Review: Candide by Voltaire

Merry Christmas everyone, I thought I’d celebrate with a special Christmassy post. Namely, the long promised, long awaited and long forgotten Candide review.

I came to Candide through Rasselas and it’s fascinating how similar the two texts are, despite how dissimilar the characters of the writers. The books are similar lengths, both deal with characters who travel around examining different modes of living and both came out within a week of the other. Both books were also written to defray costs in times of trouble. Candide was written by Voltaire to pay for his medical bills in exile, whilst Rasselas was written to pay for the funeral of Johnson’s mother. 

The two writers are absolutely different though. Johnson was a devout Anglican whilst Voltaire was a freethinker who dabbled in atheism. Voltaire had been famous from youth whilst Johnson didn’t make his name until he was in his fifties. Voltaire had known riches, having played the French lottery (incidentally run by Casanova) with the help of a professional statistician whilst Johnson was arrested for debt shortly after the publication of Rasselas and had to be rescued by Samuel Richardson. Also, Voltaire seems more aware of his audience than Johnson, who resolutely writes in his own style no matter of genre.

Candide is probably the more successful work, it’s Voltaire’s most read piece, has been adapted into other media and is till quoted today. Both Rasselas and Candide have never been out of print but Voltaire’s work is more likely to be read by a general audience than Johnson’s.

It tells the story of Candide, a young man who lives a comfortable life and is tutored in Leibnizian optimism by Pangloss, who teaches that ‘all is for the best in the best of all possible worlds’. This means that everything that happens, even the bad things, are the very best thing that could possibly happen. Candide is then kicked out of his comfort and travels the world, initially interpreting things in this optimistic way, oblivious to the reality of the carnage around him. I love how Candide responds to the terrible things that happen to him with a belief that all is for the best, it is a funny refrain and Voltaire takes great pleasure in finding new horrors to befall his characters.

While I find Rasselas to be a funny book, Candide is funnier, it’s also sharper and funnier but it runs out of puff before the end of its hundred-odd pages.

Voltaire is very able to spin a grand paragraph and cut it with a bottom with great skill. There’s a great joke where an anabaptist (people who believed in adult baptism) is drowned, references to my pal Theodore, King of Corsica, trips to El Dorado, a Utopia that is so well run that everything becomes boring.

It moves fast, with thirty chapters of about five-hundred words each but in trying to find new things that happen, the book disproves itself. The big joke is that the world is not an ordered place where the best possible things happen for the right reasons but a violent disordered mess. However, to make the book readable as fiction, the characters learn and develop from their tribulations and actually (more for the need of something to happen than anything else) come back together after being separated. This means that in essence, the plot has served to make the people better and bring them together closer and stronger than they started out - meaning that in some sense everything has happened the best possible way. 

It could be said that this is a comment on the novel itself, that the neat happy ending is a poke at the empty optimism implicit in the novel form. It doesn’t feel that’s the case though, it feels that Voltaire is forced into it by the form. Far better, is Johnson’s approach in Rasselas, to have ‘a conclusion in which nothing is concluded’. 

Whilst Candide is a funnier book than Rasselas, the latter book has a deeper exploration of its themes. I recommend reading both, neither takes very long and both are entertaining. 

So, with that Christmassy post our of way, I hope everyone has a yuletide which is the best Christmas as the best of all possible worlds.

Video: But What About...Evelina

Somehow, by accident, I have taken to make one of these every Christmas. The rule is that I have a cold and I watch my umpteenth 'A Christmas Carol'.

This time is the big one, Francis Burney's Evelina.

I've talked about it a number of times, in various big reads (1,2,3,4,5,6) and a read for the Dr Johnson Book Circle.

I ramble a bit, I'm not feeling all too good - but here it is.

'The World in Thirty-Eight Chapters or Dr Johnson’s Guide to Life' at the Dr Johnson Reading Circle

Where do you start if you want to get into Samuel Johnson? Do you begin with his own writing, with Rasselas or his poems? Perhaps you leap deep into the essays and tackle them head on, or pick away at the edges with prefaces. Maybe you collect Johnsonian quotes and work from there, though are Johnson’s quoted comments his best ones? 

This is one of the discussions prompted by the Dr Johnson Reading Circle’s reading of The World in Thirty-Eight Chapters or Dr Johnson’s Guide to Life and we were joined in the discussion by the author, Henry Hitchings. It’s part biography, part self-help book which aims to argue for the importance of Samuel Johnson in the modern world and to get under Johnson’s skin while bringing him to a fuller and more rounded life.

One of the more controversial techniques of doing this in the book was to refer to the main figure as Sam. This started out as a necessity in a chapter about talking about Mr Johnsons senior (Michael) and two junior (Samuel and Nathaniel) but became one of the ways to disassociate the figure of Dr Johnson with his bold pronouncements, from the actual man. While it is true that he did refer to himself as Sam in letters and in person, there was a question as to whether it was too presumptuous to call him the diminutive without the opportunity to ask his permission. Seeing as Sam had the habit of bestowing nicknames on his friends, with Boswell becoming Bozzy, Langton becoming Lanky and Goldsmith (much to his dislike) becoming Goldy, I don’t think he would have minded all too much. Although it worked smoothly in the book, it did sometimes sound strange to hear him referred to as Sam out loud.

Samuel Johnson, when he is known of at all, figures in literature as a monument, pictured in numerous portraits as an old, surly looking grump, throwing out firm judgements with a dismissive ‘Sir’. As the book says;

“When someone calls me “Sir”, I suspect that I am about to be told off (‘Sir, get in line’ at the airport) or patronised (‘I’m afraid, sir, that this is not a public area’)”.

This caricature, created partly in his own life, partly by writers like Boswell and partly by writers since, serves to distance the public from someone warmer whose most used words were not one of certainty but words like ‘but’. When reading his writings, especially the essays in The Rambler, Adventurer and Idler, Sam is a man who weighs up ideas, whose seemingly axiomatic sayings are often part of longer and more considered sentences. Though some may have treated him like an oracle he was nothing of the sort, full of doubts and dark feelings but also possessed of an openness that let him deal with all manner of subjects from many different angles. It is true that the conclusions he did come to, he held onto firmly but everything else was fair game - he was even mocked for his incredulity for not ruling out the existence of ghosts.

Another false image of Sam the book addresses is the notion of him as (in Samuel Beckett’s words) an ‘aspermatic colossus’. Sam was a married man with sexual urges that were described by some close friends as ‘very powerful’. It’s hard to think of him as young, and descriptions of his marriage to Tetty are few and not particularly favourable but relationships are closed doors to the outside world. That Sam and Tetty seemed a mismatch to those who knew them (and more frequently to those who had never met Tetty)  is besides the point. A relationship has a real and secret life between that posterity knows nothing about, and probably has no right to know.

It’s clear from the book and from our discussion that this is a personal book for Henry Hitchings and the group shared a fondness for Sam, as a gauche youth (one of those sixth-formers), an angry young man and as an older man who never felt that he had exactly found his place in the world. It was also a personal book in the way the lessons of Sam’s life and work are constantly contextualised with the life lessons of Hitchings, always bringing the person of Sam into the world we live in. 

That’s not to say that it’s a humourless book, or a heavy one. The thirty-eight chapters are short and lively and contain thoughts on facebook, the joy of friends, the mystery of relationships and the pleasure in being a little silly sometimes. We laughed a lot as we talked about the book and it felt a little like we were talking about a mutual friend, a man called Sam who was “rational but full of feeling, stern but compassionate, orthodox in many things but unenamoured of conformism.”

Sam’s writing isn’t necessarily easy, it takes a while to ease into and often could do with some context. The World in Thirty-Eight Chapters or Dr Johnson’s Guide to Life serves as a great introduction to the man and his writing but also a really good reminder of why he still deserves to be read today - also, did you know the dictionary has the word ‘duvet’ in it?

Review: The Tale of the Lady Ochikubo

Something a little different today, rather than an early novel from a Western tradition, here's an early novel from Japan.

‘The Tale of Lady Ochikubo’ is a tenth century Japanese monogatari, if the translation is fair to the source material, it’s essentially a novel. I know very little about Japanese culture nothing about Heian period, yet I have read other early novels and I found myself surprisingly at home.

There’s something about this book which is not a million miles away from late seventeenth century  or early eighteenth century literature. There is the same focus on money and prestige, the difficulty of matching money and manners, a character who has all the noble qualities and is not treated such contrasted with an ignoble character who has a high position. Japan in the tenth century was far more like modern Europe than Europe in the tenth century was - we were telling each other Beowulf and sagas of century long feuding - these people have traffic jams, conspicuous spending and snarky poems.

There was also something very like eighteenth century novels in how the central figure of Lady Ochikubo was a relatively uninteresting, blemish-free character but the characters who surround her are really interesting. Her maid was a particular delight, snarky, sassy and very in control, she was essential in improving the lady’s life with her ingenuity. I also loved the maid’s relationship with her husband, they argued, shared common jokes, teased each other and loved each other - it felt like a real relationship.

The story has equivalence in ‘Cinderella’, Lady Ochikubo is a stepdaughter who is constantly under a barrage of indignity and commands from her stepmother. She lives in a tiny room where she does everyone’s sewing but gets little to wear herself. She of course finds her prince charming and marries him - but that’s only at the midpoint. From there, her husband keeps rising in power and status, using that power to revenge himself on the family who so badly treated his one love. He gets an influential man to pull out of one marriage, engineers a fool to marry another and constantly gazumps and one-ups them at every turn. When he has done this and gained even more power, he then uses it to help the family who spurned Lady Ochikubo, find good positions for them and ultimately make them sorry they were ever horrid to her.

The best part of the book was the middle section. Where the first felt like a Eliza Haywood-esque improbable romance, the second had a more Fielding-esque feel. The little snubs and big power plays that Lady Ochikubo’s husband has with her former family are mostly satisfying and funny, making them look silly rather than any outright violence. Although the details of tenth-century Japanese life and early eighteenth-century European life were different, the values were eerily similar and made the text pretty easy to navigate.

The main difficulty in following the text came from the lack of names. Except in times of extreme emotion, most of the characters were simply not named at all, only appearing under their titles. This meant that as the characters moved up and down in the social hierarchy, their names changed and although the text tried its best to keep things straight, it still took a bit of following.

Another huge difference between this text and what I’m used to is the institution of marriage. There seems to be a ‘try-before-you-buy’ system, where the couple sleep together three times before making a decision. It also seemed that marriage was pretty easy to back out of and it was possible to have multiple wives. In some ways this lessened the tension I’m used to in early European novels, in those you can only get married once so it had better be the right one. In other ways it heightened it because it seemed very possible for a man to abandon a wife without much censure.

I was also unsure about the existence of lucky or unlucky days, years and even directions. Religion was treated as something of a joke in this text, people who were unhappy declared their intention to become nuns and religious life seemed a choice suited to old people who had nothing better to do. Add to that, the travellers on pilgrimage elbowed each other out of the way to get to the shrines and took each other’s rooms, almost coming to an all out brawl. Whereas people seemed to hold dignity very high in personal and professional life, there didn’t seem to be much in religious life.

Ultimately, I was surprised how much I enjoyed this text and how much I felt like I was following it, given my utter ignorance of the culture that produced it. It seems there are similarities in novel-producing cultures, a sense of social order and the individual’s position in it, a certain mercantile greediness and a love of the witty putdown. I might even seek out ‘The Tale of Genjii’.

Review: 'London's Theatre of the East' and Irene - a staged reading at Dr Johnson's House

Regular readers of this blog will know I am a big fan of Samuel Johnson and a frequent visitor of the Dr Johnson’s House Museum. One of the things that keeps bringing me back (apart from the complementary wine) is the many exhibitions and events put on there.

The newest exhibition, running until February, is called ‘London’s Theatre of the East’ and was put on with the Arab British Centre which is also in Gough Square. The idea is to look at the relationship between the Middle East and North Africa with London. This also led to a dramatic reading of Samuel Johnson’s only play, Irene, which is set during the fall of Constantinople.

First the exhibition. 

I was delighted to see not one, but two copies of Irene, as well as his Ethiopian set novel Rasselas, the sequel Dinarbas written by someone else and a very rare copy of his translation of Lobo’s book on Ethiopia - the first full book that Johnson had a hand in. I’m a sucker for a book in a case, so these excited me.

More exciting to those around me were the specially commissioned artworks. Saeida Rouass created a piece called Irene Retold, where the play has been cut up, moved about and mixed up with other pieces of Johnsonian text to create a whole different work. The piece uses a technique pioneered by William Burroughs, who got the idea whilst in Tangier. It’s an interesting idea which I only really have knowledge of through pop lyrics.

Most accessible to me (dunce as I am) is the piece The Alcoran of Mohomet’ by Hannah Khalil. It’s a monologue from the wife of a printer who published an English translation of the Qur’an in 1649. The book was actually translated from a French translation and it was fascinating to learn how early any kind of English version was available. 

Sultana Isabel by Nour Hage is a large poofy ruff in a range of colours. I later learned that the mannequin is raised to the same height as Queen Elizabeth, or Sultana Isabel, who opened trade routes with the East as a way of avoiding those pesky Catholic countries. The exhibition booklet made some very true and funny statements about how it felt like we studied Tudors ‘on a loop’ at school without learning anything new - especially things like England opening up to ‘Moors and Turks’, as they would have seen them. The booklet also paints a wonderful picture of how confused the Sultan must have been to receive a letter from this insignificant island on the edge of Europe. The bright colours of the ruff are all from ingredients brought in by this trade and examples of those dyes are shown around the sides.

The last artwork is called Ipso(facto) by Lena Naassana. It consisted of photographs of modern British people of various Arabic descents standing with old maps of Arabia projected over them. Some people found it a very moving look at the confused or variegated identities of this people but I have to admit my visual-art-blindness kicked in at this point and I didn’t see much more than some pretty decent photos of people with maps projected on them - a fault that is all my own.

Now the play.

Irene was Samuel Johnson’s money spinner when he came to London. He was going to polish it up, get it performed and make the big bucks as the grand tragedian. Eventually it was performed, more as a favour from Garrick than anything else. Garrick tried to beef it up and make it a bit more dramatic, which Johnson saw only as excuses for actors to ham it up.

When the time came Johnson went to every performance, dressed in the finest clothes he’s ever described it, a gold and scarlet waistcoat and a gold trimmed hat. Garrick’s changes caused a near riot the first night (having the heroine die on stage) so it was changed back to have her die offstage for the rest of the run. The play ran for nine nights, giving Johnson three benefit nights and, with the publication rights as well, was one of Johnson’s better earners. It’s almost never been performed since though and widely regarded as a failure. Johnson was not one to go back to his old work, when he did he was often pleased but when he heard Irene read he left the room because he had ‘thought it better’. 

I was keen on seeing what had been cooked up.

A dramatic reading is not a full performance and this allowed the students of Queen Mary University London a chance for some playfulness and wriggle room. This meant that the cast kept interrupting the play and themselves to clarify, discuss and comment on the play as it progressed. It was a little like watching a play with the footnotes on. It was interesting to see some of the parts that were causing the students difficulty (they had problem with the word ‘mien’) and which parts pleasantly and unpleasantly surprised them in the representations of the characters. One of the most surprising things I would have not noticed if it wasn’t for this device, is that the play Irene would pass the Bechdel test, a very simple criteria that many modern works of fiction do not.

As for the play itself, there were many interesting elements. Mahomet was not the usual enraged Sultan (I’m reading ‘Ben Hur’ at the moment and it simply ascribes his outbursts of rage to him being an Arab). Indeed, Mahomet is a rather weak character in the play, talking of love but not doing much. Irene herself was a weaker character than I expected, not putting up so much of a fight before trading religions and becoming Sultana. I think the big problem with the play is that it’s a tragedy in which the title character, the one who inevitably dies, is not one we spend all that much time with.

The most interesting character in the play is Aspasia (played originally by Susannah Cibber). She’s strong willed, sticks to her faith and motivates a lot of the action. She gets away scot-free with her lover Demetrius, carrying the burden of Byzantine culture - if she had died, we’d have had a tragedy. Irene dying is a minor mishap and, as almost no-one else dies, the tragedy simply has no destruction or catharsis.

The lines are heavily metrical, in a strict iambic pentameter which can wear on the eats a little. He does vary this sometimes though. Like Shakespeare, the last two lines of an act rhyme, he also makes far more use of alliteration than he normally does, bringing little pricks to the ear. There were sprinkled through the texts some lines that caught my attention, I only managed to note a few.

Someone fears to wear a ‘rapprochement of chains’.

A daydreamer ‘wanders the fancies of my mind’.

And a war creates a ‘labyrinth of sound’, which I think would make a great album title.

Ultimately the play is not a resounding success but I enjoyed engaging with it alongside the enthusiastic performers and very glad I went. 

Go to the exhibition, it’s open till February.

Review: Fanny Hill in Bombay by Hal Gladfelder

‘Fanny Hill in Bombay’ claims that it’s not a literary biography, it’s just a book that tells the life of an author, paying particular attention to his writing - which sounds a lot like a literary biography to me but maybe I’m just being dense.

Facetiousness aside, the book does start off with an interesting discussion over what the point of a literary biography should be in an age which has declared ‘the death of the author’. I’m not much up on my French intellectuals, I once tore a Derrida essays to pieces with my teeth, but the general argument is that text should stand alone as knowledge of the author and the contexts surrounding them serves to fix and make rigid something which should be personal and responsive. This book argues back that knowing more about John Cleland actually destabilises his texts and provides more avenues of discussion. Although this was a striking way to start the book, I ultimately wanted it to cut with the wank and get into the proper stuff.

For example, I did not know that Cleland was a younger son of a fading Scottish noble family, nor did I know that he didn’t start off as author but as a colonialist in the East India Trading Company. His early professional life had him as a foot soldier for the company where he was quickly moved into a civilian role and quickly rose up the civilian ranks, becoming an attorney in company courts. There were discussions of a number of cases, one where he tried to prosecute a company board member for defaulting on the debt of a Hindu tradesman and another where he defended a woman who had become a freed-slave (though she may have obtained that position so she could testify in a rape trial and her freedom wasn’t freedom as such because she wasn’t free.) These cases showed Cleland to be fierce in speech and dedicated to those who may be trampled over by authority - interesting traits in a man best known for a pornographic novel.

What’s more, that novel, ‘Fanny Hill’ was started in Bombay. Cleland and a man called Carmichael had the idea that there could be an erotic novel that didn’t use plain or course language but aroused in a way no less direct but more poetic. It may have been that the two of them wrote together or that Cleland wrote and Carmichael made suggestions. Most importantly, this book wasn’t intended to be published, more a game the two men played. 

Cleland returned to London to sort out family business, his father was ill. While there he also entered in conversation with the Portuguese government, even sending proposals to King João V. These negotiations were secret and concerned the setting up of a Portuguese East Indian Company, with Cleland as technical advisor. The discussions went some way before being lost in the shuffle of Portuguese politics. 

The next we hear of Cleland is five years later, when he is arrested for the staggering debt of eight-hundred pounds. The man holding the debt is called Cannon, and Cleland later accused him and his mother of trying to poison him on four separate occasions. Stuck in the Fleet for a year, Cleland rewrote ‘Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure’ and sold it to Ralph Griffiths under the dummy-imprint of his brother Fenton. The book took off and the Griffiths managed to arrange a deal with Cannon in return for Cleland’s writing services.

Although the book was a big success, the moral crusade against it didn’t really start until the second volume, which upped the range and frequency of the sex-scenes and included a part where Fanny spies a gay couple. About this time Cannon also got into trouble for a short pamphlet, only fragments of it remain in legal documents, but it is a compilation of historical and fictional gay sexual escapades. Cannon fled to the continent and Cleland kept his briefly arrested but released.

Here the book gets really interesting. The various readings of ‘Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure’ really opened my eyes to the text. I’d thought of it as mainly being a slightly goofy, campy sex-romp which mainly appeals now for it’s peculiarly quaint shock value but this book opens it up to something a little more. For example, Fanny is essentially a drag persona - but so is the reader, frequently addressed as ‘Madam’, it’s unclear if the reader is supposed to be playing a role of a former madam themselves. 

Adding to this, the route Fanny takes into her pleasure loving ways, first she is seduced by female talk of sex, then female sexual activity and then by being a voyeur of sex. Hers is a same-sexed attraction transferred to mixed-sex. The gay sex scene in the book is also the result of voyeurism, her appalled fascination with men-on-men action fixating on her disbelief that the parts will fit into each other, a disbelief she had previously held for male-female relations. 

The phrase the book frequently uses is ‘unsexed’. The characters in the book are frequently detached from their sexed bodies and become androgynous people of pleasure. Cleland was often referred to as a ‘sodomite’ in his lifetime though never actually accused, whether he was gay himself (and a gay identity is only gradually being formed at this time) there is certainly something a little queer in ‘Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure’.

From here the book looks at the next forty years of writing, never being quite unable to shake off the work that defined him. There’s a problem here for the reader, that the first book defined him and as interesting as some of the other books were, we frequently find ourselves back with Fanny Hill.

Queerness permeates much of this future work, in every way the word can be intended. His male followup, ‘Memoirs of a Coxcomb’ features the far bleaker story of a man who can’t escape his own romantic fantasies to truly love someone. ‘Memoirs of a Woman of Honour’ was stiff, awkward and no one liked it. Eventually he became an angry old ranter in newspapers and a peculiar etymologist. He claimed that he’d deciphered the Celtic language fully and with it Celtic political culture and wrote three books as part of an intended masterwork designed to show Britain it’s true history, language and greatness as a land run by law and ‘the people’, including the landless and women. Gladfelder brings it all back together by making innuendo between Cleland’s belief that the original spiritual symbol was the maypole and the manservant William’s massive manservant. 

I very much enjoyed this book and could have talked about it a lot more. Cleland was a far more interesting person with a far more interesting pen than I expected. 

Review: Samuel Johnson in Context edited by Jack Lynch

I’ve started volunteering at the Dr Johnson’s House Museum in London and this was one of the books there I’ve yet to read. It’s a collection of essays exploring Johnson through different lenses and contexts. Each essay is short and most are easy to read, enlightening which makes the book a pleasure and probably one of the best books about Johnson that I’ve read.

There were 47 different essays and each one illuminated a small facet of Johnson and his work and while it might be fun (for me) to go through all 47, I simply want to share some of the things I learnt which caught my attention the most.

For example, one of the essays was about Johnson’s correspondence, in which he declared to Hester Thrale that the letter would contain, ‘the history of one of my toes’. The point the essay made, which will probably influence how I read all eighteenth century letters, is that all letters were paid for by the recipient. This means the writer had to perform a little, and create letters that were worth paying for. It also makes me think how much Clarissa Harlowe’s friends must have hated her.

Another essay on editions of Johnson’s work highlighted how sloppily they were edited and how they simply accrued mistakes, leading to a version of Rasselas which had an additional fifty commas in the first chapter alone. An essay on translations of Johnson’s work brought my attention to the difficulty in finding how Johnson disseminated through other languages, how some of his stories appeared anonymous in Russian language papers for centuries and how Spain (oddly) had the most carefully curated translations of his Rambler essays.

Did you know that after his death Johnson had his long removed and drawn? I didn’t. Nor did I know that the image occasionally pops up in medical textbooks about emphysema to this day. Nor did I know that on seeing a portrait of himself, Johnson called himself an ‘ugly dog’. He also had nicknames for other portraits, including ‘Surly Sam’, ‘Blinking Sam’ and ‘Sam’s Grim Ghost’. Nor did I know there was a print of Boswell licking Johnson’s anus.

Talking of ghosts, ever heard of a ghost-word? It’s what happens when a printing error occurs in a dictionary that people later take as a real one. Misreadings of the long-s in Johnson’s dictionary gave us the word ‘foup’. It has no meaning. The same essay that gave me that little nugget also helped me understand further what was so groundbreaking about Johnson’s dictionary over previous efforts.

An essay on Johnson’s conversation reminded me of his strong Staffordshire accent, but also told me that as Johnson lost his teeth, he became even harder to understand. The essay on essays reminded that the Rambler essays only came out with the author known as Mr Rambler. Johnson was never happy with the title but couldn’t think of a better one. Not only does it imply that the essays ramble (as this review does) but the word also had rather sexual connotations, a rambler would generally ramble after one thing.

The only two essays out of 47 that I didn’t enjoy were the ones on law and literary theory. The later one was too dense for me written in literary theory jargon and less open to a generally interested reader. The law one kept reminding me that as an American, I may have difficulty imagining the English legal system, it reminded me of when Hamilton in London introduced George Washington as the leader of ‘our founding fathers’. He also described the very open-minded Samuel Johnson as ‘cloistered’ and slags off Lichfield.

Now, my description of this book has been very bitty, I’ve mainly been typing up the favourite notes I made about the book but the experience of it was anything but. Because each essay had only a little time to make its point, most were very focused and the result was a multifaceted look at a person and their times in a way that was greater than it’s parts. Once someone has read a good chunk of Johnson, some Boswell and the Walter Jackon Bate biography - I’d recommend this, and that’s high praise indeed.

Video: Everything Wrong with: Blackadder's Ink and Incapability

The other day a family stumbled out of the rain into Dr Johnson’s House Museum. They hung their coats up, became comfortable and glanced out the scowling portrait at ‘Surly Sam’ that sits above the desk.

   “Oh,” exclaimed the mum, “I thought this was Samuel Pepys house. We’ve just been up the monument.”

   “It’s okay,” I reassured her, “my dad mixes up the Samuels all the time, I’m a fan of both.”

   “Who’s this one?” The mum asked.

   “Oh, he was an eighteenth century writer. He wrote lots of things but is probably most famous for the dictionary he wrote here.”

I picked up the huge two volume facsimile of the dictionary off the desk and showed it to the children who tried in vain to carry it together.

   “Oh yeah,” the dad piped up. “I’ve heard of him. He’s the one from that Blackadder episode, Hagrid played him.”

I agreed that he was the one from the Blackadder episode whilst trying to smother the surliness that matched the portrait of Sam above my head. I sorted out the money, introduced them in the house and encouraged them to look up ‘sausage’ in the dictionary when they got to it. 

That got me thinking. Most people only know of the illustrious Samuel from that episode and it’s a very poor introduction, so I thought I would point out a few of the issues. Here is a video of me doing that, which is almost as long as the episode itself.

Trip - Hogarth: Place and Progress at Sir John Soane's Museum

‘Hogarth: Place and Progress’ is an exhibition running at Sir John Soane’s Museum in Lincoln’s Inn fields. It’s done well for them, with queues running down the street and timed tickets being picked up in hours. In some ways, the exhibition isn’t offering much, half the paintings are available during a normal visit to the museum and the other half can usually be seen at the National Gallery. It’s not so much what’s on display, but how it’s displayed.

For the first time in my memory, the pictures are at face height. You can get right up to them, peer them in the eyes, read the writing on the various pieces of paper littering the mis-en-scene and catch details you may have heard about but never seen.

There’s a real thrill at getting so close to them and that makes it utterly worthwhile grabbing a (free) ticket for. I saw the tiny details, like a pair of glasses hanging up to suggest the main character’s short-sightedness. Now I can see that music being played in one scene is about the rape of the Sabines (‘Sobbin’ Women) and in the background there’s a woman needlessly setting fire to a world map.

Some of the details are really peculiar, there’s an old woman in the first ‘Rake’s Progress’. She stands by the fireplace but the fireplace can still be seen through her. Is she a second thought? Unfinished? I never knew that the ‘Rake’s Progress’ scene in the gambling house includes a failed attempt at making Icarus wings. Nor did I realise that the gambling den is being burnt down - it’s amazing to catch these peculiar moments in the paintings.

Something I’d never seen before were the aborted attempts at creating woodcuts of the ‘Stages of Cruelty’. There’s something brilliantly stark about the harder lines and I wish they’d completed the sequence.

I am appallingly bad at analysing pictures, there’s not much I can say about the exhibition except to say that’s it’s a wonderfully unique and enjoyable experience and I urge anyone to go.

My own thoughts re-reading 'Joseph Andrews'

I thought I’d write my own personal reaction to reading ‘Joseph Andrews’ for the Dr Johnson House Reading Circle as it is, for me, a very important book. It’s the one that had me fall in love with the eighteenth century and its writings and so changed my life a little. 

I picked my copy up for free from a box of novels being released from their service as part of Middlesex University, where I was doing my masters. At the time, I was a huge Kurt Vonnegut fan, had read everything he had written at least three times, some of them many more but was a little unmoored in my reading life. In ‘Joseph Adams’ I found the same qualities of an intrusive narrator, and a sympathetic mocking of the human race. It was also the first review on this blog.

I was surprised by the lukewarm reaction the book received in the reading group because, while it is no ‘Tom Jones’, it’s still a corker of a book. Henry Fielding hasn’t quite reached the skill and fun in that later work but still is wonderfully playful. He has moments where he tries to emulate what he pretends to perceive as ‘great writing’ by creating elaborate classical metaphors - at one point he goes on one of these highfalutin rants about vanity only to declare he’s done it “for no other purpose than to lengthen out a short chapter.”

I also love the running joke about Colley Cibber and his newly published ‘Apology’ (which I really must get round to one day). The book starts with such gushing praise for the man that it can only be ironic, declaring that it seems he’s lived such a good and moral life for the purposes of being able t write it up and disseminate it. What I like best is that the joke runs throughout the book and we never know when a sly bit of faux-praise is going to be slipped in for that most ridiculed of poet laureates. This was something that tickled me in that first reading but as I know more about the man and the debates about his appointment, I find it funnier still.

Another element of the book I picked up on more, were the elements of pastiche and parody. Although I knew the story of the good Samaritan, I hadn’t realised that the scene where the people in the coach bicker about helping the naked Joseph was a parody of it. I particularly liked how they decided they should help him, as they might be legally liable if they left him to die- very good and holy indeed.

Then there were the Quixote references, the Squire being like the rich couple in the second book, or like Parson Adams speed at picking up his crab stick and laying into some fools. Some of the fight scenes are actually well described, particularly the one between him and Fanny’s first attacker. There was a part when Adams goes all Glaswegian and uses his head  “as a battering ram”.

Parson Adams is every bit as good as I remembered but he entered the story far earlier. There’s still the feeling that he’s a second idea that takes over the initial one, but it’s so entertaining, I’m fine with that. I love how he is absolutely terrible at reading people, even people as transparent as Joseph and Fanny. I like how his vanity has him wish he had his best sermon to read so he can show it off, a sermon against vanity. I also love how Parson Adams claims to have “not much travelled in the history of modern times, that is to say the last two thousand years” - thus missing all the Christian Centuries - and the chapter where he thinks his son has drowned is still comic gold.

I find Henry Fielding quite a quotable writer. Some of the things he says are fitting, such as; “kissing is a prologue to a play” others are so inventive and daft I can’t help smiling. Fielding really  has a way with the simile, I particularly enjoyed how he started a sentence with; “As a person who is struck through the heart with a thunderbolt looks extremely surprised…” He also reminds us that there are some people without need of brains who have heads ‘for the sake of conformity’ - and to put their hats on.

He also hits on a number of characters and moments which I have met often in my life now. Joseph Adams bemoans how; “London is a bad place and there is so little direct fellowship that the next door neighbours don’t know each other.” I live in a small flat hewn into a townhouse, not only do I not know my neighbours, I don’t know people who live in the same building as me. This is even more pronounced as my landlord has a habit of creating new little flats out of nowhere. 

Fielding’s description of drunken ‘lads’ conversation is also spot on; “Their best conversation was nothing but noise: singing, helloing, wrangling, drinking, toasting, spewing, smoking.” He then goes on to say that when they do talk to each other, they spend their whole time arguing violently about trivial things. As someone who’s been on a few stag-dos, this is utterly correct.

I also disagreed with the people who said there was no emotional moments in the book. I found the moment where Wilson proposes to his wife in the (admittedly very long) digression to be full of genuine passion and remorse - I got quite invested.

While ‘Joseph Andrews’ is no ‘Tom Jones’, I found it an extremely enjoyable book on re-reading it and I still recommend it as a good introduction to eighteenth century fiction.

'Joseph Andrews' at the Dr Johnson Reading Circle

When the Dr Johnson’s House Reading Circle met for the first session of its fifth year, battle lines were drawn. On one side were those favouring internal characterisation and on the other, those favouring a story told from the outside of a character. Pikes were sharpened, muskets primed, horses saddled and… I might be exaggerating a little - but our discussion of Henry Fielding’s ‘Joseph Andrews’ was one of the more polarising discussions we’ve had.

The first comment was that the book was “Laugh a minute,” which was quickly responded to with a number of comments saying, “I’m not so sure.”

The book tells the story of Joseph Andrews’ journey home after being unfairly dismissed by the Lady Booby for not becoming her toy-boy. He meets up with the love of his life, Fanny Goodwill and his childhood mentor, Parson Adams. The parson quickly becomes the main character as the three regularly fall into scrapes which reveal both his small faults and his large virtues. He’s not an aloof, spiritual man but warm blooded and emotional, his Christianity being tied deeply with human life rather than doctrine, even as he preaches something more rarified.

The problem many had with the book is the same that Samuel Johnson had when comparing Fielding with Samuel Richardson; “There was as great a difference between them as between a man who knew how a watch was made, and a man who could tell the hour by looking on the dialplate.” Whereas Richardson takes exhaustive pains to get under the skin of the characters, Fielding sketches them out and shows them in action.

There was a great deal of discussion that circled why ‘Joseph Andrews’ has this surface level, dialplate quality. One idea was linked to this being Fielding’s second novel after a successful career as a stage writer. A stage writer must write principally for surfaces and it's the job of the actors and production team to flesh out and exemplify the play. Though there have been a great many scriptwriters who have explored the inner lives of their characters to great effect.

There are many theatrical conventions in the novel with coincidences galore, physically staged fighting and bed-swapping, asides and overlapping patter. It’s also very possible that Fielding’s intrusive narration could have evolved from stage directions, or even the curtain-piece before a performance. Like a curtain-piece, Fielding places his text in context, teaches the audience how to enjoy and interpret it and makes silly jokes.

Another idea we kept returning to, was Fielding’s background in humour and satire and his influences from that tradition, particularly ‘Don Quixote’. Fielding had a long relationship with the novel, with one of his plays being ‘Don Quixote in England’. Parson Adams is definitely a Quixotic character, quick to fight, somehow both ridiculous and oddly noble. There are definite lifts from Quixote, particularly a scene where Parson Adams is entertained by a villainous Squire. The Quixote influence is probably the source of much of the violence that turned many of the readers off. Quixote is regularly beaten - painfully beaten in ways that effect him for the rest of the book - and while Parson Adams, Joseph Andrews and company regularly shrug off heavy beatings, they grow more dishevelled as they proceed through the book.

So, while some readers found the style too shallow, discursive and impossible to get lost in, others enjoyed the artificiality of the tale and found it good fun. Later authors took elements of this much further, Sterne pulled ‘Tristram Shandy’ inside out with its digressions and authorial playacting. Sterne also included many emotional scenes in the book, expanding this element into his ‘Sentimental Journey’. Dickens was also mentioned a lot. Like Fielding, Dickens also tends to see characters from the outside in, sketching them in broad strokes and catchphrases, rarely getting under the skin of many of them but like Sterne, Dickens also included emotional scenes and used his characters to explore ideas and expose injustices.

There are a few moments of social commentary in ‘Joseph Andrews’, much of the book is taken up with exposing Parson Adams in his flawed good-heartedness, an idea later taken up with more vigour in the character of Tom Jones. Adams’s interactions with various stingy, mean characters reveal the difference between charity and charitable intentions. Perhaps if these elements were heightened, there would have seemed more point to the knockabout stuff. 

Ultimately such questions are up to the reader and their own negotiations with the text. ‘Joseph Andrews’ is a particularly artificial book, but whether that artificiality is a source of fun or frustration depends on what the reader brings to it. What is certain though, is that ‘Joseph Andrews’ produced an entertaining night of discussion for the Dr Johnson’s House Reading Circle.