Of the Failure, the Hero, and the Hammer

John Gillingham & Ralph A. Griffiths

Medieval Britain: A Very Short Introduction (2000)
History – 150 pages – my copy (paperback; 2000) bought for 50p in Plymouth Library
- 2 nods out of 5 -

The series ‘A Very Short Introduction’ has apparent ambitions of annexing the shelves of all good book stores. A browse in your nearest Waterstones will reveal a whole rack devoted to the books, ranging from historical to scientific issues, whilst taking in a whole host of other topics, some a tad needlessly (such as the one centred on ‘Love’?). Yes, they are opportunistic cash cows, with each edition now nearing the ten pound mark, whilst much of the text is nabbed from earlier publications – my very own read was originally printed in The Oxford Illustrated History of Britain, way back in 1984! Yet what of the quality?

This gentle, breezy read never has pretensions of grandeur, yet provides an informative run-through of four centuries of history, from the arrival of William the Conqueror to that of the Tudors. The authors chart the squabbles between kings and princes, sprinkled with some gruesome deaths: William Rufus shot by an arrow in a hunting “accident” (I say “accident” as medieval conspiracy theorists run rampant on other thoughts) and Edward II supposedly done to death by a red hot poker up the rear-end. It all has the making of a soap opera, albeit a rather gruesome and morbid one. Charted are the failures of King John, the heroics of King Richard, and the severe fist of King Edward – the hammer of the Scots.

Only in a couple of instances do the authors go beyond the call of duty in the sketching of these royal characters, commenting on the economy and social change of the period. Yet, full analysis is beyond the scope of such a short book (though appended is a comprehensive further reading list for the die-hard medieval enthusiast).

The series of introductory booklets march on, intent on covering every period and every notable person in history (and perhaps, eventually, every non-notable too). For those with no knowledge of the period in question, Gillingham’s and Griffiths’ chapters are a sufficient, if un-exceptional read.

We, the Second Elizabethans

A.N. Wilson - Our Times: The Age of Elizabeth II (2008)
History – 420 pages – my copy (2008; paperback) from Waterstones for £9.99 in September 2009
- 3 nods out of 5 -

A history of the reign of Elizabeth is perhaps a tad premature, considering that our monarch still sits, living and breathing, upon the British throne. Her longevity is widely noted, with years yet to remain with her face adorned on bank-notes. Yet A.N. Wilson, a man of Second Elizabethan England (being born in 1950), paints a vast portrait of the age, following in the chronology of his previous studies, The Victorians and After the Victorians.

What has happened in the past fifty-five years? Well, quite a lot. From Churchill to Brown, from a world power to that of European partner, Britain has overseen remarkable change. Wilson recounts shifts in society, in morality and in our beliefs, from a 1950s in which homosexuality was outlawed, to today’s supposed multi-cultural land. He charts Ireland, woman’s liberation and the change of the entertainment industry and media. Such wildly different events, yet the book itself is divided into typical chapters more fitting a political history (such as ‘Churchill and Eden’, ‘Macmillan’ and ‘The Lady’). And, ultimately, the primary focus is in the goings-on at Westminster, with the whole book holding a bias towards the South-East of England, the Conservatives, and the higher echelons of society; the clear over-statement of the book coming in praise for Prince Charles: ‘Were we to write down the virtues of Prince Charles, and his achievements, he would undoubtedly emerge as a, if not the, hero of this book’ (p.319).

Wilson is at his best in his vivid and colourful descriptions, such as the one on Ian Paisley:

‘With his tall, bulky gait, his brilliantined hair, his thick lips which seemed in their liquid sibilance positively to savour the anti-papalist insults which fell from them, with his strong Ulster brogue and his alarmingly powerfully lungs, larynx and vocal chords….’ (p.170).

Whilst his scathing comments on the ills of society are full of humour, such as the many on benefits in 2008:

[Eating] ‘the consoling junk food beloved by American proles, they came to resemble them, waddling from Iceland to Burger King or Dunkin’ Donuts in their huge blue jeans, pushing their obese tots in groaning strollers’ (p.415).

All of which shows a true novelist’s touch – Wilson himself being the writer of much fiction (as well as biographies on notables such as Tolstoy). One of the chief problems, however, is in the sheer scale of material – the picture credits alone show an eclectic range, from Churchill to the Krays, from Dad’s Army to Jeffery Archer, from Lady Diana to Tom Baker. Of course, such a collection says much for the past half a century and our country, yet my primary concern is Wilson’s construction within the text of piecing such contrasting people and issues together. At many times in the book he abruptly stops typing on one matter, cutting straight to another. Was this a question of time or of space? Either way, it leaves accusations of a lack of sight of the overview flow of the pages.

Wilson stresses the changing morals of Britain in this period. He believes there is no modern equivalent of the artists, the writers and the greats of the past. ‘Then, Great Britain was the greatest power in the world. Compare it with the Britain of 2008 and the language of decline and fall becomes inevitable’ (p.413). Is this a strict lamentation? Not exactly. Wilson strikes out the merry past, stating that the ‘Britain which saw Elizabeth II’s Coronation, and the Britain which will see her funeral are in reality two different, equally awful, places’ (p.413). Despite the many improvements we benefit from today – of a more tolerant, plentiful, cared for land – Wilson believes it has come at a cost to the death of a coherent society. Britain, he concludes, ceased to exist: ‘She had become a missing person’ (p.422).

The book would have benefited enormously if Wilson had spent more energy enquiring as to when this happened. Yet, such a job is perhaps for a future historian, and not for a contemporary. Our Times, it certainly is, and is interest for anyone in our recent past.

A Railroad Man

Mark Oliver Everett - Things the Grandchildren Should Know (2008)
Autobiography – 240 pages – my copy (2008; paperback) from Waterstones for £7.99 in September 2009
- 3 nods out of 5 -

Feel like an old railroad man
Ridin’ out on the bluemont line
Hummin’ along old dominion blues
Not much to see and not much left to lose
(Railroad Man, Eels, 2005)

Mark Oliver Everett is popularly known as ‘E’, the man behind the alternative and influential rock outfit Eels. Songs such as Susan’s House, Novacaine for the Soul and a whole spate oddly released on Shrek movie soundtracks have enlightened many a music enthuasiastcs night. But what lies behind the genius of such tracks?

A much confused family, for starters. This family comprises of a noted and intelligent father who died when Everett was in his late teens; a sister who killed herself after many failed attempts at suicide; while his mum, the last of his immediate family, shortly followed with cancer. Such events, and the over-riding loneliness of his life have been shown in many of his albums and its songs; most notably Electro-Shock Blues, about breakdown of the late 1990s of his family, and his 2005 album, Blinking Lights.

Things the Grandchildren Should Know, then, follows in this vein but in word format. He describes his childhood – the strongest section of the book – as a young and confused kid, lurching from one thing to the next. When feeling at a complete loss he decides to go with the only thing he has, his talent, and move to LA to find a music career to harness his uniqueness: ‘…that was a mission I was on. To keep whittling away until whatever it was that I had that was uniquely mine really started to shine’ (p.82). Bit by bit, he claims his place alongside the rock Gods, a long way off from his wannabe days when washing cars across from the large building of Polygram Records: ‘I would stand there with the hose in my man and look up at the building with reverence, like it was a monument’ (p.82).

However, the rock aspects of his life take a secondary importance to his domestic concerns, which as briefed upon, were devastating. His sister, whom he deeply loved, succumbed to drugs; whilst his mother succumbed to cancer. ‘I held her hand and talked to her, unsure if there was any use in it. I told her that we were all there for her and how much we loved her. Eventually her breathing began to slow down until it was very, very slow. And then there was one last, slow exhale with no inhale after it.’ (p.157).

It is this human, emotional aspect which makes Things the Grandchildren Should Know such a fulfilling read. Throughout all, Everett is under little pretence: he lays it bare, as awkward as that might be. Most of his life he has spent alone, and it is this loneliness that affects the reader deeply: ‘I’d go back to my sweltering apartment and lie on the mattress on the floor listening to Bob Dylan, the man with the secret sense of destiny, singing ‘Sign on the Window’ on the boom box while I cried and thought of giving up an dying’ (p.83).

Despite such openness, the autobiography is ultimately stunted in Everett’s lack of authorial control. A great attempt at his first stab of writing a book, yet the structure of the book suffers, with words and anecdotes being splattered upon the page, denigrating its coherent whole. Whilst the recent years get little of a look in as does his childhood. A further, more biting accusation, would be Everett’s fascination with death, bringing to our attention every funeral he is encountered, being stretched too far for dramatics, such as his ‘hot, blonde cousin’ who died in the 9/11 attacks on America (p.3).

Everett is undoubtedly a man of many talents. The written word may join the many others he occupies. It is the Worm’s sincere hope that he will follow this book up with later instalments, recounting to the world what has been an eventful, emotional and enlightening life.

World On Fire

Niall Ferguson - The War of the World (2006)
History – 700 pages – my copy (paperback; 2007) bought from Waterstones for £12.99 in August 2009
- 4 nods out of 5 -

I hear you ask the question immediately: ‘Why the need for another book on the wars of the first half of the twentieth century?’ And ordinarily, I would agree with you; the Kaiser and the Fuhrer have both been comprehensively studied by scholars and laymen alike for many decades. Another addition to an already bloated shelf brings with it accusations of a lazy, unimaginative historian; a writer keen for quick riches in a popular historical market. However, let the record make it strictly clear: Niall Ferguson is not cut of such cloth.

Widely noted as one of the eminent British historians of current times, Ferguson has all the hallmarks of a successful writer of enquiry and fact, mixed in with a novelist’s touch for drama. Involved at both Harvard and Oxford, he has made the successful transition to television documentary; his face fitting for today’s multi-media, being snapped on the inside book cover in his confident Del-Monte suit. His writing style is always competent and comprehensive, and at times simply stunning (such as his detailing of Stalin, ‘the most paranoid, untrusting’ individual in modern times trusting Hitler, ‘the most unscrupulous liar in history’ (p.428)). The War of the World is his interpretation on the slaughter and carnage of the two world wars, in which he covers old ground (for example, the attacks on the appeaser and failure that was Neville Chamberlain) whilst amassing a wide range of sources – including many new ones previously untapped. Indeed, the footnotes are so numerous that Ferguson apologises for not being able to actually include them in the book’s edition, instead publishing them on his website.

Ferguson argues that the twentieth century was the bloodiest period in human history – adding an interesting appendix to back up this claim. Throughout all – using a dramatist’s touch – he shocks the reader; even those already familiar with the atrocities of the time. Such an example is of a Polish man shot by Ukrainians during the Second World War, a family friend watching the following gruesome fate of his family:

‘First, they raped his wife. Then, they proceeded to execute her by tying her up to a nearby tree and cutting off her breasts. As she hung there bleeding to death, they began to hurl her two-year-old son against the house wall repeatedly until his spirit left his body. Finally, they shot her two daughters. When their bloody deeds were done and all had perished, they threw the bodies into a deep well in front of the house. Then, they set the house ablaze’ (p.456)

Shocking it is, yet that is not its only function in Ferguson’s narrative. As stated, this was the death of a Pole by Ukrainian hands – not that of popularised Nazi on democrat, or Nazi on Jew. Ferguson argues that when society breaks down, as in the case of war, all hell is let loose – the underlying antagonisms (those between culture, religion and race) are unleashed, and sometimes with horrific results. The reason why the first half of the twentieth century was the bloodiest was not one of technology and more potent bombs – if that were so then we would today be nuclear toast – rather, it was due to a world-wide social breakdown.

It is in the book’s conclusion when Ferguson attempts to summarise this understanding, citing Freud’s observations on war and peace. Man, he noted, was made of ‘well known opposites, Love and Hate’. Man has ability to create wonders, but also has the capacity to destroy (what Freud labels the ‘death instinct’). And fatalistically, says we cannot ‘suppress humanity’s aggressive tendencies’.

‘Why do we, you and I and many another, protest so vehemently against war, instead of just accepting it as another of life’s odious importunities? For it seems a natural enough thing, biologically sound and practically unavoidable’ (p.634).

The urges to rape, murder and destroy are suppressed in a civilised, ordered society. When chaos is unleashed, the existing frictions between us provide the spark to propel the explosive. ‘We remain,’ concludes Ferguson, ‘our own worst enemies’ (p.646).

Yet if that is all hot, what is not? That accusations could be made about the covering of old ground has already been mentioned; more exact would be Ferguson’s ultimate inability to successfully tie all the pieces of the story into a co-ordinated knot, such as welding the Japanese war with those in Europe. Of course, this is itself perhaps an impossible task, due to the distances of geography and philosophy. Though it must be stated that many interesting comparisons are drawn up, including that between Hitler’s and Roosevelt’s accession in 1933 (p.223), and that between Britain and Japan’s imperial ambitions (p.285-286). Furthermore, like many historians, Ferguson commits the crime of concentrating too heavily on the Nazis; whilst always falling back on his comfortable economic upbringing, stressing the monetary ties between nations (stressing the pre-1914 globalisation and the Great Crash of 1929). The author takes an accountant’s delight in listing facts and figures, many times dulling the reader, when a sufficient amount would have enlightened.

Simply put, Ferguson has attempted to bite too much of the apple, trying to comment on Britain’s decline, America’s ascent, the fascist regimes, the communist regimes, Third World wars whilst all the time noting racial violence. A book of under a thousand pages could never possibly complete such a task. Therefore, as a combined and continuous "War of the World", it doesn’t stand the weight of scrutiny.

Ferguson’s War of the World is a must read for anyone interested in the wars and horrors of the twentieth century; and more crucially, for those who want an attempt in answering the thought-provoking questions Ferguson never endingly poses to his readers.

An Uninteresting Murder

Jed Rubenfeld - The Interpretation of Murder (2006)
Novel – 530 pages – my copy (paperback; 2007) borrowed
- 2 nods out of 5 -

The Interpretation of Murder is a fictional-fact novel – yes, one of those which have come into great fashion in recent years – set in the New York of 1909. A murder happens which leads to Younger, the chief protagonist, using his psychiatry skills in helping catch the killer. Helping him in this pursuit is Sigmund Freud - prominently noted in the book’s blurb -who counsels Younger to clarity and giving him the strength of his convictions.

All of which sounds quite splendid; however, that is not quite the case. Simply put, there are too many characters, too many murders (and attempted murders) and too many plots being discussed in the book’s 500 pages (again, far too many). For instance, the reader is pitted with two characters in the hero role, various love interests, and various villains. As the saying goes, ‘Too many cooks spoil the broth.’ The impression the Worm took away from this novel was that of two stories meshed into one, as if Younger’s story (written in first perspective) wasn’t juicy enough for Rubenfeld’s publishers, thus prompting him to include a few grizzly murders and dead females stuffed in baskets (written, complexingly, in third perspective). Due to this, the book fails in its chief concerns: to continually build suspense. Rather, it ebbs and flows, beyond the author’s control.

This is not to say the author’s intrusion is not found; it fills every page and is inescapable. Rubenfeld’s background holds the key: a student of law, with the result being a prose as stifled and stilted as that found in parliamentary acts. Furthermore, all of his previous study – in the fields of Freud and Shakespeare – are dumped into the novel (for instance, Shakespeare’s Hamlet is continuously, unconvincingly and monotonously debated, much to the Worm’s chagrin).

And what of the sentences themselves? His description leaves much to be desired: ‘Jimmy Littlemore wasn’t bad-looking, but he wasn’t quite good-looking either’ (p.34). Whilst there is the constant authorial interference, breaking up the story as a drunk would in a pub conversation: ‘Among the various sounds one can hear indoors in the nighttime, some are instantly recognizable. There is, for example, the unmistakable pattering of a small animal…’ (p.177). What is Rubenfeld trying to accomplish here, exactly? Surely the story itself should do all the talking for him.

The book’s redeeming feature is the inclusion of Freud, whilst his attempt to collate fiction and fact are admirable, even if never wholly successful. A more adventurous and capable writer would have involved Freud to a greater extent. As it stands, The Interpretation of Murder remains a book with many flaws, yet a novel for the psychologist enthusiast.