There’s a city ordinance against eating an elected official without a permit. May I see your permit …?
Christopher Moore, Practical Demonkeeping
There’s a city ordinance against eating an elected official without a permit. May I see your permit …?
Christopher Moore, Practical Demonkeeping
Carpenter’s novel is an adroit pastiche of the Robert E. Howard Conan. It is very explicitly tagged for insertion into the established continuity by the presence of the Star of Khorala gem, which Conan is seeking to reclaim at the outset of the novel, signaling a placement just following Howard’s “Shadows in Zamboula.”
Raider is set in Abbadrah, a Shemite city on the north bank of the Styx, so the cultural matrix is that of the ancient near east: a fantasy eastern Mediterranean culture strongly influenced by its faux-Egyptian neighbor Stygia to the south. A preliminary adventure with Valusian serpent-men proves to be a mere warmup with no deeper connections to the larger plot other than to introduce some characters and set the central business as that of Conan’s membership in a company of tomb-robbers (the “raiders” of the title). The loathsomeness of the Abbadran ruling class is especially well developed. Even the princess Afrit, whom Conan favors both politically and intimately, has a measure of dislikability. The “prophet” Horaspes, a Stygian emigre, is a paragon of malevolent priestcraft.
Conan develops a tense peer relationship with a Vanirman who leads the raiders, not least due to the dancer who seduces them both. This circle of interactions helps to keep a confused, human core in a story full of sorcerous villainy and Conan’s usual near-invincibility. On the whole, this tale was well-paced and succeeded in recreating the sense of adventure that Howard gave to his Conan stories.
As for Sirius, he is truly the pearl of the cosmos.
Pierre Boulle, Planet of the Apes
The title phrase uses “‘Romantic’ in a restricted sense, as applicable to the literature of one epoch, beginning in the late years of the eighteenth century and not yet finished [in 1957], and as referring to the high valuation placed during this period upon the image-making powers of the mind at the expense of its rational powers, and to the substitution of organicist for mechanist modes of thinking about works of art.” (43) Kermode’s study, which he confesses to lie outside of his ‘period’ of historical specialty, is trained most especially on Yeats and his poetry. Besides the characteristics just listed, another keynote is the suffering isolation of the artist, as denoted by the figure of the Tower. In the first and longer of two parts, Kermode establishes the continuity of these concepts among Symbolism, English Romanticism, and their early modern antecedents.
In the second part, he shows how these concepts have been perpetuated through the first half of the 20th century, even when secularized and stripped of the Romantic mystique: the Great Memory and the noumenal world are reduced to the linguistic matrix, but the isolated artist and his revelation of the unparaphrasable image persist nonetheless. Kermode’s ultimate goal here is that of “revising historical categories.” (165) He is contemptuous of the arbitrariness and falsity of the nostalgic theories of history promoted by Symbolist criticism and its progeny. “The most deplorable consequence of the doctrine is that the periods and poets chosen to illustrate it are bound to receive perverse treatment; you must misrepresent them if you propose to make them justify a false theory.” (146) (It’s outside the scope of his study, but one might include the Traditionalist school of ideology in this same indictment, despite its diametric reversal of the values of image and rationality, although Symbolists and Traditionalists are fellow-travelers in the supernaturalist element.)
One of the features in this core Romantic view that set me back a little was the opposition of imagination and memory, which has a genealogy back to Blake. As a working magician, I see imagination and memory as mutually dependent and equally dignified, but evidently these theorists didn’t. On reflection, perhaps what is at stake is two different sorts of memory. The kind I tend to think of is the spatial memory which accesses an interior world of heuristic images–this would be the antechamber of the “Great Memory” of Yeats. The memory derided by Blake must then be a linear memory of routine and rationalism. The two memories could perhaps correspond to the distinct mnemonic approaches of Giordano Bruno and Peter Ramus.
Kermode is entirely hip to “the whole sumberged magical system of Romantic aesthetic, about which Yeats and some Frenchmen were bold enough to be explicit.” (44) The attentive reader will catch Kermode’s acknowledgement throughout that “Magic came, in an age of science, to the defence of poetry.” (110) Kermode doesn’t seem to want to do away with magic, but he cheers a pendulum swing that he sees as just beginning in his time, away from the Romantic and modern neo-Symbolist critical perspectives. He looks forward to a reconsideration by which the mechanical craft of rhetoric may be again accorded its value, as contributing in its way to the true value of poetry.
This book’s matter is not especially accessible; Kermode often references poets and critics who are not now–if they ever were–household names in the US. He never gives a full citation for his quotes, and sometimes it’s hard to tell whom he’s quoting. He provides long passages of untranslated French. (In only one case, a full page of text from Huysmann’s A Rebours, I was fortunate enough to have a translation of his source on hand.) I’m sure that graduate students in English are sometimes made to read this book, those others of us capable of enjoying it are probably rather thin on the ground.
So much of what magicians have taken for granted this century stems from the work of the Golden Dawn and Aleister Crowley. Much of what will constitute standard magical theory and practice in the next century will derive from the state-of-the-art ideas and techniques currently under development in Chaos Magic.
Hermetic Library Fellow T Polyphilus reviews The Devil’s Footsteps: A Dr. Caspian Novel of Horror by John Burke.
When I picked up this mass-market paperback in a used book store, it looked like a cheesy contemporary occult thriller from the 1970s. I was mistaken, and the book amply exceeded my expectations for it. It is in fact a Victorian period piece featuring a stage magician who is a skeptical member of the Society for Psychical Research (SPR) along with an actually telepathic Welsh photographer. They meet in the rural village of Hexney, where the “Devil’s footprints” of the title are a parapsychological manifestation and there’s something sinister about the local traditions.
Although more contemporary in its pacing and voice, this book has distinct commonalities with Arthur Machen’s better work (e.g. “The Shining Pyramid”) and Dunsany’s Blessing of Pan. A cinematic comparandum might be the original Wicker Man. It most reminded me of the later and longer novel by Ramsey Campbell The Hungry Moon.
The magician Doctor Caspian also turns out to be something of a kabbalist, having had some mystical initiation in Prague, although the emphasis on seven sephiroth was a little peculiar. (The narrator names only five: Kether, Chokmah, Binah, Hod, and Yesod.) A couple of chapters near the middle of the book detail Caspian’s competition with and exposure of some mercenary Spiritualists in London; these events are mostly by way of character development, but they were a high point of the tale for me.
The photographer is a woman who has taken on her father’s intellectual pursuits, and she struck a note similar to that of the young Amelia Peabody in the mysteries by Elizabeth Peters. A significant arc of the book is the development of a romantic interest between the two protagonists. . . . [Spoilers: hover over to reveal] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Some of the representations of metaphysical evil in this book show influence of yog-sothothery, but none of the telltale names of entities or tomes occur to subordinate it to that “mythos.” All in all, it was a solid little novel of weird horror.
“Vile, depraved souls!” he shouted, trying to remember where he’d left off. “Fools and harlots!” But it was no use. His diatribe had devolved from insulting to incoherent.
Robert Kroese, Distopia
Hermetic Library Fellow T Polyphilus reviews Does the New Testament Imitate Homer? Four Cases from the Acts of the Apostles by Dennis R MacDonald.
Does the New Testament Imitate Homer? is a sequel to author Dennis MacDonald’s Homeric Epics and the Gospel of Mark. MacDonald is a scholar of both New Testament Greek and classical literature, and he is in a surprisingly marginal position in advocating for recognition of the direct literary influence of the Greek classics in the Greek Christian scriptures. This second book allows him to extend his thesis considerably and to answer the critics of his earlier work. He generally classes his intellectual opposition as the proponents of “form criticism,” who want to attribute textual similarities to shared genres and “traditional” tropes, as opposed to what MacDonald represents as mimesis (imitation) and authorial craft.
MacDonald is on very firm ground in proposing mimesis as a key ingredient of ancient composition, since many classical texts do instruct writers in this process as well as demonstrate it. In this book, he focuses on four examples where he maintains that “Luke” (the author of Acts) drew on the Illiad for literary substance in tales about the apostles Peter, Paul, and Matthias. (The Illiad was easily the most popular model for literary emulation in antiquity.) Since these particular biblical stories have no corroboration in ancient historical documents, scholars have generally assigned “traditional” or “legendary” provenance to their accounts. MacDonald is able to demonstrate methodically, however, that they have identifiable literary sources in Homer and that mimesis accounts for details that are difficult to reconcile with the usual explanations of these texts.
MacDonald sets out six criteria to support mimetic authorship, and evaluates them in full for each of his cases. The third and fourth of these are the density and sequence of textual similarities, and these are illustrated throughout the book with parallel columns from the Illiad and the Acts of the Apostles. For those able to work with the original language, there is a 12-page appendix giving all of this matter in the original Greek. There are also some Latin texts, used to illustrate mimesis of Homer by other classical authors.
In his introduction, the author raises an important question: “If Homeric influence on the Gospels and Acts is so extensive and significant, why … in two centuries of critical scrutiny have modern scholars not recognized it?” (13) He gives a number of reasonable answers, invoking Thomas Kuhn’s notion of disciplinary paradigms and pointing to specializations of method in the field of New Testament studies. These could be usefully supplemented, though, with the arguments of Jonathan Z. Smith’s Drudgery Divine, which describe the processes by which a crypto-theological agenda has captured religious scholarship, particularly excluding the consideration of “pagan” sources for Christian beliefs and practices.
On the jacket copy of Does the New Testament Imitate Homer? Mary Tolbert is quoted as saying that MacDonald’s earlier work “poses a profound challenge to current scholarship on the history of early Christianity and the historical Jesus.” In his conclusion to this volume, MacDonald declares that Luke “was by no means a credulous editor of tradition but a sophisticated author; it is we, his readers, who have been naïve” (146-7). For all we know, there was a historical Pinocchio, who in some way informed or inspired the work of Carlo Collodi–and thus all his later adapters and imitators. But it is not any underlying “facts” (however unverifiable) that make Pinocchio’s story compelling and relevant. MacDonald is absolutely right to turn the reader’s attention to the literary craft of the writers of scripture.
He said nothing: seldom do those who are silent make mistakes.
Neil Gaiman, Norse Mythology
A Princess of Roumania is the opening of a multi-volume fantasy work by Paul Park. It is an ambitious portal fantasy, with a protagonist who is a teenage girl–in our world, anyway. It postulates a reality of which ours is a disposable alternative. It’s an interesting match for my recent viewing of the (commendable) first two seasons of the Amazon television series based on PKD’s Man in the High Castle. In the world where Roumania and Germany struggle for supremacy in Europe, sorcery is possible (though illicit) and mastodons roam a barely-settled North America. The means of transition from one world to the other is a book, with considerable metafictional implication (again, compare The Man in the High Castle).
The heroine Miranda is named after the author’s daughter, and the New England town where the story starts is a match for one in which the author has lived. I was alerted to these para-autobiographical elements by John Crowley’s essay on Park’s fantasy (included in the book Totalitopia), and it was this essay that led me to read the book in the first place. Miranda is reasonably sympathetic, but the strongest characterization in the book is for the villain (?) Baroness Ceaucescu. The omniscient narrator jumps around quite a lot, and the two main viewpoint threads are those for Miranda and the Baroness.
I liked this book very much, and while it would probably satisfy the YA fantasy market these days, it seemed like mature fare to me. It is, as I mentioned at the outset, only a beginning. Despite its considerable length, there is little resolution of the plot, although there are some deaths of principal characters and other crucial events. I expect to continue reading this work, borrowing the subsequent volumes from the public library in due course, while I hope to pass on my copy of the first one to a sympathetic reader.