Dr. Guy Davenport studied at Duke and Oxford, and received his PhD at Harvard in 1961, with a dissertation on Ezra Pound’s poetry. The Geography of the Imagination compiles 40 erudite, closely reasoned essays, and I will readily confess that I have not read all of them. Each piece is filled with such vast background and erudition that, even for a culture vulture like me, it became overwhelming — too much to review. But there is a lot I can tell you:
Grant Wood’s well known and much-parodied painting American Gothic is over-rich with graphic references, according to the professor, from Scots-Presbyterian geometric fabric patterns, to the seven trees being a reference to those of King Solomon’s porch; the style of the house in the background gives the piece its title, American Gothic, as it is a classic of the American Gothic Revival style; a bamboo sunscreen on the porch has been purchased from China via Sears Roebuck; it rolls up, and suggests nautical technology applied to the prairie. Davenport takes some length to extol the eyeglasses, invented in the Thirteenth Century, the same era that the buttonholes came into use in the configuration seen in the painting. The farmer’s modest wife secures her Reformation collar with a cameo brooch which recalls a style from the Sixth Century BCE; she is the product of the ages: she has the hair-do of a Medieval Madonna, and besides the collar and cameo, wears a Nineteenth-Century pinafore. The stock market crash of 1929 has put that look in her eye.
In a piece called “The Symbol of the Archaic,” Davenport points out that in the Western historic scheme“archaic” for more than a millennium meant ancient Greece and Rome. It wasn’t until the 20th Century that science helped the humanities dispel this myopia, and establish the true archaic in cave paintings from 40,000 years ago. He cites Pablo Picasso as one of the principal beneficiaries of this discovery: the artist apparently copied the lines sketched long ago on a wall in a cave in Spain in some of his most famous human figures. From this runway he soars into a discussion of Pablo Neruda and the historian William H. Prescott, who, he says, were “appalled by the brutality with which the indigenous cultures of the Americas were murdered.” References to Melville and the poet Charles Olson on the “ruins of the Second World War,” who in turn was one of the most insightful readers of Melville, whose “Clarel was one of the great (and greatly neglected) meditations on ruins (of Christianity as well as of cultures which he greatly expected he might have found more congenial than his own, if mankind had allowed them to survive)…”
Each essay that I read had these paths and tracings to cultural guides — readers and cognoscenti who understood the great artists — their great observations on culture, morals, antiquity, literature, society, and art, and fed these appreciative insights to those of us (like Professor Davenport), who thirsted for them, and who could explicate and appreciate them and do their bit for the rest of us in their turn.
A side note I have to add: in the piece “The Symbol of the Archaic,” Davenport includes a coinage by Ezra Pound: pejorocracy, ruling by the worst of men. These rulers are put in place because of rampant and willful stupidity, “as it [modernity] has no critical rules for analyzing reality such as the ancient cultures kept bright and sharp.”
Some of my few readers will appreciate literary essays; I eat them up for sustenance. They reach me in ways no other written thing can. I’ve just gleaned a little idea of the topography of the tip of the iceberg here; this review is simple reporting, moreso than my other reviews. Thanks for your support.
Author Peter Rowlands has produced a number of thriller/mystery titles, including 2023’s A Knock at the Door. If this book is any indicator, his other mysteries will entertain, show off the writer’s knack for the genre, and stretch the reader’s own sleuthing skills. This is a rewarding, entertaining entry.
One evening, as heavy rain and thunder oppress his uncle’s stately residence in Gloucester, cautious, right-thinking, 30-ish Rory Cavenham opens the front door to a soaking, bedraggled young person who seeks shelter from the weather. Naturally, he lets this poor soul into the house, and hunts up tea and a change of clothes. As it happens, this person is a woman near his own age, has a dreadful fear of the police, and a serious case of amnesia. The trauma she’s escaping from, and her lack of memory, so debilitate her that she can’t even properly identify herself.
Thus starts Rory’s long quest to help this woman — who eventually goes by the name Rebecca — rebuild her past, navigate her present, and safeguard her future. It’s not easy. As we follow his campaign, we encounter secretive security thugs who won’t identify whom they work for, a local company performing research into arcane human biology and physiology, a fifty year-old murder case, and much more. Rowlands traces his hero’s solo efforts in enough detail, and with sufficient realism, that we can’t help but invest in his success. He and his damsel in distress become quite sympathetic as they work together — but also sometimes at loggerheads — to reconstruct her life.
Rowlands weaves a great many twists and turns into the story. Cavenham encounters a balanced roster of helpful and unhelpful characters along the way, and we never really know who will actually help him, and who wants to block his efforts. The vulnerable Rebecca holds a surprise or two for him, also, even as he tries to find her best interests through the thicket they encounter. Suffice it to say that you may get turned around as you read this book, and even if you aren’t, the end will surprise you anyway.
I’m discussing the plot more than I normally would, because it’s mainly the point — how do our heroes get to the end, given their entirely murky start. However, I have read enough mysteries over the years to know that this one succeeds, entertains, and pays off with a very memorable outcome. If mystery/thrillers are your thing, pick this up by all means.
I’ve seen Sebastian Faulks’s Paris Echo (2018) described as a “love letter to Paris,” but I’m not sure that’s the point of this novel. I’m sure Faulks is totally fine with Paris, but his first love is for his characters: Hannah, a post-doctoral historian researching the experiences of women during the Nazi occupation, both within the Resistance and outside of it; Tariq, a callow youth from Tangier, who follows a mysterious impulse and travels to Paris on a lark; and Hannah’s friend Julian, an English professor of literature. It’s a generous book, both toward its characters and its readers.
Years ago, Hannah was jilted at a very young age, and is still trying to get past it. Her research, however, provides a strong dose of perspective as she listens to audio files of survivors’ life-and-death experiences. Tariq winds up at her apartment, and his ingenuous, non-threatening manner helps him inveigle a place to flop. We see much of Paris through his youthful, unjaded eye. Julian pursues Hannah, in his reserved English way, quite often failing to say the right thing, too proper to truly advance his campaign. They’re endearing characters, particularly Tariq, who plays an innocent in perhaps the most cultured city in the world.
The city during World War II captures our attention, too. Hannah is writing about women during the Occupation, and Faulks manages quite adeptly to add color and nuance to a time, which, like most things in history, are only partially understood. The choices women have to make under the assumption that Germany will win the war — a completely reasonable belief until the Battle of Stalingrad — and the way they greeted British and American forces (not always enthusiastically), receive treatment here, and demonstrate that sometimes later judgments are inevitably harsh and unwarranted. Hannah’s own opinion evolves as she digs more deeply.
The author draws out his themes of wartime hardship among non-combatants, of French atrocities against Algerians, including their shoddy treatment of those who supported them during Algeria’s war for independence (gained in 1962), and gives them a human face. This is a balanced treatment of both private and public behavior in mid-century France.
But more than that, Paris Echo engages the reader in the lives of highly sympathetic characters, and reflects the human emotions and aspirations in a bright and memorable way. Highly recommended.
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