how once again Steel managed to restore that sense of conversing with an old friend, and tapped into precisely the confusion assailing me as a socialist.

After a very Citizen Smith-like youth - carried through with probably more gaucheness and less panache than Robert Lindsey - Steel is ensconced in life as a Middle Englander approaching a mid-life crisis. And he begins to question his relationship with socialism. It's a truism that we become more conservative s we get older, and while I read the book willing Steel not to adhere to this trite cliche, somehow I knew it was coming.

Steel closes with a scene in which he's on the phone to the bank to cancel his subscription to the Socialist Worker, following which end to life as he's known it, his daughter reminds him of a promised shopping trip, and he dutifully takes her to Woolworth's to buy colouring pens. As I write this, I have to pause for a moment - just as I did when I first came to the passage in the book.

Why should one man's waning relationship with socialism - if that is in fact what it is - touch me so fiercely? Precisely because he seems to be telling me his story as an old friend might; precisely because he enunciates every twist and turn I've experienced in my relationship with socialism.

I had just come to the end of "What's Going On?" when an old friend - real, rather than imagined - sent me a facebook message detailing the inspiration they'd found in Ayn Rand's "Atlas Shrugged". He'd long promised to write at length about the book, and suddenly here it was, the deliverance of his promise. I felt betrayed. I felt that this old friend's sense of social justice should have been beyond corruption, yet here he was spouting about the beauty of capitalism.

I was less understanding perhaps than I should have been, more intransigent to be sure to the sudden streak of capitalism. But Steel does this to you; he digs deep into the well of your socialist belief and brings it rippling out to the surface, like a splash of cold invigorating water. I wouldn't have it any other way. Nor, I think, would Mark Steel.

The Human Stain (Philip Roth)

It's difficult to argue unequivocally either for or against reading an author's series of books in order: the implication of doing so is that you 'get' the whole story, are able to contextualise and approach a fuller appreciation of the characters, and can maybe even fulfil an inner emotional imperative to form attachment to characters through being able to read them through the course of their lives. Certainly, familiarity with a character across each instalment of a trilogy triggers precisely the safe yet somehow real depersonalisation between reader and read that a lot of book lovers thrive upon. The trilogy is the equivalent of the unwieldy 600 page plus novel that is some readers' idea of heaven.

If you don't come to The Human Stain with knowledge of its predecessors - or indeed of Roth's writing -  however, the loss of context and character familiarisation are minor things to bear compared with the richness of writing and Roth's unflinching determination to scratch away at issues of identity in modern America. Set against the rise in public consciousness about race and ethnicity which have dominated the rights and identity politics agenda since the waning years of European colonialism, Roth gives us Professor Coleman Silk - a man whose identity is shaped and determined through the activity of the self, as embodied in the American dream.

In Coleman Silk we have a black man who 'passes' (for white), who abjures his racial identity in order to avail himself of the fruits of the American dream. It is a simple enough literary premise that discourses cuttingly on the existential self versus groupism and that retains an almost uncomfortable focus on how pivotal are secrets to sustaining the fiction of the self. Should Professor Silk have been 'true' to the cause of Blacks in America? Or was he right to shed those aspects of identity that would have hindered the attainment of his own goals?

The irony of a black man who has successfully passed as white for the last six decades of his life referring to a couple of absent (and never seen) students - black students it turns out - as 'spooks' and being labelled racist as a result won't help make up your mind one way or the other.. you will already have done that. What such irony does help elucidate is how crucial are secrets in the ongoing creation of the fiction of self.

A change of climate (Hilary Mantel)

You'll be deafened by the cacophany of politely repressed emotions in this book: all the more so because it is enveloped in writing of such lightness, such deftness of touch, that on one hand Mantel's style reinforces the injunction not to explore or feel too deeply while on the other hand it provides such a stark contrast to issues of injustice, family, faith and loss that you can't help getting out of your depth.