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.
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