MAGICAL ANGLICANS

In 1801 a remarkable book was published in London. Its author is Francis Barrett, F.R.C. Professor of Chemistry, natural and occult Philosophy, the Cabala, &c. &c. He called it ‘The Magus, or Celestial Intelligencer; a complete system of Occult Philosophy.’ It is a textbook of magical information. There is a copy in Bodley’s Library. It was not new when Bodley acquired it. Its pages bear signs of significant use, still strong enough to provoke images for the delectation of an unwary psychomatrist. I made great use of it when I was preparing my article on Francis Barrett, the Magus of Marylebone.

I was reminded of it this morning when I was once again re-reading ‘High Magic’s Aid’ by Scire (G. B. Gardner IVº O.T.O.) I was at the point where Thur and Morven are about to embark on their first working together.

>> And he stripped, and washed himself thoroughly, bidding Morven to do likewise. She obeyed him, and he poured water over himself and then her, saying : “Purge me, O Lord, with hyssop and I shall be clean. Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.” <<

/* Words which, even in my own lifetime, once signalled the beginning of the Latin Mass while all those present were asperged with holy water. */

When the triple circle is drawn and clouds of incense rise from the brazier, Thur stands facing east and begins to recite Psalm cii ‘Hear my prayer, O Lord : and let my cry come unto Thee’ an invocation presently familiar to Prayer Book Anglicans and before that resounding amid the echoes of monastic Latin. He takes salt. “Tzabaoth .. Elohim .. Yod, He, Vou, He! O God, who art the Truth, and the Light, deign to bless and sanctify this creature of salt .. .. “

 

In his introduction, Francis Barrett writes : ‘see thy first care be to know thyself; and then in humility direct thy prayer as follows .. .. Almighty and most merciful God, we thy servants approach with fear and trembling before thee, and in all humility do most heartily beseech thee to pardon our manifold and blind transgressions .. .. Grant us, Lord, power and strength of intellect to carry on this work, for the honour and glory of thy holy name, and to the comfort of our neighbour; and without design of hurt or detriment to any .. .. ‘

 

Someone once remarked to me how some of the great Golden Dawn names were, without incongruity, actively practising High Church Anglicans. I am not surprised. Candles, many brilliant candles. Incense, dense clouds of incense. Gorgeous robes, changed and coloured according to the season of the year. Ritual choreography and a Master of Ceremonies to make sure everyone follows the prescribed steps. The re-enactment of the myth, as observed by those with the inner perception. There are clues here for those who wish to engage with them.

© francis cameron

oxford, 18 april 2009

 

completed .. ..

Never Let Me Go - Kazuo Ishiguro (London, 2005)

This is a story from the author’s imagination. The creepy thing about it is : it might just have been true.

I’m not going to say anything about the plot because even a few hints here and there could spoil the suspense for future readers. All I will say is that this novel, this first person narrative covering the first thirty-one years of a woman’s life, has something of the air of science fiction about it. It is a story conveyed so well, a story threaded through with uncertainties and possibilities, it just might have been. It just might.

© francis cameron
oxford, 4 march 2009

midnight's 3 levels of perception

This is my 9th consecutive month with Books on the Broad.
· now our title is Midnight's Children
· written by SALMAN RUSHDIE
· originally published in 1981
· by Jonathan Cape

introduction

This is splendid story-telling : a vast narrative of epic proportions. There is enough material here to justify a full scale doctoral dissertation. I do not propose to go that far. Instead, I offer just three perspectives : 3 levels of perception.

1st perception : everyday reality

This is the story told by Saleem Sinai, born in Bombay at the stroke of midnight on August 15th 1947, that same terrible midnight which sounded the final knell of British rule in India; and the consequences which followed. It is a gargantuan subject, a dimension well-matched by the expansiveness of the telling and the writing.
The conversations are so convincing, so realistic. I feel myself right there, ever-present among the listeners.
The descriptions have something special about them. They conjure up the crowded alleyways, the hustle and bustle of children at play, the menacing forests of the Sundarbans, the comfortable squalor of the magicians' ghetto.
Rushdie does not spare the strokes of his pen. Objects are often viewed from several different angles. Full attention to the nose on a man's face occupies most of a page and then spills over onto the next. That nose is so important to the story. It's a constantly recurring theme, a persistent leitmotif.
I find myself comfortably at home in Saleem's company listening to his tale. It is all so relaxed and integrated. Even words which I associate specifically with India blend into the general ambit so subtlety I pass them by without a second thought until, suddenly, I return to myself and ask : How come this book is written in English? And to answer that I have to seek help elsewhere. That help is very enlightening. Salman Rushdie was born in Bombay – not exactly on August 15th 1947, but near enough - on June 19th of that same year. He came to England, to Rugby public school. At Cambridge he read History and was part of the Footlights theatre company, which leaves me wondering how much the make-believe and transformed reality of the theatre influenced Rushdie’s later writing.

2nd perception : reality transformed

In the midst of all this reality, Midnight’s Children has two very obvious fingerprints of lo real maravilloso, magical reality. Something happens to our hero. His life is transformed. He finds himself able, at will, to inhabit the minds of other people, friends and strangers. He even sets out to make things happen by these means. Evie Burns, the American girl, has a splendid new silver bicycle. Saleem desires so much to ride this gorgeous machine. He exerts his newfound powers. He has his way. And at midnight, in his favourite hideaway place, he gathers to himself the five hundred and eighty-one surviving ten-year olds who share the magic of that fateful midnight birthing. Midnight’s Children’s Conference materialises into vivacity.
Much later, and against the very sinews of his being, he is taken into hospital for an operation. When he comes to, his gift has gone for ever. In its place he has an extraordinary nose. For the first time in his life, he is assailed by the aromas of his surroundings, the pungent smells of people. He can sniff out emotions hopes desires. During the Emergency he is a sniffer dog conscripted to hound out terrorists intellectuals and other subversives.

3rd perception : deep structure

I had been enjoying the opening chapters of Midnight’s Children. It was a rollicking good yarn. Then, once again, I was brought up short. There was another boy, Shiva by name, born in the selfsame Bombay nursing home, on that selfsame sensational midnight in 1947. When Mary Pereira, the young Christian midwife, was alone with the two boys, as a private revolutionary act for her very own Joseph, she exchanged the name tags of the two infants. I stop and say to myself ‘Creation Myth’. I recall the terrible images of the Gandhi film, the slaughter and destruction that followed partition. And at that moment this was for me no longer just a rattling good yarn, not even just a literary production to be pursued for signs of lo real maravilloso. I begin to think on those awful consequences of partition. The midnight bell tolled in Bombay. British India was dead. Others were left to pick up the pieces. Would we never learn? Ireland? Cyprus? The Balfour Declaration?
I resume my reading, but my vision of this novel is irreparably changed. And it does not stop there. Now, whenever I start to read a novel, I find myself alert for deep structure, for myths, and for vital messages concealed beneath surface imagery.
There is a point at which Rushdie, the sniffer dog, changes the pace of his narrative. It is slower and more condensed. A welcome contrast to the allegro giocoso of the first movement and to the finale which follows. I begin to share the anguish the anger the despair of Rushdie’s text. I begin to understand how writers can become enemies of the state, how they may attract the fatwa which condemns them to death.
I cannot answer the question : Is this story of Saleem Sinai an external camouflage designed to conceal a message otherwise standing stark and bare in these pages?
I recall another leitmotif, the image of ‘the perfumed sheet’, the large white bedsheet with a roughly circular hole some seven inches in diameter cut into the centre, the sheet held up between the newly-qualified young doctor and the young woman patient. He is permitted to view only the small portion of her anatomy which she places against the aperture. Is this also a symbolic representation? A partition which admits inspection of only a minuscule portion of the situation on the other side? Is this also a warning, a sinister dropped hint? I suspect so.
And when Saleem’s sister, the Brass Monkey, is grown up, metamorphosed into Jamila the famous Singer, she performs in public behind a curtain, a partition, into which a small circular aperture has been insinuated, the better for her charming voice to be heard. When she walks abroad, the burqa – another partition – hides all but her eyes.

coda

Saleem in the city of his birth with Padma demanding more and more of his story. And the setting? A pickle factory. Should I positively seek beneath the surface of that ‘pickle’? Does that ‘pickle’ intentionally summarise all that has gone before? A single word signifying a pungent tangible reality? A single word transformed into a pejorative situation? A simple surface with a disturbing deep structure?

Words when spoken are potential magic. Words when written are symbols of enchantment.

© francis cameron
oxford, 1 march 2009

a train of thought arrives at a station

At last I come to a conclusion that satisfies me, though many others have already reached this conclusion long before I began to think about it and to examine the evidence.

The evidence is this .. ..

For at least 65 years I have read, on average, at least one novel each month. That’s an awful lot of novels. More than enough to constitute a body of evidence from which to draw conclusions.

My conclusions are these .. ..

Novels are products of the imagination. They are, in very simple terms, story books – the likes of Robinson Crusoe, Alice in Wonderland, Westwood Ho!, and The Last Days of Pompeii – all of which I had read and cherished long before I was ten years old. In general practice, novels are long stories. Sometimes they are very long stories. How long is up to the author, though the publisher and the buyer may impose their own limits. That said, the writer is free to roam at will in the very real realms of the imagination. And the degree to which we, the readers, are able to share the same paths, meet the same people, experience the same sights sounds tastes smells and bodily contacts will depend partly on the skill of the writer and partly on our own willingness to travel through the words on the page to the surroundings which exist because the writer has created them for us. And when the imagination of the writer is ill-nourished or too little exercised, our own contribution may need to be all the more energetic and persistent. That is not the whole of the story. There are other considerations to take into account. But these will do for starters.

A set of points ..

I have beside me as I write, the 647 pages into which the typographer has transposed, tantalisingly metamorphosed, the vast expansive imagination words of Salman Rushdie in his 1981 novel : Midnight’s Children. I have been compelled to read it slowly, chew over every sentence, masticate every phrase, every  alternative specification, until the full flavour of this pudding, this intoxicating dessert, this feast for the nose the eyes the ears, the ready-to-receive palate, the anticipating gullet, the floreat resonances of inconsequentiality, convey in harmonic intervallic sequences of immeasurable sensation, the love and kisses, the wholeness, the totality, the enormity of my inner and outer beings combined into one great chromatic experiencing of the author's intentions, his recollections, his amalgamations, his swoopings into realms beyond the tabulations of mundane reality.

© francis cameron, oxford, 14 february 2009

 

 

PAUL WATERS

Books on the Broad with Paul Waters, 3 November 2008

We now have two novels by PAUL WATERS. Of Merchants and Heroes, which came out in 2008, was his first. Cast not the Day has just arrived (6 February 2009). Rome looms large in both of them.

In the first we stand on the hinges of change as the Republic’s long war with Carthage draws to its close only to give way to threats from Macedonia. On a more personal level, the gentle mystical influence of Greece is beginning to transform the daily lives of young cultured Romans.

In the second we are faced with the Empire’s tumultuous 4th century as experienced on the islands of Britannia where, into the void created by the withdrawal of the legions seeking glory nearer home, surge the stormtroops of the bishops eager to destroy the temples and the fellowship of the Old Gods who have served the people so long and so well.

If love and the creation of beauty are the keynotes of the first novel, then hate and tearing apart are the whirlpools of the second.

Paul Waters writes with knowledge and understanding. Times which now are distant come alive for us with his words on the page. We look forward to his next novel – and the next and the next.

© francis cameron
oxford, 1 february 2009

something to tell you

ROCOCO & SPARKLING

This is my 8th consecutive month of reading for Books on the Broad. Three of the books have ‘murder’ on the first page. I wonder why?

I follow my usual rules. Go straight to the author’s text. Avoid introductions, ignore reviews, bypass publishers’ puffs. Go straight to the author’s text! and carry with you the whole of your previous experience. And in this case I admit to prior knowledge of Hanif Kureishi. I have twice seen the film My Beautiful Laundrette when it was shown on the television. And I have a distant memory of picking up a copy of The Buddha of Suburbia, reading a line or two here and there, and returning it unpurchased to the bookshelf. (Not to my taste at the time or Not satisfying a transitory need. It doesn’t matter now but I can’t completely subdue the impression.)

Something to tell you is an easy-going conversational autobiography. ‘The Life and Times of Jamal Kahn’ as set down by a complaisant amanuensis.

Words are magic. I am drawn into the nub of the story. I am the invisible reticent bystander in the taxi ; in the half-light of the Kama Sutra Club ; alongside the naked sunbathers in their secret hidden corner of the garden ; chuntering away on an old golfball typewriter.

Then there’s the external world. Of dreams, of thoughts, of wisdom shared. Of Wittgenstein, André Breton, and great slabs of Freud. Of Schopenhauer. “Sexual passion is the most perfect manifestation of the will to live.” Even Mick Jagger has a walk-on part.

I’ve heard it all before. I’m back with Charlotte Bingham. Swinging London in the 60s. Basement cafés in Soho. Bubbling Gaggia machines. Night on a Bare Mountain as number one of the jukebox. But it’s different. Now it’s Shepherds Bush market, not the Kings Road. Not the Mods and Rockers. And certainly no Vespas or Lambrettas. This is a new generation showing indulgent delight in their cultured hippy freedom. They are all larger than life. Their ancestors may have grown up among far flung shreds of Empire. Now they revel in their own street theatre. Some of the script remains the same but the characters and the settings belong to their own richly hued panorama.

It’s flamboyant. It’s exhilarating. It’s hilarious.

It’s fun.


© francis cameron
oxford, 28 january 2009

CANDLE MASS

thoughts on candlemas
OE Candelmæsse

In churches of the Western Catholic tradition, the celebration of Mass on February 2nd includes the Blessing of Candles for use during the following year.

While the candles are being blessed, the choir sings the canticle
nunc dimittis servum tuum domine

Lord, now lettest thou they servant depart in peace
According to thy word
My mine eyes have seen thy salvation
Which thou has prepared before the face of all people
To be a light to lighten the gentiles
And to be the glory of thy people Israel

These are the words attributed to Simeon, the elderly priest of the Jerusalem Temple, before whom stood Joseph and Mary with the baby Jesus.

Mary is there to fulfil the requirements of the ancient Jewish Law. She had given birth 40 days before. Now she comes to the Temple to be ritually purified and to present her first-born son to the priest. Hence the official name for the festival on February 2nd is either The Feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary or The Presentation of Christ in the Temple. I am told that the former focuses on the status of Mary Theotokos (Mary the Mother of God) while the latter focuses on the masculinity of the infant Jesus.

I understand that this intention was first introduced – into the Greek-speaking Orthodox liturgy – during the eventful 4th century of the Common Era when Christianity was moved from ruthless persecution during the first decade of the 300s to the status of the one and only permitted religion in the final decade and, in the meantime, Christianity officially defined itself, by order of the Emperor Constantine, at the Council of Nikea in 325; and the Canon of the New Testament, sacred writings of the Orthodox faith, was finally specified.

There’s a rather interesting exposition attributed to Pope Innocent XII in the concluding years of the 1600s. The story goes that, in pagan Roman times, it was the custom for women to go about with lighted candles in imitation of the goddess Ceres seeking for her lost daughter Prosepine (who had been kidnapped by her uncle Pluto and held captive in the Underworld). [In the Greek version, it is Demeter the Earth Mother seeking for her lost daughter Persephone.]

There is also an association with the pagan practice of farm animals being moved out of the hayfield with the first signs of Spring.

© francis cameron
oxford, 27 january 2009