An Army of Judiths by C J Underwood

An interesting and lively re-imagining of the siege of the city of Haarlem in the winter of 1572-73 from the point of view of Amarron, a fictitious sister of the real-life Keanu Hasselhaar. Its almost exclusively female point of view of the tribulations of the besieged is both novel and thought-provoking. Particularly impressive is the lively and sustained pace of this fictionalised history, and the descriptions of the people within the landscape under extreme distress. There is a very earthy feel to this story and we are not spared the brutal treatment of prisoners on both sides, nor the mud, blood and squalor of conditions inside the town during the seven-month siege. Particularly frightening for the women in the ‘Army of Judiths’ is the gradual collapse of order leaving them to the constant threat of theft, rape and worse from both the mercenary and local troops every time they leave the house. Well worth reading and reflecting the abomination that is war and the inevitable fate of those who end up on the losing side.

Four Quartets by T. S. Eliot

Afforded the opportunity to read along with Jeremy Irons on BBC Radio 4 was just too good an opportunity to resist. The first time I’ve read all four poems from beginning to end in one go. It is an impressive work full of variety and with wonderful plays on words from the beginning-

Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
(Burnt Norton)

How can anyone read this without going on to contemplate the concept of time? It reminds me of one of my father’s favourite quips: ‘Time flies, we cannot, they are too elusive.’ I have always presumed it is ‘elusive’ and not ‘illusive’, although either is possible. What is important is the concept of time, what is it? Did it start and, if so, when? Will it end, and when, and what precisely do we mean by ‘the end of time’.

…In order to arrive there,
To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not,
You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy.
In order to arrive at what you do not know
You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance.
In order to possess what you do not possess
You must go by the way of dispossession.
In order to arrive at what you are not
You must go through the way in which you are not.
And what you do not know is the only thing you know
And what you own is what you do not own
And where you are is where you are not.
(East Coker)


How moving is this tribute to those who served at sea: the fishing fleets; the convoys; and those who were left behind:

Lady, whose shrine stands on the promontory,
Pray for all those who are in ships, those
Whose business has to do with fish, and
Those concerned with every lawful traffic
And those who conduct them.

Repeat a prayer also on behalf of
Women who have seen their sons or husbands
Setting forth, and not returning:
Figlia del tuo figlio,
Queen of Heaven.

Also pray for those who were in ships, and
Ended their voyages on the sand, in the sea’s lips
Or in the dark throat which will not reject them
Or wherever cannot reach them the sound of the sea bell’s
Perpetual angelus.
(The Dry Salvages)

In a curious way, I find this contemplation of the end curiously comforting:

The dove descending breaks the air
With flame of incandescent terror
Of which the tongues declare
The one discharge from sin and error
The only hope, or else despair
Lies in the choice of pyre or pyre-
To be redeemed from fire by fire.

Who then devised the torment? Love.
Love is the unfamiliar Name
Behind the hands that wove
The intolerable shirt of flame
Which human power cannot remove.
We only live, only suspire
Consumed by either fire or fire.
(Little Gidding)

These extracts are, for me, simply the most thought-provoking parts of an eclectic collection that speaks of England at a particular time when the war was being lost and hope in the future was rare. The quartet has a settling effect, a putting of things in perspective, a taking of the long view that offers a kind of consolation, and may yet again be called upon to console future generations.

Alex by Pierre Lemaitre

A pacy, intense thriller that holds the reader in a vice-like grip throughout. Three parts, three aspects of a complicated tale of kidnap, murders and abuse with a strange twist that leaves us begging for more. This is the second of the Commandant Verhoeven series, others of which are promised in English translation from the spring of 2014. Lamaitre is a master storyteller who won the Prix Goncourt last year for Au revoir là-haut the translation of which I await eagerly. If that is not available by the summer, I’ll just have to read it in French when on holiday. Together with Penguin’s new translations of Georges Simenon’s Inspector Maigret novels, all 75 of them at the rate of one a month, it looks like French noir is mounting a rearguard action in the face of the recent advances of Scandi-noir and Mediterranean noir.

Crime fiction throughout Europe seems to be in a very healthy state, even in Britain. But one can’t help but wonder if many of these books are written specifically with the intention of transposition onto the small screen. In Wales we are currently enjoying the television series Hinterland, set in Aberystwyth and its surrounding countryside. It is an English translation of a Welsh production previously shown on SAC. Nevertheless, with its snippets of Welsh language, and its dour and damaged hero, Matthias, it has all the features of Scandi-noir with their occasional lapses into English and a dour and damaged hero, be it Wallender or Lund or Salander. Curiously, Hinterland is rumoured to have been sold for transmission in Scandinavia. Such is the dominance of our screens and bookstalls by crime fiction that, although I enjoy consuming it, I can’t help hoping that authors will develop a new and startling genre as an alternative to the now rather formulaic diet of crime, crime and more crime.

EXPO 58 by Jonathan Coe

A sure but very light touch characterises this story that is especially evocative of a time and place – Brussels in 1958. A wealth of factual detail is mixes with an ever so slightly implausible tale incorporating a couple British spies adopting the persona of the Thompson twins, the dialogue between them is wonderful. Each time they appeared I was sub consciously expecting to meet Tintin and Snowy, but that would probably have been too much. The ambivalence of Belgium and the Belgians is woven into what are essentially Cold War spy games and US/UK technological rivalries set in the fabulous event that was EXPO ’58. As a twelve-year old boy I passed through Brussels that summer stuck in the back of my parent’s Hillman Husky on our way to Italy via Heidelburg and Zurich. Heidelberg so that my father could visit someone at the university whom he hadn’t seen since the late ‘20s, and Switzerland to call on relatives who had looked after me for eighteen months or so, three years earlier.

It was summer of awakening for me as much as it seems to have been for Thomas, an escape from buttoned-up Britain and alive to the possibilities of a vibrant and recovering Europe – a wonderful time before package holidays, when going across the Channel was very much an adventure. Jonathan Coe describes what that felt like with surgical precision and a kind of self-deprecating humour. After some fifteen years of war and austerity, Thomas’ journey into colourful, exotic Belgium is both exciting and profound, and his search for his mother’s family’s farm, destroyed during the war adds a curious touch of poignancy. Another superb book from a master of subtle satire.