Andreas Eschbach: The Hair-Carpet Weavers

    SF can be pretty weird at times; this is one of the weirdest books I’ve come across in quite a while. Men on a backward planet spend a lifetime weaving a single carpet out of the hair of their wives, in tribute to an Emperor on a distant planet… they have no idea what happens to the carpets, which are regularly bought up and collected by an interplanetary spaceship, it’s just what they have always done, for many centuries. And yet, there is a rumour, brutally suppressed, that the Emperor has been overthrown.

There are so many ways of reading this novel, which in someways, initially at least, is more of a collection of stories linked to a common theme, rather like Keith Roberts’ Pavane. Is it an allegory about religion, unquestioning belief, blind worship and blind obedience? The empire of worlds and planets is incredibly vast, certainly dwarfing Ursula Le Guin’s Ekumen or Isaac Asimov’s Federation. So vast, in fact, that the planet we read about is in a forgotten corner of the universe, only recently rediscovered by the central administration, that has replaced the deposed Emperor, and discovered that there are thousands of planets weaving the hair-carpets…

Then there is the notion that the primitiveness of the planet stems from the traces of a nuclear war some tens of thousands of years ago, traces of which are still detectable. What might happen to humanity and civilisation in such a case?

It’s a slow-moving and often lyrical read, full of surprises, very well-written. The last Emperor, who had lived for tens of thousands of years, had become bored, and engineered his own deposition: was this an attempt to defeat entropy? Certainly his successors have their work cut out to discover what was going on across the immeasurable interplanetary wastes, and all the planets and societies have to come to terms with the new circumstances and work out how they are going to continue, or survive, how the Empire can rebuild itself…

I really enjoyed this. For a good while I’ve felt quite jaundiced about SF generally, and its drift into fantasy and pure escapism – I know I generalise terribly here and that actually I’ve just lost touch with the genre as I’ve grown older – but this has renewed my interest. It’s a novel that is mind-boggling in a good way, and at the same time thought-provoking and philosophical; highly recommended!

On 31 October, 1517

All sorts of things have been reminding me of October 31 being the 500^th anniversary of Martin Luther‘s 95 theses, whether or not these were actually nailed to the church door in Wittenberg. Having a Catholic school education in England in the 1960s was an interesting experience, as there was still some of the feeling of being a member of a persecuted minority in the air; we were presented with a sketchy outline of the split in the Church as part of history lessons at primary school. Moving to a secondary school where the Anglican Church was the norm and saw itself as continuous with the church brought to England by Augustine at the end of the sixth century, I was offered an account of events from an opposite perspective, together with no small amount of mockery of Catholic beliefs and practices. Then I moved to a Catholic secondary school and got everything in more detail from the ‘right’ perspective again…

I suppose those experiences were useful in terms of teaching me about different viewpoints; they certainly got me interested in what could have caused such major ructions at the heart of Christianity. I’m still learning, and there’s an excellent explanation of the doctrine of justification by faith alone in this week’s edition of The Tablet.

My travels have taught me how different the Reformation was in Germany compared with England; in Germany there seems to have been much more of a continuation than a violent rupture; no mass iconoclasm such as destroyed so many cultural riches in England. I continue to be appalled by the vandalism and wanton destruction of Henry VIII’s reign.

There are three writers who I’​ve found very helpful in developing knowledge and understanding of the religious issues and historical events. One is a Catholic priest who wrote in the 1950s, Philip Hughes, who wrote a short volume on the Reformation in general, and a second, monumental tome, The Reformation in England, which details the demolition of Catholic England.

Then there is Eamon Duffy, who has written works of socio-religious history which trace the actual effects of the English Reformation on its people in two detailed and astonishingly well-researched books, The Stripping of the Altars, and The Voices of Morebath. This second volume looks at the changes as they affected on small rural community over the years between the first breach with Rome and the Elizabethan settlement.

Finally there is Diarmaid MacCulloch, whose hefty tome Reformation came out in 2003, and which I have decided to revisit as we come up to that symbolic 500^th anniversary. I’ll write more about his book when I’ve finished it.

And then, I cannot forget some of the literature which uses the Reformation as its starting-point. Kingsley Amis‘ novel The Alteration posits the Reformation never having happened in England and focuses on the moral horror of a young boy who is due to be castrated to preserve his voice for use by the Church. And Keith Roberts‘ Pavane, a far better novel for my money, is set in a world where the Reformation also didn’t happen, along with various other events consequent upon it…

A curious novel – Q – was published a decade or so, apparently written by an Italian collective who presented themselves as one Luther Blissett. It focuses on the social upheavals in Europe during the early years of the Reformation particularly the Anabaptists and the events in Munster, along with the early efforts of Rome to thwart what was going on.

Finally, I can’t overlook the astonishing religious poetry of my favourite poet, John Donne, a man genuinely torn by the religious strife in England and the theological controversies – although he ultimately knew which side his bread was buttered on. He brings to his Holy Sonnets and other poems the same ardour he brought to his sexual conquests and fantasies in his love lyrics, before he ‘saw the light’, took holy orders in the Church of England and went on to become Dean of St Paul’s and a man whose sermons people came from all over Europe to hear. Not much likelihood of similar fervour nowadays.

Fergusson & Harrison: Rievaulx Abbey

If I had to choose my most beautiful place in the UK, I can’t think of anywhere I’d place higher up the list than Rievaulx Abbey, for its isolation, its ruins, its atmosphere. I’ve visited a number of times, and each visit has provoked different reflections and responses. I prefer it to Fountains, which I’m rather more familiar with, or any other of the countless ruined abbeys and monasteries of Britain I’ve visted and explored.

Whilst I’m not sure I can approve of such wealth and leisure in the service of religion, I can respond to the spiritual impulses awakened by such places, their beauty and the way they remind us that there is more to life than the merely material.

This book has lots of wonderful aerial photos of the abbey and its surroundings, and chronicles the growth of the abbey in the centuries before its destruction by Henry VIII and his minions. The more I reflect on it, the more I am astonished and outraged by the scale of this religious and cultural vandalism, fed by the ego of a king and the greed of his henchmen. I suppose a modern-day equivalent might be a government decision completely to ban football and force everyone to play and watch rugby instead, along with the giving away of all stadia and playing fields to the Prime Minister’s cronies for selling off and demolition…

So, the destruction of Rievaulx over the years is charted in detail; it became a romantic ruin to be viewed from a distance by the guests of the nobility who acquired the site and buildings on the cheap for plunder. In the early years of the twentieth century, it was finally acquired by the Ministry of Works, and the site cleared, excavated in a fairly rudimentary fashion, and landscaped for tourists; in a way, still romantic ruins for people to gawp at, but now the plebs could pay their way in… Apparently no reconstruction was allowed, though much might have been possible, and a lot of the remaining old stonework was either carted away or used for levelling the surrounding meadowlands.

Maybe you can detect an ex-Catholic writing, from the tone of the above; I can’t say that I think Britain would have been a better place without the Reformation – that’s the realm of science fiction, and I point you in the direction of Kingsley Amis‘ The Alteration, or Keith Roberts‘ marvellous Pavane if you want to travel down that route. But I do feel that our world sorely needs places which are capable of uplifting our spirits in different ways, certainly taking us beyond the tawdry material and consumerist society we have the misfortune to inhabit at the moment.

Counterfactuals, or alternative histories

We are reading about our own era, our own time, but the world is not ours: it’s slightly different, or greatly different, but things have changed, and we are mesmerised, drawn in to see what happens, why it is like this. There has been a fair amount written about alternative histories recently; it’s a genre I’ve always enjoyed, so it’s time to share my thoughts and recommendations…

At the obvious level, such writings are fantasy: that world is never going to exist. The novel is entertainment, often very good entertainment – and yet it is more. It is thought-provoking in the reader because it reflects the consequences of a different choice at some time in our past, and as humans we make choices all the time. It may reflect a different outcome to an action or an event, an effect of chance, and we are reminded that we are at the mercy of events, at the mercy of our own flawed decisions. On the micro level this is the story of our life, and on the macro level it becomes history.

There are some wonderful novels which consider ‘what if’, such as a successful Spanish Armada conquering England in 1588 (Pavane, by Keith Roberts), the Reformation never happening (Kingsley Amis’ The Alteration), the Confederacy wins the American Civil War (Ward Moore’s Bring The Jubilee), the Nazis succeed in building their thousand-year Reich (Swastika Night by Katharine Burdekin), the Axis Powers win the Second World War (The Man in the High Castle by Philip Dick), Christian fundamentalists take power in the USA (The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood. I also have a whole collection of short stories written a century ago imagining the various possible outcomes of the coming Great War between Britain and Germany.

Historians have mocked the value and significance of alternative histories. I don’t see why; it’s hardly encroaching on their territory. But they have made the valid point that there are many factors involved in a chain of events, that no one, single change can be that powerful in isolation – for instance, the First World War would have happened even if Princip’s bullets had missed their target, the Second World War would have happened even if Hitler had been assassinated…

On that last question, I’m reminded of a fascinating novel La Part de l’Autre by Eric-Emmanuel Schmitt, which I don’t think has been translated into English. It’s about a young Austrian would be art student; it begins as a single story but forks into two different tracks and becomes two parallel novels in the same book. One track follows Adolf Hitler (for it is he) through failure as an artist, experiences in the great war, into politics and the rest is history. The second track imagines that same student a successful artist who serves in the Great War and comes home to develop a successful career as an artist; events gradually diverge from the ones we know: Hitler’s life as an artist has a public effect, the Second World War still happens though without his help, but still provoked by the injustices of the Treaty of Versailles… It’s not a brilliant novel, but it is fascinating and compelling precisely because the author has written the two diverting stories in parallel so we can see the gradual unfolding and diverging of the alternate history before our eyes.

For me, such writing is entertaining, and it’s valid as an exercise in humans reflecting on themselves, their choices and their errors and the consequences of these, and, as a citizen, I could wish that certain people did an awful more of that.