Everything is Tuberculosis by John Green

Source of book: I own this

 

This book was this month’s selection for the Literary Lush Book Club. Alas, again I was unable to attend the discussion, as it was Memorial Day weekend, a traditional camping date for my family. I did, however, read it. 

 

I will admit, this was not a book I expected to exist. John Green is most famous for his YA fiction, not for non-fiction. This book isn’t the sort of meticulously detailed pop-science book one might assume, but rather a combination of history, science, and personal experience. It is the book that someone like John Green can write without having to explain, because he has already proven he can sell. 

 

Which, actually, is a good thing, because I think the book is more likely to resonate with an important audience than a purely scientific one would.

 

The book had its genesis in a trip that Green took to Sierra Leone, in west Africa, for research on maternal mortality. I was not aware of it, but Green is a trustee for Partners in Health, an organization working to reduce maternal and infant mortality around the world. 

 

While on this visit, Green was talked into a side trip to a tuberculosis hospital, where he met Henry, a young man fighting drug resistant TB. From this, Green’s OCD took over, and he ended up writing a book. 

 

I want to state a few things up front. First, Green is an unashamed liberal bleeding heart, and I mean that in the best of ways. He is the seemingly rare American who gives a fuck about brown people on other continents, and believes that the work we do to make a better world ultimately helps us too. 

 

And Green is 100% right about this. The MAGA ethic of “America only” is short-sighted and will ultimately do nothing but kill and harm Americans in the long run. 

 

Nowhere is this more clear than when it comes to tuberculosis. 

 

In the history of the human species, there are two clear front-runners for the most deadly diseases of all time. Malaria has a strong claim. So does tuberculosis. 

 

However, unlike acute (if recurrent) diseases like Malaria, Tuberculosis is a slow killer. It can stay dormant for decades, emerging long years after infection. Some humans successfully wall off the bacteria in “tubercules” while others succumb. Although, as for pretty much every disease, poverty and malnutrition increase mortality and morbidity, tuberculosis can and does kill without regard for money. It has only been our ability to kill it with antibiotics that has kept it from continuing to be a scourge worldwide. 

 

Green is also 100% correct that we could have eliminated TB worldwide decades ago had we been willing to actually invest the resources to do so. Our failure to do so has allowed drug resistant TB to develop and become more prevalent. For now, because TB is relatively infrequent in wealthy countries, we justify to ourselves letting others die, because they are just “those people.” 

 

In reality, if we lose the ability to kill TB, it will return and become once gain the great killer it was a mere 100 years ago. Our selfishness puts ourselves at risk too. 

 

Another strength of Green’s perspective is that he gets the challenges of treatment, particularly when poverty is involved. As regular readers of my blog know, my wife is a nurse, and spent over 20 years working in the ICU, where tuberculosis was a shockingly regular diagnosis. She also has training and experience in public health as part of her current education and role. 

 

We have talked about the issues regularly - we both are pretty nerdy. There has been plenty said in the media about “non-compliant” patients, and not all of it helpful. 

 

There are, after all, different kinds of non-compliance. There are some willful patients who, as soon as they start feeling better, cannot be bothered to complete the entire course. But there are others - and this book looks at them carefully - for whom life circumstances are at the root of the problem. 

 

For many, affording food without being able to work is a problem. For others, the hours needed to travel. And there are so many factors. Treating TB is therefore more than just a quick pill - it requires honest acknowledgement of systemic poverty and injustice, and strategies to tackle all of the underlying issues together. 

 

The book gives the history of TB, diagnosis, and treatment, and there are some quite interesting things in it, from the medical fraud of Robert Koch (he faked results to sell his “cure” - thus destroying his reputation gained painstakingly earlier in his career) to a transgender doctor whose protocols are still in use today. 

 

Because Green is a writer first, there are so many excellent lines and passages. He tells a story well, and he presents cogent arguments. I’ll hit a few of the best, but I really strongly recommend reading the entire book. 

 

What’s different now from 1804 or 1904 is that tuberculosis is curable, and has been since the mid-1950s. We know how to live in a world without tuberculosis. But we choose not to live in that world. 

 

In essence, the rich countries refuse to provide life-saving drugs to the third world at affordable prices. This applies not only to TB, but also to AIDS and malaria, and other diseases. This will eventually bite us in the ass. 

 

Next up is a fascinating look at the history of Sierra Leone. Because there are important lessons to be learned here. One of the lies that we Westerners love to tell ourselves is that “colonialism built infrastructure.” The problem is, that infrastructure was designed to facilitate the stripping of natural resources from the land as efficiently as possible, not to benefit the population. 

 

In the Global North, we still sometimes hear about the benefits of colonialism, how it brought roads and hospitals and schools to colonized regions, but this perspective is not supported by strong evidence. In 1950, life expectancy in Britain was sixty-nine. In Sierra Leone, after 150 years of colonial rule, life expectancy was under thirty, relatively similar to the life expectancy of premodern humans who lived five thousand or fifty thousand years ago. In general, colonial infrastructure was not built to strengthen communities; it was built to deplete them. 

 

I noted several lines from the chapter arguing that treating disease has made huge changes in human life - most children used to die before growing up, for example. He quotes a Presbyterian pastor who supervised him when he worked as a student chaplain at a children’s hospital during his college years. 

 

On my first day of training, she said to me, “Death is natural. Children dying is natural. None of us actually wants to live in a natural world.” 

 

Green also notes that humans have a craving to understand why things happen. And our explanations are often neither accurate nor helpful. 

 

“Nothing is more punitive than to give a disease a meaning,” Susan Sontag famously wrote, and yet we go on giving meanings anyway. These illness narratives are often not just a strategy for conceptualizing the pain of others, but also a way of reassuring ourselves that we’ll never feel that pain.

 

Unfortunately, this blaming of illness on the ill has made a comeback, and is now government policy under the Trump Regime. As is the Eugenicist approach to public health. 

 

Later in the book, Green talks about his father’s cancer struggles in his 30s, and the way that people blamed it on him. 

 

Framing illness as even involving morality seems to me a mistake, because of course cancer does not give a shit whether you are a good person. Biology has no moral compass. It does not punish the evil and reward the good. It doesn’t even know about evil and good.

Stigma is a way of saying, “You deserved to have this happen,” but implied within the stigma is also, “And I don’t deserve it, so I don’t need to worry about it happening to me.” This can become a kind of double burden for the sick: in addition to living with the physical and psychological challenges of illness, there is the additional challenge of having one’s humanity discounted.

Green explores the different beliefs about TB, from the idea that people brought it on themselves through less-holy living, to the “dying artist” trope, to the more modern view of TB as something only poor people get. 

 

Particularly amusing (in a dark way) was that some US physicians worried that as TB rates declined, so would the quality of American literature. 

 

Far less amusing is the way that dying of TB came to be associated with beauty. The dilated eyes. The pale cheeks with red glow. The emaciated bodies. 

 

I probably do not need to point out that these standards of beauty are still informing what is considered to be feminine beauty in much of the world. 

 

I also have to quote this passage just because it is so good. 

 

History is often imagined as a series of events, unfolding one after the other like a sequence of falling dominoes. But most human experiences are processes, not events. Divorce may be an event, but it almost always results from a lengthy process - and the same could be said for birth, or battle, or infection. Similarly, much of what some imagine as dichotomous turns out to be spectral, from neurodivergence to sexuality, and much of what appears to be the work of individuals turns out to be the work of broad collaborations. We love a narrative of the great individual whose life is shot through with major events and who turns out to be either a villain or a hero, but the world is inherently more complex than the narratives we impose upon it, just as the reality of experience is inherently more complex than the language we use to describe that reality. 

 

This comes in the midst of the story of Robert Koch, who indeed furthered the cause of science, before succumbing to the temptation to cash in. I recommend reading about him in more detail. 

 

Another rather unsavory story in the book is the way that TB became yet another means of racism in the US. After decades of denying that black people could catch TB (and thus they were not treated), some white doctors went on to argue that it was the end of slavery that caused the spread of TB among black people. I guess since it wasn’t diagnosed or treated, it was “rare” back then. 

 

Green points out the truth here, though: 

 

People who are treated as less than fully human by the social order are more susceptible to tuberculosis. But it’s not because of their moral codes or choices or genetics; it’s because they are treated as less than fully human by the social order. 

 

Also a terrible facet of human nature was displayed in the chauvinism between the French and Germans during the Franco-Prussian War, during which the two sides competed to treat disease, rather than cooperating. (This is one reason Koch yielded to temptation: it seemed the French were making all the actual cures.) 

 

I find it interesting that even here, in the supposedly pure world of science, we feel the weight of historical forces pressing in upon discovery. Our desire to create outsiders, the competition for resources among communities that would be better off cooperating, and our long history of warfare all come together in this moment of discovery.

 

This will be, in my opinion, the historical judgment of the Trump Era. The US decided to commit suicide because of its obsession with creating outsiders, and seeking to dominate rather than cooperate. Even if we don’t become an authoritarian hellhole, the damage to international relationships, higher education, and the social fabric will take decades to repair, during which time China and others will pass us in all the areas we used to lead. 

 

The chapter on why disease treatment needs to be focused on care, not on control is excellent. This footnote is on point:

 

It is critical to control outbreaks of infectious disease, but such efforts can be counterproductive if elements of care are abandoned in the pursuit of control. Many TB survivors have described to me the dehumanizing process of receiving their medication, for instance. More than one has told me that they were told to stand in a corner and then thrown their medication from across a room because healthcare workers were so afraid of TB. But with appropriate masking and infection controls, there’s very little risk to healthcare workers if they hand medications directly to those living with TB. This sort of basic humanizing treatment goes a lot way toward helping those with TB complete their treatment regimens, which is to say that care-focused treatment often controls the disease better than control-focused treatment. 

 

Later, Green talks more about “compliance” and its relation to past (unsuccessful) attempts at control-based disease control. 

 

More broadly, is it a patient’s fault if they are too disabled by depression and isolation to follow through on treatment? Is it a patient’s fault if they or their children become so hungry that they feel obliged to sell their medication for food? Is it a patient’s fault if their living conditions, or concomitant diagnoses, or drug use disorder, or unmanaged side effects, or societal stigma result in them abandoning treatment?

Why must we treat what are obviously systemic problems as failures of individual morality? 

 

(One answer, unfortunately, is that our society is built on white supremacy, and addressing systemic problems would challenge the inequality.) 

 

Speaking of humanizing people, have you ever heard of Dr. Alan Hart? He was instrumental in the fight against tuberculosis by developing and implementing the use of chest X rays to screen for TB. His methods are still in use today, and have saved literally millions of lives.

 

He was also transgender.

 

Transgender people have always existed in society, and are a normal part of nature, yet are all too often persecuted and marginalized by society because they challenge the gender hierarchy. Dr. Hart was repeatedly outed and forced out of jobs where he was doing good work, simply because people were uncomfortable with his existence. We continue to see this today, to the detriment of society.

 

Green tells his story, including all the ugly bigotry he faced. It’s a good read. 

 

The book can be quite humorous at times too. Green has a great way with words, and a keen sense for the absurd. For example:

 

There are many acronyms in the world of tuberculosis. Global health, like any field, loves to shorten its phrases to make them obvious to experts and inaccessible to neophytes. From BPaLM to PMDT, from GDF to ERP, there’s a pretty good chance that if you just string some letters together, it’ll mean something in the context of TB. 

 

Take it away, Dilbert: 

 

I also want to mention Green’s excellent look at the problems posed by basing nearly everything on the profit motive. This is, of course, the whole point of DOGE and Trump’s dismantling of the federal government. The public sector does the things that do not lead to individual profits for the rich, but benefit everyone. Things like education, roads, and in civilized countries, health care. And also scientific research, one of the things clearly on Trump’s bad list. 

 

But the market need not be the only determinant of human health. Instead, we could invest more public and philanthropic money into research and development of drugs, vaccines, and treatment distribution systems. We could reimagine the allocation of global healthcare resources to better align them with the burden of global suffering - rewarding treatments that save or improve lives rather than treatments that the rich can afford. When markets tell companies it’s more valuable to develop drugs that lengthen eyelashes than to develop drugs that treat malaria or tuberculosis, something is clearly wrong with the incentive structure. And we are not stuck with that inventive structure. I know, because the two most recent drugs developed to treat TB, bedaquiline and delamandid, were both funded primarily by public money. 

 

This isn’t so much about being cheap as about prioritizing short term profits for the few over the long-term wellbeing of everyone. 

 

When we do consider the long-term costs of failing to use all the tools at our disposal, the value calculus changes. From that perspective, investing in tuberculosis diagnosis and treatment begins to look like one of the best bets in public health. A 2024 study commissioned by the WHO found that every dollar spent on tuberculosis care generates around thirty-nine dollars in benefit by reducing the number (and expense) of future TB cases, and through more people being able to work rather than being chronically ill or caring for their chronically ill loved ones. 

 

This is a problem that goes far beyond global health. It has made American society into what can really only be described as a shithole of selfishness. One where supposed “christians” yell that empathy is a sin. One where corporations cut corners in ways that risk their long-term viability (see: Boeing) to chase immediate profits. One where social media fails to live up to its potential and instead becomes a cesspit of conspiracy theories, Russian bots, and endless advertisements. 

 

Cory Doctorow describes this as “enshitification,” and it has corrupted pretty much everything in our society these days. MAGA is just the most vulgar manifestation of the monetization of everything and the focus on short-term feel-goods over long term planning and action. 

 

This worldview also misses that everything is interconnected. We can’t just hole up in our bunkers and hope the future pandemics miss us. We can’t just let germs develop superpowers in the third world and hope our rich white skins will protect us. In that regard, MAGA has sown the seeds of its own destruction - which maybe they are fine with if the brown people die first? 

 

Green spends a chapter discussing drug resistance, and the risks it poses for the future. 

 

The fearmongering around superbugs can serve a purpose - it is one strategy for getting people in wealthy communities to care about TB. It may not be at your doorstep yet, but by the time it is, it’ll be too late.

 

In the case of TB, this won’t happen overnight - it isn’t the quick spreading and quick killing bug that, say, the next Bird Flu could be. (Related: Trump and MAGA don’t want to spend money to prepare for the next flu either…) But not that long ago, TB was a global crisis that killed huge numbers of people. It could be again. 

 

But as Dr. Carole Mitnick said to me once, “This is a human-manufactured problem that needs a human solution. If medications were a public good, the burden of disease would drive the priorities of the industry and TB treatment would be varied and plentiful.” And so we must fight not just for reform within the system but also for better systems that understand human health not primarily as a market, but primarily as a shared priority for our species. 

 

I could not have put it better. I’ll end with this:

 

We can do and be so much more for each other - but only when we see one another in our full humanity, not as statistics or problems, but as people who deserve to be alive in the world.

 

For all of us humans of good will, this must be - and indeed will be - our goal. Not just for our fight against pathogens, but in all the intersecting injustices and inequalities that deny that other humans deserve to be alive in the world. 

The Boy in the Black Suit by Jason Reynolds

Source of book: Audiobook from the library

 

Over the past few years, the kids and I have listened to several Jason Reynolds books. I think the best comparison in terms of children and young adult authors would be Judy Blume. This is for a few reasons. First, both write realistic and nuanced stories that often address difficult issues - including sexuality. And they do so without flinching, but by treating young readers with respect and confidence that they can and will understand moral and emotional complexity. 

 

Second, their stories are often (although not always) set in urban or suburban east coast neighborhoods. In the case of Reynolds, this includes New York City, whether Brooklyn or Harlem. 

 

Third, both immerse the reader not merely in the life of the main character, but in the entire ecosystem. The neighborhood, the school, the community. This includes adults that aren’t caricatures or saints. The adults get to be all too human as well, and be able to be imperfect without being bad. 

 

All in all, these are the kinds of non-moralizing stories that show rather than preach, that explore rather than judge, and thus offer up different yet universally human experiences. 

 

As a Jewish woman from New Jersey, Blume writes characters from her own experience: progressive, educated, usually white, and not particularly religious. For Reynolds, growing up black in D.C. and Maryland, but with family roots in the South, this leads to a different set of characters: black, urban, working class. 

 

The Boy in the Black Suit is very much of this setting. I find it interesting as well that the book defies many of the expectations for a Young Adult book that includes a romance. Reynolds refuses to paint by the numbers, and indeed ends the book without a tidy ending. The plot isn’t linear exactly, and lacks a particular arc. Instead, it feels like a slice of an actual life, not a story, if that makes sense. What we get is a look at a few weeks of the protagonist’s life, as he navigates grief and first love at the same time.

 

Matt is a pretty typical teen. He does fine at school, but finds much of it uninteresting. He has a best friend, Chris, with whom he shares a traumatic childhood experience: a neighbor was murdered in an act of domestic violence. 

 

But that is all in the past. Matt is a teen now, and his mother has just died of breast cancer, leaving his father spiraling back into alcoholism, until an encounter with a moving vehicle lands him in the hospital. 

 

As the only functional person left, Matt decides to look for a job at the local fast-food dive, Cluck Bucket. He is intrigued by the young woman manning the counter, but before he finishes his application, he is met by Mr. Ray, the local undertaker, who also lives across the street from Matt. 

 

Mr. Ray decides to take Matt under his wing, and offers him a job assisting with funerals. Not touching dead bodies, mind you, but doing the grunt work: setting up chairs and tables, arranging food and flowers, running errands, and occasionally serving as pallbearer. 

 

The thing is, Matt turns out to love the job. And not just because Mr. Ray is a really great old guy, with a fascinating (and somewhat tragic) backstory, but because Matt finds sitting through other people’s funerals to be therapeutic. Seeing others experience deep grief, he feels less alone in his own. 

 

And then, the girl from Cluck Bucket turns up again, this time at her grandmother’s funeral. Matt is struck by her incredible poise and strength, and stays late to talk to her. 

 

As it turns out, Love (aka “Lovey”) has had plenty of grief in her life - her mother was murdered when Lovey was a little girl. But she has also experienced love and learned to be a giving person through her grandmother’s involvement with the local homeless shelter. 

 

And thus begins (at the halfway point in the book, interestingly), a really unusual courtship. I mean, volunteering together at the shelter, walking the botanic gardens, and meeting in between funerals? 

 

This relationship definitely reminded me of Judy Blume. The two characters are as believable, awkward, and tender as you could want. Two teens feeling their way toward each other, and willing to be vulnerable and honest. In other words, a healthy and realistic relationship. 

 

Oh, and I really should also mention the fact that Matt is very funny as a narrator. His deadpan observations are sneaky humorous, and his awkward self-awareness is so familiar. Reynolds has a great light touch in his stories, handling heavy topics with a positive but not rose-tinted approach. Thus, Matt’s grief and fears are all very real. But he is also so likeable and wry. It is difficult to explain, other than to say that Reynolds shares with other excellent writers the ability to bring humor to the worst life throws at his characters, and that is a real talent. 

 

The back stories are also interesting, and one could see books about everyone from Mr. Ray (who is a truly excellent character) to Love’s grandmother (who isn’t even alive during the book.) 

 

I’ll make one last Judy Blume comparison to end this: In this book, the cross-generational relationships are admirable. There are some wise adults in this book, less given to preaching than to leading by example and empathy. But there are also kids who really desire connection - and I believe teens hunger for adults who don’t talk down to them, take them seriously, and give support rather than lectures. I know I did at that age, and I have found my teen kids and their friends to be a lot the same. 

 

It really is amazing how far a little respect and a lot of listening can go. Teens are underrated, but you can’t treat them with disrespect, or think that control is more effective than understanding. 

 

So, I really liked this book, and am again impressed by Reynolds as a writer. 

 

***

 

The Jason Reynolds list:

 

Ain’t Burned All the Bright

As Brave as You

Look Both Ways

When I Was the Greatest

 

You can also check out my list of Black History Month and black authors here. There are a lot of real gems - I believe a lot of our best contemporary writing is being done by authors of color. 

 

City of Thieves by David Benioff

Source of book: Audiobook from the library

 

This was our book club book for last month. I was unfortunately unable to attend the meeting due to an orchestra concert, but I decided to grab the audiobook anyway. 

 

David Benioff is the pen name for David Friedman - he chose to use his mother’s maiden name because he figured there were already too many David Friedmans writing, and he wanted his own recognition. 

 

Benioff is primarily known for his screenwriting - specifically Game of Thrones, but quite a few others. City of Thieves is his second novel, written in 2008. It is historical fiction that apparently draws some ideas from his own family heritage. 

 

It is easy to forget, as Americans, that the USSR played a huge role in World War Two. There is a solid argument to be made that Hitler would have conquered Europe had he not made the fatal mistake - one made by Napoleon as well - to invade the USSR/Russia. Had Hitler simply kept his treaty with Stalin, rather than launching Operation Barbarossa, he would have been able to concentrate his forces on defeating England. 

 

Hitler’s goal was understandable enough. In his view, the superior German (Aryan) people needed more land and resources. Taking inspiration from the Native American Genocide, he intended to displace the native Slavic peoples, starve them, send them to Siberia, and take the land for himself. 

 

Oh, and he also murdered a million Russian Jews. 

 

While Hitler ultimately failed in his goal - after some initial success, the Eastern Front turned into a ghastly war of attrition - the largest and most deadly land war in history. The Princess Bride would get a good line out of this: “You fell victim to one of the classic blunders – the most famous of which is 'never get involved in a land war in Asia,’”

 

But the brutal reality is that millions died either in combat or from starvation and disease. In the end, the USSR suffered the most casualties of any country in the war, many of them civilians, women and children. 

 

One of the central battles of that land war was the siege of Leningrad. Hitler focused on that city in no small part because of its name, believe it or not. The Nazi rhetoric depended on painting Communism as the great threat that they defended the German people against, and Communism was considered a Jewish plot. The former St. Petersburg, now named after Lenin, represented all that was bad about Jews and Communism and the USSR to Hitler, and thus he determined to wipe the city off the face of the earth. 

 

This siege was probably the worst in history, and the percentage of residents who died of starvation rivaled even the darkest days of the Black Death centuries before. 

 

City of Thieves is set during that siege. 

 

Lev, a Jewish teen who has chosen to stay behind when his mother and siblings evacuated, makes a fateful decision that starts his life on a crazy trajectory over the course of a week. 

 

Lev’s father was a respected poet, who was denounced by another poet for using the nickname for Leningrad - “Peter” - in his poems. The NKVD arrested and disappeared him. Since then, Lev had been part of a fire spotting brigade for his building - attempting to put out fires from the bombing raids. 

 

When a dead German pilot lands in his street after bailing out, Lev and his friends illegally loot the body. The others escape, but Lev is caught. Facing the death penalty, he finds himself with a young soldier, Kolya, who is accused of deserting. 

 

Kolya insists he is no deserter - as we later find out, he just snuck out of a New Years party to go chase tail, and got stuck in town. Thinking with one’s dick rarely ends well. 

 

The NKVD colonel who sees them the next morning offers them a reprieve…if they accept a difficult task. See, his daughter is getting married next week, and the cake requires eggs. Which have become impossible to acquire in the starving city. 

 

What else can one do? Lev and Kolya set off looking for eggs. 

 

Who is Kolya? Well, he was a literature student before being conscripted, and he is taking notes to write the next Great Russian Novel. He also is bold, fearless, and larger than life. He has a dark sense of humor that poor Lev finds tiring. 

 

But they are stuck together, and find themselves on an adventure. 

 

I should give a warning here: this book is brutally violent. Which is to say, it is realistic about the horrors of war. Lots of people die, in horrid ways. Women are forced into sex slavery. The militaries on both sides show a casual disregard for human life - although the Germans are the worst because of their deliberate targeting of civilians for extermination or enslavement. 

 

There is also plenty of language, and sex talk. Kolya is vulgar as hell at times, much to the consternation of Lev, who has zero experience with sex. 

 

Some of the episodes in the book include discovering cannibals in Leningrad (in real life, there were rumors, but little substance), sneaking through enemy lines in the countryside, discovering a farmhouse where local girls were held as sex slaves for German officers, an encounter with Russian partisan paramilitaries, and a climactic scene where Lev gets to kill a particularly horrid Einsatzgruppen officer. 

 

The book is humorous at times, but in a dark way. Which is about all you can expect given the historical setting. In some ways, the only thing that keeps the book from being a tragedy is that you know Lev survives, because the framing story is Lev’s grandson hearing the story so he can use it as a school project. We also know from the outset that Lev will meet his future wife in the story. But it is not entirely clear until the end which of the several candidates will turn out to be her. 

 

There are a few things in the book that I want to note as well done. First, Benioff did a lot of research for the book, and it really shows. From getting the weapons right - which guns are carried by which people for example - to the complexities of ethnicities within the cosmopolitan city. Whenever there is a detail, the author seems to have done the work to be accurate. This is not the case in every work of historical fiction I have read, to put it mildly. 

 

I also will give serious points for getting the chess game in the climactic scene right. I assume Benioff knows the game, given his descriptions of the moves and strategy. Now, there isn’t enough detail to recreate the game - that would make for boring reading. But from the opening to the endgame, and the strategic decisions made in the middle, it all tracks. 

 

Another good characteristic of the book is that it captures the many moral impossibilities facing everyone in a horrid situation. For the peasants: do they give away some of their precious food to sustain the partisans? If they get caught, the Germans wipe out the whole village. If they betray the partisans, they will be killed in response. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

 

Benioff also understands one reason that the Germans were unable to break the Russian people. Intelligent conquerors know they need carrots along with the sticks. You have to offer the people of the country you invade something as a benefit. The Germans offered only extermination and genocide. If people understand they die either way, they tend to go down with quite a lot of fight. 

 

My one disappointment in the book was that, amid all the focus on Lev and Kolya, we never really get a full backstory on any of the women. There is much that is left obscure. Maybe we just need a sequel from Vika’s point of view - that could be quite the story. 

 

Again with this book, I really felt it captured the senselessness and stupidity of war. For the USSR in this case, they were invaded, and threatened with genocide. They had no choice for peace. Germany, on the other hand, had no excuses.

 

There really are only two good things to have come out of the Siege of Leningrad. First, because Germany lost the war, it finally had to take a hard look in the mirror and make changes. The United States could learn a lot from how Germany went about ridding the country of Nazis and Nazi propaganda. By acknowledging the atrocities it committed, it was able to find a better path forward. Had we done that regarding our own national sin of white supremacy, I believe we would be a far better and stronger country today. 

 

The other positive was that for the first time in history, international law eventually banned starvation of civilians as a legitimate technique in war. Not that the rules are followed, unfortunately. That is the tragedy of our crumbling international rules-based order in our time. 

 

I doubt I would have discovered this book had our club not chosen it. Which is one of the reasons I am part of the club - it is a great way to expand my reading beyond the usual choices. 

 

You can check out the list of books our club has read that I have also blogged about here. 

 

The Go-Between by L. P. Hartley

Source of book: Borrowed from the library

 

I’ll confess. The main reason I read this book is that the opening line is one of the most iconic ever written. 

 

“The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.”

 

I mean, I have used that line myself more than once. So I really did need to read the book. 

 

Leslie Poles Hartley is yet another in the long line of (mostly male) authors who were problematic in their personal lives. Hartley was almost certainly gay, but repressed it into self loathing, homophobia in his writing, and a bitter misanthropy and reactionary political philosophy. By the end of his life as a lonely alcoholic, he was as well known for his belief that the end of a rigid class system was responsible for all the ills of the world, and indeed the entire bloody 20th Century. 

 

In a striking parallel to some of the worst people of our own time, he believed that compassion and empathy were the source of evil in the world, and that strict and brutal justice and moral lecturing were needed to fix the ills of society. 

 

Ironically, his writing is often better than he was, full of grey areas, moral ambiguity, and complicated characters. I find it amusing that he complained that his readers “misidentified” who the villains were, instead identifying with and preferring the characters he saw as the most in the wrong. 

 

I have noted writers like Tolstoy and Kerouac who seemed so good at identifying their own demons, yet powerless to overcome them. Hartley is perhaps the opposite: he fails to identify his own better angels, yet is powerless to keep them from influencing his work - and for the better. 

 

Young Leo Colston is a 12 year old boy, born and raised middle class (although his father’s untimely death has left the family in somewhat straitened circumstances.) After a very sheltered childhood at his father’s behest, his mother puts him in a boarding school, where he has a variety of experiences, including one where he is bullied, but puts a curse on the bullies, after which they are injured falling off a roof. This leads his classmates to believe he has magical powers. 

 

One of them, Marcus Maudley, invites him to stay with him for the summer, at a grand house, Brandham Hall, which the family is leasing from Viscount Trimmingham. 

 

The summer turns out to be eventful, in a not-at-all-pleasant way, and the trauma ends up affecting Leo for a lifetime. 

 

The Viscount, Hugh, is betrothed to marry Marcus’ sister Marian. She is unhappy about this, as she actually loves a local tenant farmer, Ted Burgess. But, well, class distinctions and all. Hugh is a pretty decent guy, but there is no chemistry. Plus, he has a bad facial wound from the Boer War, which renders him rather unattractive. 

 

Leo is incredibly naive. As in, I’m not sure I was ever that naive, and I was pretty sheltered. Because of his lack of experience and general people-pleasing personality, Leo is easily enlisted by Ted and Marian to serve as a “go-between” - a messenger to deliver their letters to each other. Leo doesn’t realize until he is already in too deep that Ted and Marian are lovers, and having trysts in the outbuilding of Brandham Hall. 

 

By the time he realizes this, he is already under incredible psychological pressure from Ted, and even more so from Marian, to keep on with what he is doing. 

 

From this point on, my post will have spoilers, so if you don’t want those, perhaps go read the book, then come back to this page and read on. 

 

Leo’s first attempt to get out of his pickle is to write his mother and ask to come home. She refuses, assuming that he is just having a homesick moment. (Particularly since he had been quite happy just a day before.) 

 

This failing, he brews up a “spell,” using the ingredients of a deadly nightshade plant growing by the outbuilding, which he has come to associate with some combination of Ted, Marian, and perhaps sexuality itself. (Which he calls “spooning,” and tries throughout the book to get someone to explain to him. As I said, really naive.) 

 

Along with this, he passes along a wrong time for their next tryst, so that Ted and Marian are caught, in flagrante delicto, creating a huge scandal, and a breakdown for both Marian’s mother and Leo himself. Oh, and Ted goes home and kills himself. 

 

There is a framing story, which is one reason for the famous quote. A much older Leo (who sure seems a lot like the author) comes across his journal from that summer, and re-reads it, comparing it to his faulty memories of the time. 

 

As a result of this, he decides to go back and try to find out what became of everyone. I’ll discuss that a bit later in this post. 

 

The book has some very strong parts to it. The set piece of the cricket match is about as perfectly written as possible. It is really the high point of Leo’s summer, and yet the time when the first shades of catastrophe begin to glimmer around the edges. The scene at the beginning where the older Leo rediscovers the diary is brilliantly written as well. 

 

Throughout, the descriptions, the atmosphere, the languid pace - all of these make for an enjoyable reading experience. 

 

I found Leo’s naivety to be borderline implausible, although, I guess the author did base it on his own childhood, so maybe the past just is that much of a foreign country. 

 

In fact, it is fascinating what the author did in fact use for this book from his own life. He chose the year 1900 because of a heatwave that year that he remembered. He was only age four, so not an exact parallel, but still. The deadly nightshade plant by an outbuilding is also an early memory, and that impression forms a central symbol of the book. 

 

This is also not the only book by Hartley that has a child’s future destroyed by some traumatic event from which he never recovers. He hinted that something took place in his own life at that time that did so for him, but no specifics are known, and there is not evidence of an externally traumatic event such as that described in the book. This is one reason for speculation that it was his own discovery of his sexuality that served as the trauma. 

 

Whatever the case, it is somewhat odd that in this book, this one event - seeing sex happen, being blamed for what other people created, and so on - would entirely ruin Leo’s life, that he would never psychologically recover, would never form a bond with another human again. That seems rather extreme. One would think an adult Leo would gain some perspective. 

 

Which is yet another bit of evidence that Hartley’s own trauma wasn’t some external event, but his own internal battle. 

 

Leo’s own internal drama may give some insight. Now, to be clear, I have zero desire to go back to my middle school days. They were tough. But at least I was a cisgender, heterosexual little boy, and whatever the difficulties of puberty and a budding sexuality were, my desires were both clear and socially acceptable. 

 

Leo seems drawn to three characters, but for different reasons. He most of all wants Marian to like him. He sees her as beautiful, but the way he describes this, it seems more that he is drawn to what her beauty does for her and other people. She moves through life with a certain confidence and ease because of that beauty. It is less clear that he feels anything sexual for her. 

 

In contrast, when Leo first sees Ted, with his shirt off swimming, the description definitely seems far more sensual. To me, Leo’s response goes beyond the “I want to be a man like him” feeling, even if Leo himself has no way of understanding this. 

 

Finally, Leo idolizes Hugh. Which is also kind of complicated. Hugh is a decent enough guy, and he is kind to Leo. But Leo’s response seems as much - or more - to Hugh’s position in life. He is the first real-life aristocrat Leo has ever met, and Hugh plays the part with all the grace and condescension (in the positive sense) that one could hope for. He is the very model of an admirable English lord, particularly in the eyes of Leo. 

 

When Leo sees Marian and Ted having sex, his idols crumble. It really is just his worship of Hugh that remains until the end - a symbol perhaps of Hartley’s lifelong worship of class distinctions. Just like Leo connects his disillusionment with Marian and Ted with the disappointment of the promising 20th Century, which rapidly devolved into two world wars and the crumbling of the British Empire. 

 

Before I get to the ending, I did want to mention my favorite lines. The opening, obviously, quoted above. I also liked this one, from the introduction written years after the book was published, in which Hartley addresses the charges of “nostalgia” in the book. 

 

People who have this feeling about the past aren’t necessarily comparing it to the present, to the disadvantage of the present. It has nothing to do with that, or not much. It is a desire for certain kinds of emotion which can no longer be experienced by the writer: not necessarily pleasant emotions. It is possible that a self-made millionaire may think with nostalgia of the days when he was poor. 

 

I think this really gets to the heart of a certain kind of nostalgia. Leo never gets over his loss of innocence, of the end of his childhood. The MAGA movement is very much about this as well. It is a reaction against the demands of our age, when we are being forced to reckon with the consequences of centuries of white supremacy, of the oppression of women, and of destruction of the environment, to name a few. Oh, to be “innocent” once more, driving those classic cars, listening to early rock and roll, and truly believing the United States was blameless. 

 

Hartley also mentions the difficulty in the 1950s of writing about the present. It was a time of radical change, and he felt that anything contemporary in setting would be outdated by the time it was published. Whether or not he was right about that can be debated, but I do think he was on to something about the way the past gives a certain illusion. 

 

[I]n writing of the present the novelist believed he was also writing of the future. He had the benefit of that illusion - the illusion of stability so helpful to fiction. Now he cannot have it: the scene is changing as he writes. 

 

Hartley is also perceptive about human nature. He captures the most poignant trauma of adolescence: the fear of being mocked. 

 

I don’t think I was unduly sensitive; in my experience most people mind being laughed at more than anything else. What causes wars, what makes them drag on so interminably, but the fear of losing face? 

 

Also good are the various discussions of the childhood code of honor. Which has always been in existence, even as the rules change. 

 

In class and out I had often passed round notes at school. If they were sealed I should not have dreamed of reading them; if they were open I often read them - indeed, it was usually the intention of the sender that one should, for they were meant to raise a laugh. If they were unsealed, one could read them; sealed, one couldn’t: it was as simple as that. 

 

I also want to quote a bit from the very oblique conversation between Leo and Ted. Leo is trying to worm information about sex out of Ted, who is hesitant. 

 

“If you spoon with someone, does it mean you are going to marry them?” I asked.

“Yes, generally.”

“Could you spoon with someone without marrying them?” I pursued.

“Do you mean me?” he said. “Could I?”

“Well, you or anyone.” I felt I was being very crafty.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

I reflected upon this.

“Could you marry someone without spooning with them first?”

“You could, but-” he stopped. 

“But what?” I demanded. 

He shrugged his shoulders. “It wouldn’t be a very lover-like thing to do.” 

 

Life is a bit more complicated, isn’t it? Leo’s naivety shows here, and also when he finally realizes that Marian has been using him. 

 

She wasn’t superior in the sense of being patronizing; she took a great interest in people, and never spoke to any of us as if he or she was someone else. But she had her own angle on us, and it was generally a slightly disconcerting one: she saw us not as we saw ourselves or as other people saw us. 

 

While Marian isn’t truly sociopathic - although I think Hartley viewed her that way - she does show some traits of viewing people as resources to be exploited at times. Although, as Leo realizes looking back, she was actually kind to him before she even thought of using him as a messenger. This is why, I think, readers tended to find Marian sympathetic. And also why many disliked the ending, complaining that Marian seemed changed in character at the end. 

 

I also found Leo’s description of his mother’s approach to his emotions to be fascinating. Perhaps a good bit true of my own relationship with my mother. 

 

My mother believed in the logic of the emotions; she did not think they should be tested, still less regulated, by the lessons of experience. If I had been nice to her ten times running and nasty to her the eleventh, it would upset her just as much as if ten times hadn’t existed. 

 

I’ll also just briefly mention the reference to Punch magazine, which managed to stay in existence nearly 160 years, which is pretty incredible for any publication. 

 

And now, about the ending. Definite spoilers here. 

 

When Leo goes back in his 60s to find out what happened to everyone, he makes some interesting discoveries. Hugh died a mere decade after Leo met him, although we never find out definitively how. He did go on to marry Marian, and had a son - the 10th Viscount. However, the 10th Viscount and his wife were killed in World War Two. 

 

Leo then sees a young man who looks strikingly like Ted Burgess, and, upon talking to him, discovers that he is the 11th Viscount. Marian is still living, although her memory is going a bit. 

 

The conversation with Marian is interesting. In a way, she has turned into her mother: viciously classist about her daughter-in-law, and all too proud of being a Viscountess. 

 

But she also wishes she could reconcile with her grandson, who is bitter against her for the affair that produced his father. While Hugh was content to look the other way and marry her, and the 10th Viscount seemingly didn’t ask about his heritage, the 11th Viscount hates that everyone knows he is the descendant of a bastard, and thus, biologically not entitled to his title. (Although legally, he is descended from Hugh - there is a whole body of law about that, actually…) 

 

I think the ending lines, from Marian, though, are intriguing. She still sees her affair with Ted as a most beautiful thing, a perfect expression of true love, even if it couldn’t be. 

 

Her main regret is that Ted wasn’t able to be patient. He should have just let things blow over. She would have married Hugh, of course - her parents would have forced her in any case - and Hugh was willing to have her, even though he knew everything. Perhaps after a while, they could even resume a relationship in secret. Taking a lover after marrying for family connections is nothing new. Aristocratic morality is and always has been just a bit different from middle class morality. If only Ted could have seen that. 

 

In the end, Marian insists that her grandson should have no embarrassment whatsoever about his origins. 

 

“Tell him there’s no spell or curse except an unloving heart.” 

 

Is Marian right? Hartley clearly didn’t think so - he considered Marian to be the true villain of the book. It is odd that he missed the plain fact that the book itself seems to portray the hypocrisy of a class-based society as the villain - the same class-based society Hartley worshiped. 

 

I’m no fan of sneaking around, personally. But I also know that the reason Marian snuck around was because of the social proscription on her preferred partnership. In the end, unfortunately, Ted paid the main price - the lower classes usually do in these cases - although Marian isn’t wrong that he seriously overreacted. 

 

While it is not at all the case for me, I have wondered how I would feel if I discovered that I was the child of a passionate affair by my mom. Would it have become the focus of my difficult relationship with my mother, a reason to blame her as a deflection from the real issues? Maybe. But also, ironically, I feel my mother was the parent who treated me like the bastard stepchild, never able to measure up to my sister, the “legitimate” one. (To be clear, my siblings and I are the biological descendants of both of my parents, and I have no reason to believe either of them have ever cheated.) 

 

For the 11th Viscount to hold a grudge, in any case, seems based completely on the artificial distinctions of class. I am reminded of a great scene in Terry Pratchett’s delightful book, Wyrd Sisters. It is all about royalty, and has the usual tropes: the assassination of the rightful king and the usurpation of the throne, the missing heir saved from murder, and surprises about parentage. 

 

But with a twist. The jester is indeed the half-brother of the rightful prince. But BOTH of them were fathered by the previous jester, not the previous king. 

 

And so it goes…

 

The Go-Between is definitely a classic for a reason, and the disconnect between what the author intended it to mean and how readers have experienced it makes it all the more fascinating. 

 

I’ll mention here David Foster Wallace’s excellent essay, “Greatly Exaggerated,” which did more to help me understand deconstructionism and the idea of the author as related to meaning than anything else I have read. The Go-Between is definitely an argument in favor of a text having meaning beyond the intention of its author. 

 

Anyway, it is an enjoyable book, if imperfect book. And definitely one that makes for a fascinating discussion. 

 

***

 

One legal postscript to this book, because I am a lawyer:

 

Literary sorts will undoubtedly note some common elements between The Go-Between and other novels that in many cases drew book bans. The cross-class romance is at the core of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, and there is a solid argument that the fact that The Go-Between managed to get published led in a few short years to Lady Chatterley’s Lover being at the center of the court cases that lifted the bans on that book. I will also note that E. M. Forster was a witness in favor of the book at trial, and that his posthumously published book, Maurice, also involved a cross-class sexual affair, in that case a gay one, which was doubly scandalous at the time. 

Selected Verse by Gerard Manly Hopkins

Source of book: I own this

 

It has been a rather long gap since I last posted about poetry. There are a few reasons for this, most connected to the fact that I like to read poetry aloud, which means I need time and space in which to do this without disturbing my family. 

 

One of the factors was my annual spring break camping trip, which was very nice, but which does not typically include bringing poetry. Second was that I have had a very busy spring for music gigs - which is great! But it also cuts down on the evenings available for poetry. Instead, you might have noticed I have gotten through some audiobooks - perfect for the commute to rehearsal and back. 

 

The final factor, though, is connected to the specific poet I chose to read. Gerard Manly Hopkins wrote amazing, brilliant, and forward-thinking poetry. But it is also often filled with difficult syntax, unexpected metaphors, unusual rhythms, and lots of rule-breaking. This makes it slow to read. You have to do it carefully, and usually multiple times before it becomes clear enough to read aloud coherently. 

 So who was Hopkins? 

 

To describe him as a British Victorian poet would be to miss his true trajectory. Sure, he wrote during the Victorian Era, and he was English. But his poetry was largely private and unknown during his lifetime, only published after his untimely death of Typhoid at age 44. It wasn’t until over 40 years after his death that his poems truly became mainstream, helped along by T. S. Eliot and W. H. Auden, among others, who promoted his work. 

 

In retrospect, the poems indeed served as an influence on a number of 20th Century poets, particularly those who, like Auden, combined traditional forms with experimentation. 

 

Although sometimes assigning modern categories to historical figures can be problematic, it is widely accepted that Hopkins was gay. His letters, journals, and a few episodes from his life give strong indication of his orientation. However, for religious and perhaps personal reasons, he chose to sublimate his sexuality into service to the church, becoming a Jesuit. 

 

It is fascinating to me that even now, there are people who seem determined to “prove” that Hopkins wasn’t gay - to find other ways of explaining away the things he said and wrote. For example, in his journal, he talked about his horror at finding himself aroused at portrayals of Christ on the cross. He scourged himself after disturbing erotic dreams. He had a huge crush on a college schoolmate to the point where his church supervisor forbade him to see the other man. (The crush was unrequited - he probably never knew who Hopkins was.) 

 

To me, even to read the poems themselves is to see the story. By Victorian standards, many of the poems are shockingly homoerotic, even as it often seems Hopkins is trying to convince himself otherwise. Where others would lovingly describe female features, Hopkins dwells on those of men. 

 

His devotional poetry - and there is a lot of it - is often on the edge of erotic, sometimes even over that line. His sexuality was, as it often was for those who passionately devoted themselves to religion, subsumed into his devotion to God. 

 

(This isn’t just a gay thing either - heterosexuals have channeled their desire into devotion as well.) 

 

There is something about a Hopkins poem that is instantly recognizable. He doesn’t write quite like anyone else. For example, nobody, and I mean nobody - not even Whitman - uses consonance and alliteration as effectively as Hopkins. The sounds tie whole poems together with multiple threads heading in different directions. 

 

He also did something unthinkable to most Victorians: his enjambment often broke not merely sentences but words themselves across lines and stanzas. For example, in “No Worst,” an otherwise standard Petrarchan sonnet, he breaks “lingering” over two lines - “ing” is his B rhyme. And in “To Seem the Stranger,” another sonnet, he breaks “weary” over the line, starting the new line with “y.” 

 

He also commonly writes with set numbers of syllables, rather than accents. So rather than strict iambic pentameter, he will write with ten syllables, and often fewer than five will be accented. 

 

Today, we find this normal enough in free verse. But back then? Crazy stuff!

 

Despite the forward-looking experimentation, the poems still retain traditional forms. In fact, many of the poems are in the traditional and rather rigid sonnet form, which is my favorite. It is this combination of tradition and progress that make for the unique sound and feel of the poetry. 

 

Here are the ones I particularly loved. Let’s start off with a sonnet. 

 

The Sea and the Skylark

 

On ear and ear two noises too old to end
      Trench—right, the tide that ramps against the shore;
      With a flood or a fall, low lull-off or all roar,
Frequenting there while moon shall wear and wend.

Left hand, off land, I hear the lark ascend,
      His rash-fresh re-winded new-skeinèd score
      In crisps of curl off wild winch whirl, and pour
And pelt music, till none’s to spill nor spend.

How these two shame this shallow and frail town!
      How ring right out our sordid turbid time,
Being pure! We, life’s pride and cared-for crown,

     Have lost that cheer and charm of earth’s past prime:
Our make and making break, are breaking, down
      To man’s last dust, drain fast towards man’s first slime.

 

Note throughout how the sounds are repeated and linked. Ear, ear, end. Flood, fall, off. Left, land, lark; combined with hand and land. Right out turbid time. The list goes on. Read any of the poems out loud, and the sounds become so apparent. And occasionally tough for tongues to say. 

 

And that’s before you get to the vivid imagery, and the contrast between the joy of life in the skylark and the awareness of mortality in humankind. 

 

Here is another one involving birds. 

 

As Kingfishers Catch Fire

 

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;

As tumbled over rim in roundy wells

Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's

Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;

Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:

Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;

Selves — goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,

Crying Whát I dó is me: for that I came.

 

I say móre: the just man justices;

Keeps grace: thát keeps all his goings graces;

Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is —

Chríst — for Christ plays in ten thousand places,

Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his

To the Father through the features of men's faces.

 

Another sonnet, this one combines nature, devotion, and a hint of erotic energy. Like the other, there are a lot of repeated sounds linking and tying together.

 

This next one isn’t a sonnet, but it does express a love of nature, specifically a lament for some iconic trees cut down. The trees in question were replanted, and lasted over 100 years before again having to be replaced due to age and safety. 

 

Binsey Poplars

 

My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled,

Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun,

All felled, felled, are all felled;

    Of a fresh and following folded rank

            Not spared, not one

            That dandled a sandalled

            Shadow that swam or sank

On meadow and river and wind-wandering weed-winding bank.

 

O if we but knew what we do

            When we delve or hew—

 

    Hack and rack the growing green!

            Since country is so tender

    To touch, her being so slender,

    That, like this sleek and seeing ball

    But a prick will make no eye at all,

            Where we, even where we mean

            To mend her we end her,

            When we hew or delve:

 

After-comers cannot guess the beauty been.

    Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve

            Strokes of havoc unselve

            The sweet especial scene,

            Rural scene, a rural scene,

            Sweet especial rural scene. 

 

Next up is this introspective gem. Written during Hopkins’ college years, it offers an insight into his decision to enter the priesthood. 

 

The Habit of Perfection

 

Elected Silence, sing to me
 And beat upon my whorlèd ear,
 Pipe me to pastures still and be
 The music that I care to hear.

 

Shape nothing, lips; be lovely-dumb:
 It is the shut, the curfew sent
 From there where all surrenders come
 Which only make you eloquent.

 

Be shellèd, eyes, with double dark
 And find the uncreated light:
 This ruck and reel which you remark
 Coils, keeps, and teases simple sight.

 

Palate, the hutch of tasty lust,
 Desire not to be rinsed with wine:
 The can must be so sweet, the crust
 So fresh that come in fasts divine!

 

Nostrils, our careless breath that spend
 Upon the stir and keep of pride,
 What relish shall the censers send
 Along the sanctuary side!

 

O feel-of-primrose hands, O feet
 That want the yield of plushy sward,
 But you shall walk the golden street
 And you unhouse and house the Lord.

 

And, Poverty, be thou the bride
 And now the marriage feast begun,
 And lily-coloured clothes provide
 Your spouse not laboured-at nor spun.

 

This next one is one of his devotional poems, yet it also describes the silence of the heavens, the longing for closer access to the Divine that can only come in eternity. Like Christina Rossetti, I find Hopkins to be so sincere and genuinely devout that I do not find the devotional poems to be glurge. 

 

Nondum (Not Yet)

 

God, though to Thee our psalm we raise--

No answering voice comes from the skies;

To Thee the trembling sinner prays

But no forgiving voice replies;

Our prayer seems lost in desert ways,

Our hymn in the vast silence dies.

 

We see the glories of the earth

But not the hand that wrought them all:

Night to a myriad worlds gives birth,

Yet like a lighted empty hall

Where stands no host at door or hearth

Vacant creation's lamps appall.

 

We guess; we clothe Thee, unseen King,

With attributes we deem are meet;

Each in his own imagining

Sets up a shadow in Thy seat;

Yet know not how our gifts to bring,

Where seek Thee with unsandalled feet.

 

And still the unbroken silence broods┬░

While ages and while aeons run,

As erst upon chaotic floods

The Spirit hovered ere the sun

Had called the seasons' changeful moods

And life's first germs from death had won.

 

And still the abysses infinite

Surround the peak from which we gaze.

Deep calls to deep, and blackest night┬░

Giddies the soul with blinding daze

That dares to cast its searching sight

On being's dread and vacant maze.

 

And Thou art silent, whilst Thy world

Contends about its many creeds

And hosts confront with flags unfurled

And zeal is flushed and pity bleeds

And truth is heard, with tears impearled,

A moaning voice among the reeds.

 

My hand upon my lips I lay;

The breast's desponding sob I quell;

I move along life's tomb-decked way

And listen to the passing bell

Summoning men from speechless day

To death's more silent, darker spell.

 

Oh! till Thou givest that sense beyond,

To shew Thee that Thou art, and near,

Let patience with her chastening wand

Dispel the doubt and dry the tear;

And lead me child-like by the hand

If still in darkness not in fear.

 

Speak! whisper to my watching heart

One word — as when a mother speaks

Soft, when she sees her infant start,

Till dimpled joy steals o'er its cheeks.

Then, to behold Thee as Thou art,

I'll wait till morn eternal breaks.

 

Probably my favorite of the devotional poems is this one, which again is more like Ecclesiastes or Job than the triumphal or dogmatic passages. 

 

Thou Art Indeed Just

 

Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend

With thee; but, sir, so what I plead is just.

Why do sinners’ ways prosper? and why must

Disappointment all I endeavour end?

            Wert thou my enemy, O thou my friend,

How wouldst thou worse, I wonder, than thou dost

Defeat, thwart me? Oh, the sots and thralls of lust

Do in spare hours more thrive than I that spend,

Sir, life upon thy cause. See, banks and brakes

Now, leavèd how thick! lacèd they are again

With fretty chervil, look, and fresh wind shakes

Them; birds build – but not I build; no, but strain,

Time’s eunuch, and not breed one work that wakes.

Mine, O thou lord of life, send my roots rain.

 

These days, “why do the wicked prosper?” seems so very much on point. And that last line. “Send my roots rain.” So very good.

 

Hopkins was categorically opposed to war - a traditional Christian belief before religion got thoroughly co-opted by Empire. This next poem challenges our current fetishization of the military here in the American empire.

 

The Soldier

 

Yes. Whý do we áll, séeing of a soldier, bless him? bléss

Our redcoats, our tars? Both thése being, the greater part,

But frail clay, nay but foul clay. Hére it is: the heart,

Since, proud, it calls the calling manly, gives a guess

That, hopes that, mákesbelieve, the men must be no less;

It fancies, feigns, deems, déars the artist after his art;

And fain will find as sterling all as all is smart

And scarlet wéar the spirit of war thére express.

Mark Christ our King. He knows war, served this soldiering through;

He of all can reave a rope best. There he bides in bliss

Now, and seeing somewhere some man do all that man can do,

For love he léans forth, needs his neck must fall on, kiss,

And cry ‘O Christ-done deed! So God-made-flesh does too:

Were I come o'er again’ cries Christ ‘it should be this.’

 

Jesus and John Wayne is nothing new. The British Empire, like all empires, glorifies violence as a “manly virtue,” rather than as a betrayal of Christian values. Hopkins calls for peace in another poem, part of a series featuring the Fruit of the Spirit.  

 

Peace

When will you ever, Peace, wild wooddove, shy wings shut,
 Your round me roaming end, and under be my boughs?
 When, when, Peace, will you, Peace? I'll not play hypocrite
 To own my heart: I yield you do come sometimes; but
 That piecemeal peace is poor peace. What pure peace allows
 Alarms of wars, the daunting wars, the death of it?

O surely, reaving Peace, my Lord should leave in lieu
 Some good! And so he does leave Patience exquisite,
 That plumes to Peace thereafter. And when Peace here does house
 He comes with work to do, he does not come to coo,
 He comes to brood and sit.

 

I’ll end with this one, which feels very modern. It also is one of the best examples of alliteration ever. Just read it aloud and enjoy all the repeated sounds, the rhythm of the sibilance. 

 

Spelt from Sybil’s Leaves

 

Earnest, earthless, equal, attuneable, ' vaulty, voluminous, . . . stupendous

Evening strains to be time’s vást, ' womb-of-all, home-of-all, hearse-of-all night.

Her fond yellow hornlight wound to the west, ' her wild hollow hoarlight hung to the height

Waste; her earliest stars, earl-stars, ' stárs principal, overbend us,

Fíre-féaturing heaven. For earth ' her being as unbound, her dapple is at an end, as-

tray or aswarm, all throughther, in throngs; ' self ín self steepèd and páshed – quite

Disremembering, dísmémbering, ' áll now. Heart, you round me right

With: Óur évening is over us; óur night ' whélms, whélms, ánd will end us.

Only the beak-leaved boughs dragonish ' damask the tool-smooth bleak light; black,

Ever so black on it. Óur tale, O óur oracle! ' Lét life, wáned, ah lét life wind

Off hér once skéined stained véined varíety ' upon áll on twó spools; párt, pen, páck

Now her áll in twó flocks, twó folds – black, white; ' right, wrong; reckon but, reck but, mind

But thése two; wáre of a wórld where bút these ' twó tell, each off the óther; of a rack

Where, selfwrung, selfstrung, sheathe- and shelterless, ' thóughts agaínst thoughts ín groans grínd.

 

That’s just a total masterpiece. Hopkins may or may not be the best poet to start with as a novice, but his incredible talent and ear for sound is rewarding for those willing to read aloud and truly listen. Whatever his personal loss, pouring so much of himself into poems is certainly a gift to all of us who love poetry.