Posted by: Lisa Hill | January 18, 2026

The Eye Opener (1982), by Geoffrey Dutton

A-hem, my timing for this review could perhaps be better, but I swear that I began reading this novella before current events made the Adelaide Festival topical. And now I’m catching up with belated reviews…

Geoffrey Dutton was a founder of the Adelaide Festival back in the 1960s and The Eye Opener is his satirical salute from the harassed 1980s to the sleepy South Australia of the 1960s. 

This is the book description from the inside front jacket:

The scene is set against the backdrop of preparations for the first Adelaide Festival of Arts.

The reader first encounters Sir Lumley Lapwing in London from Adelaide in search of a Publicity and Liaison Officer for the upcoming festival.  He spends an afternoon with his old friend, Lord Rumblebridge, lingering over an elegant and very liquid lunch.  In due course Lord Rumblebridge describes to Sir Lumley the perfect man for the job — Ralph Bustard, nephew of the Earl of Appledown.

‘First rate,’ says Lord Rumblebridge. ‘Got a DSO and DFC, Spitfires. Then he was dropped into France working for the Resistance. He’s got a Croix de Guerre… Balliol man. Speaks several languages.  Been everywhere…’ Sir Lumley is impressed and Ralph is subsequently hired.

However, Ralph is not quite what he seems, and this is true of a number of the characters in the book.

There’s more, but you get the drift.

As a founder of the festival, Dutton was poking fun at himself and Adelaide’s ambitions to be the cultural capital of Australia, but still, even in 1982 when this was published, some of it is offensive in a Barry Humphries kind of way.  I don’t think it’s Presentism to say that he, and his publisher the University of Queensland Press, should have known better  than to use the ‘N-word’ or to make jokes about clerical abuse of schoolboys.  Even in satire.

Anyway…

BEWARE: SPOILERS.  (This book is long out of print and not likely ever to be reissued.)

Ralph Bustard has been head-hunted in Britain because of the cultural cringe that afflicted so many aspects of Australian life in the years before the Whitlam government(1972-75). But notwithstanding his recommendation by titled ‘connections’ in the UK, Ralph is a fraud.  He’s not Appledown’s nephew, he’s his son by a French-Senegalese housekeeper.  He’s not a ‘Balliol man’; he worked in their kitchens before joining the RAF in the war. He bought his medals in a pawn shop because was only ever ground crew, and his smart clothes are courtesy of a not-really-adequate annual allowance from his father’s Will. He does speak multiple languages despite an inadequate education because he picked them up when the household travelled in Africa, Egypt and Turkey.

When Ralph arrives in Australia, he’s billeted with Lady Wire along with her widowed daughter Alison and three children.  Despite a dalliance with Clarissa he falls for Alison, and when he proposes at the end of the story, it’s not clear whether he’s going to come clean with her or with anybody else.

There’s another fraud, who’s a real con man masquerading as a clergyman and teacher.  Since it takes one to know one, Ralph soon recognises this and thus raises the issue of whether he should be exposed.  Some of Dutton’s characters seem to think it doesn’t matter since he’s not harming anyone. Contemporary readers are unlikely to agree.

I bought this book, along with a couple of others, because when I was at university I had read from cover to cover a book that Dutton had edited.  It was The Literature of Australia  (1964, reissued 1976) and it’s still one of the most comprehensive surveys of OzLit I’ve come across though it’s obviously out of date by now.  Although I don’t think Dutton himself was a great novelist,  I was impressed by the originality of his novel Tamara which I read for the 1970 Club.  But although there may be reviews tucked away in academic bookshelves, I couldn’t find any for his novels, which is why I think it’s important to share my impressions of The Eye Opener.

I nearly abandoned it.  Dutton’s intention was obviously to satirise racism, snobbery, the cultural cringe and hypocritical attitudes to sexuality, but it is uncomfortably outrageous.

How strange it is that the Adelaide Festival should be outrageous now in an entirely different way…

Author: Geoffrey Dutton
Title: The Eye Opener
Publisher: University of Queensland Press, 1982
Cover art and design by Luke Perkins
ISBN: 0702216224, hbk., 151 pages
Source: Personal library, purchased from Bookwood Booksellers, via AbeBooks, $6 not counting postage

Well here we are at the end of another week of Shed Hell, we have four days left to get the last of the stuff out of the shed (and have of course left the hardest stuff till last) and I haven’t written my review of Robin Jenkins The Cone Gatherers or Geoffrey Dutton’s The Eye Opener.  Dante, however, must not be deferred because I am determined to do the last one next week.  So onward!


Following on from my previous posts about the Purgatorio; the Inferno; and the Paradiso, we now continue the Paradiso using Volume 3 of Mark Musa’s excellent translation and notes.

Canto XVII

Canto XVII is prophetic, more than Dante the Poet knew or may have hoped for.

Beatrice tells Dante the Pilgrim to release the flame of his consuming wish and so he asks his illustrious ancestor Cacciaguida about what his own fate will be.  He explains that

While I was still in Virgil’s company,
climbing the mountain where the souls are healed,
descending through the kingdom of the dead

ominous words about my future life
were said to me… (Canto XVII, Lines 19-22)

And his great-grandfather tells him what lies in store: betrayal, injustice and exile.

As Hippolytus was forced to flee from Athens
by his devious and merciless stepmother,
just so you too shall have to leave your Florence.

So it is willed, so it is being planned,
and shall be done soon by the one who plots
it there where daily Christ is up for sale.

The public will, as always, blame the party
that has been wronged; vengeance that Truth demands,
although shall yet bear witness to the truth.

You shall be forced to leave behind those things
you love most dearly, and this is the first
arrow the bow of your exile will shoot.

And you will know how salty* is the taste
of others’ bread, how hard the road that takes
you down and up the stairs of others’ homes.

But what will weigh you down the most will be
the despicable, senseless company
whom you shall have to bear in that sad vale;

and all ungrateful, all completely mad
and vicious, they shall turn on you, but soon
their cheeks, not yours, will have to blush from shame.

Proof of their bestiality will show
through their own deeds! It will be to your honour
to have become a party of your own. (Canto XVII, Lines 46-69)

* Here’s a little snippet that Musa doesn’t mention in the Notes.  He does, of course, explain that Dante will know the sadness of depending on others for food and lodging, and that is true.  But it’s also a reference to the fact, established in the Middle Ages, that after a tax dispute with Pisa, Tuscans did not (and still don’t) put salt in their bread.  So these words in the prophecy alert Dante the Pilgrim and all those who read or heard The Divine Comedy in its day, to the sad reality that Dante the Poet is destined to be homeless far beyond his native Tuscany, where even the bread — the staff of life — will be alien to him.

These poignant words seem more like a curse than a prophecy, but Cacciaguida goes on with some words of comfort.  He tells the Pilgrim that his first host will be the great Lombard, who is identified by Musa as Bartolommeo della Scala of Verona, and Dante will not need to beg from him:

and he will hold you in such high regard
that in your give and take relationship
the one will give before the other asks. (Canto XVII, Lines 73-75)

And not only that, Dante can expect good things from the Lord’s son who will affect the fate of many men, rich men and beggars changing their estate. Cacciaguida goes on to say that Dante will have a future that will outlast them all:

No envy to your neighbours should you bear,
for you will have a future that endures
far longer than their crime and punishment. (Canto XVII, Lines 97-99)

Dante, Beatrice & Cacciaguida by Francesco Scaramuzza

And that is certainly true.  Dante did, literally, outlive his nemesis Pope Boniface VIII, but his fame has lasted for centuries.

Canto XVIII

Dante is pondering the bittersweet fate that lies in store, when Beatrice commands him to look at her eyes filled with Divine Love and think other thoughts.  As he does so, he is transported from the rosy glow of the fifth sphere of Mars to the silvery sixth sphere of Jupiter.

What does C S Lewis have to say about the medieval view of the planet Jupiter?

Jupiter, the King, produces in the earth, rather disappointingly, tin; this shining metal said different things to the imagination before the canning industry came in. The character he produces in men would now be very imperfectly expressed by the word ‘jovial’, and is not very easy to grasp; it is no longer, like the saturnine character, one of our archetypes. We may say it is Kingly; but we must think of a King at peace, enthroned, taking his leisure, serene. The Jovial character is cheerful, festive yet temperate, tranquil, magnanimous. When this planet dominates we may expect halcyon days and prosperity. In Dante wise and just princes go to his sphere when they die. He is the best planet, and is called The Greater Fortune, Fortuna Major. C S Lewis, The Discarded Image: An Introduction to Medieval and Renaissance Literature (pp. 91-92). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.)

It seems to me that Dante focuses more on justice than joviality, and that he is interested in a somewhat muscular version of justice, but we shall see…

Soldier-souls cast their light to spell the words: Diligite iustitiam qui iudicatis terram. These words mean ‘Love justice, you who judge the earth’ and they come from The Book of Wisdom of Solomon in the Apocrypha. More lights descend, singing, and they form the neck and head of an eagle. (Ok, the artist who created the image below for an illuminated manuscript used blue instead of silver, but if he took the opportunity to use the most expensive paint for his wealthy patron, why not?)

Dante and Beatrice ascending to the Heaven of Jupiter

From Line 120 Dante addresses his bitter thoughts about the Pope, who has forgotten the words of Saints Peter and Paul who died/to save the vineyard you despoil. 

Canto XIX

Ah, ok, the Eagle has some discouraging news: man is weak, but not so weak that he doesn’t see that its own Principle/is far beyond what our eyes can perceive.

And so the vision granted to your world
can no more fathom Justice Everlasting
than eyes can see down to the ocean floor:

while you can see the bottom near the shore,
you cannot out at sea; but nonetheless
it is still there, concealed by depths too deep. (Canto XIX, Lines 58-63)

So no, he’s not going to answer Dante’s enduring question: what justice is there in damning a good soul who, through no fault of his own, has not heard of Christ and has not been baptised?  Indeed, the eagle gets quite cranky and — dare I say it of a heavenly creature? — rather abusive towards poor old Dante, who is, after all, only asking a question which has bothered theologians and ordinary believers for centuries.

Now who are you to sit in judgement’s seat
and pass on things a thousand miles away,
when you can hardly see beyond your nose?

The man who would argue fine points with me,
if holy Scripture were not there to guide us,
surely would have serious grounds for doubt.

O earthbound creatures! O thick-headed men!
The Primal Will, which of Itself is good,
never moves from Itself, the Good Supreme. (Canto XIX, Lines 79-87)

There is more of this, but you get the drift.  Don’t ask impertinent questions.

Dante and Beatrice before the Eagle of Justice

Canto XX

Ah, here we get Champions of Justice on earth:

Did you notice?  There’s a couple of pagans in that list, and Dante has the temerity to ask ‘how come’? The eagle delivers another (not quite so mocking) putdown:

‘I see you believe these things are true
because I say them, but you see not how;
thus, though they are believed, their truth is hid.

You do as one who apprehends a thing
by name, but cannot see its quiddity
unless someone explains it for his sake.

Trajan

Musa explains that there was a legend that Pope Gregory prayed so hard for Trajan to be redeemed because he consoled a grieving mother (see Purgatorio, Canto X, Lines 73-93) that he was brought back to life, baptised pronto and was therefore redeemed.

For Ripheus, let’s quote from Wikipedia here (footnotes and unnecessary links removed):

In his Divine Comedy, Dante placed Ripheus in Heaven, in the sixth sphere of Jupiter, the realm of those who personified justice.

Here, he provides an interesting foil to Virgil himself—whom Dante places in the first circle of Hell, with the pagans and the unbaptized—even though Virgil is a major character in the Commedia and for much of it remains Dante’s guide through Hell and Purgatory. Although Ripheus would historically have been a pagan, in Dante’s work he is portrayed as having been given a vision of Jesus over a thousand years before Christ’s first coming, and was thus converted to Christianity in the midst of the Trojan War.

So Ripheus gets a leave pass a thousand years before Christ, while Virgil is left among the pagans in Hell. Some justice, eh? I do not believe that Dante the poet-philosopher was satisfied with this, and chose these examples to show just how random Divine Justice appeared to be.

Let’s have some music.  Gustav Holst was more interested in Jupiter as the planet bringing jollity.

Canto  XXI

Gosh, this is one of those sudden transitions.  We’re in the Sphere of Saturn, which is the transition point between the six lower spheres (see the diagram of the hierarchy of the heavens here) and those above: we’re nearly at the Sphere of the Fixed Stars and after that it’s the Primum Mobile!

Again I turn to C S Lewis:

Saturn. In the earth his influence produces lead; in men, the melancholy complexion; in history, disastrous events. In Dante his sphere is the Heaven of contemplatives. He is connected with sickness and old age. Our traditional picture of Father Time with the scythe is derived from earlier pictures of Saturn. A good account of his activities in promoting fatal accidents, pestilence, treacheries, and ill luck in general, occurs in [Chaucer’s] The Knight’s Tale (A 2463 sq.). He is the most terrible of the seven and is sometimes called The Greater Infortune, Infortuna Major.  (ibid p. 91). 

Beatrice’s beauty is now so radiant that if she were to smile at Dante he would become like Semele because mortals cannot look upon the gods and he would be burned to a heap of ashes. As Musa says, Beatrice is both regal and threatening.  (Isn’t it a bit sacrilegious to portray her as a goddess??)

Here Dante gets another warning not to be presumptuous.  He wants to know why there is no music in this sphere (I’d like to know that too); why can’t Beatrice smile without inflicting disaster; and why is it this soul (who turns out to be Peter Damien) that welcomes him and not some other. The souls whirl about him but there is no explanation other than that humans are too mortal to bear such magnificence, and Dante should not ask.

Yet even heaven’s most illumined soul,
that Seraph who sees God with keenest eye,
could not explain what you have asked to know.

The truth you seek to fathom lies so deep
in the abyss of the eternal law,
it is cut off from every creature’s sight.

And tell the moral world when you return
what I told, so that no man presume
to try to reach a goal as high as this. (Canto XXI, Lines 94-99)

This warning not to seek to know for fear of Divine punishment held back Christian thought for centuries.  It led to ‘witches’, great thinkers and inventors being burnt at the stake.  This impression is reinforced by an overwhelming shout at the end of the canto.


Canto XXII 

Beatrice reverts to her ‘motherly’ role and reassures Dante that the deafening shout, had he been able to understand it, was about the just vengeance about to befall the corrupt clergy in his own lifetime. And now Saint Benedict, the founder of monasticism (who has a great deal to say about the corruption of his ideals) arrives to escort them up the ladder to the next sphere: the sphere of the fixed stars.

Here they are in an image I found at Facebook on the page of Gruppo Panini Cultura. It is annotated:

Dante and Beatrice are in the Eighth Sphere of the Fixed Stars so there are stars all around them. Dante is in the constellation of Gemini, his own zodiac sign. Above you can see the sign of Taurus and below that of Cancer. Beatrice shows Dante the long path he has travelled:

“Rimira in giù, e vedi quanto mondo / sotto li piedi già esser ti fei”
“Look down and see what a universe I have / Already contrived to put beneath your feet,”
(Canto XXII, 128-129)

Canto XXIII

And now, the arrival of the Church Triumphant! The light of Christ shines down and now Dante can look upon Beatrice — though once again he has to leave it undescribed:

If at this moment all the tongues of verse,
which Polyhymnia and her sisters nourished
with their sweet milk, sang to assist my art,

their singing would not come to one one-thousandth
part of the truth about her sacred smile
nor how it set her holy face aglow;

so I find that my consecrated poem
describing Paradise will have to make
a leap, like one who finds his road is blocked.

Now bear in mind the weight of my poem’s theme,
think of the mortal shoulders it rests on.
and do not blame me if I stagger here:

this stretch of sea my vessel’s prow now dares
to cut is not place for a little boat
nor for a captain who would spare himself. (Canto XXIII, Lines 55-69)

And lo! now he can also look upon the brightest of the remaining lights, the Virgin Mary.

…who is crowned by a torch borne by an angel who circles the Virgin summoning her to follow her Son to the highest sphere.  They ascend while all the souls of the Church, their arms stretched towards the heaves, begin to sing with unforgettable beauty the hymn Regina celi. (Musa, p.271)

Here’s a lovely rendition of Regina Caeli (Queen of Heaven):

Canto XXIV

Have you ever wondered how St Peter decides who to let in at the Gates of Heaven? This canto tells us.  When Beatrice asks him to test Dante on his faith (not because it’s necessary but so that he can glorify it), St Peter asks him to define Faith, and Dante answers, also pointing out that it is the nature of mortal men not to have everything revealed to them:

Faith is the substance of those hoped-for things
and argument for things we have not seen.
And this I take to be its quiddity.  [essential nature] (Canto XXIV, Lines 64-66)

Then he is asked if he possesses faith:

he added: ‘Now that you have thoroughly
examined both this coin’s alloy and weight,

tell me, do you have such coin in your purse?’
I answered, ‘Yes I do, so bright and round,
I have no doubt as to its quality.’ (Canto XXIV, Lines 83-87)

So then St Peter asks about the source of that faith and how he knows it is valid, to which Dante replies:

…’The bountiful
rain of the Holy Spirit showering
the parchments, Old and New, is to my mind

unquestionable certainty of Faith,
so accurate that any other proof
compared to it would sound most unconvincing.’ (Canto XXIV, Lines 91-96

And he goes on to say that he knows The Old and New Testaments is proven by the works that followed them: Nature’s hand/ could never heat or forge that kind of iron.’ 

Since Dante gets all the answers correct, the souls sing Te Deum Laudamus while St Peter blesses him.

Next week, Cantos 17-24, i.e.  the Primum Mobile and the Empyreum

 Progress so far:

See also

References:

  • The Divine Comedy: Translation, Notes and Commentary by Mark Musa,
    • Vol 1, Inferno, 2003 new edition of the 1984 Penguin Classics edition, first published 1971 by Indiana University Press, ISBN 9780142437223
    • Vol 2, Purgatory, 1985 Penguin Classics edition, first published 1981 by Indiana University Press, ISBN: 9780140444421
    • Vol 3, Paradise, 1986 Penguin Classics edition, first published 1984, by Indiana University Press ISBN 9780140444438. The illustration on the front over is from William Blake’s ‘St Peter and St James with Dante and Beatrice’, illustration for Canto 25, held at the NGV in Melbourne.
  • The Divine Comedy translated by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, with illustrations by Gustave Doré and an Introduction by Melinda Corey; Barnes and Noble edition 2008, ISBN: 9781435103849
  • The Divine Comedy translated and with an Introduction by Clive James, Picador Poetry edition, 2013, ISBN 9781447244219
  • A Beginners Guide to Dante’s Divine Comedy by Jason M Baxter, Baker Academic, 2018, ISBN: 9781493413102, Kindle edition  ASIN: B0752RVZ6R
  • The Discarded Image: An Introduction to Medieval and Renaissance Literature by C S Lewis, Kindle edition ASIN B08TCJZP5N
  • The Sleepwalkers, by Arthur Koestler, The Danube Edition, Hutchinson, 1968 first published 1959 ISN: 090502515
  • The Essential Plato, translated by Benjamin Jowett, The Softback Preview, 1999, first published in this translation in 1871, ISBN: 9781582880129
  • The Dante Course, a series of lectures presented by Prof. Teodolinda Barolini, Lorenzo da Ponte Professor of Italian at Columbia University, 2015-6 online

Image credits:

Posted by: Lisa Hill | January 14, 2026

Saturation (2025), by William Lane

William Lane’s sixth novel Saturation (2025) was such an interesting book for the 2026 Speccy Fiction challenge hosted by Book’d Out. 

Ambrose and Ursula, two librarians, strive to have a baby in a world where children seem less prevalent. Their story becomes increasingly punctuated by seemingly random episodes of violence inflicted upon their world as Bottrell, a fascist leader, preys on the insecurities of a populace saturated with information and the act of remembering. He attempts to master the past, viewing it as a source of corruption. He persecutes librarians and begins to selectively cull collections.

Ambrose and Ursula attempt to remain outside this conflict, but inevitably are drawn into it, through their desire to save the books they have spent their working lives preserving. They realise that they must save the past for a new generation to be able to understand it.

Narrative and character-driven, this is a startlingly original novel that passionately opposes the trend for banning books and attempts to rewrite history. Set in a slightly future world that has managed the climate crisis but with a dramatic decrease in population, Saturation feels eerily like now. As we constantly forget names and passwords, and lean into a tyranny of reductivism, it calls us to a position of knowledge and hope.

The novel is (deliberately) a curious mix of the shocking and the mundane.  Despite privations caused by climate change, Ambrose and Ursula seem to live an everyday life in most ways. But even from the first page there are disconcerting elements, such as the discussion about the mere presence of a child in the library.  This is unusual, and so is the fact that he is preceded by two guards and then escorted in by two women.

The dialogue is often banal because both Ursula and Ambrose are struggling with memory loss, exacerbated in Ursula’s case by heavy drinking. As they regress, they remember less and less of the past,  which reminded me of the brain fog that accompanied Covid for so many people.  Disease, deliberately spread at mass entertainments, is another tool used to control the populace, presumably because the planet is in such a mess that it can’t support a larger population.

We also see that despite what seems like a fond relationship there are cracks in it. Somehow Yoremind has been able to suppress desire, but these two are trying for a child. Although they argue occasionally, and neither always submits to the other, minor differences show that it’s not a marriage of equals. Ursula is obsessed by knitting for a baby they are unlikely to have and Ambrose doesn’t approve. She hides a jar of honey that she’s been eating because it’s expensive and Ambrose doesn’t buy it any more, so we deduce that she’d rather avoid conflict.  But it’s more than that: Ursula is inclined towards acceptance, whereas Ambrose chafes against the situation and commits small acts of rebellion.  They are not much comfort for each other which is painfully poignant when a crisis occurs.

Things seem more odd for this ordinary couple in small moments.  Ursula checks her phone to see how many points she’s accrued.  She’s not checking loyalty points for Woolworths, and they don’t accrue from buying consumer goods.  They accrue from undertaking approved behaviour, which means that somehow they are being monitored all the time, and that some authority has decided what that approved behaviour should be.  Texts issuing ‘invitations’ and instructions come from Yoremind, Yoremind2 and YM3, ‘encouraging’ people to participate enthusiastically at violent entertainments, to discriminate against citizens who don’t conform, and to cheat on their partners.  Perhaps these texts issue from darker instincts of the human mind, but they serve the needs of a dictatorship by making the populace complicit in violence and xenophobia and by fostering suspicion.

Later, things take a more sinister term when a demagogue rival for power hacks the system and nobody knows which messages come from whom.

When Ursula finally becomes pregnant, it becomes clear that children are so rare that ignorance about childbearing is the norm.  There are no medical services and Ursula has to rely on the long-unused knowledge of older women in her life.

Saturation has a dense and complex plot which moves from the city to a rural refuge when things become intolerable, and back again when a spy and her child infiltrate the farm.  Oppression vacillates with renaissance of some freedoms, but the hope seems to lie with youth who evade the official curriculum and develop skills that help to restore some infrastructure against the pervasive flooding.

William Lane is also the author of Over the Water (2014), The Horses (2015), The Salamanders (2016), The Word (2018), Past Life (2021), and the short story collection Small Forest (2018). You can read my reviews of four of those novels here.

Other reviews are at Meanjin and Paperbark Words

Author: William Lane
Title: Saturation
Publisher: Transit Lounge, 2025
Cover design by Josh Durham/Design by Committee
ISBN: 9781923023352, pbk., 288  pages
Source: Bayside  Library

I read this book at this time for the 2026 Speccy Fiction challenge hosted by Book’d Out. 

Posted by: Lisa Hill | January 14, 2026

Spell the Month in Books January 2026

Spell the Month in Books is a linkup hosted on Reviews From the Stacks on the first Saturday of each month, but that’s the day for #6Degrees, so here we are, a week later instead.

This month’s theme is ‘New’ and I’ve chosen to interpret this with books written by authors new to me, who were recommended by somebody else.

Links go to my reviews:

J

Johannesburg (2019), by Fiona Melrose. This is a novel that explores the inter-generational friction that can arise over feminist issues.   When mother-daughter expectations about gender roles diverge, there can sometimes be mutual disappointment.  I found out about this book from the Johannesburg Review of Books.

A

All the Beautiful Things You Love (2024) by Jonathan Seidler, a bittersweet back-to-front love story about two people who really love each other but break up over irreconcilable differences.  It’s also wickedly funny. Lee Kofman recommended this one.

N

Napoleon’s Double (2007) by Antoni Jach. This was a book club recommendation back in the day, and it made me a lifelong fan of Jach’s writing. It’s a sort of philosophical travel novel about seven rogue-adventurers, who are conscripts in Napoleon’s army during his campaign in Egypt.

U

The Unknown Judith Wright (2016), by Georgina Arnott. I discovered this bio of a beloved Australian poet at the Williamstown Literary Festival in 2017. There are, of course, other biographies about her, but as Arnott explained at the festival, this one interrogates the contradictions in Judith Wright’s life.

A

All the World’s a Stage (Erast Fandorin Mysteries, 2009), by Boris Akunin, translated by Andrew Bromfield.  What was it that induced me to read a crime novel?  It was nominated for the EBDR Translation prize, and it features a detective called Fandorin, who has established himself in the previous novels of the series as a sleuth every bit as good as Sherlock Holmes and with a moustache at least as impressive as Poirot’s.

R

The Raptures (2022), by Jan Carson.  On my radar because I’d read the review by Kim at Reading Matters. Kim, who is often ahead of the game, reviewed it before it was shortlisted for the Irish Book of the Year

Y

The Yellow Bird Sings (2020), by Jennifer Rosner. This one was recommended by Anna Blay Rosner from Hybrid Publishers.  Not one that they published: Anna, like all good publishers, reads other books from other publishers too.

Thanks to the Jana for reminding me.  Her January post is here.

Forthcoming themes:

February 7: Freebie

March 7: Take your pick from Pi Day, March Madness, or Green Covers

April 4: Easter OR Pastel Covers

Ever since the news about the Adelaide Festival broke, I have kept my counsel, expecting — as has now come to pass — that the saboteurs would have their way and the festival would be cancelled.

I have been a strong supporter of Australian books and writing ever since I started this blog, but I am disgusted by the parade of authors pretending that their boycott was in defence of free speech.

This is not about free speech.  Australian authors boycotting the festival have no record of supporting Jewish freedom of speech, or of protesting against the doxxing and boycotting of Jewish writers to intimidate them into silence.  With few exceptions, the Australian arts community has been vigilant in excluding Jews from author events and festivals, and declining to publish their books.  These posturing authors have chosen not to listen to Jewish voices about the rape, torture, murder and hostage-taking of men, women and little children on October 7th.  They have declined to offer any words of consolation to the victims of the Bondi atrocity.  They are our wordsmiths and poets, but where are the words of empathy and kindness for a community reeling in shock and horror, and to assuage the grief of the rest of us whose ideals about Australia as a place of safety and refuge lie shattered on the sands at Bondi?

Why did our arts community not join the chorus of eminent Australians who called for a Royal Commission after Bondi? Perhaps because a Royal Commission might reveal the antisemitism that pervades the sector?

Instead of using their voices to provide comfort and solace to the victims of Islamic terrorism, these authors and all those who support them have preferred to shift the agenda.  Instead their voices are loud and clear in support of a speaker who holds abhorrent views.  She is on record as saying that “Zionists have no claim or right to cultural safety.”  Well, that includes me, even though I am not Jewish, because I believe that Israel has a right to exist and so did the UN when it first voted to establish the State of Israel.

This bullying of festival organisers has got to stop.  First Bendigo, now Adelaide, what next, unless programming silences Jewish voices by default and gives all the airtime to authors posturing about Palestinian ‘freedom’?

I supported the Adelaide Festival Board’s decision to remove Randa Abdel-Fattah, and I am pleased that the Premier of SA supported it too.  The silence about this issue from our other political leaders, state and federal, is shameful.

Update: this article at the AFR, you may be able to read it more clearly here.

I’m the first to admit that it takes a certain amount of chutzpah to share my thoughts about Kokoro because I haven’t read much J-Lit, and — with the exception of Death by Water (2009) by Kenzaburo Oe (translated by Deborah Boliver Boehm), and more recently Under the Eye of the Big Bird (2016), by Hiromi Kawakami, (translated by Asa Yoneda) — I haven’t been very enthusiastic about it.  Michael Orthofer, in his chapter on Japanese fiction in The Complete Review Guide to Contemporary World Fiction (Columbia University Press, 2016), suggests a possible reason for my disinterest: discussing the novels of Ryu Murakami, he writes that more recent novels […] explore the duality in Japanese society of a surface that is formal, orderly, and polite, contrasted with a dark underbelly to which many just turn a blind eye.  

However, according to 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die, (2006 edition) Kokoro (1914, translated by Edwin McClellan) established Natsume Soseki (1867-1914) as one of the greatest writers in modern Japanese Literature:

In its delicate depiction of Sensei’s malaise the novel is not only a testament to the rapid modernisation of Japan, but also an examination of an individual’s tortured sense of failure and responsibility. (1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die, 2006 Edition, edited by Peter Boxall, ABC Books, ISBN 9780733321214, p268.)

Our informant for Sensei’s malaise is a first-person narrator reflecting on past events.  I’d be interested to know if other readers think he is an unreliable narrator.  I think he is. Soseki doesn’t portray him as deliberately trying to mislead the reader. But this is a coming-of-age story so his naïve narrator is a confused young man in thrall to his older mentor, and although as his illusions about Sensei fall away, he acknowledges his failings along with some personal growth, not everything he says can be taken at face value. He doesn’t know enough about himself or the world to be objective about many things.

Consider his opinions about women.  By his own account he doesn’t know much about women, and even feels a revulsion for them.  But when he dines with his mentor Sensei, he comes in contact with Sensei’s wife.  There are signs of Europeanisation in the table setting, but he’s relieved that Sensei’s wife is not so modern as to take pride and pleasure in being able to display her mental powers.

What also impressed me was the fact that. though her ways were not those of an old-fashioned Japanese woman, she had not succumbed to the then prevailing fashion of using ‘modern’ words. (p.37)

But when he begins to be concerned by Sensei’s persisting melancholy it’s Shizu’s advice and reassurance that he wants.

He expects empathy and kindness from women, and he is scornful about his mother when she fails to guess what his needs are.  This is despite lying to his parents, both by omission and with deliberate falsehoods, claiming afterwards that it was too late and he lacked the courage to tell them the truth.

And then there’s his first impressions of the woman who becomes his wife.  #sigh He’s judgemental about her flower arranging.  (Yeah, I know, flower arranging is a Big Cultural Deal in Japan, and we mustn’t judge authors of the past by the values and attitudes of today, but still, I’d like to know if this was Soseki expressing his own views or critiquing the prevailing attitudes to women.)

And then… I don’t know what to make of this passage.  The narrator’s father is rueful about causing trouble to the household:

And my mother’s eyes would suddenly fill with tears. Afterwards, she would remember how different he used to be in the old days, and say, ‘Of course, he sounds rather helpless now, but he used to be quite frightening, I can tell you.’

Among the tales she was fond of telling was the one about the time he had beaten her back with a broomstick.  We had often heard the tale before, but now we listened more carefully, as though the tale was a keepsake to be treasured. (p.118)

And then, without missing a beat, the narrator goes on to talk about the issue of his father’s will.

I was thinking about my discontent with this novel when right on cue, Paula at Winding Up the Week linked to an article by Santiago Campodonico about Dostoyevsky’s influence on Japanese writing that made the moodiness, melancholy and violence comprehensible to me. ‘Dostoevsky’s Influence on Modern Japan: From Meiji to Today’ is subtitled ‘Noise, fracture, and moral tension collide as a nineteenth-century Russian novel resurfaces inside Japan’s long, uneasy conversation with modernity’.  Kokoro does indeed seem to have elements of that.

As the article says, during the Meiji Era (1868-1912) Japanese borders were opened to western trade, bringing rapid industrialisation and modernisation in architecture, clothing and literature.  Here’s a brief history of events which were the catalyst:

Kokuro is littered with allusions to this trend.  It’s not just the narrator’s unease with changes in women’s behaviour, Soseki also shows the narrator’s experience of university education as different to Sensei’s.  There is the narrator’s restlessness about his parents’ inactivity compared to life in Tokyo, and there are hints of angst regarding old wealth confronting a modernising economy.  Sensei is bitter and resentful about decent people turning into scoundrels, not just because they took his money, but also because they represent lost power structures and certainties that he thought he could rely on.

The narrator isn’t interested in the traditions that guide his parents’ life, and he’s also concerned about his father’s rejection of modern medicine.  OTOH his father, too ill to be angry about it but very concerned about his wife’s welfare when she becomes a widow, reminds the narrator that in the past parents were supported by their children and not still paying out an allowance to a son who won’t even look for work after graduation.

The novel’s climax occurs when the Emperor Meiji dies and General Nogi commits suicide: this is the catalyst for Sensei’s actions.   Wikipedia says of Nogi that:

He was a national hero in Imperial Japan as a model of feudal loyalty and self-sacrifice, ultimately to the point of suicide. In the Satsuma Rebellion, he lost a banner of the emperor in battle, for which he tried to atone with suicidal bravery in order to recapture it, until ordered to stop. In the Russo-Japanese War, he captured Port Arthur but he felt that he had lost too many of his soldiers, so requested permission to commit suicide, which the emperor refused. These two events, as well as his desire not to outlive his master, motivated his suicide on the day of the funeral of the Emperor Meiji. His example brought attention to the concept of bushido (moral code of the samurai) and the controversial samurai practice of junshi (following the lord in death).

In the Introduction by translator, Edwin McClellan writes that the timing of Nogi’s suicide coincides with waiting until he could no longer serve his emperor to redeem his honour. 

Soseki was too modern in his outlook to be fully in sympathy with the general; and so is Sensei. Despite Soseki’s attitude towards the old-fashioned notion of honour, however, he could not help feeling that he was in some way part of the world that had produced General Nogi. (p.vi)

Half a century later in the Pacific there were kamikaze pilots and their leaders who subscribed to this ‘old-fashioned’ notion.

In addition to Dostoyevsky’s influence, indolence and passivity in the characterisation of both Sensei and the narrator put me in mind of the Russian literary concept of ‘a Superfluous Man‘.  To quote my own review of Oblomov (1859), by Ivan Goncharov, (translated by C. J. Hogarth)

Oblomov is an example of the Russian literary concept of the ‘Superfluous Man‘, which Wikipedia says is a by-product of Nicholas I‘s reactionary reign when the best educated men would not enter the discredited government service and, lacking other options for self-realization, doomed themselves to live out their life in passivity.

But where the satirical fiction of Goncharov, Turgenev and Pushkin was a demand for change in the face of an intransigent ruler, Kokoro presents the reader with characters who struggle to adapt to change.

BTW Kumiko Kiuchi, back then a DPhil student at the University of Sussex, who wrote the entry for Kokoro for the 2006 edition of 1001 Books, also claims Soseki as the one who established the form of the first-person novel. Though she doesn’t specify it, she must mean in J-Lit, since first-person narration was around long before Soseki’s lifetime (1867-1916).  Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre is an example from 1847 and before that in the Hebrew Bible’s Song of Solomon (900BC), not to mention a couple of Roman examples such as the Satyricon by Petronius (C1 AD) and The Golden Ass by Apuleius’s (C2 AD.)  An editor should have made this clear because it’s an example of modernisation rather than innovation in J-Lit, catching up with long-established forms in Western literature.


I read this book at this time for January in Japan at Tony’s Reading List. 

Author: Natsume Soseki
Title: Kokoro
Translated from the Japanese and with an Introduction by Edwin McClellan
Publisher: Regnery Publishing, 1957, reprinted in 2000
Cover design by Dori Miller, ‘Fallen Leaves’ cover painting by Hishido Shunso
ISBN: 9780895267153, pbk., 248 pages
Source: personal library

It’s been a quiet week on the blog due to a domestic crisis involving the drinks fridge.  For the benefit of readers overseas, the Australian drinks fridge is a small fridge that supplements the one in the kitchen.  It lives outdoors in a shed or similar, and is used only when entertaining or dealing with the overflow of comestibles during the Festive Season or other celebratory occasions.

Ours, alas, developed a leak.  A leak unnoticed till we noticed a certain ‘sponginess’ in the shed’s flooring.  A sponginess verging on rot in places hidden by Miscellaneous Stuff for which garden sheds are designed i.e. tools, a workbench used mainly for putting things on or under, canvas outdoor chairs that don’t like to be outdoors, paint tins, spare bathroom tiles, packets of nourishing stuff for the plants, two filing cabinets holding musical arrangements, a didgeridoo, bits of kinked garden hose in case we need them, and fishing rods that have not been used for over a decade (or ever caught a fish when they were).  The floor therefore has developed a certain level of peril for the unwary, necessitating the de- and then re-construction of the entire shed, including replacement of the flooring. And a very hefty hit to the bank balance.

All this has involved removing Everything that’s in the shed to Somewhere Else i.e. the garden, with tarps over it all, because Melbourne’s weather is guaranteed to bring heavy rain at some stage.  Even as the job is as yet unfinished on account of this week’s extreme heat (42°C) which has limited outdoor activity to the very early hours of the morning.

I am not complaining. I know how lucky I am to have this First World Problem.  Bushfire season is upon us and our hearts are with those who have lost everything. As I write, three people are still missing, and our hearts are with their loved ones too.  However I am tired, because my ageing heart is not very good at what needs to be done, and thus #Understatement my reading has been desultory.  Today’s TDC is a welcome break from it all…


Following on from my previous posts about the Purgatorio; the Inferno ; and the Paradiso, we now continue the Paradiso using Volume 3 of Mark Musa’s excellent translation and notes.

Canto IX

Where are we?  Having refreshed my memory of Dante’s Ptolemaic astronomy with the diagram in my previous post, we can see that we are still in the sphere of Venus, the sphere of Heaven for souls who capitulated to immoderate passion, but

Having possessed ardent and magnanimous natures, however, they did not become lost in carnality, but performed beneficent works and never turned from God.  (p.99)

Charles Martel (see Canto VIII) whose successors look to be in for a bad time, has departed, but Clemence, his wife,  doesn’t know about this prophecy and Dante the Pilgrim has been asked not to tell her.

Fair Clemence, once your Charles had said these words
for my enlightenment, he then informed me
of future plots against his progeny,

but said, ‘Say nothing, let the years go by,’
and for this reason I can only say
that those who do you wrong will pay with tears.  (Canto IX, lines 1-6)

There’s holy light emanating from these souls but we are in the dark about why she can’t be told.

Next up is Cunizza da Romano, sister of Ezzelino the Tyrant. Below, you can see her with Folquet of Marseille, denouncing the corruption of the church to Beatrice and Dante. According to Wikipedia, Cunizza was a formidable woman, who freed her father’s slaves when the opportunity arose, but also had a legendary string of marriages (four) and liaisons (two) behind her, including a love affair with a troubadour called Sordello who abducted her to prevent her being taken hostage in some political shenanigans. She makes some predictions too, foreshadowing that Paduan blood/ and soon, will stain the waters of Vincenza/ because the people shunned their duty there. 

Folquet, it seems, was a bit of a lad, but repented and became Bishop of Toulouse.  Like Beatrice, he can read the Pilgrim’s mind, and Musa explains why and how in the Notes…

Since the souls in heaven are one with God, they share His omniscience, their vision becoming fused with His.  It is therefore possible for them to penetrate Dante’s thoughts. (p.114)

Folquet identifies a nearby soul as Rahab, the Whore of Babylon, and explains that she’s in the Sphere of Venus because she too repented, joined a religious order and impressed her seal upon it at the highest rank. 

So it looks as if a ‘lively’ love life is ok, as long as repentance is timely enough…

BTW The artist who did this gorgeous illuminated manuscript (1444–50, held in the British Library) is Giovanni di Paolo of the C15th Sienese School. It must have been done for a very wealthy client because all that colour blue must have cost a fortune.  I’m guessing that the presence of Satan bribing a bishop is not meant to imply that he is there in Heaven too; I think this is a case of the medieval artistic mindset depicting two different events taking place at different times and places, as if (to our modern eyes) the events were contemporaneous with each other.

Canto X

I am bit miffed by this canto.  Dante has progressed to the Sphere of the Sun where there is much singing and dancing.  No more souls with negative characteristics, this canto is bristling with theologians and thinkers who have only positive influences to show off.  But there isn’t any music.  Here’s Dante in the the realms of the Blest with the Souls of the Wise, and pfft! Dante’s excuse for my disappointment is feeble IMO:

In heaven’s court from where I have returned
there are some jewels too precious and too rich
to be brought back to Earth from out that realm,

and one such gem — the song those splendours sang:
who does not grow the wings to fly up there,
awaits these tidings from the tongueless here. (Canto X, Lines 70-75

So the music of Heaven is too sublime for him to name it, eh?

An academic called William T Mahr has made a study of music in the Paradiso, and has this to say:

Unlike the Inferno and Purgatorio, the Paradiso seems to be suffused with continuous music, one that is inherent in the unending motions of the heavens. In the Paradiso, however, there is also much mention of the absence of sound. There are at least fifteen instances that describe a person or a group suddenly falling into silence, either as a natural conclusion of a speech, or unexpectedly as a momentary interruption of music.
[…] the purpose of these sudden and unexpected cessations of music is that they are types of the greatest antitype of the poem, the silence of God—the only entity transcending the two fundamental conditions of any music: time and motion.

Well, whatever about that, I have found a ballata, by the 14th century composer and poet Francesco Landini, which Musa thinks is what Dante had in mind with his burning suns which circle round him and Beatrice:

Canto XI

Oh, no, now even the dance is ended! The dancing circle of souls comes to a standstill when St Thomas turns up to explain about the mendicant orders of the medieval age, i.e. orders which take a vow of poverty as did their founders St Francis and St Dominic.  First he tells the love story of St Francis and Lady Poverty, but concludes with a denunciation of his own order for their degeneracy.

St. Francis Weds Lady Poverty by Giotto, Basilica of Assisi.

Musa’s notes explain that some of the poetry is glorious (in Italian, that is) and maybe that was Dante’s intention, to make his readers and listeners focus on the beauty of words.

But we can’t do without music to accompany my reading of the Paradiso, so here’s some modern day Dominican friars singing Salve Regina:

And some Franciscans with Gregorian chants…

Canto XII

Canto XII begins with two concentric circles of light, the spirits reflecting each other in harmony.  The outer circle represents the wisdom of the Dominicans and the inner circle the love for which Franciscans were known. This canto is a parallel version of the previous canto.  St Bonaventure — the prominent Italian Catholic Franciscan who held high office as a bishop and a cardinal, and was a theologian and a philosopher who thought the existence of God could be proven with logic — repays St Thomas’s courtesy with the story of St Dominic.

St Bonaventure himself may not have taken the vow of poverty entirely to heart if this painting is anything to go by. The colour red symbolises a lot of things but poverty isn’t among them.

#PiecesOfTrivia

  • #1: The name Dominic is the Latin genitive (possessive) of ‘Dominus’ meaning Lord, so Dominic means belonging to the Lord.
  • #2 St Bonaventure is the patron saint of bowel disorders.
  • #3: There are dozens of religious institutions named after St Bonaventure, including one in Australia not listed at Wikipedia, it’s St Bonaventure’s College in Brisbane.

The Whore of Babylon (C14th, France)

#Digression: On the subject of ‘red’ and its symbolism, this depiction of the Whore of Babylon, for a 14th century illuminated manuscript of the Book of Revelation shows her in a demure blue dress, but her undergarment is red, and so is her steed.  Likewise, she’s wearing a red cloak and headdress in Giovanni di Paolo’s illustration for an illuminated manuscript, and her corrupt companion, the bishop collecting a bribe, also has a red cloak, see above.   But the angel’s wings are red in the French illustration, so what does that signify??

PS On p156, Musa builds on a diagram from p.129, to depict the double circle of souls so that all the Souls of the Wise and Learned are identified:

  • The examples of great love are listed in the inner circle: St Thomas Aquinas, Albertus Magnus, Gratian, Peter Lombard, Solomon, Dionysius the Areopagite, Orosius, Boethius, Isidore of Seville, Bede, Richard of St Vitor and Siger of Brabant;
  • The wise are listed in the outer circle: St Bonaventure, Illuminato, Augustine, High of St Victor, Peter Mangiador, Peter of Spain, Nathan, St Chrystostom, St Anselm, Donatus, Rabanus, and Joachim.

Canto XIII

This canto begins with eleven laudatory tercets about the magnificence of the constellations.  There’s singing, but Dante (again) doesn’t tell us which hymn it is, only that they are exalting the Holy Trinity.

No Bacchic hymn or Paean did they sing,
but of three Persons in one God they sang,
and in One Person human and divine. (Canto XIII, Lines 25-27.)

Well, obviously we need a Medieval Drinking Song for Bacchus, so that we know what they were not singing, right?

A-hem. Let’s get back on track…

St Thomas speaks up again, this time to clarify that when he referenced Solomon, it was about God giving the most wisdom ever to a king, not to a man, because God gave the most wisdom ever to Adam and Christ when he created them. [#FeministTwitchOfAntennae: Eve not mentioned!] He goes on to warn against making hasty judgements and not to try to second-guess God’s decisions.

Opinions formed in haste will oftentimes
lead in a wrong direction, and man’s pride
then intervenes to bind his intellect.

Worse then useless is to leave the shore
to fish for truth unless you have the skill;
you will return worse off than when you left. (Canto XIII, Lines, 118-120)

Dante couldn’t have been thinking of the Google searches that conspiracy theorists do, but it apples all the same, eh?

Canto XIV

More concentric circles!  There’s mathematics going on throughout the Paradiso, but that doesn’t interest me much.  I’m more interested in the reappearance of Beatrice (who’s been there, presumably, but quiet for a while), and in Dante rising to the Sphere of Mars.

Dante and Beatrice ascending into the Sphere of Mars by Gustave Doré (colourised)

(I am undecided about colourised versions of Doré’s etchings.  My instinct is that one ought not interfere with an artist’s work.  But it does make it easier to see what’s going on in the picture. Feel free to comment!)

Ok, Beatrice first.  She asks, on Dante’s behalf, will the brilliant light of these souls remain with them after the resurrection of the body.  The answer is yes.

Next, how is Dante going to tackle the Sphere of Mars?

What was it that CS Lewis had to say about Mars in The Discarded Image?

Mars makes iron. He gives men the martial temperament, ‘sturdy hardiness’, as the Wife of Bath calls it (D 612). But he is a bad planet, Infortuna Minor. He causes wars. His sphere, in Dante, is the Heaven of martyrs; partly for the obvious reason but partly, I suspect, because of a mistaken philological connection between martyr and Martem.  C S Lewis, The Discarded Image: An Introduction to Medieval and Renaissance Literature (Chapter V, p. 92). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

He also says…

It may well be asked how, in that unfallen translunary world, there come to be such things as ‘bad’ or ‘malefical’ planets. But they are bad only in relation to us. On the psychological side this answer is implicit in Dante’s allocation of blessed souls to their various planets after death. The temperament derived from each planet can be turned either to a good or a bad use. Born under Saturn, you are qualified to become either a mope and a malcontent or a great contemplative; under Mars, either an Attila or a martyr. (ibid, p 101)

Dante chooses martyrs…

The first thing Dante sees is the Crucifixion, but he can’t describe it:

But who takes up his cross and follows Christ
will pardon me for what I leave unsaid
beholding Heaven’s whiteness glow with Christ. (Canto XIV, Lines 106-8)

There is a tantalising reminder that the Heavens are alive with music, but we cannot hear it since we weren’t there:

And as the viol and harp, their many strings
tuned into harmony, will ring out sweetly
even for the one who does not catch the tune

so from the spread of lights along the cross
there gathered in the air a melody
that held me in a trance, though I could not

tell what hymn it was— only that it sang
of highest praise: I heard ‘Arise’ and ‘Conquer’
as one who hears but does not understand.  (Canto XIV, Lines 118-126)

Canto XV

It has never occurred to me before, but I suppose for people of faith, there might be anxiety about the fate of one’s ancestors in the afterlife.  In this canto, Dante encounters his great-great grandfather Cacciaguida, who tells him that his great-grandfather Alighiero is on the first terrace of Purgatory, and that he must pray for him.

Indeed he must, because we remember that the first terrace is the Terrace of Pride, where Dante and Virgil met the soul of Omberto Aldobrandesco whose pride ruined his entire family. He cannot go wth them to the next terrace because he must be purged of his sin, and is prevented by this stone/ that curbs the movement of my haughty neck/ and makes me keep my face bent to the ground.

Once again Giovanni de Paolo shows us two different events taking place at different times, within the same frame.  On the left Cacciaguida in a circle of light, with Dante and Beatrice; and on the right, Cacciaguida’s prideful son Alighiero bent to the ground.

Dante and Cacciaguida by Giovanni de Paolo

Cacciaguida goes on with a lament for the old days of Florence, when things were simpler, when women did not wear lavish clothes and jewels, and houses too large to live in were not built.  People were content to wear plain leather, and their wives to handle flax and spindle all day long.  (I bet.)

Cacciaguida ended his days fighting the Saracen in the Second Crusade, which gave him automatic entry to this Sphere of Heaven as a martyr.  (We are still in Sphere of Mars, remember!)

Dante and Beatrice in the sphere of (a rather martial) Mars, by Giovanni di Paolo

Canto XVI

Dante is, unsurprisingly, proud of his ancestor and asks Cacciaguida to tell more about his own forefathers.

Tell me then, cherished source from which I spring,
about your own forefathers, who they were;
what years made history when you were young. (Canto XVI, Lines 21-24)

Cacciaguida does, and unsurprisingly, he lets forth on the corruption of Florence, noting that Dante himself has been a victim of it and those responsible for that were admired and honoured.

And we see a rare example of how Dante the poet admits to the pain of exile and the end of joy in his life:

The House that was the source of all your tears,
whose just resentment was the death of you
and put an end to all your joy of life

was highly honoured as were all its clan. (Canto XVI, Lines 136-139)

Cacciaguida concludes with a lament for the Florence ruined by the arrival of the Buondelmonti family whose feuding caused years of civil unrest, and marks how fitting that Buondelmonte was murdered at the foot of the statue of Mars at the Ponte Vecchio.  Mars was the first patron of Florence due to its founding as a Roman military colony and its warlike past.

At a blog called Beachcombing’s Bizarre History I learned that no one knows what this statue looked like because it was washed into the Arno in the flood of 1333.  But Giovanni Villani apparently described it:

‘Very noble and beautiful [the pagan Romans] built [the temple/baptistery] with eight sides, and when it had been built with great diligence, they dedicated it to the god Mars, who was the god of the Romans, and they had his effigy carved in marble in the likeness of an armed cavalier on horseback. They placed him on a marble pillar in the midst of that temple, and held him in great reverence, and adored him as their god so long as paganism continued in Florence.’

“War”, by Luigi Persico,

It took a Google image search to locate the statue that appears to be the god Mars that features in this article.  It’s one of a pair called “War” by the Italian sculptor Luigi Persico, installed on the East Front of the U.S. Capitol in 1835, and it’s not Mars at all, it’s an allegorical depiction of a Roman soldier.  Google tells me that the original marbles were eventually replaced with bronze copies and moved indoors for preservation.

Update, the next day: I have learned more about the provenance of those expensive illuminated manuscripts that I’ve featured in this post.  This is from the British Library:

One of the most impressive attempts to render the verse into visuals comes to us in the form of the illuminations found in an Italian manuscript produced only 125 years or so after Dante completed his poem in 1320. Dated to between 1444 and 1450, the illuminations vary in style due to the fact that two separate artists worked on them, with the first two sections of Inferno and Purgatorio being drawn by the lesser known Priamo della Quercia (active 1426-1467), while the Paradiso section was illustrated by Giovanni di Paolo di Grazia (ca. 1403-1482) who contributed 61 illuminations in all. The work has belonged to Alfonso V, king of Aragon, Naples, and Sicily (1396 – 1458) and his great grandson Ferdinand, Duke of Calabria (1488 – 1550), who donated the manuscript to the convent of San Miguel in Valencia in 1538. It was later bought in 1901 by Henry Yates Thompson, a collector of illuminated manuscripts, and was donated to the British Museum in 1941.  (Source: https://publicdomainreview.org/collection/15th-century-illuminations-for-dante-s-divine-comedy/)


Next week, Cantos 17-24!

 Progress so far:

See also

References:

  • The Divine Comedy: Translation, Notes and Commentary by Mark Musa,
    • Vol 1, Inferno, 2003 new edition of the 1984 Penguin Classics edition, first published 1971 by Indiana University Press, ISBN 9780142437223
    • Vol 2, Purgatory, 1985 Penguin Classics edition, first published 1981 by Indiana University Press, ISBN: 9780140444421
    • Vol 3, Paradise, 1986 Penguin Classics edition, first published 1984, by Indiana University Press ISBN 9780140444438. The illustration on the front over is from William Blake’s ‘St Peter and St James with Dante and Beatrice’, illustration for Canto 25, held at the NGV in Melbourne.
  • The Divine Comedy translated by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, with illustrations by Gustave Doré and an Introduction by Melinda Corey; Barnes and Noble edition 2008, ISBN: 9781435103849
  • The Divine Comedy translated and with an Introduction by Clive James, Picador Poetry edition, 2013, ISBN 9781447244219
  • A Beginners Guide to Dante’s Divine Comedy by Jason M Baxter, Baker Academic, 2018, ISBN: 9781493413102, Kindle edition  ASIN: B0752RVZ6R
  • The Discarded Image: An Introduction to Medieval and Renaissance Literature by C S Lewis, Kindle edition ASIN B08TCJZP5N
  • The Sleepwalkers, by Arthur Koestler, The Danube Edition, Hutchinson, 1968 first published 1959 ISN: 090502515
  • The Essential Plato, translated by Benjamin Jowett, The Softback Preview, 1999, first published in this translation in 1871, ISBN: 9781582880129
  • The Dante Course, a series of lectures presented by Prof. Teodolinda Barolini, Lorenzo da Ponte Professor of Italian at Columbia University, 2015-6 online

Image credits:

Posted by: Lisa Hill | January 5, 2026

Crash of the Heavens (2025), by Douglas Century

My first non-fiction book of 2026 was sobering, but enlightening reading. Subtitled The Remarkable Story of Hannah Senesh and the Only Military Mission to Rescue Europe’s Jews During World War II, Crash of the Heavens is the work of Canadian investigative journalist Douglas Century who has made a career of unearthing stories about high-profile people, mostly gangsters. In that sense, then, Crash of the Heavens is a departure because although Hannah Senesh is a national hero in Israel, her story — and that of her compatriots and the Partisans who fought the Nazis — is largely unknown.

In 1942 when the fate of European Jews became known in what was then Mandatory Palestine under British rule (1920-1948), the activist Eliyahu Golomb (whose family had emigrated to Israel in 1911) floated the idea of sending multilingual Jews to parachute behind the lines to rescue downed airmen in Occupied Europe. They offered to complete rescue, espionage, sabotage and reconnaissance tasks to help the Allied war effort, and after that, they would do what they could to help European Jewry.  Which they could not do without Allied logistical support.

The attraction for the Allies was that it was much quicker (and cheaper) to rescue downed airmen than it was to train replacements.  By this stage of the war aircraft production was swift, but training pilots took much longer.  Nevertheless, the Brits were not keen.  11,000 Jews had enlisted in the British Army during 1941, rising to 30,000 volunteers from Mandatory Palestine who served with the British armed forces during WW2. But once Rommel was defeated, the British then tried to crush the Palmach, the Jewish paramilitary organization formed in 1941 to defend the Palestinian Jewish community against the Axis or if there were Arab attacks on Jewish settlements.  (The Brits were also suspicious of émigrés in case they were spies, and from what Century writes, this was not unreasonable: the Middle East was a hotbed of spies and counterspies, with double, triple and even quadruple agents passing on unreliable information, with ghastly consequences.)  The Jewish proposal was dismissed out of hand until Colonel Tony Simonds saw its advantages and recruited members of the Palmach for the RAF.

Jews had fled to Mandatory Palestine since the rise of Hitler, and these émigrés spoke the languages, understood the culture and knew the terrain of their former homes in Central Europe.  As we know from books and film about covert resistance operations in WW2, French and German-speaking operatives were recruited for the British Special Operations Executive (SOE), and these people of legendary courage included 3200 women.  But speakers of other European languages were harder to find, and this was what tipped the balance in favour of the Jewish proposal, and of the decision to allow Jewish women to enlist.  Hannah Szenes/Senesh, who emigrated to Mandatory Palestine from Hungary in 1939, was one of three female recruits among the 37 Jewish volunteers from Mandatory Palestine who parachuted into occupied Europe. The other women were the Czech Haviva Reik and Sara (Surika) Braverman from Rumania.

In the course of reading this book I learned much about WW2 in Central Europe.  Complicated by the advance of the Soviets, it’s a messy history of alliances that shifted when it became clear that Germany was going to lose the war (which is why, perhaps, books and film tend to focus on western and southern Europe). Though their effectiveness varied, there were other heroic resistance movements and uprisings besides the well-known French Resistance.  Wikipedia lists most of the ‘notable’ movements where the paratroopers undertook missions: the Bulgarian Resistance;  the Czech Resistance; the Greek Resistance; the Italian Resistenza; the Slovak National Uprising; and the Yugoslav Partisans — but not those in Romania, Hungary or Austria.  (Any resistance movement was notable IMO, but Wikipedia plays by its own rules.)

Jewish Resistance took many forms but Century’s book focusses on the only military mission to rescue Jews from the genocide.  And though it traces the stories of most of the operatives, its focus is on Hannah Senesh even though she was captured, tortured and executed before achieving any of her stated aims in Hungary.  (This was the fate of many of the SOE operatives too; the risks were high and the consequences were terrible for those who were detected or betrayed. It makes those who died no less admirable.)   Hannah’s status as a hero is not just because her mother Katherine Senesh (who survived a Death March and emigrated to Israel after the war), worked hard to preserve her memory in Israel.  It’s because Hannah herself was a diarist and poet who somehow managed to compose poems even when she was on active service and her words were inspirational during the war.  They still resonate powerfully today.

Hannah’s stubborn determination to fight to the last was transformative, says Century. In the Afterword, he writes:

The ethos that drove the Yishuv parachutists to take decisive action in 1943 and 1944 reshaped the consciousness of both Israelis and Jews around the world.  For two millennia […] Jews in the Diaspora survived as intact communities by being nonconfrontational in the face of violent anti-Semitism […] pragmatism, compliance, appeasement and flight.  Being vastly outnumbered in most of Europe meant that direct resistance to anti-Semitic violence wasn’t feasible.  Or when it did occur, self-defence was often suicidal.  (p.362)

However…

With the first publication of Hannah’s poems and selected diary entries in 1945 and the repatriation of her remains to Israel, it was as if a collective spiritual transformation had occurred.

Anikó Szenes, the ambitious, brilliant, lonely girl from Budapest, no longer symbolised one of the millions of faceless and powerless Jews slain during the Holocaust.  Hannah Senesh, the chalutza, [trailblazer], the Palmachnik, the paratrooper from from Kibbutz Sdot Yam, was now the State of Israel’s foundational heroine, a female freedom fighter who’d left the comfort of her cultured upper-middle-class life in Hungary, the safety of her Mediterranean kibbutz as a volunteer, risking her life to save her brothers and sisters in Europe. (pp.339-340)

A number of Hannah’s poems — now cultural treasures — are quoted in the book. This is the one that she gave to her compatriot Reuven Dafni in 1944 as they parted in Yugoslavia.  She made him promise to deliver it to her kibbutzim if she did not return.  She was on her way, alone, to Hungary — and he was livid.

At such a moment, when he and Hannah were both nervous, when she was crossing the border into the unknown, when she should have been studying maps, she’d decided to hand him some stupid piece of poetry?

He clenched his fist, squeezing the paper into a tight wad, and tossed it onto the muddy forest floor, where a strong gust of wind tumbled it away.

Ten minutes later, after he reached the Partisans’ safe house, sleep escaped him.  He was racked by second thoughts. A promise, after all, was a promise.  (p.173)

He went back to find it, and passed it on to Arie Fichman who’d survived Gestapo capture and torture to arrive safely back in Tel Aviv in 1944… and in September, while Hannah was held for five months in Hungarian and Gestapo prisons in Budapest, she was published for the first time, in the ‘women’s supplement’ of the Labor Union’s newspaper.

Blessed is the match consumed in kindling flame
Blessed is the flame that burns in the secret fastness of the heart
Blessed is the heart with strength to stop its beating for honour’s sake
Blessed is the match consumed in kindling flame.


It’s a minor quibble in a thoroughly researched book, but here are some instances that look like dramatic licence or hagiography, reconstructed after the event.  The main source for what happened to Hannah was Yoel Palgi, the only one of her team to survive the war. Katherine Senesh also wrote a memoir of her daughter after the war, including reconstructing her daughter’s speech before the military tribunal and another speech with her last captor.  Given what we know about Nazis in positions of authority, the length and details of these speeches stretch credibility.  But also, in chapter 7, Century reconstructs the surprise of a British sergeant in Italy seeing ‘the first female parachutist’ in 1944.  She might have been the first he’d seen but she was not the first, and Century chooses not to mention the young SOE women who parachuted into Occupied France before her. The first SOE drops were in May 1941, and Andrée Borrel and Lise de Baissac were the first women parachutists in September 1942.

Author: Douglas Century
Title: Crash of the Heavens: The Remarkable Story of Hannah Senesh and the Only Military Mission to Rescue Europe’s Jews During World War II
Publisher: Scribe Publications, 2025
Cover design by Laura Thomas
ISBN: 9781761380877, pbk., 409 pages, including B&W photo insert, Acknowledgements, Appendixes, Notes, Bibliography, Image Credits and an Index
Source: Bayside Library

Posted by: Lisa Hill | January 4, 2026

Six Degrees of Separation, from The Discarded Image…

This month’s #6Degrees, hosted by Kate at Books are My Favourite and Best, begins with a wildcard: our last book from last month’s #6Degrees.  For me, that begins with The Discarded Image (1964), by C S Lewis.  It’s a brilliant book that introduced me to the non-fiction that C S Lewis wrote for adults.

As readers who’ve been following my project to read Dante’s The Divine Comedy will already know, I read the The Discarded Image as background for understanding the medieval mindset of Dante’s era. I have written two posts about it so far (See the tag The Discarded Image) but have yet to write my thoughts about the concluding chapters.  (BTW I haven’t been reading the beautiful Longfellow translation pictured here.  I dip into it sometimes, but mostly to look at the iconic illustrations by Gustave Doré.  Instead, after a disappointing flirtation with the Clive James translation, I switched to Mark Musa’s three volume translation, and it’s excellent.)

Another book that remains to be concluded with a final post is Shooting Blanks at the Anzac Legend, Australian Women’s War Fictions (2023) by Donna Coates.  It sparked my interest in discovering Australian war fiction in general, to the extent that I even set up a page for it. I have written posts about Sections 1 & 2, about WW1 and WW2 respectively, but although I’ve read it, I haven’t yet done a post about Section 3.

As you can see from that page, there is a great deal of Australian War Fiction, but it’s swamped by novels about WW1 and WW2.  And there’s only one book that I know of that’s about the East Timorese INTERFET Peace Keeping mission (1999-2000): it’s The Idealist (2023) by Nicholas Jose. It was one of my top three novels for 2023.

Jose has lived and worked in China and has a deep knowledge of its history and culture.  I’ve read and reviewed six of his novels, the most recent being Original Face (2005, but it had been on the TBR for a while).  I’ve had a fair few crime novels spruiked to me as ‘literary crime’, but most are a disappointment and I can’t be bothered with them.  Original Face, however, is a sophisticated novel that explores identity, the masks that people use, and what makes us who we are. As I wrote in my review:

The city of Sydney itself is rendered in all its complexity: its varied landscapes and its rich ethnic diversity, the old and the new rubbing along beside one another.  The Chinese expats are a microcosm of a Sydney sub-culture, its networks and hierarchies and its distorted Confucian values of fidelity and family.

One of the reasons I enjoy Australian fiction is that I like to see my city used in settings.  Ages ago I wrote a post about settings in Melbourne, but the number of novels with a Melbourne setting now reviewed here has reached 150.  One of the most recent was The Buried Life (2025), by Andrea Goldsmith — who is sheer genius at rendering Melbourne as the city I know and love.

Just recently I read an introduction to Annie Magdalene (1985, reissued 2025) by Barbara Hanrahan, in which the writer enthused about reading a book set in Adelaide as if it were a rarity. Well, I’ve reviewed 30 novels with a setting in Adelaide, and that means there must be more because I’m only one reader who can’t possibly cover everything.  Writers SA have compiled a Goodreads list of 100 books set in Adelaide and South Australia, and there I recognise these writers who’ve used Adelaide for their setting: Jane Rawson, Peter Goldsworthy, Richard Flanagan, Rachel Mead, Margaret Merrilees, Tracy Crisp, Jared Thomas, J M Coetzee and Stephen Orr. And there are others like Jennifer Mills who writes Speccy-Fic that might be set in an Adelaide of the future.

So, that’s my #6Degrees for this month, from a book about the medieval mindset to a roll call of authors who’ve written novels set in Adelaide.

Next month (February 2026) starts with a book that topped many 2025 ‘best of’ lists – and for once, I’ve read it! See my review of Flashlight by Susan Choi.

Following on from my previous posts about the Purgatorio, and the Inferno here, we now venture into the Paradiso in Volume 3 of Mark Musa’s excellent translation and notes.  I am expecting some joyful music because Mark Musa’s introduction tells me that since…

Dante cannot ground his Paradise in the concrete things of the living world as he did in the Inferno and Purgatory.  The souls of the Blest in Paradise will be lights, splendours, and sparks that whirl about; they will assume diverse shapes, and speak to the Pilgrim in symbols and signs.  The Poet will have to invent more words […] in order to articulate things that cannot possibly be seen by the human eye. (p.xiv)

… and he says that Canto 1 serves as the overture to the great musical which follows!

So how is Dante going to stretch out Dante’s experience of Heaven over 33 cantos?  The Introduction tells us that…

the main action of the Paradise is concerned with how man’s soul, as it contemplates the making of God’s universe, rises by stages in order to arrive at an understanding of the One creator of that universe.  To see the universe as One is the final goal of journey, and the movement of the journey is from fragmentation to unity. What the Pilgrim sees in the cantos of the lower heavens, in fact, is all in preparation for his vision in the highest heaven, the Empyrean where he will see the redeemed, united with their bodies, as they will be after the Last Judgement. The cantos of the lower heavens are the steps of knowledge leading to Perfect Vision and union with God. (p.ix)

So (apart from his guides Beatrice and Statius) who is he going to see there, I wonder?

Before we start, we need to refresh our understanding of Dante’s Ptolemaic astronomy. The earth is the static centre of the universe; the stars and planets (the ones they knew about) revolve around it; and the 9th sphere, the Primum Mobile, is the one that makes everything move, powered by the love of God. The largest sphere of all, the 10th one, the Empyrean, is a realm of pure spirit and perfect peace, spaceless and motionless, home of God and His angels.

Diagram of Paradise (FlorenceInferno.com)

The Introduction goes on to discuss the symbolic geometry of Dante’s poetry, mentions the difficulty the reader can expect to encounter because of Dante’s invented words (especially trasumanar/ transhumanise) and a whole lot of other complicated religious stuff which I will come back to if I need/want to.

However my eye did rest briefly on this paragraph:

Not everyone in Paradise is equally blessed.  God bestows his grace in different degrees according to his own pleasure, and blessedness is a matter of grace.  Depending on the amount of grace given through divine predestination, men’s visions of God will differ, but it is upon each soul’s vision of God that its happiness depends.  Though each soul enjoys a different degree of bliss, each is perfectly happy, since it knows it is enjoying bliss to its full capacity which has been ordained by the will of God.  The degree of bliss enjoyed by the soul in Heaven, then, is not dependent entirely on how one led his life on earth, but more on the mystery of predestination. This is the answer that the Pilgrim will hear from a number of the souls in Paradise. (p.xvii)

So, hmm, once again, there’s a hierarchy.  First class bliss, business class bliss, premium economy bliss and cattle class bliss…

Moving on…

The first three heavens correspond to the Antepurgatory (see here, under Structure) the Pilgrim meets some souls he knew IRL, with some who reveal themselves through

  • shadows of inconstancy (the moon), with Beatrice doing the (long) explanation about the limits of human perception;
  • worldly ambition (Mercury) with the Emperor Justinian who gives an uninterrupted history of the Roman empire; and Beatrice in the next canto explaining the meaning of Redemption.
  • earthly love (Venus) with a soul called Charles Martel explaining the doctrine of heredity.

After the sphere of Venus the Pilgrim doesn’t meet anyone he knew in life. And he mostly lets others do the talking —some of the time because he doesn’t need to talk: Beatrice reads his mind!  So let’s get started.

Canto I

Reminding us that this poem is about Dante’s experience as a pilgrim, the canto begins by his modest appraisal of his ability to tell about what he has seen.  He calls on Apollo, God of Poetry, and the Muses to help him, and he hopes that a better voice will feel inspired by the one small spark he has voiced in his poem. And thus he launches into the moment when he and Beatrice stand in the dazzling light of the sun.

Here Dante uses that word ‘transhumanise’ to describe things that cannot be seen by the human eye.  The eyes that have been ‘transhumanised’ must learn to read a new and different language. (p.xiv) The Pilgrim is not sure whether it is his body or his soul that rises up into the heavens, but Beatrice is there to boss him about so that he doesn’t waste time puzzling about it.

Is there music? Yes there is, it’s the music of the spheres that fills Dante’s mind.  There are some very strange compositions for this concept, but this one by Danish composer Rued Langaard (1893-1952) seems just right to me.

Canto II

This canto begins with Dante warning his readers following him in a ‘little boat’ that they may well get lost because he is traversing waters never travelled. 

Minerva fills my sails, Apollo steers,
and all nine Muses point the Bears to me.

Minerva is the Goddess of Wisdom, Apollo is the God of Poetry, and sailors used the constellations Ursa Major (Big Bear) and Ursa Minor (Little Bear) to steer by. Symbolically, this is true: no other poet had tried to invoke Paradise in poetry.

But if we readers choose to continue, we will be amazed.

But not surprised that Bossy Beatrice delivers another lecture.  Dante is puzzled by the spots on the moon, and (just like that awful teacher you had in secondary school) she asks him (knowing that he doesn’t know) for the answer.  Musa does his best to explain how in setting him straight she illuminates Divine Power in her answer but all I can say about this is that everything she says is bunkum because her cosmology has been superseded by modern science.

Canto III

Already I am tired of Beatrice.  Dante sees some pale faces, but when he turns around because he thinks they are reflections, he gets a lecture from his sweet guide.  Sweet? Hmpf. I prefer Virgil.

‘You should not be surprised to see me smile
at your naïve reaction,’ she announced,
you do not trust the evidence you see:

you turn away to stare at emptiness:
these are real substances that you behold,
appearing here because they broke their vows. ‘ (Canto III, Lines 25-30)

So, they are souls who made vows to God and did not keep them, i.e. shadows of inconstancy, and they are down at the farthest sphere from Heaven i.e. Cattle Class Bliss.  Here there is Piccarda Donati, a hapless nun who broke her vows when she married after being abducted for a political union.  But, hey, she is perfectly happy with where she is:

If we desired to be higher up,
then our desires would not be in accord
with His will Who assigns us to this sphere;

think carefully what love is and you’ll see
such discord has no place within these rounds,
since to be here is to exist in Love. (Canto III, Lines 73-78)

Raffaello Sorbi, The Abduction of Piccarda Donati from the Convent of Monticelli (1866) (Wikipedia)

Piccarda also relates the abduction of the Empress Constance, abducted to marry Henry VI in 1185, and then she departs, singing Ave Maria.  Who better to sing it than the inimitable Maria Callas?

Canto IV

Dante’s humanity makes him feel bothered by this treatment of ‘transgressors’.  (Interesting that they’re both women, eh?) Beatrice deals with it as by now we know she will.  No, Plato was wrong in stating that each soul returns to its star of origin.  Moreover:

These souls appeared here not because this sphere
has been allotted them, but as a sign
of their less great degree of blessedness. (Canto IV, Lines 37-39)

And (patronisingly)

I speak as one must to minds like yours
which apprehend only from sense perception
what later makes it fit for intellection. (Canto IV, Lines 40-42)

Beatrice distinguishes between the Absolute Will, which always longs for God, and the Conditioned Will, which bends according to circumstance.  I don’t doubt that many theologians have amused themselves in discussion over this but it’s a most unreasonable standard, IMO:

Now, if the one who suffers violence
contributes nothing to the violent act,
he cannot be excused on that account;

for will, it it will not, cannot be quenched
but does as nature does within a flame,
though violence force it down a thousand times.

The will abets the force when it gives in
even a little bit; this their will did,
for they could have gone back into the cloister.

Had they been able to maintain their will
intact, like that of [Saint] Lawrence on the grid,
and Mucius cruel to his own hand in fire—

it would have forced them back once they were free,
back to the path from which they had been drawn.
But such firm will as this is seldom found. (Canto IV, Lines 73-87)

The idea is that it’s better to suffer torture and die a violent death, than to acquiesce in order to live.  I’m pleased to see that Dante the poet isn’t convinced any more than I am, and isn’t going to let it go…

would it be possible for those who break
their vows to compensate with love and burning so divine,
that they would not weigh short upon your scales? (Canto IV, Lines 139-141)

Canto V

Beatrice goes on to explain the God’s greatest gift to man is Free Will and the choices made should not be made lightly:

The greatest gift that our bounteous Lord
bestowed as the Creator, in creating
the gift He cherishes the most, the one

most like Himself, was freedom of the will.
all creatures with intelligence, and they
alone, were so endowed both then and now.

Such reasoning as this should make it clear
how sacred is the vow when it is made
with God consenting to your own consent. (Canto V, Lines 19-27)

There are only two conditions that enable a vow to be changed: the consent of the church, and that the substitution made be of greater value than the original promise. So, Beatrice says (and we can imagine her wagging her finger at Dante), vows should not be taken lightly and the Scripture and ecclesiastic authority should be used as guides.  This doesn’t seem like such good advice, considering Dante has, in the Inferno and the Purgatorio, enlightened us as to the corruption and venality of the church and popes in particular.

It will be a relief to get to Canto VI where the Emperor Justinian gets to have a say.  I am fond of Justinian, I studied his achievements as part of my BA major in classics.

Canto VI

Mosaic of Justinian I (Ravenna)

By the fourth tercet, we know that it is Justinian who is speaking.  In the 6th century, he was the Emperor of the Eastern Roman Empire (after the barbarians had wrecked the rest of it), and whatever about the ethics of colonisation, amongst his achievements are

  • the partial recovery of some parts of the empire, conquering the Vandals in Africa; the Ostrogoths in Italy, recovering Dalmatia, Sicily, Italy, and Rome; and part of the Iberian Peninsula thereby re-establishing order and stability to the western Mediterranean;
  • the compilation of Roman Law into the Justinian Code — which is still the basis of civil law in many countries today;
  • the emergence of Byzantine Christian religious art, including stunning mosaics, and
  • a significant building program including the building of St Sophia (532–537) in Constantinople which was the largest cathedral in the world until the 1507 completion of the Seville Cathedral in Spain.

So here he is in the second sphere, the Heaven of Mercury, reserved for the souls of the Blest who are too concerned with their own fame and earthly glory, which as as result, lessened their degree of beatitude.  He is Dante’s choice to recount the entire history of Rome — the good and the bad —and like Piccarda, he is content with where he is because it’s in accord with his merit.

Canto VII

Justinian departs like a shooting spark, singing a hymn:

“Hosanna, sanctus Deus sabaoth
superillustrans claritate tua
felices ignes horum malacoth”

“Hosanna, holy God of hosts
superilluminating with your brightness
happy fires of these malacoth

Dante’s original readers would have known this ancient hymn from the Latin Mass, but they would have been mystified by ‘malacoth’.  It’s Dante’s misspelling of ‘mamlacoth’ which means ‘kingdoms’ with connotations of sovereignty  Dante did not know Hebrew, and must have incorrectly copied the words from another source.

Beatrice, who can read Dante’s mind, discerns that he is mulling over a new dilemma: how can a just vengeance be justly avenged? Musa summarises her answer succinctly:

Since mankind sinned through Adam, Christ’s death on the cross was punishment insofar as Christ’s human nature is concerned; as far as His Divinity is concerned, the punishment was sacrilegious and unjust. (p.82)

And while she’s at it, she also explains why God chose this way to redeem mankind: Because it was the most worthy way.

There were two ways in which God could accomplish man’s redemption—by means of His Mercy or by means of His Justice.  God decided to employ both means, showing His Mercy by taking on the flesh and His Justice by His suffering and death on the cross.  (p.82)

For non believers like me, this is getting a bit tedious. And it’s unfortunate to see that some antisemitic commentary accompanies Dante’s interpretation of the role of the Jews in the crucifixion.  This reminded me of an important article that I read about this subject.  In ‘Reading The Divine Comedy as a non-Christian’, Carrie Ann acknowledges that TDC was of a different time and place and also that

Dante also questions why, if Christian doctrine says the Crucifixion was necessary, the Second Temple then had to be destroyed and the Jewish people forced into Diaspora.

but — it’s hard to not be bothered by the deicide charge in Paradiso VII.  

At the heart of the antisemitism which culminated in the Shoah was the deicide charge.

The deicide charge formed the basis of almost 2,000 years of horrific antisemitism in Europe, and that even those few seemingly off-handed comments were part of a much larger picture that really added up.

Carrie-Ann discusses other issues as well, so I do hope you will read her article.

Canto VIII

Oh! We’re in the sphere of Venus!  And here among the joyful lights and Beatrice becoming more beautiful, we venture into astrology when a soul explains the doctrine of heredity, and I am reminded of what CS Lewis had to say about medieval beliefs about it. Forewarned is forearmed, I thought, so I scrolled down to Part B, the Operations of the Universe, in my post about The Discarded Image Ch V to reproduce it here:

  • Influences: a belief in astrology was inherited from antiquity and bequeathed to the Renaissance. Prof Barolini in The Dante Course Lecture 16 is insistent that this was a really contentious issue in the Middle Ages, not like now when it isn’t taken seriously.  There were influential people who gave it credence in the Medieval era but the clergy’s disapproval was unequivocal because of the harm caused by
    • lucrative and politically undesirable predictions;
    • astrological determinism when it excluded Free Will; and
    • practices that encouraged the pagan worship of planets.

Musa’s Notes tell us that this sphere of Heaven is for souls who capitulated to immoderate passion, but

Having possessed ardent and magnanimous natures, however, they did not become lost in carnality, but performed beneficent works and never turned from God.  (p.99)

The Notes also tell us that the speaker who is not named is identified as a friend of Dante’s, a minor royal called Charles Martel.  Referring to Martel’s brother Robert’s mean and avaricious nature, Dante asks ‘How can sweet seed produce sour fruit?’ and the answer (which is quite lengthy) is that it’s not heredity, but how Nature influences the predestination of the stars:

Charles Martel describes here the law of individuality, or differentiation, which Beatrice explained earlier.  (Par II, 127-48) The natures and characters of individuals are influenced by heavenly bodies, in a way and towards an end ordained by God.  God has foreseen not only what manifestations of individuality are necessary to fulfil His creation, but the proper fashions in which these manifestations should be exercised.  He created each of us to carry out particular goals. (p.103)

Attributes bestowed by God cannot be brought to fruition when subjected by men to unfavourable conditions.  (p.104)

We only have to think of the monsters of history to feel argumentative about this. What goals were in The Divine Plan for Hitler, Stalin, Mao and Hamas? Or those monsters of today who kill their wives and children out of petty jealousy?

To restore a sense of equanimity, here’s a lovely version of ‘Hosanna’, sung by the Tabernacle Choir to the accompaniment of Pachelbel’s ‘Canon in D’.


Next week, Cantos 9-16

 Progress so far:

See also

References:

  • The Divine Comedy: Translation, Notes and Commentary by Mark Musa,
    • Vol 1, Inferno, 2003 new edition of the 1984 Penguin Classics edition, first published 1971 by Indiana University Press, ISBN 9780142437223
    • Vol 2, Purgatory, 1985 Penguin Classics edition, first published 1981 by Indiana University Press, ISBN: 9780140444421
    • Vol 3, Paradise, 1986 Penguin Classics edition, first published 1984, by Indiana University Press ISBN 9780140444438. The illustration on the front over is from William Blake’s ‘St Peter and St James with Dante and Beatrice’, illustration for Canto 25, held at the NGV in Melbourne.
  • The Divine Comedy translated by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, with illustrations by Gustave Doré and an Introduction by Melinda Corey; Barnes and Noble edition 2008, ISBN: 9781435103849
  • The Divine Comedy translated and with an Introduction by Clive James, Picador Poetry edition, 2013, ISBN 9781447244219
  • A Beginners Guide to Dante’s Divine Comedy by Jason M Baxter, Baker Academic, 2018, ISBN: 9781493413102, Kindle edition  ASIN: B0752RVZ6R
  • The Discarded Image: An Introduction to Medieval and Renaissance Literature by C S Lewis, Kindle edition ASIN B08TCJZP5N
  • The Sleepwalkers, by Arthur Koestler, The Danube Edition, Hutchinson, 1968 first published 1959 ISN: 090502515
  • The Essential Plato, translated by Benjamin Jowett, The Softback Preview, 1999, first published in this translation in 1871, ISBN: 9781582880129
  • The Dante Course, a series of lectures presented by Prof. Teodolinda Barolini, Lorenzo da Ponte Professor of Italian at Columbia University, 2015-6 online

Image credits:

Posted by: Lisa Hill | January 1, 2026

The Pearl-Fishers (2007), by Robin Jenkins

It’s nice to begin the year with a book I enjoyed, and at this time of the year, this one reminds me of the influence other readers have had on my choices.  There are many bloggers whose posts have widened my horizons, some through hosting reading weeks or months and others who’ve championed an author unfamiliar to me.  Stu at Winston’s Dad introduced me to the world of translated fiction, whereas Kim at Reading Matters led me to numerous authors I’d never heard of.  And in the case of Robin Jenkins’s The Changeling, (1958, reissued 1989) it was Kim who led me to the  re-discovery of a book that had languished too long on the TBR, and thence to AbeBooks where I binged on four more titles by Jenkins.

Including this one, The Pearl-fishers, published posthumously from uncompleted drafts found after his death.  Kim would be the first to acknowledge as Rosemary Goring does in the Introduction, that this novel is not representative of Jenkins’ oeuvre.  But that is not to say that it’s without merit.

It’s a sort of Pygmalion story, a love story between a naïve young forester, and a girl from a family of travellers who arrive in a small Scottish town.  The locals — whose Christian principles don’t include generosity of spirit — spurn this family because they seem the same as tinkers, who have a (mostly undeserved) bad reputation for theft and for bringing disease into the town.  These judgemental locals do not know (or care to find out) that this family comes of a long tradition of making a respectable living by fishing for valuable freshwater pearls. So at first it might seem that Jenkins was writing about how such prejudice was a betrayal of the Christian principle of ‘love thy neighbour’.

But this novel is the catalyst for exploring social distinctions further than that.  The characterisation is important: Gavin Hamilton is cast as a man of principle: he (like Jenkins himself) is a forester deployed in the Ardmore Forest during WW2 when he was a conscientious objector. Rosemary Goring tells us in the Introduction that the Hamilton of this novel shares characteristics with the Hamilton of A Would-be Saint (1978), (which I haven’t read).  He is quiet, gentle, intelligent and humane, not to mention very good looking.   Importantly, Gavin is also by the standards of this town, wealthy, though again importantly, not through inherited wealth.  He is heir to the childless owner of the Manse which is to be turned into a holiday house for underprivileged children.  He has plans to study for the Ministry too, so he is A Catch, and it is not just Fiona McDonald who fancies herself as the Minister’s wife,  the social arbiters of the middle class are invested in his marriage plans too.  Their Minister’s Wife must meet their standards, which Effie does not do.

The unlikely attraction between these two begins with Hamilton’s kindness to a family which is struggling but it’s Effie’s attractions that are also the catalyst for his generosity.  Captivated by her dignified demeanour and her obvious physical charms, he offers not only to let the family stay on the property, but also to live in the house.  Despite not being able to afford good clothes and a haircut every now and again, Effie is a very pretty girl and her care for her siblings Eddie and Morag impresses Gavin, especially by contrast with her slovenly mother.  When Effie explains that her grandfather’s dying wish is to be buried with his forefathers in the forest, Gavin understands that the town’s current ministers won’t allow him to be buried in their churchyards, and he undertakes to help her fulfil her grandfather’s wish.

These plot details fade into insignificance beside Jenkins’ real concerns.  Though they might have been made explicit in an edited draft, there are aspects of the dilemma not fully fleshed out at all.  I do not think, as Goring suggests, that this novel is merely about a character who is a good man trying to live out his beliefs and Jenkin’s recurring thematic interest in the survival of decency and innocence or idealism in a corrupt world.  What the reader sees is that Gavin is besotted but has not thought through the difficulties that will not be resolved by his money.  Effie can have a bath and a haircut and acquire clothes that make her look elegant, but that will not be enough. Through Effie’s inner thoughts, we see that she understands the social gulf between them, and that he will suffer from the town’s prejudice more than she will.  The effort to pretend that she is not who she really is exhausts her when she goes into town, and from her attendance at a church service where she is welcomed on Gavin’s protective arm, she knows that she can’t conceal her origins in the place where her future could lie.

Her primary concern is her lack of education.  She is barely literate, and knows nothing of Scottish history that even school children know.  Though she understands some of what ‘catching up’ might mean, Gavin dismisses this concern somewhat airily because he thinks it doesn’t matter.  But it does matter if they are to have a marriage of equals, and it does matter if — in her own right — she is to have any respect in this judgemental town.

What Jenkins does not mention is the question of Effie’s speech.  In The Pearl-fishers, though they sometimes speak Gaelic to each other in private conversation, Effie and her mother speak — despite their lack of education — Standard British English, and Effie is more fluent in English than Gavin is in Gaelic.  This proficiency seems highly unlikely in a family of outcasts such as this.  As we know from George Bernard Shaw’s satire Pygmalion and its romanticised progeny the film My Fair Lady, the Brits are experts at assessing social status from accents and Professor Doolittle’s focus on pronunciation and deportment is no guide to helping Eliza transition into the drawing rooms of polite society.

So the fairy tale seems compromised, not just because the entire town’s inhabitants need transformation in their attitudes, but also because Effie will carry the traces of her antecedents into the future.  This paragraph, despite Effie’s tentative answer to her own questions, suggests that Jenkins could see the flaws in this fantasy.

But would it ever happen?  Would any of it happen?

In a few weeks would she really cease to be Effie Williamson, pearl-fisher, and become Mrs Gavin Hamilton, accepted and respected in this community? Would she go on living in this fine big house, with Morag and Eddie, and Gavin at weekends, looking after the children from Glasgow?  Would she, able to drive by then, meet him in Towellan and bring him home?  Would she, having worked very hard, no longer uneducated and ignorant, be able to help him achieve his ambitions, whatever they were?  Would she decorate his church with flowers and on his behalf visit the sick?  Would there be three children, one with brown eyes and two with blue?  Would she and Gavin visit her old traveller friends? (p.178)

The other issue that lies beneath all of this which Jenkins would hopefully have addressed had he lived, is this.  What of Effie’s self-estimation of her own superiority over the ‘tinkers’?  Now, in the 21st century, this pejorative term conveys the wicked prejudice that has bedevilled the lives of Romani people, now called Travellers, all over Europe. Estimates vary, but at least a quarter of a million Romani were murdered in the Nazi genocide.  In the post-war scenario of this novel, Jenkins should have been careful not to exacerbate the demonisation of such people.  Yet Effie is at pains to distinguish herself and her family from them.  They are better than that, she asserts as she justifies her opinion with various distinctions between her family and those of tinkers; and her people, she argues, don’t deserve to be ostracised as Tinkers are.  Even Gavin, for all his moral principles, seems to concur.  Certainly, though he uses his moral authority to chastise Angus for his offensive remarks to Effie, he never sticks up for tinkers and nor does anyone else.  The text never explores the unsettling implication that these two also have their prejudices or that even those on the lower levels of the social hierarchy have their own ways of oppressing others… which in the minds of extremists, justifies genocide.

I find myself wondering if this draft remained unfinished because Jenkins was dissatisfied with these complexities and could not resolve them.

Update: I meant to add this duet from Bizet’s Pearl Fishers yesterday but we had power issues again.  It’s got nothing to do with Jenkins’ novel but any opportunity to hear Hvorostovsky & Kaufmann is a good reason:

Image credits:

Author: Robin Jenkins
Title: The Pearl-fishers
Introduction by Rosemary Goring
Publisher: Polygon, an imprint of Birlinn Ltd., 2007
Cover design by Tim Byrne
ISBN: 9781846970061, pbk., 179 pages
Source: Personal Library, purchased from AbeBooks

Posted by: Lisa Hill | December 31, 2025

Shirley Hazzard, A Writing Life (2022), by Brigitta Olubas

Shirley Hazzard is one of my favourite authors, so I  was delighted with this Christmas gift from The Offspring: Shirley Hazzard, A Writing Life by Brigitta Olubas.  But I was a bit put off by some of the judgemental chatter around a subsequent book which Olubas edited with Susan Wyndham: Hazzard and Harrower: The Letters.  The publication of this correspondence generated some snippy commentary about how the expatriate Shirley Hazzard took advantage of Elizabeth Harrower when it came to caring for her difficult elderly mother back in Australia…  I didn’t really want to learn that my hero had feet of clay.

I should have known better.  Publicists always like to generate some controversy about a book if they can, and as Olubas shows in this biography, there are also always defensive reactions to expatriate Australian writers.  (The Australian reaction to Hazzard’s Boyer Lectures is a case in point.)

What I learned from this biography is that there was a lot to like about Shirley Hazzard.  She was sociable, making friends from all walks of life wherever she was.  She was kind-hearted and generous, and she always remembered the significant life events of the people she knew: who had lost a loved one, who had had a baby, whose book had been published and so on.  She brought joy and companionship into people’s lives when she hosted parties, bringing people together so that they could talk about the things they loved: poetry, literature and art.  She was vivacious and lively, but she was also a devoted wife to her much older husband Francis Steegmuller in his waning years, helping him to publish the last two books he was determined to finish despite his cognitive decline.  They read Gibbon’s Decline and Fall aloud to each other in his last years, which reminded me of doing something similar with my father, who could still read almost to his last days.

The biography is chronological, beginning with the usual family background, made more interesting than most because her diplomat father Reginald Hazzard took postings around the world.  So at a formative age, Shirley Hazzard was seeing a world wider than she’d known in Sydney, and she hated it when they returned home from Hong Kong where at 16 years of age, she had begun working for the British Combined Intelligence Services, and fell in love with Alec.  From Sydney the family went to Wellington New Zealand where her father was Australian Trade Commissioner, and where she nursed not only a heart broken by separation but also by the loss of the vibrant, cosmopolitan life of an Asian city.

Reginald Hazzard’s next posting was (after a brief sojourn in the UK)  in New York,  where Shirley began working for the UN, sparking her lifelong crusade against its bureaucracy and the loss of its ideals.  This culminated in short stories published as People in Glass Houses (1967); in Defeat of an Ideal: A Study of the Self-destruction of the United Nations (1973); and in the exposure of the Nazi history of Kurt Waldheim (UN secretary-general 1972-1981) in Countenance of Truth: The United Nations and the Waldheim Case (1990).

During this time in New York she began learning Italian, which enabled her to take up a position in Italy, where her writing career began in 1959 with ‘bad poetry’ and short stories that were published in The New Yorker. (Some of these I have read in Cliffs of Fall and Other Stories (1963).

She loved the sense of deep time in Italy, amid the layers of an ancient but recognisable past that we read about in Latin texts, preserved so much more vividly in Italy than in Britain, France, or Spain.  But she also loved the intellectual companionship that she stumbled into at the Villa Solaia in Tuscany. Her hosts were an anti-fascist, cultured family of Jewish heritage, who had weathered the war years in Britain and came back to a property damaged by the Occupation so took in paying guests in order to maintain the house.  Here she could soak up the atmosphere in Elena’s salons, with poetry, art and literature, and at the end of her Italian contract and her return to the her UN post in New York, though she wasn’t well paid, she could afford to go there every summer from 1957 to 1963.

The chapter that introduces Steegmuller was fascinating, and as every good LitBio should, it made me want to read his books.  (It turns out that I have his short story ‘The Incident at Naples’, published within Hazzard’s The Ancient Shore, Dispatches from Naples (2008) about which I wrote some thoughts before departing overseas.  When I retrieved it from my Travel shelves, there was a bookmark tucked inside it, indicating that I’d only read Shirley’s essays, an omission I shall rectify ASAP!) This chapter also made me want to chase up ‘Le Nozze’, Shirley’s short story about a couple reorganising their stuff prior to moving in together, and what luck! here is it at Harper’s Bazaar.

There are some unnecessarily irritating features of this biography: there are quotations in languages that I speak, but will have others resorting to Google Translate.  What does it mean to you, if you don’t understand ‘je suis sortie’ when the Vicomtesse de Noailles says that to Francis Steegmuller on the phone?  If you know it means ‘I have gone out’, then you know that she is succinctly and brutally telling him ‘I am not at home to you, you are not welcome because you have offended me’.  There are allusions to people, some of whom are obscure except to people more widely read than me.  Should I have known who Lillian Hellman was and what Francis meant when he said she was an ex-Trotskyite? Surely it would have been easy enough to tuck the designation ‘blacklisted American playwright’ along with her name?  Sometimes, also, Olubas refers by first name to someone previously mentioned, making it awkward to find that person by surname in the index if you can’t remember who they were.   ‘Who is this Reg, asking for money?’ I scrawled in my notes about page 311 after I failed to find him, until I guessed it referred to Shirley Hazzard’s father Reginald, last referred to on page 265.  He is mentioned very little since Shirley was estranged from him since her parents’ divorce.

I had however, committed her mother’s name to memory because this woman Catherine (Kit) Hazzard did indeed loom large in Shirley Hazzard’s life.  A diagnosis of mental illness came late in her life, and even then she messed about with her medication.  Since she had access to enough money to do it, she was forever sailing off around the world, staying in places where she thought she would be happy, only to decide on a whim that it was hateful and to go somewhere else. I don’t imagine that male expats suffer much criticism for neglecting a parent left behind, or that they are expected to shelve their careers to look after an elderly parent. (Somebody must have managed care for the parents of Clive James, Barry Humphries and Peter Carey, eh? But what have we ever heard about that?)

Well, contrary to my expectations from the publicity for Hazzard and Harrower: The Letters, though Shirley did not move back to Australia to look after her mother in her declining years, she was not neglectful.  Olubas is at pains to show how Shirley and her mother wrote to each other every week, exchanged gifts and spoke on the phone.  Kit stayed with them at various times in London and New York, and it’s clear that sometimes they subsidised her to have a home of her own.  When Kit does one of her flits, this time from New York, it’s because she feels guilty about accepting Steegmuller’s generous financial help. And while the letters quoted do show that Shirley asked Elizabeth Harrower to help out with things (such as filling out a pension application) Olubas also quotes Harrower writing to Patrick White that she had a strange compulsion to to save people’s lives. She may well have felt eventually that she’d saddled herself with a burden, but it began with her friendship with Kit.  I have Susan Wyndham’s biography of Elizabeth Harrower on the TBR, so I shall soon see what she has to say about it.

The best part of this biography is, of course, the discussion about Hazzard’s fiction, sparking an ambition to reread it all, especially The Transit of Venus and The Great Fire which are not reviewed on this blog and should be.

Though Shirley Hazzard, A Writing Life is most certainly not a hagiography, and there are some revelations that show Shirley could be as imperfect as the rest of us, my admiration remains intact!

Author: Brigitta Olubas
Title: Shirley Hazzard, A Writing Life
Publisher: Virago, 2022
Cover designer not acknowledged, cover photo by Roberto Pane
ISBN: 9780349012872, pbk., 467 pages not including the Notes, Index or photo inserts, taking it to 561 pages.
Source: Gift from The Offspring, Xmas 2022

Posted by: Lisa Hill | December 31, 2025

Seascraper (2025), by Benjamin Wood

Longlisted for the Booker Prize and beloved by many, Seascraper is a beautifully written but deeply melancholy work which made me wonder why so many authors revel in depressing historical fiction.

Thomas Flett is stranded by his own lack of ambition on a miserable bit of British coastline, earning a subsistence living by scraping for shrimp the old-fashioned way, as his grandfather had taught him. He did well at school, but left to continue the family business even though more efficient and profitable ways of shrimping were obviously becoming the norm.  So, instead of staying on to get the kind of credentials that in the 1950s were the key to a better life (which was why progressive governments all over the world made secondary education accessible to all), he condemned himself to lonely work with no future, in a place where his mother was still being judged for her illegitimate son.

To pile on the misery, Thomas yearns to try his hand at being a musician, but hides the guitar for which he pawned his father’s watch, because his mother Would Not Approve.  And because his scraping outfit pongs so much, there’s not a girl in the village who will take an interest in him.

Sheesh…

Thomas knows the treachery of his bit of the coast intimately, so when an ‘exotic’ film director offers him £100 to guide him through the fog and sinkholes, it seems like an escape route out of this dreary life, and even his mother is charmed by Mr Acheson.

Will it end well?  Of course not. Well, there is a small smidge of hope, but not enough to make me think that things will change.

Rachel at Yarra Book Club loved it, naming it as her Favourite Fiction Book of 202 in her EOY wrap-up.

So did

So don’t take any notice of me!

Author: Benjamin Wood
Title: Seascraper
Publisher: Viking (Penguin Random House), 2025
Jacket design & illustration by Jonathan Pelham
ISBN: 9780241741344, hbk., 163 pages
Source: Kingston Library

Posted by: Lisa Hill | December 30, 2025

Flashlight (2025), by Susan Choi

I really did enjoy romping through Susan Choi’s Flashlight after reading Christina Stead’s (literally) heavyweight House of All Nations.  It was a bit of a dash because it was due back at the library, and no renewals because it’s got  dozens of reserves.  Nominated for the Booker, it’s a bestseller in a way that House of All Nations never was, and yet Stead’s 1938 novel endures: will Choi’s novel still be read almost a century from now?  I can’t tell…

There are six parts to Flashlight, shifting across time and place while narrating the perspectives of the main characters in the novel.  The prologue begins with Louisa’s last memory of her father before his disappearance and her obstinate resistance to therapy afterwards, and then Part I begins with the childhood experiences of Seok in Imperial Japan during WW2.  His Korean parents had gone there for work, but were caught up in the chaos of postwar Occupied Japan where they did not have citizenship, and the partition of Korea.  The family was separated when they took up the offer of repatriation to North Korea: Seok was fluent in Japanese and imbued with a sense of Japanese superiority even though Koreans were not accepted there, and he stayed.  So did his older sister, pursuing a relationship.

Opportunity knocks and Seok makes his way to the US, where he anglicises his name to Serk and works as a teacher in a minor American college.  He meets Anne, a character damaged by an opportunistic (married) lover who takes their baby Tobias and raises him within his own family.  The conditions of this arrangement allow for an annual ‘report’ on his progress, and no contact for many years.  Anne and Serk, for different reasons, have no satisfactory experience of parenting, and in different ways, inflict their neurotic anxieties on their only child, Louisa.  Most of the time Serk bullies Anne into obedience, but not always.

Both parents are extremely reticent about their pasts, particularly Serk who, in this era of the Cold War, is always anxious about having his Green Card revoked if authorities find out that his parents are in North Korea.   He is not at all keen to undertake an exchange program with a college in Japan, but gets pushed into it by his employers.  It turns out to be disastrous, not least because Anne develops what is diagnosed as a neurotic condition, and becomes totally housebound.  Louisa becomes more and more bewildered by the displacement that they cannot escape and by the secrecy that her father imposes about all his activities.  It is this sojourn in Japan which culminates in her father’s disappearance when they are walking along a beach.   He is presumed drowned, and Anne and Louisa return to America.

As any reader will deduce when this happens in the middle of a very long novel, there is more to it than the story of Anne and Louisa in the wake of this tragedy.  And just as well, because it is only the historical, political and geographical settings which differentiate the first part of the novel from any number of Destructive Marriage Stories.  The latter part of the novel, however, shifts gear in a dramatic way that makes it a harrowing page-turner.  A couple of coincidences then trigger a long-suppressed memory for Anne, and a chance meeting for her geeky adult son Tobias.  These enable a discovery that pulls the threads of the novel together.  (Tobias, BTW, is the only likeable character in the whole novel.)

I have been evasive about what happens next because it’s not possible to discuss it without ruining the narrative tension that propels the second half of the novel.  Claire also reviewed it with care at Word by Word, but for those who intend to read the novel I advise caution in reading other reviews.

 


I read this novel at this time for Laura Tisdall’s #DoorstoppersInDecember

Author: Susan Choi
Title: Flashlight
Publisher: Jonathan Cape (an imprint of Vintage, Penguin Random House), 2025
Cover designer not acknowledged
ISBN: 9781787335134, pbk., 448 pages
Source: Kingston Library

 

Posted by: Lisa Hill | December 30, 2025

In 2025…My Life in Books

shelleyrae @ Book’d Out creates this meme for a bit of fun each year, and I did it for the first time last year. 

The task is to complete the prompts using titles from the books you have read in 2025 to complete the sentence to describe your life in the past year.
Statements don’t have to be true.


2025 was the year of #RichPeopleDoingCreepyThings IRL like:

The Ministry of Time (2024), by Kaliane Bradley

In 2025 I (have always) wanted to be:

The Artist (2025), by Lucy Steeds

In 2025 I was #not:

Perfection (2022), by Vincenzo Latronico, translated by Sophie Hughes

In 2025 (after I cleared the dead grapevine from the pergola) I gained:

The Tree in Changing Light (2001), by Roger McDonald

In 2025 I lost:

The Book of Evidence (1989), by John Banville

In 2025 I loved:

Silence (2011) by Rodney Hall

In 2025 I hated:

Entitlement (2024), by Rumaan Alam

In 2025 I learned:

A Lesson Before Dying (1993), by Ernest J Gaines

In 2025 I was surprised by #PlantsThatHaveLostTheirSenseOfTheSeasons:

Late Blossoms (2025) by Merav Fima

In 2025 I went to: remembered when I lived in a flat above the Turtle Café in Elwood and had 

A Room Above a Shop (2025), by Anthony Shapland

In 2025 I missed out on: 

Art Heist: 50 Artworks You Will Never See (2024) by Susie Hodge

In 2025 my family were:

My People (1970) by Oodgeroo Noonuccal

In 2026 I hope (it will be) lots more walks along the beachfront with Amber:

By the Sea (2001), by Abdulrazak Gurnah

 

Summary and analysis of By the Sea by Abdulrazak Gurnah

Posted by: Lisa Hill | December 28, 2025

House of All Nations (1938), by Christina Stead

What on earth can I tell you about Christina Stead’s Doorstopper House of All Nations that hasn’t already been said by the very small number of people who have read it? It’s big, (832 pages); it’s about banking and chicanery in the banking industry; it’s set in the 1930s when the Depression was wreaking havoc; it’s got so many characters it takes nearly five pages to list them all at the front of the book; it’s confusing until you sort out who the main characters are and their (unreliable) relationships with each other; and (recognisable from The Man Who Loved Children), it’s written in a cinematic modernist style, described at Goodreads as:

  • The noisiest book I have ever read. Life spills out of its pages. Raucous, wise, witty, opulent, unique and human. (John Purcell)
  • An extraordinary and perfectly pitched novel, which remains as relevant today as it was in 1938. (Jonathan)
  • … reads like Balzac on steroids. (Leigh Swinbourne)
  • … a mammoth of a book (Jayden McComiskie)

That’s it.  There are 36 ratings and only 4 reviews at Goodreads, and Michael Orthofer at The Complete Review has gathered together expert reviews as well as his own, but only four of those link to sites online where we can read more of what they say about it. With the exception of three from 1972-73, all the reviews are from the book’s year of publication, 1938.

Update, later the same day: There’s also this 2006 review, at Neglected Books

But here’s the thing: the 4 (more recent) reviews at Goodreads are all by men and so are three of the four that we can read via The Complete Review.  The fourth doesn’t have a byline but I think we can guess his gender from his inclusion of Stead’s ‘hobbies’ in the review. Orthofer does, however, include excerpts from four female reviewers, of whom only the first listed here was impressed and from what’s been quoted none of them are interested in the women of the novel.  (Correct me if I’m wrong, Michael, I can’t access their full reviews and I don’t want to do them an injustice).

  • Elizabeth Hardwick, The New Republic (1/8/1955)
  • Martha Duffy, Time (30/10/1972)
  • Angela Carter, London Review of Books (16/9/1982)
  • Louise Bogan, The Nation (18/6/1938)

So I’m going to share my thoughts about the feminist issues raised by House of All Nations. 

And to start as I mean to go on, Alan Kohler who wrote the Introduction to my edition is wrong when he writes in his first paragraph that [Christina Stead] was a Marxist, writing about capitalism and the men in it — there are no women — are financial whores. 

As is authentic for the period in which it is set, it is, as he says, a masculine world.  The bankers are all men, and so are the brokers and most of the investors and clients.  There are, however, women with a lot of money: minor royalty and heiresses; and wives, divorcees and their families.   And while the men tend to think of them as being universally dim and dependent, there are actually some who are smarter than they think.

In a novel bursting with villains, the biggest villain of them all is Aristide Raccamond… but it’s his wife who’s the brain behind the villainy.  Aristide fancies himself as a genius who can outsmart Jules Bertillon, a hummingbird of rumour, fancy and adventure who owns the bank and operates it in a mercurial fashion. Taking him on is real ambition, and it’s his wife who has that.

To Bertillon, money is a game to be played, like gambling on the horses.  There’s a bit of skill; a lot of listening to and watching his connections; insider trading; and a willingness to lose a lot of money (his and other people’s) because the big wins make people think he’s going to make money for them.   I don’t know if professional gamblers keep records of their wins and losses, but Bertillon’s books are stashed all over Europe and the UK, and the accountants who try to keep track of their part of the business(es) know nothing about the others and not enough about their own. This is not just to evade tax…

Bertillon’s best asset is his charm, and his economist Michel Alphendéry knows it:

‘Oh, the bank,’ said Alphendéry easily, laughing, ‘is a sort of cosmopolite club for the idle rich and speculators of Paris, Madrid, Rio, Buenos Aires, New York, London, and points farther east and west.  And Mr Bertillon gives the best exchange rates in France.  People appreciate that courtesy—it’s the one thing that tells in a foreign city.  A little paring of the rate of exchange and the client has big confidence.’

‘Right,’ said Léon, settling back his head and eyeing the back of Alphendéry’s small, square head with augur look.  ‘And charm.’

‘Charm is a cunning self-forgetfulness,’ confided Alphendéry. (p. 20)

Aristide Raccamond would like to be part of it all, and Marianne Raccamond, (a woman who isn’t in the novel at all, according to Kohler) makes an appearance on the first page of the novel — and we see how astute she is, from the first lines:

They were in the Hotel Lotti in the Rue de Castiglione, but not in Léon’s usual suite.  Léon’s medicine case in yellow pigskin lay open, showing its crystal flasks, on a Louis XV chair.  The Raccamonds, man and wife, bent over this case and poked at it.

‘He always travels with it: cowardice of the lion before a common cold, eh?’ Aristide reflected.

Marianne sniffed. ‘He’s afraid to lose his money, that’s all.’ (p.3)

While Aristide concerns himself with trivia, Marianne is more observant about what matters.  She deduces that Henri Léon is in a suite at the back not because the hotel is full up (it’s too early in spring); it’s because he’s economising. Aristide is wrong about Léon’s ‘modesty’ too; it is Marianne who correctly deduces that one of his women is taking a bath too.  This one turns out to be (yes, another woman!) Vera Ashnikidzé, a Paris whore who singled out and courted the husband in the presence of the wife. 

Léon (a grain merchant) starts babbling about wanting to see Bertillon and complaining about his wayward son, addressing Aristide… but it’s Marianne’s opinion that he wants:

They went towards the door, Léon affectionately grabbing Marianne’s arm and murmuring, ‘What do you advise me to do, eh? You’re a mother, you’ve got brains. What can I do? ‘ (p.6)

And when, much later on in the novel, Aristide is blackmailing Bertillon, it is Marianne who is most definitely the brains behind their manoeuvres. She is strategic, clever, and audacious, but even her own husband thinks that she knows nothing about the world of finance and shady banking, and she only gets the opportunity to deal with things when Aristide is sick in bed with the flu. She is, as the character Manray acknowledges, the real Raccamond. Just as well she makes sure to get her husband to put all their assets in her name, because he won’t listen to her advice…

Moving on to ‘Scene Three: Blind, Instinctive Love’, we meet Henrietta Achitophelous, the rebellious daughter of a wealthy Greek merchant.  She has run away to Paris, and is ‘keeping herself’ in the theatre.  She doesn’t want to marry ‘profit’, i.e. the young man her father has selected for her: she wants the freedom to believe in Marxism, and to have sex with whoever she likes and not bother about babies.   But Achitophelous and Bertillon talk about her as a possession, to be ‘given’ in marriage, much like the royals of Europe who traded their daughters for alliances.

Yes, this is another woman in the novel that Kohler says isn’t there.  Am I harping on this? Yes, I am.  Kohler (a high-profile Australian financial journalist) is the most recent serious commentator on this novel; this edition was published in 2013.  Does he think that Stead’s female characters are just wallpaper in the novel?

No, each one of them is there for a reason. Scene 10 ‘Why the Police Pursued Pedrillo’ is there to show how Bertillon helps Pedro to escape the police who are after him for trying to abduct a woman, which is just a little Latin fun.’ 

Claire-Josèphe, Bertillon’s wife is an heiress in her own right, but the extended family of his brothers and their offspring depend on him for an income.  Wealthy some may be, but the women have no capacity to earn the kind of luxury living that they are used to.  And even the female workers don’t have a retirement fund to keep them secure in their old age: when Mme Gentil the book-keeper retires, Léon only donates to the collection being taken up because she knows all the bank’s secrets.

But Stead doesn’t hesitate to heap scorn on some of the women in her novel, describing Léon’s wife and daughter as beautiful, small, buxom, both unenterprising harem women susceptible to flattery.  Harem women — ouch! But this unnamed woman (not BTW among the character list) has made the best of her opportunities:

His wife, some years discontented and cranky after she had found out some of his infidelities, had now taken her parents’ advice and resigned herself to it with some show of cynicism, making Léon pay tribute in the shape of bracelets, furniture, new boudoir arrangements, and trips to spas whenever she wanted them.  She had also quietly taken a lover herself and conducted the affair in a decorous manner.  The result of this arrangement was that though everyone was miserable, the estate remained united and intact, the family was socially acceptable. Léon had no more scruples about his lady loves, the rabbi called regularly, and Hélène, sensible and charming girl, was on the brink of an engagement to young Rhys of Rotterdam, a youth already rich in his own name and whom the romantic young Henrietta Achitophelous had slip through her fingers. (p.224-5)

Daniel Cambo is a merchant who brags about not needing to invest.  He buys stuff that doesn’t sell, made by cottage industries — women who knit in parks while they’re watching their babies — so he doesn’t have to worry about labour laws, insurance or investment capital.  Cambo’s cynicism about the people he exploits is repulsive. These people are always bankrupt, he says, so you’ve done no harm; you’ve given them something to eat for a few months. 

Alphendéry shocks a London broker when he explains his reasons for not divorcing his wife:

If I divorce her, where will she be? Poor, silly, vain, spendthrift, dishonest, shameful, beautiful Estelle! Where will she be then? She is not in love with anyone.  Where would she be, divorced, adrift on the tides of society, trying to pick her living off men?  Where do they all end up? I know a woman here — she has every natural advantage — the mistress of Achitophelous: what a charming, lovable, gracious, beautiful girl! And she is worn to a shadow calculating who’s going to marry her next and what to do with her money to make it safe so that one or other of her quondam lovers won’t take it back from her and what to do to grind a bit more out of her lovers and how to put up with the rest of her friends who hate her and whom she detests, and how to keep her beauty and late hours and what on earth she’d going to do in exactly five years when she’s forty! (p.338)

House of All Nations is a whopper of a novel, and it rightly deserves its place as one that is still relevant today.  It didn’t sell well, and hardly anybody reads it today.  But as a novel which reveals Christina Stead as one of the most wise and thoughtful writers of her time, and an advocate for women’s financial independence, it has no rival.


I read this novel at this time for Laura Tisdall’s #DoorstoppersInDecember

Author: Christina Stead
Title: House of All Nations
Introduction by Alan Kohler
Publisher: Miegunyah Press (an imprint of Melbourne University Press), 2013, first published 1938
Cover design by Miriam Rosenbloom
ISBN: 9780522862003, paperback, 832 pages
Source: Personal library

Following on from my previous posts about the Purgatorio, we continue on from Canto 29… but only four cantos this week because the festive season is upon us.

Canto XXX

Will there be lovely music in these final cantos of the Purgatorio?  Yes there will, starting with the twenty-four elders who sing as they turn to face the chariot, which represents the church.  (You can refresh your memory of the symbolism of the procession from last week’s post, down at the bottom in Canto XXIX.)

When I searched for Musa’s translation ‘Come O bride, from Lebanon’ I discovered that it’s a popular choice for modern weddings, rendered in assorted excruciating versions with guitars and choirs singing out of tune.

#Digression: Why anyone would want anyone at their wedding to be thinking about Lebanon, the home of the Hezbollah terrorist group which takes its ideology and orders from Iran, and whose corrupt government pays compo to families of Hezbollah terrorists who die when they’re committing an atrocity well, I don’t know. It’s a long time since Beirut was known as the Paris of the Middle East, and there’s a lot of work to be done before Lebanon can reclaim the symbolic meanings it had in the Old Testament:

Whatever about that, I didn’t find a version of sufficient gravitas until until I searched using the Latin title:

Then, one of them, as sent from Heaven, sang
Veni, sponsa, de Libano, three times,
and all the other voices followed his. (Canto XXX, Lines 10-12)

A hundred singing angels rose up above the heavenly card, shouting Benedictus qui venis! (Blessed are you who come!) and Manibus, O date lilia plenis! (Give lilies in abundance!) They are welcoming Beatrice through a rain of flowers, and Dante — awestruck by her beauty and virtue — turns to Virgil to say:

‘Not one drop of blood
is left inside my veins that does not throb:
I recognise signs of the ancient flame (Canto XXX, Lines 46-48

This allusion to an ancient flame, Musa’s Notes tell us, comes from Virgil’s Aeneid where Dido speaks of her passion for Aeneas, a passion she had thought she no longer had.  The lines serve a dual purpose: they remind us of Dante’s passion for Beatrice, and they signal Virgil’s departure:

But Virgil was not there. We found ourselves
Without Virgil, sweet father, Virgil to whom
for my salvation I gave up my soul.

All the delights around me, which were lost
by our first mother, could not keep my cheeks
once washed with dew, from being stained with tears. (Canto XXX, Lines 49-54)

Is that Statius who tells him not to weep, for you shall have to weep/from yet another wound? Statius is a purified soul who, unlike the pagan Virgil, can continue on to Heaven.  Or is it Beatrice? her tone is entirely different when she speaks with regal sternness (and considerable scorn) in Line 73: she is not best pleased with Dante.

Yes, look at me! Yes, I am Beatrice!
So, you at last had deigned to climb the mount?
You learned at last that here lies human bliss? (Canto XXX Lines 73-75)

She berates him for wasting his God-given gifts and veering from the path to Truth, so much so that even the angels feel that she has overdone the shaming:

so tears and sighs were frozen hard in me,
until I heard the song of those attuned
forever to the music of the spheres:

but when I sense in their sweet notes the pity
they felt for me (it was as if they said:
‘Lady, why do you shame him so,’) the bonds

of ice packed tight around my heart dissolved,
becoming breath and water: from my breast,
through mouth and eyes, anguish came pouring forth.  (Canto XXX, Lines 91-99)

No, she’s not having that! The angels’ pity is not to sabotage her plans to excoriate Dante’s soul! She turns round to them, reminds them that every act performed on earth is known to them, and that it’s her purpose to make the one who weeps on that far bank/ perceive the truth and match his guilt with grief. 

Did Dante mean for this paragon of virtue to sound like a woman scorned? Or is that just my 21st century way of looking at things?

There was a time my countenance sufficed,
as I let him look into my young eyes
for guidance on the straight path to his goal;

but when I passed into my second age
and changed my life for Life, that man you see
strayed after others and abandoned me;

when I had risen from the flesh to the spirit,
becomes more beautiful, more virtuous,
he found less pleasure in me, loved me less

and wandered from the path that leads to truth,
pursuing simulacra of the good,
which promise more than they can ever give. (Canto XXX, Lines 121-132)

But what has he done to deserve this?  To such depth did he sink, she says, the only way to save him was to make him see hell with Virgil as his guide.  As Musa says in the Notes, she doesn’t accuse him of the Seven Deadly Sins.  Her accusation of unfaithfulness is a bit far-fetched: apparently after Beatrice died he had a brief infatuation with ‘the Lady at the Window’ but as it shows in the Vita Nuova, he repented and vowed to memorialise Beatrice in the book we are now reading. No, it’s not that, it’s the abuse of his talent that she despises him for. Not an ounce of pity for him, then.

Canto XXIX

Oh dear, she hasn’t finished yet, she is merciless and demands confession and repentance.  His betrayal, it seems, is that he failed to follow the guidance of her buried flesh:

You never saw in Nature or in Art
a beauty like the beauty of my form,
which clothed me once and now is turned to dust;

and if that perfect beauty disappeared
when I departed from the world, how could
another mortal object lure your love?

When you first felt deception’s arrow sting,
you should have rushed to rise and follow me,
as soon as I lost my deceptive flesh.

No pretty girl of any other brief
attraction should have weighed down your wings… (Canto XXXI, Lines 49-60)

Forgive my confusion here.  If I read this correctly, Beatrice is saying Dante should have followed her to death.  Slashed his wrists, drunk hemlock, taken the ferry into Hades, or whatever.

But if he did, that’s suicide and as we read in the Inferno, that’s a mortal sin and he would have been whisked into the Seventh Circle of Hell in the Inferno from which there is no redemption.

No wonder Dante is in inarticulate paroxysms of grief. He faints, but when we wakes he is in the arms of ‘that lady that I first saw’ (i.e. the still not yet named Matelda), being drawn through the cleansing waters of the River Lethe. Musa’s Notes tell us that it is Matelda who performs this cleansing task for all who reach the Earthly Paradise, including Statius in Canto XXXIII. She lets him drink of the waters too, a ritual which, Musa’s notes explain,

…takes away the emotional memory of sin, just as drinking of the waters of Eunoë, which the Pilgrim and Statius will do later on (XXXIII, 133-35) restores the memory of all good deeds. (p.340)

A penitential hymn drawn from Psalm 51, is sung by the angels on the opposite bank, performed here by the Beatus Choir in St. Stephen Catholic Church in Cleveland, Ohio.

Four nymphs escort him to look into Beatrice’s eyes, unveiled at last. And now he sees a griffin, symbolising Revelation and the mystery of Christ’s dual nature.  It’s a bit complicated and I shall leave that to the theologians…

Anyhow, Dante is forgiven, and saved and so it’s off to…

Canto XXXII

This canto #understatement is a bit strange. It’s the longest canto, with 160 verses, and Musa’s Notes run to 10 pages. It begins with Dante temporarily blinded by looking into the eyes of Beatrice, and when he can see again, it’s to find himself with Statius and the lovely lady at the end of the departing pageant.  They stop at a tree, where Beatrice gets out of the chariot… and here I will let Musa’s summary take over:

This is the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, but it is stripped bare of leaf and fruit.  The griffin takes the pole of the chariot he has been pulling and attached it to the tree, which immediately bursts into bloom.  As the company begins to chant an unidentifiable hymn, the Pilgrim falls asleep.  He is awakened by the lovely lady to find that the pageant has departed  and that Beatrice, with her seven handmaidens, is left alone, seated beneath the tree.  She directs the Pilgrim to fix his eyes on the chariot.  As he watches, an eagle swoops down through the tree, tearing off the newborn leaves, and strikes the chariot with full force. Then a fox leaps up into the cart but is driven off by Beatrice.  Again the eagle comes, but this time it perches on the chariot and sheds some of its golden feathers there.  Suddenly the ground beneath the chariot opens, and a dragon drives its  tail up through the floor of the cart.  Withdrawing its stinger, it takes a portion of the floor with it.  What is left of the chariot now grows a rich cover of feathers and then sprouts seven heads.  Seated now upon the chariot is an ungirt whore, who flirts lasciviously with a giant standing nearby.  When the whore turns her lustful eyes toward the Pilgrim, the giant beats her and drags the chariot off into the woods. (p. 343)

Or, you could watch this AI generated video… with an excruciating translation which may have been done by AI too.

Ok, got that?  Would it make more sense if I had ever read Revelations?

The best I can do is to quote from the Notes which explain that:

  • The point of the military imagery is to convey that the chariot is transformed to represent symbolically the history of the Church Militant. 
  • The tree is the central allegory, representing the Holy Roman Empire and its shape has a moral significance; it represents the Justice of God.
  • The pole represents Christ’s cross that was formed from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil and when the griffin attaches the chariot (symbolising the Church) to the Tree, it represents reconciliation of humanity with divine justice.
  • Reminiscent of Peter, James and John after the Transfiguration of Christ, Dante falls asleep and then wakes up to find that it’s all over. The griffin (Christ) and procession have returned to Heaven, leaving Beatrice and her seven nymphs representing the seven theological and cardinal virtues, to guard the chariot.
  • Beatrice commands Dante to report on the seven tableaux which are symbolic visions of the catastrophes which befell the church, beginning in its early days and ending in Dante’s own time:
    1. the lightning: the persecution of the church under the Emperor Nero;
    2. the cunning mischief of the fox: internal heresies, especially Gnosticism;
    3. the eagle: the acquisition of temporal wealth and power;
    4. the dragon: represents Satan, though exactly what the fourth catastrophe is, isn’t clear to Musa, possibly Mohammedanism;
    5. the eagle again, covering the chariot with unnatural plumes: the church’s further preoccupation with wealth and power;
    6. the devastating transformation of the chariot of the church: this part is full of beasts from Revelations. The seven heads probably represent the Seven Deadly Sins corrupting the church. But it could also refer to the Pope interfering with hereditary rule passed down from St Peter, by appointing seven electors to select the Holy Roman Emperor.
    7. Beatrice’s seat on the chariot taken over by the whore: the corrupted church (Pope Boniface VIII) forming unholy alliances with the French… and here I learned the reason why Avignon boasts a Palace of the Popes. I’ve been there, but I didn’t understand the reason why the papal seat was moved; I thought it was because of some schism. But no, it was because of the machinations of the French…The jealous ‘giant’ represents Philip the Fair (Phillip III, 1285-1314) who reneged on his arrangements with Boniface and in 1303 besieged the Papal Palace in Rome.  He captured Boniface, who died shortly afterwards.  Clement V was the next Pope and he allowed the papal seat to be moved to Avignon which although not as posh as the one in Rome, was much more convenient for Philip to keep an eye on future popes and ensure their ‘cooperation’.

This canto ends with the Pilgrim’s view of events blocked from his sight, so he can’t see what else the whore, the giant and the cart-turned-monster might be doing.

Update: NB This canto 32 is where the illustration on the cover of my edition makes an appearance.  ‘The Harlot and the Giant’ is by William Blake (1757-1827), and it seems it is in the National Gallery of Victoria here in Melbourne.

Canto XXXIII

Oh nice! The nymphs are singing.

A much reduced procession sets off: the nymphs lead off, followed by Beatrice, and behind her, Dante, Statius and Matelda.

Beatrice commands Dante to walk with her so that he can speak freely, and she delivers a prophecy that the church will be delivered from its current woes and it shall be his task to repeat her words exactly when he writes about it.

They reach the source of the Rivers Lethe and Eunoë, and Beatrice orders Matelda to lead Dante to drink.  The canto concludes, and so does the Purgatorio.  Dante finds himself constrained by the structure of the poem he has created and so cannot write about the pleasure this brings him:

Reader, if I had space to write more words,
I’d sing, at least in part, of that sweet draught
which never could have satisfied my thirst;

but now I have completed every page
planned for my poem’s second canticle—
I am checked by the bridle of my art!

From those holiest waters I returned
to her reborn, a tree renewed, in bloom
with newborn foliage, immaculate,

eager to rise, now ready for the stars. (Canto XXXIII, Lines 136-145)

Onto the Paradiso next week! Alleluia!


You can see Scott-Giles’ visual representation of Purgatory here.

Next week, Purgatorio Cantos 30-33, just a short one, finishing off the Purgatorio over the Christmas week.

 Progress so far:

See also

References:

  • The Divine Comedy: Translation, Notes and Commentary by Mark Musa,
    • Vol 1, Inferno, 2003 new edition of the 1984 Penguin Classics edition, first published 1971 by Indiana University Press, ISBN 9780142437223
    • Vol 2, Purgatory, 1985 Penguin Classics edition, first published 1981 by Indiana University Press, ISBN: 9780140444421
  • The Divine Comedy translated by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, with illustrations by Gustave Doré and an Introduction by Melinda Corey; Barnes and Noble edition 2008, ISBN: 9781435103849
  • The Divine Comedy translated and with an Introduction by Clive James, Picador Poetry edition, 2013, ISBN 9781447244219
  • A Beginners Guide to Dante’s Divine Comedy by Jason M Baxter, Baker Academic, 2018, ISBN: 9781493413102, Kindle edition  ASIN: B0752RVZ6R
  • The Discarded Image: An Introduction to Medieval and Renaissance Literature by C S Lewis, Kindle edition ASIN B08TCJZP5N
  • The Sleepwalkers, by Arthur Koestler, The Danube Edition, Hutchinson, 1968 first published 1959 ISN: 090502515
  • The Essential Plato, translated by Benjamin Jowett, The Softback Preview, 1999, first published in this translation in 1871, ISBN: 9781582880129
  • The Dante Course, a series of lectures presented by Prof. Teodolinda Barolini, Lorenzo da Ponte Professor of Italian at Columbia University, 2015-6 online

Image credits:

Best wishes to everyone for the festive season!

We are a secular family, but every year my father’s Christmas Crib makes an appearance on the mantelpiece.  He was secular too, and his woodworking skills were rudimentary, but when we lived in England there was a memorable year when he made wooden toys for his three girls (a zoo, a farm, and building blocks — which must have taken ages to paint!) and a Christmas crib to be part of the Christmas decorations. That little wooden crib travelled with us around the world, and when I was a mother myself, I hankered after one for my Christmas decorations.

So he made one for me, but my mother could only source a plastic Holy Family, and she made a point of telling me that she would not be offended if I replaced them.  Over the years I’ve had a glass set, and the too modern wooden set

but now we have settled on the ceramic bears that I found in an OpShop.

I wasn’t going to do Christmas decorations this year… but this bit of Christmas nostalgia is a reminder that a gift made with love can last a long time.

Whatever your faith, or if like me you don’t have one, I hope you can celebrate the day with the ones you love.

With thanks to the Tea and Ink Society, here are some classic Christmas stories for when you get a moment to put your feet up, with some Baroque Christmas music in the background:

“A Christmas Dream, and How It Came to Be True” by Louisa May Alcott

Alcott seems to have a genuine love for Christmas. She includes memorable Christmas scenes in her novel Little Women, but she also wrote a number of Christmas short stories and novellas. (You can get them all gathered into one volume here.) Alcott was a fan of Charles Dickens’s Christmas stories, and “A Christmas Dream” is a children’s version of A Christmas Carol. This would make a great Christmas story to read aloud to your kids!
Read it here

“A Child’s Christmas in Wales” by Dylan Thomas

Dylan Thomas recounts memories of an old-fashioned Christmas from the perspective of a young boy. Thomas uses his skill as a poet to make this a lyrical and sense-engaging story.
Read it here | Listen here (read by the author)

“The Other Wise Man” by Henry van Dyke

Traditionally, when we think of the wise men of the Christmas story, we think of three kings. For this story, van Dyke imagines a fourth wise man who misses the rendezvous with the other kings and must journey to visit the Christ Child on his own. The quest that follows is an immersive and richly detailed story.
Read it here | Listen here

And some Christmas music too!

Update, later on Christmas morning: A special greeting to my readers in Tassie, where you have Proper Snow today. It’s a bit nippy here in Melbourne, but no snow for us, as far as I know. I hope you can rug up and enjoy it! All the best, Lisa

Posted by: Lisa Hill | December 23, 2025

Annie Magdalene (1985, reissued 2025) by Barbara Hanrahan

This reissued edition of Barbara Hanrahan’s Annie Magdalene begins with a quotation from Virginia Woolf:

For all the dinners are cooked; the plates and cups washed; the children sent to school and gone out into the world. Nothing remains of it all.  All has vanished.  No biography or history has a word to say about it.  And the novels, without meaning, inevitably lie… All these infinitely obscure lives remain to be recorded.

I thought about this call to arms this morning as I made my morning coffee in a Royal Bone China mug.  It once belonged to a school friend of mine who died of leukaemia when she was only in her forties. She had no family: she was an only child and had outlived her parents by some years.  I was joint executor of her will, and since the other executor lived in Queensland it was my task to distribute her very small estate to her friends.  She had left small, but meaningful amounts to help them out: enough to buy a better wheelchair, enough to buy a better mattress for a bad back.  It was a nightmare to administer but I loved her for it. Before my co-executor flew home after the funeral, she asked me if I would like something in memory of Sue, and I chose the two bone china mugs with pretty floral designs. I think of Sue every day when I have my coffee in one of those mugs.  I think about how short her life was, and how she lives on only in the memory of friends who recall her glorious voice and the few screen appearances that comprised her acting career.

So yes, an obscure, unrecorded life.  Does it matter?  It depends how you think about it.  There are millions of people alive today, and millions who lived before them.  If all (as Woolf suggests) these infinitely obscure lives were recorded, we would be overwhelmed by print and digital texts and maybe some on stone tablets, and we would be swamped by oral storytelling.  So of course we sift and prioritise.  Some obscure lives are more interesting than others (except to their loved ones), and some become interesting with the passage of time because they are a record of social life and a society that has changed.

Barbara Hanrahan’s Annie Magdalene seems more like a memoir than a novella, and I think it was created in much the same way as Flawless Jade, which I read last month.  It reads as if it has been compiled from conversations with an elderly woman whose life spanned the early 20th century until the 1970s.  As a portrait of a working-class woman’s life, it is mildly interesting. It’s a social document that details how a woman, under-educated by contemporary standards, made an enjoyable and independent life for herself before the changes that feminism made possible.

I think Hanrahan gave her character the name ‘Magdalene’ to indicate that she died a virgin.  She had some insignificant boyfriends, but her closest companion was a female friend. The friend, however, married and died young.  That relationship never blossomed into anything else, or perhaps Hanrahan’s source chose not reveal it for privacy reasons or feared disapproval.  Or the whole thing is a work of imagination rather than having biographical origins and it was important to Hanrahan to suggest the denial of this woman’s sexuality.

Annie enjoyed creative domestic crafts.  She loved to sew, could cut a design without need of a pattern, knew how to tailor waistcoats and turn the heel of a sock, and took pleasure in fabrics and design.  She took pride in cooking better than some of the wives about her, and made fancy cakes as well as wedding dresses for her friends.  When I was a young feminist it was fashionable to be dismissive of these crafts but today when I see a local shop specialising in turning up hems or replacing a zip and charging a small fortune for it, I think we have lost the capability to do things for ourselves, not to mention the pleasure of having clothes that fit properly and are as individual as we are.

Annie supported herself in a variety of jobs, from seamstress (including a stint at self-employment), factory hand, and nanny.  But now in the 21st century where the plight of homeless elderly women is so stark, we can see that her independence was funded by her parents’ decision to leave their house to her.  Her younger, married brother is indignant, and threatens to challenge the will, but he never does.  However, as his marriage fails, he eventually moves in with Annie, and she resents it.  The home that had been hers is invaded by his presence.  Although she is working and he is not, she finds herself having to cook and clean for him.  The easy-going  social life that she had hosting female friends in regular gatherings is overpowered by his loud voice.  It spoils everything.

A child during WW1, Annie finds her choices compromised by WW2.  She is drafted into factory work making overalls, and then in food production.  She lists a roll call of people she knows who were killed or injured in war, but she doesn’t seem emotionally affected by it.  This seems authentic to me.  When I worked with my piano teacher, the concert pianist Valda Johnstone, to write her memoirs, she (understandably, because she was born in 1914) had nothing to say about WW1, though I asked her if she knew anything about her parents’ experience of it.  Though she was an only child, she came from a large family of uncles and cousins, some of whom must have served, but she was not like Australians of today who are proud to recall the service of long-dead family members that they never knew.  But she also had very little to say about WW2.  She played benefit concerts for the troops and there were some photos of men in uniform amongst her effects, but she said nothing about rationing or war time restrictions or the emotional impact of the death of friends or relations, and neither does Annie.  Perhaps it was because theirs was a generation that did not dwell on these things or speak of private grief.

The last part of the story tells of Annie’s struggles to manage alone on the invalid pension when she has severe arthritis, and it’s a poignant portrait of those who have no-one to care for them other than the desultory efforts of neighbours.  The novella doesn’t end with her death, but the reader knows what lies ahead.  She will either die alone in her house or spend her last days unvisited in a nursing home.

Annie Magdalene is not IMO one of Hanrahan’s better novels. Where the Queens all Strayed (1978) is a coming-of-age novel set a little earlier, at the turn of the 19th century, and although it likewise features an assertive woman who takes control of her own life, it’s a more observant, more coherent and less fragmented novel.  Annie Magdalene feels as if it’s captive to a narrative told to the author and perhaps recorded in her diaries.

Pink Shorts Press has two Hanrahan titles available (including as eBooks) and there’s a special offer if you buy both Annie Magdalene and Sea Green. But I have The Scent of Eucalyptus (1973); The Albatross Muff (1977); The Peach Groves (1980); and The Frangipani Gardens (1988) on the TBR so I’m going to crack on and read those first.

Now I’m off to make the mince pies for Christmas…

Author: Barbara Hanrahan (1939-1991)
Title: Annie Magdalene
Introduction by Farrin Foster
Publisher: Pink Shorts Press, 2025, first published 1985
Cover art: Barbara Hanrahan, ‘Iris in Her Garden’ 1982
ISBN: 9781763554122, pbk.,, 129 pages
Source: Kingston Library

They’re not as neat as the ones you buy in shops, but with a good splash of quality rum, they taste better!

Following on from my previous posts about the Purgatorio, we continue on from Canto 23…

Canto XXIV

We’re still in the Sixth Terrace of the Gluttonous, where the sinners expiate their sins through starvation. My timing for this canto could not be more apt during the season of excess in all things… a cautionary tale, eh?

So, moving on…

Dante is still walking and talking at high speed with Forese, but there is no mention of Statius and Virgil until Lines 119, except for an aside at Line 8, Dante refers to them obliquely when he says to Forese that ‘He [meaning Statius who should be moving faster] is climbing at a slower pace because of his companion, I suppose.’

Dante then enquires about the fate of Forese’s sister, Piccarda, and Forese tells him that she has already been admitted to Heaven, presumably without a sojourn in Purgatory because she was just as virtuous as she was lovely.  He then goes on to name some notable sinners of this terrace. Bonagiunta Orbicciani of Lucca was overfond of wine, but I get the impression from Musa’s Notes that his real sin was to write facile verses which Dante criticises as ‘municipal language’. (His poems are still extant so if your Italian is up to it, you can check him out to see if this is fair criticism.)

Next up is Simon de Brie of Tours a.k.a. Pope Martin IV.  He died, apparently from eating too many eels stewed in wine, which might have served him right for sabotaging the prospect of uniting the Eastern and Western Churches.

#Digression: I wondered if there was an artwork of this greedy pope scoffing eels, but instead discovered the fascinating history of eels as a form of currency.  At History Extra, you can read about how rents were paid in eels.  They were particularly popular during Lent when meat was forbidden in case it excited desire, but eels are apparently quite safe to eat in this respect.

Others named by Forese are the gourmet Ubaldino della Pila; Archbishop Boniface of Genova who instead of feeding his flock, fed his courtiers and hangers-on; and the renowned drinker Milord Marchese. And then we have some prophecy: a shade from Lucca foretells a change in Dante’s attitude to that city (known for its corruption) because of a woman there still unmarried. I hastened to the Notes to see if she became a lady-love or a friend to Dante while he was in exile, but nothing is known of her.

Then, what seems like a casual question about the authorship of ‘Ladies who have intelligence of Love’ and Dante’s acknowledgement that he’s the poet who wrote it, is actually, Musa tells us, a turning point in Dante’s love for Beatrice and his conception of love in general. The quotation comes from the first canzone of the Vita Nuova, (1294) Dante’s semi-autobiographical poem of courtly love.

With this canzone, Dante turns from a tentatively erotic and thoroughly selfish love to discover the beauty of loving unselfishly purely.  (p.264)

Henry Holiday‘s 1883 Dante and Beatrice is inspired by La Vita Nuova (Beatrice is in yellow):

This takes us onto an earnest discussion about styles of poetry (which Musa covers in three pages of notes which mostly went over my head.) Both Forese and Dante seem sunk in gloom when there is another prophecy, this time foretelling the death of Forese’s brother Corso Donati.  As the gluttonous souls rush past, he pauses before joining them to ask ‘When shall we meet again?’

‘How long my life will last I do not know,’
I said, ‘but even if I come back soon,
my heart will already have reached the shore.

because the place where I was born to live
is being stripped of virtue, day by day,
Doomed, or disposed, to rip itself to ruin.’

He said, ‘Take heart.  The guiltiest of them all
I see dragged to his death at a beast’s tail
down to the pit that never pardons sin.

The beast with every stride increases speed,
faster and faster, till it suddenly
kicks free the body, hideously mangled.

Those spheres,’ and he looked up into the heavens,
‘will not revolve for long before my words,
Which I have left obscure, will be made clear.’ (Canto XXIV, Lines 76-90)

Quite how this was supposed to cheer Dante I do not know, But Forese races off, leaving Dante to suddenly see another tree, with verdant, laden boughs but deaf to the pleas of a host of souls begging beneath it. From within the leaves a voice tells them that they must not approach: this is an offshoot of the tree of knowledge of good and evil.  The voice calls out examples of gluttony: the drunken centaurs at the wedding feast of Theseus who tried to carry off the bride; and the soldiers of Gideon who drank from the water like dogs and were thus culled from his army.

(This is a rather odd example of gluttony IMO.  Gideon had gathered a massive army for his campaign against the Midianites, but according to Wikipedia:

God informed Gideon that the men he had gathered were too many: with so many men, the Israelites might claim the victory as their own rather than crediting God. God first instructed Gideon to send home those men who were afraid. Gideon invited any man who wanted to leave to do so; 22,000 men returned home, and 10,000 remained. God then told Gideon that this number was still too many and instructed Gideon to bring the men to the water to drink. God commanded Gideon to separate those who had bowed down on their knees to drink like dogs, and those who lapped the water from their hands. Only the 300 men who had lapped the water from their cupped hands were allowed to remain.

Whatever, the Angel of Abstinence arrives to guide their way, and (yes, you guessed it!):

I felt a breeze strike soft upon my brow:
I felt a wing caress it, I am sure,
I sensed the sweetness of ambrosia.  (Canto XXIV Lines 148-150.)

That must be another ‘P’ gone from his forehead.  I’ve lost track of how many are left now!

Canto XXV

Now we reach the Seventh Terrace of the Lustful, and the penance here is fire.  The lustful purge their sins in flames while singing this hymn, Summae Deus Clementiae, introduced in this version with beautiful church bells and sung in a Milanese church.

The canto begins with Dante puzzling over how the Gluttonous could be so wretchedly thin since they are shades who don’t eat anything anyway.  Virgil and Statius mull over this together, discussing the relationship of the soul to the body, its creation by God and then how the soul is transformed into a shade after death. This takes them up to the last terrace…

After singing the hymn, which is a plea to God to purge their hearts of lust, and to cleanse their souls with fire, the sinners recite three examples of chastity: The Virgin Mary, self-evidently; Diana, Goddess of the Hunt, who not only protected her chastity by hiding out in the woods as a hunter, but also sacked one of her attendants, a nymph called Helice, because Jove seduced her; and finally a great hurrah for the married couples who don’t stray out of wedlock.

The male preoccupation with virginity manifests itself over and over again, doesn’t it?

Canto XXVI

Passing between a wall of flame on one side and a precipice on the other Dante and his guides continue through the next part of the Seventh Terrace.  The souls are puzzled by the fact that he has a body and a shadow, but just as he is about to explain, he is confronted by two groups of souls running in opposite directions: these are the Lustful of Sodom and Gomorrah, and the ‘hermaphroditic’, exemplified by Pasiphaë. There will be plenty of people who know of this woman cursed to fall in love with a bull from Madeline Miller’s 2018 novel Circe which I read a while ago.

Here Dante meets the poet Guido Guinizelli. Whatever his sin, Dante is very pleased to see him but he keeps his distance because of the flames while they talk about poetry.  But finally asking Dante to say a Paternoster (The Lord’s Prayer) for him, Guinizelli moves on and his place is taken by Arnaut Daniel, also a poet.  He speaks in Provençal, which is translated in Musa’s Notes.  It’s quite interesting, it’s not like any language I’ve seen but there are some words I recognise from Latin:

‘Tan m’abellis vostre cortes deman,
Qu’ieu no me puesc ni voill a vos cobrire.

‘Your elegant request so pleases me,
I could not possibly conceal my name.’ (Canto XXVI, Lines 140-141)

Canto XXVII

The day is ending as Dante, Virgil and Statius leave the Terrace and encounter the Angel of  Chastity, who is singing the Beatitude ‘Blessed are the Pure of Heart’.

But now there is a frightening test of faith.  The Angel tells them that they can’t continue without traversing the flames.

‘Holy souls, no further can you go
without first suffering fire.  So, enter now,
and be not deaf to what is sung beyond,’

he said to us as we came up to him.
I, when I heard these words, felt like a man
who is about to be entombed alive,

Gripping my hands together, I leaned forward
and, staring at the fire, I recalled
what human bodies look like burned to death. (Canto XXVII, Lines 13-18)

It’s not pleasant to remember that witnessing someone being burnt at the stake was not an unusual occurrence and Dante probably well knew what it looked and smelled like.

But the Angel reminds him that he was protected when they rode Geryon, and he will do no less now that they are closer to God. Understandably, however, despite these reassurances Dante is still petrified, provoking the Angel to say:

‘It’s time, high time, to put away your fears;
turn towards me, come and enter without fear!’
But I stood there, immobile —and ashamed.

He said, somewhat annoyed to see me fixed
and stubborn there, ‘Now, don’t you see, my son:
only this wall keeps you from Beatrice.’ (Canto XXVII, Lines 31-36

with this result:

just so, my stubbornness melted away:
hearing the name which blooms eternally
within my mind… (Canto XXVII, Lines 40-41)

As Musa points out in the Notes, what leads the Pilgrim to pass through the wall of fire is not a sense of duty, and not reason, but love. 

Well, it is jolly hot, but through the intense heat he hears a voice guiding them:

Night falls and sleep overcomes them, and Dante dreams of a lovely woman who names herself as Leah. She is gathering flowers in a meadow… exactly as she will appear in the next canto.

Canto XXIII

As we draw nearer to the end of Purgatory, the three poets reach the Earthly Paradise, and are welcomed to this Eden by a beautiful lady on the other side of a stream that blocks the way.  Not yet named but seeming to correspond to Leah of the dream, she explains the marvels of God’s creation, and about the two streams: Lethe which washes away memory of sin, and Eunoë which restores memories of good deeds.

After all the horrors of the Inferno and the Purgatorio, this is a enchanting canto, and there are some lovely paintings of this scene:

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Canto XXIX

Who better than the Tallis Scholars to sing Beati quorum tecta sunt peccata (Happy are those whose faults are taken away)? The lady sings this beautiful psalm as she walks upstream on the opposite bank to Dante.

A burst of incandescent light brings a procession into view, with each item having symbolic significance:

  • Seven golden candlesticks symbolise the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit: wisdom, understanding &c
  • 24 Elders represent the Books of the Old Testament;
  • Four creatures with six wings (as per the Apocalypse) symbolise the four Gospels;
  • The chariot stands for the church;
  • Three ladies dancing beside the chariot are
    • the theological virtues (Faith, Hope and Charity);
    • the cardinal virtues (Prudence (who has three eyes, to see Past, Present and Future), Justice, Fortitude and Temperance); and
  • Seven men following the chariot represent the rest of the books of the New Testament (Acts; The Epistles of St Paul, Peter, John, James and Jude, and the Apocalypse of St John;

The procession moves to the singing of the Benedicta (the first 30 seconds are very soft bells):

The heavenly pageant which heralds the arrival of Beatrice feels like the end of the Purgatorio, but no, there is a thunderclap, and there are four more cantos to go.

Onto Canto XXX next week!


You can see Scott-Giles’ visual representation of Purgatory here.

Next week, Purgatorio Cantos 30-33, just a short one, finishing off the Purgatorio over the Christmas week.

 Progress so far:

See also

References:

  • The Divine Comedy: Translation, Notes and Commentary by Mark Musa,
    • Vol 1, Inferno, 2003 new edition of the 1984 Penguin Classics edition, first published 1971 by Indiana University Press, ISBN 9780142437223
    • Vol 2, Purgatory, 1985 Penguin Classics edition, first published 1981 by Indiana University Press, ISBN: 9780140444421
  • The Divine Comedy translated by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, with illustrations by Gustave Doré and an Introduction by Melinda Corey; Barnes and Noble edition 2008, ISBN: 9781435103849
  • The Divine Comedy translated and with an Introduction by Clive James, Picador Poetry edition, 2013, ISBN 9781447244219
  • A Beginners Guide to Dante’s Divine Comedy by Jason M Baxter, Baker Academic, 2018, ISBN: 9781493413102, Kindle edition  ASIN: B0752RVZ6R
  • The Discarded Image: An Introduction to Medieval and Renaissance Literature by C S Lewis, Kindle edition ASIN B08TCJZP5N
  • The Sleepwalkers, by Arthur Koestler, The Danube Edition, Hutchinson, 1968 first published 1959 ISN: 090502515
  • The Essential Plato, translated by Benjamin Jowett, The Softback Preview, 1999, first published in this translation in 1871, ISBN: 9781582880129
  • The Dante Course, a series of lectures presented by Prof. Teodolinda Barolini, Lorenzo da Ponte Professor of Italian at Columbia University, 2015-6 online

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