Alacrity and Other Words.

I have finished The Archer's Tale, but I believe I will make a few more posts on it before I'm through thinking. This marks my fourth novel by Cornwell and, in all honesty, I believe he suffers the same weakness for alliteration, assonance, and consonance that I do. I believe, fully, in the rhythm of words, and I also believe those prose writers need to consider such just as deeply as poets, but much of the amateur prose I read of late seems to favor something far less artistic in its telling. However, it is not alliteration I am here to talk about today.

Today, I would like to talk about words.

Cornwell uses words well, though I stumble on his commas (or lackthereof) occasionally, and I am impressed that I can finish one of his books and see a word I either do not immediately recognize or, even better, have forgotten for its concrete meaning in a distant memory. There are never many, but they are enough to make me smile. I love words: ornate, archaic, contemporary, slang--diction is one of my main interests as a writer and a reader, and I am annoyed by authors who do not seem to know how to pick the right words. This is not a complaint I make of Cornwell. I think, for his genre and style, he picks a fine troupe to command his prose.

This post, then, will focus on the few words I had to pause for while reading. To begin: "At first Skeat thought Thomas of Hookton was little more than another wild fool looking for adventure--a clever fool, to be sure--but Thomas had taken to the life of an archer in Brittany with alacrity" (33).

When first reading this sentence, I assumed "alacrity" meant something akin to eagerness; somewhere in my vocabulary, the two words were joined. However, just to satisfy my own hobby, I looked the word up and found it a bit more complicated. Alacrity, in a truer form, speaks to liveliness and willingness and even, in some ways, cheerfulness. It is more than simply being eager and, as such, goes from a throw-away word used in a descriptive paragraph to being a true mark of characterization. Thomas is not simply eager to be an archer, but he takes to the archer's life with a cheerfulness, a liveliness, a willingness that surpassed eager. Eager is what adventurers would be. In using alacrity, Cornwell is reiterating that Thomas is much more than a fool looking for glory. This, then, is a fine use of a word.

I will come back to Thomas at a later date, as he intrigues me, but let's move on to more words:

The lawyer now laid a long list of charges against Sir Simon. It seemed he was claiming the widow and her son as prisoners who must be held for ransom. He had also stolen the widow's two ships, her husband's armor, his sword and all the Countess's money. Belas made the complaints indignantly, then bowed to the Earl. "You have a reputation as a just man, my lord," he said obsequiously, "and I place the widow's fate in your hands." (75-76)

At first, as is often my impression when I cannot immediately place a word, I thought "obsequiously" was entirely unnecessary. It felt like a big word thrown in for the sake of having a big word, but Cornwell is much more clever than that, on his better days, and I was terribly disappointed. As such, I chased the word down and found that it meant, specifically, the type of obedience, compliance, or whathaveyou reserved for servants who know their duty and place. It is not just, as I first assumed, a description that means "deferentially" or some other such word, but a word specifically designed to accomodate the complicated social situation between servant and master. I learned something new with "obsequiously" and, what's more, I was no longer disappointed! Some folks reading this may be shaking their heads at my ignorance, but it's not every day that I get to learn a new word in context.

This next word is simply fun and, indeed, fun to say: "At first he would force himself to a clumsy courtesy, though usually he was bumptious and crude and always he stared at her like a dog gazing at a haunch of beef" (84). What I love about choosing "bumptious" here is the same skill that I enjoy about Cornwell's novels: it's all about characterization. Every word points to the character and whether this is a natural talent or a supreme work of patience on Cornwell's part, I am captivated by how cleverly he uses words to his advantage. Bumptious refers to someone who is cheeky--a younger man who is trying to act bigger than his britches, so to speak--and this could certainly characterize our dear Sir Simon, the target for this word choice. But really, isn't it fun to say? Bumptious. It sounds lovely in my head--makes me smile and think of a bumbling fool off The Three Stooges, though I know that isn't quite what the word intends.

I had a feeling I knew what "unctuously" meant, especially in the context of its sentence, but I didn't truly know. Though I have studied theology for quite some time, this word seems to have escaped my learning. Which is why, when I stumbled (quite literally) over it in the reading, I had to look it up immediately: "Perhaps the saint inspired him, for he was suddenly possessed of devilment and began to enjoy playing a priest's role. 'I am merely one of God's humble children, my son,' he answered unctuously" (142-143). The word, itself, refers to a special type of piousness that one would reserve for priests and the like, but it is that smug sort of piousness--the type when the person speaking doesn't just assume they are on higher moral ground than you but, instead, this person fervently knows their superiority. Were I pretending to be a priest, I am not certain I could affect such a manner of speaking, but our dear Thomas seems to have shifted quite comfortably into the role.

As an aside, I find it terribly interesting (especially in this context) that unctuous can also refer to oily, greasy, or that slimy, soapy feeling.

Cornwell gives us another fine word: "So if the English were kept south of the Seine then they must eventually fight or make an ignominious retreat to Normandy" (245). I wasn't entirely sure of this word, either, but I've found that it stretches to mean humilitating, degrading, dishonorable--and all those other words that coalesce among the ruined. Of all the words I encountered while reading The Archer's Tale, I found this one might have been just a tad unnecessary. Its meaning is certainly well-fitted to the sentence, and I cannot complain for that, but this word bothers me. Here, it in relation to the specific diction of the text and the time and the characters speaking in the scene, the word feels out-of-place. I do not believe it is a specialized word that someone would've used to describe the situation and, as such, I have to attribute it to the narrator's word who, in this case, would become Cornwell. In other words, this is the first time I think I am hearing Cornwell the Author instead of the fictional narrator of the novel, and I will admit I am bothered by it.

Luckily, it does not happen often with Cornwell. He has an uncanny ability to cede into a narrator and allow their voice to take over a text, and it is this talent that makes reading his novels so enjoyable. I believe them, while I am reading; I believe in what I am reading and even dare to dream its possible that history happened in just this way. If that is not the mark of a skilled writer, I am not sure what is.

A Real Priest.

In the Prologue to Cornwell's The Archer's Tale, we receive a description of a priest--a fleeting character who suffers a painful death only a few pages further but who proves, in the care taken to bring him life, to be an important presence in the plot. However, it is not the character's turn in wielding a tale that gives me pause; instead, it's his lovely description:

Father Ralph was a frightening man even when he was not angry, but in his temper he was a wild-haired fiend, and his flaring anger protected the treasure, though Father Ralph himself believed that ignorance was its best protection...

They were all too scared of him, but he did his duty to them; he christened them, churched them, married them, heard their confessions, absolved them, scolded them and buried them, but he did not pass the time with them. He walked alone, grim-faced, hair awry and eyes glowering, but the villagers were still proud of him. Most country churches suffered ignorant, pudding-faced priests who were scarce more educated than their parishioners, but Hookton, in Father Ralph, had a proper scholar, too clever to be sociable, perhaps a saint, maybe of noble birth, a self-confessed sinner, probably mad, but undeniably a real priest. (4-5)

Undeniably a real priest. It is strange but, by instinct, I understand what this statement means though it remains a concept difficult to explain. What is a real priest? Is this a question of character, of belief--? Is it something in the personage or gait? When I think of a real priest I think of someone absurdly human and certainly detached but who, in his every move and make, exudes a faith in the heart of what he's preaching. He is not perfect, not the saintly vision of Bishop or monk, but hard-worked and hard-lived, gritty, uncompromising, undoubtedly miserable, much learned, with a burden that everyone notices but no one has the balls to ask about (not unlike the hesitation in Hawthorne's The Minister's Black Veil). This is not a priest I would like to sit in mass with, however, but the sort of priest who reminds me that I am a flawed human being, and weak, and perhaps not as devout as I should be. He is, in short, the sort of priest I would trust my conscience with and one who would convince me, with only a glance, that Hell really can exist.

He is also a rotten, nasty son of a bitch who's too smart for his own good. What more should a man want from a priest?

All this said, I've spent far too much time bordering on theological descriptors; Father Ralph meets a violent, untimely death (someone had to die), and the story continues with Thomas, Father Ralph's illegitimate son (by his housekeeper, whom he truly loved):

"I reckon they's been drinking too much," Edward said.
"I sees angels when I drink," John said.
"That be Jane," Edward said. "Looks like an angel, she does."
"Don't behave like one," John said. "Lass is pregnant," and all four men looked at Thomas, who stared innocently up at the treasure hanging from the rafters. (8)

And, my most favorite:

Thomas thrived on life, and Skeat had learned that lad was clever, certainly clever enough to know better than to fall asleep one night when he should have been standing guard and, for that offense Skeat had thumped the daylights out of him. "You were goddamn drunk!" he had accused Thomas, then beat him thoroughly, using fists like blacksmith's hammers. He had broken Thomas's nose, cracked a rib and called him a stinking piece of Satan's shit, but at the end of it Will Skeat saw that the boy was still grinning... (33)

What I enjoy most about Cornwell, apart from his battle scenes, some famously introduced: "Thomas stood, needing to piss, and the first awful screams sounded from the village. For Easter had come, Christ was risen and the French were ashore" (10), are his characters. They are deliciously flawed and, in so-being, tremendously realistic. Cornwell is unforgiving. You are not reading the cookie-cutter fantasy hero with the heart of gold or the clever historian who saves the Queen; no, you are reading about men who could have, perhaps should have, existed in history, who have agendas and faults and round-out with 'bastard' being the kindest thing you can call them. Yet they are likable--not in the sense that you wish them well and cheer them on, necessarily, but in the way that you wish, were you going to the pub, that these would be your drinking buddies.

The Archer's Tale is not moving as quickly as The Winter King did, but it is far more subtle--and that is what I am enjoying right now. Give it a go, and perhaps you will enjoy it, too.

Old Made New.

I have discovered that, when I have the time, I can use Character Map to make capital letters and all my missing punctuation marks. This is spectacular, and I'm only sorry the previous post suffered for my ignorance. I will leave it as-is for now, but I may fix it in the future.

I have read T.H. White's The Once and Future King perhaps a dozen times and even The Book of Merlin once or twice. My enjoyment of Arthur and his Knights actually started with Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, so I suppose I wandered backwards into the stories, but I quickly moved to Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur and, from there, Green, Pyle and Plummer, The Mists of Avalon, and even Twain's A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court. Steinbeck tried to get in on the Arthurian legends, but I admit I couldn't stay awake through any of them. All of this to say that I have made the rounds with Arthur and have expected nothing new to come of them. Until now.

Bernard Cornwell, in his Arthur trilogy, has removed the veil, so to speak, from the Arthurian tales. His stories read like history, not fantasy, and they move with suspense and realistic, not manufactured or romanticised, emotion. This is not a history that you want to miss. I believe Cornwell is, perhaps, one of the greatest writers of historical fiction (a personal favorite, that genre) that I've ever had the pleasure of reading. Notice here that I did not name him a fantasy author.

I read the Arthur trilogy, which begins with The Winter King, shortly after coming out of the coma. Or, more sincerely, Mr. Collins read the first novel to me, and part of the second, and I took over the reigns for the third. I told him I was looking for something romantic and fantastic--an adult fantasy, so to speak, and he brought me Arthur (having been privy to my glorification of Sir Gawain). I admit I wasn't excited to know I'd be forced to endure another Arthur story, but I trusted him and took a chance. I've since pushed that chance on six or seven different readers, and it is for one of them that I am writing this review (of sorts).

My sister, long-since tired of Arthur, devoured the books. They are brutal, she says, and I agree. If you're looking for a story of the Round Table that sounds more plausible than the latest Sci-Fi reinactment of Malory or White or Bradley, but one that still stays true to the legend's heart, then Cornwell is for you.

As I read the books a while ago and did not have the ability to take notes, I will not be saying more about The Arthur Trilogy (The Winter King, Enemy of God, and Excalibur), but I am scheduled to begin his Holy Grail books this week, and so I will write about them in more depth. This means, for those of you still unsure, you will get a taste of his style and, if you like it, perhaps you'll try our Arthur one more time.

That said, if you have not read White or Malory or something similar, I would suggest reading those fantasies first. You will enjoy the nuances of Cornwell's story even more: of that I can assure you.

the epistolary makes a comeback.

do pardon the poor capitalization. i cannot wait for the day when i can use the shift key on my keyboard again.

i have long-since wanted to write a novel entirely composed of letters, though i've struggled with how to accomplish this. my few feeble attempts have proven that desire is a weak impetus and a love of form is hardly an excuse to butcher it with a bad idea. that said, i was sent the guernsey literary and potato peel pie society by a friend who claimed it would be a wonderful 'pick-me-up' sort of read. in that, i cannot say she was wrong.

it is, of course, an epistolary. it is not a deep epistolary--not something that would keep you awake at night with its soul-wrenching insight--but it is certainly well done. the characters have such distinctive, vivid voices and the letters take on such an unabashedly confident and sincere tone, that a romantic such as myself cannot help but become wrapped up in the mild dramas and daily victories of each character. i cannot say the story is entirely believable from a standard plot point of view, but i can say that the inhabitants are believable--that they shine as real and realistic--and that is the hallmark of the good letter-novel. after all, if one cannot learn to love the characters, one cannot be convinced to read their letters. this, i think, is even true outside of the book's pages.

i finished the novel, perhaps last week? i do not want to belittle it with a lax review, but nor do i want to trump it up as a must-read. all i can say is that i enjoyed it, and thoroughly. it begins in january 1946, just as the war is ending (and those of you who know me understand that i am already biased to accept stories in this time period), and follows the exploits of a writer looking for her (yes, her) next story. at its heart, it's a romance--both in regards to the modern connotations associated with that genre and in the more traditional, nature-loving definition. i say this to warn those of you who haven't the patience for such nonsense, or to welcome those of you who pretend no patience but read these books in the quiet, hiding them away behind more important titles on your bookshelves.

i will say more of the book tomorrow, or the next day, but for now i will leave you with a mild recommendation to pick it up in the book store, read the first letter, and decide from there. or allow me to practice my typing by giving you a sample:

dear sidney,

susan scott is a wonder. we sold over forty copies of the book, which was very pleasant, but much more thrilling from my standpoint was the food. susan managed to procure ration coupons for icing sugar and real eggs for the meringue. if all her literary luncheons are going to achieve these heights, i won't mind touring about the country. do you suppose that a lavish bonus could spur her on to butter? let's try it--you may deduct the money from my royalties.

now for my grim news. you asked me how work on my new book is progressing. sidney, it isn't.

english foibles seemed so promising at first. after all, one should be able to write reams about the society to protest the glorificatioon of the english bunny. i unearthed a photograph of the vermin exterminators' trade union, marching down an oxford street with placards screaming 'down with beatrix potter.' but what is there to write about after a caption? nothing, that's what.

i no longer want to write this book--my head and my heart just aren't in it. dear as izzy bickerstaff is--and was--to me, i don't want to write anything else under that name. i don't want to be considered a light-hearted journalist anymore. i do acknowledge that making readers laugh--or at least chuckle--during the war was no mean feat, but i don't want to do it anymore. i can't seem to dredge up any sense of proportion or balance these days, and god knows one cannot write humor without them.

in the meantime, i am very happy stephens and stark is making money on izzy bickerstaff goes to war. it relieves my conscience over the debacle of my anne bronte biography.

my thanks for everything and love,
juliet

p.s. i am reading the collected correspondence of mrs. montagu. do you know what that dismal woman wrote to jane carlyle? 'my dear little jane, everybody is born with a vocation, and yours is to write charming little notes.' i hope jane spat on her. (shaffer 3-4)

i think her post scripts are tremendous fun. haha.

The Law of (Human) Nature

I start here because the below passages struck me as terribly human and terribly profound. I do believe there is an overarching sense of Right and Wrong in the world. I believe in a universal morality that sees murder as wrong or theft as unfair, but I have never had much success in explaining why I believe this or defending it once I've tried an explanation. I have always, in arguing the point, felt like a terrible hypocrite. And there very well may be shame in doing wrong by your fellow man, but somehow it is both terrifying and comforting to know that he, too, has done wrong by his fellow man. It does not excuse the behavior, it simply reiterates what Lewis says below: this is the one law that you can willfully choose to disobey. It's the option of choice--the idea that you have made a decision to act this way--where I find such a tremendous source of hope. If I have chosen to act untoward in the past it follows, then, that I can still choose to act appropriately in the future.

from Mere Christianity (The Complete C.S. Lewis):

Each man is at every moment subjected to several different sets of law but there is only one of these which he is free to disobey...That is, he cannot disobey those laws which he shares with other things; but the law which is peculiar to his human nature, the law he does not share with animals or vegetables or inorganic things, is the one he can disobey if he chooses.

This law was called the Law of Human Nature because people thought that every one knew it by nature and did not need to be taught it...they thought that the human idea of decent behavior was obvious to every one.

I know that some people say the idea of a Law of Nature or decent behavior known to all men is unsound, because different civilisations and different ages have had quite different moralities.

But this is not true. There have been differences between their moralities, but these have never amounted to anything like a total difference...I need only ask the reader to think what a totally different morality would mean. Think of a country where people were admired for running away in battle, or where a man felt proud of double-crossing all the people who had been kindest to him...Men have differed as regards what people you ought to be unselfish to--whether it was only your own family, or your fellow countrymen, or every one. But they have always agreed that you ought not to put yourself first. Selfishness has never been admired.

But the most remarkable thing is this. Whenever you find a man who says he does not believe in a real Right and Wrong, you will find the same man going back on this a moment later. He may break his promise to you, but if you try breaking one to him he will be complaining 'It's not fair' before you can say Jack Robinson.

It seems, then, we are forced to belive in Right and Wrong. People may be sometimes mistaken about them, just as people sometimes get their sums wrong; but they are not a matter of mere taste and opinion any more than a multiplication table. Now, if we are agreed about that, I go on to my next point, which is this. None of us are really keeping the Law of Nature.

I hope you will not misunderstand what I am going to say. I am not preaching, and Heaven knows I do not pretend to be better than anyone else. I am only trying to call attention to a fact; the fact that this year, or this month, or, more likely, this very day, we have failed to practise
ourselves the kind of behavior we expect from other people...I do not succeed in keeping the Law of Nature very well, and the moment anyone tells me I am not keeping it, there starts up in my mind a string of excuses as long as my arm. The question at the moment is not whether they are good excuses. This point is that they are one more proof of how deeply, whether we like it or not, we believe in the Law of Nature. If we do not believe in decent behavior, why should we be so anxious to make excuses for not having behaved decently? The truth is, we believe in decency so much--we feel the Rule of Law pressing on us so--that we cannot bear to face the fact that we are
breaking it, and consequently we try to shift responsibility.

These, then, are the two points I wanted to make. First, that human beings, all over the earth, have this curious idea that they ought to behave in a certain way, and cannot really get rid of it. Secondly, that they do not in fact behave in that way. They know the Law of Nature; they break
it. (Lewis 15-18)

But there is more to explore about this idea and its ramifications, including the logical effects and foundations of such an argument, and I do not want to say more on it now. Instead, reflect on the idea of choice. When I am doing Right I am choosing as simply as I choose when I am doing Wrong--even if I know better.

I wish I could send this book to Joe. I wish he would read it, or attempt to, if I did. It's not that I want him to read it and become a Christian. Instead, I want him to read it to understand my faith a little better. I have always wanted him to better understand my faith--I know how difficult a concept it has been for him, at times--and I think this book could really provide him some excellent insight into, well--me.

Maybe someday I will get the chance to send it to him and he will be amiable to reading it.

Shame.

Edition note (Harper Collins edition 2001): beginning around page 58, the word "to" is sometimes depicted as the typo "eo". It's slightly distracting. Also, the edition misses some opening and closing quotation marks on occasion.

from The Great Divorce

'I wish I'd never been born' it said. 'What are we born for?'

'For infinite happiness,' said the Spirit. 'You can step out into it at any moment...'

'But, I tell you, they'll see me.'

'An hour hence and you will not care. A day hence and you will laugh at it. Don't you remember on earth--there were things too hot to touch with your finger but you could drink them all right? Shame is like that. If you accept it--if you will drink the cup to the bottom--you will find it very nourishing: but try to do anything else with it and it scalds.' (Lewis 61)

The ghost in question is ashamed to step out into the light of Heaven because she is see-through and pales in comparison to the solid Spirit beings, and her shame is palpable and debilitating. She cannot shed it and move into absolute joy.

This short passage had me wondering about the true nature of shame. Is it really something that we simply have to accept as a part of us--as a normal, human reaction to our own imperfections as judged by our perceptions of the world and others? Is it then a choice to shed this when we are faced with the prospect of eternal happiness? Does it, then, remain something we cannot be rid of in this finite life? I am not sure.

More than that, how many of us have, on very low occasions, wished that we hadn't been born? Is this statement driven by shame, at its core, rather than the hundred other things we can attribute to it? Is this why it is such an affront to the gift of life--because we are too ashamed of ourselves and cannot break out of it? The idea certainly puts things in a different perspective, especially if shame is something that most of us experience now and again. Are we then saying we prefer death to the collective human condition at these moments?

There is so much to think about. Maybe I am over-thinking all of this. I wish I had someone to ask.

Hell is a State of Mind.

Plato returns.

from The Great Divorce

'Hush,' he said sternly. 'Do not blaspheme. Hell is a state of mind--ye never said a truer word. And every state of mind, left to itself, every shutting up of the creature within the dungeon of its own mind--is, in the end, Hell. But Heaven is not a state of mind. Heaven is reality itself. All that is fully real is Heavenly. For all that can be shaken will be shaken and only the unshakeable remains.' (Lewis 70-71)

This really does bring me back to the Platonic idea of Forms; perhaps, intuitively, these are the reasons I have always preferred Plato to Aristotle.

Hell as a state of mind--a state of mind we take with us into death: this frightens me, or at least makes me feel uncomfortable. This reminds me, too, of Dante Gabriel Rossetti's poem, The Blessed Damozel and her gold bar of Heaven. I read this poem for the first time as an undergraduate student, and it struck me so profoundly because it represented an idea I had never given credence to before: that we still feel loss and pain and sorrow while we are in Heaven--that we will still miss those we love and ache for them until we are together again.

And still she bow’d herself and stoop’d
Out of the circling charm;
Until her bosom must have made
The bar she lean’d on warm,
And the lilies lay as if asleep
Along her bended arm.

From the fix’d place of Heaven she saw
Time like a pulse shake fierce
Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove
Within the gulf to pierce
Its path; and now she spoke as when
The stars sand in their spheres.

The sun was gone now; the curl’d moon
Was like a little feather
Fluttering far down the gulf; and now
She spoke through the still weather.
Her voice was like the voice the stars
Had when they sang together.

(Ah sweet! Even now, in that bird’s song,
Strove not her accents there,
Fain to be hearken’d? When those bells
Possess’d the mid-day air,
Strove not her steps to reach my side
Down all the echoing stair?)

“I wish that he were come to me,
For he will come,” she said.
“Have I not pray’d in Heaven?—on earth,
Lord, Lord, has he not pray’d?
Are not two prayers a perfect strength?
And shall I feel afraid?

(Lines 43-72)

But this is not necessarily what Lewis means, I do not think. I believe we enter death with these thoughts still etched on our soul, but we must let them go in order to fully appreciate the joy of Heaven and God's grace. It's in letting them go, though, that we find the difficulty. How do you step away from a soul-changing love?

I suppose it is in realizing that need and love and want are separate and that unconditional love transcends the contexts and connotations we attach to it.

There is more to talk about when it comes to Hell as a state of mind, but I do not feel I can do it justice as yet.