Living at the Edge of the World

Living at the Edge of the World - Winter by S.J. Barratt
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Two children from London are sent by their parents to spend a few months with their great-uncle in the Shetland Islands.

Tabitha and Timothy Brown are twins, but though they share the same birthday, their interests are very different. Tabitha is at home in the bustling capital, has a wide range of social media contacts, and is appalled at the prospect of living in a remote rural area with iffy WiFi. Timothy seems on track to become a zoologist, reading up about the flora and fauna of the island before he gets there. Though he does find a few aspects or rural life surprising, he is adaptable and more willing to learn than his sister.

Great-uncle Tamhas welcomes them, and the story is about how they adapt and learn about the local culture, the slower pace of rural life, farm animals, and living in a small community where everyone knows everyone else. They go to the local school, where to the local children they seem like exotic foreigners, but they are not the only ones, and one of their fellow-pupils is a Syrian refugee.

I found it easy reading, and though it isn't very exciting or dramatic, I was interested in its description of how the townies adapted to rural life. It was a little bit rough in the beginning, where some of the dialogue seemed rather stilted and didactic for twelve-year-olds, even if they were trying to impart information, but once into the story it moved more easily.

It reminded me in a way of my own childhood; when I was 7 my father got a new job, and we moved from Westville, just outside Durban, to Sunningdale, just outside Johannesburg. Westville was suburban: no WiFi back then, but we did have urban conveniences like mains electricity and a telephone (landline).  In Sunningdale we didn't have such things. We lived on a smallholding with cows and horses and chickens. So as in the story, we had fresh eggs and milk and butter. But we used paraffin lamps, a paraffin stove for cooking, an icebox for keeping stuff cold, and we had to start a diesel motor to pump water. In my recollection I adapted to the rural way of life pretty quickly, and missed it when we had to leave when I was 13. But that experience made made it easy for me to identify with Tabitha and Timothy in the story.

The problem I found with it, though, is that was billed as an "adventure", but nothing really exciting happens. There are no real villains. It's just about urban kids discovering what rural life is like, and that is partly what makes it seem didactic. There were some points at which it seemed possible that an adventure could happen. The children were told about selkies, the seal people and I thought of Alan Garner's children's stories, where 12-year-old twins go to stay on a farm and have the same experience of rural life, but are not only told about creatures from folklore, but actually meet them.

The book was quite short, however, and the "winter" in the title hints at a sequel, so maybe spring and summer will be more adventurous. Tabitha's transformation seems to be the opposite of the problem of Susan in the Narnia stories, but at least Susan has some real adventures.

I received a free copy of this book via Booksprout and am voluntarily leaving a review.

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Cults: what's good and what's bad about them

 In some circles, it seems, the word "cult" denotes something that is automatically assumed to be bad, and some people who make this assumption use it to denigrate groups that they don't like, while others seem to think that the word should not be used at all because they see it as derogatory. 

I find this attitude rather strange, and it seems to be difficult to discuss it. The people who think like this seem to simply take the line "It's a bad word, don't use it. End of discussion," or "it's a bad thing, so I'm just calling a spade a spade."

So what is a cult?

Is it a useful word for describing a bad thing, or a bad word used to indoctrinate people into thinking that something good or neutral is a bad thing?

My Concise Oxford Dictionary defines "cult" as follows:

cult n. system of religious worship; devotion, homage, to person or thing (the ~ of)

To determine whether any given phenomenon is a cult, therefore, one must determine whether it is a system of religious worship, or whether it involves devotion to a person or thing. These are fairly objective criteria, and it should be easy to determine whether a phenomenon is a cult or not.

When one has established that a phenomenon is a cult, determining whether it is good or bad is far more subjective. That would depend on whether one thinks that what is worshipped, or what receives the homage and devotion, is worthy of it.

For example, there are two books that I would like to read on the cult of the saints. One is The Cult of the Saints by St John Chrysostom, which is a series of sermons on the lives of Christian saints, and the other is The Cult of the Saints: its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity by Peter Brown.

In both these books the word "cult" is used in its proper and legitimate sense, and it is in no way pejorative. St John Chrysostom, in particular, regards the cult of the saints as a good thing. I too regard the cult of the saints as a good thing.

I do believe, however, that there can be, and are, bad cults. A few years ago I discussed the cults of two unscrupulous businessmen who became politicians, one living and one dead. I discussed the cults of Cecil Rhodes and Donald Trump in the course of reviewing a book called The Cult of Rhodes.

In my view these cults were bad, because I did not think that Cecil Rhodes or Donald Trump were worthy of such homage or devotion. Your view may differ. You may think that one or both of them were saints, or, even if not actually saints, at least worthy of homage or devotion. So opinions on whether the cults of these men are good or bad may differ.

But opinions on whether the adulation of these men, Trump while he is still alive, and Rhodes after he died, constitutes a cult also seems to be a contentious matter.

The word "cult" has, mainly in the 2nd half of the 20th century, been misused to describe "new religious movements", "minority religions" and various other groups of people. A recent book dealing with this misuse is 'Cult' Rhetoric in the 21st Century, and the description on the GoodReads site is as follows:

This book focuses on how 'cult rhetoric' affects our perceptions of new religious movements (NRMs).

'Cult' Rhetoric in the 21st Century explores contemporary understandings of the term 'cult' by bringing together a range of scholars from multiple disciplines, including sociology, anthropology, psychology, and religious studies. Ranging from the 'Cult of Trump' and 'Cult of COVID', to the campaigns of mass media, contemporary 'cult' rhetoric has become hybridised and is common vernacular for everyday people. The contributors explore these issues by analysing how NRMs have developed over the past decades and deconstructing the language we use to describe these movements.

I can see several problems in the description, but there's no way I can afford to buy the book. and owing to bureaucratic bunglings at the Unisa Library I no longer have access to an academic library so I can't get hold of it that way.

Religious organisations and groups, whether new or old, usually have cults, which they practise, but it is rather misleading to say that they are cults. All Christian bodies, for example, practise the cult of Jesus who is called Christ. Some of them practise the cult of the saints, mentioned earlier.

Cults may be either good or bad, depending on whether you judge the object or person worshipped or to which or to whom homage and devotion are paid is worthy of it. But it is high time we stopped using the word pejoratively, or demanding that it be banned simply because it assumed to be pejorative. 

 

A Game of Thrones for Kids: The Threads of Magic

The Threads of Magic by Alison Croggon
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

A bit like A Song of Ice and Fire by George R.R. Martin, but for kids. There are some differences, however. Though both are of the sword and sorcery genre, A Song of Ice and Fire has too much sword and not enough sorcery, while The Threads of Magic has too much sorcery and not enough sword. But there is plenty of political wheeling and dealing, power struggles, and back-stabbing, on all sides.

In the city and kingdom of Clarel, the royal family had been taken over by evil being called spectres, though a non-spectral usurper had temporarily ousted the spectres from the royal family itself, but were clearly no better than spectres. The church's leadership, represented by a sole Cardinal, is possibly also infested with spectres, who eliminated their enemies, the witches, a century earlier, and have a team of assassins to ensure they never reappear.

And then there is Pip, a 12-year-old orphan who lives with his older sister Eleanor, and supports them by picking pockets in the Dickensian city. Unfortunately he picks the pocket of an assassin, getting a magical artifact in a jewelled box. He pawns the box and is about to throw away the artifact, the shrivelled heart of Clovis, the heir to the throne and next-in-line for spectreship, had the throne not been taken by the usurper and his heart by a witch when he was seven. And Clovis, whose spirit is trapped in the heart by the witch, wants Pip to keep him.

Oh, and there's a Princess Georgette, whose father wants to marry her off to a neighbouring King for the sake of a political alliance. And there are numerous other characters too, all taking part in this complicated wheeling and dealing political dance, with each party dancing to the music of its own band, playing its own tune, and out of tune and with sudden changes of tempo.

I found it hard to like any of the characters very much. They all seemed emotionally unstable, being kind one moment and nasty the next. The settings seemed inconsistent too -- witches had been eradicated a century earlier, and then one or two appear, and then suddenly they are there in large numbers and have been all along, and even dominate one quarter of the city, and are behind the running of a midsummer festival in which everyone takes part. And at the end of the story, no one seems to know, or care, what happened to the heart that started all the trouble.

While I didn't think it was a great story, I'm glad I read it, because I also write fantasy stories, mainly for kids, and this book shows a lot of the things that one should avoid -- things one should bear in mind when editing one's own writing. 

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A Literary Mystery: Who was Elizabeth Charlotte Webster?

 

More than 60 years ago, while browsing the shelves of the Johannesburg City Library (in the days when Johannesburg actually had a city library) I came across a book with the rather odd title Expiring Frog, so I pulled it from the shelf, and discovered that it was written by Elizabeth Charlotte Webster, and was about a (fictional) community of Anglican nuns in the (fictional) City of Geldersburg, which could have been the whole Witwatersrand or any town or city within it. 

I knew of two communities of Anglican nuns in Johannesburg at that time: the Order of the Holy Paraclete (OHP), who ran the St Benedict's Retreat House, and whose mother house was at Whitby in England; and the Community of St Mary the Virgin (CSMV). who ran St Mary's Diocesan School for Girls in Waverley (and another similar school in the Diocese of Pretoria). The CSMV mother house was at Wantage in England, and they were sometimes known as the Wantage Sisters. 

The Anglican chaplain at Wits University, where I was a student, was Father Tom Comber, and he was also the chaplain of St Mary's School. Father Comber recruited male university students who lived in the vicinity of the school to function as altar servers in the school chapel on Sundays. Back in those days in the Anglican Church the girls could carry candles in processions as acolytes, but they could not serve within the altar. As servers, we were chastely clad in white albs and amices, and black shoes were obligatory, so our appearance was largely uniform, other than the fluorescent orange or green socks we wore, to the tittering of the girls in the congregation.

In reading Expiring Frog, however, I pictured neither the CSMV nor the OHP sisters, or their dwellings, but rather the Roman Catholic Convent of the Good Shepherd, whose grounds formed the view from our flat in Cheltondale. Expiring Frog begins with Sister Lilian who fed the fowls at the Convent of Serapha of Sicily, and the view from my desk was over a green field on which Friesland cows grazed, which were fed, and for all I knew, milked, by an ancient sister bent over double like the Greek capital letter gamma, carrying two buckets of feed for the cows. The sisters there also ran the Good Shepherd Home, a kind of orphanage, and that seemed closer to the function of the Convent of St Serapha of Sicily in providing a home for fallen women.

I read the book and thought it was OK, but nothing outstanding. I occasionally thought about it and the quite at the beginning, from The Pickwick Papers

Can I view thee panting, lying
On thy stomach, without sighing
Can I unmoved see thee dying
On a log
Expiring frog!

And clearly, in the book, the "expiring frog" was a symbol of the Anglican Church.

The book belongs in a general category of novels about the Anglican Church, its clergy and monastics, by authors like Anthony Trollope, Ernest Raymond and Susan Howatch. One of the best written in a South African setting is one I recently reviewed, A Sin of Omission by Marguerite Poland.

A few years ago I saw a street bookstall selling second-hand books, and found there a copy of Expiring Frog, and bought it, just in case I should ever want to read it again, because I'd never seen another copy anywhere. And it's sat, unread, on my shelves for the last 20 years or so. A previous owner was R.J. (or R.G.) Jabobs. There appears to have been another owner before that. but it has been rubbed out, and I can't read the name. But having the book, with publication details, I was able to enter it into GoodReads, and mark it as read.

But in GoodReads there is no information  about Elizabeth Charlotte Webster. She apparently wrote a couple of other books, one of which could be a different edition of this one, with a different title, and possibly other changes as well, but there seems to be no biographical information about her. Web searches reveal nothing. So who was she? That is something of a literary mystery.

There was an Elizabeth Charlotte Webster who married Richard Anthony Hulley in Trinity Church in Grahamstown, Cape Colony, on 17 November 1880, and her signature in the marriage register looks quite similar to that of the author of the book, and the differences could be explained by the gap of 46 years. But the Elizabeth Charlotte Webster who married Richard Hulley appears to have died in Southern Rhodesia in 1901.

There is also a Wikipedia article:

Mary Morison Webster (1894 – 1980) was a Scottish-born novelist and poet who came to South Africa with her family in 1920. She lived in Johannesburg, where she was an influential book reviewer for The Rand Daily Mail and Sunday Times for 40 years. She wrote five novels, including one in collaboration with her sister, novelist Elizabeth Charlotte Webster, and several collections of poetry.

Amazing things I learned at Fairmount School in Johannesburg

Over the last couple of weeks I've had reason to remember various things I have learned, and I'm quite amazed at how many of them I learned in Standard 1 (Grade 3) at Fairmount Government School in Johannesburg. I get the impression that it is now called Summerwood Primary School -- I'm not sure why or when the name changed, but I think it is the same place. 

This morning it was a discussion on English usage. Someone asked whether in English the word "camel" applied only to the two-humped Bactrian camel, and that the one-humped ones were not camels, but dromedaries, as they apparently are in French.

And my mind took me back to the Standard 1 classroom at Fairmount School, where Miss Armstrong (who became Mrs Legger) taught us that there were two kinds of camels: the dromedary camel with, with one hump, which was native to North Africa and Western Asia, and the Bactrian camel of Eastern Asia, which had two humps. But the word "camel" was used for both. 

I was only at Fairmount School for a year and a half, out of twelve years of school, but my most vivid memories of things I learned at school are from the time I spent at Fairmount.

I first went to Fairmount School in the spring of 1948, when we had just moved to a 5-acre smallholding in a place then called Sunningdale, though only a small part of it is still called Sunningdale today, and the part where we lived is now called something else. My father would take me to school in his car in the morning, and I would walk home after school in the afternoon. a walk of about a mile, mainly on a footpath through the veld, or a winding gravel track, which is now tarred and called Summer Way.

My memories of Fairmount mainly concern what Miss Armstrong taught. The only fellow-pupil whose name I can remember is a girl called Jennifer Foulis, who was a year or two older than me, and lived almost next door to the school. I sometimes went to her house and played with her and her brother John after school. I once invited her to come and play with me at my house, and her mother was horrified. It was quite out of the question. I asked why, and her mother said "Because she's a girl." It was quite OK for a boy of 8 to walk a mile over the veld to go home from school, but a girl of 9 or 10, no, not even, or perhaps especially not, when accompanied by a boy.

The Johannesburg municipal boundary was at Sandler Road, about 2 houses from the school, and beyond that was under the jurisdiction of Edenvale (our car had a TDL number plate). We had no mains electricity, and no telephone -- off-the-grid was easy in those days.

Other things I remember from Fairmount School -- the headmaster was E.E. Harrison. I once had to go to his office for not having completed my homework, and he beat me, the first time I experienced such a thing at school. He had a leather-covered cane that appeared to be broken, so held together with leather, so it acted as a kind of flail. The Vice Principal was a Mr van Schalkwyk. 

The school had four "houses" for the purpose of sporting competitions, named after birds: Penguins, Pelicans, Eagles and Cranes. I was rather disappointed to be allocated to the Penguins, as my favourite birds were eagles and sparrows.

Most of the things I remember learning at Fairmount had to do with subjects like Nature Study, Hygiene, and History. In history we learnt about cavemen, pyramids in Egypt and the growth of civilisation in Egypt and Mesopotamia. We also learned stuff from different periods like the invention of safety matches, and at one point I had a mental image of cavemen running around with unsafe matches in their pockets.

In Nature Study we learned not only about one-humped and two-humped camels, but also about monocotyledonous seeds, like mealies, and dicotyledonous seeds, like beans, which we put in damp cotton wool to watch them sprout. Looking back, I think it was quite an achievement to learn how to spell "monocotyledonous" at the age of 8. Miss Armstrong must have been a pretty good teacher.

In hygiene we learnt about the importance of not building "kleinhuisie" toilets on riverbanks upstream of human settlements, because doing that could cause epidemics of various unpleasant diseases. 

Miss Armstrong also introduced us to "Little Golden Books", and my favourites were one about a tugboat and and one about Tootle, the little railway engine that wouldn't stay on the tracks. 

There was another book that had a serious political message. It was about a country with square, round and triangular people, who all lived happily together until the squares seized political power, and decided that everyone had to be square, so they built a machine to force the round and triangular people to become square. Eventually the oppressed round and triangular people revolted, took control of the machine and put it into reverse to restore their own shapes again. 

Thinking about it in retrospect, I think it was a bit of Cold War and post-War propaganda, to warn kids of the dangers of totalitarian systems like Communism and Fascism. 

Of my classmates in Standard 1 I can remember the names of only two, Hilary and Valerie, who shared a desk to my right at the back of the classroom. One day Valerie was missing, and we were told she had been killed in a car crash on the road to Vereeniging over the weekend. We never went to her funeral, and she was just gone.

At one point we were all bussed to Orange Grove Primary School, which was putting on a series of plays. I remember only one, The Monkey's Paw, which was my introduction to horror literature.

I'm sure there will be other things that come to mind, and I'll wonder how I learnt them, and then recall learning them in Miss Armstrong's class at Fairmount School.

A sin of omission: a brilliant historical novel set in 19th-century South Africa

A Sin of Omission by Marguerite Poland
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

A historical novel that gives one a real insight into the history, with a vivid sense of time and place. The characters are detailed and believable, and this is a classic of South African literature.

An Anglican deacon, Stephen Malusi Mzamane, is on his way to tell his mother, whom he has not seen since he was a small child, of the death of his elder brother. The story of his life, and how he came to this point, is told in a series of flashbacks. He was based at Trinity Mission at Nodyoba, near Fort Beaufort, in the 1870s, where he had to serve alone, without a resident priest.

The flashbacks tell the story of his life -- how he and his elder brother were found starving after the cattle-killing of 1858, rescued by an Anglican priest and sent to school. There he was called to the ordained minister of the Anglican Church, and sent to St Augustine's Missionary College in Canterbury, England, for training. At the college his best friend is Albert Newnham, who is also destined to serve in the eastern Cape Colony. They dream of working together, but this dream is never realised, and circumstances conspire to keep them apart for most of the time.

It is those circumstances, the setting and the people, that put obstacles in their way. One of the themes of the story is their friendship, which should have supported both of them in their ministry, but did not.

One of the themes of the story is the tension between the call to Christian ministry, and the ties of family and cultural background that undermine it. Stephen feels the tension initially with his elder brother; Albert with his wife. But it is part of a wider social setting, and it comes out quite strongly in the book -- the Xhosa-speaking clergy are painfully aware of the tensions between their Christian faith and secular Xhosa culture; the English-speaking clergy, whether colonial or from overseas, are, with one or two exceptions, not aware of the tension between their Christian faith and their own British secular culture.

Of course this is fiction, and the author chooses how to portray such things and write them into the story, but I believe, from my own study of history and experience of church life in South Africa, that her portrayal is spot on. She tells it like it was, and in some ways still is.

Poland portrays the relationship between the Xhosa-speaking clergy and the English-speaking clergy very well indeed, and at times I get the feeling that this could me, because it could be describing my experience, as a South African Orthodox Christian vis-à-vis Greek clergy. 

As a missiologist, I also think that this is the kind of book I would like to have prescribed to my students. Occasionally one finds novels that help to make a missiological point -- another one is The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver, but I think this one is even better. 

One interesting, and perhaps telling sldelight is that in its submission guidelines Penguin South Africa says it will not usually accept fiction manuscripts dealing with religion, so this one must have been pretty unusual to jump over that hurdle and be accepted.

It is a sad story, but well told, and well worth reading.

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The Magic Cottage

The Magic Cottage by James Herbert
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

A book that started off in a fairly promising way, but seemed to lose the plot towards the end.

Mike Stringer, a musician, and his girlfriend Midge Gudgeon, a musician, buy a cottage in the New Forest in Hampshire. The cottage, called Gramarye, was part of a deceased estate, and they had to undergo some kind of test by the executors of the will.

Not far away is an old manor house that is home to a community of selfstyled Synergists, led by a man called Mycroft. Members of the community are initially friendly and welcoming, but when Mycroft promises to enable Midge to make contact with her dead parents, a nasty side appears. The local vicar warns them to have nothing to do with the Synergists, and appears to think they are evil Mike is sceptical, both of the Synergists' beliefs and the vicar's fears.

The cottage initially seems to have mysterious healing properties but when the Synergists visit the healing properties seem to be corrupted.

After an interesting build-up the story seemed to fall apart in the end, and seemed designed for a B-movie with spectacular special effects. There was a growing atmosphere of evil, but the bits that were supposed to be really scary at the end weren't scary at all, and were just boring. My mind kept wandering off, or I kept dropping off to sleep.

And one rather curious thing I noticed about it was that it has a surprising number of Americanisms for a book written by an Englishman, and published in England: flashlight where I would have expected torch; sneakers where I would have expected plimsolls or trainers; and braids where I would have expected plaits or pigtails. On the other hand, it had presently meaning shortly afterwards, which I don't think is the way an American would use the word. 

In a way, it had some echoes of That Hideous Strength by C.S. Lewis: a couple whose relationship is deteriorating, and the Synergists had echoes of the N.I.C.E. but the characteristics of their group were largely New Age/Theosophist cliches. There wasn't a contrasting "good" community. It might have been That Hideous Strength as reimagined by Dennis Wheatley, except that I think Dennis Wheatley might have made a better job of it.

Searching for icons in Russia

THE KATERINA ICON by Robert Mitchell
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Amateur versus professional crooks.

A couple of Australian tourists in Russia rescue an old man from drowning, and in gratitude he tells them of an ancestor of his who, during the civil war that followed the Russian Revolution, attacked a train and stole some icons that had been stolen by the Bolsheviks from the Russian royal family. One of the Australians is of Russian ancestry, and the old man tells him that if he can find the hidden icons, he can keep them, and gives him one of his own family icons, which is said to hold the key to the secret location of the icons.

The tourists, an accountant and a dentist, return to Australia and when they believe they may have found a clue to the location of the icons, decide, after many arguments, to return to Russia and look for them. Their arguments continue throughout the book. First one is keen on the project, and the other is lukewarm, and then the one who was lukewarm becomes keen and the other is sceptical.

Their enterprise is of dubious legality and morality, and thus they need to keep it secret, but they take it in turns to boast about it and to warn against doing so. First one says too much, and the other warns him not to, and then they exchange roles. As a result of this, several others, including professional criminals, become aware of the treasure hunt, and the two amateurs find themselves in serious trouble and great danger again and again, usually because one has done something foolish that the other has warned him against.

The battle between the amateurs and the professionals goes right through the book, and I thought the theme was a little overplayed. The protagonists never seemed to learn from their mistakes, and went on making the same mistakes over and over again, and getting into similar trouble over and over again. One would take precautions that the other would get angry about, or one would neglect precautions that the other would get angry about.

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So much for the review of this particular book, but I have more comments on the theme, since I myself have written a book on a similar theme, or at least with a similar trope -- ikons that went missing in Russia after the Bolshevik revolution (I prefer the spelling ikon with a k for the holy images. Icons with a c belong on computer screens). You can see reviews of my book The Year of the Dragon here on GoodReads.There are other and more comprehensive reviews on the Smashwords page, where you can also get a copy of the book. 

Apart from the icon/ikon trope, there are other superficial similarities. In The Katerina Icon the protagonists are two middle-aged men, a dentist and an accountant; in The Year of the Dragon the protagonists are two young men, a lawyer and an auctioneer. In both a woman dies because of the icons/ikons, though the circumstances are different.

But the differences are perhaps more more significant, and it is these that struck me most strongly. In The Katerina Icon, the protagonists are driven purely by greed. They know the price of everything and the value of nothing. Their only interest in the icons is the price they will fetch, nothing else counts. In the story, they are the "good" guys, the characters the reader is supposed to root for, but their values are identical with those of the "bad" guys, who are likewise motivated purely by greed. And one cannot help thinking that these are the values that triumphed at the end of the Cold War. 

The young protagonists in The Year of the Dragon start off in much the same way. The young lawyer has to wind up the estate of a murdered woman, and takes his auctioneer friend along to inspect the property and help him assess its monetary value. But as the story proceeds they gradually discover that there is more at stake, and that the value of the ikons, in particular, cannot be calculated only on the price they will fetch on the market. They come to see that there is more, and that the "more" is actually more important.

So with The Katerina Ikon I wavered between 3 and 4 stars, and put the 4 stars there to compensate for my prejudice in having written a comparable novel, which I thought went deeper than the rather superficial greed displayed by the characters in The Katerina Icon, in which there were really no good guys or bad guys, only winners and losers, and it wouldn't have mattered in the end which lot won or lost. The Neoliberal Revolution at the end of the Cold War ended up much the same as the Bolshevik Revolution as portrayed in George Orwell's Animal Farm -- the other animals looked from man to pig, and from pig to man, and could no longer tell the difference.

Telmarines: the ultimate Whenwes

Prince Caspian by C.S. Lewis
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I've just finished reading Prince Caspian for the fourth time, and this time I read it chapter for chapter with Inside Prince Caspian by Devin Brown, and most of my comments on it will be found in my review of Inside Prince Caspian.

I will add one thing here, though -- that on this reading I was struck even more by how C.S. Lewis got it absolutely right about the notion of white supremacy -- which in Prince Caspian appears as Telmarine supremacy.

Back in the 1960s, when I first read it, Kenya had just become independent, and there was a flood of disgruntled white immigrants from Kenya into apartheid South Africa. They soon became known as "Whenwes" because of their habit of prefacing most things they said with the phrase "When we were in Keen-yah...".

They were also given much air time on South African radio (no TV in those days), especially by current affairs host Ivor Benson, who seemed to have a Whenwe from Kenya every week on his prime-time propaganda show, where they spread the message that the white man should rule, and black people were incompetent and unfit to govern.

One of the things we wondered about was why, if they wanted to get away from black people, white Kenyan immigrants didn't go to a country where there were no or few black people. Why did they come to South Africa, where the majority of the population were black?

It soon became apparent, however, from what they said on the radio, that they could not do without black people, because there would be no one to "clean my carpets, scrub the floors, and polish up the hearth". They needed black people, but only if they were subservient to white rule -- and that is exactly how C.S. Lewis portrays the Telmarines in Prince Caspian -- as the ultimate Whenwes. They were unwilling to stay in Narnia if they were no longer the ruling race, with all others subservient to them.

And C.S. Lewis nails it. He nails it absolutely. The Telmarines are the Platonic ideal Whenwes, white supremacists to the core.

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C.S. Lewis on Christian Nationalism

Christian Nationalism seems to be making a come-back.

Christian Nationalism was the philosophical underpinning for the apartheid ideology of the National Party that ruled South Africa from 1948 to 1994. During that period Christian Nationalism was dominant and all-pervasive. Student teachers at universities were taught that they had to teach subjects like Geology in a "Christian National way". All children in schools were to be taught to be nationalist in their thinking, and nationalism was defined as "love of one's own".

But what is "one's own"?

Many Christian groups in South Africa at that time questioned the Christian Nationalist ideology, and some explicitly and outright rejected it. Christian Nationalism grew out of an attempt to give a Christian flavour to a romantic secular nationalism that had grown up in Europe, especially Central and Eastern Europe and the Balkans, in the late 18th and early 19th centuries. For more on that, see my article on Nationalism, Violence and Reconciliation.

Now Christian Nationalism seems to be making a come-back in certain circles in North America,  in Russia, and in some other places. Many Christians find this disturbing. Those of us who were involved in the struggle against apartheid from the 1950s to the 1980s are aware that Christian Nationalism was not merely a heresy, it was a pseudo-gospel, a false offer of salvation by race, not grace.

It was not merely South Africans who were aware of that, however. C.S. Lewis (1898–1963), a professor of English literature, author, and Christian apologist, was also acutely aware of the dangers of nationalism, and two of the villains of his fiction, Professor Weston of his space trilogy, and the dwarf Nikabrik in his children's book Prince Caspian exemplify the dangers.

Devin Brown, in his book Inside Prince Caspian, makes this clear in the following passage:

The only virtue remaining in Nikabrik at the time of his death was a concern -- it would be hard to call it a love -- for his own kind. Nikabrik allowed this virtue to expand until it became the greatest virtue, erasing all others. In this way he became like another of Lewis's villains: Professor Weston from the space trilogy. Near the end of Out of the Silent Planet, the great Oyarsa, or ruler, of Mars has a long conversation with Weston, trying to understand the reasoning behind the scientist's depraved actions. The Oyarsa maintains that there are laws that all sentient beings know, "pity and straight dealing and shame and the like". He points out that Weston is willing to break all of these laws except "the love of kindred," which he notes "is not one of the greatest laws." As this law became the only law and principle for both Weston and Nikabrik, it became bent and distorted and, in the end, led to evil, not good.

The "love of kindred" that Lewis talks about there is the "love of one's own" that the Afrikaner nationalists of South Africa's National Party gave as the definition of nationalism. And "own kind" was a nationalist mantra. It was the rationale for apartheid. People must live among their "own kind". They must go to school and church with their "own kind". They could only play games and sports with their "own kind". There were government departments and legislative bodies arranged according to "own affairs". And there were laws against "improper interference" in affairs that might concern everyone, and were not regarded by the government as "own affairs".

The "own kinds" were defined by law: White, Black, Coloured and Asian. And those took precedence over everything else. Christians could not see their fellow Christians as their "own kind". Own-kindedness was determined not by faith, but by race. So, under "Christian" nationalism, Christians were expected to sell their heavenly birthright for the pottage of this sinful world (cf Genesis 25:29-34). 

For those who may be concerned about the viral spread of Christian Nationalism in the 2020s, therefore, there are remedies. Perhaps you can inoculate your children against the virus of Christian Nationalism by reading C.S. Lewis's Narnia stories to them, and noting the lessons to be learned from the failings of Nikabrik.

When they get older and become interested in "Young Adult" stories, encourage them to read Out of the Silent Planet and note the failings of Professor Weston.

And don't forget the words of Balthazar Johannes Vorster (1915-1983), who became South African Minister of Justice in 1961 (when he turned South Africa into a police state), Prime Minister in 1966, State President in 1978. But back in 1942 he said (when his country was at war with Germany, Italy and Japan):

We stand for Christian Nationalism, which is an ally of National Socialism. You can call the anti-democratic system dictatorship if you like. In Italy it is called Fascism, in Germany National Socialism, and in South Africa, Christian Nationalism.

11.22.63 by Stephen King

11.22.63 by Stephen King
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Stephen King's books are a mixed bag -- some very good, some very bad, and some mediocre. This one, I think, is one of his best. It's also difficult to classify. It involves time travel, so perhaps it is science fiction, but the time travel is not the result of any scientific discovery, and its mechanism is never explained. Fantasy then? But no, everything else in the story, apart from the time travel, is pretty mundane In that respect, it most resembles The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger. It's also, to some extent, a love story, so one could perhaps add "romance" to the list of genres covered.

In the story Jake Epping, a school teacher in Maine, USA, is told by his friend Al Templeton about a time gateway, and Al tries to persuade him to go back in time from 2011 to prevent the assassination of President John Kennedy in 1963. The gateway, however, will only take him back to 1958, so if he accepts the task it will take five years of his life.

It has an interesting plot, and I had a great deal of sympathy for the main characters, and even for several of the minor ones.

The story has a great deal of historical information about the assassination of President Kennedy, and to some extent that part of the story was familiar to me. The names Lee Harvey Oswald and his killer Jack Ruby were familiar, as were references to the "grassy knoll" and the Texas Book Depository, not from reading history, but from contemporary news reports.

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What's your lifestyle?

The word "lifestyle" has been around for more than a century, but was only popularised a little over 50 years ago, and now seems to have been hijacked by the advertising industry. An article in BusinessTech informs us that Lifestyle Estates are Booming in South Africa:

Giovanni Gaggia, CEO of Real Estate Services, said that lifestyle estates offer a unique blend of luxury living and community engagement.

The estates typically offer several amenities, including golf courses, fitness centres and nature reserves, which cater to various interests and promote an active lifestyle.

They also offer a secure environment and well-maintained infrastructure to add to their appeal.

But the shanty-town lifestyle estates of informal settlements not only don't offer such "typical" features as golf courses, fitness centres and nature reserves, they also do not typically have indoor plumbing, sewerage, proper roads or electricity.

The advertising hype suggests that only an affluent lifestyle of conspicuous consumption qualifies as a lifestyle at all.

The earliest reference to "lifestyle" in the Oxford English Dictionary was 1915, and it is defined as

A style or way of living (associated with an individual person, a society, etc.); esp. the characteristic manner in which a person lives (or chooses to live) his or her life.

It only became popular in the late 1960s, however, when it was used mainly to contrast the lifestyles of the "hip" and the "straight". The hippie counterculture espoused different values from those of "straight" society, and expressed these values through different lifestyles.

One of the values that hippies eschewed was the lifestyle of conspicuous consumption that was practised or aspired to by straight society.

The advertising industry, which was dedicated to promoting conspicuous consumption, fought back, and one of the ways it did so was by adopting hip jargon to promote products and services and sell them to the changing youth culture. "Lifestyle banking" was one of the earlier ones, illustrated with yachts and luxury cars.

Part of the countercultural lifestyle is, however, still reflected by my Collins Millennium Dictionary (does that make it a dictionary for "Millennials"?) which gives

lifestyle business a small business in which the owners are more anxious to pursue interests that reflect their lifestyle than to make more than a comfortable living.

Advertising hype has not taken over completely. We still talk about the lifestyle of hunter-gatherers as compared with the lifestyle of peasant farmers, neither of which would be found in the so-called "lifestyle estates".

When the term first became popular it was variously spelt as "life style", "life-style" or "lifestyle", depending on the house style (house-style, housestyle)  of the publication concerned, but now the "lifestyle" spelling predominates.

The point to remember here is that a lifestyle of poverty is  just as much a lifestyle as a lifestyle of affluence, no matter how much the advertising agencies would like us to believe otherwise. 

Another point to remember is found in the OED definition: the characteristic manner in which a person lives (or chooses to live) his or her life

A lifestyle may be voluntary or involuntary.

The lifestyle of a prisoner is involuntary.

The lifestyle of a person living in an affluent "lifestyle estate" is voluntary. If you can afford to live in one, you can also afford not to live in one. And if you can afford not to live in one, you can also choose to avoid an affluent lifestyle, and choose rather to live an abstemious one.

For most people, lifestyle is a mixture of voluntary and involuntary. Inmates of institutions like boarding schools, hostels, communes, monasteries, old-age homes, etc may have varying degrees of choice whether to enter such institutions, but, once within them, they need to adopt features of the prescribed lifestyle or leave. 

To some extent, this might be true of "lifestyle estates" as well. The lifestyle is prescribed and circumscribed, sometimes even more than the lifestyle of informal settlements. If you live in a "lifestyle estate" and start erecting shacks in your backyard to sub-let to others, you would soon discover the limits of freedom in a "lifestyle estate".

There are many ways in which lifestyle is determined by circumstances, such as wealth or poverty, ones upbringing, one's education or the lack of it. But some, like monks, choose voluntary poverty, and this was also the case with some in the hippie counterculture of the late 1960s.

Lifestyle is also linked to values. An authentic lifestyle reflects your values; an inauthentic lifestyle probably conflicts with your values, or perhaps reflects the values you actually hold rather than the values you profess. 

Before the hippies came the beats, who didn't speak of lifestyle, though they knew what it was. Their term for what the hippies called "straight" society was "square", and as Lawrence Lipton put it in his book The Holy Barbarians (Lipton 1959:150):

The New Poverty is the disaffiliate’s answer to the New Prosperity. It is important to make a living. It is even more important to make a life. Poverty. The very word is taboo in a society where success is equated with virtue and poverty is a sin. Yet it has an honourable ancestry. St. Francis of Assisi revered poverty as his bride, with holy fervor and pious rapture. The poverty of the disaffiliate is not to be confused with the poverty of indigence, intemperance, improvidence or failure. It is simply that the goods and services he has to offer are not valued at a high price in our society. As one beat generation writer said to the square who offered him an advertising job: ‘I’ll scrub your floors and carry out your slops to make a living, but I will not lie for you, pimp for you, stool for you or rat for you.’ It is not the poverty of the ill-tempered and embittered, those who wooed the bitch goddess Success with panting breath and came away rebuffed. It is an independent, voluntary poverty.

But for more on that see here: It's Cool to be Hip, but not Hip to be Cool.

Interestingly enough, though advertisers frequently misuse "lifestyle", the original meaning still lives and it has not been completely skunked. If you look here, you can see that when "lifestyle" is used as a modifier, the most common usage is "lifestyle changes", followed by "lifestyle choices" and "lifestyle factors".

 

A Gentleman in Moscow -- the mind and face of Bolshevism

A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

The best book I've read so far this year.

Count Alexander Rostov is sentenced by the Bolsheviks to indefinite house arrest in the Hotel Metropole in Moscow's theatre district. He becomes head waiter of the hotel, with friends among the staff and some of the regular guests, including an actress and a nine-year-old girl who has acquired a master key to all the hotel rooms, and shows him all the secret places. His life is so bound up with the hotel that it almost becomes a character in the story.

Through the life of the hotel Count Rostov (and the reader) learn of the changes of Soviet society. Once, many years ago, I read a book called The Mind and Face of Bolshevism and this book reminded me of that one at several points, in that it actually gives one a fairly good picture of Soviet life during that period. The Mind and Face of Bolshevism must be a fairly rare book. The copy I read was at the library of the KwaNzimela Centre in Zululand, but when we visited it in 2012 about three-quarters of the books had disappeared from the library, including that one.

It is also a book to savour, like a good wine. I found I only wanted to read a chapter, or sometimes a scene or two, and think about them before reading on, so I interspersed my reading of it with several other books. One needs to pause after each scene to think about it.

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The Dictionary of Lost Words -- and lost printing technology

The Dictionary of Lost Words by Pip Williams
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Esmé Nicoll's widowed father was an assistant to James Murray, the editor of the first Oxford Dictionary, and because her mother was dead, she accompanied her father to the Scriptorium, the shed in the Murrays' garden, where the work of compiling the dictionary was carried on. While they sorted the slips of paper with the entries, many sent in by volunteers, five-year-old Esmé sat quietly under the table, noting the shoes and socks worn by the editorial assistants.

One day one of the slips falls from the table, and when no one bends down to retrieve it, Esmé puts it in her pocket, and later hides it away in an old trunk belonging to Lizzie Lester, the Murrays' housemaid, who is only a few years older than Esmé herself. So Esmé becomes a collector of lost words, words that are discarded from the dictionary, words that are lost inadvertently, and a few that she pilfers from the sorting table. When her pilfering ways are discovered, she is banished for a while from the Scriptorium, but her interest in words continues and as she grows older she begins collect them on her own account.

She also becomes aware that the all-male lexicographers are not aware of, or not interested in words that are used only by women, or words that are spoken by the common people rather than by the educated classes, and so becomes aware of social inequalities in late-Victorian and Edwardian England.

The Dictionary of Lost Words is only semi-fictional. Not for Pip Williams the usual disclaimer that none of the characters bear any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead. James Murray and most of the other editorial assistants, including members of Murray's family, are the real people, and they appear in a photograph at the end of the book. Of course their conversations are imagined, but some of the things they say are taken from their own writings, or contemporary reports and memoranda. One can learn quite a lot of the way in which the Oxford Dictionary was compiled from the book.

I really enjoyed reading it, not just because, having worked as a proof reader and editor at various times, I have an interest in words and how they are used, but also because Esmé and the other characters, fictional or otherwise, come across as real people, so that one shares their joys and sorrows, and cares about what happens to them.

The book also sparked lots of memories for me, which don't belong in a GoodReads review, as they go beyond the merits of the book itself, but I'll share some of them here. 

Esmé visits the Bodleian Library, and the Oxford University Press, where she becomes friendly with one of the compositors, and describes the work of the compositor in setting up the page for printing. And that recalled to me my time as a proof reader on the Windhoek Advertiser in the early 1970s, which was the end of the hot-metal type printing era.

When I began working as a proof reader I sat at a table in the works near the typesetters, who were mostly German-speaking, and worked on Intertype machines which set each line of type in hot lead. The lines were collected in "galleys", and once they had finished the story they would bring me a galley proof, which I would correct, not merely as a proof reader, following copy, but also as a line editor, checking for errors of fact, grammar and spelling. These would go back to the typesetters, who would set the corrections, often with much swearing.

The galleys would then go to the sub-editor and the compositor, who fitted them into the page, sometimes shortening the story to fit, and added the headlines. Once the page was set up, the page proof would come back to me for final corrections -- the most common mistake being transposed or missing lines. Then paper maché clichés or stereotypes would be made from the set page, from which the moulded lead plates would be made for the rotary press. All this was a much longer process than the book printing described in The Dictionary of Lost Words, where the compositor appears to have done the typesetting as well.

While I was at the Windhoek Advertiser however, electronic typesetting was introduced. A typist in the newsroom would type the story on a machine that produced a punched paper tape, which was then fed into an attachment on the Intertype machines, and the skilled typesetters became mere machine minders. They fed the paper tape into the machine and watched it work. The only time they touched the keyboard was to set the corrections.

Then I moved to Durban, and my wife Val had a cousin who married a compositor on The Daily News. He had just completed a five-year apprenticeship, and was almost immediately made redundant when the newspaper switched from hot-metal printing to offset litho. The job of compositor, as described in The Dictionary of Lost Words, had ceased to exist.

I read an article in the same Daily News about the journalist's experience with the new Atex computerised typesetting system. The journalist would compose the article on the machine, polishing and correcting it as it went. The sub-editor would read it on the same machine, edit, cut it and write the headline, and it would then go to the people who did page makeup, all marked by codes on the same machine. I wanted one. That was in about 1974, fifty years ago. I dreamed of having a machine that could store whatever text I wrote, and could correct and change without retyping.

Twelve years later I got my wish. I went to work in the Editorial Department of the University of South Africa in 1986, editing academic texts on their Atex system. It was not as exciting as I thought it would be, though, because by then I already had an Osborne portable (well, luggable) microcomputer and could use the Wordstar word processor. The Atex system was clunky by comparison. If you wanted to save a document you were working on, you could walk to the canteen and have a cup of coffee and a chat while waiting for it to return to the screen.

The following year, however, we got microcomputers, where the Atex system had been ported in a new word processing program called XyWrite, which was much faster, and, for sheer word-processing power, has still not been surpassed 35 years later. It may lack the bells and whistles of the latest word processors, but still has more pistons and cylinders, and the whole thing fitted on a 360K floppy disk.

All these memories, and many others, came back while reading The Dictionary of Lost Words. I thought the book was very good indeed, but perhaps that's just me, because of my experience with words and meanings and putting them into books. But I still think it's worth five stars.

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The Drunken Silenus

The Drunken Silenus: On Gods, Goats, and the Cracks in Reality by Morgan Meis
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This book is an extended personal meditation on Peter Paul Rubens's painting of the drunken Silenus.

Silenus was the tutor of Dionysus (whom the Romans called Bacchus), the dying and rising Graeco-Roman god of wine. Silenus was also the leader of the Satyrs, the half-human, half-goat companions of Dionysus. Silenus is shown as a fat old man, and, in contrast to his companions, his drunkenness is not the drunkenness of frenzied excess; in Rubens's painting it is the semi-conscious stumbling drunkenness of one who drinks to forget.

What made me want to read this book in the first place was the appearance of Silenus, Dionysus and their retinue in C.S. Lewis's children's novel Prince Caspian. And while this book doesn't explain it, it certainly gives more of the background.

Morgan Meis takes us on a journey, starting with the life and times of Peter Paul Rubens (1577-1640), going back to ancient Greece, when the cult of Dionysus flourished, and forward to the time of Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900) who had his own view of Silenus, whom he regarded as the father of Greek tragedy.

Meis examines the significance of Silenus against the historical background of each of these periods with an intertwining of history, biography, art history, philosophy and religion, with a great deal of personal speculation thrown in. None of these is treated in a formal academic way; there are no footnotes or other references, though there is a short bibliography at the end. But this broad, comprehensive, interdisciplinary approach does present Silenus, and Rubens himself, in a more holistic way than, say, a purely art-historical approach would do. The only fault I could find with this approach is that at times Meis tends to become too verbose and repetitious.

I found the book stimulating. It stimulates an interest in all these topics. One does not necessarily have to accept all Meis's speculations, but one can treat them as a starting point for one's own. Rubens painted the drunken Silenus at the beginning of the Thirty Years' War, and the book would be interesting to anyone interested in that period, or art of that period.

One regret is that I could not find a decent reproduction of the painting online, and none is included in the book. The ones I could find online lacked the detail that is described in the book, and a full-colour reproduction would have been a useful additions.

In addition to being tutor to Dionysus, Silenus was a philosopher and a prophet, and when the legendary King Midas asked him what was the best thing for man, Silenus answered that the best thing for man was never to have been born, and the next best thing, having been born, was to die.

That's a pretty pessimistic outlook on life, and makes me wonder, even more, why C.S. Lewis would include him in a book written for children, even though he doesn't mention that side of Silenus. According to Meis, however, Nietzsche liked it:

The Greeks, Nietzsche thinks, the ancient Greeks— the Greeks of the satyr plays and the music in the forest, the Greeks who came before the classical period of Plato and the brilliant days of Greek rationalism, the Greeks before that, the ones who danced the Sicinnis dance and celebrated their secret rites—those Greeks were bold enough to make a health of their pessimism. They were strong, thought Nietzsche, tremendous in their ability to think that pessimism all the way through. Nay, to live that pessimism all the way through. That’s the way Nietzsche thought about it.

For Meis, the tragedy of Silenus is that he is immortal without being fully divine; he cannot die although at times he longs to do so. This is reminiscent of Tolkien's elves, for whom death is "the gift of Illuvatar", for which they envy men.

Faced with such a fate, it is perhaps unsurprising that Silenus should seek refuge in liquor. Again, as Meis puts it:

Silenus is, after all, somewhere between dying and not dying. He is not fully immortal like Dionysus, he isn’t a true god, nor is he fully mortal like King Midas, since he must always exist in order to be the attendant of Dionysus as Dionysus is perennially born and then torn apart and then reborn and then torn apart again. And Silenus is also, we should mention again, extremely drunk in the painting. And one of the key aspects of being very drunk, as everyone knows, is that you are conscious without being all the way conscious. You are there without being all the way there. You are present while at the same being absent. You are moving around without going anywhere.

For C.S. Lewis, however, even Dionysus, though a god, is not the True God. He is a creature, created, not begotten, and it is only in Christ that both Dionysus and Silenus find true fulfilment. In Prince Caspian Silenus is still tipsy, and still falls off his donkey, but it is the tipsiness of revelling rather than the drunkenness of oblivion.

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