I am a relative newcomer to Farrell having first read him last year when I found a rather lovely edition of The Siege of Krishnapur, itself also a Booker prize winner in 1973. The amazing thing about Farrell is the way he could meld so many elements together in his work; one moment you are aghast at the events in the siege ridden town and the next you’re laughing at the humour of another situation, one moment you despair at the events and the next you marvel at them. It strikes me that in his style Farrell captures life itself. Life is never all exciting nor all boring, it is never all happy nor all sad, all serious nor all funny; life is a mixture of many emotions and it is here that both the human condition and Farrell’s writing triumph. People can, in the most awful of situations, find solace in humour. It’s the final triumph over adversity when you can laugh at it. In Farrell’s work we see both the serious and the funny; we fear for the life of the collector at the same time as laughing at some other turn of events in the besieged residence. We see violence and love, fear and hope. It’s the skillful ability to apply to all ends of the spectrum the same adept skill with words.

In the Empire trilogy we are given a picture of the decline of empire that neither entirely condemns nor venerates; it observes both sides and it sees the idiosyncrasies of many of the circumstances thrown up by empire. He can make it so apparent that it is all a question of viewpoint and have the reader hoping for one resolution while at the same time understanding why others would hope for a different one. He brings wit, balance and great word skill to a defining era in our history and I hope that the publicity generated by the Lost Booker Prize will make many more people discover his work.

I was surprised to find that Pushkin proved to be one of the easiest reads I’ve had in a long time. His prose is lucid and brilliant and his plots keep the pages turning. There is something smooth and seemingly effortless about the way he writes and it just takes you there. There are some words Jacques Chirac said at Alexandre Dumas’ internment; “With you, we were D’Artagnan, Monte Cristo or Balsamo, riding along the roads of France, touring battlefields, visiting palaces and castles — with you, we dream.” It is the same with Pushkin only with him we are Dubrovsky, Ibrahim, Grinyov, riding through Russia, besieged in fortresses and dining with royalty — with him, we dream.

What adds to the mystery and romance of Pushkin is his own life story. Great-grandson of Peter the Great’s African Major General, Abram Gannibal, Pushkin’s brief life saw him exiled for his political radicalism before later returning to St. Petersburg where he died in a duel at the age of thirty-seven, defending his wife’s honour. When you read of his heroes defending their honour you know that he did so himself to the point of his own life. Upon hearing of his death a friend who was away at that time is said to have written to others asking:  “How could you let this happen? If I had been there I would have thrown myself in front of the bullet.” Would that the friend had been there, it’s hard to imagine what Pushkin could have achieved with so much of life still ahead of him. Reading this book you enjoy what is there but are left with a sense of wonderment at the fact that this, while brilliant, is a poet just finding his way with prose. What would he have done with more time?

At times in this collection you come across the sentence “(Pushkin never finished this story.)” Many of these are from several years before his death so it is possible that he had either abandoned them entirely or was going to return to them later. It’s sad that some brilliant stories such as Dubrovsky and The Moor of Peter the Great were unfinished, they give you a taste of brilliance and you want more.

I was left with the paradoxical feeling of wishing that someone would finish them and the feeling that no one else really could. I get to thinking that perhaps they should take Pushkin’s pen and set it in the base of his statue like a latter day excalibur. Whenever a writer was in Saint Petersburg they would pass the statue and try to withdraw the pen. Eventually some young fellow, seemingly too inexperienced, would approach the statue and grasp the quill and out it would slide and to him would fall the task of completing what Pushkin started.

Then I realise that life is not a historical romance. C’est la vie, we shall simply never know.

—–

The Complete Prose Tales by Alexandr Pushkin is published by Vintage Classics.

A very interesting piece in the Guardian today about the true story that is, according to a new book, the inspiration behind Kidnapped and several other novels. I have often wondered where the inspiration for some of the works of great writers comes from and how they draw on elements of real life in their narratives. The true story is quite something, though the ending – like many true things – seemed to lack the justice we’d have liked to see for the protagonist. While he won his case in the courts it was post mortem and he didn’t benefit.  I can see the similarities between this and Kidnapped but I think it must be one of many things that joined together to form inspiration as the Appin murder is also a large part of the plot.

On another note, the story also reminds me in some ways of Son of Fury, a 1942 film starring Tyrone Power and the quite wonderful Gene Tierney. The question is was the film influenced by one of the novels or directly by the true story? It’s interesting to see how entirely different stories (such as Kidnapped and Son of Fury) can both use recognisable elements from one real story. I guess that is a testament to the variety of artistic endeavour that two very different stories can share the same root.

Huntingtower is a rip-roaring adventure story that reads with all the fun and enjoyment that, as a child, could be derived from Enid Blyton. (Actually I saw a lady reading the famous five a little while back in the park – it seems the enjoyment does not diminish with age!) It tells of Dickson McCunn going for a walking holiday and soon finding himself up to his ears in adventure; the story is centred around a Russian Princess who, having escaped the revolution, is being held against her will in the house of the title. As with stories such as The thirty-nine steps there is a back drop of historical relevancy and it very much reflects attitudes and thoughts of the time. What makes Huntingtower different is the light hearted and amusing touches throughout. Helping with this are a group of street urchins from Glasgow called the Gorbals Die-Hards who are camping near-by and turn out to have a spirit at once adventurous and militant. Their exploits are constantly referenced, by the narrator, in comparison to those of great figures from history and the show resourcefulness and hardy courage whenever called upon; while Dickson is the central figure and the narrator is telling his story the Gorbals Die-Hards could arguably be said to steal the show.

I really enjoyed this book and think that it shows Buchan on top-form throughout. It’s not about deep emotional insights, it’s just a good fun read. There were some characters who speak mainly in the Scots’ dialect but it’s usually understandable (just!) and where it isn’t there is a glossary of terms at the back. The story combines light hearted romanticism and adventure with some allusions to the failings and evils of the new social order emerging in Russia at the time. What I find most endearing about Buchan’s work is the way he can write so well – his descriptions of places are particularly excellent – but keep it entertaining and enjoyable throughout and, for me, this is up there with the best of his books.

I’m a huge fan of the work of P.G. Wodehouse, a man who was surely one of the finest comic writers of any era. His splendid gifts for metaphor, simile and classically British understatement were paired up with an ability to create characters that are so vivid that they have in many cases passed into the public conscience even amongst those who do not read. Four new playlets written by Wodehouse a century ago have came to light and were read by the Wodehouse Appreciation Society for the first time at the weekend. It’s fascinating when unknown works of any writer come to the surface but what has intrigued me is the way that reports, such as that in The Observer, have dwelt on the fact that the new found writing is political satire.

Wodehouse may not have openly expressed partisan political views in the main body of his work but a look at books such as Psmith, Journalist shows that as well as being very funny he was also extremely socially aware. It has, unfortunately, been another opportunity for some people to drag up the sinister accusations of Nazi-sympathies. This galls me, there was a witch-hunt at the time, which one commentator has described as including ‘the most vituperative vilification of one man ever heard on the BBC’, he was denounced in the House of Commons by Anthony Eden and public libraries refused to buy any more of his books.

However, if you read the broadcasts properly you see that they’re his usual light hearted, highly amusing self. Yes, he doesn’t scream and shout and cry, but which Wodehouse character ever did? He becomes the ultimate embodiment of his characters and dismisses circumstances with an air of naivete and a shrug. In much the same way that a chap at the drones might be understated about their latest engagement, Wodehouse is understated about being taken from his home and sent to Poland. It’s a wonderful example of cheery British morale in the face of a bad situation.

“There is a good deal to be said for internment. It keeps you out of the saloons and gives you time to catch up with your reading… The chief drawback is that it means your being away from home… I feel that when I rejoin my wife, I had better take along a letter of introduction, just to be on the safe side.”

“The soldier who escorted me was unfortunately not one of those leisurely souls who believe in taking time over one’s packing. My idea had been to have a cold bath and a change and a bite to cat, and then to light a pipe and sit down and muse for a while, making notes of what to take with me and what could be left behind. His seemed to be that five minutes was ample. Eventually we compromised on ten.”

It carries on in such light hearted manner, exhibiting what would seem to me to be the kind of British “dash it chaps, those blighters bombing our house was a bit inconvenient, what?” type of blitz spirit that was so valued in those bombed at home. I understand that the Nazis were trying to manipulate him for propoganda but I think in his own way he was manipulating them. His first broadcast in particular is honest about the bad conditions, though written in a way that would imply it was not so bad after all. In that way I’m sure the Germans thought they’d gotten what they wanted, however, looked at in hindsight we have a clever old man telling it the way he always had.

Surely it’s time we can forget such accusations and instead marvel at the fact that he managed to keep his head, as Kipling would say, while all about him were losing theirs.