To Bury the Dead by Ignacio Martínez De Pisón

The Spanish Civil War remains both a fascinating and deeply tragic moment in history.  It was a microcosm in which the true, and mostly unflattering, colours of the full range of society and politics were revealed.  This account is both a narrow slice of the story and yet also a retelling of the “big” story.

It is a book about José Robles’ death, a writer I have never read, who moved in literary circles, the output of which I have also never read, and so at one level the major result of reading this account was the sense of how poorly educated and ignorant I must be.

There were moments when I was gripped by the tale, and moments I felt lost.  It is a search for the truth of José Robles’ death, and yet it uncovers, as far as I could tell, not one ounce of new information about that event.  But that is the great truth of the Spanish Civil War, it is one never ending hall of mirrors – the more you reach for the “truth”, the reality of it, the further that sprite darts away from you. 

For me, having read a little about the Spanish Civil War there was no great revelation, (and for someone who has not at least a working knowledge of the conflict this is I think a book in which you would flounder).  The interest was rather a closer look at the patina of the essentially familiar.

One irritation is that this is a book in translation and they translated the titles of source material in the text with no indication of the original language (or availability of English versions).  Therefore, turning to the bibliography to find the details of the many interesting follow up reads what one finds is a wall of Spanish.  That most works about the Spanish Civil War referenced by a Spanish writer are written in Spanish is not my complaint, but it would have been a simple task for the translator to have some notation in the text that would have told the simpleton monoglot like me that a work was inaccessible.

The Phenomenon of Welshness by Siôn T. Jobbins

My first reaction to this collection of essays is that it is surprisingly angry. 

This will in part be due to there original composition as columns in the magazine Cambria – it is the columnist’s job to take a position and spark debate. 

But part of the surprise is also the exact root of Jobbins’ anger – “Welsh” political life is characterised, or at least caricatured, by mildness.  Those who champion a “Welsh” identity tend to be seen as cultured and reasonable not impassioned and argumentative.  Therefore I think Jobbins would welcome my surprise.

The other thing which was not entirely expected was the intensity of focus on the Welsh language – again the lack of such an expectation is at the heart of Jobbins’ argument.  The fact that the place of the Welsh language within the “Welsh” identity is contested is one of the key stumbling blocks to an effective nationalist movement within Wales.  There is a need to assert that, while as an individual you don’t have to speak Welsh to be Welsh, a Wales without a living Welsh language would be fundamentally diminished as a nation.  

The case which Jobbins puts, convincingly, is that the Welsh Government and Welsh political establishment, of all shades including Plaid, do not take the language seriously.  Devolution has if anything degraded the status of Welsh, it was part of the rhetoric of the fight to bring powers “home” to Wales – but with those powers won the language is treated as much as an inconvenience by decision makers in Cardiff as it was by decision makers in Whitehall.

Jobbins suggest that this lack of confidence and/or commitment in the language is a window deep into the soul of the nation – and what you see through that window is a black hole…

These punchy essays would be thought provoking reading even if you have no vested interest in the credibility of a Welsh identity.

The Cross and Creation in Christian Liturgy and Art

The Alcuin Club’s collections are normally rich and highly rewarding reading, but not on this occasion.

I am sorry to say that if I was allowed just one word for this book I would have to go for “rambling”.  It does includes an interesting miscellany of reflections on various artworks but I would have to agree with Nicholas Cranfield’s review in the Church Times and say that the application of a strong editorial hand would have been of great benefit to both Christopher Irvine and the reader.   

For example when he mentions Constantinople he feels the need to tell us this is now Istanbul and lies on the Bosphorus - one doubts that many readers who pick up this work would actually be ignorant of these facts, but even if they were, these facts appear to me to be entirely irrelevant to the substance of the point at hand. 

While I would agree with the broad assumptions of the book I do that despite it not because of it.  It does not, in itself, deliver a compelling argument.  It is only with concerted effort that one is able to keep track of it’s underlying arguments as you range far and wide over the details of particular artworks or background descriptions of Christian theology. 

What is also puzzling is who Irvine thinks the audience will be. He gives such lengthy summaries of basic aspects of Christian theology that you have to assume he is catering for the reader with no knowledge of the Christian faith other that which is imparted within the covers of this volume – there are many people in such a state of knowledge but whether they would ever be drawn to read this work is I think doubtful. 

The Thread by Victoria Hislop

I read Victoria Hislop’s The Island and now my mother has presented me with The Thread to read as well.  While I enjoyed The Island I completely failed to engage with The Thread, and it was in something of a state of irritation that I abandoned it mid way through.  

Perhaps I should warn you of spoilers ahead but then again one of my complaints with the book is that Hislop herself begins with a massive spoiler. The old and happily married Dimitri and Katerina meet their Grandson and this gives the “excuse” for their reflection on the events of their early life that is the rest of the book.  This device relieves you from the burden of worry at any point within the tale because you already know that D and K will live happily ever after.   

I also found this prologue pointless as the rest of the novel is written from the view point of the omnipotent anonymous narrator; it might make sense if the rest of the story had actually been narrated as one of other of D and K’s recollections - but it isn’t and therefore it doesn’t. 

My other major complaint is that this is the lightest of literary outputs and therefore it is, to me, distasteful that it uses ethnic cleansing and the Holocaust as its window dressing.  It is not that these events can not be the subject of fiction but that such events demand the highest of standards – it is not good enough to be mediocre when you speak of the greatest of human tragedies. To be saccharin sweet is a denial of the reality. 

Hislop over plays the idea that Thessaloniki was this completely happy and tolerant cosmopolitan city where all religions lived side by side, and overlays this with a simplistic dichotomy the happy poor and discontented rich.

I guess that in such a fanciful narrative to question plot inconsistencies is just foolish (like saying that plot twists in Dr Who don’t make sense – but fully accepting the credibility of his time machine) However I remain puzzled that after locating her mother Katerina does not suggest that rather than her going to live with her Mother, who had now married a brutal bully of a husband, her Mother comes to her -her Mother is supposed to be a talented seamstress – surely she would have found ready employ along with Katerina with the Jewish Tailors next door.  

While The Thread is actually comparable with The Island it is the subject matter which forces me to apply a different measure on it, and therefore find it so woeful.