regshoe

South Sea Tales by Robert Louis Stevenson (written and mostly published 1891-94; this collection published 1996). Robert Louis Stevenson spent the last few years of his life in the Pacific Islands, particularly Samoa, and his observations and experiences there furnished him with much material for writing.

starshipfox recommended this collection to me back when I first read Kidnapped, and now that I've been getting more into that book and thought I should give some of his other stuff a try, I decided to check it out. There are two longer stories, 'The Beach of Falesa' and 'The Ebb-Tide', which focus on white characters and their experiences in island society; two fairytale-style stories, 'The Bottle Imp' and 'The Isle of Voices', starring native Pacific Islander characters and partly inspired by real Hawaiian folklore; and a couple of very short sketches. It's an odd and a fascinating mix. Stevenson seems to have had Views about the development of society in the islands, European imperialism, trade and missionary activity; his ideas about all this as expressed in the stories, particularly the two longer ones, are complicated and often pretty highly critical. 'The Beach of Falesa' is narrated by an unscrupulous British trader who tricks a native woman into a sham marriage (apparently a common practice!), but ends up really falling in love with her, having the marriage performed properly and working together with her in the story's main conflict against an even less scrupulous British trader. 'The Ebb-Tide' is a strange story of crime, dissipation and missionary religion and is rather memorably horrifying; but it also goes out of its way to highlight the mistreatment of native people by white colonists, as well as Stevenson's highly ambivalent thoughts about religion. Both of those are a lot to think about, but I enjoyed the two folklore-ish stories best, especially 'The Bottle Imp', a classic logic puzzle of a folktale whose solution—again significantly—relies on the wisdom, courage and loyalty of a Hawaiian woman and the folly and vice of a white man. The actual styles of the stories are highly variable—Stevenson has a lot of range in prose, mood and subject matter. Altogether very good stuff. I must read Treasure Island next!

For the White Rose by Katharine T. Hinkson (1905). I was delighted to discover another old historical novel about Jacobites, and even more so when a brief glance at this book suggested that it's about a loyal friendship between two women. It's narrated by Jane Evans, loyal and loving lady-in-waiting to the historical Lady Nithsdale who memorably contrived her husband's escape from the Tower of London where he was imprisoned awaiting execution after the '15: we follow Jane's early life and her decision to devote herself to the service of her beloved lady, their peaceful life in Scotland together before the Rising, and finally the '15 itself and the great adventure of the escape. (Whether Jane is supposed to be the Cecilia Evans who, according to Maggie Craig, was Lady Nithsdale's 'faithful companion' and actually assisted in the escape, I'm not sure; I suspect so, because the rest of the names of secondary players in Craig's account match those Hinkson uses). If you squint, it's kind of like Sutcliff's Bonnie Dundee if it was narrated by Darklis writing about Jean instead of Hugh about Graham. I did indeed greatly enjoy Jane and Lady Nithsdale's relationship, constant declarations of devotion and all (like Darklis, Jane has a love interest, but she nobly chooses to follow and serve her lady instead of settling down with him; this was a bit annoying, but never mind; and of course Lady Nithsdale's marriage is historical!).

Unfortunately the book has two major flaws. Firstly it's very short—125 pages of fairly large type in the edition on archive.org—and far too brief. The early part of the book is taken up by what should have been—and would have been, if it was actually Sutcliff—the slow, long backstory to a much more developed main plot, but instead the main plot is told with very little change of pace and is over in two chapters. Parts of it felt almost like a summary of a longer novel rather than an appropriately-paced novella, and Jane and Lady Nithsdale's relationship inevitably suffered a great lack of development and complexity as a result. The second big flaw is that Hinkson does not care about history at all. She gets things wrong which I think, in order to know enough to have come up with the plot in the first place, she must have known were wrong, and which she seems to have done deliberately in order to play into the myth of the romantic Jacobites rather than the real history. Lord Nithsdale's house is correctly named but placed in the Highlands when it was really in Dumfries, and some other characters are inappropriately Highland-ised (most egregiously, Hinkson/Jane claims that Jacobite visitors to the Nithsdales' house all wear Highland dress, while the wearers of Lowland/English dress are universally Whigs); James VIII/III is shown arriving in Scotland before the '15 begins and cheering the hearts of his Highland friends, when really he only arrived after the defeat was virtually certain and couldn't have met Lord Nithsdale before his capture. All this was very frustrating, and certainly a let-down for a reader used to the meticulous historical writing of D. K. Broster.

Re-read Mansfield Park by Jane Austen (1814; audiobook read by Karen Savage, 2011). I decided to try out listening to an audiobook while walking to and from the office and other suitable walks; this was a cunning way to get more reading time, and generally enjoyable! I found it a good way to re-read an old favourite book, though it certainly wouldn't have worked for a new book—between thoughts wandering off, my auditory processing being what it is and the general loudness of the outside world, I definitely missed quite a lot of detail. (While reading I often pause briefly to think over a line or go back and re-read a passage to take in the meaning better or just enjoy it again; not being able to do this is a major drawback of audiobooks for me).

However, what about the book itself? Mansfield Park is my favourite Jane Austen, and I loved revisiting it. I love, admire and support Fanny Price more than ever, and am confirmed in my shipping decisions (Fanny/Mary in an 'aww, Fanny totally has a crush, but it probably wouldn't have worked as an actual relationship' way, Fanny/Edmund as 'hmm, I don't love it, but it's what she wants and I support her' way, Fanny/Henry as ultimate NOTP of all time). I appreciated how much the whole thing is pro-quiet, steady, rural life, and the complexities of the relationship between Fanny and Mansfield (the book's actual OTP). Austen's language, especially the humour in her narration, works especially well read out loud, and I enjoyed how Savage gives personality to the characters. She's recorded several other Austen books, and I think I'll try another next—Persuasion, maybe, or Pride and Prejudice?

Rocks of Ages: Science and Religion in the Fullness of Life by Stephen Jay Gould (1999). Having enjoyed Gould's book about science and the humanities, I thought I'd see what he had to say about another (apparent) major conflict of science. In this book Gould propounds and develops his concept of 'non-overlapping magisteria', the idea that science and religion are compatible because they deal with totally separate areas of inquiry—science with empirical facts about the world, religion with questions of meaning and morality. I'd heard of this idea before, but enjoyed seeing it laid out here; Gould's writing is as erudite and eloquent as ever, a pleasure to read. I thought his actual arguments were pretty weak in places; he acknowledges that religion has historically laid claim to ground which he places under the magisterium of science, but seems not to appreciate or to acknowledge how important empirical claims about the world are to (much) religion and how much religion would have to change in order to fit a strict interpretation of his scheme. Gould is writing in an American context inevitably influenced most by (particular types of) Christianity; he says at the start of the book that his own perspective is that of a non-practising Jewish agnostic, but that he doesn't want to be too personal-essay-ish and won't say much about it—but I think I would have liked to see a bit more of that background brought in. I know that Judaism has much more of a tradition than Christianity of people who are atheist or agnostic and also religious, and I wonder if that context of compatibility influenced his ideas? I did enjoy the historical discussions—of the history of the myth of medieval belief in a flat earth (of surprisingly recent origin; Gould pinpoints it to the 1870s-80s and a specific, post-Darwin-influenced conception of the conflict between science and religion), and of the attempts by American fundamentalist Christians to ban the teaching of evolution in schools (obviously a bad and totally unjustifiable cause; but Gould explores how at least one major creationist was inspired in his views by a parallel and equally condemnable overreach on the part of scientists into the moral sphere of religion, using their interpretation of Darwinian evolution to support eugenic ideas).

The Hedgehog, the Fox, and the Magister's Pox by Stephen Jay Gould (2003). Subtitled Mending the Gap Between Science and the Humanities, which more or less explains what the book is about. The hedgehog and the fox come from a proverb which forms the central image of Gould's argument: to paraphrase, the fox uses its cunning to devise many strategies for evading its enemies, whereas the hedgehog concentrates all its effort into a single highly effective strategy (curling up into a ball, protected by its spines). Gould relates the animals to his ideal for a full intellectual life and culture: we need the diverse strategies of the fox, represented by the different and complementary approaches of the sciences and humanities, allied to the hedgehog's definitiveness of purpose in our intellectual aims. He develops this argument by exploring the history of conflict between the sciences and the humanities, showing how it has its roots in the emergence of modern science in the seventeenth century in a context dominated by a Renaissance humanism which was often hostile to the new approach of empirical science. He argues that the antagonism this situation created is no longer relevant in the modern world, and also argues against the modern scientific view—represented by his biologist colleague E. O. Wilson—that the humanities should be subsumed into the sciences in a sort of hierarchy; instead, the different intellectual traditions must work together on equal terms. I am as much in awe as ever of Gould's insight and erudition; his arguments are beautifully thought out and fascinating, and his prose is a pleasure to read. I especially appreciated his own particular scientist's perspective—as a palaeontologist, Gould is more aware of the historical aspects of science and the usefulness of more humanities-like approaches to understanding the world than perhaps a more reductive physicist (for example) might be, and brings this into his arguments very interestingly.

Very good stuff, and I really must read more of Gould's longer books. After this one I especially want to look at Rocks of Ages, about science and religion, another topic I trust him to have interesting and good thoughts on—but of course there are the more purely scientific books as well, and Full House looks particularly good.

A Pacifist's War by Frances Partridge (written 1939-45, published 1978). Another account of life in World War II, from another interesting perspective. Frances Partridge was a writer, a connection of the Bloomsbury Group and a principled pacifist, who lived during the war in the Wiltshire countryside with her husband and young son; her diary records their everyday life and her thoughts about the war and life in general. A lot of it is taken up by accounts of visits to and from Bloomsbury Group friends, which were not all that interesting (I found many of the people described kind of annoying). The parts I most enjoyed were Partridge's private reflections on and feelings about the events of the war, which presented a fascinating contrast to Mollie Panter-Downes's more public and conventional accounts: without being particularly closely involved in events, she records in detail the emotions of living through the war as someone who took seriously the idea of war as an evil in itself, while necessarily being very much invested in Britain winning. The conflict, emotional contradictions, anxiety and hopelessness she writes about are, I think, a very valuable perspective—pretty much, it was an awful time to be alive. Partridge's husband Ralph, who had become a pacifist after fighting in World War I, was called up, chose to register as a conscientious objector and actually had a hard time convincing the authorities that he was genuine in his beliefs—that process was also interesting to read about.

And a couple of shorter things:

I had missed out D. K. Broster's short story 'Mongst All Foes (1902) in my read-through, and was reminded of it now. It makes very interesting context for Flight of the Heron: not only was Broster already writing about the Jacobites more than twenty years before the novel, the story contains some very similar themes of friendship, honour, terrible dilemmas and noble tragedy, as well as some particular familiar elements like hurt/comfort, dramatic swordfights and more than a little homoeroticism. (Arguably more overt homoeroticism than FotH, actually—the narrator actually says at one point that he could never have loved a woman, because he loved his friend first). The writing style is also interesting—unlike most of Broster's writing, the story is in first person, and the style, while recognisable as Broster's own, is not yet the distinctive omniscient voice of the novels. It feels more consciously old-fashioned than most of her historical writing, as well—there's especially a lot of use of the 'had it been... it had been' subjunctive, a construction I think is very elegant if slightly confusing.

And speaking of '~friendship~', I've also been having a look through The Quorum: A Magazine of Friendship, whose single issue was published in 1920. Very interesting stuff, and wide-ranging—the contributions include homoerotic poetry, a review of a recent school story and an essay arguing that friendship across class boundaries is necessary to heal political conflict—and also interesting for the perspective it gives on period views of 'friendship' and types of relationship in general. The linked edition contains an introduction discussing the historical queer and literary context in more detail. I came across the magazine via

sovay commenting on a discussion of historical attitudes to friendship and love on

osprey_archer's journal, and the contributor most discussed there was Dorothy L. Sayers, whose poem 'Veronica' was probably my favourite thing in the magazine. Her book Unnatural Death seems to be especially relevant to this side of things in her writing—I bounced off the second Peter Wimsey book several years ago, but recent discussions have intrigued me, and I see that Unnatural Death is in fact the third book in the series, so I may well go back and give it a try now...

Finally, I have also read E. W. Hornung's Witching Hill! It is excellent—one of my favourites of his so far, I think—and I shall write up a proper review this weekend. :)

A quick update before I start on the book that came in the post today. :D

Bully for Brontosaurus: Reflections in Natural History by Stephen Jay Gould (1991). I'd already read several of Gould's collections of natural history essays, and decided to pick up another one when I felt I was missing natural history books in my life. This was an excellent decision! The essays range widely over palaeontology, natural history, history of science and twentieth-century American culture, and they're all both fascinating in subject matter and very well written. Gould has an amazing talent for linking together disparate facts and finding the essential point—whether a piece of evidence to support his views of natural history and evolution, a wider lesson about the scientific method or an even more general point about human thought and life—in all sorts of random bits and pieces. Really a great intellect. Of course the science has moved on since 1991, and some of the facts are now out of date (including, happily, the title essay—Brontosaurus has recently been restored as a valid genus, when the various species formerly classified as Apatosaurus were split into two genera), but many of the general points are still very relevant. Good stuff, and I really ought to get round to reading some of Gould's longer-form books, which also look very interesting.

The Holy City: Jerusalem II by Selma Lagerlöf (1902; translated by Velma Swanston Howard, 1918). This is the second part of Jerusalem. While the first part began with the Ingmars of Ingmar Farm and gradually developed into the story of the Helgumists and their planned emigration to Jerusalem, this one goes the other way, beginning with the Swedish emigrants' life in Jerusalem and gradually changing focus back to the Ingmars, with Ingmar Ingmarsson and his new wife Barbro becoming the main characters by the end. I preferred the first part, which has a lot of Lagerlöf's typical meandering style and vividly memorable set-pieces: all the imagery around the religious and historical significance of Jerusalem and its surroundings, the picture of the various religious colonies in Jerusalem and the 'city that kills', the various horrible misfortunes that befall the Swedish colonists during their first year in the city. The return of the Ingmar plot was less interesting (and marred by some unfortunate period attitudes), but it does also have a bit of the supernatural weirdness that's another of my favourite things about Lagerlöf's writing. As ever, her attitude as author and narrator is distant and detached—for such a significant subject, there's very little overt religious debate or criticism, or commentary on whether the colony was actually a good idea or not (the scene with the children at the end of the first part is never picked up on—instead we see them happily living at the colony, playing and going to school with no apparent problems). Another good one, although in some ways slightly mysterious—I would like to know more about the history that inspired it!