Craig Oliver was David Cameron’s Director of Politics and Communications in the run up to the European Referendum in Great Britain.
He was well-placed to know what happened and, of course, didn’t happen, as he struggled alongside the prime minister, both in 10 Downing Street, and travelling all over the UK and to the continent of Europe, as the Remain/Stronger In campaigns fought to restrain and refute some of the more passionate, or should I say, extreme, claims of the Outers. Oliver kept a diary because, he writes, “everyone keeps saying this will be the biggest decision for the country since the Second World War”.
According to Oliver, Cameron said, that the referendum could “unleash demons of which ye know not”. Oliver, who thought that this was a quotation from The Bible or Shakespeare, states, in his introduction, that the “demons were unleashed and he and his team faced betrayal, lies and political bloodletting on an epic scale”.
For me Cameron’s phrase immediately evokes the words of King Lear in Act Four of the eponymous play, when Lear has just realised the scope of his daughters’ treachery: “I shall have such revenges on you both / That all the world shall – I will do such things – / What they are yet I know not, but they shall be the terrors of the earth”.
In Lear’s words, but, also, particularly in the pauses, there are indications of impotence and hesitancy. Whether these two elements were at play in the six-month campaign is the essential argument of the book.
Oliver asserts that Cameron and his team were at the mercy of the media in three ways: “influential newspapers fighting for Leave with ruthless determination, whilst others, in favour of Remain, tended to be left-leaning and therefore lukewarm” and, thirdly, he thinks that television and radio were forced, by law, to report both sides’ points of view, “even when the other side were churning out stories that were at best deeply misleading and at worst, lies”. The Remainers, therefore, were, to some extent, made impotent by the media.
But Oliver also thinks that they made some foolish assumptions. Firstly “that electorates don’t vote against their own pockets” and secondly that there was a sort of lumpen proletariat that would not bother to vote. He says “we realised too late – and didn’t do enough to combat it”. This is hesitancy.
As early as January 1st this year, Oliver reports George Osborne, then Chancellor of the Exchequer, as saying, “we’ve put up with this for too long and nothing is happening, and we have got to sort it out”. But Oliver believes that the Conservative Party was doubly hamstrung at that stage. First Cameron had to try to renegotiate the terms of the relationship between the European Union and the UK. Second, until that ‘deal’ had been done the prime minister, apparently, would not be able to say whether or not he would recommend staying or leaving. So, again, the stench of impotency and hesitancy.
As he observes a steady stream of Outist ministers and advisors brief against the government, Oliver wonders how “the average, self-interested Cabinet minister” will act. He ponders on who might risk their career to lead Leave, saying that “backing Leave could see them achieve glory that might not come their way otherwise, or see their career destroyed”.
It’s shocking though, to me, that these public servants would put their own lust for power and continuance, before the best interests of their country, and all its peoples and regions, in this fundamental epoch-changing decision. For me, the Referendum posed a moral question, based more in the principles of friendship and togetherness than in politics and the economy. But it may be that, in my naivety, I am mixing up the ill-fated League of Nations with its monstrous grandchild: the EU.
According to Oliver the “PM is concerned about everything unravelling, fearful over how the wider Conservative party is reacting” so he reassures his boss by outlining the three things that will happen if the referendum goes in favour of the Outers: Cameron will resign, Scotland might well have another independence vote, Great Britain will no longer have leverage in global matters. The language, of the advisor, is defeatist from the get-go.
The ultra-Europhile, Peter Mandelson, a strange bedfellow, phoned Oliver to set out his own three worries – everything seems corralled into threes in this book – which seem prescient for a conversation in early January. Mandelson wants to know how the government will “dock” with the Remain team. He also is concerned that there is no “core script” for immigration and thirdly he thinks “people fear that Europe is becoming a funnel for terrorism”.
Later that day Oliver and Cameron discussed Theresa May, then Home Secretary, who they believe to be “flirting with the Out campaign”. But they decide that all is calm since she has “a long record of defending the European Union”.
In the afternoon Cameron beat Boris Johnson at tennis and cheerfully reported joking about Europe with him; Oliver drily comments, “Boris has been flirting with Brexit, but clearly isn’t sure. We’re in for a tortuous wait before he finally shows his hand”.
Reading Unleashing Demons can often be an experience rich with irony. Everything that I have mentioned so far happened within the first ten days of 2016. The referendum took place on 23rd June but in January the seeds were already sown for the disaster ahead, for David Cameron, his team and the Remain campaign.
In February Oliver and Cameron and their aids are limbering up for the re-negotiation summit. The deal is done on the 19th. Cameron announces it live on the British TV news. Strong rumours come through whilst Oliver and Cameron are in Brussels that Michael Gove has chosen Out. On the 20th, when they are back in London, Boris seems to opt for Out, but says he expects Britain to stay in.
Later in the day, Boris isn’t sure where he stands. Boris describes himself as “veering around like a shopping trolley”. Cameron, on the other hand, his feet firmly planted, is outside No. 10: “My recommendation is clear – Britain will be stronger and safer in a reformed EU”. The deal receives a varied response from politicians and press, but over time is seen by many as insufficient.
The next day Boris is Out again, but Cameron thinks he is really “a confused Inner”. Nevertheless, states Oliver, the stage is set for the “Clash of the Titans”. Soon after this Oliver resigns his official post under David Cameron to work for Stronger In, but he is still often in Downing Street or working with the prime minister. His diary entries get increasingly frustrated as he juggles politicians with disparate ideas and beliefs, trying to build simple strong media messages from a morass of inconsistencies and contraries.
His health suffers: a “wheezy” chest and the “early symptoms of an ulcer”. He attends interminable meetings in drab windowless basements and is fed unappealing sandwiches and watery stew. One day he feels as if he were in a “dystopian movie”. Weeks later, on the occasion of Nigel Farage’s “flotilla of fisherman” streaming up the Thames, he queries how it came “to be this surreal, through-the-looking glass, topsy-turvy madness”. Oliver admits, often, to being “knackered”.
In March Oliver meets with Theresa May at the Home Office. He asks her to be more active in the campaign and receives some reassurance. Another dry analysis from Oliver is “She is on the right side, making clear she is In, but not looking overly enthusiastic. It’s making life uncomfortable for us and many feel she owes DC more, but in purely selfish terms, this positions her best.” One might wonder whether, in this diary “entry” or others, there is a touch of hindsight.
Mid March – Oliver wakes with “a throbbing head, tooth-ache and low-level sore throat.” Oh no, it’s man-flu and he hasn’t got time to be ill!
By April he is beginning to feel like the proverbial fool. Can Theresa help by delivering a blast of an interview with Andrew Marr? No, the Remain cause is no further forward. What about her forthcoming speech? But she’s released the speech to The Times before DC and Oliver have pushed through their re-draft. The key offending sentence is that May does not want to “insult people’s intelligence by claiming that everything about the EU is perfect, that membership of the EU is wholly good, or that the sky will fall in if we vote to leave”. Maybe Oliver should sign up Henny Penny?
In the early hours of 14th June Oliver has a “moment of clarity”. He realises that the EU’s freedom of movement stance is “wrong”. An email sent to Cameron suggests that the prime minister should make a speech in which he promises that Britain can remain in the EU and impose limits on immigration. But it’s too late to change tack. A decision is made not to deliver that speech and that promise. Cameron was impotent in his attempts to renegotiate Britain’s membership of the EU and Remain/Stronger In have hesitated too long. Doubts darken Oliver’s thoughts: he now thinks “telling people they will be poorer if they leave the EU” does not “trump controlling immigration”.
By the 15th June, with poll after poll being very close – at one point there are thought to be only 30,000 votes in it – Oliver has decided that David Cameron’s tenure is over: he cannot survive even if Remain win. The PM, on the other hand, seems to be planning a September reshuffle and might already have done a deal with Boris.
Reading Unleashing Demons is a bit like watching a performance of King Lear. You know the denouement but you just can’t help hoping that Cordelia will survive. And then she is hanged.
We know the end of this story too. Angela Merkel is given space at the end of the book to say, “What is painful to me is that young people failed to turn out in numbers to vote”. Oliver comments, “Quite”. Immediately after the vote, Oliver says, the country seemed to be in the hands of, what, columnist, Janan Ganesh, thinks are “jokers at an auction whose playfully exorbitant bid for a vase had just been accepted with a chilling smash of the gavel”. The “jokers” crash and burn but May strides elegantly through the rubble to take up the reins. Perhaps the sky will not fall in?
Oliver, C. Unleashing Demons: the inside story of Brexit. Hodder and Stoughton. 2016.
This book review was first published on 3rd June 2017 and appeared on page 33 and 34 of the Weekend Section of the Irish Examiner.
The Story of the Carr’s Hill Murder by Jane Housman.
One cannot help but feel that Jane Housman is a fan of Kate Summerscale’s best selling The Suspicions of Mr Wicher, in which Summerscale takes a mid-Victorian murder and attempts to create a fictionalised murder mystery story. Both women carried out extensive research and both seek to unmask the hypocrisies and suspect moral codes of that period.
Here, though, the comparisons end. Housman’s tale is set in Tyneside, in an industrialised, but still rural north, her characters are from the labouring classes and her murderer, the apprentice, facilitates a study of lunatic asylums as well as police procedures.
Interestingly the area had a proportionately high number of Irish immigrants, attracted by the promise of employment, unattractive and noxious though many of the available posts were. Housman states, “local tensions were running high. There was sectarian hostility between Catholic and Protestant Irish immigrants and general anti-Irish feeling from the indigenous locals, exacerbated by fears of an Irish uprising and acts of terrorism”.
The victim of the Carr’s Hill murder is Sarah, 5½, the daughter of an Irish immigrant couple, Mary and Michael Melvin. The suspects are the parents of the murdered child, their motive: poverty. Whilst the post-mortem, or dissection, took place on the family kitchen table, crowds gathered outside the Melvin’s house, brought there by the railways and their voyeuristic tendencies. Dr. Barkus concluded that Sarah had received a blow on the head before being strangled. After death, he believed, her genitals had been cut with a knife in an attempt to mask the fact that there had been no rape.
The press, if not the police or judiciary, determined that this dastardly act must have been carried out by Sarah’s mother. The child was one too many for the family to support so it seemed likely that Mary had killed her own child and tried to deflect suspicion by making it look as if she had been raped by a man. Housman presents a society which is both anti-Irish and misogynistic.
Low and behold a young Englishman comes forward and confesses to the murder. This is Cuthbert Carr, a fifteen year old, considered by locals as ‘mad’ and ‘feeble minded’. His motive: ‘the virgin cure’. At the time, the mediaeval belief that sex with a virgin was a way of ridding oneself of gonorrhoea and/or syphilis still held sway. The murder was a sidepiece to prevent identification. Here is the apprentice of Split Crow Lane, an apprentice who could not stick at a job because he was anxious and nervous. An Irish girl child has been murdered by a vulnerable and frightened English boy.
Next there is a chance for various ‘medical men who had had experience in cases of insanity’ to make their contribution. The report, by Robert Smith MD, the Medical Superintendent of the County Lunatic Asylum at Sedgefield, concludes, among other things, that Cuthbert Rodham Carr, looks like an imbecile and also sits like one. He “declared unequivocally that Cuthbert lacked the mental capacity to be responsible for his acts and should be treated in an asylum”.
According to Housman ‘in Broadmoor Cuthbert’s madness effloresced”. By the age of 20 he had tried to escape twice. He committed violent acts against other prisoners and guards, he wrote a “ferociously articulate” petition to Her Majesty’s Commissionaires in Lunacy and became a “spanner in the Broadmoor works”. But Broadmoor, which labelled Cuthbert as chronically manic with delusions, is still extant whilst the apprentice himself died at a relatively young age.
Housman’s style is didactic: perhaps over-reliant on her research, “I became driven to find out every available detail. Nothing about it bored me”. This might not necessarily be the reaction of the reader who might be discombobulated at finding a paragraph-long footnote explaining the trade and working hours of teazers, (furnacemen). Housman is an enthusiastic user of parentheses, (brackets); a stylistic format which I, as a youngster, was forbidden by my English teachers. Additionally Housman is somewhat addicted to defining words rather than assuming that her reader knows, or can easily find out, the meaning. She makes assertions and speculates unnecessarily around the factual evidence that she has found. And there is something cloying and self-congratulatory about her tone in such phrases as “I flatter myself”. The Apprentice of Split Crow Lane is Housman’s labour of love and presents the avid, if undiscerning, reader with gruesome detail and overwhelming context.
Housman, J. The Apprentice of Split Crow Lane. Riverrun. 2016.
A version of this review was first published on page 36 of the Weekend section of the Irish Examiner on 1st April 2017.
I wanted to call this final blog ‘the blog of blogs’ but I think someone else has done that already.
And, as I was reading Seamus Heaney’s bog poems in North for an upcoming seminar with Dr Adam Hanna, I thought I would open my final blog with a class that hasn’t yet happened. This illustrates, once again, my rebellious and unnecessarily maverick approach. So my blog journey, instead of going forward from the first blog, goes backwards from 20th March 2017 to 8th October 2016.
There are quite a lot of blogs but it’s cheating really as 50% of them (those in orange) are book reviews that I wrote for the Irish Examiner. I included them because Donna encouraged me to display my published work. There are another five review blogs in my drafts box, waiting for publication dates in the paper, and another three actual books, to be reviewed, on my kitchen table. So that’s at least another eight blogs to go, after this one.
Today! March 20th: Glob-bog-blog
March 18th: Her Again: Becoming Meryl Streep
March 13th: Horrorshow
March 13th: To seem a white king’s gem
March 12th: Breakdown: the crisis of shell shock
March 17th: #textualities17
March 6th : Paddling with Pecha Kucha
February 11th: The novel of the century
February 10th: Jonathan Swift: the reluctant rebel
February 8th: Walsh and Wiki
January 26th: My Literature Review
December 19th 2016: Goldfinch in the Snow
November 26th 2016: Not Waiting for Godot
November 20th 2016: Not normally angry in Ireland
November 10th 2016: It’s the Economy Stupid!
November 4th 2016: A Shared History: Dadland
November 3rd 2016: Darkness Visible
October 30th 2016: They Dreamed and are Dead
October 29th 2016: Perils of Popery
October 8th 2016: Not all Plans are Idiot Proof
The book reviews are rarely viewed which is a shame as I think they’re quite interesting. I never know what the book editor will send me and I sometimes wonder if he is a bit of a sadist. Why would anyone send an ‘oh so English’ woman Blanketmen? It’s ‘an untold story’ written by one of the hunger strikers. I chose every word that I wrote very carefully. Proofreading had to reach the highest level possible.
When I look at my categories and tags I know that it’s the book reviews ‘what done it’. Catholicism and Protestantism rule the tag cloud although I see that Enda Walsh has now overtaken them.
The Jonathan Swift review , in particular, would be interesting to the student of Irish Literature. It’s a brilliant literary biography and if anyone wants the book just ask and I will give it to you. Or if you fancy any of the other texts let me know and I will bring them in. Not the Meryl Streep book though. Donna’s got that. And Blanketmen has gone to the head of maths at the Camden school in which I taught from September 2002 to July 2015.
Donna’s list for the Glob-Bog-Blog:
I think Donna means that we should have everything well organised or in good order rather than ordered numerically. And she hasn’t mentioned citing. I checked on Ellan’s and Emilio’s blogs-of-blogs from last year. It looks as if you just cite your own blogs. Other works mentioned, perhaps, are merely found within the blog. Here is Emilio’s:
Bonome Ares, Emilio José. ‘About‘. Irishness and Beyond: An Irish Writing and Film Student’s Blog. WordPress. 16 Sept. 2015.Web. 24 Mar.2016.
Horrorshow! was posted on March 13th and gives my reflections on the mini-conference. It picks up on #textualitiesandPaddling with Pecha Kuchawhich charter my journey towards Textualities 2017. Extracts from Horrowshow! suggest that by 13th March I am not feeling too bad. Extracts from my previous blogs are given in pink.
When the day came I was no longer nervous. Either I was numb as my nerves could support no more effort or I was as well prepared as I could be and I could do no more. And I knew that my mate Emilio would be coming to support me.
Donna was in the room and when she is there I always feel calm.
Annie and Rebecca had my back on technicalities. They were both so kind and so competent. It would all be cool.
Then it was me doing my talk on Enda Walsh’s use of ‘living room’ in his plays. I like the images as they are all simple – just photographs of stage sets. But they looked good I think.
Annie was there to press the buttons so that everything worked. I launched into my carefully timed narrative. Questions, when they came, from Graham Allen, Adam Hannah, Anne Etienne and others were supportive and not hostile as I had feared. I am looking forward to engagement with all three named faculty before I get much deeper into my research.
#textualities is the live blog that I did on March 10th. It was the final panel of the day and I was quite tired by this time. I would probably give that blog a fairly low grade (like 3/10), although Siobhán, whose presentation I blogged, was very generous. She sent me a comment:
Wow! You really kept on top of that, Josephine. Much impressed by your powers of endurance and attention. Well done!
It was really hard to listen and type – as I had no idea what they would say or in what order. I did not know what the key points might be. But I tightened my narrative up a bit during Q&As and was able to publish immediately. I felt that it was important to have it published and entered as a link on Twitter before we broke up for the day. So this shows you how far I have gone in technical terms. This is mainly down to Donna, of course, and Emilio, who was on the MA in Irish Writing and Film last year with me. He gave me one-to-one tutorials.
I have just had to leave this blog for a few minutes to Tweet about my best ever acting student, Daniel Kaluuya, who opens in Cork tomorrow (it is not tomorrow now but was St Patrick’s Day) in the comedy horror Get Out. There are serious issues for him (and for me, although that does not matter so much) in terms of the way people regard him racially. You can see my blog from last year about this and I will write another soon once I have seen the film.
So now we journey back to March 6th. It’s Paddling with Pecha. I sort of like this title as it links in with a bookreview I was writing at the same time but which is not yet published.
I headlined the review Queueing with Elephants. The book is about finding a place, in the world , a sacred combe. in which you can commune with your soul.
But, for me, Pecha Kucha was not really a place that I could use for communicating with my soul. But I did paddle in it and I felt that I understood and liked and respected it in the end. Nevertheless I think that I would prefer a spot in West Cork or on the Hook Peninsula for my combe. Although I am quite fond of certain parts of London, especially bridges.
My Pecha Kucha is complete. The slides are chosen and ordered. The narrative is written. I forgot to do the storyboard thing but never mind.
Others are beavering away at the online presence and organisational matters. Thanks to all of them. Soon the day will come and we will strut our stuff. Then it will be over. Bring it on.
Donna’s list, above, tells me that I must mention my two research seminar blogs. To Seem a White King’s Gemwas posted on March 13th.
This was a seminar given by Benjamin Keatinge about the Anglo-Irish poet Richard Murphy. I was thrilled by the prospect as it particularly focused on Post-Colonialism and form.
Keatinge suggests that Murphy had a ‘quarrel with his own inheritance’. That he sees ‘himself as a victim as well as an inheritor of colonialism’. I find it poignant thinking of Murphy – sexually ambivalent, ancestrally misbegotten, and spatially unsettled – his life seems to have been exceedingly liminal. For further elucidation you might read Maurice Harmon’s 2007 ‘In Good Form’, an interesting account of Murphy’s life and work and/or his own piece ‘Notes for Sonnets’ published in The Poetry Ireland Review (2011).
What I find most interesting about Murphy is his use of the sonnet form. I have always regarded this structure as a sort of corset for composing poems. If you can get into it, it provides an elegant silhouette. But if you are flabby or loose you’d be better off leaving it alone.
In his journal ‘Notes for Sonnets’ Murphy writes to himself: ‘Have all possible cadences been tried and exhausted in the sonnet? … Ask this question in the Wellington sonnets … ? Are you square bashing in rhymed metrical verse … ? constrained by the left right left right of the metre and the rhyme, the platoons of polished boots on the parade?’
So I would say that this is the best blog I have written in terms of the MA. After I had written it I send it to Adam Hannah, who had been at the seminar. He sent me a really useful link to a film by Richard Murphy’s niece, about her parents and uncles and aunts and grandparents in their ‘quite’ big house, Milford. It is fascinating if you are interested in the last remnants of the Anglo-Irish. And shows me how useful research blogs can be if someone reads them and offers useful comments. Thank you Adam.
Back we go to February 8th and it’s the aftermath of the Wikipedia Editing session. I am writing about my efforts to edit the page on Enda Walsh. I was quite interested in the idea that the entries on Wikipedia had to be factual and objective, like an encyclopaedia. That was a discipline. There were more gushing compliments to Donna and Emilio, of course.
I put in another new heading which is ‘Themes’. There is an issue with this I think. Wikipedia is an encyclopaedia and the idea of themes might be a little too interpretative. To get around this I used only Walsh’s own words. He is a great one for saying what his plays are about, unlike Beckett or Pinter, but he doesn’t always say the same thing. I love his sweeping statements which suggest that all his plays are about . . . whatever he says at that moment. So, even if someone eventually cleans this section off the page I have put in on as I think it is fascinating.
I found the technicalities of citations, links and screenshots very straightforward. I also managed to send some rather dull tweets although I am not sure whether I am following enough people or if enough people are following me. Thank you Annie, Roy and Donna for your ‘likes’. I am indebted to Donna Alexander and Emilio Bonome-Ares for teaching me how to edit Wikipedia. They were both very kind and supportive. Also calm in the face of my panic.
In terms of live Tweeting. I got a reply from an Irish friend who is a Chelsea supporter but not, in the slightest bit, interested in my studies. He said that I had to put an icon on my Twitter account. All Greek to me… Icon? But I dug out an old photograph.
Actually this had been scanned for me by the Irish Examiner for an illustration for my review of Dadland.It wasn’t used in the end but three other images of my family were used. The reason for this was that the writer, Keggie Carew, and I were born around the same time, as were our fathers. So my review looked at her father in terms of his success as a soldier and failure as a dad. My father was the opposite although he had been ‘steady under fire’ at DDay+1.
In England we call that the Second World War whereas in Ireland it was known as the Emergency. My father came from a family of Quakers and pacifists – both my grandfathers were conscientious objectors during the Great War – but he felt strongly that, weedy as he was, he would have to take up arms against the evil of Hitler and Nazism. Many Irish fought alongside my father. So died, some lived.
Back we go to January 26th and I am on my high horse about the literature review. Heather Laird had delivered an inspiring session and I had rushed home and drafted a literature review, a concept on which I blogged in my usual mean-spirited way. I have not even looked at the review since – but, oh gosh, we have now had strict instructions to submit our literature review under Turnitin. Maybe because I mentioned the availability of buying one we all have to use Turnitin. Whoops!
As I do not choose to avail myself of a bought product I will have to re-write the Literature and IT Review shortly, in the light of work that I, and no one else, have done since January 26th. The deadline looms. Hoping to meet it somehow.
Now it’s a long way back…
December 2015. I was writing about Modern Irish Gothic. This post springs from a reading of Irish work at the UCC Boole library. I was very taken by a story Eílísh Ní Dhuibhne called Goldfinch in the Snow. I wanted to write about it for the Gothic to Modernism unit. I was not allowed to as I have not been taught the work, the writer nor modern gothic. So I wrote a blog instead. I think it has particularly nice images and Heather liked my work on colour imagery.
Ní Dhuibhne uses colour in interesting, if rather heavy-handed, ways. Darina, the eponymous goldfinch, looks like one. She wears ‘high heels and … black lacy stockings’. On her feet are ‘shoes, black patent, strappy, more sandals than shoes?’ and ‘her long black hair [has] the tiny red cap on top … the scrap of yellow silk at her throat’ (54/55). Darina is representative of colour. We hear of the colour of her home town of ‘Golden Beach’ (presumably Golden Sands, near Varna, on the Black Sea) where the sea is blue, the boats and birds are white, and ‘the women in their bikinis’ are ‘like tropical birds’. We hear about the liminal colour of dawn, ‘a pale, milky colour … a pale bluey grey … maybe, pearl blue’ (53/58).
I am quite annoyed that only 4 people looked at this blog as I am proud of it. One was Heather Laird, of course. One was my partner. One was Margaret, my peer from Irish Writing and Film. And it is one of my key blogs as it counts as a Research Seminar blog.
But I know that some of my feminist peers would have been interested to read it, had they known. I read Louise O’Neill, in the Examiner, every week, and have read her novel, Asking for It, about rape. I have also reviewed, for the Irish Examiner, the book Animal by Sara Pascoe. My review cannot be blogged yet as it has not been published. Other reviews of it have already appeared. Pascoe, a woman from Essex, is an ardent feminist and comedienne. She is brave and funny. Pascoe cannot believe that it is illegal to have an abortion in Ireland.
She comments in her introduction to the reprint of her book that she feels confident that by the time the reprint is published the Eighth will have been repealed. Well, the reprint was published a while back. And, according to my sources, the Eighth is nowhere near being repealed. For me abortion is a basic human right. But I am too ignorant on the detail of the Irish debate to comment.
Before Goldfinch in the Snow we find a blogging fest in November 2016. Three reviews, including Dadland and one blog about Remembrance Day. The latter is another of my high horse issues. I am not a fan of the establishment. Not in England and not in Ireland. But I have a blog with images of Queen Elizabeth II of England and prime ministers and presidents.
What is going on?
I am offended as there is , in Ireland, to my knowledge, no official two minutes’ silence on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month. We do have this in England at schools and workplaces.
I am a bit of an aficionado of literature of and about the First World War. I taught it for years for a synoptic paper at A level. I led trips to the battlefields and identified site-specific readings for my students to deliver. I took a particular interest in Irish literature as my partner was working here in Cork. In fact, I wrote about it in the Irish Examiner and my partner wrote about the historical context. He also spoke to my students, over the intercom in the coach, about the history of the war and the contribution of the Irish.
To return to the point, Armistice Day, is a commemoration of the ending of a violent event, rather than the violent event itself. Can that be argued for commemoration of the Easter Rising? If you commend Bruton’s remarks then you should not really celebrate an uprising which deflected resources from a world war which was fought to establish the self-determination of small nations; especially given the contribution to the hard-won victory by soldiers from the island of Ireland. I recommend Sebastian Barry’s novel A Long Long Way to anyone wanting to engage with the conflicting ideas of this period.
My interest in the First World War was deepened by reviewing a book about shell shock called Breakdown. Ignorance and fear led to traumatised young men being badly treated or even shot at dawn.
I also wrote, on 26th November about a book by the Guardian theatre critic Michael Billington. It was called The101 Greatest Plays. My blog, which focussed only on the Irish playwrights therein, was called Not Waiting for Godot.
Nine Irish playwrights and a total of ten plays make the cut. Farquhar, Goldsmith, Sheridan, Shaw (twice), Joyce, O’Casey, Beckett, Friel and McPherson. But where are Boucicault, Synge, Behan, Keane, Murphy, McGuinness, Carr, Barry, and Walsh? Another nine off the top of my head, and I haven’t even started on those born elsewhere such as McDonagh.
Instead Billington chose All That Fall, a radio play, because of its “vivid particularity” rather than “exemplary archetypes”. Helen accuses Michael of a “dated penchant for observant realism” but he insists that the play contains “all the great Beckett themes given flesh and colour”.
Interestingly, although the MA students studying English and American Literature and Film did study Waiting for Godot, we in Irish Writing and Film looked at Happy Days. I wrote an essay for Anne Etienne on Lust, Love and Loss in the play.
This is one of the few blogs that I have written which has received a comment – and one from a total stranger!
Well, that was an interesting juxtaposition of subjects! I thought more Bill and Ted than George and Lennie, but I enjoyed both the film and your review. Cheers. BTW interesting dilemma about the barnacle!
What a result! The above popped in five months’ later on March 16th 2017.
So my blogging journey has been long and varied. I would say that is nothing like scholarly enough – I tend to keep that for my essays. But I have really enjoyed writing it and I have enjoyed reading my peers’ blogs too. Have a look at my first post for a laugh.
Oh guess what? I do not think this blog-of-blogs will be shown as an example of excellence next year, do you? But here is what Maureen sent me before leaving for her sabbatical: A model blog! You have tags, a category ‘cloud’, links to other blogs, thoroughly engaging, provocative entries, made with regular frequency and which strike the perfect tone. Your multimedia elements are appropriate and Illuminating and your citations are pristine!
Barnes, S. The Sacred Combe. London. Bloomsbury. 2015. Print.
Fenton, Josephine.’#textualities17‘. Corkucopia: Irish Writing in English. 17 Mar. 2017. Web. 19 Mar. 2017.
In Breakdown Downing attempts to unpack the obfuscation surrounding the syndrome named shell shock in 1916 and post traumatic stress disorder in 2016.
THERE have always been problems establishing the parity of mental health and physical health. Even today there is a stigma over admitting to any kind of depression or emotional instability.
This is even more extreme in military circles for reasons which are comprehensible if not admirable. Soldiers are trained to function in dangerous circumstances. Solders must stand together and work for their pals as well as ‘King and Country’. They can’t be whining that they are frightened. Or staring into space, eyes bulging from sockets.
Clearly if someone’s leg is blown off they must be returned home. No one can pretend that their leg has gone. But if a mind is frazzled – ah there now – it could be pretence, it could be cowardice.
Some officers tried shouting very loudly. Some medical men tried shocking frontal lobes with electricity. Max Kaufman, in Mannheim, tried shocking and shouting both at once. Others merely shot victims as cowards. Shell shock can be a terrible worry during times of war.
Taylor Downing’s book takes as its starting point the Battle of the Somme. He compares incidences of ‘shell shock’ in the British Army before and during the prolonged battle which lasted from July to November 1916. Using materials from military and medical archives Downing attempts to link the particularly bloody and extended battle with a peak in mental breakdowns. His task is nearly impossible due to the fact that the syndrome he is studying is not cut and dried in the way that, for example, facial burn injuries can be documented.
The prologue offers some startling accounts of shell shock in the thick of combat in Delville Wood during the third week of July 1916. Downing quotes at length from a report written by Brigadier Reginald John Kentish on 3rd August. Kentish’s prose is fragmented and ‘convoluted’ almost as if it had been affected by the chaos of battle. So Downing summarises stating that ‘prolonged exposure to intense fire was a major contributory factor … and although it affected individuals one by one, it was also contagious and could spread among an entire unit.’ The idea of shell shock being infectious terrified military leaders. How could they stop the ‘wastage’?
Medical Officers were reporting all sorts of symptoms:
Most were suffering from peculiar forms of paralysis. Many were described as having ‘the shakes’. Some could not stand up or walk normally. A few did not appear able to speak coherently and were stammering badly. Others had been struck completely dumb and could not speak at all. Most appeared to be in a state of stupor and a few had completely lost their memory. Others seemed to find it difficult to see clearly. Many had lost their sense of taste or smell. Some vomited repeatedly.
The epidemic of shell shock was a new phenomenon. Quite quickly it was realised that it was partly to do with the passivity of immobile warfare. The noise of gunfire was incessant; sometimes the shells would land in the trenches. Soldiers could do nothing to protect themselves, could take no action. They just had to hope that they would not be hit. Meanwhile friends and comrades were hit and sometimes turned to red mist, or a decapitated head or a legless torso. It is unsurprising that many had breakdowns.
The trickle of shell shocked men returning from the lines became a tumult. If it were to continue to increase it would be impossible to fight the war. But it was hard to diagnose and no easy treatments were available. Opinion was divided between those who wanted to shout at the victims and force them back to their regiments and those who felt that some rest and therapy might help them recover. Additionally who could distinguish between genuine sufferers and malingerers?
By the beginning of the Battle of the Somme on July 1st 1916 the army had identified two types of shell shock. W stood for wounded and S stood for sick. If a soldier’s brain suffered ‘commotional’ damage due to being close to an exploding shell he was W but if, after a period of time under constant pressure, he collapsed then he was S. There was only a small percentage, of Ws compared with Ss. There was also a category used mainly for officers: N for neurasthenia. In greater than proportionate numbers the Ns accompanied the non-commissioned Ws and Ss back across the channel.
Downing notes that official records show ‘that there were 16,138 battle casualties in France from shell shock in the months July to December 1916, over four times more than in the previous six months; and more than ten times greater than in the six months from July to December in 1915’. These figures only included the Ws and Downing thinks that the total figure is more likely to be around 53-63,000.
Medical opinion was veering towards the idea that shell shocked soldiers should not return to England. It was thought better that they be treated in field hospitals as near to the battlefields as possible, although out of hearing of the barrages. The men were to be kept under military discipline. The idea was that after as short a period of rest as possible the recovered patient could, having been given a stern telling off, be sent back to the front.
Downing gives details of men whose nervous state prevented them from conducting themselves well under fire. Some had already been treated for shell shock and then sent back to the trenches. They were usually court martialled and shot as cowards. There would be no pensions for their widows. The records were held secret for 75 years. In 2001 a memorial showing a blindfolded soldier facing a firing squad was erected in Staffordshire and in 2006 a posthumous pardon was given for all executed soldiers (306). It is not clear how many of those shot were shell shock survivors.
In an appendix Downing attempts to give some numerical assessment of the problem. He thinks that about 17% of ‘injuries’ in the Battle of the Somme were mental stress rather than wounds and that about 4% of all soldiers suffered from non-physical trauma.
Readers of Downing’s book may be familiar with the ‘pity’ of war from poets such as Sassoon and Owen; they may be familiar with the ‘treatment’ of ‘shell-shock’ from Pat Barker’s 1990s Regeneration trilogy but here Downing offers an analysis which, by chronicling the military and medical responses to post traumatic stress disorder, reinforces the idea that mental illness is as injurious as physical wounds. Downing obviously found some of what he discovered debilitating and in his acknowledgments he thanks his wife Anne for cheering him up. The book is an essential addition to the history of the First World War. What is depressing, however, is that for similar reasons, military institutions still find it difficult to care for those who mental illness is caused, to a great extent, by battlefield action.
Barker, Pat. Regeneration Trilogy.
Downing, T. Breakdown: The crisis of shell shock on the Somme, 1916. Abacus. 2017.
NO doubt they’ll soon get well; the shock and strain
Have caused their stammering, disconnected talk.
Of course they’re ‘longing to go out again,’—
These boys with old, scared faces, learning to walk.
They’ll soon forget their haunted nights; their cowed
Subjection to the ghosts of friends who died,—
Their dreams that drip with murder; and they’ll be proud
Of glorious war that shatter’d all their pride…
Men who went out to battle, grim and glad;
Children, with eyes that hate you, broken and mad.
Siegfried Sassoon: Craiglockart. October, 1917.
An earlier version of this review appeared in the Irish Examiner on pages 33 and 34 of the Weekend Section. 11th March 2017.
Reclaimed, by Irishmen such as Yeats, from the canon of English Literature, Jonathan Swift has become an icon of Irishness and Stubbs’s book provides an insight into the Dubliner who insisted he was English.
In his introduction to this excellent biography John Stubbs is at pains to point out the complexity and contradictions in both the character and the life of Jonathan Swift. Like Yeats, who was born two centuries later, Swift believed in the desirability of a pastoral society run by landed gentry and the Anglican church. He abhorred the burgeoning urban financial centre of London, almost as if its participants were usurers in the temple. Ordained in a high church tradition, Swift despised low, dissenting, Protestantism, as well, of course, as Catholicism.
Arriving from Dublin to London in 1710 Swift, at 43, soon became an important ‘spin doctor’ to Queen Anne’s chief minister, Robert Harley. His work consisted of briefing against members of the former Whig government, which he did with alacrity and vitriol. These unfortunates included the victor of the Battle of Blenheim, the Duke of Marlborough; the former Lord Treasurer, Earl of Godolphin and the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, Marquess of Wharton.
Speaking with a patrician voice from which nearly all traces of Irishness had been meticulously eradicated and wearing the orthodox dress of a clerical gentleman, Swift’s impressive public persona disguised altogether another personality. Known to intimates as Presto, Swift was an incorrigible mischief-maker. There were many more than one Swift.
Although marrying neither, he had two close lady friends at this time – one in Dublin, ‘Stella’ (Esther Johnson) and one in London, ‘Vanessa’ (Esther Vanhomrigh). His comportment towards them was respectful and he relied on them for intellectual as well as emotional support. Another, darker side of Swift emerges too – consorting with prostitutes and his scurrilous writings, such as ‘The Lady’s Dressing Room’: a poem dealing with, among other sordid matters, the odours and stains of feminine underwear.
Swift was a stickler for personal hygiene; a habit unusual for the period and he exercised regularly, walking and riding. But his health was not good, suffering as he did from debilitating deafness and often confined to bed by extended fits of vertigo and tinnitus. This ailment was to plague him until the end of his life; exacerbated by several strokes which left him mute as well. But before Stubbs reaches the endpoint he offers over 600 pages documenting Swift’s political and writing career, his avoidance of marriage and his position as a revered Dean of St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Dublin.
Obfuscated by lack of evidence, and the differing stories that Swift himself told, is the strange mystery of Whitehaven, Cumbria. As an infant, it seems, Swift was taken, perhaps kidnapped, by his wet nurse, to the small English port. He stayed there for some years, maybe two, maybe three.
On his return, his father having died before his birth and his mother now impoverished, Jonathan was brought up in the Dublin household of his Uncle Godwin. He seems to have been denied affection but was, unsurprisingly, precocious.
It is tempting for biographers and critics to apply modern psychoanalytical techniques to Swift’s life and work and to trace his peculiarities to early emotional trauma, or indeed, a position on the autism spectrum. Medical approaches have suggested that he suffered from syphilis, contracted from streetwalkers. Although, as his father is recorded to have died from this disease it may be that it was congenital. Stubbs, like others, indulges in this kind of speculation but always gives the caveat that these conclusions are anachronistic and thus unreliable.
Nevertheless it is disturbing to read that after an inauspicious start in life the boy went sent to boarding school in Kilkenny aged “about six”. It is difficult to see how the child, Jonathan, could become an emotionally stable adult.
With an education in the classics under his belt Swift arrived at Trinity College, Dublin in 1682. According to his autobiographical accounts he did not prosper and contemporary college records show many instances of the undergraduate being fined for misdemeanours. The ‘Presto’ side of his character was in ascendant.
In 1689, just too early to take his master’s degree, Swift, along with many other students and faculty, fled to England. The Williamite war had revived, among Protestants, fears of a massacre similar to that carried out by Catholics in 1641. Now 21, Swift became secretary to Sir William Temple, a retired diplomat, who was to familiarise the young man with the mores of English society and politics.
By 1692 Swift was in possession of an MA from Oxford although he had to wait until 1702 to attain a doctorate in divinity from Trinity in Dublin. In between he took holy orders in the Church of Ireland and was allocated a parish north of Belfast Lough. At this time, and in this location, the role of the Established Church was under siege from Ulster Presbyterians.
In 1696 Swift, perhaps bored and disillusioned, returned to the hearth of Sir William at Moor Park in Surrey. When his mentor died in 1699 Swift was left adrift until becoming private chaplain to the Earl of Berkeley, who was immediately appointed as a lord justice in Ireland. Swift reluctantly returned to the city of his birth. Here he pursued his clerical ambitions; the path was rocky but eventually he found himself with a seat as a prebendary canon in St Patrick’s Cathedral.
For the next few years Swift continued to hold onto his benefices in Ireland, as well as his position in the retinue of the Berkeley. He travelled to and from England crossing the Irish Sea, always expecting it to swallow him whole. He rode and walked in both countries, visiting his parishes, his relatives and his patron.
He rescued ‘Stella’ from a life of drudgery by settling enough money on her for a move back to Ireland with her friend, Miss Dingley. The two ladies would discreetly follow Swift on his parochial journeys, providing him with companionship. Life was not really too unpleasant.
Then began, in 1710, the four influential years in London. In 1713 Swift was offered, and accepted, the post of senior priest in Dublin, that of Dean of St Patrick’s Cathedral. Strange though it may seem he was disappointed by the appointment, having wanted a prestigious deanery in England. But on the death of Queen Anne in 1714, and the subsequent rise of the Whigs, Swift knew that it was time to go back to Ireland.
Thus Swift’s entered into the church and state politics of his homeland. A nostalgia for an English-country-garden-like Ireland enthralled him. He longed for a “romantic Ireland” that was not “dead and gone” but one that never had nor could exist. Instead he had to engage with the realities of the rise of the Non-Conformists and the Catholics, and to rail against the inadequacy of English policies towards her Irish sister.
He felt obliged, however reluctantly, to rebel against his beloved England, which had served him literally, as well as metaphorically, as a nursery. Ireland, who had birthed and educated him, could now reclaim her son, and, eventually, place the great satirist at the centre of her literary heritage.
Irish-born Stubbs, is well placed to write Jonathan Swift: The Reluctant Rebel, as he studied English at Oxford and Renaissance Literature at Cambridge. Historical and political context encourages a greater understanding of Swift’s work and detailed analysis of this work reinforces comprehension of the man. Although 25 pages of notes exemplify his academic background, Stubbs has an accessible style and writes beautifully.
Stubbs, J. Jonathan Swift: The Reluctant Rebel. London: Penguin Random House. 2016.
An earlier version of this review appeared in The Irish Examiner, Weekend section pages 33 and 34 on 18 Feb 2017.
William Blake: Satan exulting over Eve. 1795. Tate Britain.
Reading the opening of The Countenance Divine by Michael Hughes I was struck by the overt crafting of the novel. I delight in patterns in novels, and I saw, on the flap of the dust jacket, 1999, 1888, 1777, 1666. As well as magical dates there are other important numbers. In the first chapter the sections are divided thus: 01, 02 and so on, and there is also consideration of the Year Two Thousand Problem (Y2K), familiarly known as the Millennium Bug. Binary and four digit numbers are foregrounded but the central pattern is in the form of a gadget.
In 1999 Chris, a computer programmer, purchases, from a stall in Brick Lane, London, this gadget, a Victorian puzzle: a ‘Practical Rebus’. “Each piece had an image or motif painted on it, but together they formed one overall design. The pieces could be interchanged, and every arrangement made a different pattern.” The puzzle has a profound effect on the seemingly dull protagonist, one that, he seems barely to have the imagination to compass.
If this all seems a bit mannered the artifice does not end there. In the list of principal characters, divided into sections according to century, one can see both William Blake and John Milton. And in 1888 we encounter Jack the Ripper. Allusions are made to all three in the first chapter, with one of Chris’s Goth colleagues nicknamed Dark Satanic Mills (DSM) after Blake’s famous hymn, ‘Jerusalem’, a section of his longer poem ‘Milton’.
DSM lends Chris the graphic novel From Hell purportedly based on a letter to authorities from the ‘Ripper’ himself. DSM states that there is “another way of looking at the world, where everything was connected, including the past and the future”. Ah, a clue! Chris is visited by the past in uncomfortable ways. Everything coalesces. As to the future? That would be a spoiler…
It is impossible to accuse the Northern Irish author of laziness. Hughes’s research is thorough and his writing honed by years of study and teaching.
In particular, his rendition of dialogue is masterly, maybe developed by his work as an actor, under the name Michael Colgan. Hughes moves fluently through the registers of Jack the Ripper, “with tother hand Ile take my knif and stab it in your neck”, William Blake, “my only monument shall be the simple little songs I leave behind”, and Milton, “religion at its most fanatick is almost an evil”. His presentation of Chris, in 1999, is more pedestrian, “He couldn’t’ think. He did not know what to say”. Form and structure reflect character and era.
The narrative swivels from one century to another, always cross-stitched together with motifs. The key ideas of the novel can be summarised by reference to Blake’s The Marriage of Heaven and Hell:
“Without Contraries is no progression. Attraction and Repulsion, Reason and Energy, Love and Hate, are necessary to Human existence.
From these contraries spring what the religious call Good & Evil. Good is the passive that obeys Reason. Evil is the active springing from Energy.
Good is Heaven. Evil is Hell.”
The Countenance Divine has been compared with Cloud Atlas and Wolf Hall. The admirers of the former will certainly relish his craftsmanship, and those of the latter will enjoy the historical education that Hughes bestows, encouraged to identify factual material and separate it from his imaginative creation. It might seem churlish of me to say that I was not drawn into any of the four narratives as I would not want to dissuade readers from The Countenance Divine. But I would rather read Blake or Milton and, as for Jack the Ripper, I have previously read and seen more about the misogynistic femicides than I can stomach. All the main characters, other than Chris, are renowned, and if you like this genre and these periods of history you may love The Countenance Divine.
Blake, W. The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. 1794.
Hughes, Michael. The Countenance Divine. John Murray. 2016.
NB A version of this review was first published in the ‘Weekend’ section of the Irish Examiner on 15th October 2016.
English readers of This Orient Isle by Jerry Brotton would think of Shakespeare’s lines ‘this sceptred isle … this precious stone set in the silver sea’ from Richard II, but the Irish would probably remember Yeats’s poem Sailing to Byzantium. Like the final stanza of that poem, the pages of the book are filled with references to oriental gold. Ironically, for lovers of Yeats’s poem, Brotton tells of a gift, from Queen Elizabeth I to Sultan Murad III, not the other way around, of a clockwork organ which was played, in 1599, to entertain ‘the lords and ladies of Byzantium’ in the same palace that Yeats chose for his golden mechanical bird. The Sultan was not ‘drowsy’ but delighted, and offered the organ-maker, Thomas Dallam, his choice of the palace concubines. It seems that Dallam merely accepted a bag of gold.
This Orient Isle explains Elizabeth’s alliances with the Ottoman and Persian Empires as well as the Moroccan Sultanate, relationships which frequently distracted her from her ‘disastrous military campaign to try to crush Catholic rebellion in Ireland’.
Although Brotton does not dwell on it, the narrative suggests many parallels to Europe’s current relations with the Islamic world. As Edward Said points out in his theory of Orientalism, Judo-Christian Europeans often see Muslims as the ‘Other’, as something alien and dangerous. Said argues that because of misunderstanding or ignorance, we cast all Muslims as the enemy in the ‘war on terror’.
Brotton sets out to detail and analyse, the process by which Protestant England, with her queen who was to be excommunicated in 1570, was seeking an alliance with this ‘Other’. England was struggling against against Catholic Spain, France and the Holy Roman Empire who had a stranglehold on trade. In 1566, the Bishop of Winchester wrote ‘the Pope is a more perilous enemy unto Christ, than the Turk: and Popery more idolatrous than Turkery’.
The English merchants and explorers, like many current Europeans, did not have much of an understanding of Islam; one of them, Anthony Jenkinson explained, in 1558, the difference between Sunni and Shi’a in terms of their facial hair: ‘the Persians will not cut the hair of their upper lips, as the Bukharians and all other Tartars do’. The task of these emissaries, after all, was not theological but mercantile. In pursuit of trade Jenkinson tackled the frozen wastes of the North West Passage and arrived in Persia after a long and hazardous trek via Moscow. He found that the heavy cloth that he offered for sale was of more interest in the cold climes of Russia than in the warmth of Persia where he saw ‘golden and silken garments’.
Another traveller was Henry Roberts, the first English Ambassador to Morocco (1585). Roberts, who had been a soldier, was settled in Ireland after a period of quashing insurrection. Not only was he reluctant to ‘yield his place’ in Ireland, but he had no experience of trade or diplomacy. Brotton writes that to ‘a soldier like Roberts, used to the monoglot world of England and Ireland and its stark religious divisions between Protestantism and Catholicism, the multi-confessional and polyglot world of Marrakesh must have come as a massive shock’. In the three years that he was there, however, Roberts seems to have spent more time engaged in military and political matters than commerce. He traded munitions and agitated for the Moroccan emperor, al-Mansur, to join an anti-Spanish league.
Roberts was working under the auspices of the Earl of Leicester, as was a later adventurer, Anthony Sherley. After Leicester’s death Sherley’s patron was the ‘equally intemperate’ Robert Devereux, 2nd Earl of Essex, who would, the following year, be attempting to subdue O’Neill in Ireland.
Sherley is described as ‘a born intriguer, a complete opportunist’ and ‘ a completely sinister person’. Nevertheless, shortly after his arrival in Persia in 1598, Sherley’s relationship with Shah Abbas was, states Brotton closer than ‘that of any other Elizabethan Englishman and Muslim ruler’. Extraordinarily, by 1599, Sherley was able to claim ‘the right to represent the shah’s interests in Europe and to act like a Persian Mizra (prince) with the authority to mingle with kings and emperors’. Now he ‘was proposing to broker a grand anti-Ottoman alliance between Persia and Europe’s Catholic rulers’. It is not surprising that he was never able to return to England.
It is surprising that in 1888 a pamphlet written by the Reverend Scott Surtees suggested that Sherley was, in fact, the author of Shakespeare’s plays. Surtees argued that Sherley knew the ‘habits and the ways, the customs, dresses, manners, laws of almost every known nation’ and obsessed that the name Antonio, used in so many plays, came from Sherley’s own forename, Anthony.
Whether or not Sherley was ‘he who wrote these plays’, Brotton, himself, is extremely interested in Shakespeare’s works and has searched through them, like a monkey looking for fleas. In his first paragraph, Brotton, writes of Abd al-Wahid bin Masoud bin Muhammad al-Annuri as ‘a tall, dark, bearded man’ who in ‘is instantly distinguished from the crowd by his long black robe (thawb), bright white linen turban and the huge richly decorated steel scimitar, a Maghreb nimcha, which hangs from his waist’.
Later in the introduction, Brotton, states that ‘it is possible to discern some of the local raw material on which Shakespeare might have drawn for his portrayal of the noble Moor.’ The Morrocan envoy was in London in 1600-1601, the latter being the year that Shakespeare started writing Othello. But Brotton’s rather pedestrian recounting of the story of Othello in the chapter ‘More than a Moor’, along with his foregrounding of every possible reference to the Orient (such as the word ‘surely’ in Twelfth Night being an obvious pun on the name Sherley) are much less convincing and exciting than his account of Elizabethan deeds of derring-do.
Brotton, Jerry. This Orient Isle. London: Random House. 2016. Print.
Said, Edward. Orientalism. New York: Pantheon Books. 1978. Print.
Yeats,William Butler. “The Wild Swans at Coole”. The Wild Swans at Coole. Dublin: Cuala Press 1917. Print.
NB This review was first published in “Weekend” (p5) in the Irish Examiner on 28th May 2016