The flesh and blood of novels
More than – Less than
On the side table, next to my favorite reading chair or the part of the bookshelf reserved for current reading one would find, among other books, The Warmth of Other Suns by Isabel Wilkerson, Becoming Wise by Krista Tippett, Chasing the Scream by Johann Hari, Seven Last Words by James Martin, and S.J. Oxymoronica by Dr. Mardy Grothe. One would also find a novel This Was a Man by Jeffrey Archer which I have just finished. Although I treasure what I learn from some of the so-called academic books covering such diverse subjects as physics, neurology, philosophy, theology, history and psychology it is often to the poets or the novelists that I turn to be reminded of life’s most important lessons. Such was the case with Archer’s This Was a Man, the final volume of the Clifton chronicles. I finished reading the last couple of chapters while enjoying a light dinner. The tears streaming down my face made it necessary to often pause. Why tears one might ask? This was a work of fiction albeit some parts of which contained real life figures such as Margaret Thatcher. There is no reason to paraphrase the story the words of which needs to savored as Archer has written them. The gist of the book in my mind was about loving friendships between two man who became brothers-in-law, husband and wives, parents and children and political figures such as Margaret Thatcher, a woman who is accomplished in her own right. It is about the friendships that struggle with the political and economic issues with unrelenting passion on opposite sides of the political divides while holding on to a deep love and respect for each other. It is about friends who celebrate each other victories and accomplishments. In this novel, the author pairs those of individuals of exceptional talents and often inherited birth rights with those who arise out of a much less privileged beginning. These are contrasted with those lonely souls at all social and economic levels of birth who, for whatever reasons, never learn to own their intimate connection with others and become what seem to the losers while trying too hard to usurp the place of the “winners.”
Archer reminds me once more that in the end all of us are both more than and less them our public persona. Margaret Thatcher is not just a politician who some saw as unconcerned about many of the British citizens. In this book, she forms deep and committed friendships. She loves well and is loved well. Others, such as Lady Virginia, want to be loved and settle for the pursuit of shiny façade and ends up with neither the love nor the respect of others.
In this day of sound bites, twitter messages, Facebook bullying and posting of nude pictures when one is angry at someone, it is good to be reminded that there is always a story behind the story; that nothing is as it seems, and that humans are capable of great love and quiet humility. These were the reminders of the characters in Archer’s novel. I certainly could have reread a very erudite philosophical treatise on this subject, but I might have missed the identification with people who felt like flesh and blood to me. I am most grateful for all the novelists who find such a warm way of reminding me of what of what is important is this brief life journey.
Written March 13, 2017
The flesh and blood of novels
More than – Less than
On the side table, next to my favorite reading chair or the part of the bookshelf reserved for current reading one would find, among other books, The Warmth of Other Suns by Isabel Wilkerson, Becoming Wise by Krista Tippett, Chasing the Scream by Johann Hari, Seven Last Words by James Martin, and S.J. Oxymoronica by Dr. Mardy Grothe. One would also find a novel This Was a Man by Jeffrey Archer which I have just finished. Although I treasure what I learn from some of the so-called academic books covering such diverse subjects as physics, neurology, philosophy, theology, history and psychology it is often to the poets or the novelists that I turn to be reminded of life’s most important lessons. Such was the case with Archer’s This Was a Man, the final volume of the Clifton chronicles. I finished reading the last couple of chapters while enjoying a light dinner. The tears streaming down my face made it necessary to often pause. Why tears one might ask? This was a work of fiction albeit some parts of which contained real life figures such as Margaret Thatcher. There is no reason to paraphrase the story the words of which needs to savored as Archer has written them. The gist of the book in my mind was about loving friendships between two man who became brothers-in-law, husband and wives, parents and children and political figures such as Margaret Thatcher, a woman who is accomplished in her own right. It is about the friendships that struggle with the political and economic issues with unrelenting passion on opposite sides of the political divides while holding on to a deep love and respect for each other. It is about friends who celebrate each other victories and accomplishments. In this novel, the author pairs those of individuals of exceptional talents and often inherited birth rights with those who arise out of a much less privileged beginning. These are contrasted with those lonely souls at all social and economic levels of birth who, for whatever reasons, never learn to own their intimate connection with others and become what seem to the losers while trying too hard to usurp the place of the “winners.”
Archer reminds me once more that in the end all of us are both more than and less them our public persona. Margaret Thatcher is not just a politician who some saw as unconcerned about many of the British citizens. In this book, she forms deep and committed friendships. She loves well and is loved well. Others, such as Lady Virginia, want to be loved and settle for the pursuit of shiny façade and ends up with neither the love nor the respect of others.
In this day of sound bites, twitter messages, Facebook bullying and posting of nude pictures when one is angry at someone, it is good to be reminded that there is always a story behind the story; that nothing is as it seems, and that humans are capable of great love and quiet humility. These were the reminders of the characters in Archer’s novel. I certainly could have reread a very erudite philosophical treatise on this subject, but I might have missed the identification with people who felt like flesh and blood to me. I am most grateful for all the novelists who find such a warm way of reminding me of what of what is important is this brief life journey.
Written March 13, 2017
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