Budapest to Babel

This book is Ágnes Lehóczky's first published poetry collection in English - and boy, is it a doozy. As the book's title suggests, she draws heavily on the sociological and historical experiences of linguistic mishap, inarticulated or poorly-articulated trains of thought buffetting each other as the whorl around the mindscape of possible communication across the loquacious border-patrols of Different Actual Languages - probing at whether translation is possible at all - or if it is poetry could never exist sufficiently to the task, and can only pour petrol into the tornado of communications and dreams...

   I really enjoyed this book. The poems are chunked into three parts, the first dealing with our sense of linguistic home-ness, the second exploring the contemporary Babel-scape in biblically subtle twists of genius language-manipulation; the third finally looking through the eyes of Narcízs (a poetic type, we may presume) at this same wordscape and inviting open critique of everything said, unsaid and/or half-said throughout the book entire. The are poems that stare into your depths as they confound your expectations, as if to drop some immense wisdom egg into your craw, only to bark like crows and flap away idly again as though their invisible task was complete and the non-comprehension of over-hearers means nothing to them. A powerfully evocative collection that will provoke much thought about language, peace (of the inner and/or outer types) and possibility.

the Lost Art of Scripture

This magisterial tome by Karen Armstrong is to date the best book on comparative religion I've read so far in my life. It's a truly stupendous work of holistic scholarship. She works through the full historical span of recorded religious writings, built out of preexisting oral traditions for millennia already - Israel, India, and China are the big three foci throughout, with all major world religions given ample coverage during the thematically roving chapters.

   The book is prefaced by a couple of quotes from William Blake that really set the tone for the rest of its argument: one hears his decried notions that "all religions are one" resonate through the Poetic Genius of all the texts we might consider Scripture today, so eloquently and rich in detail are the introductions Armstrong makes with each distinct faith. Jainism and the roots of the polycultural faith commonly banner-termed Hinduism are examined with as much diligence as the Hebrew canon, including the Talmudic midrash that later emerged as the preeminent focus of Jewish scripture; or the traditions of China, where Confucian, Taoist and Buddhist ideals grow up around each other and inter-pollinate sociologically across vast areas of human population over time - we witness the birth of Christianity with its own new emergent canon building in the already established edificies of Hebraic tradition; and latterly Islam also as Abraham's God bears angelic witness in an altogether different but ultimately similarly upbuilding revelations to the offspring of Hagar - Isaac's half-brother Ishmael, whose visitation in the presumed descendancy of the Prophet Muhammad of him bears claim to God's faithfulness even to those overlooked by established canonical traditions - Armstrong's framing all this as it unfurls over time has radically influenced my perception of other faiths compared to my own: I cannot but proudly assert that I understand any other religion enough to dismiss its claims entirely unless I put the effort into reading their scripture, observing their rituals and obediences and examining my own psychological and spiritual states as I take part in such things; how can you really know what's on the other side of a door if you won't even approach the doors you start seeing? Scripture is important because it records truths that are all too brilliantly human, but that exist as Truer than reality itself at certain points of belief - the maintenance of religion is not the purpose of any scripture, awakening people to better more peaceable states of collective mind is, through reason, tradition, and the cultivation of virtue. Forging peace between Muslims and Hindus was the sole reason for Sikhism's founding; how sad that as other faiths frictions of extremism do persist in the world... such we may always have to have with us to whatever extent; all the rest of us can do is try to be different and hope that goodness will more or less prevail. Which it does so the more for our faithful participation in Reality as it is. That's all any religion that works really is or does at the end of the day. The ancients knew this - Moses and Chuang Zhu would have seen eye-to-eye on far more than modern, compartmentalized intellects might presume - in any case I'm sure they would have found plenty of generousity to praise each other in the sight of Heaven as they understood it, as compared perhaps to the disinterested, polarized happenstance as much in the world today how there seem to be so many insurmountable obstacles in the way of what we might call Religious Belief - or even let alone Fervour! - I'm rambling. This risks turning into an unwarranted and largely speculative Holistic Essay, so for sake of possible Inquisitorial readership on this blog I'm going to cut myself short here and just end by saying that her chapter on ineffability is the best on the subject I've read outside of the Cloud.

   Highly recommended reading for agnostics or indifferents who may be at all interested in an unbiased, pretty solidly comprehensive guide to the core textual living examples of so-called Holy texts - and it's a diverse bunch but there is so much that unites them in similitude at the same time; a fact that will resonate with anyone of any faith or none from reading Armstrong is that you will develop a much deeper appreciation for the plain facts of how much good, more or less, religious-originating values and ethics still hold fundamentally impressive sway on the vast majority of people in ways we don't perceive - perhaps we don't care to? But it's there, it's a real part of our world and the beyondness past what we know and cannot know. I'm saying all of this as a born-again Christian, without denominational affiliation though I technically do belong to an Anglican monastic community, but my home church situation got complicated and I have been congregationally homeless for over a year. I've got used to it and I'm not sure how spiritually healthy that is long-term, but it'll take a while to get over what happened at and with The Crowded House. That said, I'm steering a pretty orthodox path in my own way, I'd like to think. Even though I am also now a Taoist with possibly a smidge of Sufi too... God, give me wisdom and slowness as I explore the richness and variety of other religions for a spell. Well, okay, for a novel. Or seven. 

Arcadia

This book, I should start by saying, is a play by Tom Stoppard and has nothing to do with Guillermo del Toro's ongoing Netflix entanglements.* Much like the other play of his I've posted about before, this seems to be relatively minimal in terms of story, instead weaving another deft web of surmised interconnections and/or freshly-dug-up intellectual treasure in its intricate dialogue, which truly does throw you headfirst into these characters' world.

   To give you a taster without giving away any spoilers... well, first off I mean obviously go and see this live in a theatre if you ever get the chance! But onwards: we fluctuate between two time periods, the early 19th century and late 20th, with the constants between these being a library and concordant desk within which most of the action takes place. The action being, of course, one Bernard turning up at the stately home with the express intent of uncovering a historical long-buried plot involving trauma, shame, Lord Byron, and the quest for a mathematical theory capable of unfurling such meta-complexity within its parameters that the future's events can be ascertained through proper examination of events through this formula; long-dead and scarcely-known poet Chater and academic Hodge are responsible for nurturing this mathematical golem into life with the genius insights of young Thomasina, while in the deep future of the play, garden historian Hannah unpicks enough threads to shed light on the whole damn mix of stuff and ruins Bernard's project by pipping him to the post of truth. We by the curtain-fall are brought to the realisation that Newtonian physics is missing something of immense import to anthropocentric metaphysics: that is, the laws of sexual attraction, the missing piece of the Grand Formula's puzzle.

   If none of that makes sense then you might not get the play. But you'd probably enjoy it - as with Stoppard's other work that I've read, while there is an enormous amount of intellectual subtextual weight being lifted by almost every line uttered herein the speech itself flows with a naturalistic poise that muffles that otherwise-pretentious sheen on everything and brings you face to face with these intrepid bookish characters, for better or worse...

* Seriously, if you haven't seen or read Trollhunters, Wizards or 3 Below - get on that shit right now. It's kid-friendly epic fantasy for the 21st century done far more properly than properly even knows.

All My Cats

This book is a partially autobiographical shortish novel, or longish novella, by Czech author Bohumil Hrabal, who, once upon a time, moved into a house in the Bohemian area of Kersko just outside Prague, hoping that he would have peace there in which to write. However he finds the town's wild cat population seeps into his life and thus commences the book's central theme and relationship - that of Hrabal with all the cats that start visiting, then staying in, then breeding in, his Kersko home, despite the regular complaints of his wife "what are we going to do with all these cats!?"

   Of course, what he actually does do with the cats is the meat of the story so I won't spoil it here. But be warned - cat lovers expecting a ride as soft and complacently-cattish as this novel will be sorely disappointed, as Hrabal's cat cabal relatively quickly begins a descent into grim, almost Dostoevskian horror and brutality - look out for the mailbag...

   I'd happily recommend this book to people who enjoy reading about the nature and character of cats, as this book I think feeds into that kind of metanarrative really interestingly. But if you just want a nice story about a man with lots of cats, don't read past the first chapter of this one - this is not that kind of story. It is, however, once you get past the sheer darkness of its core conflict, a deeply funny and thought-provoking story about life, care, responsibility, and "whatever are we going to do with all these cats!?"

the Man Who Was Thursday

This book, a nightmarish novel by Gilbert Keith Chesterton, that sly old dog, is very rightly one of my new favourites. Without giving away any spoilers, the premise is the Supreme Anarchist Council, who furtively behind-the-scenes are really running the shop, and there are seven of them named after days of the week* - and the man who was Thursday, otherwise known as Gabriel Symes, an extravagant poet; after one of the Council's meetings is taken into a darkened room where he meets with a mysterious figure (supposedly not one of the Council, though it should be said that all of them are also pretty mysterious figures) who gives him a small blue card, accompanied by the instructive comment that they are now working with the Metropolitan Police, in an effort to infiltrate the Anarchists and foil their plans, many of which, because of course they do, involve dynamiting large public events and buildings and personnel.

   Anyway Mr Symes/Thursday is rightly terrified by all this, and cops it to the police in his heart - later divulging this to other members of the Council as he spins an ever-more desperate web of lies, half-truths and mental gymnastics in trying to perjure or gain advantages over the other Anarchists while seeking their comeuppance by the law... Of course, they soon catch on. And for want of spoiler bait I'm leaving it there and retreating into discussion of its abstract qualities.

   Chesterton has played an absolute blinder here. The resonant subtextual symbolism and lurid imagery and superlatively playful prose make for a riotous read, the pacing feels a little off kilter but it's gripping throughout anyway and you really feel your way through the fears, the machinations and frustrations of the characters, despite how opaque and duplicitous they all succeed in being throughout. The ending will have you howling for anything more, better or different, and yet at an absolute loss for how else it could have ended. Sunday is surely the most ominous, powerfully charismatic villains I've encountered in text** since Culzean, and that's saying something. A fantastically riddling read for mystery thriller lovers of all ages.

* Yes, I know that's similar to Reservoir Dogs, they copied it. This is from 1908.

** Yeah, and Satan probably counts as this too but he's long since given up reading over my shoulder when I read the Bible, probably, but I fear he's leveraging my own extra reading against me in unfathomable ways. God knows I'm the furthest thing from a heretic when it comes to the crunch decision point - at least that's what I'd hope and aspire of myself.

The Waste Land and other poems

This book by T. S. Eliot was a pleasant surprise. If you're a regular reader you may recall during my post about Rupi Kaur I somewhat dismissively used Eliot as the counter-example of a poet whose work was purportedly and academically excellent but somewhat dry and lifeless when actually imbibed, and I admit here and now that I wrote that without actually having read any of Eliot's work at least since GCSE Poetry Anthology days - if even then! And so it was, that with trepidation and intrigue, I bought this for 79p in Oxfam and read it in a couple of sittings - and whewf.

   The titular poem itself is fairly impenetrable but also gives you far more to work with as a reader than I was expecting. I don't actually know what I was expecting - but whatever it was, the actual poem is far shorter and actually pretty powerful stuff, if admittedly I would have found it somewhat inaccessible had I not committed so much time on this blog to mystical theology and comparative religion... Anyway, that said, The Love Song of Alfred J. Prufrock is just saddening, a bleakly accurate portrait of postwar romanticism well-bridged into the modernist era. Ash Wednesday and the Two Choruses from 'The Rock' however were deeply powerful, and I saw as for the first time that Eliot's struggle as a poet was far higher-minded and nobler than the mere academical muddyfooting that I'd previously shunted it down as, and religious ideals shine through gaps between the lines in these two poems particularly with a light and resonance that I think is truly powerful and would speak to many people who may not even like poetry at all. Religious readers will, I wager, find much of inspiration here as Eliot responds to the grim, industrial choke-points of secular 20th-centuryism.

   Aside from the traditionally contemporary gripe that in a couple of places he'll quote something in Latin or Greek without offering a translation in the footnotes, I actually really enjoyed this book and imagine it will be another one for the semi-regular poetic rereading as I grow in my own capacities and voice as a writer. Definitely go for this one if you're new to Eliot - at least this of his books hasn't had The Ultimate Furry-Friendly Musical based on it as with one of his other publications.

Phantasmagoria

This book, by the pseudo-anonymous D. M. Riddles, is effectively just a creepypasta that's been sucked off its online home and printed, for some inchoate incoherent reason. It's a "scary story" about a kid who finds a cursed notebook that allows him to see reality through the Grim Reaper's eyes, a lá the narration in The Book Thief - and the whole book as such functions more or less like a long, unbroken whinge as the underlying riddle, whatever it is, I can't be bothered to figure it out because it'll probably demand the reading of the two sequels promised to be on their way to follow this one and fuck that noise. I'm dropping this off at Oxfam, don't touch it with a bargepole. Not because it's necessarily cursed, but because it is definitively crap.

The Magos

This book is the fourth instalment in the epic sci-fi thriller Eisenhorn series by Dan Abnett - as well as the newest novel in the series, this includes eight or so short stories that flesh out the world and side characters to our eponymous Inquisitor quite brilliantly. As ever with Abnett's writing, the pacing is punchy and gripping, the horror element pitch-perfect (you can hear the warp itself screaming with glee at some of the sentences herein) and for my money I think in terms of dialogue the characterisation has never been better. It helps having Gregor as a third-person figure rather than the narrator as in the first three books - not that his narrations wasn't great, but having him as more of an outside figure to the readers helps maintain his elementary mystique that makes for such a killer read. Don't read this without also having read all of the first two trilogies... Though that said, maybe stay away even if you have. Warp taint, innit.

Stardust

This book by Nail Gaiman is an absolute treasure. Prepare for a deep dive into a world so magical it feels almost like Gaiman is witness-bearing to its reality as a travel writer rather than a mere imagineer - fairies, witches, foul-mouthed falling star-folk, pirates and fratricide aplenty - this is simply one of the most fun stories I've had the pleasure of reading for a while. Old stories are reforged on every other page and always rehashed with so generous a helping of Neil's own freshly-conjured brilliant quirks of ethereality that you may well find yourself, as I did, finishing this in only a sitting or two within a day of picking it up. I mean, lockdown helps with the time management on that front, but even assuming you're reading this and Covid 19 is no longer The News, I'm sure you can find time for a rollicking romp through the Gap in the Wall and find yourself adrift with Tristran Thorn on his romantic quest for something or other. I'm quite pleased and shocked at having got this far without dropping a spoiler so I'll sign off to stay safe on that.

The Bucket

This book by Allan Ahlberg is a mixed bag. It's an autobiographical look through rose-tinted age-fogged glasses at the author's own childhood, in 1940's/50's Oldbury in the Black Country - and for a Millennial reader like myself, the sheer distance between his childhood and the contemporary average is mind-boggling, but I pride myself on being feral enough that despite being born in the 1990's my own youth bears many hallmarks of similarity to what is presented in this book. We meet a young Allan who hates baths, loves hiding under the table, dart, playing football, alternately squashing and empathizing with snails, playing with things that aren't even technically toys but can become such through active imagination, etc.

   I'm not really sure who this book's meant to be for. Ahlberg is a masterful and prolific kids' author and this claims to be his first book intended for adults, but other than nostalgic curiousity for the inner life and memories of a similarly-aged person, I'm struggling to think why exactly an adult reader would read this off their own bat. It would be a fantastic book to read to younger readers to give them a sense of how much lifestyles, attitudes and such can change in a short fifty year generation or so - but in my opinion it just wasn't entertaining enough on its own merit to warrant picking up and reading as a grown-up. Unless you really like terse poetry, rambling anecdotes about half-forgotten things, and of course buckets and buckets of Brummie good cheer.

Fox

This book by Isabel Thomas and illustrated by Daniel Egnéus is a visually fantastic and lyrical ode to that darkest and greatest most mystical of natural forces; death.* It follows the life cycle of a mother fox raising her litter - and trusting their instinct to persist their foxy little lives even after their ma gets [SPOILER WARNING] got and becomes food for the worms, flies, and fungi. Probably not a book for every kid but ones that are interested in nature will love the pictures and learn to fear the Reaper less should they give this one a chance.

* Not quite as comprehensively as certain other books lobbed at the younger audience, but the upshot of how it's pulled off in this one is far less morbidly humourous and instead performs more like a sanitary duty to the kids' psyche with an adroit and non-scary inspection of Death as Natural... just part of the circle of life!

Pistache

This book, by Sebastian Faulks, is a brilliantly inventive and meta-Faustian anthology of spoofed imitation samples writing like other writers. A voice-skipping task with Faulks pulls off with great aplomb and good humour - the Dan Brown, T. S. Eliot and Noel Coward ones are particularly funny I thought - but in the sense of remaining spoiler free I won't give away too many of the names in there but they're all at least pretty funny. Worth keeping on the coffee table or it's the kind of book you could read on the Tube or something, pretty broad appeal to bibliophiles and literary-buffs all across the table I'd reckon for this one.