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A Radical New Interpretation of the Christian Message

Jesus.

Who was He?

The Christ.

What was He?

A carpenter.

Whence was He?

From Galilee.

Let us take His attributes one by one and see what clues they offer to the true nature and purpose of the King of Kings and so-called Lord of Lords. First, Jesus was the Christ: in Greek, ho Khristos, the Anointed One, translating the Judaic term maashiah, from the Hebrew verb maashah, meaning “to smear or rub over with oil”.1 And during His ministry, He would be closely associated with Olivet, the Mount of Olives. The key concept here is oil.

Second, Jesus was a carpenter: in Greek, tektōn, the skilled worker in wood mentioned in this New Testament text:

Matthew, xiii, 55. Is this not the carpenter’s son? is not his mother called Mary?

And during His ministry, His teaching would often make literal or symbolic use of trees: the fig, the sycamine, the “mustard”, those trees bearing good fruit, those bearing bad.2 The key concept here is wood.

Third, Jesus was from Galilee, the hilly region of northern Palestine that took its name from the Hebrew verb gaalal, “to roll, to go round”. And at the end of His ministry, He would be crucified at Golgotha, the Aramaic form of the Hebrew gulgōleth, “a round, rolling thing or skull”, also from gaalal. The key concept here is roll.

And so we have oil… wood… roll… and stand trembling on the brink of a paradigm shift in terms of our perceptions of the nature and purpose of Jesus Christ and the religion He founded. One more text will suffice to tip us over:

John, xix, 33. But when they came to Jesus, and saw that he was dead already, they brake not his legs … 36. For these things were done, that the scripture should be fulfilled, A bone of him shall not be broken.

Oil… wood… roll… And a divine promise that Jesus would never break a bone… There is only one conclusion to draw: that Jesus the Anointed, Jesus the Carpenter, Jesus the Galilean was a skateboarder. A skateboarder who built His own ’boards of wood, lubricated their wheels with oil, and then rolled atop them with such skill that He never broke a bone even on the unsuitable road surfaces of first-century Palestine.

Straw Power

Though He occasionally had to get by — literally — with a little help from His friends:

Matthew, xxi, 6. And the disciples went, and did as Jesus commanded them, 7 and brought the ass, and the colt[, and] set him thereon. 8 And a very great multitude spread their garments in the way; others cut down branches from the trees, and strawed them in the way. 9 And the multitudes that went before, and that followed, cried, saying, Hosanna to the son of David: Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord; Hosanna in the highest.

This is clearly a description of Jesus skateboarding into Jerusalem between cheering crowds who have “strawed”, or strewn, a particularly bumpy road surface with clothing and foliage to ensure Him a smooth ride. This interpretation even enables us to solve one of the greatest puzzles of New Testament scholarship: Matthew’s seemingly inexplicable misreading of the poetic parallelism of Zechariah’s prophecy of this event:

ix, 9. Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion; shout, O daughter of Jerusalem: behold, thy King cometh unto thee: he is just, and having salvation; lowly, and riding upon an ass, and upon a colt the foal of an ass.

Zechariah refers here to one animal in two different ways, and  Matthew, unlike Mark and Luke, has long been thought to have misinterpreted him and supposed that Jesus was, grotesquely, riding two asses into Jerusalem.

But if we realize that “ass” — onos — was in fact a first-century slang term for “skateboard”, we clearly see that Matthew was merely recording something that Mark and Luke overlooked: a trick performed by the skateboarding Jesus in which, for some part of the journey, He rode simultaneously atop two boards. Today, part of such a routine can be referred to as a

Daffy duck: one person rides two boards — doing a tail wheelie [sic] with the front one and a nose wheelie with the back one.3

It is a difficult trick, part of the repertoire only of an advanced skater, even with hi-tech, easy-to-manage modern ’boards.

Jesus the Divine Skateboarder

But that, surely, is a fatal objection to the theory of Jesus the Divine Skateboarder, is it not? After all, first-century technology could not have met the engineering requirements of skateboard construction, which relies on a precise working in both wood and metal that was surely beyond the capacity of ancient carpenters and metalworkers. Surely? Not so, in fact:

The National Archaeological Museum of Greece in Athens possesses corroded fragments of a metallic object found by sponge-divers near the island of Antikythera in 1900. Complex dials and gears of the mechanism were unlike any [other] artifact from ancient Greece. From the inscription on the instrument and the amphorae found with it, a date c. 65 B.C. was ascribed to the object.4

The artifact was first misidentified as an “astrolabe” and only later realized to be “a computing machine that could work out and exhibit the motions of the sun and moon and probably also the planets”.5

Skateboards, then, would have been well within the technological grasp of the first century. But one might ask again: would the first century have realized they were there to be grasped? For it seems highly unlikely that skateboards would appear spontaneously in any culture, regardless of whether it was capable of building them to an advanced standard. In our own culture, for example, they appeared like this:

In the ’60s, Californian surfers bolted roller-skate wheels to old surfboards and used them to ride down hills when conditions at sea were against them.6

In other words, the first skateboarders were surfers. So did Jesus surf before He skated? Seemingly He did:

Matthew, xiv, 24. But the ship was now in the midst of the sea, tossed with waves: for the wind was contrary. 25 And in the fourth watch of the night Jesus went unto them, walking on the sea. 26 And when the disciples saw him walking on the sea, they were troubled, saying, It is a spirit, and they cried out for fear.

Clearly this describes Jesus introducing His apostles to surfing as the first stage of their journey to the higher truths of skateboarding. They are astonished and fearful as He seems to “walk” towards them over the surface of the water, shifting His feet on the surfboard to adjust His balance as He prepares to give the most adventurous of His apostles a first surfing lesson:

Ibid., 27. But straightway Jesus spake unto them, saying, Be of good cheer; it is I; be not afraid. 28 And Peter answered him and said, Lord, if it be thou, bid me come unto thee on the water. 29 And he said, Come. And when Peter was come down out of the ship, he walked on the water, to go to Jesus. 30 But when he saw the wind boisterous, he was afraid; and beginning to sink, he cried, saying, Lord, save me. 31 And immediately Jesus stretched forth his hand, and caught him, and said unto him, O thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt?

And here we understand why Jesus recruited so many fishermen at the beginning of His ministry. Skateboarding would have been too dangerous for the apostles to undertake without an apprenticeship as surfers, but surfing likewise would have been too dangerous if some of them had not been able to swim and, when necessary, rescue themselves or their less natatorially inclined fellows as they all acquired the necessary skills of balance and footwork.

From Sea to Land

Once they had acquired these skills, they could transfer them to the more demanding conditions of “surfing” on land, where a fall or loss of control would mean not a soaking but a severe bruise, graze or even broken limb. The apostles’ apprenticeship at sea with surfboards meant that they took up skateboarding with insight and experience, neither over-cautious nor over-confident, but well able to fulfil the mission Jesus had mapped out for them: to introduce skateboarding to the world. In token of this, they were twelve in number, symbolizing on earth the heavenly skateboard wheel of the Zodiac. Here is the list of twelve given by Mark, for example:

iii, 16. Simon he surnamed Peter; 17 and James the son of Zebedee, and John the brother of James; and he surnamed them Boanerges, which is, The sons of thunder: 18 and Andrew, and Philip, and Bartholomew, and Matthew, and Thomas, and James the son of Alphæus, and Thaddæus, and Simon the Canaanite, 19 and Judas Iscariot, which also betrayed him …

Notice again how our new interpretation of Christianity solves another long-standing puzzle of New Testament scholarship: the precise significance of Boanerges, “The Sons of Thunder”. After all, what more appropriate name could be given to a pair of young and adventurous skateboarders?7

And perhaps it was even a nickname, given to James and John by Jesus because the two were such enthusiastic ’boarders that they were inclined to neglect the oiling of their wheels. Another nickname is certainly present in the list of apostles: that of Judas Iscariot. Many suggestions have been made as to the significance of his surname, including:

(1) From Kerioth (Josh. xv. 25) … (2) From Kartha in Galilee (Kartan, A.V. Josh. xxi. 32). (3) From scortea, a leathern apron, the name being applied to him as the bearer of the bag, and = Judas with the apron.8

The Oxford English Dictionary supports the first of these, deriving Iscariot from the Hebrew ’iish-qeriōth, “Man of Kerioth”. Kerioth comes from the Hebrew verb qaaraah, meaning to “to frame, build”. Does this suggest that Judas “had the bag” (John xii, 6; xiii, 29) because he carried tools therein and was in charge of repairing Jesus’s and the apostles’ skateboards?

Repairing… and Wrecking

If so, it provides an excellent explanation for why Judas was the apostle selected by the high priests to be suborned, to become the betrayer of his master. If Judas was in charge of repairing the skateboarders, he was also very well-placed to sabotage them and thereby end Jesus’s previous immunity from harm. Jesus’s enemies had tried to kill Him previously, but He had always escaped from them in some mysterious way that has, until now, been difficult to explain:

Luke iv, 28. And all they in the synagogue, when they heard these things, were filled with wrath, 29 and rose up, and thrust him out of the city, and led him unto the brow of the hill whereon their city was built, that they might cast him down headlong. 30 But he passing through the midst of them went his way.
John viii, 59. Then they took up stones to cast at him: but Jesus … went out of the temple, going through the midst of them, and so passed by.
x, 31. Then the Jews took up stones again to stone him … 39 … therefore they sought again to take him: but he escaped out of their hand.

If Jesus was on a skateboard and His enemies on foot, it becomes easy to understand how He escaped, particularly in the first case, when He had a good slope to pick up speed on. His enemies would have swiftly been left far behind, raging impotently at His speed and skill.

And vowing to find some means of turning it against Him. Hence the bribe they offered to Judas to sabotage Jesus’s skateboard: thirty silver coins symbolizing the way in which its glittering wheels bore its owner to and fro on every day of the month. By this stage in His ministry Jesus had begun to introduce the apostles to:

DOWNHILL: the easiest and deadliest form of skateboarding … Though anyone can ride down a hill at high speed, it requires considerable experience to do it safely.9

This is clearly described in the Gospels:

Mark ix, 2. And after six days Jesus taketh with him Peter, and James, and John, and leadeth them up into an high mountain by themselves: and he was transfigured before them … (cf. Matthew xvii, Luke ix)

Remember that Peter was the first to try surfing, and James and John were the “Sons of Thunder”: these three were the most enthusiastic and confident skaters amongst the apostles, and obvious candidates for this initial introduction to the potentially deadly delights of downhill, in which the lithe, darting, alinear movements of ordinary ’boarding are transfigured into a headlong linear rush of pure speed.

Jesus in a Jam

In downhill, then, the ’boarder relies even more heavily on his equipment than usual, and a jammed or otherwise malfunctioning wheel renders him liable to a very serious case of

Road rash: bruises, gashes and other skateboarding wounds.10

In other words, the scourging and other maltreatment Jesus undergoes before His “crucifixion” are in fact allegorical of wounds suffered by Him in a downhill ’boarding accident that takes place after the Last Supper in

Gethsemane … the name of a “garden” or enclosure on the Mount of Olives, scene of the agony of Jesus11

Jesus has brought the apostles here to practise downhill ’boarding on the slopes often seen in traditional portrayals of the Garden of Gethsemane. The apostles, however, become exhausted and retire for a time, leaving Jesus to skate on alone, well aware that the ’board He is using has been sabotaged by Judas. We see this described, partly in allegorical terms, by Luke:

xxii, 41. And he was withdrawn from them about a stone’s cast, and kneeled down, and prayed, 42 Saying, Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me: nevertheless, not my will, but thine, be done. 43 And there appeared an angel unto him from heaven, strengthening him. 44 And being in an agony he prayed more earnestly: and his sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground.

“Kneeled down” is a literal description of the position adopted for downhill ’boarding and “prayed” is allegorical of the ’boarding itself, a holy act that renders homage to God. But the prayer is cut short when disaster strikes: Judas’s sabotage is consummated, a wheel jams or falls off, and Jesus, sweating heavily from His exertions, is flung to the ground, splattering it with blood.

Rock and Roll

And now, finally, badly injured, unable to escape on His disabled ’board, He can be seized by His enemies and taken away for execution:

Luke xii, 54. Then they took him, and led him, and brought him to the high priest’s house.

Jesus’s trial proceeds, He is condemned to death, and led out for… what? Crucifixion? Nailing to a cross? So readers of English translations of the New Testament might suppose, but in fact there is no direct reference in the original to a “cross”: New Testament Greek uses the nouns stauros and xylon, meaning a “pale, stake or pole” and a “stick or piece of wood”, respectively.12

The conclusion? That the high priests sadistically and sardonically ordered Jesus to be executed with His own skateboard: injured though He is, He is forced to ride His repaired ’board again and again on the hill called Golgotha, “The Round, Rolling Place”, under the supervision of brutal Roman soldiers who force Him on with prodding spears and draughts of sour, re-invigorating vinegar. The result? That after a day of this enforced ’boarding, He “cried with a loud voice, and gave up the ghost” (Mark xv, 37).

And so Jesus passed from the Mount of Olives, the oil-trees, to execution with a piece of wood on a place named from the Hebrew-Aramaic verb to roll, and we have each of the three key concepts enunciated at the beginning of this article. The third, final, and most important of them will shortly appear again in the closing act of the Synoptic Gospels, when Jesus’s grieving female followers come to His tomb to perform the final rites of burial:

Mark xvi, 4. And when the sabbath was past, Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of James, and Salome, had brought sweet spices, that they might come and anoint him. 2 And very early in the morning the first day of the week, they came unto the sepulchre at the rising of the sun … 4 And when they looked, they saw that the stone was rolled away: for it was very great. 5 And entering into the sepulchre, they saw a young man sitting on the right side, clothed in a long white garment; and they were affrighted. 6 And he saith unto them, Be not affrighted: Ye seek Jesus of Nazareth, which was crucified [ton estaurōmenon]: he is risen: he is not here: behold the place where they laid him. 7 But go your way, tell his disciples and Peter that he goeth before you into Galilee

In Greek, “rolled” is -kekylistai,13 the same verb as is used for these stone-rolling episodes in the Septuagint, an ancient Jewish translation of the Old Testament into Greek:

Genesis xxix, 10. … Jacob went near, and rolled the stone from the well’s mouth
Proverbs xxvi, 27. Whoso diggeth a pit shall fall therein: and he that rolleth a stone, it will return upon him.

In the original Hebrew, the verb in Genesis and Proverbs is gaalal, and the play on words in Mark between “rolled” and “Galilee” would have been obvious to the apostles, as would its meaning: that Jesus had conquered death, recovered from His wounds, and gone away to skateboard on the rolling hills of Galilee. The Risen Christ is the Risen Skateboarder, King of Kings, and Lord, quite clearly, of ’Boards.


NOTES

1. Discussion of Hebrew words is based on Benjamin Davidson’s The Analytic Hebrew and Chaldee Lexicon, Samuel Bagster & Sons, London, 1970.

2. See, respectively, Luke xxi, 29; Luke xvii, 6; Matthew xiii, 32; Matthew iii, 10.

3. John Blake, The Complete Guide to Skateboarding, Phoebus Publishing, London, 1977, “Glossary”, pg. 62

4. Andrew Tomas (sic), We Are Not the First, ch. 17, “First Robots, Computers, Radio, Television and Time-Viewing Machines”, pg. 162 of the 224-page 1973 Sphere paperback.

5. Ibid., pg. 163, words of the English scientist Dr Derek J. de Solla Price in Natural History, March, 1962.

6. The Complete Guide to Skateboarding, “Sidewalk Surfin’”, pg. 6

7. One previous suggestion: “the nickname ‘Sons of Thunder’ has been shown by Rendel Harris to be connected with the cult of twins. The sons of Zebedee were probably twins” (Peake’s Commentary on the Bible, notes to Mark iii, 17).

8. William Smith, LL.D., Smith’s Bible Dictionary, Fleming H. Revell, Old Tappan, N.J., 1977, entry for “Judas Iscariot”.

9. The Complete Guide to Skateboarding, “Superskating”, pg. 50

10. Ibid., “Glossary”, pg. 63

11. Oxford English Dictionary, which derives “Gethsemane” from the Aramaic gath shemani(m), meaning “oil-press”.

12. Liddell and Scott’s Lexicon.

13. In full, apo- or anakekylistai, the prefix apo- or ana- supplying the sense of “away” or “from”.

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Death in Venice and Other Stories, Thomas Mann, translated by David Luke (1988)

The first time I tried this collection, I read the first story, “Little Herr Friedemann”, and the last, “Death in Venice”. I thought they were both very good: powerful, moving, and mysterious. But I didn’t try any of the other stories, except for a little of “Gladius Dei”. I felt somehow that they wouldn’t be worth it.

Now I’ve come back to the book and tried to read it from beginning to end. I’ve failed and my reluctance to try the other stories seems to have been justified. “Little Herr Friedemann” was still good and so was “Death in Venice”. The others I found variously trite or impossible to finish. “The Road to the Churchyard”, about an unhealthy drunk on foot encountering a healthy youth on a bicycle, reminded me of Maupassant. But Maupassant would have done it much better.

At least, I’ve found Maupassant very good in French. But the same stories have been less good when I’ve tried them in English. Maybe that was part of the problem here. I can’t read Mann’s stories in German and if I could I still wouldn’t be sure of judging them right. But I assume it’s easier for a good story in the original to become a bad story in translation than for the reverse. And “Death in Venice” is a very good story in this translation. After you’ve read it, David Luke’s clever and insightful introduction to the collection will make it even better.

As he points out, “Death in Venice” is in part an updating and expansion of “Little Herr Friedemann”, which is also about thwarted passion and the eruption of Dionysiac energies in an Apollonian life. But the earlier story is tragic and realistic, the later tragicomic and dream-like:

Aschenbach bedeckte seine Stirn mit der Hand und schloß die Augen, die heiß waren, da er zu wenig geschlafen hatte. Ihm war, als lasse nicht alles sich ganz gewöhnlich an, als beginne eine träumerische Entfremdung, eine Entstellung der Welt ins Sonderbare um sich zu greifen, der vielleicht Einhalt zu tun wäre, wenn er sein Gesicht ein wenig verdunkelte und aufs neue um sich schaute. – Der Tod in Venedig (1912), Drittes Kapitel.

Aschenbach put his hands over his forehead and closed his eyes, which were hot from too little sleep. He had a feeling that something not quite usual was about to happen, that the world was undergoing a dreamlike alteration, becoming increasingly deranged and bizarre, and perhaps this process might be arrested if he were to cover his face for a little and take a fresh look at things. (section 3)

The world will indeed become increasingly deranged and bizarre, as the distinguished novelist Gustav Aschenbach allows his infatuation with a young Polish boy to strip him of his reason, his dignity and, finally, his life. The title tells the reader that his doom is inevitable, so Mann has to make the journey there interesting. And it is: psychologically, symbolically, allegorically, and literally too. Aschenbach couldn’t have stayed in Munich: he needed a rich, fantastic, southern and sea-washed setting for his doomed romance.

The boy, Tadzio, is delicately and skilfully depicted – “presented,” as David Luke says in the introduction, “with extraordinary subtlety, mysteriously yet very realistically paused between innocence and a certain half-conscious coquetry”. I was reminded of Sebastian Flyte in Brideshead Revisited (1945), who also visits Venice with the protagonist. But that’s a novel and the protagonist will see Sebastian grow old and lose his beauty. Aschenbach will never see that happen to his object of desire: Tadzio’s beauty enthrals and destroys him, successfully tempting him to stay on in Venice as cholera rages and tourists flee.

“Death in Venice” is also reminiscent of Lolita (1955) and you could call it the homosexual variant on the same paedophilic theme. But I found Lolita too repulsive to finish the last time I tried it. “Death in Venice” is more ironic, more comic and more moral. Its unnatural love-affair is never consummated and it will be news of Aschenbach’s death that shocks the world, not news of his arrest. Where Lolita has undoubtedly encouraged crime, “Death in Venice” may occasionally have admonished those contemplating it.

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Something Fresh, P.G. Wodehouse (1915)

Another book to remind you that only the mediocre are always at their best. At his best, Wodehouse is sublime, but it was impossible for such a prolific author to always be at his best. And particularly not when he was still learning his craft. This novel is the first devoted to Blandings Castle and its eccentric master Lord Emsworth, but the title promises something that isn’t delivered.

The style isn’t fresh: it’s clogged with Victorian facetiousness. Wodehouse hasn’t taken to the literary wing, as he would in the Ukridge and Mulliner stories. He hasn’t learnt how to mix simplicity with silliness and cerebrality, as he would in the Jeeves stories. Jeeves definitely isn’t my favourite Wodehouse character. I’d even say I dislike him, but some of the Jeeves stories are undoubtedly classics and they’re very enjoyable to read. Perhaps Wodehouse was at his best in a short story. I’ve certainly given up on some of his novels – this one, for example. Lord Emsworth is eccentric here but not amusing. When he carries off a valuable scarab by mistake from an American millionaire’s collection, it’s a plot-device, not something that seems natural.

And although the Efficient Baxter appears here too, he’s a shadow of his future and formidable self. The Empress of Blandings isn’t even a shadow. At least, I saw no hint of her presence in what I read and there was no mention of her on the back cover. Blandings without the Empress is like strawberries without cream. And this novel is like straw without berries. It’s dull, contrived and unamusing, Wodehouse at far below his best.

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Liddell and Scott’s Greek-English Lexicon, Henry George Liddell and Robert Scott (1843)

Here’s something I learned only recently: the Liddell of the Lexicon was the father of the Alice of Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass fame. I knew her surname was Liddell and that she lived in Oxford, but the possible connection never occurred to me. Partly it must have been that the Lexicon is so soberly academic and Alice in Wonderland so surreally imaginative. But the connection is appropriate, because classical Greek would be the perfect language to translate Alice in Wonderland into. It has all the necessary richness and subtlety:

Sample from the Lexicon #1 (click for larger)

And the Greek script in its fully developed form, with minuscule letters and diacritics, is much more beautiful than the Roman alphabet. This lexicon is a bibliophile’s delight and it’s easy to download PDFs of the full edition. But I also own a physical copy of an abridgment of it. A real book has advantages over an electronic text. You don’t make happy discoveries by accident as easily with an e-text and you’re cut off from history when you’re reading from a screen. Liddell and Scott worked with paper:

Sample from the Lexicon #2 (click for larger)


Paper was also the medium for most of the poets, historians, philosophers and novelists whose words they define. But not for the most famous of all: Homer’s two great epics were originally composed and transmitted without pen or paper. They were products of the pre-literate Bronze Age, when poets and storytellers relied on memory, not manuscripts. A lot was lost with literacy, but civilization depends on it and this lexicon is one of the great monuments to the influence that Greek civilization still has on the world.

But rich and interesting as this book is, it has one big disadvantage: it’s bilingual (or trilingual if you count the Latin). As I pointed out in my review of a Larousse de Poche, monolingual dictionaries are best for learning a foreign language. If a word in Greek is defined in Greek, then “no officious English word intrud[es]”, as C.S. Lewis put it in Surprised by Joy (1955). Liddell and Scott were good enough scholars to have written entirely in Greek and I wish they had done so. There could have been two Lexicons, one translating Greek into English and one defining Greek in Greek.

No Latin dictionary is so famous as Liddell and Scott’s Greek-English Lexicon, which probably and partly reflects the earthier and more utilitarian nature of Latin. But a Latin lexicon defining Latin in Latin would have been good too and something that Victorian scholars could easily have created.

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Headlong Hall (1816) / Nightmare Abbey (1818)

Dubious disciple of Tarzan expresses proud ornithophilia (6,4,7)

I’m no good at cryptic crosswords. I’d like to think this is because I didn’t do them as a kid, but then I never felt any inclination to do them as a kid. Where there’s no inclination, there’s often no ability. Either way, it’s a pity, because cryptic crosswords can be great fun. The fun lies in playing with words and ideas in a light-hearted way.

Rather like reading the books of the writer this review is about. His name is concealed in the cryptic clue above. If you haven’t worked it out, don’t worry, because I wouldn’t have either if someone else had invented the clue. So let’s take it a step at a time. Who was a dubious disciple? Well, he was a bit more than a disciple, but “apostle” didn’t alliterate (among other things). My saying that should allow you to work out that the first word is THOMAS. Now, forget about the bit in the middle and concentrate on the bit on the end. “Ornithology” is bird-study, so “ornithophilia” must be bird-love. And it’s proud. But is that “proud love” or “proud bird”? My asking that should allow you to work out that the third word is PEACOCK. Now let’s try the bit in the middle. A disciple of Tarzan called Thomas is expressing his love for peacocks. How might he go about it? Well, how did Tarzan go about expressing the same emotion? Tarzan love Jane. My explaining that should allow you to work out that the full answer is THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK.

He sounds like a ’sixties psychedelic band, doesn’t he? Maybe he was – if he wasn’t, he should have been. First and foremost, though, he was a writer, born in 1785, died in 1866. In Weymouth and London, respectively. He was only a minor literary figure even in his day, but that’s part of what I like about him. That and his name. And his books.

Well, two of them, anyway. He wrote seven-and-a-bit: Headlong Hall (1816); Melincourt (1817); Nightmare Abbey (1818); Maid Marian (1822); The Misfortunes of Elphin (1829); Crotchet Castle (1831); Gryll Grange (1860); and Calidore (which he never completed). I’ve tried four of them, and given up with two. The two I gave up with were The Misfortunes of Elphin and Crotchet Castle. The two I didn’t give up with were Headlong Hall and Nightmare Abbey.

Those two are also his most famous books, which suggests that they’re his best. And his best is very good. Headlong Hall is a satire on, among other things and other people, the Romantic Movement and figures like Shelley and Byron; Nightmare Abbey takes a narrower view and satirizes the Romantic Movement through just Shelley and his hopeless love-affairs. For a flavor of the first, here is Mr Foster, the perfectibilist, who believes that the human race is getting better with every generation:

“In short,” said he, “everything we look on attests the progress of mankind in all the arts of life, and demonstrates their gradual advancement towards a state of unlimited perfection.”

Foster and his perfectibilism are adamantly and absolutely opposed by the deteriorationist Mr Escot, who believes that, on the contrary, the human race is getting worse with every generation:

“[T]hese improvements, as you call them, appear to me only so many links in the great chain of corruption, which will soon fetter the whole human race in irreparable slavery and incurable wretchedness: your improvements proceed in a simple ratio, while the factitious wants and unnatural appetites they engender proceed in a compound one; and thus one generation acquires fifty wants, and fifty means of supplying them are invented, which each in its turn engenders two new ones; so that the next generation has a hundred, the next two hundred, the next four hundred, till every human being becomes such a helpless compound of perverted inclinations, that he is altogether at the mercy of external circumstances, loses all independence and singleness of character, and degenerates so rapidly from the primitive dignity of his sylvan origin, that it is scarcely possible to indulge in any other expectation, than that the whole species must at length be exterminated by its own infinite imbecility and vileness.”

But Escot and Foster are opposed, or perhaps balanced, by Mr Jenkison, the statu-quo-ite, who believes that the balance of good and bad remains the same from generation to generation:

I have often debated the matter in my own mind, pro and con, and have at length arrived at this conclusion – that there is not in the human race a tendency either to moral perfectibility or deterioration; but that the quantities of each are so exactly balanced by their reciprocal results, that the species, with respect to the sum of good and evil, knowledge and ignorance, happiness and misery, remains exactly and perpetually in statu quo.

Throw in more philosophers and scholars attached with equal fervor to other, and odder, world-views, mix with absurd incidents, absurder love-affairs, and season with genuine learning and wit, and you have the recipe with which Thomas Love Peacock has appealed to a small but select audience ever since Headlong Hall was first published in 1816. Two years later, in 1818, he followed it with Nightmare Abbey, which is less a feast than a single dish, but no less delicious for that. Even better, you can buy both for a pound in the Wordsworth series at a bookshop near you now.

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The Voynich Manuscript: the unsolved riddle of an extraordinary book which has defied interpretation for centuries, Gerry Kennedy and Rob Churchill (Orion paperback 2005)

Many things that fall under the Fortean label – they’re supposedly strange, anomalous, mysterious – dwindle under further investigation. There’s less to them than meets the eye. The Voynich Manuscript isn’t like that. It’s a hand-written book, heavily illustrated and annotated, that is genuinely mysterious and interesting. What is it about? Who wrote it? Why? After decades of analysis, we’re no nearer answering those questions.

Even if there’s no real language behind the script it uses, as statistical patterns seem to indicate, it’s still a fascinating object. Someone went to a lot of trouble to create it, whether it or not it’s full of gibberish, and a completely mad creator might be even more interesting than a rational one. Gerry Kennedy and Rob Churchill, the authors of this detailed study, look at all the main candidates for authorship, from the friar Roger Bacon to the occultist John Dee and the bookseller Wilfred Voynich.

Voynich gave his name to the manuscript because he discovered it. Or so he said. Some have claimed that he created it instead, but they’re certainly wrong. It really is centuries old, as proved by both carbon-dating and provenance, and it’s been defeating the best efforts of cryptologists for centuries too. The Jesuit polymath Athanasius Kircher seems to have been baffled by it in the mid-seventeenth-century. In the early twenty-first century, cryptologists are still baffled. Is there a real language there, artificial or otherwise? Probably not:

[S]ome very unusual patterns of words … can be found in the manuscript. On most pages of the manuscript strings of the same words are repeated up to five times, or on other occasions, even longer strings of words with only the odd change to individual letters. This would be like writing the word that five times in succession in a phrase in modern English, or producing a sentence along the lines of Brought bought bough, though tough, through trough. It is almost impossible to conceive of a language where this would happen regularly, if at all. As Mary D’Imperio says, reporting the words of several Voynich researchers, “the text just doesn’t act like natural language.” (ch. 5, “The Cryptological Maze – Part II”, pg. 155)

But why would anyone write gibberish for so many pages and accompany that gibberish with so many strange drawings? There are plants, charts and naked women in baths. Is it a botanical text or an alchemical treatise? Or did a hoaxer want people to think that it was? Most researchers think that it was created with a serious purpose. I agree, but in one important way that doesn’t matter. The Voynich Manuscript may never be deciphered, but it’s already given us some valuable lessons in wishful thinking. As with Egyptian hieroglyphs, which Kennedy and Churchill also discuss, researchers have claimed successful decipherments of the Voynich Manuscript that turned out to be nothing of the kind. William Newbold saw microscopic variations in the symbols that weren’t really there; James Feeley thought they were Latin shorthand.

Both of them announced their decipherments with great confidence; both of them were completely wrong. No-one else has been any more successful and the Voynich Manuscript has defeated researchers with much more expertise and much more powerful analytical tools. This book is an excellent introduction to a genuinely mysterious object. Theories about it will continue to multiply, but it may never reveal its secrets. Perhaps that would be for the best.

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Bohemond Rhapsody — Waugh’s preface to Alfred Duggan’s Count Bohemond (1964)

Tom Drum — Foreword by Waugh to Thomas Merton’s Elected Silence (1949)

Sparrows and Gunpowder — An Eminent Edwardian and Evelyn Waugh’s Journey to Faith

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Le Tour de Gaule d’Asterix, René Goscinny and Albert Uderzo (Hachette 1967)

When I picked up my second Asterix book as a child, I opened it and then put it down again. I thought I had read it before, because it had the same first page: a map of Gaul, transfixed by a Roman eagle but with a magnifying glass on one small unconquered corner in the north-west, the Gaulish village where the pint-sized warrior Asterix lives with his giant friend Obelix.

After I picked up another book in the series, I realized my mistake. The Asterix books all had that first page. Now I realize something more: that the map is important not just to set the scene but also to assuage the humiliation. The Asterix books are ostensibly about clever Gauls getting the better of clumsy Romans, with the Gauls standing in for children and the Romans for adults. But they’re also about the French and the Germans during the Second World War. In fantasy, the Gauls managed to keep one corner of their homeland their own, fighting off and humiliating the Romans every time they tried to conquer it. In reality, France was entirely conquered and the French were the humiliated ones.

The German occupation was no joke. The Roman occupation could be, though. After all, it took place many centuries before Le Tour de Gaule d’Asterix was first published in 1967, when the German occupation was still a vivid memory for millions of French. Asterix was a salve for the psychic wounds of a nation, but its pharmacological recipe works outside l’Hexagone.* The bright colours, constant action, chaotic plots, and visual and linguistic puns of Asterix will make you feel cheerful whether or not you’re French. And whether or not you read them in French. But reading in French is best, of course. As I’ve said before, if you’re learning a language you should do two things: use a monolingual dictionary and read comics.

With comics, you see language illustrated by action and objects, so you absorb meaning without your mother-tongue getting in the way. That happens all through Le Tour de Gaule, which is about a bet Asterix has with a Roman prefect called Lucius Fleurdelotus, who has been sent by Jules César to stop Asterix and the other villagers disturbing the “paix Romaine” of Gaul. Lucius has had the village surrounded by a palisade of stout wood and tells Asterix from a watch-tower that he and the other villagers will have to stay on their own small piece of land and be forgotten. Asterix defiantly disagrees: “ROMAIN! NOUS SOMMES CHEZ NOUS EN GAULE ET NOUS IRONS OÙ BON NOUS SEMBLERA…” – “Roman! Gaul is our home and we’ll go wherever we please…” He bets Lucius that the palisade will prove useless and that he, Asterix, can go on a tour of Gaul, gathering the culinary specialities of every region for a banquet to which Lucius is formally invited.

Lucius accepts the bet, promising to lift the blockade if he loses it. So Asterix and his best friend Obelix set off on their Tour de Gaule. First of all, Asterix needs a new flask of magic strength-potion from “le druide vénérable du village”, Panoramix. Obelix doesn’t need potion, because he fell in the druid’s cauldron when he was a baby. Unlike Asterix, he can knock Romans down like nine-pins without a draught from the flask. There’s always a lot of Roman-bashing in the Asterix books, but there are always good new jokes too. One of the best here is the visit made by Asterix and Obelix to a “Chars d’Occasion”, or “Second-Hand Chariot” dealership, where the beaming owner, dressed in a camel-hair coat, sells them a gleaming chariot and glossy black horse. “VOUS NE LE REGRETTEREZ PAS,” he assures them: “You won’t regret it.”

They set off, but the horse begins to tire very quickly. Then it begins raining. “NOTRE CHEVAL A DÉTEINT!” gasps Asterix: “Our horse has changed colour!” And one of the chariot’s wheels falls off. They’ve been sold a ringer: the horse was painted black and the chariot unfit for the road. But it doesn’t stop the Tour. They simply commandeer the Roman char de dépannage, or “pick-up chariot”, that arrives to tow away their wreck. There are lots more new jokes before the end of the book, plus the running gag that sees them meet a long-suffering pirate ship in the Mediterranean. And Obelix, as usual, reacts badly to the suggestion that he’s fat.

Because images accompany the action, I understood most of the French easily, but there were puns and regional jokes that went over my head. I didn’t understand the end of the book either, when Asterix gives Lucius the village’s own speciality: “LA CHÂTAIGNE!” – “The chestnut!” As he says it, he knocks Lucius – TCHAC! – right out of his sandals and high into the air. That couldn’t be translated literally into English and a lot must be lost when you read Asterix in another language. But the images remain and sometimes the translation works better than the original. The village druid Panoramix is called Getafix in English, the rotund village chief Abraracourcix is Vitalstatistix, and the caterwauling village bard Assurancetourix is Cacophonix.

Cacophonix would work in French too, but those names are a rare example of an outsider improving on the original. In their way, the Asterix books are one of the great products of French civilization, full of charm, cleverness and joie de vivre. I don’t think anything could make them more enjoyable, but that subtext about the German occupation makes them more interesting.


*“The Hexagon”, as France is known because of its roughly six-sided shape on the map.

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Æsthete’s Foot — Quennell, Acton and Powell on Waugh, Oxford and Crowley

Coo’ on Wu — extracts about Evelyn Waugh from Diana Cooper’s letters to her son John Julius Norwich.

Pinal Chap — Max Beerbohm’s memoir of Swinburne

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Cover of The Bad Movie Bible by Rob HillThe Bad Movie Bible: The Ultimate Modern Guide to Movies That Are So Bad They’re Good, Rob Hill (Art of Publishing 2017)

(This is a guest-review by Pablo Magono)

There are good movies and bad movies. Among the latter, there are “movies so bad that you might think Adam Sandler was responsible for them, but so funny it won’t be for long.” That’s the simple premise behind The Bad Movie Bible. It’s easy to read, very funny, and full of information, posters, interesting screen-grabs, prize quotes, and sizzling starlets flashing flesh.

And as if that weren’t enough, the icing on the cake is that The Bad Movie Bible is itself mildly infected by Bad-Movie-itis. There are repeated references to a mysterious “right of passage” and the publisher’s address is given as “Bloosmbury”. Is this part of the joke? No, I don’t think so. It’s just a reminder that to err is human. But to err as badly as some of the movies here might be superhuman. Literally so, because Superman IV: The Quest for Peace is one of the entries in the “Science Fiction & Fantasy” section.

Elsewhere there are sections for “Action” and “Horror”, plus a grab-bag section called “The Rest” that collects everything from Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band (1978) and The Room (2003) to Empire of the Ants (1977) and Double Down (2005). All movies get ratings out of 10 for five essential filmographic categories: “Cheese”, “Acting”, “Excess”, “Ineptitude” and “What?” (“reflecting the movie’s propensity to offer up moments of baffling wonder”). The higher the mark, the badder-better that aspect of the movie. Then there’s an overall “BMB Rating”, again out of 10, which doesn’t necessarily reflect the average score on the other categories. Some movies are more than the sum of their parts, some are less.

The best of the baddest are also accompanied by interviews with stars, stuntmen or those who rescued them from oblivion. For fetid fans of scuzz-cinema, this book should provide many happy hours first of reading, then of watching its recommendations. But could anything ever live up to the promise of a title like Death Bed: The Bed That Eats (1977)? Or Kung Fu Cannibals (1982)? In the latter case, apparently it could: the movie, better-known as Raw Force, gets a BMB Rating of 10, despite an average rating of 8.4 on the other categories (only “What?” is 10/10). The horror movie Things (1989) also gets a BMB Rating of 10, but its average score on the sub-categories is 9.6 – it gets 10/10 for “Acting”, “Excess”, “Ineptitude” and “What?”, but “Cheese” is 8/10.

That makes Things the baddest-bestest in the book. For Rob Hill, anyway. It’s not his favourite movie in the book, mind, but he knows what he’s talking about. He has a lot of knowledge, with enthusiasm and wit to match:

Miami Connection is an extremely positive movie that preaches tolerance and the need to accept people from all walks of life. Unless they’re drug-dealing motorcycle ninjas. (Miami Connection, 1987) … Writer / director Amir Shervan doesn’t stumble around the fringes of incompetence: he jumps right into the middle of it and does a jig. (Samurai Cop, 1991) … During the following night the sword is blown out of Christie’s closet on fishing wire by a wind machine. (Ninja III: The Domination, 1984) … Just like its star, Deadly Prey has been honed, buffed and oiled to within an inch of its life, then stripped virtually naked and released into the wild. (Deadly Prey, 1987) … The best teenagers-get-eaten-by-radioactive-plankton-fed-mutant-human-hybrid-flying-fish movie ever made. (Creatures from the Abyss, aka Plankton, 1994) … The apparent lack of any traditional cinematic luxuries (posh stuff like a tripod to keep the camera steady) makes this hard to watch at times. … But there’s something about it. If we’re honest, that something might just be a sexually promiscuous doll. It’s hard to say. (Black Devil Doll from Hell, 1984) … Ben & Arthur is a personal and heartfelt glimpse into the world of writer / director / star Sam Mraovich. His world is batshit crazy. (Ben & Arthur, 2002) … It must be hard for a man surrounded by Bee Gees to look like the smug one. Peter Frampton has a real talent for it. (Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, 1978)

Hill also has space for some “deliberately cheesy” movies like The Ice Pirates (1984) and Traxx (1988). He includes them because he thinks they’re not as knowing as they wanted to be: “Just because there are deliberate attempts to ape schlock, it doesn’t mean there can’t be inadvertent schlock, too.” Movies like this are “good-good, bad-bad and good-bad all at the same time.” But most of the book is given over to movies that are genuinely so-bad-they’re-good. With possible exceptions like the following, which might be so-bad-it-should-have-been-burned:

La Notte del Necrofilo / Night of the Necrophile (Italy / Romania 1986)

After watching an ordinary scuzzy movie, you may well be left wishing you could bleach your eyeballs. After watching Night of the Necrophile, you may well be left wishing that eyeballs had never been invented. This movie doesn’t merely plumb unprecedented depths of depravity, bad taste and offensiveness: it finds depths below the depths, and then depths below those. The ineptitude and amateurishness merely add an extra shot of slime to the whole fetid cocktail.

But the ineptitude doesn’t extend far enough. You can’t take refuge in an incoherent or non-existent plot, because the noxious narrative is all too appallingly evident and easy to follow. Gypsy criminals Gran Voio (played by a cackling Eric Napolito) and his dwarvish cousin Piccolo Psico (Samuel Tegolare) are hired by the black-clad, mask-wearing Doktor Nekro (Victor Queresco), a Nazi scientist / war-criminal who’s been hiding out in the badlands of southern Italy since the end of the war. He needs their help to collect a fresh batch of young female corpses for his perverted experiments in reanimation. The toxic trio set off in a refrigerated truck, committing brazen street-murders to source their stock or sneaking into municipal mortuaries and loading the freshest and most attractive corpses into their necro-wagon.

Then, just as night falls and news comes over the radio of a heat-wave the following day, the truck breaks down on the winding mountain road that leads back to Doktor Nekro’s well-hidden lair. The refrigeration fails and the three depraved criminals are left with a stash of stolen stiffs that aren’t going to keep… I’d describe what happens next, but I’m worried that my keyboard would report me to the authorities. Suffice it to say that Doktor Nekro begins to commit medical infractions that the framers of the Hippocratic oath could never have anticipated – indeed, could never have imagined possible. […]

The mysterious and probably pseudonymous director is rumoured to have died shortly after completing the movie, possibly of shame, his body being shipped back to Romania for burial. In his absence, Night of the Necrophile was hastily edited and rush-released in a desperate attempt to stave off Sanguecine’s looming – and well-deserved – bankruptcy. Be warned. And then warned again. This is a movie that makes Things seem like Citizen Kane and The Gore Gore Girls seem like Bambi. Approach with extreme caution.

That’s not a typical movie here, but it helps make The Bad Movie Bible as varied as the real Bible. It’s “Bad to the Bon”!

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