‘Rommel?’ ‘Gunner Who?’ A Confrontation in the Desert by Spike Milligan (1974)

‘Halt! Who goes there?’ came the midnight challenge.
‘Hitler!’
‘Can’t be. He came in ten minutes ago.’
(Squaddie repartee in ‘”Rommel?” “Gunner Who?”: A Confrontation in the Desert’, page 31)

I didn’t know Spike Milligan’s dad was a sergeant-major in the Indian army, which explains why he had an informed view of army life long before he was conscripted into the service in 1939. I also didn’t know Spike Milligan’s actual name was Terry. We learn this on page 27. Full of autobiographical facts, it is.

‘”Rommel?” “Gunner Who?”: A Confrontation in the Desert’ was Milligan’s second volume of war autobiography, published in 1974. In these early volumes he says they will form a trilogy but in the event he ended up writing seven volumes of memoirs of the Second World War (!).

Typical example of a serious Edwardian illustration with Milligan’s comic caption

Period covered

Its predecessor, ‘Adolf Hitler: My Part in his Downfall’, covered from the outbreak of war in September 1939 through to January 1943 – from Milligan’s call-up to the 56th Heavy Regiment Royal Artillery, and then time spent training at bases all round the south of England, before posting to Bexhill on the south coast, from which they often watched German bombers flying north to bomb London. It concludes with his regiment’s embarkation to travel by ship to North Africa in January 1943.

‘Rommel?’ ‘Gunner Who?’ picks up exactly where its predecessor left off, in January 1943 and covers a relatively short period, just until May 1943, describing increasingly intense fighting (in which Milligan’s artillery regiment was directly involved) leading up to the capture of Tunis by the Allies and the end of the Desert War on 7 May.

So whereas the Hitler book took 140 pages to cover nearly 3-and-a-half years, this one takes longer (208 pages) to cover a much shorter period (23 January to 12 May 1943, four-and-a-half months).

Sources

This is explained by the fact that Milligan uses a number of diaries as sources for the text and these give him a wealth of detailed day-by-day information to draw on (or just plain copy).

Thus the book, beneath the blizzard of gags, cartoons and silly pictures, is laid out in a basic diary form, with one or more entries for most of the days in the January to May period.

An introductory note tells us he used not only his own diary but the official regimental diary, and also the diaries of the regiment’s CO Lieutenant Colonel Chater Jack and of one Al Fildes. In addition, Milligan cites letters and photos and various other memorabilia supplied by his mates so, taken altogether, this wealth of source material explains why the entries for each individual day are so surprisingly detailed and factual, and why the whole book is longer than the first one, despite covering only a tenth of the period of time. Here’s a typical entry, combining solid factual information with a bit of humour.

April 8 1943: This way to another battle. At sunset we drove to a rendezvous with Captain Rand, Bombardier Edwards, Gunner Maunders in a Bren driven by Bombardier Sherwood, it was dark when we met. ‘We’ll sleep here tonight,’ said diminutive Captain Rand in a voice like Minnie Mouse. We slept fitfully by the roadside as trucks, tanks etc rumbled back and forth but inches from our heads. (p.157)

Broad overview

The narrative follows Spike and his fellow bombardiers in the 19th Battery as they arrive in North Africa and are posted, to begin with, at Camp X, not far from Algiers. This is staggering distance from the sea, which our boys sit in up to the waist, naked, sobering up after a heavy night, sometimes watching Algiers getting bombed by Jerry.

After 50 pages they are sent forward to a real observation post (OP) in the front line where they for the first time come under fire. Here Spike is sent on a dangerous mission to lay phone cable from the rear headquarters up to the OP. Later, during daylight, Spike watches our boys trying to hit German Tiger tanks in the plain below, comes under artillery fire and is part of a sudden retreat back to their starting position and then on to a new base.

The narrative has the feel of military action in that it is confused and the movements of his little unit generally incomprehensible. He is at the level where you just obey orders, no matter how contradictory, confusing and abrupt they seem.

There aren’t many dead bodies but his unit is attacked by Stukas, comes across burned out buildings, he talks about this or that regiment on their flanks ‘catching it’. On 8 April they stop at Djbel Mahdi before driving along the route of a Jerry retreat, past burning vehicles, some containing carbonised bodies. He and his mates keep up a stream of non-stop banter, but it’s a war book, alright. They stop to consult a map and Spike notices an Italian corpse nearby, not long dead, still oozing blood. He helps himself to his wristwatch and a not tells us he later gave it to his dad as a gift (p.158).

In the final 50 or so pages his unit is at the front, directing artillery fire and coming under repeated attack, from mortar, artillery and German planes. Right at the end his favourite officer, Lieutenant Goldsmith, is killed. Milligan remembers crying his eyes out, the text includes a crudely cut and pasted newspaper tribute from Goldsmith’s friend, playwright Terence Rattigan.

He and his mates keep up a stream of non-stop, cheeky chap banter but it’s a war book, alright.

Format

As with its predecessor, ‘Rommel?’ ‘Gunner Who?’ is a deliberately disjointed, scrapbook-style book, with the (surprisingly coherent chronological) narrative constantly being interrupted by:

  • sections of spoof communications between Rommel, Hitler and other senior Germans (so-called ‘Hitlergrams’)
  • Edwardian illustrations from the peak of the empire in the 1890s with silly captions scrawled on them
  • Milligan’s own sketches and cartoons
  • photos of his mates in the battalion
  • letters home
  • selections from the ‘zany’ battery newsletter and poems he wrote
  • and any other stuff he can cram in

The deliberate scrapbook effect reminded me of the series of Monty Python scrapbook-style books from the 1970s (especially using pictures of stiff-upper-lipped Edwardians and adding silly captions) which were also laid out like surreal pastiches of schoolboy comics, only not as funny or as imaginative. Spike’s efforts always seemed somehow tight and clumsy. Take the Hitlergrams. These are a promising idea but woeful in practice.

Hitlergram number number 27

ADOLPH HITLER: You realise soon zer Englishers people will be crushed!
ME: It must be rush hour!
ADOLPH HITLER: Zere is no need to rush!! Soon it will be all over.
ME: Hooray! Back to civvy street!
ADOLPH HITLER: Civvy Street is no more! It was destroyed by zer bombs of mine Luftwaffe. (p.57)

Vulgar, crude, puerile, sometimes very funny

It is deliberately vulgar, crude, puerile and sometimes very funny. But often just vulgar and crude.

Suddenly, without warning, ‘Strainer’ Jones lets off with a thunderous postern blast, he had us all out of that tent in ten seconds flat. (p.22)

Farting, wanking, pissing, shitting, the subject matter of satirists and comedians since the advent of literature (see Greek and Roman comedy, Chaucer, Rabelais). There’s quite liberal use of the c word, not so much by Spike as by the very working class lads around him.

Driver Cyril puts on his boots. ”Ere, my feet ‘ave swelled.’
‘No they ‘aven’t, cunt, they’re my boots.’ (p.180)

Hoggins

But it’s hard not to feel a bit oppressed by the constant references to shagging. The book is an account of healthy young heterosexual men in their sexual prime, absolutely boiling over with hormones and randiness and talking about it all day and all night:

‘A man can never have enough hoggins. A good shag clears the custard,’ said Gunner Balfour as he wrote a tender letter home to his wife. (p.29)

Hardly a page goes by without reference to erections and groins, lads boasting about the sexual conquests, jokes about the shapes of some lads’ knobs, references to the (many) men who masturbate every night in the shared dormitories (a subject, incidentally, mentioned by Eric Newby as a common nightly occurrence at his POW camp in Love and War in the Apennines). The lads eye up every woman in sight, reminisce fondly about shagging huge numbers of birds and barmaids back in Blighty, or about more recent escapades with the Arab whores in Algiers. Here they are setting out from the base on an evening’s R&R.

A three tonner full of sexual tension rattled us towards Algiers docks. Most others were looking for women and booze. not Gunner Milligan, I was a good Catholic boy, I didn’t frequent brothels. No, all I did was walk around with a permanent erection shouting, ‘Mercy!’ (p.32)

Shagging and going on the piss and scrounging extra grub, those are these men’s central interests. Oh, and the footie.

The lazy sods! That’s all they ever think of. Booze, football and sex. (p.66)

I suppose sex is more present than in real life a) because (as mentioned) we are reading about an unnatural concentration of fit young men, and b) because it’s all they can talk about, far from home and work and hobbies and all the other things young men divert their energies into – it’s something they all have in common: it’s a unifying subject. Also c) because sex is not only a theme which occurs in real life, but is also the subject of so many jokes, subject and punchline of an infinity of gags.

The view from the observation post was magnificent. Below lay the vast Goubelat Plain, to our right, about five miles on, were two magnificent adjoining rocky peaks that rose sheer 500 feet above the plain, Garra el Kibira and Garra el Hamada, christened ‘Queen Sheba’s tits’ (p.87)

But sometimes it’s just sex. When he’s sent to hospital for a few days with a swollen knee:

There was one magnificent nurse, Sheila Frances. She had red hair, deep blue eyes and was very pretty, but that didn’t matter! because! she had big tits! Everyone was after he and I didn’t think I stood a chance but she fancied me. I got lots of extra, like helping me get her knickers off in her tent and she eased my pain no end. (p.194)

If you can take, or even enjoy, this kind of thing, this book is for you.

Class war

Spike is very much a man of the people. He constantly refers to his family’s address in the lower class suburb of Brockley, to his ma and da and brother, identifies very strongly with ‘the lads’, and misses no opportunity to take the mickey out of the upper-class officers and their general air of bewilderment.

Officers tried to occupy us with things like ‘Do that top button up’. They were then hard put to it to think of something to do next, they settled for ‘Undo that top button’. (p.61)

The officers were grouped round a map and appeared more excited than is good for English gentlemen. (p.67)

In the dim light of the OP Chater Jack and the three officers were sipping tea. I saluted. To a man they ignored me…Gunner Woods, slaving over a hot primus, filled my mug. The officers were talking. ‘I don’t like hybrid strains,’ one was saying. ‘Too much like having a queer in the garden. Ha ha ha.’ ‘What a crowd of bloody fools,’ I thought. ‘You should have come earlier,’ whispered Woods. ‘They were on about the price of tennis shoes.’ (p.155)

If you read Milligan’s account alone you’d be amazed that the British Army ever won anything.

Types of humour

I tried to categorise aspects of Milligan’s humour in my review of the Hitler book. The commonest feature is gags, quickfire puns and comic misunderstandings. Because these are not extended sketches, don’t rely on character of clever setups, but are just bad puns, they a) are not very deep or satisfying and b) can easily become irritating. Here’s a successful little bit of repartee.

We were driven at speed to a massive French Colonial Opera House where at one time, massive French colonials sang. A sweating sergeant was waiting.
‘I’m the compere. You are the Royal Artillery Orchestra?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Where’s the rest of you?’
‘This is all there is of me. I’m considered complete by the medical officer.’
‘We had been expecting a full orchestra.’
‘We are full – we just had dinner.’ (p.36)

I spent a lot of it thinking the humour is very puerile, literally for boys, maybe 11 year-old boys would find it funny. But then you turn a page and find material radically inappropriate for an 11 year-old.

An hour later we settled in our beds listening to the lurid exploits of Driver ‘Plunger’ Bailey because he had a prick the size and shape of a sink pump. (p.35)

So the continual flow of sex references mean it’s not really appropriate for children. Is it? I first read these when I was 10 or 11, I loved the humour, can’t remember what I made of the knob jokes.

Some gags feel very stock and routine – such as describing almost any bad aspect of the war, and then tacking on a homely cockney sentiment for comic incongruity:

About 1 o’clock we arrived at the GP. Our guns were firing. What a bloody noise. What in heaven’s name did they think they were doing – it was past midnight. What would the neighbours say? (p.73)

It’s a common tactic, not only of Spike’s but of all the men around him, to make humour by taking a dangerous or exotic aspect of the war and deflating it with homely references to tea and buns or buses or family.

Somewhere a donkey was braying into the darkness. ‘Coming mother,’ said Gunner White. (p.48)

But most of it consists of comic routines arising naturally from the situation:

Wilson was a dour Scot sporting pebble glasses (only the British Army would make him a driver). I think he drove in Braille. In peacetime he’d been a shepherd. He rarely spoke, but sometimes in his sleep, he bleated. (p.132)

Or:

‘Milligan, this dog is half wild.’
‘Well, only stroke the other half, then.’ (p.139)

Or:

‘Who’s there?’ said a voice.
‘A band of Highly Trained Nymphomaniacs.’
The tent flap flew open and an unshaven face that appeared to belong to Bombardier Deans appeared. ‘Ah, you must be the one that goes around frightening little children,’ I said. (p.140)

Or:

A bath! Ten minutes later I stood naked by the thermal spring soaping myself, singing, and waving my plonker at anyone who made rude remarks. ‘With one as big as that you ought to be back home on Essential War Work.’ It was nice to have these little unsolicited testimonials. (p.164)

Or:

There was a silence. ‘I wonder what Jerry’s up to?’ said Deans. ‘He must be up to chapter 2, they’re slow readers, it’s all them big German words like Trockenbeerauslese that slows them down.’ (p.189)

Or:

A swelling had started on my knee. I said so to Lt Budden.
‘A swelling has started on my knee.’
‘It’s got to start somewhere,’ he said. (p.192)

Actually reading them out of context makes me laugh. Maybe it’s best to dip in and out of or have someone read out aloud the funniest bits.

Some facts

He is promoted from Gunner to Lance Bombardier and acquires one stripe on his arm.

On 16 April 1943, at the front, helping to direct his artillery and coming under periodic enemy fire, he turns 25 (p.178).

First mention of encountering Gunner Harry Secombe, and then namechecking Peter Sellers, serving in the RAF in faraway Ceylon (p.200).

Moments

Just occasionally, through the blizzard of gags, there are rare moments of sensibility. Some of his descriptions of the landscape peep out like shy children from a hiding place and you wonder whether this is the real Spike, buried under a) all the info from the diaries and b) avalanches of quickfire gags.

At the foot of El Kourzia, a great salt lagoon two to three miles in circumference. Around the main lagoon were dotted smaller lagoons and around the fringe, what appeared to be a pink scum. In fact it was hundreds of flamingoes. This vision, the name of Sheba, the sun, the crystal white and silver shimmer of the salt lagoon made boyhood readings of Rider Haggard come alive. It was a sight I can never forget, so engraved was it that I was able to dash it down straight into the typewriter after a gap of thirty years. (p.87)

In particular I was struck by his unexpected knowledge of flowers:

We were walking over wheatfields now flattened by war machines. It was magnificent country, spring was at hand, the wild flowers were beginning to sprout, the wheat crops were about a foot high, and lush broad beans were about to flower. Compared with the English variety, these were giants, and there were acres and acres of them around El Aroussa flat lands … Another plant, borage, was growing freely in the ditches as were little blue and ed anemones that grew among the wheat stalks. Broom was about to bud… (p.84)

Traumas

In fact, suddenly and without warning, on page 156, there is a completely candid, joke-free passage, describing him sitting in a hotel room in Madrid, describing how powerful the emotions experienced at that time still remain, eclipsing everything that came after, and how little things, a smell a snatch of jazz melody, transport him right back to the battlefield and the bases and the most intense friendships of his life. They aren’t really happy memories and yet they’re addictive, like a drug. Poor Spike.

This turns out to be the first of a new thing in these books, short sections titled ‘Traumas’, which are printed in smaller font than the main text and describe nightmares. He dreams he’s blown to pieces by a direct hit from a mortar and hears the stretcher bearer saying ‘this one’s dead’ (p.161). There’s a really grisly nightmare about being slowly crushed to death by the tracks of a Panzer tank (p.173). Another of taking a direct hit from a shell but being conscious enough to turn round and see his entrails spread out like a fan behind him (p.194).

According to this (and every other war book you read) there’s a lot of banter and humour among squaddies but Spike’s goes leagues beyond that, to border on mania and he knows it.

I went raving on, I was mad I know, under these conditions it was advisable. (p.162)

The same kind of conditions being endured by soldiers on the front line in Ukraine right now.


Credit

‘Rommel?’ ‘Gunner Who?’ A Confrontation in the Desert by Spike Milligan was published by Michael Joseph in 1974. References are to the 1976 Penguin paperback edition.

Related reviews

Mimi and Toutou Go Forth: The Bizarre Battle for Lake Tanganyika by Giles Foden (2004)

Factual history has always played a central role in Foden’s fiction, possibly, arguably, to its detriment.

Thus his harrowing account of a (fictional) Scottish doctor who gets caught up in Idi Amin’s murderous regime in ‘The Last King of Scotland’ begins to go off the rails when it tries to have our hero present at an increasingly unlikely number of actual historical events.

Similarly, ‘Zanzibar’ is a novel about an American couple who get caught up in the 1998 terrorist attacks on embassies in East Africa, a text which, at some points, puts the fiction completely on hold while it delivers straight lectures about the origins of al-Qaeda, or the Starr Enquiry into Bill Clinton, or the precise functioning of a Tomahawk cruise missile, among many other factual digressions.

In this book, Foden’s fondness for historical fact triumphs over fiction: it is not a novel at all. It is a factual account of actual historical events but not done in the dry tones of an academic historian. These real events are viewed from a deliberately playful, quirky angle, written in a consistently whimsical style, and with many scenes and conversations imagined. Semi-fictionalised history…

On Lake Tanganyika

At the outbreak of the First World War, Germany ‘owned’ the colony of German East Africa, roughly present-day Tanzania, bordered by Portuguese East Africa to the south (modern Mozambique) and British East Africa to the north (modern Kenya and Uganda).

The key geographical feature of the region was Lake Tanganyika (at 420 miles, the longest freshwater lake in the world) which the Germans dominated by means of several big warships, two motorboats, a fleet of dhows and some Boston whalers.

Dominance of the lake was important because a) it was the lynchpin to ownership of the entire territory and war is about controlling territory; which in turn b) gave the Germans access to a potentially large supply of native or askari troops, with c) the worst-case scenario of Germ,any assembling an African army from across the region and descending down the Nile to take (British-run) Egypt and threatening the route to the jewel in the crown of the British Empire, India (p.46).

In 1915, with the war in stalemate on the Western Front and Churchill’s Gallipoli campaign about to lurch to disaster, the Admiralty was persuaded by a British big game hunter named John Lee, of a plan to combat and destroy the German battleships on Lake Tanganyika. The plan involved transporting the parts for a couple of fast motorboats by ship to South Africa, then north by rail up through Rhodesia, then by land and river through the Belgian Congo, then by train again East and so, finally, onto the lake directly opposite the German base at Kigoma.

Here the motorboats would be quickly assembled and set to attack the German warships. The whole expedition was put under the command of a well-known eccentric and semi-disgraced naval officer, Commander Geoffrey Spicer-Simpson.

A factual account

I initially thought this was one more of Foden’s deeply historical fictions. It certainly opens with an obviously imagined scene of a big game hunter stalking an elephant, using fictional devices to imagine his thoughts and actions. This, it turns out, is the big game hunter John Lee, whose plan is going to kick start the narrative. It establishes Foden’s method basing everything on documentary evidence of the historical events but freely inventing ‘fictional’ details, especially the characters’ dialogue.

What made me realise it is indeed a history is the extent of Foden’s quotations from other histories, from numerous memoirs, articles and lectures – every page has quotes from other books about the First World War or Africa – and from the flotilla of footnotes bobbing at the bottom of every page. These serve to indicate the scope of Foden’s research and reading and generally bolster the authenticity of the narrative, augmented by four pages of maps at the start, showing just where everything happened, and a three-page bibliography (listing 41 books and articles) at the end. Also at the end is a nifty page showing silhouettes of all the ships involved in the narrative, indicating their relative sizes.

Whimsy

Yet despite all this factual fol-de-rol, it’s not really a book for adults. This begins to be indicated 1) by the frivolous title, 2) by the deliberate ‘Swallows and Amazons’ hand-drawn style of the maps, and 3) by the fact that every chapter starts with an equally children’s book-style illustration (by Matilda Hunt). These all give the visual impression that it is a Swallows and Amazons-style children’s book.

Most of all it’s indicated by the book’s brisk skipping over massively important historical facts (such as the outbreak and progress of the Great War, the conception and deployment of the Gallipoli campaign) in favour of foregrounding the maximum amount of silliness.

For the whole thing is played for laughs, liberally sprinkled with scenes of high farce. Take one of the earliest scenes in the book, which introduces us to the future leader of the expedition, Geoffrey Spicer-Simpson, watching the vessel he was meant to be captain of being torpedoed and sunk while he was irresponsibly having a drink in the bar of an English harbourside hotel. The general idea is that Spicer-Simpson was an obsessive incompetent who the Admiralty was happy only too happy to send on some wild goose chase into darkest Africa.

The narrative goes out of its way to wring the maximum amount of comic effect from the eccentricities of many of the key characters. Take Spicer-Simpson’s insistence on only smoking handmade cigarettes with his name monogrammed on them. Or Sub-Lieutenant Tyrer, ‘one of the earliest English aviators’ and his habit of affecting a monocle and a taste for Worcester sauce as an aperitif and his nickname Piccadilly Johnny. It’s history rewritten in the mode of Jeeves and Wooster. Michael Palin’s ‘Ripping Yarns’. History for the lolz.

It goes out of its way to emphasise the whimsical and and droll: Tubby Eastward acquires a chimpanzee he names Josephine (p.99). When they capture a goat which was a mascot on a German ship, it turns out the goat will let Josephine ride on its back (p.204). A Tanganyika guidebook advises that dead Zebra noses make pretty slippers (p.104). All this before we get onto the expedition leader’s fondness for wearing skirts, admittedly made from army khaki, but which he insisted were suitable for the hot weather, to the derision of pretty much everyone else on the expedition (p.171).

This question of whether it’s for adults was answered for me on page 35, where he gives us a lengthy footnote explaining what the Crystal Palace was, how it was transplanted to Sydenham, and burned down in 1936. He has to explain what the Crystal Palace was. From that point onwards I realised this is an intelligent child’s version of history, and wondered what the book’s target age group was intended to be: 12? 16? A feeling reinforced by the egregious use of exclamation marks to ram home the comedy.

It was supposedly a secret mission, although Kapitän Zimmer’s memoirs reveal that he knew there was a British naval expedition on its way to the lake by late May 1915: before it had even set off! (p.56)

More accurately, maybe, as Conan Doyle wrote somewhere, it’s for the adventuresome boy of any age.

Basic facts

The expedition was officially named the Naval African Expedition. Its mission was to transport two motorboats across land to Lake Tanganyika and use them to sink the Germans’ three battleships, Hedwig von Wissmann, the Kingani and the Graf von Götzen. Here’s all the facts you need to know:

Note how the Battle article cites an impressive number of citations from Foden’s book, suggesting that, despite its larky tone, it is now the definitive modern account of these events.

Why ‘Mimi and Toutou go forth’?

Mimi and Toutou are what Spicer named the two motorboats, telling his men they were French for ‘miaow’ and ‘bow-wow’, respectively (p.37).

‘Mimi’ in 1915. Note the cannon at the front and machine gun at the back. National Maritime Museum, London

As to ‘go forth’, this is a Ripping Yarns-type phrase which Foden deploys early on in the narrative, presumably hoping for a laugh, and then repeats at various points of their journey through the jungle and deployment on the lake, presumably for comic effect. Except that, like most of Foden’s attempts at comic effect, it doesn’t come off. Not for me, anyway.

Timeline of the journey

June 1915: the two motorboats undergo trials on the River Thames.

15 June: the two motorboats loaded aboard the Llanstephen Castle which sets sail from Tilbury, London, bound for Cape Town.

2 July: arrive at Cape Town to hear word of Royal Navy engagement with the German battleship Königsberg, on the Indian Ocean.

16 July: load the motorboats onto trains at Cape Town and set off on the 2,000 mile train journey north.

26 July: arrive at Elizabethville, the most southernmost major city in the Belgian Congo (p.81)

5 August: the expedition reaches the end of the railway at Fungurume. The two boats are unloaded from the train from Cape Town and commence their journey overland (p.90).

Pages 90 to 158 describe the long journey of the motor boats by train, by traction engine-drawn trailer through the jungle, up and over the Mitumba mountains and down into the Congo river for a spell, before docking and taking the train east to Lake Tanganyika, are awesome. It was an epic journey fraught with countless problems (rain, mud, quicksand, buckling bridges, the traction engines continually slipping off the track into the undergrowth or down steep slopes), the white men showing amazing resourcefulness and the reader boggling at the sheer physical labour demanded of the hundreds of native labourers they co-opted to labour for them.

28 September: after the gruelling portage over the Mitumba mountains, the expedition reaches the railhead at Sankisia and the motorboats are transferred to train.

1 October 1915 (p.128) A brisk railway journey brings them to Bukama station, where the motorboats are transferred to lighters on the Lualaba river down which they’ll be ferried. The Lualaba is in fact the name for the higher reaches of the main tributary of the Congo, it changes its name to Congo at the start of the Stanley Falls (p.127). They hitch a ride on the Constantin de Burlay, skippered by the drunk and angry Captain Blaes, passing across Lake Kisabe.

22 October: arrive at the railhead at Kabalo where they’ll leave the river and head east by rail along the valley of the Lukuga towards Lake Tanganyika (p.150).

26 October: the expedition arrives at the railhead which in fact, in that African way, comes to an abrupt halt a few miles before the port at Lukuga, which the Belgians call Albertville. The Belgians ran out of rails and sleepers. The boats are hidden in a siding until

Timeline of naval engagements

1 December: German ship Kingani comes in close to Lukuga and is fired on by Belgian guns (p.176).

22 December: first of the motor boats launched onto the lake (p.184)

26 December: the German Kingani comes incautiously close to the new harbour being built for the motorboats. These wait for her to pass then set off in hot pursuit, scoring direct hits, killing the captain and forcing the chief engineer to surrender. The badly damaged ship is towed into the Belgian port (Lukuga). Macabrely, Spicer takes the signet ring from the finger of the dead captain and wore it continually afterwards (pages 192 to 197). Our boys repair the Kingani, and Spicer renames it Fifi,  in line with his frivolous naming of the two motorboats. Apparently it was the first German ship to be captured and transitioned to the Royal Navy during the Great War (p.204).

9 February: the Hedwig is order to spy out the Belgian port before rendezvousing with the Götzen. Instead it finds itself engaged with four of the allied boats (though not Toutou which had been damaged in a storm, p.222). After an extended chase and shooting, the Brits score two direct hits on the Hedwig and sink her, capturing her captain and crew.

5 June 1916: the flotilla sail south to Bismarckburg to link up with colonial soldiers who take it from the Germans (p.252).

11 June: Belgian seaplanes bomb the Graf von Götzen (p.254).

26 July: seeing that a large Belgian force was about to seize the German base of Kigoma, the captain of the Graf von Götzen gives orders for it to be scuttled (p.255).

After which (from page 257) Foden gives a kind of epilogue. The naval force was broken up. A depressed Spicer was invalided home. The two motorboats were handed over to the Belgians. Various other members of the crew met different fates, staying on in Africa or returning home via different routes.

Ripping diction

Posh diction in a multicultural society

I live in the most multicultural constituency in the UK, Streatham Hill, where over 120 languages are spoken, not least by my Chinese postman, the West African women on the Tesco’s checkout, the Brazilian receptionist at my Asian dentist’s, the Albanian labourers who fixed my fence, the Somalis who sweep the streets and so on.

Foden went to a jolly good public school (Malvern College, current annual boarding fee £46,000 i.e. entire secondary education £322,000 plus extras). He has done terrifically well in the London literary mafia where such a background sets the tone.

Living in this multicultural, multilingual, white minority environment makes me more aware than ever how incongruous it is that a certain kind of jolly, public schoolboy English diction lives on and flourishes in the world of ‘literature’, when it has is being erased and superseded in the world I live in.

Examples of chaps phraseology

It’s this variance between the posh boy diction I still meet in books, and the people I encounter in the real world which made so much of the book’s phraseology really stick out to me. It felt like it came from a lost world, from the ripping yarns of Rider Haggard and Conan Doyle.

  • It is not surprising that Spicer’s fellow officers thought of him as at best peculiar, at worst downright dangerous. (p.14)
  • [Spicer insisted on his medical officer wearing a cutlass], tearing a strip off the doctor when he questioned the point of a medical officer wearing such an item. (p.41)
  • Every evening in the bar he would hold forth on his skill in hunting big game. (p.49)
  • They bespeak the wisdom born of experience… (p.49)
  • The German inshore guns began to fire – 47 mm field guns and small arms – but the Severn and the Mersey returned the compliment in heavier kind. (p.69)
  • Away to the south-west, at a dinner table in Salisbury, skulduggery was afoot. (p.71)
  • Sinking the Hedwig would be no mean feat (p.79)
  • Fate would test Spicer again soon enough (p.164)
  • Odebrecht realised the game was up. (p.225)
  • … a world about to be shaken to its core. (p.237)

I know Foden is writing a deliberate and knowing homage to John Buchanesque adventure stories, I know it is to a large extent deliberate pastiche, but this phraseology feels to me like a message from before the flood, like an old colonel at the club asking for another pink gin, rather than a denizen of 21st century Britain.

One does, doesn’t one?

As does Foden’s routine use of ‘one’:

  • One can be sure that the full story of the victory did not come through on the Lanstephen Castle’s Morse set (p.61)
  • How Spicer didn’t know about the Götzen is a mystery one can only attribute to the parlous state of communications in Africa… (p.77)
  • One certainly gets a more powerful sense of the danger from Dr Hanschell’s account (p.114)
  • One gets a sense of what this must have been like from the travel journals of Evelyn Waugh… (p.135)

I know it’s partly or wholly pastiche and maybe I’m having a bad sense of humour failure, but the archaic pomposity of the style outweighed the slender trickle of comedy and got on my nerves. Only the king sounds like this.

Dangling prepositions

I know it’s a petty point but, given what I’m saying about the modern world and modern English usage, I am irritated by Foden’s sometimes going to absurd lengths and distorting normal English word order so as to avoid ending a sentence with a preposition. This is a feature of ‘good style’ which was old fashioned in the 1960s. but lingers on like a fossil in Foden’s writing. Mostly it’s just irritating but occasionally it really messes up the sense of the sentence.

Von Lettow-Vorbeck, the German commander, ordered that [the guns] be dragged back to Dar es Salaam, to which task 400 Africans were promptly put. (p.73)

Why not avoid the problem and write something clear and readable such like: ‘a task which 400 Africans were promptly put to.’ Americans aren’t afraid of ending sentences with a proposition, but posh Brits are. Why? Here’s some advice off the internet.

Yes, it’s fine to end a sentence with a preposition. The ‘rule’ against doing so is overwhelmingly rejected by modern style guides and language authorities and is based on the rules of Latin grammar, not English. Trying to avoid ending a sentence with a preposition often results in very unnatural phrasings. (Scribbr.com)

Which kinds of schools still teach Latin in part because it is meant to form the basis of good English prose style? British public schools of the type Foden attended, bastions of conservatism in thought and style, forming the habits of mind of such masters of English prose as Boris Johnson.

Poor editing

The book appears to have been unusually badly edited. On page 65 we are told that a young journalist named Winston Churchill had stayed at a particular South African hotel during the Boer War.

It’s odd that the text introduces Churchill in this way as he has already been mentioned half a dozen times already:

  • starting on page 22 when his disagreement with First Sea Lord Admiral Fisher is discussed as a contributory factor to the failure of the Gallipoli campaign
  • then later when his removal from his post as First Lord of the Admiralty was a condition of Conservative leader Andrew Bonar-Law joining Lloyd-George’s wartime coalition in 1915
  • then again when Churchill is quoted describing the monotony of life aboard ship (p.48)
  • and the silly tradition of having someone dress up as Neptune and insist on pranks when a British ship crossed the equator (p.57)

So for Churchill to be introduced on page 65, as if for the very first time, reads very much as if whoever edited the book hadn’t noticed the earlier references (?) or that maybe the book was published in magazine instalments and then hastily cobbled together with nobody checking for continuity (?). Whatever the reason, it felt amateurish and further knocked my confidence in the narrative. The research seems to have been pretty thorough but the actual writing of the book, as everything I’ve listed above indicates, is surprisingly slapdash.

The African Queen

Speaking of clumsiness, I was surprised at the clumsy way mention of the classic movie ‘The African Queen’, based on the 1935 novel by C.S. Forester, was just dumped into the text early on, in a parenthesis and without any preparation or explanation.

Their brief holiday over, the Congolese paddlemen were once again put to work. As they paddled through the reeds – sometimes getting out to tug the boats through by hand, as Bogart and Hepburn would do during the filming of The African Queen 36 years later – enormous numbers of birds flew up from their nest places in the marsh. (p.140)

There’s no previous explanation of the film or its stars. It’s just assumed that you know what this is referring to. I do because I’m the kind of white, middle-aged, middle-class film and literature buff this kind of book is aimed at, but the throwaway introduction of the huge fact that Forester’s book and the resulting movie are fictionalised accounts of the Battle of Lake Tanganyika which this book is about, is further disconcerting example of the casual, random, throwaway way even the most important historical or cultural references feel like they’ve just been chucked into the text, almost at random.

Only at the end of the main narrative does Foden devote an entire chapter (chapter 23, pages 265 to 280) to the story of C.S. Forester’s novel and the movie adaptation of it, but even here he tells the story in a cack-handed, arse-over-tit, convoluted way.

In a condensed, hectic way he jumbles up the real history, Forester’s version, John Huston’s screen version, stories about Hollywood producers, a reference to Kathleen Hepburn’s memoir about the filming, quotes from Huston’s autobiography, then that a novel was written about the making of the movie of the novel, and then that this novel was itself made into a movie directed by and starring Clint Eastwood, then that the screenplay was written by James Agee who had written the text for Let Us Now Praise Famous Men, Walker Evans’ famous photographic record of the Deep South, and so on.

It’s an extraordinarily muddled, helter-skelter, brain dump of a chapter, a shambles as explication, more like the embarrassing name-dropping of a cocky A-level student. Foden goes on to tell us that Huston’s film crew were ferried about in a boat which, twenty years later picked up Ernest Hemingway after he’d been involved in a plane crash, took him onto another location where he was promptly injured in another plane crash, tells us what Hemingway’s injuries were, then straight onto the trivial pursuit factoid that Hemingway was a big fan of Forester, and so on and so on.

It’s a movie buff equivalent of trainspotting, packed with trivial pursuit facts, quite bereft of insight or interest. I was appalled at the poor level of this farrago.

Heart of Darkness

The most obvious literary reference for any journey in the Congo is Joseph Conrad’s super-famous novel, Heart of Darkness. Foden is not shy about being obvious and his text contains references to and quotes from Conrad on pages 127, 131, 133, 146, 207, 272 and 275.

None of these shed any light whatsoever on Conrad, they are used in the most basic, bucket, banal kind of way just to cross-reference this or that setting or episode in Foden’s narrative. For example, he quotes Conrad’s descriptions of the river Congo, or the jungle, adding nothing much to the narrative except the Sunday supplement pleasure of spotting literary allusions. At one point, with wild inappropriateness, Foden compares Spicer’s daily bath– which he turned into a ritual for the bemusement of the local Africans – with the behaviour of Conrad’s Mr Kurz, who was (obviously) an absolutely and completely different kind of man (p.208). The comparison adds nothing to our understanding of Conrad or Spicer, it’s just a handy reference to chuck in along with a lot of the other lumber and junk which clutters the narrative.

Just as unoriginal is Foden’s yoking in of T.S. Eliot. Dear oh dear, what a lazy sixth form name to drop. The pretext is that one of Eliot’s poems (The Hollow Men) features a quote from Conrad’s Heart of Darkness (‘Mistah Kurtz. He dead’) and his most famous poem, The Waste Land, was to feature another, super-famous quote (‘The horror! The horror!’) until its editor removed it.

Now, as any literature student knows, Eliot claimed that The Waste Land was ‘based’ on contemporary works of anthropology such as Fraser’s Golden Bough or Jesse Weston’s then brand-new study, From Ritual to Romance (p.251). All this irrelevant information is shoehorned into the text because Foden, reasonably enough, wants to give us an account of the African mythology of the people living around Lake Tanganyika and its surrounding mountains, goes on to describe the behaviour of the local Holo-Bolo tribe of killing off old kings and immediately crowning new ones – but it’s at this point that he begins to twist things by claiming that the Holo-Bolo ritual can be said to be an example of the cults of death and rebirth described by Fraser and Weston…and so all this can be linked to Eliot…and Eliot uses an epigraph by Conrad…and Conrad write Heart of Darkness about the Congo…and this book is about an adventure in the Congo…and so…SHAZAM! It all fits!!

See how contrived all this is? All this tying the text up in knots so as to name-drop some of the most obvious works of English literature. It’s like an undergraduate game of Consequences, clever and trivial.

It’s also disturbing or another reason not to take the book seriously, that Foden doesn’t take the opportunity to reference any modern anthropological work about the myths of central Africa, which I’m sure abound and would be genuinely interesting, but would require some actual serious research. Instead he prefers to draw on his own undergraduate degree to serve up bleeding obvious cultural references from a hundred years ago which will be greeted with knowing nods by every other English graduate but are absolutely useless as objective, serious anthropological analysis.

This entry-level use of undergraduate cultural references, combined with their clumsy shoehorning into a farrago of pointless name-dropping, really shook my faith in Foden as a writer. The factual historical parts of the book feel solid and interesting. But the blizzard of cultural references and ‘explanations’ which clutter it up feel obvious, thrown together, shallow and patronising.

Last night I read a comment by a reader on a Guardian article which immediately made me think of this book:

I think it’s quite common for writers to mistake cultural references for substance or insight in their prose. However, they often serve more to exclude rather than enlighten the reader.

(As backup to my view that T.S. Eliot is just about the most obvious English language poet for pretentious people to namedrop, I’m reading Chinua Achebe’s second novel, No Longer At Ease, whose title is a quote from T.S. Eliot’s poem, The Journey of the Magi, and when Achebe wants to highlight his protagonist’s callow inexperienced quickness to show off the learning he’s acquired in his recent English degree, he has him tell his nurse girlfriend that something she’s just said is ‘pure T.S. Eliot’. She is unimpressed. The scene exists in Achebe’s novel to highlight how callow, obvious and immature the protagonist is, keen to show off his newly acquired learning at every opportunity, no matter how inappropriate…)

F0oden on human evolution

A prime example of a completely extraneous bit of pseud-culture which is shoehorned into the narrative and turns out to be both distracting and wrong comes towards the end.

In the final passages of the book, after the historical narrative is finished, Foden moves on to recount his modern-day journeys to research the story of the Battle of Lake Tanganyika. The idea is to see what physical remains of the events, if any, can still be found. Not much, is the answer. Instead these last 30 or so pages feel more like a tourist travelogue as Foden describes the various hardships he underwent on his journey round the lake looking for historical traces, almost as if they’ve been tacked onto the end of the book to bulk it out to the necessary length.

Thus it is that we find the author standing in the Tanzania Museum’s Hall of Man and admitting that he can never remember the sequence of human evolution, does it go Australopithecus, then Homo habilis, then Homo sapiens?

Two points about this. Number one, why doesn’t he look it up on the bloody internet instead of making a point about his own ignorance? Because that’s the kind of text it is: cultivating a deliberate image of bumbling whimsy. It places Foden in direct descent from the bumbling Brits who managed to pull of their historic feat, not least the eccentric Spicer-Simpson. Maybe it’s meant to make him come over as endearingly imperfect, a sort of Michael Palin figure.

Number two: no, that is not the sequence of human ancestors, because our contemporary understanding of human evolution now rejects the entire idea of one line of human development. Instead, all the evidence points to a surprising number of Homo species arising in different places around Africa, flourishing for a while then dying out. The lineage we belong to survived by a fluke. The kind of simple one-line-of-descent Foden can’t even remember properly is, like his reference to Weston and Fraser, completely out of date and discredited. Read:

Having got this completely wrong, Foden goes on to repeat the equally out-of-date error that Homo sapiens ‘wiped out’ Homo neanderthalensis in a ‘genocide’ (p.288).

No. A genocide suggests a co-ordinated and sustained campaign of extermination which requires modern technology, weapons and, above all, population size. Professor Chris Stringer, Research Leader in Human Evolution at the Natural History Museum, says that at their peak there were probably only about 50,000 proto-humans spread across all of Eurasia. The tiny groups they lived in might go years or even decades without bumping into other groups. There weren’t nearly enough early humans to conduct anything remotely like a ‘genocide’. Modern thinking is that they/we just had a fractionally better ability to survive than the Neanderthals, for whatever reason – slightly higher intelligence, slightly better social or cognitive skills – and that this gave us the edge which let us survive in a wide variety of ecological niches while the Neanderthals didn’t.

Why does Foden drag this incorrect misleading stuff into his text? Not to inform us, not to keep us up-to-date with the latest research but, it turns out, purely and solely because he wants to use the non-existent Neanderthal ‘genocide’ to introduce the topic of the appalling behaviour of the pre-Great War Germans in their colonies, where they mounted a real-life genocide against the native inhabitants of South-West Africa, and as a peg to describe how the Germans’ brutal treatment of natives in German East Africa triggered a revolt which was put down with equal brutality.

Why not just say that? Why drag in all this half-understood, out-of-date rubbish about human evolution to get on to the topic he wants to discuss?

By now I hope you can see how this just seemed to me just another example of the book’s modish superficiality. It’s a dinner party trope, a Radio 4 cliché, to talk about the ‘genocide’ of the Neanderthals, even though modern science thinks it’s bunk. Sounds cool, though. Makes it sound like you are a knowledgeable guy with a tough-minded approach to history.

Except it’s wrong.

And it’s insulting. If you’re going to raise the subject of a genocide then at least treat it with the respect it deserves. Foden mentions the extermination of the Herero tribe in half a sentence and the maji rebellion in less than a page. So this book is very much not the place to learn about either of these important events which very much ought to be memorialised and taken seriously.

If you’re interested in either, put down this book and pick up Thomas Pakenham’s epic account of The Scramble for Africa, which devotes chapter 33 to the Herero war (14 densely printed pages) and chapter 34 to the maji-maji rebellion (13 pages). That’s the way to treat a genocide. Give it the length, depth and detail the horribly murdered victims deserve.

So: the entire passage which starts quite promisingly with the author standing in Tanzania Museum’s Hall of Man turns out to be inaccurate, misleading, and only there in order to provide a rather tortuous pretext for references to German imperial brutality which are, like everything else in the book – apart from the central narrative of transporting the motorboats – treated with almost insulting brevity and superficiality.

Thoughts

After working through 311 ages of often gripping narrative, I did, of course, learn a huge amount about this little-known aspect of the Great War. Nevertheless, I was very disappointed. I can see that the book is intended to be a comical entertainment but that comedy almost entirely depends on you buying into the world and tone of eccentric Edwardian chaps which Foden depicts and this, for some reason, I found impossible to do.

Maybe because I had been brutalised by the serious issues and graphic violence of Foden’s first three novels and was still reeling from the snakepit of issues raised by his descriptions of al-Qaida and Osama bin Laden, the clash of the West and Islam, discussed at length in his preceding book, Zanzibar and found it impossible to switch to the tone of light-hearted whimsy which dominates this book.

Maybe because I found the use of ‘one’, the odd word order, the jolly chaps phraseology, to be too much of a blocker. Maybe, quite simply, because the text just isn’t as funny as it thinks it is.

It has many striking and memorable moments. The account of the portage of the motorboats through the jungle, up over the Mitumba mountains and along the Congo is awesome. The account of the naval battles on the lake feels very thorough and authoritative. The factual accuracy about the ships, the war and the battles, at all times feels solid. The recreation of so many of the historical characters is full and persuasive.

But for me these achievements were undermined by:

  1. superficial discussion of related topics like the situation on the Western Front, or the sinking of the Lusitania (p.42) or the cack-handed treatment of The African Queen or the rubbish about human evolution or the inadequate treatment of tribal genocides, which I’ve mentioned
  2. the footnotes on every page, most of which are either really obvious or embarrassingly ‘quirky’
  3. the maladroit use of those Conrad quotations and all the other trite and clunkily inserted cultural references
  4. the repeated preference for slick attitudinising on the woke topics of the day (racism, imperialism, genocide) instead of the in-depth explanations or proper analysis which those topics deserve

Above all by the deliberate frivolousness of the tone which, as you can tell, just didn’t work at all for me.

If you like this kind of historical whimsy then ‘Mimi and Toutou Go Forth: The Bizarre Battle for Lake Tanganyika’ is for you, and I imagine it sold well to the same kind of people who bought ‘Nathaniel’s Nutmeg’ and other quirky takes on little-known episodes from history.

Maybe it’s a flaw in my taste that I either like full-on comedy (like William Boyd’s outrageously funny ‘A Good Man in Africa’) or full-on, serious history with proper analysis (see the many straight histories in my list of Africa reviews) so that, as you can tell, I just didn’t get on with this larky yarn which falls between both.

Interesting-sounding books which Foden namechecks

  • Phantom Flotilla: The story of the Naval Africa Expedition by Peter Shankland (1968)
  • The Great War in Africa by Bryan Farwell (1987)
  • The First World War by Hew Strachan (2001)

Compare with ‘An Ice-Cream War’

William Boyd’s second novel, ‘An Ice-Cream War’, is set during the First World War in British and German East Africa, so there’s some overlap (though not, in fact, as much as you might think, Boyd’s book being a sweeping account of the land war, Foden’s entirely about the relatively small and specific events on Lake Tanganyika). For example, the (real, historical) overall commander of German forces, Paul Von Lettow-Vorbeck, appears in both books.

If it was a choice between the two books, I would hands down recommend the Boyd novel, which is long, rich, deeply researched, wonderfully imagined and luminously written – the opposite in every way of this book.


Credit

Mimi and Toutou Go Forth: The Bizarre Battle for Lake Tanganyika by Giles Foden was published by Michael Joseph in 2004. References are to the 2005 Penguin paperback edition.

Giles Foden reviews

Africa reviews

Kim by Rudyard Kipling (1901) part 2

‘Alas! It is a great and terrible world.’
(The lama’s catchphrase)

In part one of this review I summarised Rudyard Kipling’s 1901 novel, Kim, chapters 1 to 9, picking out interesting quotes, and commenting. This part picks up the summary half way through the novel i.e at chapter 10. It’s not just half way through, though. Chapter ten introduces four elements which change our view of the narrative.

1. For the first time the narrator refers to all the events of the story as not being in the exciting present, following the day-by-day, hour-by-hour exploits of our daring young hero, but in the historic past. Talking about a report Kim writes for his mentor Mahbub Ali, the narrator says:

The report in its unmistakable St Xavier’s running script, and the brown, yellow, and lake-daubed map, was on hand a few years ago (a careless clerk filed it with the rough notes of E’s second Seistan survey), but by now the pencil characters must be almost illegible. (p.144)

This completely changed my attitude to the story, converting it from a tale of the present to one of the past (regarded from Kipling’s time), and so doubly past: from our time back to the time of writing and publishing (1901) and then, further back, by a distance that allows secret reports to be openly published and its writing to fade i.e. an appreciable period.

2. The second thing is related to the first, which is that the narrative (not quite for the first time but for in the first really sustained way) steps back from describing the breathless present, to take a more lofty overview of events. Previously the narrator had reported virtually every scrap of dialogue between Kim and his interlocutors; now the narrator steps back and uses just a few paragraphs to convey the passage of no fewer than three years of Kim’s life, covering his school career at St Xavier’s College. In term time he learns white boy subjects like reading, writing and ‘rithmetic, along with Latin and cricket. In holiday time he accompanies Agent C25, otherwise known as Mahbub Ali, well-known Pathan horse trader, on his ‘business’ trips to various parts of India, all the time learning spycraft on the job. Or he goes to stay with the supposed jeweller Lurgan Sahib up in Simla, where he is instructed in the arts of disguise and blending in.

In other words, after this brief overview of the passage of time, events from chapter ten onwards occur three years later than the events of the first half. We are told that Kim is now 16 years old (p.149).

3. Part of this change involves a switch from direct speech – the overwhelming majority of the text to date has been direct speech i.e. dialogue – to narrative description. It’s like stepping off a fast-moving tram onto the pavement. Suddenly the text has a completely different feel.

4. Lastly, it’s also at the start of chapter 10 that Mahbub gives Kim a gun. A gun.

A mother-of-pearl, nickel-plated, self-extracting .450 revolver.

Suddenly, at a stroke, a story which had been about a 10 or 11 year old boy having innocent adventures turns into a spy story with guns. Guns and knives had, albeit obliquely, occurred earlier, specifically in the scene where Kim warns Ali that two enemy agents are lying in wait to shoot him outside he and his employees’ campment at Lucknow railway station (chapter 8). But with Ali’s ceremonial presentation to Kim of his own gun, suddenly the story seems to have more in common with Raymond Chandler than the innocent schoolboy adventures of Stevenson or Rider Haggard.

Plot summary from chapter 10

Chapter 10

Head of ‘the Department’ Colonel Creighton and two of his best native operatives, Ali and Lurgan, have a summit conference about Kim’s future. The latter pair think Creighton should have been using Kim on missions years ago. For the first (and only) time the phrase ‘Secret Service’ is used. The phrase ‘Great Game’ had cropped up only twice before in the text (‘the Great Game that never ceases day and night, throughout India’); from now on it occurs 15 times.

In Lucknow, Ali takes Kim to visit Huneefa the blind hoori who uses her stain to colour the now-pale Kim back to a native brown. Turns out she is also a witch or enchantress and, as Kim passes out due to heavy soporifics, she casts spells to keep traditional devils away from him. Also turns out that the obese Babu is out on the balcony observing proceedings (with repugnance). He and Ali are both a bit freaked out by the genuine witch intensity Huneefa.

So Colonel Creighton has agreed that Kim can finally definitively leave St Xavier’s. Ali supervises him being painted brown and then clothed in native dress. The plan is to let him wander the roads with his lama for another 6 months as a probationary period.

Chapter 11

So Kim is told he may travel to Tirthankars’ Temple, Benares for a happy reunion with his master, so he catches a train, with the usual casual encounters with other travellers which make the book feel so rich and full.

When he arrives at the Jain temple, the lama is predictably unemotional, shows Kim his cell, explains his devotions, explaining that he has wandered here and yon but many dreams have told him that he would never find the River of Life until he was reunited with his chela. And so he has patiently waited three years for their reunion.

He treats the fevered child of a desperate father, a Jat from Jullundur, with quinine and beef essence, curing him, but with delicacy and grace awards the credit to the god of the Jains, the lama’s hosts, who are flattered. Kipling repeatedly describes the delicacy and respect of the various native traditions, and generally contrasts them with white people’s blundering clumsiness e.g. Bennett the chaplain.

When Kim rises to ‘bless’ the child we discover that he is now, aged 16, ‘tall and slim’, like all male heroes should be (p.164)

The lama decides they will head north, so Kim arranges a train ticket. The Bankoh with the sick son accompanies them. On the train they meet ‘a mean, lean little person – a Mahratta’, who uses the special rhythm of speech and displays his amulet, to let Kim know he is one of the Secret Service, agent E23. He tells a real espionage story of travelling South with a colleague to collect vital information, they are set upon and his colleague killed, he just has time to bury the vital document ‘under the Queen’s Stone, at Chitor’, then he is chased all over central India by enemy agents, one of whom finally attacks and cuts him, before he makes his getaway onto the current train, cut and bleeding and shaking in terror.

Kim puts all his skills of disguise and uses the paintbox Lurgan gave him, to utterly transform E23.

In place of the tremulous, shrinking trader there lolled against the corner an all but naked, ash-smeared, ochre-barred, dusty-haired Saddhu, his swollen eyes –opium takes quick effect on an empty stomach –luminous with insolence and bestial lust, his legs crossed under him, Kim’s brown rosary round his neck, and a scant yard of worn, flowered chintz on his shoulders. (p.171)

Chapter 12

They arrive at Delhi station where a young British officer is leading a group of native policemen in a search for E23. The thing is, the opposition agents have framed him for a murder down South and his picture and description have been widely circulated, to police and officialdom outside ‘the Department’. That’s why Kim performed his makeup magic on the train.

Now the English officer, searching through the train, comes to their compartment, sees a half-naked Saddhu (E23 in disguise), a lama meditating, his chela yakking, and a big hairy peasant (the man with the sick infant) and – with what this book has to taught us to be characteristic English ignorance – dismisses them:

‘Nothing here but a parcel of holy-bolies,’ said the Englishman aloud, and passed on.’

In the immense crowd of Delhi station, E23 sees a tall British officer and contrives to blunder into him, let fly a stream of abuse at which the officer arrests him. E23 just has time to explain that this is Strickland, ‘one of us’, an authority figure who appears in other Kipling stories.

The narrator intervenes to indicate the web of connections which makes up the Great Game. Soon a telegram is going from Strickland’s office in Delhi to agents in Chitor who dig up the letter, and the information, he tells us, has consequences which ripple as far afield as the Ottoman Sultan.

Meanwhile, Kim and the lama set off on foot heading north from Delhi with the foothills of the Himalayas in the background, in scenes of village life beautifully illustrated by Kipling. They are in the neighbourhood of the matron of Hulu who sends servants to invite them to her house. Here there are comic scenes as this domineering woman bosses her household and the lama, while Kim giggles at his discomfort. I realised she’s a bit like Tintin’s Madame Castafiore, imperious, bossy but loveable.

One evening she introduces them to a worker of charms who has healed her sick grandson, before departing grandly in a servant-held palanquin to tour her villagers. At which point the medicine man reveals he is none other than the obese Hurree Babu.

Three things. Babu first of all reveals that it was he who was sent down to Chitor to retrieve the buried document. He tells Kim how impressed everyone in ‘the Department’ was by his quick thinking on the train, in disguising and thus saving E23.

Then he tells him a new situation. Three years earlier the British Army, including the Mavericks, had marched off to fight, in what I take to have been the Second Afghan War (1878 to 1880). At the peace some of the northern princedoms had undertaken to have roads built. Hurree supervised the building but slowly learned that the princes, and the local coolies, all thought of the roads as being prepared for invading Russians. Now, Hurree tells him, two spies have been sent by Russia, one a Russian and one a Frenchman, under cover of a hunting expedition, to spy out the lie of the land, to make maps of the area, to prepare the way, maybe, for an invading army.

Babu says he would simply poison them and be done but the British government with its ludicrous sense of fair play is allowing them to visit and keep up the front of mere hunters. But:

‘They are Russians, and highly unscrupulous people.’

Nothing changes, then. So Hurree asks Kim to head north with him to deal with these Russkies, but not travelling together. Hurree will go ahead and asks Kim to persuade the lama to head northwards, but at a day’s march behind them, so nobody thinks they’re connected. Which is what they do.

Chapter 13

Lovely descriptions of walking up into the foothills of the Himalayas, the villages, the wildlife, the clean air, the bracingly steep slopes. The lama grows stronger as he scents the mountain air of his Tibetan homeland.

Hurree Babu overtakes them and they discuss plans. He tells them to follow his umbrella, which he will keep open at all times, then hurries past them. A few days later he catches up with the two foreign spies up in the mountains. They had bullied the 11 coolies lent them by an independent Rajah one time too many, after a particularly scary thunderstorm, and the servants had melted into the forest. At this propitious moment the Babu appeared and posed as the ‘agent for His Royal Highness, the Rajah of Rampur.’ The Russian and Frenchman are delighted.

He lets them get him drunk and complains more and more about the perfidious British i.e. lulling them into thinking he can be suborned to their cause.

For the first time we see and hear the two foreign spies. Why is one Russian, one French? Because, according to the notes, the Paranoid party in the British administration saw a threat not only from Russia via the North-West Frontier, but (far more remotely) from France, which was annexing parts of China and, it was feared, might attempt an attack on India through Tibet.

The choice of nationalities is made, then, for Kipling’s propaganda purposes. Their characters and conversation are equally propagandistic. They are made to systematically under-estimate the British, taking their (the British) apparent openness to strange travellers as weakness; and to over-estimate their (the Russian and French) understanding of ‘the Oriental mind’. Says the Russian:

‘It is we who can deal with Orientals.’

This kind of hubris, of unjustified vaunting, doesn’t go unpunished in Kipling. wo days later, they come across the lama sitting with the diagram explaining his religion, expounding it to Kim. The foreigners ask who they are. Babu explains this is a famous local holy man, and he will expound the mysteries of Buddhism. The lama is delighted to do so, while Babu takes Kim aside and tells him the foreigners have all their reports – books and reports and maps – stored in a large kilta with the reddish top.

Suddenly – violence! The Russian wants the lama’s diagram, offers money, the lama inevitably refuses, the Russian seizes it and it tears. The lama goes for his metal pencase, the Russian punches him full in the face. All the coolies recoil in superstitious horror. While the lama reels back from the blow, Kim throws himself at the Russian’s throat, rolling down the hill a little, till he can bash the Russian’s head against a boulder. The Frenchman ran towards the lama, fumbling with his revolver as if to take him hostage, but is driven off by a barrage of stones from the coolies, who scoop up the wounded lama and all disappear into the forest, as dusk falls suddenly.

The Babu runs down to Kim, tells him to lay off the Russian, tells him to run and join the coolies in the forest, where they have taken the foreigners’ bags, get possession of the bag of maps. Kim stops bashing, turns and runs. The Frenchman fires and just misses him. For the first time Kim takes out his gun and fires it in anger, missing the Frenchman, then running on into the trees.

Now the Babu takes charge, begging the Frenchman to stop shooting, assisting the injured Russian to his feet.

Cut to the coolies in the fir trees. They are outraged by the act of sacrilege they’ve just seen; one of them points out they have the foreigners’ four rifles and could simply go down and shoot them dead. But the lama, after a moment’s hesitation, rises above the situation and his own injuries and preaches true Buddhist forbearance. No. NO, he commands the coolies who quickly back down. The foreigners’ anger and impiety will bring its own reward. They will be reincarnated as worms. Kim cheerfully chips in that he kicked the Russian in the groin as they tumbled down the hillside together.

No, the coolies will take the lama and Kim back to their village, Shamlegh-under-the-Snow. Kim realises that, despite his brave front, the lama is more badly shaken than he admits. His heart is racing. He feels dizzy. The coolies then discuss how they are going to divide the spoils because they have carried off the foreigners’ entire baggage. Here Kim is canny and doesn’t so much claim the big kilta, the basket containing eight month’s work by the foreigner’s, maps and notes etc, as plants the idea that it is full of bad juju and only he knows how to defuse and turn it away.

Cut to Hurree, a mile away, on the main track with the furious foreigners, alternately shouting at each other or berating him. So he play-acts the stupid native, submits to abuse and blows, the better to stick with them. And hugs himself with glee for he knows how he will guide the losers through scores of mountain villages where they will become a byword for humiliation and ineptitude.

Chapter 14

Arriving at their village the coolies divide their loot. The lama regrets giving way to anger and meditates all night. Next morning Kim meets the Woman of Shamlegh, bold and commanding. The men have gone and left her with the kilta. In her hut Kim spills it on the floor and discovers all the foreign spies’ equipment:

Survey-instruments, books, diaries, letters, maps, and queerly scented native correspondence. At the very bottom was an embroidered bag covering a sealed, gilded, and illuminated document such as one King sends to another.

The woman of Shamlegh flirts with Kim. He is now a tall handsome young man (of 16). She appears to offer Kim her ‘hand’ and headship of the village. Kim has to tactfully decline (p.214) and again on page 218. She is really smitten by his handsomeness. Love interest very unusual in Kipling.

He asks her to take a message to the Babu. Village children are monitoring their process along the forest road. Later she returns with a reply from the Babu that all is well, that Kim and the lama should retrace their steps, and he will overtake them, once he has escorted the foreigners as far as Simla.

The lama comes to sit with the other villagers, dangling their feet over the vertiginous edges of the mountain village, laughing and smoking. He confesses to Kim that he is very sad. It was a mistake to abandon his quest for the River of the Arrow and return to the hills. He comes of the hills and loves the hills but that is precisely why it was giving in to his desires and affections to return up here. And the blow he received was a sign from the Wheel that he was slipping back into the world of emotions. No, they must return down to the plains.

The woman of Shamlegh now reveals that she had an affair with a Sahib who fell sick, who took her to the nearest mission station, taught her the piano, taught her Christianity, left promising to come back but never did. Bitter, she returned to lord it over this shabby little village and its poor menfolk. She was beguiled by Kim because he reminded her of her Sahib, but Kim persists in saying he must return to the plains with his lama till she becomes angry and bitter. She mocks the lama’s weakness, he can barely support himself against the doorpost, and so whistles up some of her men who bring out a dooli, ‘the rude native litter of the Hills’, and carefully lift the ailing lama into it.

She and Kim squabble up to the departure but then he surprises her by dropping his disguise of assistant priest to a lama, taking her round the waist and kissing her, Sahib style, while saying ‘Good-bye, my dear.’ As the litter is carried down the hill by the grunting village men, Kim looks back and sees her, a small figure waving from the door of her hut.

Chapter 15

The final chapter, tying up loose ends. We are told how Hurree Babu continued his pose of obseqious guide till he had led the foreigners all the way to Simla, where he grovellingly begged a testimonial then disappeared. Reappeared in Shamlegh where the Woman told him about Kim and the lama’s departure in the litter, and he sets off to overtake them, having lost quite a lot of weight in all these peregrinations.

Now the lama is becoming ill. When the littermen leave them at the plain Kim becomes his staff, leaned on, carrying the foodbag, the bag with the foreigners’ secrets, begging in the morning, setting up the lama’s blanket, caring for the old man who is visibly dying.

The lama is full of gratitude. Kim says he loves him and has failed him and hasn’t done enough and bursts into tears. The lama raises him up and says he is the best of disciples.

Kim had sent message ahead to the widow of Kulu, the chatterbox who hosted them before. Now she sends a litter to collect the holy man and falls into long middle-aged flirtation which the lama takes in good part. Kim is so tired he’s ill. The widow vows to nurse him back to health.

She gives him a lockable strongbox for the treasures, brews him reviving potions and force them down him, then she and another old woman give him a truly Indian massage, after which Kim sleeps for 36 hours.

When he wakes, refreshed, it’s to discover the Babu has caught up with them and the lady of Kulu, the Sahiba, has been feeding him up, too. He has appeared in his long-running disguise as a ‘humble Dacca quack.’. Now Kim formally hands over the foreigners’ treasure trove to the Babu and it is a great weight off his mind. The responsibility has been stressing him.

We learn that it is clear proof of the treason of some of the northern princes, sucking up to the Tsar, so the British will replace them. And the Babu tells how he delivered them to Simla where they tried to establish their identity at the nearest bank, having made Russia a laughing stock among peasants along the entire route.

(It’s a slight puzzle in the plot that nothing further seems to happen to the two foreign spies. They are allowed to continue on their way.)

The Babu, in his comic way, announces that Mahbub Ali has come to the house too. He has to go now, to make report, but soon they will all rendezvous up at Lurgan Sahib’s in Simla, tell all their stories and have a party. This is all very convivial and happy.

Very interestingly, Kim is portrayed as being so shattered that he feels quite alienated from the world, almost as if he’s had a nervous breakdown. Nothing will focus, nothing makes sense. Then. Click. It all slots into place.

He looked upon the trees and the broad fields, with the thatched huts hidden among crops – looked with strange eyes unable to take up the size and proportion and use of things – stared for a still half-hour. All that while he felt, though he could not put it into words, that his soul was out of gear with its surroundings – a cog-wheel unconnected with any machinery, just like the idle cog-wheel of a cheap Beheea sugar-crusher laid by in a corner. The breezes fanned over him, the parrots shrieked at him, the noises of the populated house behind – squabbles, orders, and reproofs – hit on dead ears.

‘I am Kim. I am Kim. And what is Kim?’ His soul repeated it again and again.

He did not want to cry – had never felt less like crying in his life – but of a sudden easy, stupid tears trickled down his nose, and with an almost audible click he felt the wheels of his being lock up anew on the world without. Things that rode meaningless on the eyeball an instant before slid into proper proportion. Roads were meant to be walked upon, houses to be lived in, cattle to be driven, fields to be tilled, and men and women to be talked to. They were all real and true.

It’s a rare bit of psychology, for Kipling. Kim goes outside for the first time in days and lies on the good earth and feels it healing him.

Cut to Mahbub and the lama returning from a walk. Turns out the lama stumbled into a nearby book a few days earlier, and Mahbub leapt in and stopped him from drowning. But the lama insists that this little brook was the River of the Arrow and that he has finally achieved enlightenment. Mahbub mocks, and makes sarcastic asides in his own language, but is impressed by the lama’s utter certainty. He even sees the funny side when the lama asks him to take up Buddhism and follow The Way.

Mahbub the Muslim Pathan stomps off about his business. The lama calmly sits down beside sleeping Kim and wakes him. He sits:

cross-legged figure, outlined jet-black against the lemon-coloured drift of light. So does the stone Bodhisat sit who looks down upon the patent self-registering turnstiles of the Lahore Museum. (p.239)

Neatly tying the scene back to the very opening outside the Lahore Museum. The lama proceeds to tell Kim in all seriousness how, while he (Kim) was recovering, he (the lama) went and sat under a tree, taking no food or water for two days and two nights. And then:

‘Upon the second night – so great was my reward – the wise Soul loosed itself from the silly Body and went free. This I have never before attained, though I have stood on the threshold of it. Consider, for it is a marvel!’

Freedom from the silly body and its illusions and devilries. Enlightenment. Kipling indulges in a powerfully persuasive vision of the lama’s soul flying completely free of his body, free of the constraints of time and place, and uniting with the Great Soul where everything is always now.

But he felt compelled to return to the body of this poor mortal, Teshoo Lama, in order to show his disciple the way. And the last spoken words of the story are his imprecation to Kim to follow him on the road to salvation:

‘Son of my Soul, I have wrenched my Soul back from the Threshold of Freedom to free thee from all sin – as I am free, and sinless! Just is the Wheel! Certain is our deliverance! Come!’

This is a very moving and persuasive end to this long rambling tale. It deliberately leaves completely up in the air the question whether Kim will follow the way and become a seeker for wisdom, or will at some point be reunited with Babu, Mahbub and Lurgan and graduate into a fully-fledged operative in the Great Game.

My money would be the mystical route, for right at the end he is hugely relieved to be shot of the box of foreigners’ correspondence and says the Great Game can go hang. Whereas his reverence for the lama is deep and unashamed.

But the point is Kipling leaves it as a sort of cliff-hanger. A Rorschach test. What you think happens next says more about you than about the story.

Scenes and descriptions

Odd and clotted though Kipling’s prose often is, he strews the book with beautiful word paintings.

In the Jain temple

Kim watched the last dusty sunshine fade out of the court, and played with his ghost-dagger and rosary. The clamour of Benares, oldest of all earth’s cities awake before the Gods, day and night, beat round the walls as the sea’s roar round a breakwater. Now and again, a Jain priest crossed the court, with some small offering to the images, and swept the path about him lest by chance he should take the life of a living thing. A lamp twinkled, and there followed the sound of a prayer. Kim watched the stars as they rose one after another in the still, sticky dark, till he fell asleep at the foot of the altar.

Climbing the foothills

They crossed a snowy pass in cold moonlight, when the lama, mildly chaffing Kim, went through up to his knees, like a Bactrian camel – the snow-bred, shag-haired sort that came into the Kashmir Serai. They dipped across beds of light snow and snow-powdered shale, where they took refuge from a gale in a camp of Tibetans hurrying down tiny sheep, each laden with a bag of borax. They came out upon grassy shoulders still snow-speckled, and through forest, to grass anew.

The shikarris who save Kim and the lama

They sat down a little apart from the lama, and, after listening awhile, passed round a water-pipe whose receiver was an old Day and Martin blacking-bottle. The glow of the red charcoal as it went from hand to hand lit up the narrow, blinking eyes, the high Chinese cheek-bones, and the bull-throats that melted away into the dark duffle folds round the shoulders. They looked like kobolds from some magic mine – gnomes of the hills in conclave. And while they talked, the voices of the snow-waters round them diminished one by one as the night-frost choked and clogged the runnels.

There’s story, there’s a plot of sorts, there’s characters. But you could argue that Kim is worth reading, and treasuring, for these descriptions alone.

Secondary characters

Quite apart from the main, recurring characters, Kim has a large cast of walk-on parts, especially when Kim is on the road or on a train with his lama.

  • Huneefa, the blind witch or mistress of dawat
  • A long-haired Hindu bairagi (holy man), who had just bought a ticket, halted before him at that moment and stared intently (p.156)
  • a chance-met Punjabi farmer—a Kafmboh from Jullundur-way who had appealed in vain to every God of his homestead to cure his small son (p.157)
  • A white-clad Oswal banker from Ajmir, his sins of usury new wiped out (p.158)
  • a mean, lean little person—a Mahratta, so far as Kim could judge by the cock of the tight turban (p.167)
  • A hot and perspiring young Englishman (p.173)
  • A tallish, sallowish District Superintendent of Police – belt, helmet, polished spurs and all – strutting and twirling his dark moustache (p.174); this turns out to be Inspector Strickland, an authority figure who appears in other Kipling stories
  • the Russian spy
  • the French spy
  • the man from Ao-chung who emerges as the leader of the rebellious coolies
  • the Woman of Shamlegh

Kim’s identity crises

Modern literary and art criticism is obsessed the idea of identity and the umpteen different crises it is prey to – gender identity, sexual identity, national identity, ethnic identity, religious identity. Kipling was there 120 years earlier with this story of a boy with an excess of identities: is he the orphan of a British soldier? Or a canny street kid from Lahore? Or a budding young spy for the Raj?

[Ali] ‘Therefore, in one situate as thou art, it particularly behoves thee to remember this with both kinds of faces. Among Sahibs, never forgetting thou art a Sahib; among the folk of Hind, always remembering thou art – He paused, with a puzzled smile.
[Kim] ‘What am I? Mussalman, Hindu, Jain, or Buddhist? That is a hard knot.’

And:

[Kim] ‘Hai mai! I go from one place to another as it might be a kickball. It is my Kismet. No man can escape his Kismet. But I am to pray to Bibi Miriam, and I am a Sahib.’ He looked at his boots ruefully. ‘No; I am Kim. This is the great world, and I am only Kim. Who is Kim?’ He considered his own identity, a thing he had never done before, till his head swam. He was one insignificant person in all this roaring whirl of India, going southward to he knew not what fate. (p.101)

Who is Kim, indeed?

A very few white people, but many Asiatics, can throw themselves into a mazement as it were by repeating their own names over and over again to themselves, letting the mind go free upon speculation as to what is called personal identity. When one grows older, the power, usually, departs, but while it lasts it may descend upon a man at any moment.

‘Who is Kim – Kim –Kim?’

He squatted in a corner of the clanging waiting-room, rapt from all other thoughts; hands folded in lap, and pupils contracted to pin-points. In a minute – in another half-second – he felt he would arrive at the solution of the tremendous puzzle; but here, as always happens, his mind dropped away from those heights with a rush of a wounded bird, and passing his hand before his eyes, he shook his head.

When the Russian punches the lama, Kim retaliates like a hot-blooded Irishman (his father was Irish and his Irish ‘blood’ is made much of throughout the text). Then he kneels over the lama, cradling his head and speaking like a native.

Then he remembered that he was a white man, with a white man’s camp-fittings at his service.

Lachrymose literary critics, keen to make everything a crisis, lament Kim’s ‘split’ identity and are all-too-quick to make it a symbol of India itself, with some tragic divide between coloniser and colonised. But there are two other, less hysterical ways to think about the issue.

One is the obvious one that is front and centre of the story itself, which is that the depth of the white boy’s knowledge of Indian street life makes him wonderful choice of operative for Creighton and the Department: an entirely positive, good thing.

The other is even simpler, which is that it’s fun and it’s cool. It’s cool being Kim, king of the streets in Lahore, skilled manipulator of railway carriages, of resting places on the Great Trunk Road, teller of tales to big households. Street urchin, loyal disciple, schoolboy, trainee spy. Dressing up and having adventures is what Sherlock Holmes and loads of other protagonists of 1890s adventure stories love to do, and which boys of all ages who read them, wish they could do.

Kipling’s crabbed prose and plotless stories

As discussed in the first of these two Kim reviews, Kipling’s prose is crabbed, abbreviated, littered with Biblical or official or archaic vocabulary, allusive, telegraphic. He uses almost any device in order to prevent it being smooth and flowing and easily comprehensible. It’s the textual embodiment of his barely fierceness, his energy, his sarcasm, his facetiousness. Some sentences just require a double take.

Lurgan Sahib did not use as direct speech, but his advice tallied with Mahbub’s

Meaning that Lurgan didn’t say it so directly as Mahbub did. Odd locution, though, isn’t it? Examples abound. Here’s the start of chapter 11. After being handed his disguise, a small gun, and news from Ali that he’s allowed to go see his lama, Ali then leaves him alone at Lucknow train station, and:

Followed a sudden natural reaction.

Think of all the ways you’d rewrite that to make it smoother, more readable, more enjoyable. No, Kipling prefers the clipped, telegraphese.

The man who couldn’t write plots

I’d like to link this tendency with another major tendency of Kipling’s fiction, which is his struggle to come up with plots, with actual storylines. Many of his short stories do, indeed, have plots, but it’s also quite common to come across ones which are more like anecdotes which have been stretched, or sometimes just like clever ideas which have been padded out. I’m thinking of the ‘story’ of a new-built ship where he gives all the parts voices and shows how they learn to work together. Or the one about the animal inhabitants of an old mill who react to it being hooked up to electric power by its owner. These are good ideas but they don’t quite build up to be actual stories. Ditto, for example, the Just So stories. It’s a brilliant idea, but quite a few of the actual stories don’t quite live up to the original conception.

The Norton edition contains excerpts from letters and relevant writers. In particular it has several short excerpts from the autobiography Kipling wrote right at the end of his life, ‘Something of Myself’. And in these it’s interesting to read not once but twice, he himself conceding that thinking out plots was his chief shortcoming as a writer. He describes the way he chewed over a revised version of Kim with his father, chatting over their time in India over many a pipe of tobacco. It was in this process that many of the very specific details with bejewel the final narrative, its ‘opulence of detail’, were remembered and added. At which point he goes on to write:

As to its form there was but one possibility to the author, who said that what was good enough for Cervantes was good enough for him. To whom the Mother: ‘Don’t you stand in your wool-boots hiding behind Cervantes with me! You know you couldn’t make a plot to save your soul.’ (p.275)

Several things. One, it displays Kipling’s enduring bond with his parents. He was clearly very attached to his mother and father till the end of his life, and this is sweet. Two, this is a typically contorted way of making his point, hiding it behind dialogue with his mother. Three, and this may be because he’s embarrassed to admit such a cardinal failing in a writer, that he had great ideas, brilliant ideas, but struggled to work them up into plots and narratives.

You turn the page and there’s another excerpt from Something of Myself which really rams it home.

Kim, of course, was nakedly picaresque and plotless – a thing imposed from without. (p.277)

Not just this, he then goes on to write a colourful paragraph describing how he ‘dreamed for many years’ of turning the story into a good, solid, three-volume Victorian novel, with a compelling storyline,  psychologically rich characters, carefully worked out symbolism etc etc. But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

Not being able to do this, I dismissed the ambition as ‘beneath the thinking mind’. So does a half-blind man dismiss shooting and golf.

I think he’s being hard on himself. Tens of thousands of novels are coming-of-age stories which hang a sequence of sometimes pretty random incidents on the notion that they all occurred to the central protagonist and marked his or her ‘development’ and growth from childhood, through adolescence into adulthood. Kim is no more random than many of these. In fact I think he does a good job of establishing the main characters – the lama at the start, Mahbub Ali growing in importance, Lurgan Sahib appearing half way through to add colour and variety, then Hurree Babu adding strangeness.

But clearly Kipling himself saw the novel as deficient in plot, and plot-planning as a major weakness in his abilities as a writer.

Is Kipling’s crabbed style a compensation for lack of plot?

My suggestion is that, after reading lots of Kipling, I began to wonder whether his odd, crabbed, cryptic, archaicising, Biblicising prose style was what he twisted up and contorted and worked on instead of plots. He knew he couldn’t make an impact with dramatic stories – so he developed, or jazzed up his already eccentric way of writing, instead.

I imagined him getting more and more frustrated with himself and, in his stress and anxiety, strangulating the English language into ever weirder shapes and locutions, as if  the baroque overwroughtness of his prose would somehow compensate for what he himself was very conscious was an embarrassing absence of fully worked-out story.


Credit

Kim was serialised in Cassell’s Magazine from January to November 1901, and first published in book form by Macmillan & Co. Ltd in October 1901. All references are to the 2002 Norton Critical Edition edited by Zohreh T. Sullivan.

Related links

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The Interpretation of Dreams by Sigmund Freud (1900)

Note: to avoid misunderstanding, I believe Freud is a figure of huge cultural and historical importance, and I sympathise with his project of trying to devise a completely secular psychology building on Darwinian premises. Many of his ideas about sexuality as a central motive force, about the role of the unconscious in every aspect of mental life, how repressing instinctual drives can lie behind certain types of mental illness, his development of the talking cure, these and numerous other ideas have become part of the culture and underlie the way many people live and think about themselves today. However, I strongly disapprove of Freud’s gender stereotyping of men and women, his systematic sexism, his occasional slurs against gays, lesbian or bisexuals and so on. Despite the revolutionary impact of his thought, Freud carried a lot of Victorian assumptions into his theory. He left a huge and complicated legacy which needs to be examined and picked through with care. My aim in these reviews is not to endorse his opinions but to summarise his writings, adding my own thoughts and comments as they arise.

***

‘Tell me some of your dreams and I will tell you about your inner self.’
(E. R. Pfaff, quoted on page 134 of The Interpretation of Dreams)

Long

The Interpretation of Dreams may be an epoch-making book but it is far too long, running to 871 pages in the Pelican Freud Library (783 of actual text, 86 of appendix, bibliographies, index of dreams, and general index).

The first quarter or so is a vast review of the many, many theories of dreams held by people throughout Western history (seers and prophets and oneiromancers, historical philosophers and writers, right up to present-day psychologists such as Havelock Ellis), with Freud’s own commentary designed to itemise and categorise all aspects of dreams (their confused illogical nature, how we forget them soon after waking and so on).

Only about page 200 does there come the decisive insight delivered via his own dream about a patient he names Irma, namely that every dream has meaning because every dream is a wish-fulfilment. This is followed from page 200 onwards by an equally extensive series of actual dreams derived from his patients, described in great detail each with a painstaking decipherment.

The literary focus

It isn’t till page 363 that Freud takes the further step of asserting that almost all the dreams of most of his patients ultimately derive from fantasies about their parents. Here he stop for three pages to describe the legend of Oedipus and then to assert that something like Oedipal feelings occur in all his patients.

No sooner has he finished making the shocking claim that all of us, to some extent or other, go through a phase of loving the parent of the opposite sex and hating the parent of the same sex, than he moves on to a similar version of the same story, retold thousands of years later, and culturally rearranged and overlaid, to become Hamlet, then going on to mention other Shakespeare plays, Goethe, German literary critics and so on. (Goethe and Shakespeare are both mentioned about 20 times in the text, along with writers as diverse as Schiller, Heine and Zola, Jonathan Swift and Rider Haggard, the Bible, poetry in general, the music of Wagner 3 times, Mozart 4 times, Offenbach and so on.)

In other words, right from the start Freud’s conceptions of the mind were heavily conditioned and shaped by literature and by cultural forms (myths, legends, religion, folk tales) as much as, or more than, by ‘science’.

It is entirely characteristic of Freud’s focus on culture as source and subject to be investigated that, in the preface to the Third Edition, he speculates that new material for the book will not be generated by, for example, widening the types of patients he treats or the fast-expanding number of analyses being carried out by his followers i.e. scientific evidence based on patient data. No, he says the next edition will have to:

afford a closer contact with the copious material presented in imaginative writing, in myths, in linguistic usage and in folklore.

Autobiographical

Also, it is astonishingly autobiographical. Freud shares with the reader a surprising number of the most important experiences from his life, starting with the place and date of his birth followed by quite a few poignant memories from his childhood and youth. More than that he shares, and analyses at length, upwards of 30 of his own dreams, many of which show him in a less than flattering light, many of which are embarrassingly candid about his ambitions, his delusions of grandeur, his sense of failure, and so on and so on. As Paul Roazen puts it:

The Interpretation of Dreams is one of the great autobiographical studies in the history of mankind; in it Freud drew freely on his inner life in an effort to construct a psychological system relevant for all of us.’ (Freud and His Followers by Paul Roazen, page 35)

For Roazen this over-sharing was a heroic achievement and sacrifice the great man made on our behalves. But many critics have pointed out the weakness of a theory which relies so very heavily on just one person’s life and experiences and feelings, and on his own interpretation of them, and the fragile basis of the claim to extrapolate them into universal principles underpinning all of human nature.

Introduction of key concepts

The book is important because it represents Freud’s first full-length description of the unconscious and the vast role it plays in the mental life of human beings. His theories about the unconscious would be elaborated and developed right up to his death 40 years later, but this is the first, primal statement of its central role.

Freud wrote to his colleague and confidant Wilhelm Fliess, who played a vital role as sounding board for his developing ideas in the 1890s, that the Interpretation of Dreams was substantially finished by 1896. It was published in 1899 but Freud was careful to ensure that it had ‘1900’ on the title page; he was very aware of his image and reputation and that the arrival of a new century heralded the dawn of a new age. All these considerations were in the mind of this very ambitious man.

And yet, after all this careful planning, only 351 copies were sold in the first six years.

Freud began writing this immense book while on holiday in the summer of 1985 at the Schloss BelleVue near Grinzing in Austria. Later he jokingly wrote to Fliess suggesting that a plaque be put on the wall of this castle reading: ‘In this house on July 24 1895 the secret of dreams was revealed to Dr Sigmund Freud’. (Mentioned in a note by the editors on page 199.)

Early days

Personally, I find Freud’s theory of dreams, his confidence that every dream represents a wish and that virtually all dreams can be decoded into various kinds of libidinal fantasy, optimistic and implausible. There feels to be a lot of pseudo-science in it. It feels very dated. For Freud, though, his ‘discovery’ that dreams have meaning, that they were suppressed and distorted wishes, was his big intellectual breakthrough, and the existence of the unconscious was always tied up for him with the breakthrough of dream interpretation.

When I came to Freud it was through the later metapsychological works and the second theory initiated by Beyond the Pleasure Principle (1920). By comparison with the sophistication of the second theory, with the greater role it assigns to the Death Drive, the Nirvana Principle, the greater account taken of violence and aggression (prompted by the catastrophe of the First World War), the sociological theorisation of the psychology of groups and crowds – compared with all this, going back to his early dream theory seems a little embarrassing, almost childish.

Nonetheless, the final 50 or 60 pages of the Interpretation take us deep, deep into what is in effect a new theory of human nature and existence, which is visionary and strange. But the hundreds and hundreds of pages of sometimes clunky dream interpretation which precede them are often cringe-inducing. Specially when he makes his stock sexist comments about women and their innate inferiority to men…

Executive summary

The Interpretation is important because it introduces several central ideas of Freud’s theory, namely the unconscious as a reservoir of instinctual wishes and desires which have been repressed from the conscious mind by censorship. These repressed urges try to re-enter the mind when the censorship is relaxed during sleep, but even then can only do so in garbled and distorted form.

So all dreams have two layers or levels which Freud defines as manifest content and latent content (p.381).

The manifest content is the narrative or series of images which we remember on waking, maybe write down or recount to a therapist. The latent content refers to the underlying ‘meaning’ of the dream.

The work of psychotherapy is to dig below the surface or manifest content to try and establish the meaning of the latent content i.e. to discover the wish lying behind the dream.

Freud then categorises the ways in which the ‘censorship’ garbles the latent content of the dream. It does this through distinct processes which he labels as:

  • Condensation – can happen in many ways, for example many ideas or wishes may be represented in one dream, or two or more people or ideas may be combined in one representation
  • Displacement – the fundamental notion that latent content, the expression of the wish underlying all dreams, is distorted and ‘displaced’
  • Representation – a great variety of ways in which images, words, sounds, word and phrases can represent the dream-wish
  • Secondary revision – not part of the process of censorship, this is what happens as the mind returns to consciousness and, half-asleep, tries to ‘make sense’ of the half-remembered dream by rearranging its elements into something closer to a coherent narrative

The comprehensive nature of this rewriting of the repressed wish explains why people can often make no sense at all of their dreams, so completely censored and disguised have they been.

Using the talking cure, free association and dream interpretation, the therapist can analyse a patient’s dreams, uncovering the secret wish which lies behind them and find a way into the reservoir of all our drives and urges and the words and images and behaviours which have become attached to them. Hence Freud’s famous declaration:

The interpretation of dreams is the royal road to a knowledge of the unconscious activities of the mind.

THE INTERPRETATION OF DREAMS

The text is immensely schematic, divided and sub-divided and sub-sub-divided into numbered parts, sections, sub-sections, sub-sub-sections, as if to conceal the relative simplicity of what Freud was proposing under a mountain of academic apparatus. He recognised the work’s unmanageable length and published a much shorter version On Dreams in 1901, revised and expanded in 1911. The fact that the abbreviation is a mere slip of a thing at 53 pages in the English translation strongly hints at the redundancy of most of the material in the longer work. It’s there to bludgeon the reader into submission with the sheer quantity of ‘evidence’.

Part 1. The scientific literature dealing with the problems of dreams

The ancients had two theories: dreams as helpful messages from the supernatural or diabolical fantasy. These were said to emanate from gates of horn and of ivory, respectively.

A) The relation of dreams to waking life

Dreams seem at the same time totally removed from waking life yet continue many of the concerns of waking life.

B) The material of dreams: memory in dreams

Dreams often preserve memories much more clearly than waking life and yet what is remembered is often trivial.

C) The stimuli and sources of dreams

1. External sensory stimuli

For example, alarm clock prompts dreams of church bells etc. But why do the same external source prompts different dream-imagery?

2. Internal (subjective) sensory excitations

3. Internal organic somatic stimuli

News from internal organs, often warning of disease. But how are these messages conveyed?

4. Psychical sources of stimulation

Present definitions of psychical stimulation do not suffice.

D) Why dreams are forgotten after waking

It is natural that the intensity of daytime experiences blots out dreams. More importantly, everyone proceeds to reconstruct partially remembered dreams, stringing together half-memories in usually very misleading ways.

E) The distinguishing psychological characteristics of dreams

Dreams perceived as immediate experience. Lack of critical self-consciousness. In dreams we don’t think, we experience.

Crazy chains of association. Logic and causation which we (mostly) demand in conscious life are conspicuous by their absence.

Regression to earlier impulses. The tremendous virtuoso intensity of dream experiences. Freud reviews a wide range of views about dreams, from total disparagement to hymns to dreams’ poetic intensity.

F) The moral sense in dreams

Some say people lose all moral sense in dreams and behave with shocking amorality; others say you act in dreams according to your character. Dreams often show us insight into our deeper feelings, unknown to our conscious selves. Dreams reveal illicit desires, as in saints’ confessions of being miserable sinners. In dreams our instinctual life is exposed. We acquiesce in desires we spend our waking lives controlling and resisting.

G) Theories of dreaming and its function

The ancients thought dreams are sent from the gods as a guidance to action. More recently three schools have emerged:

  1. Rational. The dream-mind works just like the conscious mind but deprived of the sense-data of consciousness
  2. Mechanistic. Sleep relaxes the conscious control and dreams are responses of different parts of the mind to the passing sensory stimulants of the night. Or dreams are the excrescence of all the semi-cogitated impressions and thoughts of the day.
  3. Dreams are a holiday for the mind. Rest and recuperation.

H) The relations between dreams and mental diseases

Patients sometimes cured during the day continue their pathological behaviour in dreams or while asleep. ‘The madman is a waking dreamer’ etc. Dreams and psychoses are both fulfilment of wishes.

2. The method of interpreting dreams: analysis of a specimen dream

The aim which I have set before myself is to show that dreams are capable of being interpreted. (p.167)

Lay interpretation confined to symbolic reading (for example, pharaoh’s seven fat and seven lean kine; also mentioned p.448) and decoding (treating dream-language as a code).

Outline of the technique of free association.

An extended analysis of Freud’s own dream, the ‘dream of Irma’s injection’ interpreted to show how it conflates evidence to justify Freud’s treatment of her, i.e. a wish to be impregnated (pages 180 to 199).

3. A dream is a fulfilment of a wish

Elaboration of Freud’s fundamental insight, that every dream is the symbolic fulfilment of an unconscious wish. Examples of children’s dreams. The point is dreams may express wishes, but so comprehensibly distorted and garbled as to usually be unrecognisable to the dreamer.

4. Distortions in dreams

If all dreams are wish-fulfilments, why do some present as the opposite – wishing the death of a loved-one, anxiety dreams etc?

Because the wish is distorted. There are thus at least two aspects to a dream, the manifest content (the coherent narrative we make from the dream imagery) and the latent content (the real concern), and there is always an element of repression or censorship. This is the dream-work, which translates latent content into the manifest content we experience and remember.

The similarity of distortion in dreams and the hallucinations or obsessions of neurotics.

5. The material and sources of dreams

A) Recent and indifferent material in dreams

Frequent occurrence of material from the day before, the ‘dream-day’; but radically disguised or itself masking other meanings. Thus the concept of displacement.

B) Infantile material as a source of dreams

The deeper one carries the analysis of a dream, the more often one comes upon the track of experiences from childhood which have played a part among the sources of that dream’s latent content.

C) The somatic sources of dreams

All dreams are in a sense dreams of convenience. They serve the purpose of managing the processing of unconscious content in such a way as to preserve sleep. Dreams are the guardians of sleep.

If dreams are prompted by internal somatic stimulation, why do we not dream continuously of flying (the working of the lungs) etc? Because somatic stimulation is brought into the formation of a dream only when it fits with the ideational content derived from the dream’s psychic sources; only when it’s needed.

D) Typical dreams

He reviews:

1. Embarrassing dreams of being naked

2. Dreams of the death of persons whom the dreamer likes (childhood rivalries)

It is in this section that Freud describes the fierce emotions and rivalries attributable to children, which can spill over into hostility against their parents:

Being in love with the one parent and hating the other are among the essential constituents of the stock of psychical impulses which is formed [n childhood] (p.362)

He starts to invoke the Greek myths and this leads up to page 363 on which he posits the central role of the Oedipus legend.

It is the fate of all of us, perhaps, to direct our first sexual impulse towards our mother and our first hatred and our first murderous wish against our father. (p.364)

3. Other typical dreams

4. Examination dreams

6. The dream-work

Freud reviews the different mental processes he claims are at work in dreams, which collectively he calls the ‘dream-work’:

A) The work of condensation

Seen at its clearest when it handles words and names. In dreams words are often treated like things, chopped up, compressed etc.

B) The work of displacement

A dream is often differently centred from the dream-thought which lies behind it. The work of displacement as well as condensation are the result of the censorship imposed on the unconscious wish material.

The kernel of my theory of dreams lies in my derivation of dream-distortion from the censorship. (p.418)

C) The means of representation in dreams

Dreams do not have any of the methods with which we construct narratives or logical arguments at their disposal.

The most striking example of absence of logic is the absence of the negative, meaning that no means yes, that something can be represented by its exact opposite: the process of reversal (p.429) This can apply to causality where normal cause and effect are reversed.

Or dream images can appear by a process of similarity or consonance of even a tiny part of it with something else (p.431).

The common sensation of running but never getting anywhere.

Dreams are completely egoistic. They deal with the dreamer and only the dreamer (p.434).

D) Considerations of representability

Some dreams make use of ‘primeval’ imagery, being similes reaching back to remote antiquity (p.462).

Wherever neuroses make use of such disguises they are following paths along which all humanity passed in the earliest days of civilisation. (p.463).

E) Symbols in dreams: some further typical examples

Tempting to think that recurrent symbols in dreams may be universal symbols, specially when they recur in ‘popular myths, legends, linguistic idioms, proverbial wisdom and current jokes’ (which gives you a good sense of Freud’s evidence base).

Freud proceeds to give a lexicon or handbook of symbols, starting with the King and Queen who are, of course, the dreamer’s parents, moving on to how playing with a little child, especially beating it, betokens masturbation, and so on.

  • a hat is symbolic of a man, or the male genitals
  • a little one is the penis
  • being run over is coitus
  • buildings, stairs and shafts represent the genitals
  • female genitals represented by a landscape
  • castration dreams
  • urinary symbolism
  • staircase dreams
  • flowers represent the genitals (p.496)
  • dreams of flying or floating have a very varied meaning

He makes the ‘shocking’ claim that psychoanalysis makes no qualitative distinction between normal and neurotic life i.e. there is no ‘normality’ i.e. we are all on a spectrum (p.493).

And the centrality of sex in all these hundreds and hundreds of examples:

The more one is concerned with the solution of dreams, the more one is driven to recognise that the majority of the dreams of adults deal with sexual material and give expression to erotic wishes. (p.520)

F) Some examples: calculations and speeches in dreams

The special significance of numbers in dreams.

Speech rarely makes sense in dreams, being recombinations of words or phrases taken from other sources.

G) Absurd dreams: intellectual activity in dreams

Obviously many dreams are absurd or absurdist in content, but Freud tries to identify different reasons for this, often to do with negative or contradictory elements in the motivating dream content.

The dream-work produces absurd dreams and dreams containing individual absurd elements if it is faced with the necessity of representing any criticism, ridicule or derision which may be present in the dream-thoughts. (p.576)

H) Affects in dreams

It is commonly observed that the mood induced by a dream lingers longer than most of the details into the waking day.

I) Secondary revision

This occurs at the end of the process of dream-construction and is the application of conscious thought processes to the dream material. Just before waking the renascent ego tries to gloss over inconsistencies in the dream narrative, trying to create sense out of absurdity.

So it’s not part of the censor’s work, not part of displacement and condensation; it comes after that and re-arranges elements of the dream, but has the practical effect of scrambling it even more, making dream interpretation even harder (pages 641 and 642).

7. The psychology of the dream process

The dream-work is not simply more careless, more irrational, more forgetful and more incomplete than waking thought; it is completely different from it qualitatively and for that reason not directly comparable with it. (p.650)

A) The forgetting of dreams

Forgetting details of a dream is a common experience. But Freud is convinced that more is retained than we commonly think and that in the therapeutic situation more can be reclaimed than you’d expect. And often the so-called ‘forgetting’ of a dream is really only the work of the censor and repression; with sensitive work it can be recalled.

Can we interpret every detail of a dream, or every dream? No. Because the power of repression and resistance is so severe. But you can interpret much more than you’d initially believe.

B) Regression

Freud works through a series of diagrams meant to convey the relationship between dream wishes, memories, the preconscious, the unconscious and so on. By ‘regression’ Freud means that, with the motor system i.e. active use of the body, shut down in sleep, wishes express their outcomes not in (sleeping) body but by bouncing back into the psyche. Regression refers to internally generated images which are fed backwards into the cortex as if they were coming from the outside. He goes on to distinguish three types of regression:

  1. topographical regression
  2. temporal regression, the harking back to earlier psychic structures
  3. formal regression, where primitive methods of expression and representation take the place of the usual ones (p.699)

He concludes by making the picturesque but now discredited claim that some element of dreams also connects us with primeval memories of our ancestors.

We may expect that the analysis of dreams will lead us to a knowledge of man’s archaic heritage, of what is psychically innate in him. Dreams and neuroses seem to have preserved more mental antiquities than we would have imagined possible; so that psychoanalysis may claim a high place among the sciences which are concerned with the reconstruction of the earliest and most obscure periods of the beginnings of the human race. (p.700)

C) Wish-fulfilment

It may be intuitively agreed that a dream expresses a wish, albeit heavily disguised by the censorship, but Freud goes on to address the paradox that anxiety and negative dreams can also express wishes. He devotes 2 pages to explaining the definition of a ‘wish’ as it first comes to be experienced by the screaming baby, considered as an inchoate organism seeking the most basic physical satisfactions.

During which he makes the kind of comment that I like, namely that ‘thought is after all nothing but a substitute for the basic physical wish’.

D) Arousal by dreams: the function of dreams: anxiety dreams

Further clarification of why anxiety dreams and other dreams with acutely negative affect are, nonetheless, expressions of a wish. The anxiety is an index of the force of the repression needed to keep the unacceptable wish material under wraps.

E) The primary and secondary processes: repression

In technical and difficult phraseology, Freud repeats the basic idea that the primary system (the unconscious) is concerned with securing the free discharge of the quantities of excitation which are troubling it, while the second system, attempts to inhibit this discharge (p.759).

The primary process endeavours to bring about a discharge of excitation in order that, with the help of the amount of excitation thus accumulated, it may establish a ‘perceptual identity’ with the experience of satisfaction. The secondary process, however, has abandoned this intention and taken on another in its place – the establishment of a ‘thought identity’ with that experience.

All thinking is no more than a circuitous path from the memory of a satisfaction (a memory which has been adopted as a purposive idea) to an identical cathexis of the same memory which it is hoped to attain once more through an intermediate stage of motor experiences. (pages 761 to 762)

These final pages take us deep, deep into Freud’s most theoretical musings about the nature of the mind and of thought, which tend to undermine the possibility of ‘reason’ at all, because he makes all the activities of the mind arise from a really primeval stratum of primitive needs, as transmuted into wishes, as repressed and distorted into a thousand and one memories, behaviour patterns, obsessions and so on. Nobody can think rationally, because this unconscious swamp is the basis of all human thought.

I’m not sure it’s worth reading the preceding 750 pages to get here, but they are in a sense the preface to a deep dive into a truly other vision of human nature, the human mind, human existence. All thinking is, in a sense, repeated attempts to recapture the primeval, primitive physical satisfactions of the baby which have been so thoroughly repressed that they can never be achieved. All humans are, in a sense, condemned to search endlessly for the unfindable. Hence [Freud doesn’t say this, I’m saying this] the universal notion of The Quest found across all human cultures.

F) The unconscious and consciousness: reality

The unconscious is vast and the basis of the psyche. The conscious mind is a small, fragile blip floating on the great unknown ocean of the unconscious.

The unconscious must be assumed to be the general basis of psychical life. The unconscious is the larger sphere which includes within it the smaller sphere of the conscious….The unconscious is the true psychic reality. (p.773)

Typically, Freud immediately goes on to say that this explains a lot of creative process too, with numerous poets and composers describing how their great works ‘came to them’ without planning, unexpectedly, whole and complete. Well…the unconscious!

The conscious mind is like a kind of sense organ for the perception of psychic qualities. It is entirely typical of Freud that this dense and difficult conceptualising gives way, on the page before last, to yet another reference to Greek mythology, and to the story of Zeus castrating his father, Kronos. Literature and myth are never far away in Freud’s writings. And are often a welcome respite from the more difficult technical passages.

And one of the oldest traditions of dreams, which he mentioned right at the start, 780 pages earlier, widely believed in the ancient world that they predict the future. Do they? No, not in a literal sense, no. And yet, in another sense:

By picturing our wishes as fulfilled, dreams are, after all, leading us into the future. But this future, which the dreamer pictures as the present, has been moulded by his indestructible wish into a perfect likeness of the past. (last sentences, page 783)

Criticism

The same period (1895 to 1900) saw the zenith of detectivehood in the fictional figure of Sherlock Holmes. Very widespread was the idea human personality as a mystery, a puzzle to be solved.

And the idea of psychic division into two opposing parts, light and dark, good and bad: the döppelgänger or split personality abounds in the stories of the time: Jeckyll and Hyde and The Secret Sharer and Dorian Gray and all the characters in Holmes leading respectable lives while concealing depths of vice and criminality.

After the long dull review of existing dream literature, Freud’s exposition his new theory of the interpretation of dreams contains steadily more and more personal material, including candid stories of antisemitism. He shares with us his identification with Hannibal; he describes himself as a conquistador; the narrative of the dream of Irma’s injection is above all a wish to be justified.

Surprisingly, maybe, there is no mention of the Oedipus Complex and little mention of childhood sexuality. He added notes about these to all the later editions, but reading the text as first published makes you realise how very bare of all his theories it is, or to put it another way, what a huge edifice of complex psychological theory it was to grow into.

Throughout the book you can see Freud extending the mechanisms revealed by his own dream analysis in order to derive a psychology of all stages of life; in particular pushing the source of almost all dreams back into childhood. The nature of childhood fantasy and its connection with childhood sexual feelings were to become central to the development of his theory over the next five years.


Credit

All Freud’s works have complicated histories in translation. The Interpretation of Dreams was first translated into English in 1953 as part of The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud. References in this blog are to the revised version, published in 1976 as Volume 4 of the Pelican Freud Library.

More Freud reviews

Congo by Michael Crichton (1980)

This book recounts the thirteen days of the last American expedition to the Congo, in June 1979 (p.xii)

Crichton’s habit of stuffing his techno-thriller novels with factual digressions, losing no opportunity to give the reader the full fruits of his up-to-the-minute research about the geography and climate and culture and peoples of the book’s setting and then stuff it with a cornucopia of gee-whizz gadgets, especially anything relating to computers, often completely overwhelms the plot.

Sometimes his books feel like a series of educational magazine articles only just held together by contrived storylines, which, as soon as you stop and think about them, you realise are utterly preposterous. And then there are the so-called ‘characters’, who are given names, ages and CVs but remain little more than cardboard cutouts.

According to Wikipedia, Crichton pitched the idea of writing a modern-day version of King Solomon’s Mines to 20th Century Fox who bought the film rights before the story had even been written, paying him a $1.5 million advance for the novel, screenplay and as a directing fee.

It sounded like a good idea but the result of this big, expensive promise was a serious case of writer’s block, as Crichton struggled to make a start and then to create any kind of coherent narrative. And boy, does it show. He ended up throwing about five separate plot ideas into the mix in the hope that they’d somehow add up to a ripping yarn, and overloading the text with every factual digression he could think of in order to give the text a sense of substance.

Congo is a messy, scrappy, dumb mess of a book, but some of the factual background is interesting; you don’t get to read novels about Africa that often; it was interesting to see what was considered up-to-the-minute technology in 1980 and compare it to the present day; and there was a kind of dumb dogged interest in the narrative itself: I was curious to see what preposterous, contrived and absurd incident he’d chuck in next to try and keep the whole thing afloat. Probably the encounter with the angry hippopotamuses wins the prize for silliest episode.

No doubt hippopotami do have the character and temperament he describes in a typical Readers Digest digression about them, no doubt they do attack by raking their razor sharp teeth sideways over their intended victim, no doubt this would rip and deflate an inflatable raft. But it’s still silly.

1. Earth Resources Technology Services and the race for IIb diamonds

Earth Resources Technology Services Inc (ERTS) is a Houston-based American corporation devoted to locating and extracting rare and precious minerals and resources for industrial use. It is (inevitably) run by a maverick genius R.B. Travis (backstory p.17). The hottest computer analyst in the corps is 6 foot-tall, cold, calculating Karen Ellen Ross.

The entire plot rotates around the desperate search to locate a rumoured source of ‘Type IIb boron-coated blue diamonds’ (pp.109, 115) in the dense rainforests of the Virunga region, in the remote eastern part of the vast Congo jungle. Extended factual digressions explain that this particular type of diamond is very valuable as semiconductors, ‘important to microelectronics applications’, and since, as Crichton explains at length, the future is going to be all about faster and faster computing speeds, possession of a source of diamonds which speed up computer technology will be vastly valuable. Especially the future of weaponry.

Computer speed now stands at the centre of the armament race…The new generation of optical computers will be dependent on the availability of Type IIb boron-coated diamonds. (p.342)

This is why the ERTS expedition into the Congo is not alone, but is shadowed every step of the way by a ‘consortium’ of industrial rivals, made up of a temporary partnership of German and Japanese industrial interests. These guys are hacking into ERTS’s radio communications back to Houston as well as vying for important resources for such an expedition, not least the services of the renowned White African mercenary Charles Munro (backstory pp.101 to 103) who, after bargaining with all the interested parties at his plush pad in Tangiers, opts to go with the ERTS expedition.

So the fact that the ERTS team is trying to get to the rumoured location of the diamonds before their rivals is supposed to give the narrative grip and thrill. For me, it didn’t at all. If this had been a Hammond Innes or Desmond Bagley novel, then this story in and of itself would have been enough, and people would have got killed, probably in gruesome circumstances and it would have felt desperate and tense. At no point did this book feel desperate and tense.

2. The ‘Consortium’

Anyway, it’s not as simple as that. Crichton adds in a few other plot strands which, in my opinion, had the effect of turning what could have been a decent thriller into a ridiculous cartoon. First, there is the important fact that the expedition led by Karen Ross and which recruits Charles Munro, is not the first one sent by ERTS. An earlier one had gone out and the novel actually starts with this first team, camped in the darkest rainforest as the old Africa hand they’ve hired to guide them, Jan Kruger, fires up a satellite video connection with ERTS Houston to report on progress.

But in the 5 or 6 minutes it takes both sides to establish contact (remember the book was written in 1979, 42 years ago, and all the technology is accordingly basic or old fashioned) the entire expedition is wiped out, every member massacred and the campsite wrecked. By the time the camera comes online there’s no-one there. Karen Ross is at the Houston end in charge and she gets the techs to rotate the camera on its tripod, thus surveying the wreckage, then a dark shadow moves across the screen and the camera is smashed, signal ends. What was it? What wiped out the expedition?

Very early on I figured it was either a lost tribe of humans or human-gorilla mutants, as anyone who’s watched a thousand rubbish American films or watched episodes of American adventure TV shows could entirely have predicted.

3. The lost city of Zinj

But meanwhile, I have to explain about the lost city of Zinj. Yes. That’s really what it’s called. Crichton gives us a number of digressions about the (patchy) history of Western exploration into the Congo jungle or up the Congo river (he is particularly fond of the expeditions of Henry Morton Stanley for the simple reason that Stanley was the great pioneer and explored further and more definitively than all previous explorers).

Anyway, Crichton makes up a legendary lost city of Zinj (pp.58 to 60, 82), a clear hommage to the great late-Victorian adventure storytellers such as Rider Haggard (She) and Conan Doyle (The Lost World) and the novel reaches its climax when our heroes arrive after many adventures, at the lost city of Zinj and discover its connection both to a) a culture which use to mine the very type IIb diamonds they are looking for but which also holds the key to understanding

4. Amy the talking gorilla

Yes. A talking gorilla. Because after the first expedition is wiped out and while Karen Ross is persuading Travis that she is the person to lead the second expedition a) to find the diamonds b) to discover what happened to the first expedition, ERTS contacts one of the leading researchers in America into teaching apes American sign language. As you might expect this leads into several lengthy digressions about the entire history of trying to teach apes language, right up to the present (well, 1979 when the book was written) and researchers have managed to teach chimpanzees 200 or so ‘words’ in American Sign Language (vide Washoe, Koko) (pp.35 to 38 and 292).

The researcher is named Peter Elliott (backstory pp.35 to 41), 6 foot tall and bearded, and Peter has been leading Project Amy, i.e. seven years or so of teaching a tame gorilla named Amy to an advanced level of communication. The text settles into conveying their conversations as Peter signing or saying something and Amy’s replies are given in italics. In reality I understand communication between humans and gorillas is very limited, but in this tall story Peter and Amy can hold lengthy discussions.

Now why does ERTS and Karen Ross want a talking gorilla to go on an expedition to the lost city of Zinj in search of industrial diamonds (see how ludicrous the plot is when you spell it out in black and white?)? Because the brief shadow that flickered across the camera of the massacred first expedition looked like a gorilla. So why not take a talking gorilla along in the hope that it can act as ambassador to whoever or whatever massacred the first team.

But why would a comfortably placed American academic want to leave his cosy perch at the University of California at Berkeley to go on some cock and bull expedition into remote rainforest? Crichton must have spent a while mulling over what could possibly motivate Prof Peter Elliott to leave his crib and in the end comes up with a plausible reason.

He invents the notion that Elliott’s work just happens to have recently been picked upon by a high-minded organisation devoted to liberating primates from scientific experiments, the Primate Preservation Agency (p.43). They’ve written harsh articles, are picketing his university office and published Elliott’s address such that he is living in fear of a possible attack. Thus when he gets a call late one night from Karen Ross asking if he wants to pack up and go on a journey to gorilla country in eastern Congo, he leaps at the chance.

And Amy the gorilla is going along, too, of course. The practicalities of ‘explaining’ all this to Amy, and packing for her, and getting her onto a plane and so on, quickly become so ludicrous that…

There’s another element to Amy which is that, when Amy likes doing finger drawings of images she tells Peter she sees when she’s asleep. And these drawings are often of what might be taken for buildings with half-moon entrances. And guess what? Other illustrations of the conjectured lost city of Zinj show it as having half-moon-shaped entrances. Are the dreams actual memories of seeing such a place or ancestral (pp.41 to 42)? Or could this be an example of genetic memory (cue a Crichtonian digression about the history and provenance of genetic memory, ‘Genetic memory was first proposed by Marais in 1911…’ p.46).

5. Congo civil war

There have been a number of civil wars in the region known as the Congo including the massive Second Congo War (1998 to 2003). But back at the time Crichton was writing (1979) the war he refers to involved Ugandan troops fleeing across the border into Zaire when theior country was invaded by Tanzania (p.100). In Crichton’s hands this morphs into a campaign by some parts of the Zaire army to exterminate the Kigani tribe of cannibals. Our heroes go to lengths to avoid both these violent elements, the Zaire army and Kigani, at least until the very end of the book (see below).

Its relevance to the story is that at several key moments the Ross expedition finds itself enmeshed between warring parties, most importantly when they are flying in a small aircraft towards the site of the lost city of Zinj and come under attack from heat-seeking missiles. As you might imagine, the resourceful ERTS team have snappy modern technology to foil the missiles and survive. But it’s just one more element which triggers umpteen Crichtonian factual digressions, and which Crichton throws into the mix hoping something will stick.

Recap

An American company which specialises in sourcing rare and precious raw resources sends 24-year-old  computer whizzkid Karen Ross, along with ape linguist Peter Elliott, his talking gorilla Amy and African mercenary Charles Munro (plus half a dozen Kikuyu porters) into the remote eastern Congo to find the lost city of Zinj in order to find out what happened to the previous expedition and locate the source of the rumoured diamonds which are worth a fortune in industrial processes.

Fact obsessed

As well as the factual digressions on every page, Congo also features academic footnotes and no fewer than three pages of references at the end, including academic papers in learned journals to show just how much research Crichton has done. Some of the many magazine-style digressions concern:

  • Henry Morton Stanley (xii-xiii, 60, 83, 154, 169, )
  • animal rights (50-52)
  • the history of Congo (57-60)
  • the Pearl thesis of animal intelligence (pp.76-77)
  • competitive advantage in information technology (73)
  • the Great Rift Valley (pp.83-84)
  • albedo ie using different light reflection levels to distinguish ancient forest from secondary growth (85-87)
  • B-8 problems in computing (90)
  • holographic night goggles (99)
  • the future of superconducting computers (116-118)
  • computer message hacking (128)
  • electrophoresis and the difference between gorilla and human hair (129)
  • the character of Kikuyu tribesmen (they love to talk) (147, 155) and consider themselves all ‘brothers’ (190)
  • China’s spy operations, foreign aid to and influence in Zaire (147-149)
  • how to distract surface to air missiles with rolled up balls of in foil (156)
  • how automatic parachutes work (162)
  • the Kigani, a tribe of cannibals Crichton appears to have invented (170-172)
  • description of the Kigani’s belief in magic of Angawa
  • cannibalism in central Africa (172-173)
  • Zaire government genocide against the Kigani cannibals (175)
  • levels of electronic jamming and ‘interstitial coding’ (p.180)
  • the rate of global species extinction (189)
  • pygmies and their definitions of different types of ‘death’ (193-196)
  • the Congo river i.e. although it’s vast it’s not easily navigable (201)
  • the character of the hippopotamus (207-209) just before they attack our heroes
  • a history of the attempts to climb Mount Mukenko (which our heroes parachute onto and have to climb across) (218)
  • what to do when faced by a charging male silverback gorilla (don’t move and look at the ground) (230-231)
  • Degusto’s infra-red light technology for making out images hidden under dirt, sand, vegetable matter etc (250)
  • Maurice Cavalle’s 1955 paper ‘The Death of Nature’ (252)
  • the legend of the kakundakari, African equivalent of the yeti (262-263)
  • chimpanzee violent behaviour, especially kidnapping and eating human infants (266)
  • Freud’s theory that a dreamer, confronted with the reality their dream is based on, is often surprisingly apathetic (274)
  • British scientist R.V.S. Wright’s attempts to teach an orangutan to use tools (293)
  • DNA similarity between humans and chimps i.e. 99% identical (294)
  • S.L. Berensky’s 1975 paper about primate language suggesting the apes are smarter than humans (296)
  • the difference between different sign languages of different nations (297)
  • primates stop fighting if infants get in the way or are taken up by one or other of the combatants (312)
  • the origin and periodicity of solar flares, one of which interferes with our heroes communications back to Houston (314)
  • which part of the brain language comes from (Broca’s area) (335)
  • explanation of brontides, the loud explosions that accompany earthquakes (335)
  • most people caught in a volcanic eruption die from the poison gas (336)
  • General Franklin Martin’s Pentagon presentation which argued that Zaire had been vital to US military efforts since the war because of its mineral resources and also that super-fast computers would being to an end the age of nuclear weapons (340-343)
  • US military Project Vulcan to detonate timed resonance explosions in order to graduate the impact of eruptions of Mouna Loa in Hawaii (347-349)

But none of this blizzard of factual information can prevent Congo from being preposterous bollocks.

The expedition encounters a handful of problems such as flying through an anti-aircraft attack mounted by the Zaire army, parachuting into the jungle (everyone lands just fine), rafting down some river into the remote East (they are attacked by angry hippopotami), and trekking across the unstable crust of recently active volcanoes (the Virunga range of volcanoes, as described in an extended factual digression which names the main ones as being Mukenko, Mubuti, Kanagarawi, p.84), all in order to reach the lost bloody city of Zinj which, they eventually discover, is now an overgrown, empty ruin.

a) This is more extensive than they expected. They use high tech radar stuff to see through the layers of grime to the extensive reliefs which describe the ordinary life of the city centuries ago when it was inhabited. The carvings appear to show the inhabitants mined extensively and seem to have trained gorillas to act as security and police (!!) and this is the ridiculous reason for:

b) The final revelation that the previous expedition wasn’t wiped out by gorillas as science currently knows them, but by a new species of intelligent gorilla which the Zinjans bred and developed.

Luckily our heroes had put up an electrified fences round the perimeter of their camp and had brought along loads of fancy laser-guided machine guns which do a good job of killing some of the New Species of Gorilla when they launch their inevitable attack.

Other reasons this is a terrible book

1. Format

In The Andromeda Strain Crichton used the format of a report produced by an enquiry into what went wrong at a virus isolation unit. The pseudo-scientific/bureaucratic format worked well. Here he uses the tone of something more like a documentary. In particular he keeps writing that ‘many months later Peter Elliott realised his mistake’ or ‘speaking later, Karen Ross explained why she made this decision’.

Presumably the narrative is cast in this format to give it the feel of a later report or documentary. But it has the unintended side effect of confirming that the three main characters all survive. In other words, it destroys all suspense or sense of jeopardy. We know they all get out alive. OK, then, well, why bother reading to the end?

2. Out of date

Crichton busted a gut doing all that research and shoehorned it into his text throughout and yet… it’s all hilariously out of date. If you want to read about how fiddly it was to rig up a satellite camera link in 1979 or how big and fast people in 1979 thought computers would become in the 1980s then this is the book for you. There is, quite obviously, nothing about the internet, smart phones, social media or any of the other tech discoveries of the past 40 years. It’s sweet that Crichton thinks ERTS’ technology is ‘staggering’ because it can acquire 16 new satellite images of the earth per hour (p.20).

Acronyms and initialisms

I found it more enjoyable collecting a list of the acronyms than following the ridiculous plot which came more and more to resemble a movie-length episode of Scoobie Doo. My only excuse for reading such twaddle is I was on holiday and picked it up for £1 in a second hand shop.

ADP – Animal Defence Perimeter (p.238)

APE – Animal Pattern Explanation (p.307)

APNF – Animation Predicted Next Frame (p.27)

ASL – American Sign Language aka Ameslan (p.36)

BF – Bona fortuna = good luck (p.123)

C3I – Command, control, communications and intelligence units (p.74)

CFS – Congo Field Study (p.351)

CCR – Communications Control Room (p.12)

CCT – Computer Compatible Tape (p.21)

ECM – Electronic Countermeasures (p.179)

ERTS Earth Resources Technology Services

FZA – Forces Zairoises Armoises, Zaire army (p.157)

GPU – Geopolitical Update (p.98)

LAC – Local Atmospheric Conditions (p.351)

LATRAP – Laser-Tracking Projectile, which consists of multiple LGSDs attached to sequential RFSDs (p.280)

MERS – Mineral Exploration Rights, such as you negotiate with the host government (p.25)

NCNA – New China News Agency, cover for Chinese espionage (p.148)

PNF – Predicted Next Frame: technology for improving poor quality images (p.27)

PPA – Primate Protection Agency (p.43)

PSOPS – Prior Significant Orbital Passes by Satellite (p.97)

RC – Resonant Conventionals: timed explosives (p.345)

SESC – Space Environmental Services Centre in Boulder Colorado (p.315)

Triple E – Expedition Electronics Expert (p.74)

UECL – Unit Extraction Cost Limit (p.115)

WEIRD – Wilderness Environment Intruder Response Defences (p.242)

I work in the civil service and so I recognise the mindset which says that, if you spell something out in title case i.e. you capitalise the names of things it immediately makes them more important; and if you can make an acronym out of them, it makes them sound really grand and makes you sound very big and important when you casually allude to acronyms or initialisms which other people don’t understand.

Bearing this in mind helps to explain why America has some 35 distinct intelligence agencies, each with its own shiny logo and acronym and whip-smart, fast-talking executives, and they all failed to prevent 9/11. And why the US Army, possibly the world epicentre of grand-sounding acronyms, nonetheless made a complete bollocks of invading Iraq and liberating Afghanistan. (I mention this because America’s humiliating withdrawal from Afghanistan was all over the news as I read Congo so the comparison made itself.)

No amount of clever-sounding names and titles and acronyms and hi-tech gadgetry can redeem ignorance, stupidity and terrible decisions. Or, in this case, an embarrassing train wreck of a novel.

The end

Our heroes are attacked a couple of times in their camp. Elliott undertakes a ridiculous plan to record the grey gorillas’ strange whispering language, to use Houston’s computers to analyse and interpret it, and then to play it back to attacking gorillas in order to stall them. Despite all the improbabilities Elliott makes this work in a matter of hours and during the next gorilla attack it does, indeed, manage to slow and halt the attack of the puzzled silver gorillas, although a torrential tropical downpour interferes with the experiment.

What brings this farrago of nonsense to an end, in the best boys own adventure tradition, is a huge volcanic eruption which starts rocking the ground during what had promised to be the gorillas’ final assault, when they have killed a few more porters and have our heroes pinned to the ground about to crush their skulls.

The ground starts shaking, the gorillas flee, random lightning strikes electrocute a few more of the African porters, as our dazed heroes grab their most important possessions and flee the ruined camp, trekking through jungle while ash falls all around them, the earth trembles, the volcano spews ash and lava.

They arrive at the crashed container plane of the rival consortium which had been shot down a few days earlier by Zaire army forces (they’d heard the plane flying overhead and seen the surface to air missiles fired at it a few days earlier).

First our heroes have to fight off the Kigani cannibals who were in the middle of eating the dead consortium members and resent being turfed out of the plane’s treasure trove. But then Ross discovers huge tanks of propane in the plane which are designed to inflate a balloon which the consortium had brought along for precisely such an emergency!

And so the preposterous narrative ends with Ross, Elliott, Munro and the couple of porters who haven’t been killed by the silver gorillas or the bolts of lightning or the volcanic ash or the poison gas, inflating, climbing into and flying off over the jungle in a big balloon, a very Jules Vernes ending to a novel which sets out to be a homage to the great Victorian adventure writers but turns into a car crash of overcomplex but completely improbable narrative, drowning in endless Readers Digest factual digressions and hosted by characters which make a puddle look deep.

And the Lost City of Zinj? In the finest tradition of the old storytellers, is buried forever under half a mile of volcanic ash so nobody will ever be able to check the three explorers’ bold claims. It’s almost as juvenile as saying: ‘and then I woke up and it was all a dream.’

The movie

The original deal had been for Crichton himself to direct the movie version and from 1981 to 1987 he maintained the hope of directing it with Sean Connery in the lead, but that version of the project never came to fruition.

Instead Congo was finally made into a movie in 1995, directed by Frank Marshall and starring Laura Linney as the permanently stressed-out woman scientist, Dylan Walsh as the sensitive primatologist, Ernie Hudson as the mercenary and hunter who leads the group and Tim Curry as the camp Romanian millionaire who finances the whole farrago.

I don’t mean to be rude but when two leads in what is meant to be a serious thriller played defining parts in Ghostbusters (Hudson) and The Rocky Horror Show (Curry) you know you’re talking about a turkey.

I’m not at all surprised to learn the movie version received a critical drubbing and was nominated for not one but several Golden Raspberry awards, given to real stinkers.


Michael Crichton reviews

Looking Backward 2000 to 1887 by Edward Bellamy (1888)

‘If I were to give you, in one sentence, a key to what may seem the mysteries of our civilisation as compared with that of your age, I should say that it is the fact that the solidarity of the race and the brotherhood of man, which to you were but fine phrases, are, to our thinking and feeling, ties as real and as vital as physical fraternity.’
(Dr Leete in Looking Backward. Chapter 12)

It is 1887. The narrator, Julius West, is full of plans to get a new house built in a stylish part of Boston – a project which is delayed because of almost daily strikes by the workmen – and worrying about his impending marriage to his fiancée.

All this stress exacerbates his insomnia so that, at the end of another trying day, when he retires to the sound-proof, purpose-built, cement-lined cellar he’s had built in his current house to insulate him from all distractions, he sends for the local mesmerist (Dr Pillsbury) who he’s been relying on for some time to help him get off to sleep.

When he wakes up it is to find himself in a strange room. The kindly people around him tell him it is the year 2000 and he has slept in that underground bunker for 113 years, three months and eleven days.

Bellamy spends a little effort conveying West’s disbelief, and then a page or so on his sense of horror and disorientation, but these are mostly gestures. The effort and bulk of the text goes towards the political theory, for the book quickly becomes an immensely thorough vision of The Perfect Society of the Future..

In the few pages devoted to describing life in 1887 the narrator had spent most of his time lamenting ‘the labour problem’. By that he meant that since (what turned out to be) a prolonged economic depression had begun in 1873, the working classes had woken up to their plight, organised unions across all industries, and been striking for better pay, better conditions, shorter working hours and so on, creating a permanent sense of crisis.

Society as giant coach

In an extended metaphor West compares the society of his time to an enormous coach which is being pulled along by thousands of wretched workers, whipped on by those who’ve managed to clamber up into the driving seat at the head of its thousands of companies and corporations.

Right on top of the coach, not doing any work and enjoying the sunshine, are those who’ve acquired or inherited the money to live off the labour of everyone beneath them. As the coach blunders along its muddy track some people fall lower down the coach, ending up pulling on the reins or fall right into the mud and are crushed, while others manage to escape the slavery of pulling, and clamber up the coachwork a bit. But even those at the top live in anxiety lest they fall off. No-one is secure or happy.

Society 2000

As you might expect, society in 2000 appears to have solved these and all the other problems facing society in 1887. The people who’ve revived him – Dr Leete, his wife and daughter – have done so in a private capacity. They were building an extension to their house when they came across the buried concrete bunker, all the rest of West’s property having, apparently, burned down decades earlier. On breaking a hole into it, they discovered West’s perfectly preserved, barely breathing body.

They speculate that Dr Pillsbury must have put West into a trance, but then later that night the house burned down. Everyone assumed West had perished in the fire.

Waking him gently, the father, mother and (inevitably) beautiful daughter, carefully and sympathetically help West to cope with the loss of everything he once knew, and induct him into the secrets of Boston 2000.

Dr Leete explains that the society he has arrived in is one of perfect peace and equality. He then begins the immense lecture about society 2000, an enormous, encyclopedic description of the Perfect Society of the future, which makes up most of the text.

Capitalism has been abolished. The ‘market’ has been abolished. Private enterprise has been abolished. Everything is controlled and managed by the state which represents ‘the nation’. All industry has been nationalised and all production is planned and administered by civil servants. Everyone is supplied with whatever they need by the state.

All citizens are born and raised the same. Everyone pursues education until aged 21 and is educated to the highest level they can attain, and then everyone undertakes three years working as a labourer. During this period people find out what their skills and abilities are, and then opt, at age 24, for the career which best suits their skills, whether it be coal mining or teaching Greek. At that point they join one of the dozen or so ‘armies’ of workers, organised and co-ordinated like one of the armies of 1887, and inspired by the same martial sense of patriotism and duty – but an army devoted to maintaining peace and creating wealth for everyone.

Equality is maintained by making those in unpleasant jobs work relatively short hours for the same rewards as those who work longer hours under more pleasant conditions.

And there is no money. Everyone has a ‘credit card’ and the state pays everyone the same amount every month, regardless of their job. How you ‘spend’ that credit is up to you, but it is all you get every month and there is no way to increase it, because individuals are not allowed to buy or sell or barter anything.

This Perfect Society is, then, a sustained attempt to put into practice the 19th century socialist adage of ‘from everyone according to their ability, to everyone according to their need’ (popularised by Karl Marx in his 1875 Critique of the Gotha Program).

And how did all this come about? Was there a violent revolution to transform the values of Bellamy’s day and to overthrow the vested interests of capitalists and bankers? The opposite, explains Dr Leete.

Friedrich Engels

Now I just happen to have recently read Friedrich Engels’s pamphlet, Socialism: Utopian and Scientific.

In it Engels explains that historical materialism uses the philosophical notion of the dialectic to explain how new social systems arise out of the old. Thus, in Marx and Engels’s view, the late nineteenth century was seeing, out of the anarchy of super-competitive capitalism, thronged with competing companies, the emergence of larger companies, which bought each other up to create cartels of a handful of giant companies, eventually creating monopolies. This, they claimed, appears to be the natural development of capitalism, if left unchecked.

Engels shows how out of this natural development of capitalism, quite naturally and logically emerges state socialism. For already in various Western countries the state had decided to take into state ownership ‘natural monopolies’ such as telegraphy and the Post Office.

Engels explains that, as the other industries (coal, mining, steel, ship-building, railways) also become concentrated in fewer and fewer hands it will become obvious that the state should step in and run these industries as well. In other words, out of the anarchy of capitalism will emerge the order of state socialism – naturally, inevitably.

And that’s exactly what has happened in Bellamy’s version of history. One by one the state took over ownership of every industry until it had taken over all production. And the state, representing all the population, proceeded to reform them in the interests of the whole population, along the lines which Dr Leete is now explaining to West in pedantic detail.

Was there a violent revolution? No, because people had by that stage grasped the trend and seen how efficiently the government managed the other big concerns already in its control. People realised that it made sense. It was all quite painless.

Bellamy loses no opportunity to ram home the contrast between the squalor of his own day and the wonder of the Perfect Society. Not only do Dr Leete and Edith Leete explain things – at great length – but towards the end of the book West is invited to listen to a sermon delivered by one Dr Barton, who has heard about the discovery of the sleeper, and takes it as a peg on which to hang a disquisition about the changes between West’s day and the present.

The revolution

Here is Dr Barton long-windedly describing the glorious revolution which, about a century earlier, overthrew the old order and instituted the Perfect Society.

‘Doubtless it ill beseems one to whom the boon of life in our resplendent age has been vouchsafed to wish his destiny other, and yet I have often thought that I would fain exchange my share in this serene and golden day for a place in that stormy epoch of transition, when heroes burst the barred gate of the future and revealed to the kindling gaze of a hopeless race, in place of the blank wall that had closed its path, a vista of progress whose end, for very excess of light, still dazzles us. Ah, my friends! who will say that to have lived then, when the weakest influence was a lever to whose touch the centuries trembled, was not worth a share even in this era of fruition?

‘You know the story of that last, greatest, and most bloodless of revolutions. In the time of one generation men laid aside the social traditions and practices of barbarians, and assumed a social order worthy of rational and human beings. Ceasing to be predatory in their habits, they became co-workers, and found in fraternity, at once, the science of wealth and happiness. ‘What shall I eat and drink, and wherewithal shall I be clothed?’ stated as a problem beginning and ending in self, had been an anxious and an endless one. But when once it was conceived, not from the individual, but the fraternal standpoint, ‘What shall we eat and drink, and wherewithal shall we be clothed?’—its difficulties vanished.

‘Poverty with servitude had been the result, for the mass of humanity, of attempting to solve the problem of maintenance from the individual standpoint, but no sooner had the nation become the sole capitalist and employer than not alone did plenty replace poverty, but the last vestige of the serfdom of man to man disappeared from earth. Human slavery, so often vainly scotched, at last was killed. The means of subsistence no longer doled out by men to women, by employer to employed, by rich to poor, was distributed from a common stock as among children at the father’s table. It was impossible for a man any longer to use his fellow-men as tools for his own profit. His esteem was the only sort of gain he could thenceforth make out of him. There was no more either arrogance or servility in the relations of human beings to one another. For the first time since the creation every man stood up straight before God. The fear of want and the lust of gain became extinct motives when abundance was assured to all and immoderate possessions made impossible of attainment. There were no more beggars nor almoners. Equity left charity without an occupation. The ten commandments became well nigh obsolete in a world where there was no temptation to theft, no occasion to lie either for fear or favor, no room for envy where all were equal, and little provocation to violence where men were disarmed of power to injure one another. Humanity’s ancient dream of liberty, equality, fraternity, mocked by so many ages, at last was realized.’ (Chapter 26)

You don’t need me to point out the way that, the nearer an author gets to a difficult subject, the more flowery and evasive his language becomes, and that the precise nature of the ‘revolution’ is the touchiest subject of all – and so becomes obscured by the most gaseous verbiage – ‘when heroes burst the barred gate of the future and revealed to the kindling gaze of a hopeless race’ etc.

Here is Dr Leete’s version of the Great Event:

‘It was not till a rearrangement of the industrial and social system on a higher ethical basis, and for the more efficient production of wealth, was recognized as the interest, not of one class, but equally of all classes, of rich and poor, cultured and ignorant, old and young, weak and strong, men and women, that there was any prospect that it would be achieved. Then the national party arose to carry it out by political methods. It probably took that name because its aim was to nationalize the functions of production and distribution. Indeed, it could not well have had any other name, for its purpose was to realize the idea of the nation with a grandeur and completeness never before conceived, not as an association of men for certain merely political functions affecting their happiness only remotely and superficially, but as a family, a vital union, a common life, a mighty heaven-touching tree whose leaves are its people, fed from its veins, and feeding it in turn. The most patriotic of all possible parties, it sought to justify patriotism and raise it from an instinct to a rational devotion, by making the native land truly a father land, a father who kept the people alive and was not merely an idol for which they were expected to die.’ (Chapter 24)

‘A mighty heaven-touching tree whose leaves are its people, fed from its veins, and feeding it in turn’. Hmmm.

Instead of specifics, Bellamy gives us windy rhetoric. Instead of practical human steps, Bellamy gives us poetic visions.

Anyway, by virtue of this bloodless revolution in human society, politicians and political parties have been abolished because the committees which make up ‘the nation’ adjust and control things in the interests of the people, and everyone agrees what those are.

Thus laws and lawyers have been abolished because nine-tenths of 1887 law was about gaining, protecting and disputing property. Now there is no way to gain private property except by spending the monthly credit which everyone receives, now there is no money and no buying or selling or any other way whatsoever of acquiring valuables – there is no need for almost all of the old law.

Even the criminal law has fallen into disuse since nine-tenths of violent crime was robbery or burglary or mugging designed to get money or property. In a society without money, there is no motive for crime.

A platonic dialogue

And so on and so on, for 200 rather wearing pages, Mr West and Dr Leete sit in a room while the former asks dumb questions and the latter wisely and benevolently explains how the Perfect Society works. It often feels like one of Plato’s Socratic dialogues, in the sense that West is simply the straight man who asks the questions – what about the law? what about crime? what about education? – which prompt Dr Leete to roll out another highly detailed and well-thought-out explanation of the Perfect Society.

Hardly anything happens. West accompanies young Edith Leete on a shopping expedition but this is solely so she can explain to him the huge advantages of a planned economy where the state provides everything its citizens require through central production and distribution, thus eliminating competition with the enormous waste of resources spent on advertising, on the artificial creation of different brands and makes, on the countless different shops all offering complicated deals and 0% finance and all the rest of it.

All that has gone.Now you go to the one and only local megastore and buy goods which are available everywhere in the country, at the one fixed price. And it’s all cheap precisely because there are no middlemen and advertisers and so on to raise costs.

Similarly, one evening he goes out for dinner with the Leetes but this is solely a pretext to explain food production and distribution, and the way public food cooked in public restaurants is now cheaper and infinitely better than it was in 1887, while the waiters and so on are simply performing their three-year labouring apprenticeship and are not looked down on as a different class. Dr Leete himself was a waiter for a spell. Everyone is equal and is treated as an equal.

Critique

Painting visions of the future is relatively easy – although Bellamy’s vision becomes more and more compelling due to the obsessive thoroughness with which he describes every conceivable aspect of the Perfect Society – the difficulty with this kind of thing is always explaining how it came into being. This is often the weak spot in the writing of utopias. For example many utopian authors have invoked a catastrophic war to explain how the old world was swept away and the survivors vowed never to make the same mistakes again.

Because it’s the most important, and often the weakest part of a utopian narrative, it’s often the most telling to examine in detail. And this, I think, is the crux of the problem with Engels and Bellamy – the notion they both use that the state somehow, magically, becomes the people.

Notoriously, Engels speculated that the post-revolutionary state would simply ‘wither away’. Once the people had seized the means of production and distribution, once they had overthrown the exploiting bourgeois class, then ‘the state’ – defined as the entity through which the bourgeoisie organised its repression of the people – would simply become unnecessary.

Bellamy and Engels conceive of the state as solely a function of capitalism. Abolish the inequalities of capitalism – abolish ‘the market’, indeed all markets – and the state disappears in a puff of smoke.

Unfortunately, the entire history of the twentieth century has taught us that the state does just the opposite: given half a chance, it doesn’t weaken and fade, it seizes dictatorial power. More accurately, a cabal of cunning, calculating people – Lenin, Mussolini, Hitler – will take advantage of a weakened state to seize absolute power – it happened in Tsarist Russia, in post-war Italy, in Weimar Germany – and then institute absolute control, using all the tools of modern technology and propaganda at their command.

The last hundred years have revealed ‘the state’ to be something more like an arena in which a host of competing interests can just about be brought into alignment, held, contained, managed, with frequent political and economic crises and collapses. We now know that when ‘revolutions’ occur, they do not overthrow the state, but simply entrench a new and generally more oppressive state than the one that preceded it – Russia 1917, China 1949, Iran 1979.

But even more important than the question of how the old regime was overthrown, at the heart of the description of all utopias is a debate over ‘human nature’.

In Looking Backward West asks the obvious question: in order to bring all this about there must have been some kind of revolution in human nature: how did you bring that about?

To which Dr Leete, in his calm, wise, man-of-the-future way, explains that there has been no change in human nature: changing the system people are born into and live under allows real human nature to blossom. People, says Dr Leete, are naturally co-operative and reasonable, if you let them be. The Perfect Society is not a distortion of human nature – it is its final, inevitable, true blossoming.

This is the crux: we in 2018 find this difficult to credit because we have the history of the twentieth century to look back on – an unmitigated catastrophe in which, time after time, in Europe, Asia, Africa, China, South America, people have been shown to be irreducibly committed to pursuing their own personal interests, and then the interests of their family, tribe or kinship group, their community, or region, or class, or ethnic or racial groupings – well before any vague concept of ‘society’.

In my view the real problem with utopias like Bellamy’s or William Morris’s News From Nowhere (published just two years later) is that – although they deny it – they both posit a profound, and impossible change in human nature, albeit not quite the one they often identify and refute.

My central critique of books like this is not economic or political it is psychological, it is to do with the extremely narrow grasp of human psychology which books like this always depict.

My point is that in their books, everyone in society is like them – gentle and well-meaning, middle-class, bookish and detached. It is symptomatic that West wakes up in the house of a doctor, a nice, educated middle class man like himself not, say, in the house of a coal miner or factory worker or street cleaner or sewage engineer.

So many of these utopias are like that. One well-educated, middle-class white man from the present meets another well-educated, middle-class white man from the future and discovers – that they both magically agree about everything!

In a way, what these fantasies do is magic away all the social problems of their day, hide, conceal, gloss over and abolish them. It turns out that two chaps in a book-lined study can solve everything. Which is, of course, what most writers like to think even to this day.

In my opinion most writers have this problem – an inability to really grasp the profound otherness of other people – beginning with the most basic fact that a huge number of people don’t even read books, ever, let alone fairy tales like this – and so never hear about these writers and their fancy plans.

It is symptomatic that when the daughter of the house, fair Edith, wants to cheer West up, she takes him to a library, which contains leather-bound volumes of Dickens, Tennyson, Milton, Wordsworth, Shelley and all the rest of the classics. He is instantly reassured and at home. In a fantasy world of books. Exactly.

The central problem with propertyless socialism

There is no money and so no greed in this future society. Dr Leete says people don’t pass on inheritances because they cannot now convert goods into money, so heirlooms are just so much clutter.

As I read that I thought, but people will still barter and exchange. Why? Because people enjoy it, as my mum used to enjoy going to car boot fairs. And as soon as you have fairs and markets and people bartering and exchanging, you give goods a value, a higher value to some than to others – and people will start collecting, hoarding, exchanging, building up reservoirs of valuable goods, selling them on to the right person at the right time, at a profit – and it all starts over again.

Somehow all these utopias ignore the basic human urges to value things, and to swap and exchange them. My kids are collecting the Lego cards from Sainsburys and are swapping them with friends in the playground. My mum loved going to car boot fairs. My wife likes watching Antiques Road Show which is all about money and value. Maybe these are all ‘tools of the capitalist bourgeois system to keep us enslaved to a money view of the world’. Or maybe they reflect something fundamental in human nature.

This may sound trivial, but whether people had the right to sell goods was the core of the problem Lenin faced in 1921, after the civil wars with the white Russians were more or less finished, and he faced a nation in ruins. Farmers had stopped growing crops because the Red soldiers just commandeered them without paying. Where was their motivation to get up before dawn and slave all day long if the produce was just stolen?

And so Lenin instituted the New Economic Policy, which allowed peasants and farmers to keep some of their produce i.e. not turn it all over to the state, and allowed them to use it or sell it as they saw fit. I.e. Lenin had to buckle to the human need to buy and sell. It was Stalin’s insistence, ten years later, that all agricultural produce was to be taken from the farmers by the state authorities that led to the great famine in the Ukraine which led to some three million people starving to death.

Which all reminds me of the terrifying stories in Anne Applebaum’s book, Iron Curtain, about the lengths communist authorities had to go to in post-war Eastern Europe to ban freelance buying and selling. As soon as a farmer sells eggs from a chicken or milk from a cow which are surplus to the state’s quota, he is laying the basis for capitalismAny display of independent buying and selling had to be banned and severely punished. Applebaum’s accounts of farmers and workers and even schoolchildren, being arrested for what seem to us trivial amounts of marketeering, really ram this point home.

Each and every incident was, to the communist authorities, a crack in the facade which threatened to let capitalism come flooding back, and so destroy the entire socialist society and economy they were building.

In Bellamy’s Perfect Society prices are set by the state, everything is supplied by the state, and you ‘buy’ things based on your fixed monthly income from the state. There is no competition and so no bargains or special offers. We now know that, when something very like this was put into effect in Soviet Russia, the result was the creation of a vast black market where normal human behaviour i.e. bartering, buying and selling for profit, returned and triumphed.

In fact, the several accounts of the last decades of the communist experiment which I’ve read claim that it was only the black market i.e. an unofficial market of bartering and trading everything, raw material, industrial and agricultural produce, which allowed the Soviet Union’s economy to stagger on for as long as it did.

What the Russian experiment, and then its extension into China and Eastern Europe, showed is that the socialist concept of society proposed by Marx, Engels, Bellamy or Morris, can only exist by virtue of an unrelenting war on human nature as it actually is – selfish, stupid, criminal, lazy, greedy, sharp and calculating human nature.

Only by permanent state surveillance, by the complete abolition of free speech and freedom of assembly, by the creation of vast prison camps and gulags, and severe punishments for even voicing anti-socialist sentiments, let alone tiny acts of rebellion such as bartering or selling goods, could ‘socialist societies’ be made to artificially survive, despite all the intrinsic ‘human’ longings of their inhabitants.

And even then it turned out that state planning was inefficient and wasteful, completely failing to produce any of the consumer goods which people cried out for – cars, fridges, TVs, jeans.

Bellamy’s encyclopedic approach

Then again, it’s not necessarily the function of utopias like this to portray a realistic society of the future. Bellamy tries, far more than most authors of utopias, to paint a really persuasive picture of what a Perfect Society would look like. But ‘utopias’ need not be as pedantically systematic as the one he has written; they can also perform the less arduous function of highlighting the absurdities and injustices of our present day society. And here Bellamy, in his slow, steady, thoughtful manner, is very thorough and very effective. His targets include:

  • competition over wages
  • the anarchy of a myriad competing companies
  • the inevitability of regular crises of over-production leading to crashes, banks failing, mass unemployment, starvation and rioting
  • state encouragement for everybody to rip everybody else off
  • the system whereby a lengthy number of middle-men all cream off a percentage before passing products on to the public thereby ensuring most people can’t afford them
  • advertising and hucksterism, which he ridicules – now abolished
  • political parties representing special interests – all gone
  • demagogic lying politicians – rendered redundant by universal altruism
  • rival shops stuffed with salesman motivated by commissions to sell your tat – replaced by one shop selling state-produced goods
  • how greed, luck and accident forced most people into a job or career – rather than his system of allowing people to choose, after long education in the options, the vocation which suits them best
  • having to travel miles to concert halls and sit through tedious stuff before they get to anything you like – in the future ‘telephones’ offer a selection of music piped straight to your home
  • international trade is managed in the same way, by a committee which assigns fixed values to all goods
  • travel is easy, since American ‘credit cards’ are good in South America or Europe
  • when the Leete family take West for a meal, they point out that communal canopies unroll in front of all buildings in case of rain, to protect pedestrians
  • at the meal there is a lengthy diatribe on how the waiter serving them comes from their own class and education and is happy to servile, unlike 1887 when the poor and uneducated were forced into ‘menial’ positions
  • state education is a) extensive, up to age 21, b) designed to draw out a person’s potential
  • sports is compulsory at school in order to create a healthy mind in a healthy body (Chapter 25)
  • women are the equals of men, and all work, apart from short breaks for childbirth and early rearing
  • all the false modesty of courtship has been abolished, replaced by frank and open relationships between the sexes
  • and – with a hint of eugenics – Dr Leete claims that now men and women are free to marry for love instead of for money, as was mostly the case in 1887, this allows the Darwinian process of natural selection to operate unobstructed and it is this which accounts for the fact that the Bostonians of 2000 are so much taller, fitter and healthier than the Bostonians West knew in 1887

All these aspects of contemporary capitalist society come under Bellamy’s persistent, thorough and quietly merciless satire.

Style

A comparison with the science fantasies which H.G. Wells started writing a few years after Looking Backward was published, sheds light on both types of book.

The key thing about Wells’s stories is their speed. One astonishing incident follows another in a mad helter-skelter of dazzling revelations. Wells is heir to the concentrated, punchy adventures – and the pithy, active prose style – of Robert Louis Stevenson, Conan Doyle and Rider Haggard. He takes their fast-moving adventure style and applies it – instead of hunts for treasure in colourful settings or detective sleuthing – to the scientific ideas which he found being discussed by all around him as he studied for his science degree in South Kensington in the late 1880s.

Bellamy couldn’t be more different from Wells. He is slow – very slow. His book is really a slow-paced, thoughtful political treatise, with a few romantic knobs on.

And his prose, also, is slow and stately and ornate, pointing back to the Victorian age as much as Wells’s prose points forward to the twentieth century. Here is Dr Leete giving another version of the crucial moment when the capitalist world of monopolies gave way to one, state monopoly.

‘Early in the last century the evolution was completed by the final consolidation of the entire capital of the nation. The industry and commerce of the country, ceasing to be conducted by a set of irresponsible corporations and syndicates of private persons at their caprice and for their profit, were intrusted to a single syndicate representing the people, to be conducted in the common interest for the common profit. The nation, that is to say, organized as the one great business corporation in which all other corporations were absorbed; it became the one capitalist in the place of all other capitalists, the sole employer, the final monopoly in which all previous and lesser monopolies were swallowed up, a monopoly in the profits and economies of which all citizens shared. The epoch of trusts had ended in The Great Trust.

‘In a word, the people of the United States concluded to assume the conduct of their own business, just as one hundred odd years before they had assumed the conduct of their own government, organizing now for industrial purposes on precisely the same grounds that they had then organized for political purposes. At last, strangely late in the world’s history, the obvious fact was perceived that no business is so essentially the public business as the industry and commerce on which the people’s livelihood depends, and that to entrust it to private persons to be managed for private profit is a folly similar in kind, though vastly greater in magnitude, to that of surrendering the functions of political government to kings and nobles to be conducted for their personal glorification.’ (Chapter 5)

Wordy, isn’t it? You have to slow yourself right down to his speed to really take on board the power of his arguments.

But it’s worth making the effort in order to savour and mull them. It is, for example, a clever rhetorical move on Bellamy’s part to make the American rejection of capitalism around 1900 seem a natural extension of the American rejection of monarchy a century earlier (in the 1775 War of Independence).

And here is Dr Leete explaining why, in the new system, money isn’t needed.

‘When innumerable different and independent persons produced the various things needful to life and comfort, endless exchanges between individuals were requisite in order that they might supply themselves with what they desired. These exchanges constituted trade, and money was essential as their medium. But as soon as the nation became the sole producer of all sorts of commodities, there was no need of exchanges between individuals that they might get what they required. Everything was procurable from one source, and nothing could be procured anywhere else. A system of direct distribution from the national storehouses took the place of trade, and for this money was unnecessary.’

Clever, isn’t it? Clear, rational, sensible… And totally unrelated to the real world.

Epilogue

And then West wakes up and it was all – a dream!

I kid you not. Like the corniest children’s school composition, that is how the book ends. West finds himself being stirred and woken by his (black) manservant to find himself back in bed, in his underground bunker, back in 1887 – and experiences a crushing sense of loss as he realises that the future world he was just getting used to… was all a fantasy.

There then follows by far the most imaginatively powerful passage in the book. West dresses and goes out into the Boston of 1887, walking past the confusion of shops, the bombardment of advertising hoardings, down into the industrial district where noisy, smoky factories are employing children and old women, screwing out of them their life’s blood, all that human effort wasted in violent and unplanned competition to produce useless tat (‘the mad wasting of human labour’), then wandering up to the banking district where he is accosted by his own banker who preens himself on the magnificence of ‘the system’, before walking on into the slums where filthy unemployed men hover on street corners and raddled women offer him their bodies for money.

All the time, in his mind, West is comparing every detail of this squalid, chaotic, miserably unhappy and insecure society with the rational, ordered life in the Perfect Society which he (and the reader) have been so thoroughly soaked in for the preceding 200 pages.

The contrast, for the reader who has followed him this far, between the beauty of what might be, and the disgusting squalor of what is, is genuinely upsetting. It was a clever move to append this section. It is the only part of the book which has any real imaginative power, and that power is fully focused on provoking in the reader the strongest sensations of disgust and revulsion at the wretchedness and misery produced by unfettered capitalism.

From the black doorways and windows of the rookeries on every side came gusts of fetid air. The streets and alleys reeked with the effluvia of a slave ship’s between-decks. As I passed I had glimpses within of pale babies gasping out their lives amid sultry stenches, of hopeless-faced women deformed by hardship, retaining of womanhood no trait save weakness, while from the windows leered girls with brows of brass. Like the starving bands of mongrel curs that infest the streets of Moslem towns, swarms of half-clad brutalized children filled the air with shrieks and curses as they fought and tumbled among the garbage that littered the court-yards.

There was nothing in all this that was new to me. Often had I passed through this part of the city and witnessed its sights with feelings of disgust mingled with a certain philosophical wonder at the extremities mortals will endure and still cling to life. But not alone as regarded the economical follies of this age, but equally as touched its moral abominations, scales had fallen from my eyes since that vision of another century. No more did I look upon the woeful dwellers in this Inferno with a callous curiosity as creatures scarcely human. I saw in them my brothers and sisters, my parents, my children, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood. The festering mass of human wretchedness about me offended not now my senses merely, but pierced my heart like a knife!

And then – on the last page – there is another, final twist. West wakes again… and is back in the Perfect Society of the future.

His vision of waking and wandering through the Golgotha of Boston in 1887 was itself a dream. He rouses himself hot and sweating. He looks back in horror at the life he led back and the values he unthinkingly accepted. And he is filled with shame, bitter recriminating shame and overwhelming guilt that he did nothing, nothing at all to change and reform the society of his day but acquiesced in his privileged position, enjoyed the wine and the fine women of his class, ignored the poor and brutalised, and didn’t lift a finger to change or improve the world.

The fair Edith appears picking flowers in Dr Leete’s garden and West falls at her feet, puts his face to the earth and weeps bitter tears of regret that he stood by and let so many people suffer so bitterly.

And I confess that, despite all the rational objections to his Perfect Society, and to the rather boring 200 pages which preceded it, these final pages are such an effective accusation of all us middle-class people who stand by and let people endure appalling poverty and suffering, that it brought a tear to my eye, as well.


Related links

The First Men in the Moon by H.G. Wells (1901)

This is the seventh of Wells’s classic science fiction novels. He had also, by 1901, written over 60 science fiction short stories. Single-handedly he had created a new genre for the English-speaking world, which was quickly taken up and copied.

It wasn’t just that he wrote a lot, it’s that the early books each tackled, described, thought through and realistically presented some of the founding tropes of science fiction – time travel and attack by aliens from another world, being the two outstanding ones – which have been recycled thousands of times since.

The First Men in the Moon is not quite in the same league because it didn’t invent the topic of travelling to the moon – Jules Vernes had written a novel on the same theme thirty years earlier (From the Earth to the Moon, 1865) and in fact a number of fantasies and romances on the subject had been written for centuries (including the version by the 17th century writer Cyrano de Bergerac whose illustrations by Quentin Blake I recently reviewed – Voyages to the Moon and the Sun, based on the Comical History of the States and Empires of the Moon, 1657).

Also, the scientific basis of the story – the mechanism by which the protagonists get to the moon – using some kind of anti-gravity metal – the way it’s discovered and handled, isn’t as persuasive as some of the earlier fantasies. Nonetheless, the story is still compelling because of the thoroughness with which Wells thinks through the practical details – and then because of the avalanche of astounding discoveries which his heroes make once they’ve arrived on the moon, and which keeps the reader on the edge of their seat.

Amateur hour

As usual in Wells, the whole thing is invented by an inspired amateur – the notion of government-sponsored scientific research being still decades away, pioneered by the Manhattan project of the 1940s.

Instead the story is narrated in the first person by a rather disreputable bankrupt, Mr Bedford, who retreats to a bungalow on the Kent coast where he hopes to scribble a best-selling play in order to make a quick buck, but gets into conversation with an eccentric neighbour, Cavor, and gets drawn into the latter’s scientific experiments.

The ‘scientific’ basis is simple, or simple-minded, enough. Cavor points out that we now know the universe is full of rays and waves that act at a distance – light rays, x-rays, electricity and gravity. And we know of materials which block some of these rays – light and electricity and x-rays. So why can’t we create something which blocks the effect of gravity?

Bedford immediately sees the vast amounts of money to be made from such a material in a hundred and one commercial applications:

An extraordinary possibility came rushing into my mind. Suddenly I saw, as in a vision, the whole solar system threaded with Cavorite liners and spheres de luxe. (p.27)

So Bedford persuades the rather other-worldly Cavor to take him on as a ‘partner’, and becomes a regular visitor to the latter’s house down the hill (incidentally observing the comic rivalry of the three working class labourers Cavor has working in his various workshops).

An enormous explosion and then a terrific hurricane announce to the narrator that Cavor has indeed succeeded in making the new material. it happened by fluke, when a substance they’d been working on was left to cool and crystallised into the material they now decide to christen ‘cavorite’. (It all takes place on 14 October 1899, as Bedford faithfully records.)

What caused the hurricane is that, as soon as it came into existence, the cavorite blocked the earth’s gravitational pull from working on the air above it. This meant that that air – which normally presses downwards at a pressure of 14 pounds per square inch – ceased doing so, and instead floated freely upwards. This created a column of ’empty air’ directly about the square of cavorite. Into this gravity-less tube rushed all the surrounding air which, on finding itself also liberated from the earth’s gravity, also lost its downward weight and was itself forced upwards by the rest of the surrounding air rushing in. And so on and so on. In a split second the pull of pressurised air into the column of unweighted air created a huge inrush of air from the surroundings, in which everything which was not tied down was immediately dragged towards it at tremendous force.

For the few moments that this happened all the air in the neighbourhood was sucked into the gravity-free tube – which explains the sudden hurricane Cavor and Bedford felt. But then they themselves saw the little sheet of cavorite itself get sucked up by the empty vortex and they both watched it soar up through the column, up, up and – presumably – right out of the earth’s atmosphere… at which point everything returned to normal. ‘By Jove, old chap.’

Bedford and Cavor look at each other. This thing could escape the earth’s atmosphere. It could fulfil man’s oldest dream of leaving earth. But how to steer or control it? Cavor goes off pondering and the next day has come up with a solution: encase the cavorite in steel plates which mask its anti-gravity effect, and only open the plates facing in a certain direction when you want the anti-gravity cavorite to work in that direction.

(You can see why Wells has his narrator, Bedford, continually lament that he didn’t keep notes, didn’t make a record of the process by which cavorite was made, didn’t follow all of Cavor’s abstruse thinking and so on. This is because Well’s idea doesn’t really make practical sense.)

So the pair construct a sphere, with an inner layer made of glass, then covered in warm cavorite paste, then steel divided into plates. (In fact it’s less a sphere than a polyhedron made of flat plates. And the plates are more, in fact, like ‘blinds’ which can be opened and closed. I’ve always found this quite hard to visualise.) Once everything is in place they heat the cavorite paste to securely bind it to the ‘sphere’ and then, as it cools, it assumes the magical properties and – whoosh!

Illustration for The First Men In the Moon by E. Herring (1901)

Illustration for The First Men In the Moon by E. Hering (1901)

The idea is that to steer the sphere you open a plate in the direction you want gravity to cease working and are repelled away from any nearby object (the earth or moon or sun) which would ordinarily exert the attractive power of gravity. Once in space, close the plates and you’ll be pulled towards the nearest big object. Like the moon.

Bedford climbs into the sphere and Cavor shows him how he’s furnished it – the blankets, some frozen oxygen in cylinders, some food, an electric light and some carbolic acid device to get rid of the carbon dioxide they inhale. But while Bedford is still pondering whether he wants to go, Cavor opens the earthside shutters, the cavorite works and whoosh! they are flying towards the moon.

Wells’s story races at top speed to prevent you from realising what tosh it is, and to enchant you in his narrative spell. Wonder follows wonder. First of all there is weightlessness. Maybe earlier writers had realised that we would be weightless in space but Wells gives a very accurate prophecy of what it feels like, the tingling in the blood and the way everything inside the sphere floats around bumping into everything else.

It was the strangest sensation conceivable, floating thus loosely in space, at first indeed horribly strange, and when the horror passed, not disagreeable at all, exceeding restful; indeed, the nearest thing in earthly experience to it that I know is lying on a very thick, soft feather bed. But the quality of utter detachment and independence! I had not reckoned on things like this. I had expected a violent jerk at starting, a giddy sense of speed. Instead I felt – as if I were disembodied. It was not like the beginning of a journey; it was like the beginning of a dream.

They open some of the plates to see where they’re headed and a) are dazzled by the brightness of the sun and b) looking the other direction, are stunned by the profusion of stars, millions more than you can see through earth’s atmosphere.

Cavor makes last-minute adjustments and they come to land in a vast crater on the moon. Here the reader is bombarded with vivid impressions. It is dark and the ground is covered in soft white stuff which they only slowly realise is not dust but frozen atmosphere. They have arrived just at sunrise over the crater and are astonished to watch the frozen white stuff all around them melt and then evaporate, to form an atmosphere, tingeing the sky blue.

Is it breathable? Cavor performs the ludicrously amateur experiment of opening the manhole which they use to get in and out of the capsule and discovers that – yes, it is thinner than earth’s but the moon’s atmosphere turns out to be perfectly breathable. (No ill effects from sunlight, radiation, burning, toxic gases, nothing! Convenient, eh?)

They climb outside and are astounded to watch small pebbles shiver, pop, put out roots, and then stalks. They are plants and shrubs and strange tree-sized flora, which grows even as they watch. Of course. The moon’s ‘year’ – the length of time it takes the sun to rise and set over the lunar surface – only lasts for 14 earth days. In that fortnight, life forms have to spring, grow, mature, produce their own seed, and decline.

But the thing they are most enraptured with is the low gravity. Only a sixth of the earth’s. Off they go springing and bounding in giant leaps amid the surreally growing and blossoming fruits of the moon. Until – oops – they both realise they have forgotten where the sphere was and, looking back, see only an immense rustling growing forest of moon flora.

And it is then that they hear an ominous boom boom boom noise from beneath the surface and a grinding as of great gates opening. Not long afterwards they see the first of the Selenites herding a vast slug-like creature with tiny closed eyes and a horrid red mouth which is slurping and munching its way through the foliage, like a farmer herding a monstrous cow.

Illustration for The First Men In the Moon by E. Herring (1901)

Illustration for The First Men In the Moon by E. Herring (1901)

Amazement

Wells’s aim is to amaze, stun, astonish and astound. The basic, foundational trope of a visit to a strange land is reminiscent of any number of late-Victorian yarns – Vernes’ Journey to the Centre of the Earth (1864), Rider Haggard’s journeys to darkest Africa (She, 1886), or Conan Doyle’s Professor Challenger trip to a Lost World (1912) in the remotest Amazon.

But science fiction has the advantage over mere adventure stories in that it can make things up purely to astound, astonish, shock, disgust and amaze the reader.

Because the text is available online, it is searchable, and so I searched and counted no fewer than 415 exclamation marks, as the characters, and the author, continually signal their amazement at their astounding discoveries!!!

Then, for fun, I searched all the instances of the word ‘amazing’.

It comes to me with a certain quality of astonishment that my participation in these amazing adventures of Mr. Cavor was, after all, the outcome of the purest accident.

[Cavor’s workshop] looked like business from cellar to attic – an amazing little place to find in an out-of-the-way village

It was an amazing piece of reasoning. Much as it amazed and exercised me at the time.

And then, sudden, swift, and amazing, came the lunar day.

With a steady assurance, a swift deliberation, these amazing seeds thrust a rootlet downward to the earth and a queer little bundle-like bud into the air.

Cavor panted something about ‘amazing sensations’.

What the Selenites made of this amazing, and to my mind undignified irruption from another planet, I have no means of guessing.

Amazing little corner in the universe – the landing place of men!

… returning after amazing adventures to this world of ours.

There were several amazing forms, with heads reduced to microscopic proportions and blobby bodies.

Amazing and incredible as it may seem, these two creatures, these fantastic men insects, these beings of other world, were presently communicating with Cavor by means of terrestrial speech.

The dictionary definition of to amaze is ‘to cause someone to be extremely surprised’. Synonyms for ‘amaze’ give a sense of the aim of Well’s fantasies (and of the thousands of pulp sci-fi writers who followed him). It is to:

astonish, astound, surprise, bewilder, stun, stagger, flabbergast, nonplus, shock, startle, shake, stop someone in their tracks, stupefy, leave open-mouthed, leave aghast, take someone’s breath away, dumbfound, daze, benumb, perplex, confound, dismay, disconcert, shatter, take aback, jolt, shake up

Taken prisoner

Back in the story our heroes sneak away from the ghastly apparition of the Selenite and realise they are hungry. Not having any provisions from the sphere they are driven by desperation to nibble one of the growing lunar ‘trees’ and Wells gives quite a humorous account of the way that the ‘food’ does them no harm but makes them both very drunk. Through their drunken bickering they are aware of Selenites surrounding them and of some kind of struggle, then it all goes dark.

They wake up with hangovers in a dark cell in handcuffs and shackles. One or two individual Selenites come to see them before they are raised to their feet and led by a posse of Selenites, some of whom are carrying the sharp spiked goads they’d seen one using on get the big fat mooncalf earlier. Our heroes are fascinated and disgusted at the Selenites’ appearance, a kind of giant ant. The shapes of their heads appear to vary, indicating different brain size and probably advanced specialisation of job or function in what they come to realise is the complex Selenite civilisation.

They are taken through caverns measureless to man, past enormous machinery which appears to be pumping out some kind of liquid which glows blue and provides illumination here. Cavor speculates wildly that there may be a whole civilisation here, under the surface of the moon. Maybe networks of caverns descending via tunnels down to some inner sea. Scooped out and developed over thousands of years.

When they come to a narrow plank going out over what appears to be a vast bottomless pit, Bedford rebels. One of the Selenites goads him with the spiky implement and he sees red. He punches the Selenite and is astonished to watch his fist go right through its head and out the other side. They are clearly far less sturdy and strongly made than humans. Before he knows it he is attacking all of them and then grabbing Cavor to make a getaway.

This is actually the turning point of the book, because the rest of the main narrative describes their panic-stricken escape back to the surface of the moon. It is a chase narrative. As you might imagine, it involves climbing up clefts and stumbling into vast caverns and a lot more fighting, with the unpleasant discovery that the Selenites have a sort of crossbow which fires spears.

Nonetheless, triumphing over all these perils our heroes finally blunder out into a huge circular shaft with spiral steps running up along the wall (the kind of thing we’ve all seen in sci-fi and fantasy movies) leading up to the surface. Up it they run, emerging into the lip of a ‘crater’ – and they now understand that the moon’s ‘craters’ are in fact an immense network of circular ‘lids’ which can be retracted to reveal the labyrinth of tunnels created by Selenite civilisation and which allow the Selenites to emerge onto the surface to farm their herds of moon cows.

The sun is visibly waning: some 14 days have passed underground though they haven’t noticed, and is now threatening to set with all that entails in terms of losing the breathable atmosphere. Where is the sphere?

Afflicted by despair as they survey the vast area of lunar foliage, now visibly browning and declining, they pin a handkerchief to a nearby bush and set off to explore in opposite directions, taking vast moon leaps as they go.

Nearing exhaustion and plagued by fear that search parties of very angry Selenites will be out after them, Bedford is on the brink of giving up when he is momentarily dazzled by a shaft of light and realises it is sunlight reflecting off a panel of the sphere. Weeping with relief he bounds over and confirms it’s true. But what of Cavor? He leaps to a nearby peak and shouts Cavor’s name but – as Wells had pointed out from the first (in the kind of scientifically accurate detail which are such a joy of these stories) moon air is a lot thinner than earth air and so sound doesn’t carry very well: even when they’re shouting at each other it sounds like they’re whispering.

He can see the hankie in a bush a few miles away and so leaps over towards it. Here he yells Cavor’s name again, then looks down and sees an archetypal adventure story sight: broken bushes, churned-up soil, all the signs of a struggle. Going down he finds a scrap of paper in which Cavor has hurriedly written that he’s hurt his knee in landing awkwardly in a ditch and can hear the Selenites closing in, any moment they’re going to come, oh my God –

And here his message breaks off and the paper is marked by… a red liquid. Blood!!!!

The Selenites have got him. The crater is closed. All entrance to the interior is blocked off. The sun has almost set. Bedford realises he must save himself. I found his flight back the sphere quite gripping. Wells convincingly describes the sudden drop in temperature as the sun declines, the air grows thin and cold and then the first snowflakes will fall. The temperature will ultimately drop to Absolute Zero and Bedford will freeze to death unless he can make it to the sphere in time. At last he is there. Crawling on hands and knees. Barely strength to reach up to the manhole, Twists. Can’t do it. Twists again. Pulls himself up and is… inside!

An exhausted Bedford just about makes it back to the sphere as snow falls, illustration for The First Men In The Moon by Claude Allin Shepperson

An exhausted Bedford just about makes it back to the sphere as snow falls, illustration for The First Men In The Moon by Claude Allin Shepperson

Food. Blanket. Warmth. Recovery. Sleep. Wakes rejuvenated. Grasps the grim reality of his situation. Opens the cavorite plates. Silently flies into space. More by luck than judgement he steers a course back to earth.

In an outcome so ludicrous it is like a pantomime, he not only lands back on earth, but he lands back on the south coast of England, barely a few miles from where they took off. On the sea, but conveniently close to a beach which he is then washed up on. Some jolly English chaps are coming down for their morning swim. ‘Crikey, old chap, you look a bit peaky let us take you up to the old hotel.’

Here he tucks into bacon and eggs and is drinking coffee when there’s an explosion and bewilderment outside the door. Some young lad had been hanging round as the chaps took dirty, dishevelled Bedford up to their hotel. He’d looked a bit shifty. The young wretch must have gone back to the sphere, climbed in and opened a plate, making it lift off. Damn and blast! There go Bedford’s dreams of setting up an interplanetary travel agency.

But he still has the gold. Did I mention the gold? Amid their adventures Bedford had realised that the shackles and manacles the Selenites had bound them with were made of gold. He had grabbed a couple of tyre lever-sized gold rods during their breakout. In fact he’d found them handy for fighting their way through the Selenites.

At least he still has them. He is rich.

A coda from Cavor

Wells could have stopped his tale there. Instead, there is a coda which takes up a surprising amount of space, pages 150 to 186 in the Everyman paperback edition.

To the outrage of all common sense, a Dutch electrician and early radio ham, picks up radio messages… from the moon! Yes, Cavor was captured, as Bedford had described: but his captors were kind to him, and, once he’d recovered, they took him on a Cook’s Tour of their vast civilisation. Part of this was learning that there was an apparently infinite variety of types of Selenites and soon Cavor was being introduced to the brainy ones: he could tell they were brainy, because they had very big heads! Big heads and thin skins so he could actually see the brain matter pulsating as they thought their deep thoughts.

Turns out that some of the Selenites are specialists in language and set about teaching Cavor who quickly catches on and starts to teach them English. Thus, within a few weeks, Cavor is communicating with the Selenites who explain how their society works, confirm that the moon is a swiss cheese of underground caverns and passages, that the phosphorescent liquid and much else is produced by immense machinery, that at the centre of the moon there is indeed a vast and tempestuous sea – and much more besides.

These visions of an alien civilisation, as so often, develop a strong flavour of being social criticism of the author’s own civilisation. Cavor discovers that the Selenites breed all the different types of workers in the equivalent of test tubes, distorting all aspects of their bodies and brains to suit them to the work they’re destined for. (Anticipating Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World by 30 years).

Harsh? Yes, he is a bit disgusted by it and especially by one particular sight of an embryonic Selenite having its forelimbs artificially lengthened to do manual work, but – and here is the Author’s Message –

Of course it is really in the end a far more humane proceeding than our earthly method of leaving children to grow into human beings, and then making machines of them.

On another occasion his guides – the preposterously named Phi-oo and Tsi-puff – bring him to a great field of mushrooms being grown for food, where they find all the workers drugged and fast asleep, until they are needed for the harvest when they’ll be woken. Again, the character Cavor becomes a mouthpiece for the Fabian Socialist H.G. Wells:

To drug the worker one does not want and toss him aside is surely far better than to expel him from his factory to wander starving in the streets

Cavor’s tour climaxes with a presentation to the Grand Lunar, Master of the Moon – at which point the book definitely feels more like a lampoon or a parody than a ‘serious’ fantasy, a kind of ludicrous Wizard of Oz vibe.

Except that here it also reaches a kind of height of teenage socialism. Cavor radios back to earth a lengthy version of his interview with the Grand Lunar which begins with harmless stuff about the structure of the earth, why we live on the surface and not underneath like the Selenites, what weather is like in a place with 12 hour days, and so on. Little by little Cavor describes human civilisation, cities and factories and trains, how we do not breed different types of human to perform different tasks, not yet anyway.

But, when asked whether there is a Grand Earthly as there is a Grand Lunar, he finds himself having to explain the idea of ‘nations’ and ’empires’ and, before he realises it, is describing ‘war’. His brutal description of this absurd folly fills the Grand Lunar and the huge entourage of Selenites listening to Cavor’s account with horror.

Yes, wars in which men flock to the flag, train and arm and proudly wear uniforms, before clashing in huge armies designed solely to kill as many of the opponents as possible. As he proceeds, Cavor notes the moans of disappointment and disillusion rising from the crowd and the ‘expression’ on what passes for the Grand Lunar’s face.

Cover of Amazing Histories magazine, featuring an illustration of Cavor addressing the Great Lunar

Cover of Amazing Histories magazine, featuring an illustration of Cavor addressing the Great Lunar

A week later comes the final broadcast we are ever to hear from Cavor. It is a panic-stricken sentence, ‘I was mad to let the Grand Lunar know – ‘… and then a few words attempting to convey the secret of cavorite. Then silence.

Bedford imagines the dismay Cavor’s revelation about the true nature of human beings must have caused among the Selenites, and how the mood turned against Cavor, and how the moon people then realised that he was broadcasting messages to his violent brethren back on earth, with the risk that these psychopaths might return in one of these ‘armies’ and conquer the Selenites.

Gulliver

When I read this as a teenager I was awed by Wells’s profound insight into human nature. Now it reminds me of Gulliver’s Travels, in which the hero also describes human behaviour to the peace-loving King of Brobdingnag, who replies, accurately enough:

‘I cannot but conclude the Bulk of your Natives, to be the most pernicious Race of little odious Vermin that Nature ever suffered to crawl upon the Surface of the Earth.’

True or not, the point is that, bolted on to the science fantasy, this coda reads very much like a variation on the time-honoured satire on contemporary civilisation and, by extension, of human nature, which goes back before Swift to Thomas More’s Utopia and before that to any number of Roman and Greek authors.


Commentary

There are three obvious features about a Wells novel like this, what he called his ‘fantasy novels’:

1. Fast

It’s fast-moving. Bedford has bumped into Cavor, built the sphere, gone to the moon, watched the desert bloom, been captured and taken below, escaped and fought his way to the surface, found the sphere and escaped, crash-landed on earth and had a hearty breakfast, all in a mere 150 pages (in the Everyman paperback edition I read).

2. Fantastic

The speed prevents you noticing its preposterousness. It’s so fast-moving you don’t notice how quickly you leave the world of Edwardian England, with its pubs and evening strolls along the Downs, completely behind. It only requires ten or so pages from Bedford meeting Cavor, to him thoroughly involving him in his theoretical speculations, and then – whoosh! they’re off to the moon.

It is fast-moving because it is, in a sense, pulp. Only by moving fast from one astounding moment to the next can it stop you pausing to reflect and thus breaking the spell.

3. Mundanity

But, contradicting a little what I’ve said above, just as important as the speed and fantasy, is its air of mundaneness and normality.

I think it was Tom Shippey in his book about Lord of the Rings who explained that what made the book such a success was the invention of the hobbits. Tolkien had been working on his private-world mythology for decades, inventing languages and complex histories for his elves and dwarves and so on, and had produced quite a few texts narrating whole eras in his legendary Middle Earth. But they were boring and flat.

It was the invention of the down-to-earth, small, beer-drinking, pipe-smoking, no-nonsense, common-sensical hobbits which gave him a vehicle to take the reader into his world. We are introduced to the hobbits first and thoroughly identify with their idealised pastoral English life – before the first hints of other-worldly menace ever appear.

This explains why Lord of the Rings is regularly voted the greatest novel of the 20th century, while I’ve never met anyone who managed to complete The Silmarillion, another of Tolkien’s epics, describing a different era in Middle Earth’s history, but which lacks hobbits and, therefore, all charm and – crucially – representatives of the ordinary reader; imaginative vectors allowing us to enter into his imaginative world.

It’s an overlooked element of Wells that his best books also require this dichotomy – the interlocking of two opposites, the fantastic and the mundane.

We all know about the fantastical in his books, for example the idea that Martians launch an attack on earth or a man invents a time machine and travels to the distant future. Those are certainly the ideas at the core of the books. But when you actually read the texts what comes across almost as powerfully is the very mundane details of the places where this all happens – that the Martians land in Dorking and head towards London across the humdrum landscape of Surrey, blasting well known landmarks on their way (which is why there is a striking sculpture of a ‘Martian’ in Dorking town centre).

Wells himself was well aware of doing this:

For the writer of fantastic stories to help the reader play the game properly he must help him, in every possible unobtrusive way, to domesticate the impossible hypothesis. (Quoted in the critical afterword to the Everyman edition)

And one mark of this is the way the people who witness and generally write up the narratives are always very ordinary, everyday chaps, who are often a bit confused, puzzled, don’t quite follow what’s going on, miss important details, don’t quite follow the scientific whatchamacallit, and, in their bumbling innocence, stand in as a kind of stylised representative of the innocent reader.

They are all Dr Watsons to a succession of fierce, eccentric or visionary Holmeses, respectively:

  • 1895 The Time Machine – first person unnamed narrator
  • 1896 The Island of Doctor Moreau – first person narrative by shipwrecked sailor Edward Prendick
  • 1897 The Invisible Man – (third person narrator)
  • 1898 The War of the Worlds – first person unnamed narrator
  • 1899 When the Sleeper Wakes – first person narrative by Graham, the eponymous sleeper
  • 1901 The First Men in the Moon – first person narrative by Mr Bedford
  • 1904 The Food of the Gods and How It Came to Earth – third person narrative
  • 1906 In The Days of the Comet – unnamed first person narrator
  • 1908 The War in the Air – featuring Bert and Tom Smallways
  • 1914 The World Set Free – third person narrator

Making this list shows that this isn’t exactly a hard-and-fast rule, but that most of the most effective fantasies are told in the first person by someone undergoing the adventure themselves.

It goes some way to explaining why of the early stories The Invisible Man stands out as particularly unlikeable and negative: it is one of the few not told by a more or less reasonable chap, who we’re meant to identify with.

As a footnote, this helps explain the presence of the three working class men who Cavor employs in his lab, in the earlier pages of the book. They are each jealous of each other’s specialisms, argue and often down tools to go off to the pub and argue some more and so perform the function of the rude mechanicals in Shakespeare, offering comic interludes but also throwing into relief the more serious activities of their middle class superiors. Anchoring them to a humorous everyday reality.

This also explains why Bedford, at an early stage, after he’s had an argument with Cavor, goes off for an epic walk across Kent, enjoying the countryside, stopping for lunch in a pub, chatting with the local yokels while he puffs on his pipe. All designed to embed the wild fantasy in a comfortable, relaxing coat of verisimilitude.


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1895

1895 was a year of endings and beginnings in English literature and beyond:

Endings

The long series of gripping tales and stories spun by master teller Robert Louis Stevenson had ended when he died on the Pacific island of Upolu on December 3rd 1894. He had completed the long short story The Ebb-Tide (1894), but left unfinished Weir of Hermiston, which was published posthumously, as were his 20 Fables and a final volume of verse, Songs of Travel and Other Verses, in 1896.

Two major careers ended in 1895. On 14th February Oscar Wilde‘s masterpiece, The Importance of Being Earnest, opened at St James’s Theatre, London, and was an immediate success, a triumph of wit, artifice and stagecraft. Within days the Marquess of Queensberry – outraged by Wilde’s relationship with his son, Lord Alfred Douglas – had accused Wilde of sodomy and begun the nightmareish sequence of events which led to Wilde being put on trial and, on 25 May, being found guilty of seven counts of gross indecency with other men. He received the maximum sentence, 2 years hard labour, emerging from his ordeal a broken man, and dying just three years later he died, aged 46, in exile in Paris.

A backlash began against not only Wilde, whose name was erased from playbills and whose books went underground, but against the whole cult of beauty, the aestheticism which had been a major strand of late Victorian culture. A mood of revulsion set in against the dandyism, the metropolitan decadence of the London literati and artists. The pre-Raphaelites who had sown the seeds of the cult, and some of its leading lights, were to pass away in the next few years:

In 1895 William Morris published three minor works while he prepared his beautiful illustrated edition of Chaucer, the Kelmscott Chaucer, which was published the following year. But only a few months later, on October 1896, aged only 61, the great pre-Raphaelite painter, poet, novelist, textile-maker and revolutionary died.

In June 1898 the pre-Raphaelite giant Sir Edward Burne-Jones who had designed the woodcuts for his friend Morris’s Kelmscott Chaucer, himself passed away.

From the younger generation, the scandalous caricaturist and illustratorAubrey Beardsley died aged only 25 in June 1898.

In 1895 Sir Frederick Leighton, purveyor of sumptuous paintings of the classical past, exhibited one of his enduring masterpieces, ‘Flaming June’, a symphony of colours. In January 1896 he passed away.

Flaming June (1895) by Sir Frederick Leighton

Another literary sex scandal ended a brilliant career in 1895. Thomas Hardy, aged 56, published his last novel, Jude the Obscure. It had begun magazine serialisation in December 1894 and continued through to November 1895 when it was published in book format and met with a storm of abuse for its supposed immorality. ‘Jude the Obscene’ one reviewer called it, and the bishop of Wakefield notoriously claimed to have burned his copy. The fierceness of the criticism which greeted Jude (and had also greeted his earlier masterpiece, Tess of the Durbevilles, 1891) led Hardy to abandon novel writing. The philistine English public had claimed another scalp. He never wrote another novel, though he continued to publish poetry until his death in 1928.

Imperialism

The mood was changing, swinging away from art for art’s sake and towards the prophets of Imperialism, to Kipling and his epigones. The Jameson Raid (29 December 1895 to 2 January 1896) was a botched raid on Paul Kruger’s Transvaal Republic carried out by a British colonial leader, Leander Starr Jameson, and his Rhodesian and Bechuanaland policemen over the New Year weekend of 1895–96. It was meant to trigger an uprising by British expatriate workers in the Transvaal (known as Uitlanders) and so justify a British military invasion, but failed to do so. Weeks later, in January 1896, the Tory journalist Alfred Austin published a Kiplingesque ballad, Jameson’s Ride, celebrating the entirely illegal and foolish act. Later in the year Austin was appointed Poet Laureate.

Sir Henry Newbolt followed his stirring poem Vitai Lampada (‘Play up, play up and play the game!’ – 1892) with the patriotic collection, Admirals All (1897) featuring the patriotic classic, Drake’s Drum. The new mood was to reach a kind of crescendo in the jingoism of the Boer War years (1899 to 1902), and then slowly recede to reveal the solid and suburban Edwardian novelists, Wells and Bennett and Galsworthy.

Beginnings

Conrad

Within months of Stevenson’s death a new voice had emerged to tell stories of the South Seas, of the Far East, and to continue Stevenson’s mordant scepticism about the ‘benefits’ of Empire for native peoples, Joseph Conrad whose first novel, Almayer’s Folly, was published on 29 April 1895 right in the middle of the furore surrounding the Wilde trials.

Wells

And as the Aestheticism of the 18970s and 1880s came to a climax and was abruptly garrotted, a completely new strain of writing was emerging in the hands of the 28 year-old Herbert George Wells which was to thrive and prosper into the new century. The Time Machine, serialised from January to May 1895 in W.E. Henley’s magazine the New Review, then published in book form in May 1895 – i.e. exactly contemporary with the Wilde trials – was the first in the long and prolific career of Wells, the godfather of science fiction. He also published ‘The Stolen Bacillus and Other Incidents’, his first volume of (15) fantasy and science fiction stories. No decadence from Wells, though. Even if the ideas in the science fiction questioned the meaning and endurance of Western ‘civilisation’ (for example in Wells’s classic The War of The Worlds, 1898), they did so using manly chaps as heroes.

Freud

Talking of discourses which were to dominate the 20th century, unknown to all these authors and artists, the obscure Viennese doctor Sigmund Freud was speculating that his patients’ neuroses were possibly the results of suppressed childhood sexual traumas, and also wondering whether our dreams might reveal the return of these suppressed memories but in concealed and symbolic forms. Both these insights took place in the pivotal year 1895, though he only published his first short papers on the subject the next year, and The Interpretation of Dreams wasn’t published until 1900.

Art Nouveau

On 1 January 1895 the streets of Paris were plastered by a new poster advertising the play ‘Gismonda’ by Victorien Sardou, featuring Sarah Bernhardt, designed by Czech artist Alphonse Mucha. The poster was to crystallise many aspects of the style which came to be known as Art Nouveau.

‘Gismonda’ by Alfons Mucha

In December 1895 German art dealer Siegfried Bing opened his famous gallery, the Maison de l’Art Nouveau. Henry van de Velde designed the interior of the gallery, while Louis Comfort Tiffany supplied stained glass. These displays became so strongly associated with the style that the name of his gallery subsequently provided a commonly used term for the entire style.

Business as usual

Through all these changes and shifts in mood other Victorian writers continued their careers, with varying degrees of success:

George Meredith, 65, published ‘The Amazing Marriage’.

Henry James, 56, was booed offstage on the opening night, January 5, of his play Guy Domville at London’s St James’s Theatre. As coincidence would have it, the play was taken off after just four weeks to make way for Wilde’s masterpiece, ‘The Importance of Being Earnest’. Wilde’s nemesis the Marquis of Queensberry had tried to gatecrash the first night in order to denounce Wilde from the audience but Wilde had the police blockade the building. Two historic first nights within a month of each other!

George Bernard Shaw, 39, helped found the London School of Economics which held its first classes in October; he began a three-year stint as drama critic for Frank Harris’s ‘Saturday Review’, and wrote a play, The Man of Destiny.

George Gissing, 38, most famous for New Grub Street, published three novels, ‘Eve’s Ransom’, ‘The Paying Guest’ and ‘Sleeping Fires’.

Rudyard Kipling, 29, published The Second Jungle Book.

Arthur Symons, 30, published ‘London Nights’.

The ever-prolific Henry Rider Haggard, 39, published ‘Joan Haste’, ‘Heart of the World’ and a serious study of Church and State.

In verse, W.B. Yeats, 30, published ‘Poems, verse and drama’, the first edition of his collected poems containing ‘The Countess Cathleen’, ‘The Land of Heart’s Desire’, ‘The Wanderings of Usheen’ and the poetry collections ‘The Rose’ and ‘Crossways’.

Politics

Another eminent Victorian’s career came to an end when, in May 1895, William Ewart Gladstone, leader of the Liberal party, resigned as an MP, having resigned as Prime Minister the year before. Tennyson had died in 1892. The politician and the poet for many people embodied the Victorian period, its art and values and politics. Their passing marked a watershed in literature and the broader culture.

A New Mood

Dead or silent were Tennyson, Gladstone and Hardy, masters of long poems, long speeches, long novels. The future belonged to the shorter, pithier tales of Conrad, Wells and Kipling, Bennett and Galsworthy, E.M. Foster, the Fabians and Edwardians.

The new writers, whatever their personal proclivities, were to depict a homely Home Counties version of Englishness, in reaction against both the metropolitan decadence of Wilde’s circle and the melodramatic jingoism of Kipling, Austen and Newbolt. Even the cosmopolitan Kipling was to catch the new mood by settling in Sussex and writing innocent children’s stories set among the rolling Downs, Puck of Pook’s Hill.

Nada the Lily by Henry Rider Haggard (1892)

‘Nada the Lily’ is Rider Haggard’s sixth novel. Haggard distinguished between his ‘Romances’ – which included the She and Allan Quatermain series, both featuring a large element of fantasy and the supernatural – and his ‘Novels’, which are more naturalistic, where the emphasis is more on human relationships than the fantastic.

Blacks

The most striking feature of Nada the Lily is that it is set entirely among South African blacks. An (unnamed) white man only appears in the few pages of the frame narrative where he meets an ancient witch-doctor. I don’t know of any other novels of the time which are set only among blacks, and where the thoughts of black characters good, bad and indifferent are described in great detail.

Tragic romance

The last hundred or so pages of the novel describe the love affair between the the mighty warrior Umslopogaas and the beautiful Zulu maiden, Nada, which gives the book its title. (It’s true that, early in the book the narrator hints that Nada might have white blood in her, from a Portuguese trader who stayed with the Swazi tribe from whom Mopo’s wife, Mcropha, came.)

Chaka the tyrant

But this love story is completely overshadowed by Mopo’s long servitude to the Zulu tyrant, Chaka, and the multiple examples of Chaka’s appalling cruelty and sadism which dominate the first 200 pages. Chaka (nowadays known as Shaka) was a real historical character, founder of the Zulu nation as the predominant military force in south-east Africa, a dominance they held from his kingship (1816-28) until the Zulu wars with the invading British in the late 1870s. Chaka is portrayed as a precursor of Stalin, paranoid and cruel in the extreme, given to ordering the extermination of whole tribes, the casual execution of complete innocents on the slightest pretext. The Wikipedia article on Shaka says some of the legends about Shaka’s cruelty might be colonial and apartheid propaganda; but still says there’s plenty of evidence of the large areas laid waste, of murder, torture, cannibalism carried out under his unhinged edicts:

‘After the death of his mother Shaka ordered as a sign of mourning that no crops should be planted during the following year, no milk (the basis of the Zulu diet at the time) was to be used, and any woman who became pregnant was to be killed along with her husband. At least 7,000 people who were deemed to be insufficiently grief-stricken were executed, though it wasn’t restricted to humans, cows were slaughtered so that their calves would know what losing a mother felt like.’

Violent African novels

The novel is like this only more so, and for 200 long pages. It cast a cloud of misery and murder over me for the week it took to read. The sadistic cruelty and casual violence found on every page reminded me of other African novels I’ve read –

  • the psychopathic African leader, Sam, at the heart of Chinua Achebe’s 1987 novel, Anthills of the Savannah
  • the sadistic father, Eugene, at the heart of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s 2003 novel, Purple Hibiscus
  • the psychopathic Idi Amin at the heart of Giles Foden’s 1998 novel, The Last King of Scotland
  • the sadism and cruelty taught to child soldiers during the war in Sierra Leone described in Delia Jarrett-Macauley’s 2005 novel, Moses, Citizen and Me
  • several books about the Rwandan genocide, the civil war in the Congo, about Robert Mugabe’s Zimbabwe, about the Sudan and Darfur, about the civil wars in Mozambique and Namibia..
  • I might as well mention Heart of Darkness (1899)

Thus, most of the books about Africa I’ve ever read, whether fiction or non-fiction, detail a stupefying level of violence and cruelty, so Nada, extreme though it is, fits right in with what I’ve read elsewhere.

An African epic

However Haggard isn’t detailing Chaka’s psychopathic behaviour for racist reasons (unlike later Boer and apartheid propagandists). The opposite. Haggard is deliberately setting out to write an African epic, a genre which raises its characters to the level of archetypal heroes and is written in a high, unflinching and sombre style. The story of how Umslopogaas is rescued at his birth reminds me of the legend of Moses and even the childermass; the harsh man-to-man combats in the dust and heat of the African veldt remind me over and over of the unforgiving brutality of The Iliad.

Haggard, like many of his contemporaries, was fascinated by folk tales, ancient myths and legends but, unlike most, his vast output includes attempts to rewrite them or bring them into the modern age: Haggard actually wrote a Viking saga, Eric Brighteyes, and a continuation of the Odyssey, The World’s Desire. To my mind, in Nada, he is consciously striving for an epic oral style to give Homeric dignity to his Zulu protagonists. The long story is told out loud over a succession of evenings by the old witch-doctor, Mopo, to the anonymous white man who takes it down and publishes it. The opening echoes conventions of the epic form:

‘You ask me, my father, to tell you the tale of the youth of Umslopogaas, holder of the iron Chieftainess, the axe Groan-maker, who was named Bulalio the Slaughterer, and of his love for Nada, the most beautiful of Zulu women. It is long; but you are here for many nights, and, if I live to tell it, it shall be told. Strengthen your heart, my father, for I have much to say that is sorrowful, and even now, when I think of Nada the tears creep through the horn that shuts out my old eyes from light.’

It doesn’t quite invoke a Muse, but it does justify the purpose and form of the text, it foretells the tragic ending of the tale right at the start, and it uses multiple epithets to build up the heroic stature of the male protagonist, Umslopogaas. The whole text is cast in this style, an imagining by Haggard of the elevated yet also laconic style of a pre-literate, oral people. The deeper you read, the more completely convincing it becomes, and you find yourself entranced, sitting in the gloom of a cramped African hut, listening to the low voice of an eerie old man as he tells his long and tragic tale.

‘All that day till the sun grew low we walked round the base of the great Ghost Mountain, following the line of the river. We met no one, but once we came to the ruins of a kraal, and in it lay the broken bones of many men, and with the bones rusty assegais and the remains of ox-hide shields, black and white in colour. Now I examined the shields, and knew from their colour that they had been carried in the hands of those soldiers who, years ago, were sent out by Chaka to seek for Umslopogaas, but who had returned no more.’

 I think it’s a triumph!


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She: A History of Adventure by Henry Rider Haggard (1887)

‘She’ is generally agreed to be one if the classics of imaginative literature and, with over 83 million copies sold in 44 different languages, one of the best-selling books of all time. Extraordinarily popular upon its release, She has never been out of print. (Wikipedia have an interesting list of bestselling books of all time: She is at number eight just behind The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe.) It’s been adapted into a movie no fewer than 11 times (compared to the five versions of King Solomon’s Mines.)

Why so popular? Well, it ticks a number of boxes.

Quest

It is an adventure quest: prompted by inherited treasure containing a map and a key, a small band of heroes (Cambridge academic Ludwig Holly, his ward the handsome hero Leo, trusty working class retainer Job) set off in search of a long-lost civilisation which allaegedly knows the secret of Eternal Life. Ie the deep structure of the narrative is mythic, archetypal.

Chaps

The protagonists are upper-class white men, supremely confident of their values and society. Thousands die, the crew of their ship die, their Arab helper dies, flocks of savages (the cannibalistic Amahaggers) die – but the white men survive and prevail. And we, the readers, partake of that superiority, that invincibility (as in all adventure stories).

Thrills

There is a steady stream of adventure, from the melodramatic handing over of the secret chest, through the squall which sinks the dhow off the coast of Africa, the fight to the death between a lion and a crocodile, the battle against the Amahaggar trying to kill and cook their Arab helper, the perilous approach to the Eternal Flame. Haggard knows how to pace his story with regular injections of suspense and adrenaline. Even after all these years it feels like a James Bond or Indiana Jones movie.

Woman

The dominant figure is Ayesha, ‘She who must be obeyed’, a woman who has discovered the secret of Life and made herself the most beautiful, most wide, most powerful woman in the world, commanding obedience and awe in all who see her. For feminists I’m not sure whether she would represent a truly powerful woman – or is the acme of (controlled) Woman On A Pedestal. Despite her power, Haggard lavishes her with Victorian stereotypes of femininity; all too often she weeps, or flops down or is inconsistent or various other attributes said to be classically ‘female’. Who knows why people buy and enjoy books in such numbers but quite obviously this female power figure is central to the book and so must account for a good deal of its success.

Spirituality

Haggard had a lifelong interest in seances, clairvoyance and the afterlife. This taste was to become more common in the last decades of Victoria’s reign and on into the Edwardian decade, and then receive a further boost after the disaster of the Great War. Haggard leaves the young ‘hero’ Leo unconscious and feverish for the last third or more of the book, devoting page after page to pseudo-philosophical discussions between Ayesha and Holly about the meaning of Life, not as strict philosophy but filtered through fiction; she gives Holly a tour of the ruins of the ancient civilisation of Kor and both of them reflect on the passage of time, the wisdom of the ancients, the possibility that our souls are reborn again and again which appears to be the main idea or narrative spur for the entire story. Some of these speculations airily dismiss Christianity or Islam as just the latest forms of the veiled fear and egotism which underlie all religion. Striking that Haggard could get away with such heterodox speculation; that there’d been such a shift to the acceptance of sceptical speculation in the generation since the stifling orthodoxy of even late Dickens in the 1860s. Haggard even sounds like Nietzsche at moments:

‘Ah!’ she said; ‘I see—two new religions! I have known so many, and doubtless there have been many more since I knew aught beyond these caves of Kôr. Mankind asks ever of the skies to vision out what lies behind them. It is terror for the end, and but a subtler form of selfishness—this it is that breeds religions. Mark, my Holly, each religion claims the future for its followers; or, at least, the good thereof. The evil is for those benighted ones who will have none of it; seeing the light the true believers worship, as the fishes see the stars, but dimly. The religions come and the religions pass, and the civilisations come and pass, and naught endures but the world and human nature. Ah! if man would but see that hope is from within and not from without—that he himself must work out his own salvation! He is there, and within him is the breath of life and a knowledge of good and evil as good and evil is to him. Thereon let him build and stand erect, and not cast himself before the image of some unknown God, modelled like his poor self, but with a bigger brain to think the evil thing, and a longer arm to do it.’

Empire

In an interesting article in the London Review of Books, historian Linda Colley describes how, up until World War II, Great Britain was held together by histories, narratives and symbols founded on a ‘sense of British imperial and Protestant destiny’. Rider Haggard’s romances enact these assumptions in fiction; we know the white hunter will triumph because he and the civilisation he represents just is superior. Though the heroes often have to escape the boredom of civilised society, they take it with them in their minds, in their definitions of civilised and savage, in their ideas of justice, mercy and fair play, which they act on throughout the narratives. Rider Haggard’s books are Romances, for children, because these values are never challenged. Occasional comments about white men’s greed or corruption make no impact because we know they don’t apply to our white men, our heroes. The prose is clear and calm and confident. Conrad’s work is Literature because these ‘Western values’ are tested to destruction in stories which focus on their crisis, and in a style which is itself stricken and overwrought.

End of Empire

That said, the dominant strain in She is about the passing, the fading, the death of empires. Ayesha lives among the millenia-old ruins of an ancient civilisation, one which, she and Holly speculate, might have predated and given birth to Egyptian culture. At the heart of the book is an imaginative vision of the mutability of all things, combined with a vague and poetic hope of eternal life in the form of eternal rebirth. Very fin-de-siecle, and designed to appeal to spiritually-minded adolescents of all ages. It’s striking that critics often point out the same thing in Kipling: even as he celebrates Empire he feels for its brittleness, its evanescence, as in Recessional.

Style

The Quatermain books deal with concrete things, guns and animals and native battles. The style of She feels noticeably softer, wordier, more purple. The text, from the introduction onwards, is driven by a more misty, grandiose vision, and this is the enduring impression the book leaves:

‘Behold the lot of man,’ said the veiled Ayesha, as she drew the winding sheets back over the dead lovers, speaking in a solemn, thrilling voice, which accorded well with the dream that I had dreamed: ‘to the tomb, and to the forgetfulness that hides the tomb, must we all come at last! Ay, even I who live so long. Even for me, oh Holly, thousands upon thousands of years hence; thousands of years after you hast gone through the gate and been lost in the mists, a day will dawn whereon I shall die, and be even as thou art and these are. And then what will it avail that I have lived a little longer, holding off death by the knowledge that I have wrung from Nature, since at last I too must die? What is a span of ten thousand years, or ten times ten thousand years, in the history of time? It is as naught—it is as the mists that roll up in the sunlight; it fleeth away like an hour of sleep or a breath of the Eternal Spirit. Behold the lot of man! Certainly it shall overtake us, and we shall sleep. Certainly, too, we shall awake and live again, and again shall sleep, and so on and on, through periods, spaces, and times, from æon unto æon, till the world is dead, and the worlds beyond the world are dead, and naught liveth but the Spirit that is Life. But for us twain and for these dead ones shall the end of ends be Life, or shall it be Death? As yet Death is but Life’s Night, but out of the night is the Morrow born again, and doth again beget the Night. Only when Day and Night, and Life and Death, are ended and swallowed up in that from which they came, what shall be our fate, oh Holly? Who can see so far? Not even I!’

Well, this kind of misty pseudo-spiritualism is not to my taste. But it obviously was to the 83 million or more people who’ve bought it and the scores of millions more who must have borrowed and read it.

Out of ten

For this reason I found She a bit hard going and liked it less than the three or four Allan Quatermain stories I read previously. Put simply, they are more full of derring-do. They generally have two heroes, Quatermain and the super-manly Henry Curtis, plus the noble blacks who feature in each AQ adventure. She focuses on the figure of Ayesha and the dialogues between her and Holly, on tours of the ancient ruins and wonder at the mutability of time. It’s more about awe than action.


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