Posts Tagged ‘restoration’

Okay, so I’ve been really giving the nonfiction a serious effort, but I’ve been at the current nonfiction book for weeks and am still only a third of the way through it. This weekend, though, I arrived a few hours early at the place where my new beau and I were to meet up, and I devoured this book entire. I feel certain that I’ve mentioned how much I love Winterson, but let me say it again. I love Jeanette Winterson’s books.

This is a story narrated by several people, but the two most important are identified by a fruit preceding their narrations. The pineapple is for Jordan, who begins his story as a child of uncertain origins pulled from a river. The banana is for the Dog-Woman, who finds a boy on a riverbank and learns to be a mother. Jordan’s narrations are often surreal and dream-like, while his mother’s are usually more down to earth. He lives in an age of travel and adventure and discovery, where a man can have a famous picture painted of him bringing the king a new sort of fruit, while she lives in a more realistic seventeenth century, where no one would eat a fruit that looks like a Chinese penis. She is a large woman, so big that most people are terrified of her, and has spent her life unloved and rejected.

I fell in love once, if love be that cruelty which takes us straight to the gates of Paradise only to remind us they are closed for ever.

She has a few dozen dogs, which she breeds, and works hard. She is tremendously strong. As she raises Jordan, though, for the first time she finds someone who loves her as she is and doesn’t notice how different she is from other people. The child accepts the fact that his mother is a mountain of a woman and doesn’t expect her to be other than as she is. As a Royalist, she finds the Interregnum difficult, and teams up with a local brothel to dispose of all the impure Puritans. It makes me sad that the gay men in the book are evil and have to be destroyed, but the mother only understands biology in terms of breeding, so it does kind of make sense to me that she would be outraged at the sight of non-procreative sex. I think it’s important that her son, the only thing tying her to a world of love, is gone off sailing from the execution of Charles I until the restoration of Charles II. Without him in her life, she becomes murderous and destructive. He’s back for a short time, but leaves again before she pours oil on the fire in 1666.

Growing up on the fringes of society, Jordan develops a taste for the strange and a tendency to travel in his mind. I suppose you could call it daydreaming, but it’s more like astral projection into a surreal cityscape with different physics and manners. He meets a beautiful dancing girl, but she gets away, and he sets off on a quest to find her. Along the way, he runs into more fantastic people and storytellers, and he does eventually find the girl, but she doesn’t believe in permanence, so there’s no happily ever after there. The quest is complete, but his journey never ends.

Along the way, we get a retelling of an old familiar story. Once upon a time there was a king with twelve daughters. I think there must have been either multiple queens or multiple births, because having an age range wide enough for one woman to produce twelve children and still retain her own health would make the rest of the story unrealistic. Anyway, the queen isn’t the significant part of the story. The princesses are. As they endure adolescence and begin to pass into adulthood, the king notices that his daughters are becoming lethargic. All twelve are chronically fatigued. Their appetites are undiminished, to the point that he’s a little embarrassed at how much his little princesses are consuming, but they don’t gain weight. If anything, they seem to dwindle as they get older. He sets men to watch over their activities, but no one sees them doing anything amiss. A prince from a neighboring kingdom joins the Princess Watch and is apparently the only one who thinks of watching them at night while everyone is sleeping. Every night the princesses fly out the window to a fairy ball, where they dance incessantly the whole night through. The prince sneaks into the ball and dances with the youngest princess, they fall in love, and the magic is broken. The king marries his twelve daughters to the prince and his eleven brothers and we are led to believe that this ends the story.

I don’t believe that anyone who has thought carefully about marriage truly believes it is an ending. It’s usually a beginning, and often a middle, but in itself it doesn’t resolve conflicts or end adventures. So Winterson tells us what happens afterward. If an unmarried woman has eleven younger sisters past the age of consent, there’s probably a reason she’s still single. Many of the princesses are lesbians, so they find ways to get rid of their husbands and love whom they choose. Many of the husbands are horrible, so it’s important they be got rid of. One princess found that her husband was really a woman after all, so she was content for rather a long time. Eventually, though, everything ends and all the princesses end up living together in a house far away from their father, who I must assume died sonless and left the kingdom to a distant male relation. The youngest princess, Fortunata, doesn’t settle down with her sisters, though, and travels throughout the world. She’s the one Jordan is after, and she does seem to care for him, but as I said, not in a permanent way.

The title of the book comes from a short, barely-a-page section on grafting. Even though I’ve never done it and probably wouldn’t know how, I’m familiar with the concept – cut a piece off of one tree and fasten it to another. The DNA mixes and the fruit gets the advantages of different genetic strains, sort of like the controlled breeding of animals or interracial procreation. Jordan learns it from Tradescant, the king’s gardener, but his mother is sort of aghast. If you mix two trees, how do you know what gender it becomes? Personally, I don’t normally think of trees as having gender; I’m not even that great at identifying species. But logically they do, because trees reproduce sexually and if you are used to breeding animals and if you think of the value of a tree as lying solely in its fruit, then you would naturally be concerned about the sexual identity of trees. But Jordan grafted from one female tree onto another, so of course the result is female. The gerund of the title makes it seem as if the book is about this process, of determining the gender of a fruit tree (which isn’t immediately obvious to everyone and is probably none of your business), but we don’t see the process happening. We’re simply told that it took place – meaning, of course, that this book is about silences, the things we don’t see happening. It’s about the parts of the story that we don’t get told, as in Winterson’s focus in the story of the Twelve Dancing Princesses.

Are we all living like this? Two lives, the ideal outer life and the inner imaginative life where we keep our secrets?

Curiously, the further I have pursued my voyages the more distant they have become. For Tradescant, voyages can be completed. They occupy time comfortably. With some leeway, they are predictable. I have set off and found that there is no end to even the simplest journey of the mind. I begin, and straight away a hundred alternative routes present themselves. I choose one, no sooner begin, than a hundred more appear. Every time I try to narrow down my intent I expand it, and yet those straits and canals still lead me to the open sea, and then I realize how vast it all is, this matter of the mind. I am confounded by the shining water and the size of the world.

The Buddhists say there are 149 ways to God. I’m not looking for God, only for myself, and that is far more complicated. God has had a great deal written about Him; nothing has been written about me. God is bigger, like my mother, easier to find, even in the dark. I could be anywhere, and since I can’t describe myself I can’t ask for help. We are alone in this quest, and Fortunata is right not to disguise it, though she may be wrong about love. I have met a great many pilgrims on their way towards God and I wonder why they have chosen to look for him rather than themselves. Perhaps I’m missing the point – perhaps whilst looking for someone else you might come across yourself unexpectedly, in a garden somewhere or on a mountain watching the rain. But they don’t seem to care about who they are. Some of them have told me that the very point of searching for God is to forget about oneself, to lose oneself for ever. But it is not difficult to lose oneself, or is it the ego they are talking about, the hollow, screaming cadaver that has no spirit within it?

I think that cadaver is only the ideal self run mad, and if the other life, the secret life, could be found and brought home, then a person might live in peace and have no need for God. After all, He has no need for us, being complete.

And I am brought back to my nonfiction quest for belief. I’m not looking for God in the way the theists are; I want to discover something that I believe in, and theism isn’t presenting a compelling case at the moment. Atheism isn’t either, and I suppose it’s a little inevitable that I would feel squeezed between the two halves of a binary and so run sideways into something different, but whose difference lies in a different place than the opposition that works as the fulcrum of the binary – something differently different. Perhaps all I’m really looking for is myself, a way to bring the secret life of the imagination into the visible, insane life of the ego and heal the rift between them. As Buber said, the source of evil is in dividing a person against himself.

Toward the end of the book, there’s a little narrative about two people in the twentieth century. Nicholas Jordan is in the navy, sailing the seas both literal and imaginative like his seventeenth century predecessor, and the woman is a pretty chemist who wants to destroy the fallen world of men. She imagines herself big, large enough that men notice her and not just her face, and even if people are afraid of her, at least they will take her seriously. I think the biggest disservice we do to people is to assume that they are powerless – in treating them as if they were, we create that reality for them. Then, they have to burn down London to prove their worth by destroying their oppressors. Time doesn’t really matter – people’s lives follow the same patterns, and even Artemis gets raped and has to kill the man who doesn’t think what he did was a crime. Maybe Jordan and his mother are merely the imagined selves of these two young people in the 1980s, and this whole book is a story they tell to each other. In my experience lovers are more likely to tell each other fairy stories about their future, but a shared past life could be just as meaningful.

I’m persisting with the nonfiction, but I think I really needed this diversion into narrative, especially a disjointed one like this, where we break off into other stories and weird lists about how to deal with men and ponderings of the nature of time, matter, and life.

Men are best left in groups by themselves where they will entirely wear themselves out in drunkenness and competition. While this is taking place a woman may carry on with her own life unhindered.

Maybe it is true that Winterson is one of those women who don’t have a lot of use for men – I don’t know her personally, so I can’t say, but yes, there is a strong sense of feminism and female homosexuality, and if a woman feels the weight of the patriarchy without feeling any sexual attraction to men, she may have a hard time feeling the value of a class of humans that makes her feel unvalued. But there is hope for individual men, if they are properly schooled by women, and I think that Winterson makes this clear. Women need to speak up, and men need to listen; there’s no reason people can’t be happy if we’re considerate of each other and take the time to learn each other’s needs and how best to meet them. I’m not saying it’s simple – I will probably always believe and say that people are hard and that’s why I prefer books – but it is possible.

 

When it comes to picaresque adventure novels, no one quite matches the Eighteenth Century. I’m thinking immediately of Tom Jones and Roderick Random, but I don’t mean to discount Gil Blas and Don Quixote. I know Don Quixote was earlier, but he was sort of the grandfather of the British heroic picaros. So when Stevenson started writing a novel about the famous Appin murder, it was a bit inevitable that things would move in this direction.

What famous Appin murder, you say? I’m glad you asked. Cast back in your mind to the seventeenth century. The Puritan government fell apart after the death of Cromwell, so they restored the monarchy by returning Charles II to the throne. When he died, the throne passed to his Catholic brother James. James was not popular with the people because they were afraid of having a Catholic king, so he had to flee the country. The monarchy was given to his daughter Mary and her husband William, and from them to his second daughter Anne, and from there to the distant cousin who became George I. However, James had a legitimate son, and this son tried to take back the throne in 1715. That son had a son of his own, who started another uprising in 1745. The Battle of Culloden ended these Jacobite claims to the throne, but did not end the partisan feelings between supporters of Bonny Prince Charlie and the Hanoverian king. In Appin, the land belonging to the Stewarts (relatives of Charles, James, etc) was confiscated and managed by the Campbells. Colin Roy Campbell of Glenure seems to have been fairly popular, despite his unfortunate position as Factor of the formerly Stewart lands. But, the Stewarts had to get rid of him to get their property back, so they shot him in 1752. It was widely believed that Alan Breck Stewart pulled the trigger, but he ran off to France, so James Stewart was hanged for it instead. The identity of the real shooter was kept as a family secret until the twenty-first century, when someone announced that James planned it all out, but that Donald Stewart was the real shooter. Two-hundred-fifty-year-old family secrets aren’t incredibly reliable, but that’s the information we have.

Stevenson’s story is of David Balfour, a seventeen-year-old boy denied his title and lands by a selfish uncle. The uncle pays a ship captain to kidnap him. He gets promoted to cabin boy when one of the mates kills the existing boy, and then they pick up Alan Breck, whose ship went down in the Hebrides. Alan and David team up to defeat the bad sailors, and then they travel together through the Highlands so that Alan can escape to France and David can regain what’s rightfully his. During a brief separation, David asks directions of a passing group of people, one of whom is Colin Roy Campbell, and the pause in their travel facilitates the Appin murder. Stevenson sets his story in 1751, a year early, but it’s the Appin murder all the same. David and Alan are both hounded through northern Scotland by the authorities, but everything turns out okay in the end.

Someone has written a gay erotic parody, and while I haven’t read it, I will say that the book lends itself especially well to such treatment. There is exactly one memorable female character, and she only appears for half a chapter. Her role is to be manipulated into providing them with food, drink, and a ride across the loch. A strong lass, she manages the oars herself, but the author doesn’t dignify her with a name. Most of the book is about the close relationship between Alan Breck and David Balfour, the way that Alan takes care of David when he’s sick and teaches him swordfighting when he’s well. For part of the time that they travel, they sleep together under a single coat, which implies some tight spooning. And, when he’s describing their relationship, it starts to sound like the way I feel about mine:

The thought of a separation ran always the stronger in my mind; and the more I approved of it, the more ashamed I grew of my approval. It would be a fine, handsome, generous thing, indeed, for Alan to turn round and say to me: “Go, I am in the most danger, and my company only increases yours.” But for me to turn to the friend who certainly loved me, and say to him: “You are in great danger, I am in but little; your friendship is a burden; go, take your risks and bear your hardships alone –” no, that was impossible; and even to think of it privily to myself, made my cheeks to burn.

And yet Alan had behaved like a child, and (what is worse) a treacherous child. Wheedling my money from me while I lay half-conscious was scarce better than theft; and yet here he was trudging by my side, without a penny to his name, and by what I could see, quite blithe to sponge upon the money he had driven me to beg. True, I was ready to share it with him; but it made me rage to see him count upon my readiness.

These were the two things uppermost in my mind; and I could open my mouth upon neither without black ungenerosity. So I did the next worst, and said nothing, nor so much as looked once at my companion, save with the tail of my eye.

We aren’t in open conflict, nor yet in accord. We’re becoming less guarded in our speech, or at least he is, and it’s becoming clear that we’re just too different. We have different tastes in leisure activities, in television programs, and even in what constitutes healthy food. The money thing just makes it worse; Stevenson’s characters are in physical danger, but our danger is primarily financial. I don’t mean to keep re-covering the same ground, but there it is. Young Balfour takes the same tactic that I’m taking: put up with an incompatible partner for a short time, because I’m going home.

Kidnapped is a good choice from someone who likes boys’ adventure fiction of the late Victorian Era. It avoids the fluid nature of eighteenth-century spelling and capitalization, and includes a number of peculiarly Scottish words and phrases, most of which can be interpreted using context clues. Real eighteenth-century picaresque novels typically included some sexually explicit scenes, but Stevenson avoids any mention of sexuality. That omission is a bit sad and unrealistic, but makes the book appropriate for children.