Some thought on Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie

Salman Rushdie’s Satanic Verses is not an easy book to review. After finishing any book, the reviewing process is always an excellent way of clarifying what, if anything, the particular work may have communicated. With a book like Satanic Verses, however, as with any book as famous, or infamous as this, does one review the book itself or does one review the reaction to the book? Is it possible to review the book without reviewing the reviews? Is there any need to describe the book itself, when it is this well known, or should one concentrate on judging the allegations levelled against it? Should one actually merely ignore the content and deal only with the reaction?

Of course, there are questions that are present throughout the process. They simply cannot be ignored. Satanic Verses is no longer a book that can be approached without prejudice, bias or both. So let this reader state as an initial position that he has always been convinced that freedom of speech always trumps claims of offense, but also that freedom of speech is not a freedom that should deliberately seek to offend, attack or coerce. All lines are fine, as long as they are travelled to reach a destination and not attack it. Literature, like all art, is in the journey, not the end state.

But I am reading Satanic Verses for the first time… I always wanted to read it but shied away for years. I was not afraid of controversy, but I was living in Islamic states and copies of the book were not welcome. This is what we call censorship and I am supposed to oppose it. I am now curious, more than motivated to read it, curious to identify exactly what might have caused offense. Personally, I regard religion as fair game for any caricature or criticism. Religions have never fallen shy of criticizing one another, after all. I have been an admirer of Rushdie’s work since reading Midnight’s Children when it was hot off the press. I was also resident in an Islamic state, one fundamentalist enough to have banned the sale of all alcohol. That's the time when our college library removed all of Rushdie’s work from its shelves because of Ayatollah Khomeini’s fatwa issued just after Satanic Verses was published. That same college term during which I sought Rushdie’s novel in the library, I borrowed and read The Place Of Dead Roads by William Burroughs from the same library. I did point out to the librarians what I had found early in the book and suggested that in the interest of consistency it should also be removed from the library. I was duly informed that it was Salman Rushdie who was banned (note the author, not the book) and so the William Burroughs could stay. Opinion, or even offence, is rarely consistent, and apparently never rational. I hereby find myself reviewing the reaction to Satanic Verses, not the book itself.

Let it start. Satanic Verses introduces its two principal characters in mid-air, as they fall from an Everest-high aircraft that has just disintegrated in flight. Amazingly, they survive their fall, but the novel would read just as well if they didn't, with their lives flashing past dreamlike in the seconds that remain before they hit the ground. Crucially they are both involved with mass media in the form of film and television. One has starred in television dramas based on religious epics. Now why aren't these considered disrespectful?

Like all complicated people, they have lived complicated lives. They have bi-located between contrasting geographical and cultural contradictions and have been at home anywhere and everywhere. Cultural identity is at the core of this work and, like the overall scenario, the concept and its perception are constantly confused by those who receive cultural messages, interpret them and possibly change them. We like to think of ourselves as rooted in our cultures, backgrounds and identities, but these are in a state of constant change, cannot be pinned down by description, let alone defined. Culturally, we are always foreigners, whatever we choose as our convictions. 

Stylistically, Satanic Verses conforms to the author’s norm of magical realism. The word ‘norm’ is problematic until we acknowledge Salman Rushdie’s own observation that this is still ‘realism’. At the level of phrase, every sentence is a vivid and surreal succession of images. Read slowly, these coalesce into a visible kaleidoscope of constant change, where the reader can take nothing for granted, but will want to absorb the experience in real time for merely what each moment brings. Read quickly, and the print evaporates. It's the pictures that count, but they are always fleeting images. Like life, they flash by.

Interspersed with this hyper-reality are dream sequences in which characters whose existence is literal but clearly invented enact film-like sequences that are not quite the religious myths they mimic. Unlike the real characters, who are always vague and negotiable, these caricatures act more like cardboard cut-outs. Here the tone is more naturalistic, no less surreal, but a deal more comic. They seem like the television version of the story that might feature our main protagonists among the cast. And, like in the William Burroughs book mentioned earlier, most religions get it squarely in the neck. Burroughs does it in three sentences, whereas Rushdie is more thorough. And a good deal more comical. Where Burroughs is bad-tempered and dismissive, Rushdie is ironic and sympathetic.

We soon learn that the book’s title derives from particular suras, specific verses that have been edited out of religious texts because they imply things that should not be stated. Meanwhile our principal characters also seem to edit their own identities to suit convenience, assumptions, advantage and aspiration. The characters from religious myth thus seem to act in ways that are wholly similar (not holy) to those of our real life, surreal television stars, film actors, ne’er-do-wells and highly-strung narcissists. Just like the rest of us.

Long before the end, the reader may start to feel punch drunk after being pummelled by combinations of streamed images. Technicolor language and fantastical scenes. But at the end, Satanic Verses presents such a vivid description of a particular character’s experience that any reader will relive those moments for the rest of terrestrial life. The adjective is irrelevant, by the way, since the book has by then confirmed that the terrestrial is all there is to life.

Satanic Verses is thus a meditation on what makes us feel, think and react. We are products of religion, culture, myth, birth right, circumstance and experience, and everything else we imagine. We take everything seriously, including the jokes, the fantasy and the truth, which probably does not exist outside of opinion. We are as constant as our whims and as solid as our dreams. This makes Satanic Verses hard to review. It is an unforgettable experience, that like most myth, will be most vivid for those who believe in its reality and enter into it. Those who stay outside of its world simply don't get it. It’s a book full of questions, without answers, with experiences along the road to the nowhere we inhabit.

A Tale Of Love And Darkness by Amos Oz

In A Tale Of Love And Darkness Amos Oz writes an autobiography of his early years. Though written from a much later perspective, this memoir effectively lives entirely in the first years of the author’s life, covering birth to the age of twelve, when his mother died in 1952. There is also much in the book that is drawn from his adolescence and his work in a kibbutz after leaving home, but these remain like visions of an only partially real future when the narrative returns, often abruptly to those earlier years when his mother was still alive. There are detailed stories of schooling, discovery of literature and a little of his coming of age and his first experiences of an adult life of love and affection. There is much more about his father and his only partially successful life as a writer and academic, plus some other things for which he displayed equally unrecognized talent. There is also a good deal of Jewish history, especially that related to the post-World War II diaspora from Europe to British-controlled Palestine.

But at its core this book is essentially about the relationship between Amos Oz and his mother. It starts with her giving birth to him and ends with her death, just twelve years later, an event that left the author with deep feelings of guilt and loss, of course. But there is more, in that one also feels there has been a lasting psychological scar that has marked much of the author´s work.

A Tale Of Love And Darkness succeeds in many ways – too many for a cursory review as this to list, let alone describe. Its description of family life in the 1940s in Jerusalem must head the list. This was no rip-roaring, unpredictable household. The father was bookish, a man who yearned to be an academic, to feel the social respect that would be conferred with authorship and recognition. Much is made by Amos Oz of his father’s unrecognized talent and, one feels, the son was perhaps prouder than the father when the latter eventually gained his doctorate from the University of London. Both much had passed by before then.

Despite the book’s vivid portrayal of his own and his relatives’ families, Amos Oz seems almost to freeze in mid-sentence when he describes his mother. She was clearly an immense, if rather distant influence on him. She was domestically inclined, very attractive, perhaps aloof and certainly long suffering, as her husband pursued his private dreams in his even more private study amongst his books and papers. She was probably not alone in this situation, but perhaps more alone than she herself or especially others were willing to admit.

These families’ origins where in the Baltic states, Poland, Russia and other parts of Europe. They left for Palestine, pushed by the hardening fist of fascism and, elsewhere, mere intolerance. Most who stayed behind perished. They were greeted by a British administration in the Middle East that was never clear in its priorities and where policy was made on the roof. Nothing much changes, it seems. Calls for Jewish statehood were pursued alongside direct action and this era of tension and privation forms the backdrop for the early years of the author’s life. Aged eighteen, he would eventually meet Ben-Gurion, an encounter where the nervous tension, pride and awe jump from the page only to evaporate as quickly.

Amos Oz had relatives who were writers and academics, but they generally did not use their influence to foster his father’s ambitions, though this did not seem to generate tensions. His father’s stoicism would probably not have tolerated comment. Language was always at the core in the home, however, with his father‘s command of Hebrew, Polish, Yiddish, Lithuanian and Russian allowing etymology to become breakfast talk.

A Tale Of Love And Darkness is especially memorable for its description of the author´s education. He attended all kinds of establishment, private and public, with both classroom and personal settings. He becomes infatuated with one teacher and certainly educated purposefully by another later on. It becomes an experience powerful enough to live on through a lifetime.

Eventually Amos Oz decided to adopt kibbutz life. This seems to come as a surprise, as much to Amos has his family, we feel. But he embraces the new challenges, appearing to relish the directness of physical work. Perhaps this was a psychological reaction to the face that his father’s rather withdrawn bookishness might have alienated his mother in the household. This is something that is alluded to in the book, but only via the opinions of the author’s relatives. It is certainly not stressed. But through kibbutz life, Amos Oz learns that the most effective way to become a writer is to live life and observe it. The writer then may interpret it.

But there is darkness here as well, a personal darkness that the author regularly alludes to and then quickly avoids. We feel it is surely the memory of his mother’s death which is resurfacing. If there is guilt involved, then its source is surely the perceived inability to influence events, to go back and change the circumstances that gave rise to tragedy. If only…

In the final pages, the author is again just twelve years old. He watches as his mother falls into the sleep that is the end of her life, a memory relived from the distance of middle age, but the memory remains as vivid as it was on the day it happened, illustrating that a silence of sleep, when eternal, is more powerful than any words can describe.

Gainsborough, A Portrait by James Hamilton

Gainsborough, A Portrait by James Hamilton is much, much more than a biography of a painter, though if it were only that it would still be a masterpiece of its genre. Thomas Gainsborough was born in Suffolk in 1727 and died in London in 1788. He spent his early years in Suffolk, was apprenticed in London as an engraver. He moved back to Suffolk and lived again in the family home. He was already painting. He seemed not perfectly suited to the messy, fiddly practices associated with engraving. He gradually amassed commissions, almost by increment from sitters of ever higher rank.

A lengthy stay in Bath was purely for professional reasons, but London and Suffolk were always a draw. By then he was a wealthy and successful painter of portraits, who dabbled in landscapes on the side. That last phrase, incidentally, is apposite since his wife, Margaret, used to pocket all of the fees he charged for portraits. What he received for landscapes he did not disclose to her, only to his own pocket.

If you have ever looked at Gainsborough’s portraits and saw that first, they were rather dark, or second, the forest looks altogether too round it to be true, or third, it seems rather that the feet emerging from the bottom of the dresses appear a tad too small, then you will find your explanations in James Hamilton‘s book. The light is problematic, perhaps, because these pictures were not painted en plein aire, but by candlelight in the studio. A sense of rounding in the trees might result from the fact that he often did not paint real trees, but miniature tabletop settings of coal, twigs and – yes – broccoli. Now that explains quite a lot. Observation number three results from his very businesslike procedures with his sitters. To minimize their discomfort, he concentrated on their faces and heads. After they had left his studio, he would then fill in the rest of the body, often using clothes he kept on dummies, the same dress sometimes appearing in portraits of different women. The mannequins obviously had no feet, so these were probably added with a little imagination, hence the sometimes awkward proportions.

But there is far more in Gainsborough, A Portrait than detail of the artist’s commissions, works and techniques. James Hamilton provide is nothing less than a rounded portrayal of English life in the mid-eighteenth century. In the artist’s letters we soon learn to recognize the euphemisms that are used to disguise the licentiousness that seems to occupy most of these men’s waking hours. In letters, d-mn is not a curse, and the word swords – or other obvious euphemisms - are often underlined, right up to the hilts. Not subtle, but socially acceptable according to the mores of the day, it seems.

The book has is a wonderful portrayal of small town life in Sudbury, Suffolk. We sense the nouveau riche pretensions of Bath and we can almost feel London expanding amid the stories of Gainsborough’s Pall Mall house and Richmond Hill getaway. But what is so wonderful about James Hamilton‘s book is that its erudition, which at times is breathtaking in its detail, is so beautifully embroidered into the narrative that all we received is a rounded, complete insight into the way Gainsborough lived, did business, and related to people, as well as seeing a detailed picture of what he painted and how he worked.

Of particular interest was his and his contemporaries’ touting of business from the rich and famous. Obviously, a commission from the Royals, especially the King, was what really put you on the map and, as ever in Britain, a social pecking order made the achievement of status easier for some than others. Gainsborough was from quite lowly origins and did not attend prestigious institutions to learn his trade, so he had to work for the elite status that eventually came his way. It is worth noting however that he was never knighted, unlike his rival Reynolds, being the journeyman of the trade in the celebrity likeness business. But he did make a good living, which he largely handed over to his wife, who stashed the money away, lest her husband blow it on wine, women or song, or even the expensive musical instruments he bought, but never learn to play.

Gainsborough rubbed shoulders with the elite. He was friends with other artists and with composers, such as Abel and J C Bach. But one feels his feet never really left the ground, even when parking his sword. And as such, he was not given to visionary statements in his art. He clearly liked to paint landscapes but found he could only sell them on the back of his portrait trade. Thus, he devoted his professional time to that which would be better his life, leaving intellectual challenge at least for later.

Interestingly, James Hamilton makes the point that Gainsborough the artist would have found work in any age. His approach would always have found a clientele and his style would have adapted, whilst more visionary artists, despite their massive achievements, could not have pursued their particular visions in a different age. Gainsborough thus becomes a kind of model modern artworld businessman, pragmatic, competent, in demand and commercially aware of the success he achieved. Well, at least his wife was.

4-3-2-1 by Paul Auster

4-3-2-1 in not one book. It is four. And they are in order, 4-3-2-1. Its title, incidentally, could not be 1-2-3-4 for reasons the reader will eventually discover. Ostensibly the novels are the life stories from birth to mid-twenties of Archibald Isaac Ferguson, only child of Stanley and Rose from Newark, New Jersey. But, as has already been implied, Ferguson, as he is usually known, is not just one person with a single life. He is four people, depending on which story one chooses to enter.

Ferguson´s grandfather was a Jewish immigrant from eastern Europe. He became Ferguson as a result of a joke an almost random association of misunderstanding and assumption that recurs almost as a leitmotif throughout the book. It is of course by chance that this name attaches to its future owner. And then, also sometimes by chance, sometimes by choice drawn from a set of options presented by chance, that Ferguson´s life twists and turns along the paths that fork through time.

Ferguson thus becomes four parallel but diverging people. They are him, we believe, because a writer, who may be Paul Auster, maybe someone else, tells us they are all one and the same person. The four become different people as they progress through their years. Parents divorce, or perhaps don´t. The father´s business fails catastrophically. Or perhaps it doesn´t and becomes hugely successful. It might indeed just trundle along, keeping the family in some comfort short of riches.  The mother becomes a photographer, or perhaps doesn’t. There is a family feud, or perhaps it was never even mooted. There´s an accident, a decision, a choice, but not necessarily for the same Ferguson we knew a chapter ago. All events, however, have their consequences.

And these four characters who are all the same person, these four different Archibald Isaac Fergusons live their lives in parallel episodes, are influenced by the same current affairs, politics, crazes, cultural changes and commercial pressures, but they respond and react differently, selectively, individually. Thus they diverge, their paths never to cross again.

Other family members, notable the step-sister Amy – who might be a step-sister in one story, a mere cousin in another – plays her part throughout. Ferguson lives throughout the 1950s and 1960s. He goes to camp, or perhaps doesn´t. He is not drafted to fight in Vietnam, perhaps because all four versions were born with the same body, perhaps because of what time did to that body, or to the mind that associates with it. They pursue a variety of educational options, attend different schools, pursue different interests and adopt different specialities. Their sexual preferences vary depending on which version of the life we opt to follow, and of course depending on the availability or otherwise of partners, and the pressures others bring to bear at certain crucial points in these different lives.

They all negotiate the rise of consumerism and the growing passion for white goods, a proclivity that is crucial for at least one of the fathers. John F. Kennedy is assassinated, as are his brother and Martin Luther King. There are just one of each, but they appear several times. There are riots in Newark and in other cities. There is Vietnam and the anti-war movement, with its activism and demonstrations. There is the pursuit of the opposite sex, or the same sex, or both. There is learning, much of which focuses on literature, and there is academic, economic and social success, failure and a good deal of the mundane interspersed. There is Jewishness and Christianity alongside the secular. There are accidents, fires, break-ups and reconciliations, and all the other things that can go right and-or wrong in any life, but not in any order and not always in the same story. And thus there are four novels, or perhaps three, or two or just one. There are 850 plus pages, of this we are sure.

Long before the end it is quite hard to remember which version of Ferguson went this way or that, made which decision, suffered which trauma, finished or made up with which particular lover (again). But that may just be the point. As in A Winter´s Tale, when Shakespeare resurrects comedy from the depths of tragedy, Paul Auster´s Ferguson eventually reveals himself as one of the equally plausible characters we have come to know.

In that ending of A Winter´s Tale, Shakespeare’s comedy arises from the previous tragedy of Hermione’s death. He brings her back to life from the statue she became.  He omitted to repeat the gesture so that Mamillius, her son, might follow her back to the living, condemning the lad to remain petrified, and dead. And so we must also re-evaluate comedy. All the world may be a stage, with all of us players upon it, but the writer remains the director, the ultimate omnipresent and omnipotent power who wields the weapon of fate.

Diverging plots have also been used in film. In “Sliding Doors”, Gwyneth Paltrow´s character does and also does not manage to enter a London Underground train that is about to depart. Thus two lives live on, perhaps parallel in time, but certainly diverging to very different ends.

Paul Auster´s 4-3-2-1 seems to inhabit the sum of the above territory. The writer directs, of that we are sure. But the novel reminds us, perhaps even reassures us, that the choices we make in life, the paths we take and those we reject determine life´s chances, its outcomes, and perhaps even our personality. We become only what we live.

And then, whatever the destination, temporary or final, we always should remind ourselves that the world remains a stage, except, of course, for the ultimate director, who holds the pen.

The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins

The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins first appeared in 2006, the paperback including corrections and clarifications in 2007. Dawkins starts from the fact that the world changed in the mid-nineteenth century when Charles Darwin finally published his theory of evolution. He reminds us also that Nicolaus Copernicus in the sixteenth century brought about a similar paradigm shift by postulating that the earth was not the centre of the universe or even the solar system. It may also be relevant to remind ourselves that some of these facts had been known to ancient Greek philosophers (Aristarchus) and that the knowledge had been subsequently suppressed by various religions, contrary to evidence, such as the appearance of ships´ masts over the horizon at sea. It is this denial of evidence whenever it challenges dogma that is the central theme of The God Delusion.

Richard Dawkins charts the process whereby scientific evidence has continually rolled back the previously dominant supernatural explanations of reality as we perceive it, thus calling into question the basis of continued allegiance to any form of religion. He goes as a far as describing a child´s indoctrination into a faith by parents as a form of abuse. The arguments will not convince or convert the religious. They were clearly never intended to do so.

There is one word that he uses many times and it is “evidence”.  As a scientist, Richard Dawkins maintains a rational approach to the physical world.  Science explains nothing, by the way. The question “why” is perhaps inadmissible, since it really represents an amalgam of the answers to how, when, how much or what. And these questions must be answered before anything amounting to explanation can be adopted. Dawkins´s position is little more than a restatement of Kant´s Categorical Imperative, which is almost three hundred years old. Dawkins´s opponents, however, apparently regard him as a modern radical. He reminds us that science creates intellectual models that fit with and relate to the physical world. In reality, whatever that might be, an electron, for instance, is probably nothing like what we imagine it to be. But is our model of what we understand an electron to be fits the phenomena of its effects, and if our expectations of its presence correspond to what we observe, then we have something that is workable, even though, ultimately, we can never know if it is literally accurate.

And this is Richard Dawkins´s main problem with religion. To believe something merely because it is written in a book that someone else has previously labelled sacred is as anti-scientific as denying gravity. It is, as Dawkins points out, irrational to the point of being disingenuous, and disingenuity, in most religions, would be condemned.

A major argument used by Richard Dawkins is, of course, that these religious texts are only ever interpreted or adopted selectively. He quotes numerous examples from the Bible of divinely handed-down rules that are broken in every self-proclaimed Christian society. If particular aspects of these texts have been selected with others ignored, and if that selection is dictated by the cultural, moral or intellectual mores of a particular place and time, then what is it that still makes these texts both authoritative or divine, let alone literally true?

More than a decade after The God Dilemma appeared, it seems that its reading is if anything more essential now than then. The political presence of the populist right, often associated with the same ideological blinkers and rejection of evidence that characterises the fundamentalists of religion, had in 2006 only a fraction of its current influence. There is thus no more important time to remind ourselves of Dawkins´s approach – even if we might disagree with his destination – that evidence is all important and cannot be either discounted or denied. In an age where the powerful say one thing today and deny it tomorrow or insert a word like “not” after the event to change all sense, then it is the responsibility of all people who respect evidence or eschew anything that ignores it.

Richard Dawkins also reminds us that human beings collectively still know very little about anything. The expanding universe – that bears absolutely no resemblance whatsoever to any universe described in any sacred text – poses perhaps the greatest question. Where is the matter that might drive such expansion? The question currently cannot be answered either definitively or convincingly. And it would be no answer, as Dawkins points out, to lump this question, along with all the others we currently find hard, into a box, call it something supernatural, and then consider that matter solved, let alone explained.  Such intellectual laziness would do nothing to enhance our paucity of knowledge. What The God Delusion also illustrates, however, is that those who espouse this intellectual laziness are often apparently more confident than those who refuse to commit because of a lack of evidence.

The moral of it all, and it is more important now than in 2006, is beware of all counsel that comes without proof, without ability to demonstrate or illustrate. And the only acceptable proof is a weight of evidence that cuts across opinion and is demonstrable. And, importantly, distrust anything that claims there is no need for such authentication.

The Life of Ezra Pound by Noel Stock

A review of The Life of Ezra Pound by Noel Stock must begin by acknowledging the phenomenal achievement of its author. It is comprehensive, detailed, forensic, appreciative, critical and illuminating, a massive achievement of analysis, research and insight. At around 200,000 words it is also a commitment, not for the fainthearted or for anyone with only a passing interest in either poetry or the history of the twentieth century. But it is also something else, something that, despite the magnificence of its scholarship, provokes this reader to focus on issues that are external to the text, itself. But more of that later: first, the book.

Ezra Pound was undeniably one of the greatest figures of twentieth century literature. Unlike his illustrious contemporaries and friends, however, Joyce, Eliot and Yeats among them, his name has seemed to slip from the mainstream since his death in 1972. I read his great achievement, the Cantos, when I was at college. I did not understand them. In some ways they feel less like a work of poetry than a lifetime achievement, a creatively conceived and sometimes over-presented commonplace book into which fell, in poetic form, a distillation, a reflection or sometimes mere mention of whatever disparate material that Pound obsessed over at the time. The Cantos were Pound’s creative life, but we must not forget the massive amount of other material, his journalism, music, prose and economics, for want of a more accurate word.

Pound was one of the founders and movers of literary and artistic movements: Imagism and the Vorticism among them. They were perhaps not the most enduring of directions. He was American but seemed more at home in England and then Italy, neither of which chooses to honour his achievements on their soil. But what is strongly felt about this man from the start is his conviction of, perhaps his obsession with his own genius. He was utterly sure he would contribute to the arts and perhaps even change their direction. He seemed to consider his legacy immortal, even before it had been created. He felt he was something new, original and enduring. And all this when apparently no-one even wanted to read his material, or formally give him time of day. And not only did he seem to deny his failures, he didn’t even seem to register them. The limitations were always somewhere else. In the early years, he thus seemed like a self-publicist, with is achievements acknowledged before they were achieved, like a modern self-published author who writes five-star, best-seller reviews of his own work. Nowadays, that surely would never do!

But eventually, perhaps by sheer dogged application alongside considerable talent, Pound received the recognition he thought he deserved, though perhaps never in our own contemporary, blunt instrument yardstick of success – sales. Certain academics loved him. Others did not. He himself had high hopes of a Nobel Prize.

Noel Stock includes copious quotations from Pound’s verse, always with critical assessment, sometimes with criticism. The Cantos were so far reaching in their intellectual coverage that it may appear from the outside that no-one without the full gamut of requisite skills would understand them. And given that these skills comprise, amongst other things, a knowledge of Dante and medieval Italian poetry, Confucius, Mencius and Lao-Tze in the original Chinese, troubadour songs in their original langue d’oc, Noh theatre texts in Japanese, Pound’s own experimental English, besides knowledge of the Classics and their metres, one might presume that there might be few modern readers of his work. This is probably accurate. But there is more to the modern shunning of Pound’s work than its overtly elitist intellectual demands. And it is here that this review needs to diverge from literature, poetry and indeed Ezra Pound, himself, to address the related concepts of fascism and racism.

The main reason why today Pound’s name remains passé is his espousal of fascist ideas and his overt antisemitism. He went to live in Italy. He regarded Mussolini as rather a good thing. In Italy at the time he was hardly alone in this belief.  He adopted Hitler’s aggressive antisemitism because he was fundamentally opposed to capitalism, if it meant what he saw as a banking and economic system dominated by Jews, the foundation of this belief being a bank owned by the Rothchild family. He also took to broadcasting pro-fascist propaganda (in Italian and English) on radio during World War II.

Normally, my reviews are consciously detached. I try to review the book, not myself. Likes and dislikes are, to me, wholly nebulous and indefinable and even passing whims that are always less significant than considerations of communication or achievement of ends. In the case of The Life of Ezra Pound, the subjective “I” must be included, since our appreciation or not of this poet’s writing now seems to depend wholly on our individual take on his politics, despite his being be neither analytical or pro-active in his views, as this biography clarifies.  In some ways, his politics were as transient as his current interests, as expressed in the meanderings of the Cantos. But what now can we make of Pound? Should we even try to understand him? Is dismissal the preferred option? I would say that he is worth the effort. Not the use of “I”! And this is not because I think Pound is a particular genius, overlooked or even readable. And I certainly do not see his actions as pardonable! And here I beg your pardon for making this book review become something personal, something about me and not about the book, but I assure you it is relevant. Please exit here if you are wary of the personal.

I remember in the recent past a well-known British television presenter saying on-air that the music of Wagner was not played in her household because of the composer´s antisemitism. I remember another celebrity saying that antisemitism was the flavour of Wager´s age, and that rejection of the composer´s work on those grounds alone ought to prompt a similar rejection of everything artistic or otherwise that came out of mid-nineteenth century German culture.

In the not too distant past I re-read Adam Smith´s Wealth of Nations. In my review I concentrated on those aspects of the analysis that might contradict the completely neo-liberal interpretation of the work. I was perhaps wrong to do so, but I wanted to challenge the idea that there is just one way to read Smith´s notion of free trade.  Embedded within Smith´s thesis, however, are assumptions about human progress and worthiness. The Hindoo, the Mussulman and even the Catholic have their place in history and civilisation, but the heathen is judged to be a primitive sub-human. I do not recall Smith referring to ´The Buddhist´, but that may be my own failure of memory. In today´s politics, how many of the neo-liberal, perhaps neo-conservative supporters of their own notions of Smith´s concepts of free trade also regard those not associated with an organised great religion as both uncivilised and sub-human? And, given that the assumption appears to run throughout the work, should that alone disqualify Smith´s views on other subjects or his contribution to economics? Another position that almost dominates sections of The Wealth of Nations is that there is no economic activity that is or could be greater than the total that describes the state. How many of these same free marketeers would share Smith´s oft-stated revulsion of the very idea of a transnational corporation, which he regarded as necessarily market-distorting and almost automatically corrupt? This is recognized in antitrust and anti-monopoly legislation, but how often is this side of Smith´s work quoted? My point here is that we can choose to be selective, and usually do.

I am tempted here to introduce the composer Anton Webern into the argument. A member of the second Viennese School, Webern espoused the atonalism of his associate, Schoenberg. Webern was perhaps the artistic opposite of Ezra Pound, being prone to destructive self-criticism and a desire for an extreme succinctness of expression. But Webern, like Pound, thought that fascism might be more sympathetic towards “high art” to which he aspired than the mechanisms of capitalism that concentrated on what it could sell. He thus initially espoused fascism, eventually to his own and his associates´ cost.

After this considerable diversion, there is eventually a moral, and that is to beware anyone touting answers, especially those based on interpretations of the past in anything other than its own terms. Which brings me to Brexit! It might seem quite a jump, but it does follow. Trust me!

I have recent personal experience, albeit apocryphal, that suggests the prime motivation among the British working class leave voters who surely swung the referendum result was “getting rid of all the foreigners.” I use quotes to emphasise that this was expressed to me personally and verbatim, with stress on the “all”. I had just finished The Life of Ezra Pound and I felt immediately a strange yet strong link with Pound´s antisemitism, which was founded on nothing less than trying to find someone to blame.

Perhaps we should not judge Wagner, Adam Smith or even Ezra Pound using the moral perspective of our own time. For if we did that, and rejected any espousal of either racism or religious bigotry, how much of our human past would we retain? And, given the above Brexit opinion, is the moral perspective of our time significantly different from that of the 1930s, or even the 1850s, or 1770s or indeed any other time in our conflict-ridden blame game of history?

The Life of Ezra Pound is a forensic biography of a poet. It describes a life lived in its historical and cultural context. Like all books committed to communicating its subject, it is a masterpiece that takes the reader way beyond the confines of its subject and thereby achieves a permanent relevance. Revisit this past. We must never deny it existed or forget its consequences. But it reminds us that as individuals, communities and societies, there is no rule that precludes the repetition of error. And neither is there any rule that insists that a current moral ground need be any higher than any other existing folly, contemporary or past.

Two Lives by William Trevor

In Two Lives William Trevor offers two stories – Reading Turgenev and My House In Umbria. They are not mere stories, however, and read like substantial novellas. Both have women as central characters. Reading Turgenev features Mary Louise Dallon, an Irish Protestant whose parents support her decision to marry, though on the surface at least the match may be less than perfect. In My House In Umbria someone who claims to be called Emily Delahunty relates her chequered personal history against a backdrop of wholly unpredicted events that change the lives of all she invites to her house. In both stories, William Trevor examines a gap that might exist between reality lived, reality recalled and reality imagined. Writers create apparently fictitious worlds which, when embraced by characters who themselves are also fictitious, approach desired realities much closer than reality, itself.

Mary Louise Dallon is a young woman in an almost frighteningly normal Irish Protestant household. There are visits to the cinema and suitors of various ages and types, and work which will always be local and probably predictable. Predictable, that is, until someone does something rather unexpected. Mary Louise Dallon does do the unexpected. Reading Turgenev thus examines the consequences, predictable and otherwise, of this departure from the expected norm. And, of course, the Turgenev that gets read is itself fiction. But, for Mary Louise its imagined world becomes perhaps more important than the strange reality that surrounds her. People who share her life ignore the reality or, when it does not suit their bias, they recreate it almost as their own fiction. The effect on Mary Louise is devastating, or perhaps the consequences were inevitable, products of her own mis-interpretations or mis-understanding of reality. As a result, Reading Turgenev becomes an almost viscerally moving experience, where real violence is done to the central character without a finger ever being raised in threat. It-s all done with words. And eventually, those words are themselves a fiction.

My House In Umbria features a writer who is known as Emily Delahunty. The name might be unlikely. Perhaps much of what she relates about herself is of the same ilk. She has been here and there – Idaho, Africa, Umbria, English towns. She has suffered parental confusion and probably abuse, has been exploited in the USA and has been in business in Africa. But then, she is also a creator of romantic, perhaps sentimental fiction.  An apparently random event brings about equally chance encounters when people who seem to need one another congregate in Emily’s house in Umbria. Throughout she confuses real events with those of her own fiction. There is no denying reality, but this can also be created. She is clearly presenting to others her own version of reality that is far from the frame of a confident older woman in which she casts herself. Which version of reality will provoke belief?

Throughout William Trevor’s book the real joy is the author’s resplendent prose.  It surprises. It decorates, it twists, turns and celebrates. These fictional characters become completely real. Utterly credible, despite their propensity to live in imagined worlds. The overall concept is stunning. The detail is devilish, the consequences of these fictions apparently real.