Book Review: Bedlam: London and Its Mad, by Catharine Arnold.

 

I really, really hate to do this. Being mean about books - even when honest - is something that I struggle with. Extending criticism to other writers gives me the fear because I know exactly how that would feel if it were me, which explains why I'm not yet a writer (or trying to be, at least) because I convince myself quite successfully that everything I write is a pile of crap. But I digress. 

This book is the first book I have failed to finish in a very long time. I'm not the kind of person who throws things into the DNF pile on a whim; I am a control freak and the idea of having unfinished things in my home is so unsettling that I will punish myself to ensure that doesn't happen, struggling through until the bitter end in some obscure test of endurance nobody asked me to complete. I'm neurotic is what I'm saying. 

I'll start with some positive comments, but despite my wish to at least be able to provide a shit sandwich here, I'm afraid there's nothing to buttress against the negativity. The writing is very, very thorough. If you're searching for a reference book that's crammed with dates, names, and statistics, then this is exactly the book for you. Nobody could ever accuse Arnold of being remiss in her research. Unfortunately, that's part of what makes it so relentlessly dull. It reads more like an academic thesis than anything else. I'm not knocking theses; they serve a purpose and sooner or later anyone who wants to be anything will probably find themselves hammering keys for six months to produce one of their own. But they are, generally speaking, utilitarian pieces of literature. They're not the literary masterpieces we strive to read every weekend after a hard week of working. The writing style is very different because the purpose is very different. My GCSE writing was exceptional within that narrow scope of expectation because it ticked all of the boxes required to pass the exam, but such box-ticking does not make for truly good writing. 

Still, this academic style could've been rescued had there been the briefest interludes afforded by some semblance of humour; unfortunately, no such reprieve was to be found. Only chapters packed full of wandering ideas with a scarcely identifiable structure to speak of. Rambling is the word I'm avoiding but it is, nevertheless, the correct word to use here. There was a complete absence of cohesion, with a general feeling that Arnold didn't particularly know what she wanted the book to be about. Ironically I have compared the book to the style of a thesis, but even then it lacks the specificity required to really cover any ground within a particular subject. This book is not about Bedlam's mad; it is about the history of the building; the sociopolitical context that contributed to the upkeep of the building; the types of people who frequented the building - not as inpatients - but as visitors, travellers, members of staff, and clergymen. It's about wars and bureaucracy, religion and finance. It's about architectural designs, endless petitions to various monarchs to seek funding for improvements, and at times it feels as if the book is about everything but the Bedlamites.

It is scattered and defensive, as though Arnold felt it necessary to answer any and all potential criticisms she might imagine would follow publication by leaving no stone unturned. Unfortunately, the outcome was a book that failed to deliver on its promise. I'm assured that another of Arnold's titles, Necropolis, is fantastic by contrast, and perhaps I will give it a try at some point in the future. Not yet, I'm afraid. For the time being, I have to try to will myself to want to read anything ever again. 

Sorry, Catharine. 

 

October Journal

I decided both to return to a traditional medium (watercolour + polychromos) and to buy a new journal with a better quality paper, largely because I knew I'd be returning to watercolour, and waterlogged journals aren't the best. I'm much happier with the result. I found I had more space for text even though the journal is a tad smaller than the last. The layout is nicer, I suppose. I'm going to have to get creative with it, however! 

I remembered the word, by the way: ephemera! I remembered because I need some. 

That's a job for next week.

All That Remains, by Sue Black

Rather aptly for the second book in this Halloween series, it seems that my children took an immediate dislike to this book's presence in my home. Quite why, I couldn't say, but they stomped on it, threw it, shoved it down the back of the sofa, and yote* it across the garden. I say they, but I really mean he: the tiny three-year-old demon that is Jesse James, living up to his namesake! 

In any case, I rather like the effect. All that remains of my book is all that remains of All That Remains-- in this little corner of the world, at least. Fun fact: those prop photos aren't really props at all, but all that remains of my family, in many ways. Top left is my great-auntie Bonnie as a baby, being held by the midwife. Bonnie became the namesake of my eldest daughter, and she was the centre of my universe until she died in February of 2003. She can be credited entirely with my love of books, having been a fierce proponent of my continual access to multitudinous literature from a very early age, the most prominent of which, perhaps, was The Hobbit (swiftly followed by The Lord of the Rings), catalysing a lifelong love of Tolkien. So strong was this family affinity for his works that her husband (my uncle), by this point a retired police officer, was lovingly afforded the moniker of 'Baggins'. To this day, although our relationship has become strained and we almost never see each other, I still speak fondly of my uncle Baggins. 

Top right is my great-grandmother, Hilda. I see a lot of my face in hers. A glamorous woman with an evident penchant for the extravagant, I'm not entirely sure what work my great-grandfather must have done to finance their lifestyle, given that they had six or seven children. I remember her but only briefly. I remember, specifically, that she brushed my hair very roughly; if I complained, she would whack me on the head with the paddle of the old wooden brush she beat down on my scalp. I also remember the kindness with which she lovingly tied the heirloom apron around my waist so that we could bake together. She died in the summer of 1994, if I remember correctly, and a litany of scandalous tales (in which she played the protagonist) succeeded her death. Naturally.

Bottom right, I think, is my great-uncle Alec. He was an officer in the army - I forget which regiment - and I found it most amusing that on the back of one of the photographs he sent to his mother (Hilda), he found it necessary to indicate to her that he was 'the one in the glasses'- as if she might have forgotten her son's appearance! I'm not familiar with the others, unfortunately. Perhaps they died before I was born, or perhaps they belonged to that side of the family. You know the side I'm talking about, yes? The spurned side we don't speak of or to. I'm quite sure said side had similar things to say about our side, but I digress... My family was just as colourful and scandalous as the next, a great deal about which I only learned in recent years, ironically because I reached out an olive branch to that side of the family, and rather quickly realised why they had been relegated to such a position in the first place: the Sackville-Bagginses of the Dransfield family.

I know, juicy. Moving on.

Black is a forensic anthropologist with extensive experience in the field across a number of specialities. Her witty and earnest down-to-earth writing style is a pleasure to read. She discusses some of the most heinous crimes imaginable but she does so with the utmost respect to the victims and, perhaps more importantly, the families. It is clear from her words that she has spent a great amount of time and emotional energy considering the position of the grieving family, and she carries those scars with her in a file she's undoubtedly packed away in a brain box labelled 'Work Stuff'. 

She recounts the ways in which she and her team went above and beyond to provide comfort and solace to those who needed it the most, along with a listening ear to anyone who desired it. I loved listening to her stories about her early years as a student and before that a butcher's assistant. I found it especially endearing that she still remembers with fondness (and gratitude) the name (and details, I would presume!) of the cadaver through which she received her education all those years ago.

I came to this book with an anxious apprehension because a close friend warned me that it would change my attitude towards death. My relationship with her is not great, unfortunately. In 2017 I lost three members of my family (the eldest remaining members of my family) leaving me with the role of matriarch at the age of thirty. Without crafting too graphic an image for you (I'll let Black do that) it will suffice to say that I saw their bodies, and it wasn't nice.

And so, my relationship with lady death is one of fear. Or rather, it has been. I wouldn't say that I'm entirely cured of it, but Black's almost-welcoming of it - of her - is curious to consider. I can't say I welcome death, but I can say that I'm reevaluating my position on DNR forms.

Perhaps I don't need to be violently resuscitated or intubated with a 10% chance of survival after all. 

*I am reliably informed by my eldest daughter that yote is now counted among the neologisms of the 21st century, as the past participle of yeet. If it isn't, I'm quite sure it will be, given the prevalence of its usage. 

September Journal

 

I decided at the start of the new academic year that I wanted to try journaling this year. I'm a huge fan of digital art and I do a lot of illustrating that way, mostly for convenience now that I'm so busy with uni. Naturally, it made sense that I would at least give it a shot when it came to journaling. I hit a few stumbling blocks along the way, unfortunately, and I'm not entirely happy with the results. 

I knew that I wanted a physical journal to collate my images because I wanted the opportunity to transition in and out of digital and back to traditional art whenever the fancy took me. Unfortunately, I had some issues with the top of my artwork being cut off during the printing process. I can't imagine why that happened, but it did, so I will need to investigate further. In addition to this, I feel the printing process knocked out the vibrancy of the colours used, and it lost its crispness somehow. In fairness, I'm not using the greatest inks or papers, so I may need to research better options if I intend on journaling digiditionally (yes, I made that up). 

I did enjoy the ability to pull in any reference or - ugh - stuff? There's a word for it, but I can't for the life of me remember what it is. It's like paraphernalia but not. The word for the random stuff you stick in journals... nope, it's gone. Anyway, the ability to copy and paste at will was really useful; having to cut and stick is a pain in the bum even if the results are pretty. That said, I was limited to those things and using physical textures wasn't possible for obvious reasons.

Conclusions? The jury's out. I will probably lean on this when my schedule is rammed and I need to produce pages quickly, but I think I need to keep my journal predominantly traditional. There's something special and personal about putting pen to paper to document one's life. Also, I had planned on a 12-month journal, only completing one entry per month, given that I am so busy with uni, but I'm not sure that;s going to scratch the itch I had when I started this thing. Perhaps I need to extend it to a weekly affair after all.

Now to focus on October! 

Frankenstein, By Mary Shelley

Since October is finally here (except finally is probably the wrong word to use in the situation, given that 2020 has flown by in the blink of an eye!) I thought it might be fun to blast through some spooky titles in recognition of the time of year. I've uploaded my Halloween list here if you want to read along with me.

I have chosen this title for numerous reasons, perhaps most notably that it's on my reading list at uni this semester. I know, I know, but you know what they say: work smarter, not harder. ✌ 

More seriously, Mary Shelley is one of my favourite authors simply because of the narrative that surrounds her. Her mother was Mary Wollstonecraft, author of A Vindication of the Rights of Women. This feminist inclination was woven into the very bones of our Mary Shelley, who set out to write not only under her own name but in a genre that would've been seen as ghastly to be undertaken by a woman of that time.  

She wrote Frankenstein - originally called The Modern Prometheus - whilst visiting the Villa Diodati, a mansion near Lake Geneva in Switzerland, rented in the summer of 1816 by Lord Byron and John Polidori. At just 18, she wrote what could be considered a trailblazing text on behalf of women and girls everywhere. A fascinating event took place during that summer that, in my opinion, had enormous influence over the group's emotional state during their stay at the Villa Diodati. In April 1815, Mount Tamboro of Indonesian origin erupted, sending clouds of volcanic ash skyward and into the upper atmosphere. This obscuring of the sun was global, sending the world into darkness for many months. Rainfall increased, and temperatures fell; during the Regency or late Georgian period, this must surely have felt like an impending apocalypse! With no global hourly - or even daily - updates to reassure the party that all was well, they must initially have been very frightened. 

During their climatic internment at the villa, Lord Byron suggested they hold a writing competition. The genre? Spooky stories, of course! The rest, as they say, is history. Shelley finished the book in the summer of 1817 and published it in 1818-- anonymously.  As a consequence, the public assumed the book was the work of her lover, Percy B. Shelley. It wasn't until the second edition, published in Paris in 1821, that she was recognised as the author of this fantastic novel. 

Some of my favourite quotations from the book:

“Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful.”
― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein

As is often the case with newly-published authors, and certainly is true of Shelley, I believe a great many of her most powerful words spring authentically from her own experiences. Fearless she is, without a doubt, to write such graphic, vivid descriptions within a genre that is off-limits to women, then break that glass ceiling anyway.

“Life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it.”
― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein

By the time Mary wrote Frankenstein, she had been renounced by her father, following Mary's choice to pursue a relationship with Percy, an already married man with a child and another on the way. Soon after, Percy's father cut off his son's stipend, leading to many months of financial uncertainty, legal trouble, and the cold, harsh reality of living in poverty. Three of Mary's children would die shortly after their birth, and only one of her children survived: Percy Florence Shelley. Anguish, indeed.

“There is love in me the likes of which you've never seen. There is rage in me the likes of which should never escape. If I am not satisfied in the one, I will indulge the other.”
― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein

I wonder what woman didn't feel like this in 19th century England, or anywhere on earth, for that matter.

What an inspiration she is.