“There is no such thing as a bad book for children,” says author Neil Gaiman, best-selling writer and Carnegie Medal-winner. He was delivering the second annual Reading Agency lecture at London’s Barbican on October 14. He said that compelling children to read books deemed appropriate by adults will leave them convinced that reading is ‘uncool and unpleasant’. . . There are no bad authors for children that children like and want to read and seek out, because every child is different. . . . They can find the stories they need to, and they bring themselves to stories. A hackneyed worn-out idea isn’t hackneyed or worn out to them. This is the first time the child has encountered it. . . . Do not discourage children from reading because you feel they are reading the wrong thing. Fiction you do not like is the gateway drug to other books you may prefer. . . . Well-meaning adults can easily destroy a child’s love of reading: stop them reading what they enjoy, or give them worthy-but-dull books that you like, the 21st-century equivalents of Victorian ‘improving’ literature.” My own recent experience with children’s reading involves my grandchildren. In Sicily this past summer, I brought along two illustrated books: one of Aesop’s fables and the other of fairy tales. After dinner, I offered to read to them. One grandson, in particular, was very keen to listen. He would select one book or the other, pick out a particular story, and comment on it after I had read it (or even during the reading). His younger brother and sister were interested, initially, but they preferred other occupations. More recently, I read bedtime stories to two other grandsons, aged 5 and 3. They each picked out a book they wanted me to read. (They had to take turns.) The older one picked out a child’s book that would have been difficult for a thirteen-year-old to follow. (It was a compilation of ancient fairy tales in ancient language.) I pointed out that it maybe he wouldn’t like it so much, but he insisted that I carry on with the reading, perhaps because he wanted to get an idea of what older children liked to read. After about the third tale, he selected another book. His younger brother wanted to be read to, also, but his idea of being read to was to explore illustrated pop-up books, and comment on them. I can remember when I was about thirteen, there was a paperback novel called The Amboy Dukes in which my classmates were highly interested. I was told, when I finally got a copy, was that the cover illustration was two teenagers having sex. This seemed rather doubtful, as both the boy and the girl were dressed. I remember showing the book to my mother, and pointing out the cover illustration. She, too, was sceptical, but she made no other comment. But, I decided to read it, in case there were salacious sections. There weren’t. It was boring. King Arthur was much more interesting.
Man Booker Prize: statistics
As you may know, the Man Booker Prize was awarded to New Zealander, Eleanor Catton, for her second novel, The Luminairies. This was the last year that the prize is open only to British, Irish or Commonwealth citizens. Beginning next year, novels published in English and released in Great Britain will be eligible.
Adam Frost and James Kynvin of the Guardian, complied these charts which are based on more than 40 years of data. They show what it has taken to win this prestigious prize.
1. Male writers have a 2:1 advantage over women.
2. It’s best to be British: 27 of 45 winners were British, although chances of a non-British person winning have tripled in the last 20 years.
3. Almost two-thirds of the winners were privately educated.
4. Almost one-third of the winners attended either Oxford or Cambridge.
5. One must remember that the judges tend to be white, British, privately educated at either Oxford of Cambridge, and that prior judges have won the prize.
6. The average age of the winner was 49, and the age range is 28 (this year) to 69.
7. There is quite a range of which book, in an author’s portfolio, won the prize, but for seven authors it was their fourth novel.
8. More winning novels are set in the past than in the present.
9. Different authors have different words they favour.
10. Sales will increase very dramatically! Even being short listed makes a difference, and it’s good for the author’s backlist, as well.
Judges’ Commentary: Efraim’s Eye
I submitted Efraim’s Eye to the Writer’s Digest Self-Published Book Awards. It did not win an award; there were 2,800 books submitted. But, I did receive the judges rating which is as follows:
On a scale of 1 to 5, where 1 is “needs improvement” to 5 “outstanding”:
Structure & Organisation: 4
Grammar: 5
Product Quality & Cover Design: 3
Plot: 4
Character Development: 4
The judges commentary is:
“The writing crackles with authenticity, and tells a compelling story that lends itself to the thriller genre. The crosscutting of scenes and shifting between viewpoints is cinematic in nature, and so this book would lend itself quite well to being filmed commercially. The cast of characters, especially Paul as he emerges to become the primary protagonist, are individually and collectively, certainly strong enough to command center stage throughout the novel and will successfully engage the reader’s interest in wanting to know what will happen next. This is a really entertaining plot that could easily appeal to a wide audience.
The novel would benefit from some additional character and peripheral description during dialogue. For example as a character speaks, ‘he ran his fingers through his dark curly hair’, or, ‘she spoke faster than usual, no longer in the slow monotone’. In these two hypotheticals, the curly hair and the speech pattern would have been introduced early on as character tags, and referring to them keeps these characters fresh in the reader’s mind during dialogue. Similarly, as during ‘real life’ conversation, characters can be aware of their surroundings: hot or cold or rainy? Some detail catches the eye, there’s a noise in the background, perhaps pleasant, perhaps bothersome, but in either case noticeable. This sort of texture will enliven dialogue on the printed page.”
I think the feedback in the second paragraph above is very helpful, and I agree particularly with the first comment about additional characterization. I think additional characterization beyond the dialogue itself is helpful to the reader, not only as a character tag or reminder, but as an indication of the character’s personality and emotional state. I think one needs to be careful of peripheral description of the setting. The question for me is: does it contribute directly to the situation in which the characters find themselves or to their state of mind. If it does, by all means add it; if it doesn’t, it will seem extraneous.
Getting Started
I’ve found that writing the first chapter of a new novel is the usually the most difficult. By way of contrast, when I’m approaching the end, I know almost exactly what’s going to happen, I’m full of energy, enthusiasm and motivation, and I can easily write ten pages in a day – not that those ten pages don’t require some major editing before I consider them complete. But finishing a novel, for me, is the easy part.
The place where a new novel begins is in my head. I get an idea. For example, in the case of Sin & Contrition: wouldn’t it be interesting to write about six characters who grew up together – three boys and three girls. They live different lives but they continue to interact, and most importantly, they do some things that they shouldn’t have done. Sometimes accidently, sometimes on purpose. And it would be interesting to reveal their reactions to their ‘sins’. Are they sorry or not; how do they justify it? What are their feelings about it later in life?
Usually after getting an idea, I’ll mull it over for a couple of weeks. I think about how the story would unfold and develop ideas for making it more interesting. If I’m still keen on the idea, I’ll prepare an outline of the story, of the characters, and of the messages that I hope the reader will take away. At that point, I’ll get started.
Some weeks ago, I started on a new novel. It was to be an allegory set in the Middle East, and it would feature a professor of philosophy and a Saudi princess as its principal characters. I had done some outlining, and I was definitely ‘up for it’. But when I started writing, it was a chore instead of a pleasant task. My enthusiasm wasn’t there. I still thought it was a good idea, but I just couldn’t develop the creative energy. I decided to put it aside. It may be that the currently confused environment in the Middle East was a contributing factor to my hesitation. Anyway, about half of chapter one is written, and I like what I’ve done, but it will have to wait.
I had a somewhat similar experience with Sable Shadow and The Presence, my fifth novel which is about to be published. In that case, I wrote several chapters, but I lost my way. What’s the point of this book? Where’s it going? In the meantime I wrote The Iranian Scorpion. When that was finished, I revisited Sable Shadow and The Presence, and I began to develop a comprehensive vision for the novel. I re-organised and re-wrote big chunks of it. Then the enthusiasm began to come and I finished it. I’ll tell you when it becomes available.
Probably something similar will happen to my Middle Eastern allegory about the Saudi princess and the professor of philosophy.
In the meantime, I’m writing a sequel to The Iranian Scorpion, and I’m half way through the first chapter. Robert is back in the States, and he has met up with Mary Jo (his father’s young fiancée). They are working on solving a crucial problem from her past: her relationship with her father. I can tell you that his next assignment will be in Peru, and that will take him into a dangerous region of north Africa.
Franzen on Twitter
There is an article in today’s Telegraph in which Jonathan Franzen, the American author of The Corrections and Freedom, finds that freelance writers being forced into “constant self-promotion” instead of developing their craft “particularly alarming”. He told Radio 4’s Today program that he used technology constantly, but warned that is was a “weird compulsive, almost addictive thing which doesn’t seem to have much to do with what were thought to be the great benefits of it.” He claimed that young authors were being told they must improve their social network presence before their manuscripts were considered. “Agents will now tell young writers, ‘I won’t even look at your manuscript if you don’t have 250 followers on Twitter’.”
He said that observers could see the “demolition of the independent book business and really the demolition of the brick-and-mortar book business” by internet sellers.
Speaking of Twitter, he added: “But really this kind of crowd-sourcing model – everything shared, communal – doesn’t really work. Most important, the whole definition of literature is that people go off by themselves, develop a distinctive voice. It’s not a communal enterprise.”
I think that Franzen makes a very good point, and it’s the reason I don’t have a Twitter account. For me, writing a 140 character tweet every day would be a time-consuming exercise in triviality. What could I possibly say, every day, in 140 characters, that would be insightful about my writing in particular or about the writing of fiction generally?
The reasons I have this blog is that, once a week, I have to try to say something insightful about the business of writing. It makes me think about what I do, what other writers do, and how and why we do it. It’s a kind of discipline. Initially, I had thought I would enter into a dialogue with interested readers. This, unfortunately hasn’t happened: after two years, there are only six genuine comments. If I want to read what people think of my novels, I’m better off looking at the reviews I have received. Still, some people are following this blog: about 1000 per week, not including spam.
I can’t help but comment on Franzen’s “constant use of technology”. I remember him saying a couple of years ago that he did not have Internet access at the desk where he wrote. I could not write without almost constant Internet access, because it helps me keep the settings real, interesting and credible.
Technology does have its drawbacks, though. Earlier this week, I replaced a ten year old desk top with a new, state-of-the-art laptop, which I have connected to my keyboard, monitor and mouse. Going from Windows XP to Windows 8 was a bit of an ordeal: ‘how do I close this window?’. And, I had to get professional help to move my email, calendar, and contacts from Outlook Express on the old machine to Outlook on the new one. But it’s done now: much faster and more reliable. Besides, I’ve even got an iPhone (instead of my ancient dumb phone) which can tell me more about the world than I could possibly want to know.
Review: Restless
William Boyd’s Restless won the Costa Novel Award in 2006, and when I found a copy in our small library in Sicily (it had probably been left by a guest), I decided I had to read it. The reviews on the cover were effusive in their praise. For example, The Times was quoted on the front cover as saying: “Boyd is a first-rate storyteller and this is a first-rate story . . . An utterly absorbing page-turner.”
The setting of the novel is the early years of World War II, when Britain and Russia were fighting against Nazi Germany alone, and the US had not entered the war. The central female characters are Eva Delectorskaya and her daughter, Ruth. The chapters alternate between Ruth telling her side of the story, in the first person, from 1947 onwards, and Eva’s story being told in the third person from 1935 until 1941. Ruth does not know her mother as Eva; she knows her as Sally Gilmartin, née Fairchild. She also didn’t know that her mother was half Russian, half English, and was living in Paris, age 28, when the war broke out in 1939. The principal male character is Lucas Romer, who recruits Eva into a special branch of the British Secret Service. Eva is beautiful and fluent in Russian, English and French. After being recruited and trained in Scotland, one expects that Eva will be parachuted into France to work alongside the French resistance. But we learn – partly through the files that Eva/Sally passes to her daughter and partly from Eva herself – that she has been recruited into an organisation which attacks Germany through the media. The stories that the organisation places are sometimes fabrications and sometimes exaggerations or little-noticed Nazi misdeeds. In 1940, the organisation, including Lucas and Eva, move to New York City, where their focus shifts to persuading a reluctant American people to join the war against Germany. Eva and Lucas become lovers, and for Eva, Lucas is the perfect secret agent: brilliant, and devious, but devastatingly attractive. Of course, they succeed in persuading the White House to go to war, but just before Pearl Harbor, Eva is sent on a mission during which she is nearly killed. Suspecting everyone, including Lucas, she goes onto hiding: first in Canada and then in England. Years later, as an old woman, she persuades Ruth to help her unmask the traitor.
What could be a better story?
What I particularly liked about it was the subversive activity involving the use of the media. One wouldn’t expect media people to be literally assassins, but when one is a traitor and one has to prevent something from happening, one uses strong measures. The daughter who doesn’t know the truth about her mother, who discovers it during the course of the novel, and who collaborates with her in realising the conclusion, is another appealing feature. The story is very well-written – not in a literary style – but in straight-forward, clear language.
The only faults I could find were what seemed to be a little bit of ‘filler material’ about Ruth’s occupation: teaching English as a second language to business people. I also wasn’t clear about what actually happened during Ruth’s nearly-fatal mission. Somehow, it didn’t all fit together.
But having said that Restless is a first rate thriller, and if you decide to pick it up, be sure you haven’t any pressing engagements: it’s difficult to put it down.
Book review: Aleph
I’ve been on holiday in Sicily for almost three weeks, so I had some time to do a little reading. (The weather, the sea, the beaches and, most importantly, the company were all very nice.) At the news stand/book store in the main square of Capo d’Orlando, I had a look through their collection of English language books, which are to be found in the darkest inner recesses of the store, mixed in with German language books. Aleph, by Paulo Coelho, a popular and well-regarded Brazilian author, caught my eye. I had read his Eleven Minutes some time ago, and I was impressed. It is the allegorical story of a young girl who, through her failures to achieve true love, goes to Switzerland where she becomes a successful prostitute. But then she meets and falls in love with Ralf, an artist with whom she falls in love, and she discovers sacred sex: a mixture of sex and love in which one gives up one’s soul for the loved one. Thought provoking and a very nice story.
Aleph is written in the first person, and it is, at one level, an interesting story about a trip across Russia on the Trans-Siberian Railway. At the allegorical level it is Paulo Coelho’s complex exploration of self discovery.
The train trip seems to involve the author himself: he reports on his interactions with his publishers, editors, journalists and readers in a very modest yet engaging way. One sympathises with his hardships: lack of sleep, the cold and bad-tempered colleagues. I found it easy to wish that I, too, were on that hellish train just for a chance to meet Paulo Coelho.
But the ‘meat’ of the story involves a perceived sin that Paulo committed in an earlier life: as an official in the Spanish Inquisition, he failed to testify to the innocence of several young women who were then burned alive. One of the young women has been reincarnated as Hilal, a young Turkish woman who believes that her life depends on making contact with him. Diligently, she tries to establish a relationship with him without really understanding her own motivation. Paulo learns in a sequence of dreams what he did. She forgives him unconditionally and unknowingly, and he finally declares his sin to her, and is able to persuade her to get on with her own life as a concert violinist.
The ‘Aleph’ is a condition where all things in the universe and all time are able to converge at one point. It represents perfect enlightenment. Paulo and Hilal are almost in an Aleph at a certain point between the carriages of the train.
Interestingly, there is no sex between Paulo and Hilal: not that he isn’t tempted and that she isn’t willing. At one point, she appears naked to him and he remembers her naked before the Inquisition. The only difference being that then she had pubic hair, but now she is shaved. He comments negatively (and quite rightly, I think) on the popularity of women shaving.
This is quite an interesting novel. The trip, the characters, their relationships, and the actual events are all captivating. And Coelho’s writing style is both engaging and clear. The problem for me with this book is that I don’t believe there is such a thing as an aleph, nor do I believe that, if there is such a thing as reincarnation, we carry a debt from one life to another. It’s another example of my literal mind getting in the way!
Review: Bring Up the Bodies
I have just finished reading Bring Up the Bodies by Hilary Mantel. I felt that I had to read this Booker Prize-winning novel by a writer who has won the Booker Prize for the last two years. I’m glad I did, because now I can see what all the fuss was about. In my opinion, the novel is very good, but it also has its faults: see below.
The setting is sixteenth century England during the reign of Henry VIII, and the time frame is from the onset of illness of Katherine, the ex-queen and Henry’s divorced wife, to the execution of Anne Boleyn, the king’s second wife. The story is told through the eyes of Thomas Cromwell, Secretary to the king and the second most powerful influence in the kingdom.
What I liked about the novel was its (for me) faithful rendering of the culture and values of Tudor England. The characters, though there are perhaps too many of them for one novel, are clearly drawn. The prose is captivating, but sometimes a little difficult to follow. And the story, itself, even if well-known, was difficult for me to set aside.
There are 762 reviews of Bring Up the Bodies on Amazon.com at the moment: 469 are five star and 26 are one star. I thought it would be interesting to look at the one-star reviews and see to what extent I agree.
Here are excerpts from five of the one-star reviews:
- “Non-specific pronoun use drove me batty… She begins lines with “He says….” He who? Why do I have to wonder who the speaker is?”
- “If I had not been rather familiar with the Tudor history the author’s disjointed rambling would have lost me with the first ‘children falling out of the sky’ to the end.”
- “Ms. Mantel’s offering is not completely factual and gives a very biased, gossipy, and amateurish impression of the people of the age.”
- “She seems to be allergic to telling the reader who is speaking so you find yourself constantly going back through the pages to try and discover who is saying what.”
- “Beautifully written, yes – try and follow the story! Yeesh! By the time the slew of adjectives are regurgitated (some call it prose) the story line (plot) is long forgotten. That’s okay at first but it occurs page after page after page and soon all one is reading is prose and about what?”
I have to admit that at first the use on the non-specific pronoun, ‘he’, confused me, as well. But after about ten pages, I realized that ‘he’ almost invariably referred to Thomas Cromwell.
“Children falling out of the sky” occurs on the first page, and when I first read it, I wondered what the image was about. But, by the bottom of the page, I realised that the ‘children’ were tamed hawks. Still, I wondered why the author would begin a novel with a confusing statement. An ambiguous statement – OK – but confusing?
Historical novels do not pretend to be ‘completely factual’, and it seems to me that it’s OK for an author to present a biased point of view, as long as the biased view ‘holds water’, which, in this case, in my opinion, it does. It is gossipy: so what? Amateurish? I don’t think so. I, too, have read a lot of Tudor history and I think Ms Mantel does an excellent job setting the reader down into the culture, values, and scenery of the sixteenth century.
What I found confusing was that Ms. Mantel would use different names for the same character: the ‘Duke of Norfolk’ could be ‘Thomas Howard’ on the next page. I believe this is faithful to the customs of the 16th century: a man could be ‘Thomas’ to his friends, but ‘the Duke of Norfolk’ to strangers. Still, with so many characters (68 are named in the Cast of Characters) it is difficult to recognize all of them in each instance.
The prose in Bring Up the Bodies borders, at times, on the poetic. Take, for example this paragraph:
All summer has been like this, a riot of dismemberment, fur and feather flying; the beating off and whipping in of hounds, the coddling of tired horses, the nursing, by the gentlemen, of contusions, sprains and blisters. And for a few days at least, the sun has shone on Henry. Sometime before noon, clouds scudded in from the west and rain fell in big scented drops; but the sun re-emerged with scorching heat, and now the sky is so clear you can see into Heaven and spy on what the saints are doing.
In my opinion, Ms. Mantel sometimes gets carried away with her imaginative imagery, and risks losing some readers in doing so. “Spy on what the saints are doing” is an example. In a way this image is appropriate: the culture of the 16th century was fervent in its religious devotion and fear. Moreover, the image reinforces the clarity of the sky. But to the modern reader, the image is jolting: how can one look at the sky and spy on the saints, if, indeed, there are any saints? If I had been clever enough to have this image spring to mind, I might have tempered it to say: “the sky is so clear one might think to see God’s halo.”
In summary, I think that Bring Up the Bodies represents a landmark novel, and is worth the extra effort to read it with understanding.
The Character: Kate
Kate Conway may seem like a minor character in The Iranian Scorpion, and she is in the sense that she does not appear often in the novel. She is a single, free-lance journalist in her mid-forties: an attractive, bright, well-connected woman with her own accommodation in a hotel in Kabul, Afghanistan.
What is she doing without a man? She tells Robert Duval, the central character, when she meets him in the hotel bar, that she’s tried long-term relationships and they’re not for her. However, she’s not necessarily opposed to short-term relationships, and she evidently has a weakness for younger men. Robert is in his early thirties. Not surprisingly, they become lovers, and very good friends. He is the man she needs, and she becomes his mentor/guardian angel.
Early in the story, Kate connects Robert with her key contact in the Taliban: Vizier Ashraf, a high-ranking elder. It is Vizier Ashraf who provides Robert with access to Azizullah, a large-scale opium farmer. And it is the Vizier who gives Robert the phone number of the Taliban’s ‘agent’ in eastern Iran. (The Taliban have conflicted views on drugs: on the one hand they are opposed to drugs for religious reasons; and on the other, drugs are a convenient source of necessary funding.) The Taliban’s man puts Robert in touch with The Scorpion’s man.
Kate also provides the essential telephone link between Rustam, who knows where Robert is, and the Drug Enforcement Agency. The DEA brings pressure through diplomatic channels on Iran; this ultimately turns out to be unsuccessful.
Finally, Kate writes the charge sheet against The Scorpion via a syndicated article on Robert and Rustam’s adventures in Iran, with photographs taken secretly by Robert.
So, Kate provides several essential links in The Iranian Scorpion. She is a tough, savvy, libidinous woman! I hope you like her.
Review: Billy Budd
Two days ago, my wife and I went to see the opera Billy Budd which was performed at Glyndebourne. More on Glyndebourne later.
I was attracted to that particular opera on that particular day, because it was the day after my birthday (and I felt like celebrating), and because of the opera subject: the Royal Navy during the Napoleonic wars. For many years, I have been attracted to the hardship and glamour of wooden warships. I’ve read dozens of novels on the subject and I even wrote a thesis on Admiral Lord Nelson’s battle tactics when I was attending a post-graduate school in the US Navy. It helped me decide to go that the Daily Telegraph gave the opera a five star review, and suggested that readers “should grab the remaining tickets”.
Wikipedia has the following synopsis of the opera:
Captain Edward Fairfax Vere, an old man, reflects on his life and his time in the navy. He reflects on the conflict between good and evil, he is tormented by guilt over the case of Billy Budd on board his ship, HMS Indomitable, some years earlier.
The crew of the Indomitable works on deck. For slipping and bumping into an officer, the Novice is sentenced to be flogged. At the same time a cutter approaches, returning from a merchant ship where it has pressed three sailors into the Royal Navy.
One of these sailors, Billy Budd, seems overjoyed with his situation – entirely different from the other two who are not so happy. Claggart, the Master-at-Arms, calls him “a find in a thousand,” despite the slight defect of a stammer. Billy says a jaunty farewell to the Rights o’ Man, his former ship, innocent of what his words imply. The officers take his words as a deliberate provocation and order the men below decks. Claggart tells Squeak, the ship’s corporal, to keep an eye on Billy and give him a rough time.
The Novice returns from his flogging, unable to walk and helped along by a friend. Billy is shocked at the cruelty of the punishment, but is certain that if he follows the rules he will be in no danger. Dansker, an old sailor, nicknames Billy “Baby Budd” for his innocence.
Dansker tells the others Vere’s nickname, “Starry Vere,” and this is enough for the impulsive Billy to swear his loyalty to the unseen captain.
In his cabin, Captain Vere muses over classical literature. His officers enter, and they discuss the revolution in France and the mutinies in the Royal Navy sparked by French ideas of democracy. The officers warn that Billy may cause trouble, but Vere dismisses their fears and expresses his love for the men under his command.
Below decks the sailors rough-house, but old Dansker remains gloomy. Billy goes for some tobacco to cheer him up, and discovers Squeak rifling through his kit. In a rage, Billy begins to stammer. He knocks Squeak to the ground as Claggart and the corporals enter. Billy is still unable to speak, but Claggart takes his side and sends Squeak to the brig. However, when alone, Claggart reveals his hatred for Billy and vows to destroy him. He orders the Novice to try to bribe Billy into joining a mutiny, and the broken-spirited Novice quickly agrees. Billy refuses the bribe and believes he will be rewarded, but Dansker warns him to beware of Claggart.
Claggart begins to tell Vere about the danger that Billy represents, but is interrupted by the sighting of a French ship. The Indomitable attacks, but loses the enemy in the mist. Claggart returns, and tells Vere that Billy poses a threat of mutiny. Vere does not believe him and sends for Billy so that Claggart may confront him.
Later, in Vere’s cabin, Claggart repeats the false charge to Billy’s face. Once again, Billy begins to stammer in rage. Unable to speak, he strikes Claggart, killing him. The Captain is forced to convene an immediate court-martial, and the officers find Billy guilty and sentence him to hang. Billy begs Vere to save him, and the officers appeal to him for guidance, but Vere remains silent and accepts their verdict. He goes into the cabin where Billy is being held, and the orchestra suggests a tender offstage meeting as the captain informs Billy of the death sentence.
Billy prepares for his execution in his cell. Dansker brings him a drink and reveals that the crew is willing to mutiny for his sake, but Billy is resigned to his fate. Four o’clock that morning, the crew assembles on deck, and Billy is brought out. The Articles of War are read, and show that Billy must be hanged. Just before his execution, he praises Vere with his final words, singing “Starry Vere, God Bless you!” echoed by the rest of the crew.
Vere, as an old man, remembers Billy’s burial at sea, reflecting that the man he failed to save has instead blessed and saved him. As he recalls Billy’s blessing, he realises he has discovered genuine goodness and can be at peace with himself.
The one difficulty I had with the plot is that Captain Vere never had an opportunity to ‘save’ Billy. Therefor, Vere’s musing on his failure to save the paragon of goodness is misplaced. In the Royal Navy in the late 18th century, killing a superior demanded death; there was no alternative. The Royal Navy had no prison sentences, except for brief imprisonment on board ship on bread and water for minor offenses. Severe flogging was the only real alternative, and as far as I know ‘flogging ’round the fleet’ was only used for mutineers, who died in the process.
I wondered whether the plot could have been altered to give Vere a real opportunity to save Billy. But I couldn’t think of a variation that would be both credible and simple. (Operas tend to have relatively simple plots.) Still, the tension between good and evil, and the effects of that tension on honest people makes a very good theme.
The opera is largely faithful to the novella, Billy Budd, written by Herman Melville and published after his death on 1924. The exception being the last three chapters of the novella, which are omitted from the opera and may have represented Melville’s afterthoughts; they introduce ambiguity into the character of Billy. E M Forster co-wrote the libretto for the British composer, Benjamin Britten. The opera premiered at the Royal Opera House in 1951.
I would have been inclined to give the performance four stars rather than five. The singing (all male voices was superb). The cast and their acting was excellent. The set was clever and evocative: the interior of a wooden man of war. Interestingly, the set seemed to have depth, but the characters at the back of the stage seemed surprisingly close. The music was good, but I have to admit that I like Verdi’s music better. The first act was interesting; the second act was riveting.
Glyndebourne is a fascinating British institution. It was started in 1934 by John Christie and his wife Audrey Mildmay in their property with a 300 seat auditorium with the ambition to provide live opera: “Not just the best we can do but the best that can be done anywhere” Now the auditorium seats 1200, and including touring performances, Glyndeborne stages 150 operatic productions per year. Located in the rolling countryside of East Sussex, the estate has beautiful lawns and gardens. About half the attendees opt to have a picnic on the grounds. (Quite elaborate in some cases, with tables, chairs, linen cutlery, glass wear and four-course menus with champagne and two wines.) The other half of the attendees eat in one of the three restaurants. (We were among them and the food was excellent.) The men (except this writer) wear black tie. Ladies wear evening dresses – very formal to informal.
William Peace Blog 