Seb Palmer

“One morning long ago in the quiet of the world, when there was less noise and more green…”

More archival doings. Opening up a new (old!) chapter on Tolkienian Middle-Earthiness!

Whilst I’ve read very varied views on this adaptation, personally I love it. Anthony Jackson is good as the ‘Tale Bearer’, a story telling device of the producers (i.e. not of a strictly Tolkien-ian pedigree), Paul Daneman is a lovably flustered Bilbo (slightly posh and middle aged, which is as Tolkien wrote him), and Heron Carvic – more famous, perhaps, as the original author of Miss Seeton novels – is, for me, an excellent Gandalf.

A full-cast dramatisation, with excellent sound from the radiophonic workshop, this production also benefits from some highly unusual and individual music. This is an aspect of the production some find unattractive, according to my researches, but I’m with the actor Michael Kilgariff, who adapted the 1937 book for this 1968 radio play/serial, and agree that the music actually helps make the production.

Like the books, The Hobbit is aimed at a younger audience than the LOTR, and this version stands, in relation to the BBC LOTR, in exactly the right relation, like a younger sibling. There are aspects that I’m less keen on, such as the voices of some of the creatures, e.g. the Spiders of Mirkwood, or Roarc the old talking crow.* But, all things considered these are minor gripes. 

Even now, as ‘big kids’, we love listening to this. It’s atmospheric, fun, by turns ‘epic and homely’, evoking a world at once alien and yet familiar. Love it!

*AMENDMENT

Actually, I’ve changed my mind about these voices.

They’re rather like the Ents; so otherworldly to modern or contemporary minds (or mine, at any rate) it’s just plain hard to give them any kind of voice, without it seeming ridiculous.

I think the voices they come up with here are as good as one could hope for. Certainly Roarc is actually very good. The only one I really struggle with – and again, I think they do their best here – is the singing sparrow.

I guess I fall into the ‘human being’ category mentioned at the close of Professor Kitching’s excellent review of this very interesting book (on Amzon UK’s website), as I’m neither a science teacher or researcher (whilst he doesn’t specify the field, I’m guessing that’s who he’s alluding to!).

As an interested layman, learning about H and his work is both fascinating and yet also slightly frustrating: if, as Segerstrale notes, his ‘mathematical language remained obscure to many of his … colleagues’, and also ‘when writing, he was orientated strictly towards his scientific colleagues, not the general public’, is it any wonder he remains less well known than such popularisers of his own ideas as Dawkins and Ridley?

One of several very interesting aspects of this book that lie beyond the core aspects of Hamilton’s work itself, is how it shows that, despite the potential of an ideal paradigm of science as a disinterested sphere of ‘pure’ reasoning, in the real world things are much messier. The touchy issue of eugenics and its possible relation to H’s research into a genetic basis for altruism is, according to this book, a strong contender for one of the reasons H’s work and ideas were not always welcomed by the scientific and academic community at the time he was pursuing his work. In the post WWII climate, the idea of genetic root causes for human behaviours was decidedly out of favour.

As noted above, Segerstrale herself points out that BH wrote not for general readers but fellow specialists. The absence of a glossary of terms and the endorsements on the back cover suggest Segerstrale does the same. This was one of the first books in a glut of post Darwinian bicentennial reading where I felt I was getting either out of my depth, or just plain losing interest, or both.

Initially aired on BBC R4, this series, like its predecessor [[ASIN:1408427443 Life Stories]], is also available as a lavishly illustrated [[ASIN:0007425120 book]]. This second instalment of enthralling, beguiling and wide-ranging stories, follows the same format as before: 20 episodes, spread over 3 CDs, each approximately 9-10 minutes long. A useful little booklet succinctly outlining each episode is also included. 

I love these little nuggets, and frequently listen to several at a time, most often whilst driving. The scope is massive, ranging across time, geography, species and subject with gleeful abandon, and, as the blurb on the box says, Attenborough’s “enthusiasm is as infectious as ever”. Personal favourites from this set include his homage to Alfred Russell Wallace, in which there’s a touching account of Wallace’s early relationship with Darwin, characterised (refreshingly) by mutual respect and admiration, in a situation where jealousy and antipathy could so easily have arisen (compare this with Leibniz, Newton, and ‘the calculus’, in Marcus Du Sautoy’s [[ASIN:1408469650 A Brief History of Mathematics]]); then there’s Attenborough’s own place (or lack thereof) in the story of Charnia, one of the world’s earliest fossils, a fractal form of life which evolution seems to have abandoned, as an early experiment in design.

‘Foreign Fare’ deals with the accidents of historical nomenclature: why are some widely different plants, e.g. the two types of artichoke, ‘globe’ and ‘Jeruslaem’, known by the same name? “The fault, if fault it is, can be traced back to Columbus”, says uncle David, before regaling us with a fascinating account of how some of these situations have arisen. With the very different films ‘Project Nim’ and ‘Rise Of The Planet Of The Apes’ both out at the time of this review, the ‘Chimps’ chapter is not just inherently interesting, but topically so, particularly as a dose of reality. Episodes on hummingbirds and butterflies are in places rhapsodic, as Attenborough eloquently conveys his sense of wonder: “astounded… the clearing beyond, was filled with a blizzard of butterflies”. Even simply listing the exotic names of hummingbirds, for example, the ‘sapphire spangled emerald’ (I’d love to see/own John Gould’s work on ‘hummers’, reference to which which seems to form the basis of this chapter), conveys this, but, as he tells how many hundreds of thousands of these beauties were butchered in order to adorn Victorian ladies headgear, he explains that, appalling as this was, it was “their spectacular beauty that accounts for this mania … their particular splendour is their iridescence”.

One thread that’s apparent in several of these stories is the tendency of humans to name animals: Jane Goodall did so with her chimps, Attenborough had his own chameleon, named ‘Rommel’, and there are numerous other instances in various other episodes. Attenborough reflects on this with a good degree of equanimity, allowing the listener to judge for themselves if there’s a difference between the patient scientific methods underlying Jane Goodall’s work with primates, and what Joy and George Adamson did, as foster parents of the lioness Elsa. ‘Quetzalcoatlus’, a giant pterosaur (or ‘winged lizard’), is as exotic as the name promises, and even the people – the eccentric founder of what may possibly have been the world’s first ‘nature reserve’, Squire Waterton, or the Adamsons of ‘Born Free’ fame – are peculiar and remarkable. The series ends on the rather sobering ‘Elsa’ episode, with Attenborough meditating on the difficulties of achieving the right balance in conveying the violence of the natural world (also touched on in the chimps episode), “of which we, after all, are a part.”

I always come away from listening to these stories both better informed about a myriad of interesting things, and with a smile on my face. Appetisingly interesting, this is another trove of treasures, well worth enjoying.

a non ‘metal-head’ view (8 Oct 2007)

I felt compelled to write this review after reading about eight of the other reviews. As a quick preface: I’m not what you’d call a ‘metal fan’ as such. I grew up on a diet of classic rock (Zep, Cream, Purple etc), and even followed through to the metal of the ‘eighties (Maiden, Metallica, Slayer etc), but my chief musical passions lead me to music like Tom Waits, Joni Mitchell, and jazz, funk & soul (Coltrane, Davis, James Brown, The Meters, Curtis Mayfield etc).

My two main points are, however, firstly: that this is – musically at least – phenomenal stuff. Not knowing (or even particularly caring for) genres such as ‘death metal’ etc I can’t compare Meshuggah with all the other bands in this area (e.g. I’ve never heard Fear Factory). As a drummer I can’t help but be awed by Tomas Haake’s incredible drumming, and, by way of illustrating some of my limited knowledge of contemporary metal, I find his whole approach (and that of the band as a complete entity) far more interesting and innovative than that of, for example, Mastodon, or their drummer, the much-lauded Brann Daillor. No offence to Daillor, who’s clearly a brilliant drummer too, it’s just that the Mastodon vibe is much more straight ahead and obvious, which goes for the rhythms and drumming too (and I really quite enjoy some Mastodon stuff by the way).

Before I get to point two, a quick aside re guitars: I think most jazz guitarists would sniff at the idea that the guitar solos are particularly advanced (especially in the harmonic sense: a true genius of the guitar, as long ago as the 1950’s, is Joe Pass, and if you need distortion and intensity, then check out John McLaughlin’s Mahavishnu period stuff), but I doubt that many open minded jazz drummers could deny that Meshuggah’s rhythmic prowess and individuality is pretty awe inspiring. Their lead guitar sound is also so Allan Holdsworth-esque at times that the charge of it being derivative could quite easily be made to stick. It’s when the guitars are being used as rhythmic jack-hammers, to bludgeon the senses with the low-tuned and unusual meter angular riffs that one can sensibly talk of Meshuggah’s guitarists as being innovative and interesting.

So, on to point two: the vocals/lyrics. This a tricky and complex area, so I might not be that brief… I have to disagree with several reviewers here in commending the vocals. I mean no offence to the singer either, he does a sterling job. I absolutely love the music, but why is it mandatory in the metal arena to have guttural screaming and morbid lyrics? The music makes some very imaginative departures from the typical metal template… it’s a shame the lyrics and vocal delivery don’t go so far off the map. To qualify: the words are mostly at least interesting, intelligent and display a quasi-philosophical bent (it’s great to hear openly athiest views expressed in music without it being in the guise of pantomime paganism or satanism), which is better than some of the teenage death-core tripe some other ‘dark’ metal bands concentrate on.

I remember a member of Slayer (or was it Dave Mustaine of Megadeth?), possibly Kerry King, saying how lyrics about flowers being sung melodically just wouldn’t work in metal… why not? A subsiduary and related musical criticism is about variety. I like Vashti Bunyan and Meshuggah. Are there any artists (there’s bound to be a few mavericks out there – The Mars Volta kinda lean in this direction at times) who don’t plough such monorail furrows? Beck’s a good example of an eclectic and experimental contempoaray pop artist. Metal could do with being less of a specialist introverted ghetto (the intense claustrophobia of much metal music aptly puts one in mind of a teenage lad’s bedroom, probably one of the places where most ‘dark’ metal is consumed)… y’know, open up those doors and windows, let some fresh air in.

Anyway, ultimately Meshuggah are/were a blast of icy cold fresh air in their own way, and despite (and at times because of) their relentlessly heavy dark vibe remain a fairly unique and singular musical unit. I have my criticisms and all that… but I’m still giving this fantastic album the full five stars… ’cause it’s brain blattingly brilliant. ‘Nuff said.

Tantric Funk (18 Jul 2009)*

*This is a slightly edited version of my very old Amazon review.

I wrote a piece on this album for Drummer magazine (go buy it, it’s a great read!) some time back, and just now, listening to ‘Heaven At Once’ (track four) I thought ‘I bet if anyone’s reviewed this for Amazon this they haven’t mentioned this little doozy’. … I took a quick look, and it appears [at least at that time, pre 2018?] my suspicions were correct. 

Andy Edwards [who had a review on Amazon UK when I wrote this] has already said enough to justify any funk (or jazzy soul) lover flopping out their wallets or prizing open their purses for the better known tracks.

I just want to add that ‘Heaven At Once’ is a thing of nonpareil beauty, and yet another compelling reason to shell out for this masterpiece.

Kicking off with a languid and harmonious 16th note groove, a fabulous horn arrangement, with sax and vibes tootling away, a child’s voice then enters into a truly wonderful dialogue with superdude Kool, who ultimately reveals that he and his band, under the cover of being a completely groovy funky soulful outfit (not that he makes that boast), are actually “scientists of sound, mathematically putting it down”…

And what are these funky boffins (re)searching for? “The key to the light”. “What’s the key to the light?” You might well ask, as does the kid rappin’ with Kool… for the answer, go buy this deliciously fabulous peach of an album. 

It saddens me to say this, but, as far as I know, they (and by they I don’t mean Kool & The Gang, I mean anyone) don’t generally make ’em like this any more.

UPDATE (Jan, ‘25)

After crying like a big baby for hours, listening to their 80s hit Cherish, and the whole of Wild & Peaceful, for the umpteenth time, I felt perhaps I should address the rest of this awesome – six stars, no less! – recording.

‘The best ideas of the Beats remain as bracing, spirited, and subversive as in their heyday.’

My title for this review is Sterritt’s closing line, and I’d have to say I concur. In this very brief survey of the Beats, David Sterritt ranges over everything from the roots of Beat culture to its legacy, focussing in particular on the literary movement, via a glance over the novels, poetry and key authors and events. The links to other areas of artistic production, particularly music, painting and film are all of interest, but dealt with so briefly that it is a little frustrating. But, hey, that’s in the nature of this ‘Very Short Introduction’ series. 

Actually, given the very tight constraints of space, Sterritt packs a lot in. Some of it smacks a little of tokenism, as for example with the desire to include African American and female authors. I’m not saying these writers aren’t connected in the valid ways Sterritt puts forward, it’s just that I don’t see them as core Beat figures, and devoting space to them removes room for other material. Then, in addition to these moments of ‘inclusiveness’, there are the inevitable omissions or lacunae. Jazz singer Mark Murphy, and singer-songwriter Tom Waits, at least in his first decade or so (and even after that, albeit in a modified manner), are two great ‘men out of time’ Beats, for my money. Both Murphy and Waits have recorded specifically Beat material, and even, at times, endeavoured to live out a Beat lifestyle. 

It’s also worthy of note, I believe, that Kerouac literally wept over the disinterest of the horn players at his jazz/spoken word sessions, which, frankly (and I love a lot of both Kerouac and jazz) aren’t terrifically successful; Waits, on the other hand, has recorded loads of great recitative poetry with jazz-backing, effectively realising what Kerouac was originally going for, only far more successfully. One example of the latter being the superb ‘Jack & Neal’, on Waits’ superlative foreign Affairs album, which, like several of his earlier albums, is practically the Beat vision realised in musician terms. 

As a lover of many things Beat, it was fun to read this book and be reminded of a former self, and to be inspired to go back to some stuff I’ve read before, and read it again, or to explore some of the stuff I missed out on in my own ‘Beat’ days: I’ve always meant to but never got around to reading John Clellon Holmes novel Go. Must do it! Some of the stuff Sterritt covers, for example the Carr/Kammerrer story (which revolves around sex, obsession and death), was something I only learned about relatively recently, when the excellent Kerouac/Burroughs collaboration – apparently unfinished, acc. to Sterritt; tho’ I don’t recall attention being drawn to this in the book when I read it, and I read the peripheral stuff as well – And The Hippos Were Boiled In Their Tanks was published. This interesting chapter in Beat history finally came out only after an injunction put in place by Carr (or his estate) lapsed.

For me another essential contradiction in the Beat mindset or lifestyle, in addition to the introvert/extrovert one (as alluded to above, in Sterritt’s concluding remark that provides my title), and at the root of some of the sniffy reactions to Beat writing – Truman Capote famously dissed OTR, saying it wasn’t writing, but merely typing – is that between the intellectual and the physical, for want a better expression of duality or polarity. Kerouac himself was very much a tortured incarnation of this potentially troublesome bi-polarity, being both the literary ‘jock’ and Catholic Bhuddist. Neal Cassady certainly embodied the latter, the ‘cowboy crashing’, as Gary Snyder puts it, but, and I think this is crucial, Kerouac also saw an innate intellect in Ginsberg’s ultra-physical ‘cocksman and Adonis of Denver’, describing one of Neal’s epic letters as ‘the greatest piece of writing I ever saw’. And as is clear in On The Road, one of the best known products of Beat writing and culture, Kerouac sensed from very early on that, in Sterritt’s synopsis ‘the Beat ideal is unattainable’. 

Whilst there was a present and future focus of sorts and in parts of the Beat zeitgeist, certainly in Kerouac there was also a backwards looking, elegiac side, and I don’t think Sterritt really addresses this, although he does address much of both what is good and bad about the Beats, their work, and the culture it sprang form, and continues to influence. Returning briefly to the musical links, the role of jazz in the formation of the Beat aesthetic is covered well, but it was disappointing to hear, on the other side of the coin, in discussing Beat culture as a source for new music, only of Burroughs’ connections with punk, Laurie Anderson, and Tom Waits: I love the Spare Ass Annie recordings he made with The Disposable Heroes of Hip-Hoprisy! And rather as Waits succeeded where Kerouac often didn’t, in joining his words with jazz, I think Spare Ass Annie is a more successful presentation and collaboration than is the Waits/Burroughs album. I say this as a massive fan of both of the latter; but even Burroughs himself concedes that some creative experiments come off better than others, admitting that some of his own writing is ‘unreadable’.

When it comes to the Beats and film, Sterritt mentions and quotes from the superb documentary ‘Whatever Happened To Jack Kerouac?’ If Tom Waits first decade of recording is the Beat vision realised musically, then this film is the Beat vision, specifically regarding Kerouac in particular, realised as documentary. Similar but different would be Bruce Weber’s Let’s Get Lost, a dreamy biopic of Chet Baker. What the latter has in common with the former is the powerful evocation of a mood that is also part of the charm of the artist they depict. The Kerouac biopic – essential viewing for all true connoisseurs of Beat culture in my view – also succeeds incredibly well in invoking a time and place, indeed, a whole culture, that Kerouac was eulogising as it disappeared in the rear-view mirror.

I’ve still yet to see Robert Frank’s Pull My Daisy, the only ‘truly’ Beat movie. I suspect Youtube will oblige! Ironically I suspect that, like his celebrated photo-journalist work Americans, which has a foreword by Kerouac, and is mentioned here, it might disappoint. Sterritt also mentions a number of movies made about the Beats, from George Peppard toting a sax in the Hollywood schlock reading of The Subteranneans (in which the female lead is changed from black to white) to Cronenberg’s ‘lumbering’ Naked Lunch. I don’t agree with all his appraisals – I like Heart Beat, and found the 2010 film Howl worthy and interesting but but ultimately unsatisfactory – and tend to feel that given the potential for great Beat movies, the era is ill-served, parody being the norm and serious treatments the exception.

According to Sterritt the Beats themselves yearned to realise ‘Hollywood magic … free of Hollywood commercialism.’ The wait goes on! In the meantime we must look elsewhere! And here one might think of the international legacy of the beats: what could be more Beat than some of Wim Wenders’ movies? Whilst Sterritt briefly addresses the notion of the Beat influence as a global phenomenon (via a William Burroughs quote from ‘Whatever Happened To Jack Kerouac?’) he doesn’t get much further than that. I’d argue that Wenders movies like Kings Of The Road and Paris Texas are Beat film making par excellence, as are some Jim Jarmusch films, such as Stranger than Paradise and Down By Law.

For such a short book I guess I’ve written a rather long review! I guess that just shows that the Beats still mean a lot to me. I hope this well-written and interesting book, for all that it can’t cover very much of what is a large subject, helps inform and enthuse others, because, for all that went wrong, whether it be Kerouac’s tragic descent into alcoholism and apron-string Catholicism, or ‘Bull’ Lee’s fatal shooting of his common-law wife – allegedly during a ‘William Tell routine’ – the best of the art and ideas of the Beats do indeed remain as bracing, spirited, and subversive as in they were their heyday.

Clear and pertinent insights. But, poss’ stating the obvious & preaching to the converted?

Originally published on the Amazon UK website, a number of years back, it seemed to me that this would sit well here, now, along with my recent reviews of a few other more recent books critiquing capitalism.

I like the idea behind this book a lot – what Sandel calls the ‘marketization of everything’ is indeed a cause for concern. And I remember hearing and enjoying his Reith lectures, on BBC Radio 4, back in 2009, on the theme of ‘a new citizenship’, in which, if memory serves, he mentioned some of the ideas discussed in this book.

However, this is a rather thin book in terms of concepts and arguments (I read it in one evening), whilst considered in terms of lists and repetition it is, as several other reviewers have noted, rather fat. When Lyell or Darwin do this, in their books on geology or evolution, one feels the cumulative weight of their evidence was entirely necessary. By comparison, Sandel’s examples seem limited and almost entirely anecdotal. And if, as some reviewers suggest (and I suspect they may be right) this book is preaching to the converted, do we need so many examples?

His opening question, the two principles of ‘coercion’ (relating to fairness and choice in an unequal world) and ‘corruption’ (the corrosive effect that supposedly neutral markets can have in valuing goods), along with the closing statement (actually just a reiteration of the opening questions: ‘Do we want a society where everything is up for sale? Or are there certain moral and civic goods that markets do not honor and money cannot buy?’), supported by a few examples, could’ve made the same case in just a fraction of the space.

An Amazon reviewer calling themselves Sphex has said elsewhere that ‘We all know of public figures who scoff at the idea of progress and make a good living bemoaning the current state of the world’. My guess is (the Sphex quote comes from a review of Stephen Pinker’s Better Angels book) he’s referring to John Gray. Whilst one hopes and imagines that Sandel does at least believe we might be able to do something in the face of ‘market triumphalism’ he offers no ideas whatsoever here: this is really just a long (and, at £20, expensive) litany of woes. Whilst Sandel might not be blowing a dirge on the trumpet of pessimism in quite the same way Gray does, he does appear to be trading in gloom.

Although I’m in more or less complete agreement with him that rampant deregulated capitalism running amok in every walk of life is doing immense amounts of harm, I found the parade of morally repellent practices he adduced as evidence, well… frankly, depressing. And on the evidence given here current trends look resolutely headed towards ever more of life being colonised by commerce. Certainly a debate on these issues is needed. But, as Sandel quite correctly points out, neither debate nor engagement on such issues are in a healthy way.

Sandel is American, which is evident not only in his spelling, but also most of his substantive focus, and I feel this book would have benefitted from casting its net wider. I would like to have given the book more stars, but I don’t think it will change many minds, and amongst its readership the litany of gloom might even prove de-motivational. It didn’t really tell me anything new, other than a few specific details of how awful modern capitalism can be, and how frighteningly amoral or immoral its apologists often are, adding a few gory details to the minutiae of horror that its ever spreading tentacles of doom represent.

As whistle-blowing, or acting the role of the boy who shouts ‘the emperor’s butt naked!’, the points Sandel makes are a necessary element of a debate that needs to be happening. Catch-phrase economists passing off their ‘expertise’ as morally neutral, and the oxymoronic concepts that suggest economics is at one and the same time both scientific and yet also clairvoyant are myths more deserving of deconstruction than, for example, Gray’s pet hate, progress. But as well as the critique, the negative, we need positive suggestions, and there are none to be found here.

Stimulating, thought provoking, but flawed.

Transferred, and very slightly amended, from an old Amazon UK review.

This tiny 20 or so page pamphlet is not really a book.

As well as containing the essay boldly if drably emblazoned on the cover, there’s also a very brief review of Hitler’s Mein Kampf. An odd pairing at first glance, but less so when one considers the subject of the first essay in broader terms. In fact Orwell’s review of Mein Kampf is a succinct example of the clarity and concision advocated in the main foregoing essay.

I’ll not say any more about Orwell’s review of the book that helped launch Hitler on his ill-started career here. So, to the main event. In discussing the relationship of politics to the English language, Orwell begins by using five examples of what he deems to be turgid, pretentious and, in several instances, largely meaningless prose, thereby attacking pretentiousness and politicking. Having given examples, he extracts five principles of poor English usage – his  ‘catalogue of swindles and perversion’ – giving them such names as ‘dying metaphor’, and ‘pretentious diction.’

He also puts forward six principles he feels writers ought to follow. Essentially it all boils down to clarity, honesty, concision and simplicity, as basics, with freshness and vividness, should you choose to use metaphor, as the icing on the cake. As some other reviewers of this little publication have observed, Orwell is oversimplifying things drastically to make his points, and even admits he’s guilty of the sins he’s throwing stones at. But this remains a pretty well written case for clarity, honesty and transparency in writing and thinking.

Despite this, and despite some rather unconvincing caveats from Orwell himself, this has the salty tang of Canute against the waves about it. And if he’s right about some things (say for example ‘politics and the debasement of language’) he’s flat wrong about others: both the clichés he refers to on p. 17 (read it to find out they are!) are still alive and well and, whether by the same rules as biology or not, languages and their usages certainly do evolve, an idea he doesn’t seem entirely happy with.

Ultimately I disagree with his reductive and proscriptive stance. Yes language can be and often is political, and yes it can be and often is used to ‘humbug’ us, and ‘give an appearance of solidity to pure wind’ (his objection to lazy off-the-shelf language and its anaesthetic affect on human consciousness is put beautifully, and remains a challenge to us now, perhaps even more so in our info-saturated cyber age). But language is also a rich, evolving, free-flowing mode of human expression, and to seek to control it as Orwell seems to want to do here, is to sit Canute like, before the waves.

Certainly I’ll be thinking about his list of rules, and trying perhaps to employ some of them; clarity and concision – basically the trimming away of verbal fat – being the most obvious and compelling aims. But, unlike Orwell, I won’t be consigning any phrases (except perhaps the new-speak of business culture?) to any kind of literary dustbin.

As others have noted, given the subject, and the slightness of this publication, the typos (particularly egregious is ‘turning’ rendered as ‘turmng’, in a note on p. 7.) are inexcusable!

Stimulating and thought provoking, but something of a flawed oddity, both in itself, and in this tiny, slim format.

Judith Herrin’s Byzantium is an engaging read, which is exactly what I want in a popular history book. 

She puts it well in her concluding statement when she summarises all the possible reasons why one might naturally be fascinated by the story of Byzantium – as a bulwark against Islam for nascent Western Europe, as the inheritor of Greek and Roman legacies, as the Eastern half of Christendom, or countless other things ranging from the creation of new alphabets to the use and roles of eunuchs – concluding that it’s not any one of these things, but the combination, what she calls “a rich ecology of traditions and resources”, that make for such a fascinating history.

She does seem to have a bee in her bonnet about the “systematic calumnies” perpetrated against Byzantium by the West, and she pinpoints the root of this as being the sack of Constantinople in 1204 during the Crusades. I was, personally, unaware of this allegedly jaundiced view, but I can quite easily see that she may well be right. Diarmid McCullough, in his History of Christianity makes a similar special plea for the re-evaluation of Eastern Christendom, so she’s certainly not alone in taking this position.

Byzantium is delightfully pleasurable straightforward reading on the whole (although I think a glossary would be a good addition), structured in easily digested bite-sized thematic chapters.

One minor irritation was the way the supernatural side of religion (Christianity in particular, naturally, given the subject of the book) was related as if factual (e.g. p 107, ‘Leo’s defence … intercession of the Virgin’, or p 103 ‘Sometimes the icons … powers.’ This last is immediately followed by a short section couched in two lights, first as if the supernatural were factual (‘Patriarch Sophronius … witnessed’ etc), and then in a more historical/rationalist vein; ‘individuals who believed themselves cured’ etc. I find this double-standard a little odd.

Herrin explicitly states in her intro that she’s deliberately emphasising the role of religious belief (and in particular her feel for the historical weight of Christian belief: ‘an intensely personal view’ founded in work done on her previous book The Formation Of Christendom) in a history where she feels ‘secular scholarship and popular appreciation’ may be in danger of forgetting or overlooking this.

I thoroughly enjoyed the book, yet there is a dissonance when religious experience (and by that I mean the supernatural aspects of religious belief) is couched in exactly the same terms as any other ‘fact’.

And indeed I was really struck by how little rational qualification of such ‘data’ there was, and how late it started putting in its rare appearances. So much so that when, roughly a third of the way through the book, on p101, she actually qualified a statement (‘Visions and … were alleged … icons.’), I felt like saying ‘at last!’

Quite what her exact personal position is, in religious terms, is then, potentially, an important and relevant issue to the proper understanding of the book.