If I knew how to do those meme things there would be a picture here of a world-weary chap and the text saying ‘I don’t always act like a completist…but when I do it will involve Alice in Wonderland’. Feel free to do the technical stuff for me – or just imagine the image like I do – but be assured the words would be approximately 99.9% true. I do have a pretty extensive ‘Alice’ collection: different editions of the books (I’m especially interested in how illustrators interpret the story), biographies, critical works, foreign language editions and books written in an ‘Alice’ style. So far I’ve found lots of sci-fi versions, racy short stories and even an explanation of quantum physics – politics was only a matter of time…
Alice in Brexitland is a really good pastiche of Lewis Carroll’s writing style – both in the humour, the political commentary (check out Martin Gardiner’s Annotated Alice if you don’t think Carroll did politics) and in its poetry. Most of today’s best known (if not loved) political figures are featured and the Brexit plot is slotted ingeniously into the original. There are slightly more bottom-based gags than Carroll used but, to be fair, he didn’t have a politician with a name for passing wind to contend with… I’m not usually a fan of topical humour books – I like my funnies to have some staying power – but this one tickled me and has earned its place on my bookshelves for more than just its Alice credentials.
Talking of Alice credentials the beautiful new edition of Alice in Penguin’s new V&A Collector’s Edition is almost perfect. The cover design is based on a William Morris print and has a rather fetching White Rabbit (and Dormouse) illustration by Liz Catchpole. I stroked it for quite a while (humming happily) too, because the cloth cover feels great too, before opening it up to have little read. And that was my only problem – the illustrations available to Penguin are not from the original plates (many of which are still owned by Macmillan, Carroll’s original publisher) so they are a little less crisp and detailed. This is a lovely little book but to make it even better maybe Penguin could let Liz Catchpole do all the illustrations in the text as well as on the cover?
I started with African literature many years ago. In Sixth Form I was studying for an International Baccalaureate rather than A Levels and our English Literature course focussed on world literature (in translation) so I was studying Dostoevsky, Moliere and Achebe when I was 16. (I also studied World History rather than British – French Revolution, Unification of Italy and the Causes, Practices and Effects of War rather than dates of Corn Laws and Prime Ministers. I know nothing about Gladstone but remember the Sanjak of Novi Pazar. Ho hum). Anyway, my enjoyment of literature from around the globe continued at University – Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Dante and Monkey by Wu Ch’êng-ên – and is still with me today. You’ll know my love of quirky Scandinavian stories, Korean animal fables and philosophical French romances but my fascination with fiction from African writers also continues.
My latest is Taduno’s Song by Nigerian author Odafe Atogun and my first thought was that he, like me, may have read Marquez at a formative age. Taduno, in exile from Nigeria, receives a letter from his girlfriend which encourages him to return home. There are hints of oppression and the knowledge that Lela loves and misses him and, curiously, the fact that the letter reaches him with just his name, Taduno, in an unspecified foreign country. Add this to the fact that when Taduno returns to Lagos he finds that although the government is still afraid of him as a charismatic singer opposed to their regime no-one can recall his name or what he looks like. Only his voice would have reminded them but the brutal beating which led him to flee Nigeria three months earlier has destroyed that. So far my initial thoughts were that this was a take on magical realism but then the story also took up so many of the political undertones which are also typical of Marquez. The magic and the dark political times continue as Taduno tries to rediscover his voice and rescue Lela from prison.
The cover of this book reminds me of Woody Guthrie and his ‘this machine kills fascists’ message which he placed on his guitar in 1941. I spent much of this book agonizing, along with Taduno, as he has to choose between his countrymen and the woman he loves.
The eighties are my era. The music, the movies, the tv, the fashion….well, maybe not the fashion. But a decade spent listening to Wham and The Cure and watching Saturday Superstore (I was studying for most of the decade) was a glorious thing. And until 1984 we even had some pretty good Doctor Whos. And then, of course, in 1982 the world was gifted with The Young Ones. As I said the 1980s – the decade that kept on giving…
Most of the cast of The Young Ones went on to become huge stars but, when it first aired, the best known of them was Alexei Sayle. Thatcher Stole My Trousers is the second volume of Sayle’s autobiography and in it he covers the period between leaving the family home in Liverpool and finding fame as the Bolowski family. It is mostly an anarchically humorous view of the dark days before alternative comedy – days when sexist and racist jokes were considered suitable for prime-time viewing – but it also contains some genuine political musings (about the young men from various middle-eastern countries he meets while at art college in London among other things). I was particularly struck by Molly, Sayle’s mother: a woman who found that the communist party didn’t ‘offer enough of an excuse for hysterical carryings-on’. Which sort of turns the 70s mother-in-law jokes on their head. By half way through the book I realised that Alexei was the moderate liberal one in his family!
My personal highlight of the book came at around 150 pages in when the ICL building in Putney got namechecked. Well, it was more of a character assassination than anything else, but still – this was a building I actually worked in at one point (in the actual 1980s…). Add to this the fact that my brother and Alexei Sayle are beginning to look more and more as if they are related and, it’s fair to say, it starts to look as though this book is truly part of my life story as well as the author’s.
Prejudice is a funny thing. We are all guilty though, of judging others, and often because they are not ‘just like us’. We can misjudge the young because we have forgotten what childhood was really like and we can underestimate those much older than ourselves because they have had experiences we have yet to have. And if we don’t listen to others – both the young and the old – we seem to risk never learning anything….
Harry Leslie Smith has had so much experience in his long life. He has lived in poverty – the kind of poverty that most of us can only imagine – and fought in defense of freedoms which we now take for granted. What he is not doing in this book is fitting in with our narrow view of how an older person should present themselves – he doesn’t view the past through rose-coloured spectacles, he is not someone who is afraid to be heard and his opinions and beliefs could be those of a person of any age. There is a telling episode when he returns to Halifax, where he spent part of his youth (I would hesitate to refer to it as a childhood), and is confronted with the kind of unthinking racism which many older people – who have to see the country of their own youth changed in ways they don’t necessarily understand – are prone to. But, because he is obviously someone who sees beneath the skin colour or birthplace of people to the humanity which we all share this is not Harry’s way. As he says ‘ many people who are younger than me presume that because of my age I have a default setting which makes me, among other things, a lover of dogs, suspicious of immigrants, wary of welfare benefit recipients and distrusting of those who possess piercings and/or multiple tattoos’. You do not need to read much of this book to work out that is not an accurate description at all.
Harry Smith is, despite the gaps in his early education, an intelligent and thoughtful man. He has made sure that he is well-informed about what it is like to live in Britain now for those of us who are not part of the ruling elite and, most noticeably, he is angry. He is angry because the world his generation fought for, politically, socially and militarily, seems to be drifting back towards the ‘bad old days’ he would rather not see again. The privations of the immediate aftermath of World War Two, following on as they did from the Depression years of the 1930s were meant to have become a thing of the past with the coming of the welfare state. Our modern politicians, from all political parties (no favouritism shown here!), are given fairly short shrift as are the banks, climate-change deniers and the press.
I can’t say that I agree with absolutely everything Harry Smith says. But that isn’t the point – I don’t think any of us would want to live in even a benignly totalitarian state. The overarching message which I have taken from this book is that we should never give up fighting for what we think is right – any age is too young to decide that prejudice and injustice are somebody else’s problem.