The link below is to a book review of ‘Hydriotaphia, Urn Burial, or A Brief Discourse of the Sepulchral Urns Lately Found in Norfolk,’ by Sir Thomas Browne.
For more visit:
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/nov/13/100-best-nonfiction-books-sir-thomas-browne-urn-burial
The link below is to a book review of ‘The Diary of Samuel Pepys,’ by Samuel Pepys.
For more visit:
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/nov/06/the-diary-of-samuel-pepys-100-best-nonfiction-books-of-all-time-review-robert-mccrum
Marc Hudson, University of Manchester
Richard Denniss doesn’t mind pissing people off. He’s good at it. His entertaining and punchy book Curing Affluenza will, with luck, kickstart a conversation about mindless consumerism and what we do about it.
Denniss needs little introduction to followers of the Australian policy scene – has been an strategy advisor to Bob Brown, chief of staff of Natasha Stott-Despoja, a former chief executive and now chief economist at The Australia Institute. He’s been sticking his hand in hornets’ nests for a while, whether on climate policy, taxation, the (ab)uses of economic modelling or pretty much anything.
Read more: Enough’s enough: buying more stuff isn’t always the answer to happiness
Denniss co-authored an earlier book with Clive Hamilton called Affluenza, which obviously covered some of the same territory. Affluenza, to cure your suspense, is “that strange desire we feel to spend money we don’t have to buy things we don’t need to impress people we don’t know”.
Ironically enough, there is already a towering pile of published books covering the economic, environmental and psychological costs of consumerism, as well as the pursuit of loneliness, the culture of narcissism, whether the path to happiness is to have or to be, and the collision course our species is on. (I could probably spark joy by decluttering my own shelves of these and other volumes.)
Denniss’ book, which he has been plugging on the radio,
is a bit lighter (in both positive and negative ways) than some of these weighty tomes, striking a tone more akin to the 2007 documentary Story of Stuff.
The book has nine punchy chapters, plus eight additional contributions by thinkers and doers including Kumi Naidoo, Marilyn Waring, Leanne Minshull, and Bill McKibben.
Denniss writes with passion and wit, peppering his argument with memorable metaphors and acerbic questions. The book seeks to show that affluenza is “economically inefficient, the root cause of environmental destruction and that it worsens global inequality”, and to “broaden the menu from which choices can be made – by individuals, communities and countries”.
Denniss distinguishes between consumerism – a love of buying things – and materialism – the love of things themselves. The latter may be beneficial, as long as you care for your things, make sure that they can be repaired, and ensure they are made to last.
He deals well with the “the market won’t stand for it” argument, explaining that “what that really means is ‘rich people who own a lot of shares would react angrily’”. He also perceptively observes that “the process of making things people don’t need and then recycling them into other things they don’t need is now called ‘wealth creation’ or ‘job creation’. More accurate descriptions would be ‘resource destruction’ and ‘waste creation’.”
He’s also good on the relationship between technology and culture, arguing that it’s not that “technology will fix everything, but that technology and culture can and will change everything. The pace and direction of that change, like rope in a tug-of-war, will be determined by the relative strength of forces pulling on it.” But he could have written more on the fact that states are now crucial actors in the innovation game.
And this touches on the book’s biggest weakness: it identifies the problem and asks what is to be done, but largely fails to consider who should do it. Chapters 7 and 8 do contain a series of policy proposals around “banning some or all forms of advertising, banning corporate donations to politicians, preventing former politicians from working as lobbyists”, as well as proposing a ban on new coal mines. But Dennis, curiously, does not propose a universal basic income, which might have some rather interesting effects in getting consumers off the hedonic treadmill.
Read more: The ‘simple life’ manifesto and how it can save us
It’s not always clear who Denniss thinks will get this done, and how they are not going to be fobbed off, demonised, co-opted or demoralised. For my money (actually, I was sent a review copy) I think Denniss underestimates how hard it is for people to take the “voluntary simplicity” route (social status is a powerful driver of consumption), and he could have done more to name and shame companies that are trying to foster psychological insecurity to create consumers for life (covert marketing at children? I mean, seriously?)
Denniss could also have introduced a few more economic concepts (such as positional goods, which decline in value as more people obtain them) and some more case studies, such as the classic example of the Ford Model T, which won the usefulness/cheapness/reliability battle but was defeated by competing car companies that made annual minor cosmetic changes.
You can’t please everyone. The book will doubtless get a kicking from the following groups:
So-called conservatives such as the Minerals Council of Australia, which cops several serves for its lobbying and modelling
Hardcore anti-capitalists (the word capitalism doesn’t appear until page 192, and Denniss somewhat sidesteps the discussion) and economic degrowthers, who think the scale of the problem goes beyond voluntary simplicity
Marxists who will ask who is this “we” in sentences like “we have built a culture where buying things is increasingly unrelated to using things” and wince at the assumption that readers will have “five cashed-up friends”
Social movement strategists who worry that the light green rhetoric will pull focus from more fundamental problems.
But Denniss, I am pretty sure, has not written this book for any of those groups of baked-in enemies, malcontents and despairers. I think he’s written it for Joe and Jane Public, who worry about their kids’ future. And there are enough good metaphors, clear thinking and provocation here to get a good conversation going. So in that sense, mission accomplished.
Marc Hudson, PhD Candidate, Sustainable Consumption Institute, University of Manchester
This article was originally published on The Conversation. Read the original article.
Michelle Smith, Deakin University
The twentieth anniversary celebrations of the highest-selling book series of all time are now coming to a close. 2017 has been a milestone year for Harry Potter fans in their twenties and thirties, who spent much of their youth in anticipation of the release of each new book or film.
Last week’s Wheeler Centre event Harry Who? The True Heroes of Hogwarts brought together writers, comedians and musicians to celebrate the series. While Harry and his broken glasses predominate at most Potter tourist sites and film screenings, Harry Who? asked the audience to consider who really is the true hero of J.K. Rowling’s stories.
As readers contemplate the long-term legacy of the Potter universe and whether it will endure, it’s also important to consider the overarching messages of Rowling’s series as the most popular example of children’s literature to date.
Harry embodies the key characteristic of some of the most memorable protagonists of classic children’s literature. From centuries-old stories of Cinderella onwards, child and youth characters who are orphans not only foster the reader’s empathy, but are also freed from the expectations and restrictions that biological parents impose.
Melanie A. Kimball explains the twin effects of child orphans in literature:
Orphans are at once pitiable and noble. They are a manifestation of loneliness, but they also represent the possibility for humans to reinvent themselves.
Without the tragedy of Harry’s parents being violently killed by the evil Lord Voldemort, Harry would have had no compulsion to go beyond the “typical” experience of a child with a witch and a wizard for parents.
At Harry Who?, writer Ben Pobjie pointed out that Harry is not exceptional, but that it is his nemesis, Voldemort, who propels Harry to importance. With reference to his dubious celebrity, Pobjie joked that if Voldemort was in Australia, he would “be on Sunrise every morning”. As with the importance of Harry’s lack of parental influence and constraint, the extreme adversity of being Voldemort’s inadvertent nemesis establishes a heroic scenario for Harry to inhabit.
One of the repeated claims throughout the event was that Harry is not much of a hero at all, particularly as he relies on other people to succeed. In the first book of the series especially, Hermione Granger possesses most of the personal attributes and knowledge required to defeat the ever-present threat posed by Voldemort. She is clearly the most intelligent of the Harry, Ron and Hermione trio, and works hard where her male counterparts often attempt to shirk the effort required.
While Hermione’s heroism is important, she clearly plays a supporting role to Harry: the series is, after all, named after him. The emphasis on Harry is reflective of the deep gender bias in children’s literature throughout the past century.
A 2011 study of twentieth-century children’s books found that, on average, in each year, no more than a third of children’s books featured central characters who were adult women or female animals. In contrast, adult men and male animals usually featured in 100 per cent of children’s books.
Though the Harry Potter series does depict some strong and beloved female characters including Professor Minerva McGonagall, it is reflective of an era in which protagonists in children’s literature are usually male unless a book is specifically marketed at a girl readership. In addition, the series is also lacking in the depiction of queer characters, regardless of J.K. Rowling’s post-book declaration that Hogwarts’ headmaster Professor Albus Dumbledore is gay.
With the rapid changes in attitudes toward social and cultural issues including same-sex marriage and children with non-normative gender and sexual identities, the Harry Potter series — as a product of the 1990s and early 2000s – might not endure as well as some might imagine.
Indeed, the issue of changing social norms means that very few children’s “classics” continue to be read by children as decades and even centuries pass. It could be that the series is eventually understood as somewhat outdated and more about producing nostalgia for adults in the same way as the once ubiquitous books of Enid Blyton are viewed today.
One crucial part of the Harry Potter legacy, however, is its effectiveness in encouraging readers, viewers, and now theatre goers with Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, to embrace fantastic stories about young people once again.
Adults in the late 19th and early 20th centuries delighted in children’s stories and made up a significant segment of the audience for plays such as Peter Pan. The dual audience of children’s literature, for both adults and children, was once the norm and one that did not bring any shame or embarrassment with it.
Twenty years on, today’s adults are still gathering to talk about and celebrate the Potter novels they enjoyed as children and have continued to re-read. In addition, other series such as Twilight, The Hunger Games and Riverdale, show the continuing popularity of stories about young people for adults. In 2037 we will be able to tell if the Potter-effect has lasted or if its magic only worked for a brief spell.
Michelle Smith, Senior lecturer in Literary Studies, Deakin University
This article was originally published on The Conversation. Read the original article.
The link below is to a book review of ‘The Book of Common Prayer,’ by Thomas Cranmer.
For more visit:
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/oct/30/100-best-nonfiction-books-91-book-of-common-prayer-1662
The link below is to a book review of ‘Single, Gay, Christian – A Personal Journey of Faith and Sexual Identity,’ by Gregory Cole.
For more visit:
https://www.thegospelcoalition.org/article/book-review-single-gay-christian-gregory-coles
Chris Mackie, La Trobe University
The Aeneid by the Roman poet Virgil is an epic poem in 12 books that tells the story of the foundation of Rome from the ashes of Troy. It was probably written down in Rome from 30-19 BC during the period of the Emperor Augustus.
The poem is named after the Trojan hero Aeneas, the son of Venus (Aphrodite in Greek mythology) and Anchises, a Trojan aristocrat. Aeneas leads the survivors from the sack of Troy through the Mediterranean, and ultimately to the site of (future) Rome. The Aeneid is therefore a classic foundation narrative.
As with other ancient epics, our hero has to remain resolute in the face of significant divine hostility. Juno, queen of heaven and goddess of marriage, despises the Trojans because she lost a divine beauty contest known as the Judgement of Paris. Venus wins the Judgement by giving a bribe to Paris, a Trojan prince who acts as judge. The bribe is in the form of Helen of Sparta, the most beautiful woman in the world. Paris prefers this bribe to the bribes of the other two contestants – Juno and Minerva.
Read more: Guide to the Classics: Homer’s Iliad
Unfortunately, Helen is already married to the Spartan king Menelaus, and so the Trojan war follows soon after. Juno takes badly her loss in the beauty contest, and hates everything Trojan, both during the war, and after. The hatred and vindictiveness shown by Juno to the Trojans anchors the whole Aeneid, and it only comes to an end in the final book.
The Aeneid is written in dactylic hexameters, the same metre as the two Homeric poems – the Iliad and Odyssey (although it is written in Latin, not in ancient Greek).
In many ways the Aeneid is written in emulation of Homer’s works by a poet who may have known them off by heart (that is my view, anyway). Scholars sometimes talk about the “Odyssean” Aeneid (Books 1-6, because Aeneas travels through the Mediterranean, a bit like Odysseus), and the “Iliadic” half of the poem (Books 7-12, on the theme of war in Italy).
A new reader of the Aeneid with a background in Homer can usually identify many passages that have Homeric resonances.
Indeed many readers through time have felt that Virgil is too reliant on Homer. There is a story that Virgil needed to defend himself from this charge by saying that “it is easier to steal Hercules’ club than steal one line from Homer”.
It must be stressed, however, that in Virgil’s case, we are dealing with someone who was totally immersed in Greek and Roman literature, rhetoric and philosophy – not just the works of Homer. He was an astonishingly well-read poet, and this breadth of learning is embodied in his poems. In this sense the criticism of Virgil of plagiarising Homer, or quasi-plagiarism, seems rather unreasonable.
The Aeneid’s thematic connections to earlier myth and literature come to the fore in the depiction of Dido, the queen of Carthage. Dido is the great tragic figure in the first half of the poem (notably in Books 1, 4, and 6) after a romance and sexual liaison with Aeneas.
The figure of the deserted heroine was a favourite theme in Greek myth and literature, and Virgil duly draws on it for his depiction of Dido. Such heroines included Medea, Phaedra, Ariadne, and Hypsipyle. There was also an early Roman depiction of Dido by Gnaeus Naevius (270-201 BC) in his epic The Punic War.
Thus it would be a mistake to reduce Virgil’s Dido to some kind of re-creation of Homer’s Calypso, or Circe, or Nausicaa (all from the Odyssey). Indeed, Virgil’s audience may have responded to the tragedy of Dido in the Aeneid by thinking of another North African queen – Cleopatra (69-30 BC), with whom both Julius Caesar and Mark Antony had flings. So the general point here is that the reader of the Dido books is invited to engage with many different mythical and historical narratives.
Virgil’s method of composition of his poetic works was slow and deliberate, and quite “un-Homeric” in all kinds of ways. “Homer” (ca. 700 BC) was a highly skilled oral poet who used this expertise to create his story, whereas Virgil (70-19 BC) lived in a thoroughly literate society. The pace of poetic creativity could be very slow.
The Georgics, an earlier poetic work by Virgil on the subject of agriculture (2,188 lines), seems to have been written at a rate of about one line a day. And the Aeneid itself (9,883 lines) works out to about three lines a day. Little wonder that it is so succinct and complex.
The Aeneid is certainly not the easiest read from the corpus of ancient literature. There is some evidence that Virgil wrote it first in prose, before developing the poetic version. It is also an unfinished poem, although still remarkably polished.
Even though the Aeneid is a foundation narrative where the Trojans struggle to find a new home after the destruction of their city, it is important to stress that it is also a “return” (that is, a Greek “nostos”).
Troy was founded by Dardanus, an obscure mythological hero, and, in Virgil’s poem, he did so having left from a place called “Corythus” (perhaps modern Cortona in Tuscany). The story in the Aeneid is that many generations later – after the sack of Troy – Aeneas leads his people back to Italy as a kind of “new Dardanus”.
Aeneas’s quest, then, is both a new mission to a new land and a return to the ancestral land of the first Trojan. The return journey of a hero from war was a favourite Greek mythical narrative (including the Odyssey of course). Virgil follows suit in the Aeneid, but offers a much more complex notion of the heroic “return”.
Read more: Guide to the Classics: Homer’s Odyssey
Aeneas is a very different kind of epic hero from Achilles in the Iliad and Odysseus in the Odyssey, not the least because he is imbued with a whole series of distinctly Roman values. He is a much more “religious” kind of hero – someone who makes it his business to follow the path that has been ordained for him and his people.
A characteristic epithet for Aeneas is pius (“pious”, “duty-bound”, “dutiful”). Indeed his whole quest is really to unravel the mysteries of fate, and then duly to act upon them. He tends to focus on the “greater good”, sometimes with an element of personal suffering (perhaps along Stoic lines). For instance, he deserts Dido (in Book 4) because Jupiter reminds him through the god Mercury that Italy is meant to be his fated home, not Carthage in North Africa.
The Aeneid looks back to a time well before the foundation of the city of Rome, and forward to the realities of Roman imperialism up to Virgil’s own day. The past and the future often seem entangled in all kinds of ways, and then there is the question of Virgil’s own political outlook. Is the poem designed to justify and support Rome’s imperialist agenda?
The English poet W.H. Auden was rather unsympathetic to Virgil in his poem Secondary Epic (1959):
No, Virgil, no:
Not even the first of the Romans can learn
His Roman history in the future tense.
Not even to serve your political turn;
Hindsight as foresight makes no sense.
…
No, Virgil, no:
Behind your verse so masterfully made
We hear the weeping of a Muse betrayed.
The Aeneid, therefore, is focused on the grand scale – on the city of Rome and its empire, its formation, and its destiny within the order of the Olympian gods. Scholars, poets and critics, often against a background of modern wars (such as WWII or Vietnam), have agonised over the question of Virgil’s own attitude to war and the Augustan imperial agenda, which receives some considerable attention at critical moments in the Aeneid.
Augustus, after all, seems to have been a generous patron of the poet, and a certain amount of text-specific adulation might have been expected. Auden certainly felt that Virgil traded in his poetic respectability (“your political turn”… “a Muse betrayed”). But there have also been plenty of others who are prepared to claim that Virgil yearns for peace, and actually undercuts the explicit patriotism about Rome and Augustus.
The final scene of the Aeneid tends to polarise critical views on the basic thrust of the poem. Whereas the Homeric poems end in an atmosphere of peace and tranquillity, Virgil’s Aeneid ends with unremitting violence.
Aeneas’s great Italian warrior rival Turnus has been wounded in single combat, and pleads for his life on his knees. Aeneas seems to mull over an act of clemency, but in a sudden fit of rage he kills Turnus on the spot. The poem ends with a description of Turnus’s limbs going slack and his life going resentfully to the shades below.
The sudden end of the Aeneid, with such a violent turn, has proved very challenging and unsatisfying for many readers. Virgil’s own death before the final completion of the poem in 19 BC added a further element of debate. Would he have changed the end of the poem? There was also a legend that he had left instructions for his assistants to burn the manuscript of the Aeneid, should he die before its completion.
The sudden and brutal end of the poem precipitated various sequels, most famously a Supplement to Aeneid Book 12 by the humanist cleric Maffeo Vegio (ca. 1406-58). This was basically a thirteenth book of the Aeneid told in 630 lines and written in 1428.
Vegio continues the narrative where Virgil leaves off, justifying the death of Turnus, and telling ultimately of the deification of Aeneas. The presence of sequels like this indicates just how confronting and original the Aeneid is – so much that later poets needed to “normalise” it.
There is every reason to think that Virgil’s Aeneid became a classic as soon as it was written and published. And it has remained so until this day. Many parts of the Aeneid have influenced Western literature and art: especially the sack of Troy and Aeneas’ departure from it (Book 2); the tragedy of Dido (Books 1, 4 and 6); and his journey to the Underworld (Book 6).
The last of these, Aeneas’s journey into the Underworld in Aeneid 6, fundamentally influenced the poet Dante’s (1265-1321) own narrative of life after death. Virgil is his guide through Inferno and Purgatorio, which says something about the high regard of poet for poet – bearing in mind, of course, that Virgil was a pagan.
When Dante first sees the shade of Virgil he greets him in a way that could hardly be more fulsome:
Are you then that Virgil, and that fountain, that pours out so great a river of speech? O, glory and light to other poets, may that long study, and the great love, that made me scan your work, be worth something now. You are my master, and my author: you alone are the one from whom I learnt the high style that has brought me honour.
*NB Virgil’s name is also sometimes spelt “Vergil.”
Chris Mackie, Professor of Classics, La Trobe University
This article was originally published on The Conversation. Read the original article.
The link below is to a book review of ‘An Essay Concerning Human Understanding,’ by John Locke.
For more visit:
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/oct/23/essay-concerning-human-understanding-1689-by-john-locke-no-90-100-best-nonfiction
At the BookShelf 
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