[I] have abandoned the idea of writing on ‘How Cats Spend their Time.’
[I] have abandoned the idea of writing on ‘How Cats Spend their Time.’
Michael Hofmann performs a Gatling gun murder of Stefan Zweig that you won’t want to miss. The review also gave me the rare opportunity to use “zootomy.”
[A]ll his life, Zweig prided himself on his lack of any political nous. He is in Belgium in July 1914, and so sure that the Germans won’t invade that he offers to hang himself from a lamp post if they do. A few hours later they do, and he doesn’t.
By that point (the quotation above) in the essay, it’s palpable how much Hofmann wanted Zweig to use that lamp post.
If you don’t think you’re familiar with Zweig, you likely are, because you have probably heard of, or seen, this film:
The best illustration of the power and impact of America’s original philosophical radicalism may be discovered in the first sentence of the nation’s first founding document. Many historians today take for granted that the reference in the preamble of the Declaration of Independence to “the laws of Nature and of Nature’s God” amounts to a gesture of conventional piety — and no doubt it was written partly in order to be read in this way. Religious conservatives today routinely celebrate it as proof that America is founded as a Christian nation. These and similar interpretations serve mainly to express some deep and persistent assumptions about the nature of human experience: that we govern ourselves through acts of faith; that all authority must rest on the assertion of belief in some higher authority; and that all would be well if we could return to the simple faith of our fathers.
Yet, “Nature’s God” properly belongs to the radical philosophical religion of deism. It refers to nothing that we commonly mean by the term “God,” but rather to something closer to “Nature.” It tells us that we are and always have been the source of our own authority; that we govern ourselves not through acts of faith but through acts of understanding; and that if we should find ourselves beholden to some other imagined authority, this can only mean that we have constructed the conditions of our own servitude. The Declaration of Independence — precisely where it superficially seems to invoke the blessing of the established religion — really stands for an emancipation of the political order from God.
— pp. 6-7, Matthew Stewart, Nature’s God: The Heretical Origins of the American Republic
Paraic O’Donnell entered my consciousness through his essay about multiple sclerosis disguised as an essay about gardening, or vice versa. It’s an unmistakably writerly essay that requires a tissue at hand. It turns out there’s a whole other domain of captivating prose. O’Donnell uses a phrase in that piece that will one day be the title of a novel: “the wrong kind of wrong.”
The House on Vesper Sands is the right kind of right. It’s a surprise. I anticipated a kind of cozy mystery set in Victorian times. Wrong. One reviewer has the book as “part Wilkie Collins, part Conan Doyle.” Wrong. It’s more part Hitchcock’s Rebecca, part Poe, part House of Mirth. That’s probably wrong too, but in a right kind of way.
To get closer to what’s happening in the novel, it might help to avoid genre, a slippery thing by itself. The House on Vesper Sands is a pushmi-pullyu, a wonderous thing that can speak in two directions at once, one voice world-weary, cognizant of the ways humans bleed other humans. As Inspector Cutter says in the novel, “We can only keep house, in this life. We cannot tear up the foundations.” The other voice tells us that where we least expect it, a plenitude exists that can rip the world. The latter voice hears and understands both voices. The former knows the latter exists, but has no idea of the latter’s power.
If you want the plot, that information is readily available, and so not repeated here.
The British class divisions so rooted in popular culture, placed in this case within a Victorian frame, mirror the present’s concern about inequality, the growing divide between those with means and those who live in fear of the mean who have means. O’Donnell presents this admirably early on with the character of Octavia Hillingdon, a seemingly formidable woman journalist — until she bumps up against Mr. Healy at a gathering of members of London’s high society. As Octavia is about to give Mr. Healy her two cents, he interrupts: “What is not wanted, Miss Hillingdon, is sniping and insinuation about the fellow’s politics, or any pot-banging about the inequities of our social order or the plight of the working poor. If you can bring yourself to keep within that gauge, then perhaps I will begin to see your true promise. If not, it will be the last time you stray from your little paddock. Is that plain?”
In the realm of inequality, the queens, kings, influencers, dukes, duchesses, CEOs, and lords prefer that the status quo remain unquestioned. To talk about the facts is a breach of decorum. Some will kill to maintain the silence. The well-to-do don’t want to hear about what Slavoj Zizek calls the “vampiric exploitation” of the poor. It’s “what is not wanted.” Octavia persists in her mission. She “resorted to the method she knew best. She would encourage the right sort of people to say the wrong sort of thing.”
While Octavia pursues the case of missing girls that animates the plot, she has a male counterpart in Inspector Cutter, a Scotland Yard official who does not suffer fools, and who expects people to take responsibility for their words. Cutter takes Gideon Bliss under his wing as Cutter goes about his police duties. Gideon is a theology student from Cambridge with barely enough money to eat. Gideon does not comprehend the magnitude of the depravity Cutter shows him. Cutter: “When we have the leisure, Bliss, you must draw me up a list of the things you do know. I will give you a stamp or a matchbox, and no doubt you will cover every bit of it. Then I will know what respite I am to have from giving you instruction morning, noon and night.”
A blunt and imposing figure, Cutter functions as the book’s gyroscope. Despite his no-nonsense demeanor, Cutter demonstrates subtle kindnesses and fatherly tenderness. However, he’s not out to redeem the world. He doesn’t expect evil can be vanquished. He devotes his energies to preventing dark forces from turning all to chaos and darkness, making a space for others’ light to shine.
The characters with light in O’Donnell’s world are not from the privileged class. The spirited ones also speak a language that sounds like madness. A key characteristic that makes Cutter more than meat with a badge is his relationship to language. He tells Gideon that he is obliged to give some people “a more ordinary appearance,” one that diminishes detection of Cutter’s curiosity about the world. When circumstances are safe, Cutter insists on knowing what “riddles and rhymes” are uttered by the spirited ones who are exploited by members of the upper class. Unlike those around him, Cutter doesn’t dismiss the riddles and rhymes. Cutter rejects taking expressions at face value. Like O’Donnell, Cutter explores the more in the given.
The House on Vesper Sands works like a time capsule that readers can open to reveal the present to themselves.
“[I]f Heidegger’s thought is necessarily Nazi to the core, then that implies that careers, indeed whole departments in some cases, along with the futures of students entering this tradition, have been grossly misguided, at best, and have no proper prospects in philosophy.”
— Gregory Fried, Confronting Heidegger: A Critical Dialogue on Politics and Philosophy (2020)
The diary of a film-maker who finds himself in jail.
Someone has lost the key to the mailbox for outgoing post, and it hasn’t been emptied in weeks. I’m tempted to tell the officer in charge that we’re surrounded by hundreds of experienced criminals who would have the lock picked in no time.