Pandemic books – my 2020 reading list

2020 started where 2019 had ended – half way through George Eliot’s Middlemarch (published 1871-1872). That was a bit of a struggle in places, but I finally got there. And, on reflection, I did quite enjoy it.

Feeling at a loss as to what to turn to, I decided to quickly devour a couple of Arnold Bennett novels. Last year, I’d downloaded the ‘complete works’ to my Kindle.

First it was The Pretty Lady (1918) set at the outset of the First World War in 1914, and progressing through the war years as protagonist Gilbert (GJ) Hoade, a fiftyish bachelor of independent means, progresses in his relationship with French courtesan Christine who escaped to London from the German Army advancing on Ostend in Belgium.

Then it was back to the Five Towns at the end of January for The Price of Love (1914), a tale of lost money.

I finished that by mid-February, so decided to return to George Eliot and Daniel Deronda (1876). But I didn’t get very far. I’d been listening to some fine music on Classic FM one morning while lying in bed drinking my early morning cuppa, when I began to ask myself questions abut the development of music.

That got me into Howard Goodall‘s The Story of Music, that I finished at the beginning of April.

Then I decided to tackle the two books by Hilary Mantel about Tudor Machiavellian Thomas Cromwell that both won the Man Booker Prize (in 2009 and 2012, respectively): Wolf Hall and Bring Up The Bodies. In March she published the last part of her Cromwell trilogy, The Mirror & the Light, but because of the library closure due to the Covid-19 pandemic, I wasn’t able to get hold of it. Until later in the year.

During the pandemic I had expected to read more. But by the beginning of May I’d run out of steam. So it took me almost two months to finish re-reading Adrian Goldsworthy’s Caesar. It was fascinating to understand something about perhaps the greatest Roman (often based on his own words, as he was a prolific writer, ever keen to make sure his place in history was secure). I bought this book around 2007, and first read it while I was working in the Philippines.

Here’s a review that appeared in The Independent when the book was first published in 2006. It’s not an easy read, and I found myself constantly confused by Roman names, as so many individuals had the same or similar name. I couldn’t help being reminded of the Biggus Dickus scene from Monty Python’s Life of Brian.

Anyway, during the first week of July as we were preparing to move to Newcastle upon Tyne once our house sale has completed, I decided to return to the novels of Thomas Hardy, which I had first enjoyed in the 1970s when we lived in Costa Rica. A re-run of the 2008 adaptation by David Nicholls of Tess of the D’Urbervilles was screened on BBC4, so I decided to tackle that novel first to see just how true to the original the screenwriter had stayed. I’m not sure why, but I didn’t find Tess as easy a read as I had imagined. Somehow, Tess just didn’t click with me this time round. Maybe it was because I had so much on my mind. During August and September things were becoming rather fraught with regard to our house sale and move. I wasn’t sleeping well at all. Feeling anxious and stressed all day, every day.

Anyway, I eventually finished Tess and on 30 September the sale of our house went through and we moved north. Settling into our new home (a rental for six months until we found a house to buy – which we have), we registered with the local North Tyneside library, just ten minutes from home. And there, on the new books shelf was Hilary Mantel’s magnum opus, and the last in her Thomas Cromwell trilogy, The Mirror & the Light. Highly tipped to take the 2020 Booker Prize, The Mirror & the Light didn’t even make the shortlist.

Much as I enjoyed The Mirror & the Light, I don’t think it was the masterpiece that The Guardian reviewer Stephanie Merritt claimed. It was a long read, just over 900 pages. I think Hilary Mantel was being somewhat self-indulgent. She does have an accessible writing style, and although it took me over three weeks to finish, I almost never felt as if I was struggling with the text. It was only when she had her main protagonist, Thomas Cromwell, reminiscing in his own mind that the pace of the novel tapered off.

I finished The Mirror & the Light just before we went into our second national lockdown at the beginning of November, so I hurriedly returned it to the library, and searched for a couple of local histories. The first of these was Tyneside – A History of Newcastle and Gateshead from Earliest Times, by Alistair Moffat and George Rosie, published in 2005 (and made into a TV documentary, which I haven’t seen).

This was an ambitious history of the Tyneside region over the past 10,000 years. Ambitious, indeed! But remarkably accessible, with usefully placed boxes which went into greater detail on aspects related to the main narrative. Often, boxes such as these can be a distraction from the narrative, pulling the reader from the points at hand. But the authors have cleverly drafted their text such that the narrative came to a sort of conclusion just before a box, and picked up again afterwards.

I certainly have a better appreciation of the origins and history of Newcastle, and look forward to exploring over the coming years, especially those relating to the Roman occupation of the region between AD43 and AD410.

Next, I picked up A Man Most Driven, by Peter Firstbrook, about ‘Captain John Smith, Pocahontas and the Founding of America’ in the early seventeenth century. Now, I’d heard about Captain Smith since I was a child. Just the other day I talking (via Zoom) about him and Pocahontas with my 8 year old grandaughter, Zoë, in Minnesota, just as I was getting into Firstbrook’s biography. Zoë had been reading all about Pocahontas for one of her remote schooling assignments, and reminded me that Pocahontas did not marry Captain Smith (as I actually believed), but another Englishman named John Rolfe.

A Man Most Driven is a fascinating story of a really driven man who, from his own (and very possibly exaggerated) accounts had certainly had some scrapes all before he was thirty, and lucky to escape with his life on more than one occasion. It also describes how close, and many times the Jamestown colony came to failure, and Smith’s role (from his own and some independent accounts) in ensuring the early survival.

Did Pocahontas (a daughter of the paramount chief of the Powhatan, named Wahunsenacawh) really save his life as Smith wrote in his The Generall Historie? She was just a young teenager when this happened just as Smith was about to have his brains bashed out by hostile Powhatan tribe members near the early Jamestown colony in present-day Virginia. After marrying John Rolfe, Pocahontas came to English and was presented to Queen Anne (wife of James I & VI). But she took sick before she could return to America and died (aged about 21) in Gravesend where she was buried. Unfortunately the site of her grave has been lost.

I then turned my attention to local Newcastle history once again, by former Northumberland county court judge and one-time MP for Newcastle Central from 1945-1951), Lyall Wilkes called Tyneside Portraits. It’s a short anthology of eight men who contributed to the artistic and cultural life of Newcastle since the seventeenth century, as well as its physical appearance through the buildings they designed and built. Among them was William Bell Scott, and Pre-Raphaelite painter and poet whose exquisite murals grace the walls of the central hall at Wallington Hall near Morpeth in Northumberland, a National Trust property we visited in August 2013.

This was the third and last book I had borrowed from the local library before the most recent pandemic lockdown and then Tier 3 restrictions locally. The library has not yet re-opened and I was unable to replace these books. So it was back to the Kindle and a touch of Rudyard Kipling once again: The Light That Failed, first published in January 1891 (his first novel, and not critically acclaimed).

With a number of things to occupy me during December (including my daily walk whenever the weather permits) I reckon The Light That Failed will see me through to the end of the month. I’ll include a summary in my 2021 reading list compilation a year from now.

So that’s another year’s reading accomplished. And what a year 2020 has been. Who could have imagined, as the clock was about to strike midnight on 31 December last, just what we would be facing in the coming months. We’ve made it through the pandemic so far, and having access to books, good music of every genre, and daily fresh air have been key to that achievement.

Keep safe. And let’s hope for a better 2021.


 

Doe, a deer, a female deer . . .

No, not The Sound of Music, but The Story of Music.

I’ve just finished reading the excellent The Story of Music, written by English composer of musicals, choral music, and music for television, Howard Goodall to accompany his six-part BBC TV series broadcast between January and March 2013. Here’s an interesting book review.

I have also just watched all six episodes that some kind soul uploaded to YouTube, which I have shared below. They really are worth six hours of your time.

At a time when we can call up any genre of music, composer, or even specific composition via the Internet, on our phones, or even ask Alexa, it’s quite an eye-opener (or should that be ‘ear-opener’) to realise that hasn’t always been the case. In the introduction to each episode of the TV series. and early on in his book, Goodall makes two assertions (that I have no reason to challenge whatsoever) that had never crossed my mind before.

First, he states that many people in centuries past might go weeks, months even (or perhaps longer) without hearing any music whatsoever. Music had really only been accessible to a narrow stratum of society, commissioned by and composed for the aristocracy.

And second, until the age of recording began in the last quarter of the nineteenth century, someone might hear their favorite piece of music maybe four or five times only in their entire life.

Now with the likes of Classic FM or Scala Radio here in the UK, a wide range of music is instantly available to millions upon millions of listeners.

I have extremely broad tastes in music, catholic tastes even, as I blogged about in the context of being cast away on a desert island. There’s much so-called ‘classical music’ that I’m fond of, the piano works of Chopin in particular. But I also regularly listen to ragtime, some jazz, and rock and pop. In fact, a day isn’t a day unless I’ve been listening to music for a minimum of six hours or more. Access to music is something that’s keeping me going under Covid-19 lockdown.

And even though I learnt to (passably) play the cello when I was in high school in the 1960s, I never did develop any musicological ability. In fact, looking back on it, I wonder how I managed to read music at all. It’s all squiggles on a page to me now. I wouldn’t recognise a diminished chord or a triad if they hit me in the face. So why this ‘sudden’ interest in music?

Well, about five or six weeks ago as I was enjoying my early morning cup of tea in bed, I was listening to a lovely composition by Mozart on Classic FM. That got to thinking about the complexity of his music, and other eighteenth century composers like JS Bach, Handel, Vivaldi, Haydn and others, and why music almost overnight changed from what had gone before.

I decided to ask my friend Kevin Painting, who pointed me in the direction of The Story of Music. And then he sent me a YouTube link to Episode 2 about composition in the eighteenth century, The Age of Invention. That’s when I found all six episodes, and realised that I had, in fact, watched the series seven years ago, but it had completely slipped my mind.

Spanning 30,000 years or more (from cave dwellers in France) to modern times, Howard Goodall states that there are many ways to tell the story of music. This is his way. It’s unpretentious, clear, and excellent in demonstrating how techniques developed in earlier centuries still influence composition today, even the music of The Beatles, Stevie Wonder, Lady Gaga and thousands more.

And this is a particular point that Goodall emphasises time and again. Musical progression didn’t happen by chance. Someone sat down and ‘invented’ them.

Although some of the musicology left me flummoxed, I turned to the videos to hear what Goodall was explaining in the book. Taken together, these are an excellent—and uplifting—resource for anyone interested in music.

I’ll never take music for granted again. Enjoy the videos.


Episode 1: The Age of Discovery – traces the development of music from the religious ‘Gregorian’ chant to the growth of instrumental and folk music between 1000 and 1600.

Episode 2: The Age of Invention – looks at the fertile musical period between 1650 and 1750, in which many of the musical innovations we take for granted today were invented.

Episode 3: The Age of Elegance & Sensibility – looks at the age in which composers went from being the paid servants of princes and archbishops to working as freelancers.

Episode 4: The Age of Tragedy – examines the music of the middle to late 19th century, in which a craze for operas and music that dealt with death and destiny swept Europe.

Episode 5: The Age of Rebellion – looks at the period when modernism in music arrived, and when the birth of recorded sound changed the way music was heard forever.

Episode 6: The Popular Age – looks at the popular age – the last hundred years in music. A period when classical music seemed to many to be in retreat.