After slavery came acceptance in France, which allowed something remarkable to happen.

Publisher: Crown (Random House)
Pages: 330
Type: Non-Fiction
Age: Adult
ISBN: 978-0-307-38246-7
First Published: 18th September 2012
Date Reviewed: 19th October 2012
Rating: 4/5

Reiss details the life and career of the novelist Alexandre Dumas’s father, General Alex Dumas, born of a white French father and black African mother, who led armies during the French Revolution.

The Black Count is a remarkable book that details what can be learned from previously unpublicised sources to introduce to the world a fantastic soldier whom history had forgotten due to later racial prejudice. A rather long book for the sources used, Reiss provides ample context in which to set Dumas’s trials and happiness. This context can sometimes be a distraction as there is a great deal of it, perhaps too much, and it often goes off on a tangent. It is brilliant for the overall history and especially the history of abolition, but doesn’t quite match the premise of the book, which is to tell Dumas’s story.

However what is provided inevitably ends up trumping any arguments for premise; Reiss has given the history of slavery, abolition, general life, and the journey from acceptance back to intolerance. Whilst books about the period will include information about freed slaves and otherwise, the coverage and particular angle the writer takes puts them to shame. Instead of simply detailing, Reiss gets to the heart of his subject, discussing such aspects as the aristocratic day-to-day lives of free mixed-race citizens of the Caribbean and how accepting pre-Napoleonic France was of such citizens when they arrived in Europe. The author opens the door to a world that the modern world in general does not know nearly enough about, and it is surely important that these facts, as they relate to our present day, are provided for general consumption. In fact, the first few chapters themselves are so detailed as to render a several week course in colonial slavery somewhat superfluous. Reiss even includes the irony that came with a society suddenly finding their fashions being lauded by ex-slaves, feeling the need to be meticulous in their rules concerning the ban of such fashion in the colonies.

When, years later and by then a war hero, he lost his lackey in a storm at sea, he would find himself in a true predicament: facing enemy attack was one thing; arranging his own clothes was quite another.

Reiss provides all the knowledge he can about General Alex Dumas, the hero of wars who single-handedly won battles whilst living in a racially liberal world. He, Reiss, goes back and forth between sources to surmise the most likely story and, crucially, includes excepts from Dumas’s letters that only serve to further what is said – Reiss’s conclusions and suggestions are the understandable product of reading primary source material. The writer makes pauses for thought no concern, there is no reason not to believe what Reiss says. Dumas is the family man, the freedom fighter who unwittingly becomes a victim of his side’s success, and a true humanitarian. Despite what later goes against him, his aims remain strong and well meant: a republic for the equality of all.

The cautious reader may wish to know whether or not a prior acquaintance with the novelist Dumas’s works are necessary for comprehension. At first it seems so, but although he may not say it, Reiss has made his biography accessible and details all the literature references needed. He repeats information when new facts are to be added. Also included are quotations from (the novelist) Alexandre Dumas’s own memoirs, and these are treated with respect whilst being analysed for what they are – Reiss explains that the son idolised the father and thus although his words are used, they are acknowledged to be biased when other sources present opposing material.

Reiss refers to himself throughout the book, and it feels very natural. The references are there to demonstrate the discovery and usage of sources, and also to better describe to the reader present-day situations, such as the difficulty in gaining access to a vault. It’s a unique way of writing, more often used in documentaries, but due to the overall style, it works. As for the style it is readable, casual. Reiss himself says at the end that he wanted to avoid making his work particularly academic. However there are some occasions when it doesn’t quite seem right, such as references to a modern person in order to provide an illustration readers will understand. It doesn’t work because the people chosen are not universal, and thus the handy metaphor can be lost.

Reiss has an evident enthusiasm for his subject, yet remains objective. Indeed considering the sources he presents it is incredibly difficult to see Dumas as anything other than who Reiss presents him to be. There is some bias, however, and obvious personal opinions – for example Reiss dislikes Marie Antoinette, who he describes as “frivolous” and “fierce Austrian music snob that she was”, and leaves it like that without elaborating. Yet he achieves his basic aim, to introduce to the world General Alex Dumas. The book may be lacking in Dumas detail, but it is difficult to put that down to the author himself. The availability of sources and the likelihood of their destruction means that Reiss has undoubtedly made the best job of anyone yet, if indeed anyone else has tried. Such a work and research are to be commended for the valuable information they have uncovered for study.

With The Black Count, Reiss has done his job. May others now extend it and let it set an example.

I received this book for review from Crown Publishers.

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What happens when no one is telling the truth about how they feel?

Publisher: Gallic Books
Pages: 253
Type: Fiction
Age: Adult
ISBN: 978-1-908313-29-4
First Published: 12th September 2012
Date Reviewed: 30th September 2012
Rating: 4.5/5

Original language: French
Original title: Le Confident (The Confidant)
Translated by: Alison Anderson

Upon the death of her mother, editor Camille starts receiving letters from a sender who only gives his first name. Believing the letters to be a clever method of mailing a novel, Camille does not realise for a while that the correspondence relates to her own life. The story of lovers split by outside events and other people, of babies conceived for questionable reasons, and of the hatred of everyone for everyone else, does not register as real until Camille finds proof of its relevance. The meaning of the words is catastrophic, and it seems the sender is the only one who knew the truth. Until now.

The Confidant, translated from the French by Alison Anderson, is a story about how selfishness, and misplaced belief and love, can become so twisted around each other that they leave truth to be confined to the mind – never spoken, with dire consequences. Set against the backdrop of the German invasion of France during World War 2, the factual history included weaves its way into the narrative to create situations that further destroy the humanity of the characters.

And like all stories with a similar narrative – in the way that it feels, the atmosphere, the confusion – it may be difficult to enjoy the book in the usual sense. In regards to the characters, it is difficult to be impressed by a group consisting of a sexual pervert, an obsessed and allegedly dangerous childless woman, and a younger woman who appears to lie to everyone. These aspects take a while to become apparent, but they may be difficult to comprehend when they do. What is interesting, however, is the way one may question their opinion of Camille as the book continues.

The book is told using a series of letters – all sent by Louis but formed of both his words and the words of others – as well as the thoughts of Camille as she comes to the end of each instalment of the story. The formatting is a little unorthodox, the use of a typeface generally spurned by the publishing industry, but it has the interesting affect of not only ensuring the reader knows who they are listening to but of actually adding to the atmosphere; Camille, is incoherent at times, her world a confusion to herself. Indeed the first couple of pages are so peculiar in their written style that you could easily believe Anderson’s translation poor, were it not for the elegance of the rest of the book.

The book is actually rather short, due to both page count and the easy-to-read nature of the text. But Grémillon makes the most of what she has – everything included is important, there are no “filler” events and there is no feeling that the book would have been better served by additions. The narrative gets right into the action, Camille provides a brief but sufficient background, and whilst Louis rushes on occasion it is not a drawback. It is a very welcome style in a world where books continue unnecessarily.

One ought not to feel disappointed by the predictability of the tale, indeed if you read the blurb you will know a lot, and the reason is that Grémillon wishes to explore her topics with a reader who will know, confidently, what she is talking about.

And if the most obvious theme is cause and affect, then the major theme is surrogacy (this comes to light as the major theme in part due to the acknowledgements in the back of the book). Being infertile in the 1930s and 1940s was of course nothing like it is today with all the advancements we have made both technologically and socially. Grémillon shows how society placed such a role in the expected life of a woman, and how it could affect those women who did not live up to the standard set. Due to the narrative structure, and the way in which the author divulges the characters’ beliefs and thoughts, the suggested routes to happiness are laid bare, often with the consequence of creating burdensome personalities. Grémillon portrays the historical infertile woman in the extreme – which creates some of the gross horror in the book – as well as discussing surrogacy in more simple terms. And to a great extent her discussion is relevant today, highlighting the issues that can surround a woman who agrees to carry a child for another without the experience of knowing how such an occasion will make them feel.

It is impossible to retain the same opinions one had at the beginning of the novel once the end has been reached, such is the fine decision Grémillon made to explain the story from different angles. The book does require diligent attention but it rewards with clarity and confirmation. And in addition it also provides a basic knowledge of the lives of the French in German-occupied Paris, which describes in subtext, if not always via direct experience (of the characters), the martial law of the time.

When I try to understand the reasons behind the whole tragedy, I always come to the same conclusion: if Annie had not been passionate about painting, none of this would ever have happened. I am as certain of this as are those who maintain that if Hitler had not failed his entrance exam to art school the world would have been a better place.

It may not be easy to like what happens in The Confidant but that is not the point and Grémillon is not worried if you feel that way. What matters is the subject at hand, the details imparted, and in that the book has surely succeeded in its conquest.

The Confidant was originally written in French, and was translated into English by Alison Anderson.

I received this book for review from ED Public Relations.

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Utopia may not be Utopia, but does that matter?

Publisher: N/A (I read Penguin’s version)
Pages: N/A
Type: Fiction
Age: Adult
ISBN: N/A
First Published: 1516
Date Reviewed: 10th August 2012
Rating: 4.5/5

Please note that the version I read was translated by Paul Turner (from the original Latin).

Utopia is a work of fiction, however it does overlap with reality and depending on the edition you read the editor and/or translator may or may not have included a couple of letters that sound very much like true correspondence. The plot is simple and detail is everything: More meets his friend Peter and Peter introduces him to Raphael, a man who has lived in the New World. Raphael spends time conferring upon the friends the knowledge he has learned from the country, and discusses his convictions that life in Utopia is fairer than Europe and that Europe ought to use Utopian society and politics as an ideal to aspire to. Filled with references to Plato, the conversation is seemingly an attempt by More to preach his suggestions for a different system of government and living.

The book is quite a feat, yet whether or not the author himself knew just how much of a feat it was, and would remain to be, is a subject that would require a differing style of writing to a review; one can assume he knew something of it as Wolsey had made him publish it under the name of William Rosse¹. Utopia is at once a product of its time and ahead of its era. Although some of the topics it addresses fall solely in the realm of the late medieval/early modern period, the vast majority are relevant today in a rather scary fashion. Indeed More is so accurate in his ruminations of structures that continue, even now, to be used in the (western) world, that he would be well placed were he to sit in the British House Of Commons tomorrow.

More’s book contains a lot of thoughts that successfully appeal to both a minority of people in his day – or maybe they were a majority? Who really knows what the common person thought? – and to us in our 21st century world. There are “discussions” on subjects such as capital punishment for burglary:

“We’re hanging them all over the place,” he said, “I’ve seen as many as twenty on a single gallows. And that’s what I find so odd. Considering how few of them get away with it, why are we still plagued with so many robbers?”

“What’s odd about it?” I asked – for I never hesitated to speak freely in front of the Cardinal. “This method of dealing with thieves is both unjust and socially undesirable. As a punishment it’s too severe, and as a deterrent it’s quite ineffective. Petty larceny isn’t bad enough to deserve the death penalty, and no penalty on earth will stop people from stealing, if it’s their only way of getting food. In this respect you English, like most other nations, remind me of incompetent schoolmasters, who prefer caning their pupils to teaching them. Instead of inflicting these horrible punishments, it would be far more to the point to provide everyone with some means of livelihood, so that nobody’s under the frightful necessity of becoming first a thief and then a corpse.”

Here More, through his character Raphael, speaks out against the fatal punishment meted out to thieves. More points out that a great many of the thieves apprehended are poor and that they are not in a situation where they can act upon the fact that thieves are executed. And More quite rightly suggests, although at least in the western world he can be happy that such extreme measures no longer exist even if jail applies to both, that there being no difference in punishment for a thief as for a murderer does not change the way a thief will behave; indeed a thief may as well have been a murderer in the 1500s.

And when it comes to bringing up the youth of society, More’s words are seemingly even more political than before as what he says is incredibly relevant to Britain today, as 21st century Britain struggles with crime which many link back to unemployment and few opportunities in both childhood and adulthood. More remarks:

“You allow these people to be brought up in the worst possible way, and systematically corrupted from their earliest years. Finally, when they grow up and commit the crimes that they were obviously destined to commit, ever since they were children, you start punishing them. In other words, you create thieves, and then punish them for stealing!”

If you do not help people to get out of their poor backgrounds they will have no way to get onto the career ladder, to make money legally. And, to go back to a 1500’s issue, how can stealing money equate to a death sentence? Both are against the Ten Commandments and surely murder is worse than stealing.

More doesn’t leave it there – he goes on to explain why there are these issues in the first place. What is interesting is that he speaks out against the way the church would take land for its own use and how the begging for alms by monks would effectively leave less money available for true beggars – this being interesting because More was himself a strong Catholic. One could liken his thinking to that of Erasmus, who also spoke out against the church whilst remaining one with it. Yet it is interesting how these two writers, More and Erasmus, were effectively giving a prior warning to their readers about the Reformation action that was to come, being people who remained loyal whilst others who spoke out fell out of love with Catholicism and became Protestants.

As a last look at examples of how More’s work fits so well into our world may we consider the information he provides that it is the expense of raw materials, created by a greedy government, that caused many people to be out of work?

It is interesting and ironic how some of the items More discusses were to happen so soon after publication. These are the references to the men employed by government turning against that government – this is what the New Model Army did in the 1600s, the turning point towards England becoming a republic for that short time – and the use, by a king, of ancient laws that everyone had forgotten, in order to raise money – exactly what Charles I did to fund his fight against the afore-mentioned NMA. So uncanny are these discussions, so spot-on in their warning, that it’s hard to believe that More was writing five monarchs previous when the country was, if not completely, better settled.

As to be expected in our modern society, though the book may have great relevance, it is difficult to agree with everything More is saying. Indeed there are observations made about Utopia that prove quite disagreeable, such as that the “mentally deficient” (read “mentally disabled”) ought to be laughed at whilst being looked after – because that is the right way to communicate with them if one is nursing them. This by itself is typical of views at the time, but what makes it particularly difficult to accept is that it is comes before a paragraph that urges acceptance of the physically deformed and ugly (read “physically disabled or deformed”) because such deformities are not their fault. Whilst one could perhaps surmise that the phrase “mentally deficient” is More’s way of saying “those who haven’t bothered to try to improve their intellect”, the fact is that coming straight before a statement about the physically disabled does very much suggest that More is speaking of the mentally disabled, and this is a point on which the translator of the text agrees. The only thing that truly suggests More is talking of intellect-by-choice is that he says those who are physically deformed did not choose to be so, thus possibly inferring that the mentally deficient are their opposites – because which mentally disabled person has had a choice over whether or not they are mentally disabled? It is not their fault, just as it is not a physically disabled person’s fault. However, a fact trumps all these charges to single this piece out as prejudice by More – physically disabled people were more understood; the mentally disabled, for a very long period of time, were simply viewed as mad or strange with no real studies conducted to find out what was really going on. With a physical disability, even doctors of the 1500s would have recognised a limp, a wounded arm, or an inability to move, as a medical issue.

Then there is the idea of religious tolerance. Through the fictional Raphael, More announces that Utopia is home to a variety of religions and that the citizens are free to believe in what they will – then he says that everyone goes to church and kneels before the priest. Unfortunately here, in our modern eyes, More is but confirming his own beliefs, firstly by the use of the word “church” – a Christian term – and secondly because people of differing religions should not be made (as you soon realise that Utopia is in fact more akin to an apocalyptic dictatorship than heaven) to use one priest and one all-encompassing service, at least not as their sole form of community worship. And if beliefs are allowed to be different, then the prayer More details makes no sense as it talks about a “true religion”. “More was intolerant of all dissident opinion,” wrote the historian Joanna Denny². Whilst Denny was incredibly biased against More, it cannot be denied that More’s own words back her up.

But these negatives in no way set the modern reader back, for later on comes such comments as this one on the elderly poor:

Having taken advantage of them throughout the best years of their lives, society now forgets all the sleepless hours they’ve spent in its service, and repays them for all the vital work they’ve done, by letting them die in misery.

It seems 1500s Britain was as notorious as the 21st century version in its care of the older generation – a quick bit of research on the part of anyone not acquainted with the UK system will find that the above quotation could quite easily have been taken from a leaflet about the current non-treatment of the aged population.

So we have a book that was ahead of its time whilst being a product of its time, that is philosophical and political – almost dangerously political given that More was the friend of the oft-cited tyrant Henry VIII – and is eternally relevant. But what we don’t have, and this is intriguing given that the very word “utopia” is in our dictionaries thanks to More’s usage of it, is a particularly Utopian society. Utopia the country, for all More’s debate – albeit that More does criticise it from time to time – is in fact more deserving of the terms undemocratic, unfree, police state, and lots of other words beginning with “un” that end in a description that brings to mind strict governmental control. The Utopians have free time every day, but they live in regimental housing, eat at certain times in huge communal dining halls, have one set of clothes, and if they fall out of line at all, are punished by slavery or enforced celibacy. These falls include premarital sex (understandable given More’s religion, but surely a Utopian society would simply suggest the couple get married since they obviously have a connection) and disobedience to one’s husband – children must confess to their parents, wives to their husbands, but there is no mention of whom a husband confesses to. There is no money because the country produces enough for everyone, which sounds idyllic, until you learn that there is in fact money in the country because they collect it to pay other armies to go to war for them. Indeed their whole process of war is abhorrent, for all its notions of peace.

So Utopia is not Utopia, and even More supports this conclusion. Whether or not he intended to be ironic in this way cannot be fully known, especially as a lot of what he pronounces is so good. But surely there is a case to be made in favour of More being intentionally ironic in order to show that even the best places on earth can get it wrong in some aspects. Maybe he just wanted to create a slighter better place than England, if Turner is correct.

What, then, was More definitely trying to do here? It would not be wrong to say that he wanted to use his exalted position in court and society to try and influence people to change Britain into the way he felt it ought to be. And whilst this would have been the case for any number of individuals, one cannot help thinking that a lot of what More said would have been very good to implement. Was More in part preparing the way for the burgeoning Protestantism that was happening in Europe? This is possible but rather unlikely given that More produced a diatribe of Martin Luther’s views that, according to secondary sources, included plentiful swear words – clearly More was not as tolerant as he suggests in his fiction; yet he could still have wanted to change things somewhat. The one thing that can be said for certain is that whilst More liked Henry VIII he saw a great many things that were not particularly savoury in his friend and doubtless would have been happy had Henry read the book and introduced to his court some of the suggestions. Sadly considering that Henry would not have been amused by much of the content, and given that the monarch passed on books he was given for others to read instead of him, that was very unlikely to happen.

There is so much in Utopia to discuss, which is remarkable for such a short book. More never wastes a moment, giving only a few sentences to background set ups, and his various references to Plato, combined with the detail and constant stream of information provided, only stands to further the idea that More is attempting to emulate to a degree the great ancient philosopher’s work. Such is the content in Utopia that you are bound to find both items you agree on and items you disagree on, and plenty for debate. To ask whether it is a good book is irrelevant in the usual way – as pure fiction a plot solely of discussion is horrendous – but apply the “philosophy” label to it and suddenly you are in the correct territory.

Utopia forces you to think about the past, the present, and the future – what you like about your country and its past and how far your society has come since times long gone. Whilst it may be concentrated on Britain/Europe and contrasted with a mythical Native America, much of it can be applied to the world at large, both historically and in relation to our modern era. In terms of philosophical debate, to use an extremely bad pun, the more the better.

¹ Denny, J. (2004) Anne Boleyn, Britain, Piatkus, p.102.
² ibid., p.171.

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When loyalty to the crown isn’t quite straightforward.

Publisher: Sphere (Little Brown)
Pages: 545
Type: Fiction
Age: Adult
ISBN: 978-0-751-53660-7
First Published: 3rd November 2005
Date Reviewed: 28th May 2012
Rating: 3.5/5

William Marshal began his career in a position of forced service to King Stephen, but as he got older he became a little more in charge of his dealings, albeit that his service continued to pass down to Stephen’s heirs. First William works for Henry II and Eleanor, then their youngest son, before working directly again for the crown, but it’s not all doom and gloom, at least not in the start when he was able to compete in tourneys and live his youth to the full. But when battles begin for the throne upon Henry II’s death, reality will set in.

The Greatest Knight follows, in a balance of fact and fiction, the life of William Marshal from his days as a teenage squire, to the point when King Richard the Lionheart had to fight against his younger brother John for the right to rule. But although this is the first book of two regarding William’s life (first in a series actually, though two is the number that focus solely on William) there is not a lot in this book that recommends its title. Yes William is loyal, at all times, and proves a reliable militant, but it is never apparent from his actions how he could have been the greatest knight. Of course the title was created for the book and not necessarily ever applied to Marshal in his time, but it is still cause for thought because of its usage.

There is a plot, of sorts, but William’s life in this book is more a series of political meetings, the combat mainly left to afterthoughts. William’s life seems to meander along, and while he makes for a very likeable hero, the stories he recounts sometimes give you the feeling that those people ought to be given more time for their stories are more exciting.

And unfortunately, it takes until about four fifths of the way into the book for the story to pick up. This comes in the form of William’s marriage, a ceremony and plot point that greatly enhances his ability to intrigue the reader because no longer is it only his thoughts, of a man in relative security, that you can listen to – and this is something that Chadwick does to great effect, her female characters tending to be on the strong side. William’s family make the story much better and it is perhaps a pity that Chadwick decided to include so much of his life before he married. The good thing is that as the first of two books, you can be sure that the next is going to be a lot more involving, and especially as the book ends with a proposed battle, that things are going to pick up in the narrative too.

To be sure The Greatest Knight doesn’t follow the usual path of romance, there are scenes of a romantic and sexual nature dotted here and there, but unlike many of Chadwick’s other books, this one focuses on society, dynastic disputes, and general politics, in a far more detailed way than when the hero or heroine has a partner throughout.

What there is here is a lot of information about England and English France in the 1100s. Yes, a little is fictional when needs must, but the book is incredibly factual, and that it looks at the rivalry between royal members from an outsider angle, brings new life to an old topic. Chadwick presents her royal charges from a generally unbiased viewpoint, and whilst one may surmise that, when it comes to Marshal at least, she favours Richard over John, she nevertheless gives each equal time to pitch their beliefs and reasoning to the reader through William’s thoughts and dialogue.

However whilst reading you can’t help but remember that there’s a second book, and that the promise of a blossoming romance meaning more main characters, and the fact (because it’s historical fact) that the politics is going to get a lot more interesting, means that you want to rush through this first book for the wrong reasons. For now, at least, the knight in question is more “good” than “great”.

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Social issues and politics inevitably blend together.

Publisher: Dodo Press (The Book Depository)
Pages: 260
Type: Fiction
Age: Adult
ISBN: 978-1-4065-0366-1
First Published: 1917
Date Reviewed: 4th May 2012
Rating: 3.5/5

Bart lives with his aunt and uncle in a modest house in a modest village. He befriends a girl from a higher social class, but her reciprocation of his flourishing love is marked by periods of disdain for his humble status. One day he meets a senator and his life begins to change. Wanting to improve himself, Bart looks up to Mr Wright and learns from him. And Wright is more than willing to aid him in both his learning and his transition from child to adult, seeing how much potential he has.

The Light In The Clearing is rather like an American version of Great Expectations, only where Dickens exaggerates his themes, Bacheller dampens each down so that the story is far less dramatic. This has the effect of bringing more attention to those elements he does not share with Dickens, the overall result being to show how people can live with falseness and goodness and still manage to come out well.

Though it does take a long while for the book to become more than average. A lot of time is given to the every day, and there are many dialogues that are littered with accents that can be hard to decipher. The time spent at home, with Bart living with his poor relatives and later going to school, does not have enough interesting episodes to make it worthwhile, and it’s peculiar that Bacheller puts all his eggs in one basket – putting the majority of the romance, politics, and opinion in the last few chapters. Because those last few chapters are excellent, but it’s difficult to get that far.

The differences between poverty and wealth are contrasted throughout. Bart’s family are poor but they do their best to give Bart everything he needs, and it is really only when he goes to school that he learns that he is at a social disadvantage. His family and friends protect him, and Bacheller uses the whole concept to show where richness lies in love and accepting what you have. He also demonstrates that wealth does not always make a good person, and indeed the richer characters are often false and deceitful.

This theme is intertwined with the romance as Sally, for a time Bacheller’s own Estella Havisham in the making, flits between liking and disliking Bart, depending on how he is being treated by others and what he is wearing. Bacheller shows the innocence of a boy brought up to feel equal to others and contrasts it with Sally’s feelings about his poverty. The relationship between the affluent Dunkelberg and Baynes families, with its changes of friends and foe, expresses the idea of fair-weather friends.

It is the senator, Wright, and his entrance into the story, that signals the first of the changes in Bart. Wright is well-off in society, but as a resident in the town he has no problem befriending Bart, and it is Wright’s influence that gives Bart his goal in life and reminds him that he is indeed equal in nature’s eyes. Wright teaches Bart to be an adult, and to follow his heart rather than follow what society suggests. Wright’s own decision at the end of the book is a surprising but very heartening action that ministers of present parliaments would do well to observe.

Some of the politics, especially near the end, focuses on the abolition of slavery, the story being historical in Bacheller’s own time. The focus is not huge, and it is used more to set the scene, but there is enough material to gather an overview of how people at the time felt about it all. Where social relations are concerned, the person of Old Kate, a woman who blends fortune-telling with regular premonition, shows what happens to bad people who con their neighbours, with a morbid element thrown in for effect.

Whilst the first two thirds of the book are rather like Great Expectations, and there is even the inclusion of a room left the way it was after a last meal – and described rather like Miss Havisham’s abode – the latter third moves away completely from the classic, heading in the opposite direction on all accounts. The romance thread is confusing and the quickened pace of Bart’s progression from poor boy to lawyer is too fast to keep up with. But the overall atmosphere, the positives in the way that Bart overrules higher society’s choices, and the ethical Wright, makes the end an outstanding piece of work. It is just a pity it takes so long to get there.

The Light In The Clearing was the number two best-seller in America, but while it is easy to see why, for it’s political and social messages, it has not stood the test of time as well as it could have, and that is a shame. The length of time it takes to get somewhere, and that the time is spent on not so interesting tales of home life, does indeed encourage comparisons to the older work of Dickens, and not favourable ones.

The Light In The Clearing is a book that is worth a read, but not so much for pleasure as for studies of history. For history it is a fantastic fictional source but for pleasure the dampening of themes and 180 degree changes are too irregular to invite particular acclaim. It’s a good book, but its purpose has been served better elsewhere.

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