Fuccan fugols... |
Therefore, what better way to fill up the time I should be
spending deep in thought on the administration of pedagogical matters than to
write a review of a book I’ve been reading? None, I tell you!
So it seems I’m back to pimping out the lead titles of the Unbound crowd-funding chappies once more.
I have no qualms about this because, being short of memory and attention span,
it’s really rather brilliant to become excited about a new book, only to forget
about it for a few months, then have that excitement reignited by the email
telling me it’s funded and off to the printers. The subsequent return to the
fog of memory for that period between printing and publication makes the
inevitable delivery as glorious as the sun suddenly burning off a summer
morning mist. All of which contributes to the experience above and beyond the
actual high quality physical product and content.
Pause for clementine / tangerine (never quite sure which is
which). You see, it’s important to get regular doses of vitamin C as the body
can’t store it, see? Now, what was I…?
Oh yes, The Wake. No apostrophe-less possessives or confused plurals, but still a work of some distinct complexity. Kingsnorth, the bearer of many descriptive epithets including poet and director of the Dark Mountain Project, has produced a novel on which many other notable people, including Adam Thorpe, Philip Pullman and Lucy Mangan, have commented widely; about the language, grammar, syntax and how it is to read, because of its use of a ‘shadow tongue’*, and of the verisimilitude of the portrayal of 11th century England; all very uplifting and head-swelling stuff for Mr Kingsnorth, no doubt. It’s also garnered three – yes three – reader reviews on the Unbound site, something I’ve not witnessed previously. It all goes to prove that this may be the best book (of original material, to avoid a disservice to the collative and editorial efforts of Shaun “Letters of Note” Usher**) to have been published by this house.
From my perspective, having studied Old and Middle English
to an extent at my alma mater, the
language was intriguing; it wasn’t too
much of a stretch, was quickly processed by the brain and read almost as fast
as normal, the occasional oddity of vocabulary notwithstanding. What was more
exciting was that I’d completely misunderstood the premise of the novel, having
paid only cursory attention to the plot synopsis, caught up as I was in the
general mood of novelty when the book was first mooted. I had believed we would
be treated to the life of Hereward, from his overseas war-mongering, to his
return to England and the loss of his lands and titles to the Normans, gently
fictionalised to preserve the modesty of grasping Lincolnshire land-owners keen
for a genealogic link to the last great English resistance fighter. Of course,
nothing could be further from the truth. Indeed, Buccmaster is a complete
arsehole, pompous and self-important, and entirely deluded about his connection
to the land and the old gods of ‘England’ (despite having it gently pointed out
that they were really imported with the Danish ingengas many years before). The imagined conversations with the mythical
Wayland the Smith
(written as Weland by Kingsnorth) start rather supernaturally but quickly
deteriorate into internal arguments over Buccmaster’s own sense of self-worth,
betraying a burgeoning madness which culminates in a near atrocity.
There’s so much going on that the language is only a novelty,
despite it being such an important part of the context of the novel. The protagonist
is such a complex creation, an untrustworthy narrator whose own declarations of
“triewth” are given the lie by later contradictions and embellishments, that he
is instantly dislikeable in the most engaging way. Even when I thought he would
turn out to be the legendary Hereward I thought that Kingsnorth was
deliberately making him a repulsive character to challenge an accepted
viewpoint, รก
la his Dark Mountain Project.
There is much to admire: poetry in the simple
vocabulary, oft repeated; a remarkable evocation of time and place; a brilliant
character full of dark and complicated emotions. I was moved to read it and am
delighted it exists, and to not mention the binding, which is reminiscent of
medieval folio manuscripts, the pages tied between two stiff cardboard covers bearing delightful embossing, would be a crime against the art of
book binding. Once again, a truly remarkable product has been made possible by
a few lovely people.
*A gently cleaned up version of Old / Middle English as used
by such luminaries as Aelfric of Eynsham and… those other fellows.
**Goddammnit. I logged in to double check I had Shaun Usher’s
name right and accidentally let myself pledge support for another book… Those devious
swine.
(Paid link)
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