In the Beginning was Chaos – Updated!

 41Yq0YRtiILFinally, I have completed the second edition of In the Beginning was Chaos: Greek Myths of the Gods and Creation. This new edition is expanded by about a third and is filled with detail about each of the Olympian deities as well as the twelve Titans and their offspring from the Goddess Hekate to the multi-formed Chimaera.

My hope is that this book will provide useful background to those beginning to read Greek mythology and classical literature so that they can read Homer’s Iliad or of the adventures of Herakles or Greek tragedy with a good insight into the divine dramatis personae governing the action.

You can now read the book in either Kindle or Paperback.

My next project which I hope to be completed within the next month, is a reflective volume on Ovid’s Metamorphoses, exploring some of his intriguing stories and characters outside the standard mythological canon.

First Impressions on Finishing Edith Wharton’s The Age of Innocence

The Fair Toxophilites by John Leech, ante 1864
The Fair Toxophilites by John Leech, ante 1864

The Age of Innocence is the first book I’ve read by Edith Wharton, though I remember going to see a film version of The House of Mirth many years ago in London. I enjoyed this book very much. It is, of course, beautifully and subtly written with an eye for manners and society reminiscent of Austen yet with more of a sense of the dark undercurrents of life.

The first scene of the novel, at the theatre, draws you into the heart of the action, as we share the perspective of the protagonist, Newland Archer in the midst of his extended social circle including his new fiancé May and her family.

In May’s family box, Newland notices an unfamiliar woman of unconventional appearance, her dress somewhat shockingly décolleté in contrast to the modest ruffles guarding his fiancé’s virginal throat. This is May’s cousin Countess Ellen Olenska, who has arrived in New York in flight from Count Olenska, her Polish husband, who has apparently been guilty of the most flagrant and sordid infidelities.

We are thus introduced to the tiny, closely interrelated upper-class circle of New York society of the 1870s, the era of the author’s own childhood. Edith Wharton sometimes cannot help rather archly drawing attention to the huge technological and social changes that will occur in the intervening fifty years between the date of the novel’s setting and her time of writing in 1920, making her characters speculate dubiously on whether the new invention of the telephone will ever become a daily reality.

This is a very different New York from the New York of modern reputation. Compared to Paris or London, the city is still a provincial, puritanical backwater where there is little to satisfy avant garde taste in art and music. Here, providing social entertainment on a Sunday is a shocking innovation and, bizarrely, it is the done thing for women of the highest echelons to import the latest fashions from Paris, and then pack them away for two years because it would appear vulgar to be seen dressed in the latest fashion.

Countess Olenska, brought up abroad by an eccentric aunt, besmirched by her scandalous circumstances, yet with family connections that entitle her to a place in that small elite circle causes a disturbance in the peaceful and certain world of these old families. The awkwardness is papered over when representatives of the oldest and most respected of the families pointedly go out of their way to extend social courtesies to her (to the extent of inviting her to dinner with a visiting duke) and thus the problem is treated by simply refusing to publicly acknowledge its existence.

Avoiding unpleasant or controversial topics, maintaining discreet decorum at all times are, we learn, among the primary concerns of this elite and are achieved from behind the scenes with a silent, Machiavellian ruthlessness beneath surface civility and bland smiles. Even as the grand matriarch, Catherine Mingott recovers from a slight stroke, brought on by the shock of another family scandal, she robustly blames her indisposition on eating chicken salad late in the evening, so that a stroke is brushed aside as a mere case of indigestion.

It transpires that this steely, smiling propriety in the face of adversity is inherited to the full by Catherine’s granddaughter, May Welland.

As Newland becomes increasingly besotted by the continental and bohemian charms of Countess Olenska, he grows correspondingly bored and disillusioned by his wholesome, clear-eyed and conventional fiancé and then wife. In doing so, he severely underestimates May Welland. Though her husband finds her reactions to his favourite poetry an embarrassment, though she is genuinely shocked at the idea of marrying during Lent or of inviting an impoverished French tutor to dinner, May’s narrowness of mind does not preclude an acuity of perception and iron strength of will.

In an early scene, we observe May taking part in a game of archery. It was a Victorian fad for ladies to engage in the sport, shooting at straw targets. Archery requires no unseemly exertion, can be performed in decorous full-length dress and involves the competitors striking elegant, classical poses in artistic evocation of Diana and her nymphs. Archery, however, is, in essence, a deadly sport capable of wreaking silent and sudden destruction from an unexpected angle. While artistically comprising the epitome of virginal beauty, Diana also had a dark side, ruthlessly destroying any who offered her insult, whether it was Actaeon unwittingly intruding upon her as she bathed or Niobe who mocked her mother for having only two children to Niobe’s nine. It is May who bears away the prize on that day.

While Newland is absorbed in his passion for Countess Olenska, rushing around after her on often the most dubious pretexts and reacting with unwonted violence when anyone advocates her return to her husband on favourable terms, he seems only vaguely aware that his odd behaviour is being observed and conclusions being drawn by those around him, not least his wife. What Newland doesn’t expect is his wife to act, yet act May does, eventually; discreetly but pertinently speaking to Ellen herself, informing her cousin that she is pregnant with her first child with Newland a couple of weeks before that is, in fact, medically confirmed.

In a climactic scene towards the end of the novel, there is a return to the theatre to see the same romantic production that had entranced Newland at the moment of his initial besottment with Ellen. He is determined to abandon May for Ellen or at least consummate his passion with her. For the first time in their two years of marriage, his wife is wearing her wedding dress. (It is a comparatively recent tradition that brides’ dresses should be distinctive white confections to be worn only for that occasion.) She accompanies her husband home in their carriage and there makes the revelation that, following some quiet conversation, Ellen has decided to retire to the continent to live without her husband on a reasonable stipend negotiated by the family. As May gets out of the carriage, she trips awkwardly, ripping and dirtying her dress. Beyond all the quiet words and the kind smiles, the torn, besmirched wedding dress tells its own story. May has fought hard to save her marriage and she has fought dirty.

The elegant farewell-cum-victory dinner which May insists on holding for Ellen finally brings home to Newland that the family has acted in quiet concord to avert scandal and extirpate the threat to this most respectable of marriages. Now Ellen is leaving, the family are unitedly polite and kind in their farewells, only keen to keep any unpleasantness unspoken, yet this elegant and civilised dinner represents May’s triumph over a rival and the victory of a highly stratified and conventional society against any challenge to its conventions. Welland has no option but to bid farewell to the woman he loves and resign himself to life with a woman who bores him.

Keats’ Naughty Boy and a Teacher’s Influence

There was a naughty boy,
And a naughty boy was he,
He ran away to Scotland
The people for to see-
There he found
That the ground
Was as hard,
That a yard
Was as long,
That a song
Was as merry,
That a cherry
Was as red-
That lead
Was as weighty
That fourscore
Was as eighty,
That a door
Was as wooden
As in England-
So he stood in his shoes
And he wondered,
He wondered,
He stood in his shoes
And he wondered.

I just googled this poem after a fragment of it came strongly into my mind this evening.

I remember having it read to me at primary school by an elderly and very old fashioned teacher who had the reckless habit of reading to us small children whatever she felt like, whether it was AA Milne or George Orwell. She was our class teacher in Class 3 and again in Class 5.  I would say that this woman had a profound influence on the person I grew into for both good and ill.

On the positive side; Mrs B nurtured my love of books and writing; she allowed me to spend all day writing my diary or stories and poems or let me while away the entire afternoon in the book corner. This was before the coming of the National Curriculum when teachers could seemingly do more or less as they liked. She often read my work aloud to the class because it pleased and amused her. This encouraged me to entertain the idea that I could be clever or funny.

On the debit side, when I was in class 3, Mrs B would scream at me terrifyingly and almost daily, in despair at my huge, painfully scrawled, often reversed handwriting. Were they taught in 1950s teacher training colleges that ‘screaming at children will make them write better’? I also often heard her being cruelly and destructively critical of other children, reducing one boy to tears when he asked what a word meant that she had written on the board with the dismissive comment that he was ‘too stupid’ to attempt to use words from the hard list in his writing and should stick to the easier choices.

Mrs B definitely had favourites and those held in blatant and arbitrary disfavour, and by Class 5, I was established among the former. This had the downside that as she was happy to let me spend the day as I pleased, I passed the entire year without doing any maths at all, a deficit I never (yet) remedied.

But the original point of this blog post was the poem quoted above. I was surprised to learn tonight that the poem was by John Keats; I had imagined all these years that it was by AA Milne.

I think it’s a poem that has a lot to say to many of us, myself included. We can all find ourselves thinking that if only we lived somewhere better, did a different job, found a group of sympathetic people exactly on one’s wavelength everything would be different and our lives would begin properly. Even our own past can become a Scotland of the mind (and so can actual Scotland).

There are, of course, times when it is right and necessary to move on or to make radical changes in one’s situation, but often I think we need to remind ourselves that the life we have is our finite outpouring of ‘real life’ and we have the choice to live it to the fullest and explore all it has to offer or to stand back and say ‘somewhere, real life is just waiting for me. There, things will be different.’

Killer Clowns, Reading IT and Thoughts on Horror

So where has the past month gone?

I’ve been spending some time revising my Greek mythology eBook In the Beginning was Chaos, mostly expanding the text, doing some additional research, and also adding pictures in the form of copyright-free artwork illustrating the myths. I hope to have the book out in its perfected form within the next couple of weeks.

As far as reading goes, I was oddly inspired by skimming increasingly absurd media reports of the Killer Clown Craze to have a go at tackling Stephen King’s IT.

I remembered watching the TV serial when it was broaclown_feardcast in the ’90s and finding it entertaining, but not especially frightening. Since then, I’ve read other Stephen King novels, including the more recent (2011) 11/22/63 with its  gripping time-travel theme and his much earlier novel The Shining (1977) which I found darkly atmospheric and absorbing and remember later finding the film a little thin and disappointing in comparison.

I approached IT then with a reasonably positive expectation. As before, I was impressed by King’s ability to draw you into the story and make you care about the characters with some vivid brush-strokes. Each of the young protagonists had clearly delineated problems or issues which to some extent defined them. The prose was readable, fast paced and clever, shifting you in and out of past and present and immersing you in the small-town world of the book.

However, for the present at least, I have ended up putting the book aside at a little short of 200 pages of its 500+. Why? Ultimately, the horror itself didn’t convince me. The manifestations of the dark terror haunting the town of Derry were simply too over-the-top, in some cases to the point of absurdity. I found myself watching the mayhem unfold with a kind of distanced scepticism, rather than any remote feeling of disquiet. It was the fact that these things happened so comparatively early in the book that threw me, too, I think. If such horrific manifestations had been the climax after being built up to throughout the book, they might have felt in some sense earned; as it was, it just felt deeply unlikely.

Part of King’s talent, I think, is showing that the real horror, the real monsters are to be found in human guise. That I think is what made The Shining work so well. There were strong elements of that insight in IT, but they were overshadowed by the solid unsubtlety of a monstrous being that simply rips children apart or, indeed, causes them to float.

Horror is a very subjective genre, of course. What will elicit a shrug or a laugh from one person can be the cause of a disturbed night’s sleep to another. I find the idea of a sad shadowy ghost manifesting silently upon one in one’s solitude much more worrying than a big scary monster.

What gives you a genuine chill in a horror story?


Claire Tomalin’s Biography of Charles Dickens

charles_dickens_-_project_gutenberg_etext_13103I’ve been getting into Dickens the last couple of weeks, reading and rereading. I enjoyed A Tale of Two Cities very much and am now some way through Our Mutual Friend, Dickens’ last completed novel. The murky ancient river with its deathly secrets and the brittle manners and concerns of the arriviste bourgoisie are both compelling.

This enjoyment prompted me to want to read more about Dickens himself, so I gave Claire Tomalin’s biography  a try as it seemed to be the best recommended. I certainly found it very vivid and readable,  as it leads you quickly through the events of Dickens life  giving vivid glimpses of his personality along the way.

In Tomalin’s portrayal, Dickens came across ultimately as a very ambivalent figure.

On the one hand, he was capable of wonderful kindness and generosity to those stricken by misfortune, a man of radical politics though scathing of politicians generally and genuinely indignant and concerned on behalf of the marginalised of society. I was interested to learn of Dickens’ radicalism. For some reason I had always imagined him as some kind of One-Nation Tory. I suspect that this is because he has become a figure that seems to embody an idea of ‘Victorianism’ in itself in the public consciousness, even because of his scathing portrayal of much of what was wrong with it.

On the other hand, there was a sense that he could be cold, autocratic and rejecting to those closest to him. Nn particular,  there was the vile way Dickens treated his wife, not only rejecting her for his actress mistress but  justifying himself  by  attacking her publicly,questioning her love for her children and even her grip on sanity.

There is also the curiously cold way he related to most of his children. It is hard for most British people in the 21st century to imagine what it would be like to have ten children, even though we are only two or three generations from it being the norm. Interestingly, it seems the situation was hard for Charles Dickens to get his head round too. He favoured his first three children, but apparently treated the later additions to his family with a kind of distanced bafflement as though he simply couldn’t extend his love and attention far enough for them all to have their share. It is disquieting to learn that the author of  A Christmas Carol frequently left his own sons at boarding school over Christmas.

Tomalin’s biography brings across these ambivalencies very well. She also vividly conveys the sheer physical energy of the man, who combined a prodigious literary output with the need to undertake walks of many miles on a more or less daily basis. I found the clearly extrovert portrayal of Dickens who seemed to love to surround himself with people and to feed off the energy of an audience devouring his readings to be interesting. Writers are not always introverts, it seems.

What I would have liked to see more of in this biography is a slowing down of the narrative in places and time given to a discussion of questions such as Dickens’ own literary influences and inspirations “where did he get his ideas from…”.  He was a genius, but he wasn’t created out of thin air. What did he read? How much did he gain from his interrupted education? How did he come by his views on religion and politics? (He wasn’t conventionally religious either.)

I also felt there was a lack of insight into some of the people who surrounded him most closely. Catherine Dickens seems to be dismissed by the biographer as a nonentity about whom there is nothing much to be said rather as Dickens himself did. His children also remain shadowy figures though we hear something of how they lived out their lives after Dickens’ death – rather forlornly for the most part. We also got intriguing glimpses of his friendships with writers such as Carlyle and Thackeray and I would have liked to know more about those, about how the greatest writers of the age influenced and reacted to each other.  Of course, a biography cannot contain everything and this was an excellent introduction to the larger-than-life personage who bestrode his era like a Colossus.


Tarot Tuesdays: The Five of Cups

Five of Cups

I stare down at the gelatinous egg on its bed of thickly buttered glistening white toast. After a minute, I realise my sister, Pat is still hovering by the door. I look up at her from the bed.

“Maybe you’ll come down a bit later, Colin, if you’re feeling up to it?” Her tone is hopeful, artificially bright. “The kids would love to see you.”

I snort in response and she leaves the room, defeated for the moment, the door clicking to behind her.

I really can’t imagine that anyone would love to see me at the moment. All I can feel is the crushing weight of shame in my chest, the desperate need to hide myself away. These haven’t left me since last Monday morning, when I was called to the bosses’ office at about half past ten. One look at her face and that of the assistant manager sitting beside her, one glance at the pile of ledgers open on her desk and I knew it was all over. You’re lucky we didn’t get the police in, they told me, lucky you’re not looking at a prison sentence. I suppose they thought it would be bad publicity, more than anything. I was escorted from the building while my colleagues, people I’d known for ten years or more, men and women I’d drank in the pub with every Friday night, sat still as statues at their desks, just watching me in silence, as though what I had done was too low even to need comment. It would have been easier, somehow, to leave to boos and jeers.

The last thing I feel I can face just now is going down to my noisy inquisitive nephew and niece in the sitting room. Suppose they were to ask me questions about why I’m here? How much have Pat and Dave told them?

How much has Helen told our daughter, more to the point? No, I can’t think about that. The hardest thing was having, finally, to tell my wife the truth, tell her that the nice new car, the Edwardian-style conservatory we’d had put in last year, the holidays to Florida and Thailand weren’t the result of my hard work being rewarded with pay-rises, but from ten years of my systematically fiddling the books at the office. Now it would all have to be paid back, straight away if I wanted to avoid gaol.

She didn’t take it well and who could blame her? Not just losing all the nice stuff, but the shame she felt on my behalf, her own behalf. Helen has a responsible job at the Council; how will it affect her at work when it inevitably leaks out that her accountant husband was sacked for fraud and embezzlement? They’re both in Nottingham now, at Helen’s mam and dad’s. We communicate via solicitor’s letters.

So I’ve lost my wife, my kid, my good name, my house, my job, everything. I prod my cooling breakfast with my fork, wondering if I’ll ever feel like eating again. My sister has added a bright blob of tomato sauce to the edge of the plate for me to dip my egg in, which somehow makes things worse.

There’s a scratching at my bedroom door, low, imploring woofs. It’s my old terrier, Charlie; he knows I’m in here, but I can’t face getting up and going to the door to let him in. I know Pat or one of the kids will walk him later. Meanwhile, all I can do is lie back on these polyester sheets and face the fact that I’ve lost everything.


Tarot Tuesdays: The Knight of Wands

I am excited to be taking part in Tarot Tuesdays inaugurated by Jenn Moss over on her blog. The premise is simple, but effective; each Tuesday, Jenn draws a random Tarot card and the following week creates a story, poem, or whatever else inspires. Anyone who wishes to participate can write their own response to the card on their blog and post a comment linking back to it.

The first card to be drawn is the Knight of Wands and here is my response in the form of a rumination.


Knight of wands

The Knight of Wands

In the midst of the barren desert the Knight of Wands pulls up sharply, impetuously in mid-gallop, causing his horse to rear. He is bearing aloft a knobbly, burgeoning bough, bursting with green shoots. This is a quixotic fellow; there is something absurd about that great stick he’s brandishing in the place of a knight’s lance, a neat, honed weapon of destruction. What, one might ask, does he think he’s going to do with it, precisely?

I find myself imagining that this unlikely knight is on a quest to bring life and hope to the waterless places. Somehow, with that stick full of shoots like the hopeful eyes on a cupboard potato, our knight intends to turn that desert place into lush, green forest, living boughs sweeping the blue sky.

Heinrich_fueger_1817_prometheus_brings_fire_to_mankindHow might he achieve this? Perhaps in the same way as Prometheus brought fire to the whole of humanity, with only a few stolen, glowing coals concealed in a great stalk of fennel, held aloft in flight. Prometheus was another quixotic fellow who took sometimes unlovely humankind as his chosen Dulcinea. He would come to pay a high price for his chivalry in presenting his illicit gift of life and power to the naked, shivering apes who trembled before Zeus Omnipotent.

Behind our Knight, amongst the trackless sands, rear up the ancient tombs of the ancestors, sealed and immutable. In contrast, the brandished bough, pullulating with green shoots speaks of new ideas, new life, new energy. Our tree-planter of the desert wastes stands up against stone Ozymandias’ ‘sneer of cold command’ and goes gallantly forth on his absurd quest to foster green and flourishing life on the parched and waterless places of the world.