Is History Guts and Glory?

I admire Bernard Cornwell's sheer industry as well as his apparent determination to cover many of the important 'watershed' periods in the history of the English-speaking world, but now that I have read quite a few of his novels, it is clear to me that his focus always is battle and killing. His research of the various killing methods is impeccable and his grasp of battles and the conflicts that led to them is sound but it is killing and more killing that definitely is at the heart of every book I have read.

Does he glorify the hero in his persona as a 'killing machine'? Oh, most definitely. Although he includes graphic descriptions of the less romantic aspects of battle from excrement to spilled brains and entrails, he does 'sing' of the glory of killing, the sweet ecstacy of rising beyond humanity to become nothing more than an instrument of death. In doing so, he is continuing an ancient tradition that can be found in Western classical literature from Homer to Beowulf and many other Northern epic poems. Heroes in the history of our Western culture are killing machines for the most part. The introduction of Christianity 2000 years ago did not change that. In fact, Christianity was altered to promote killing programmes such as the 'Crusades' and the 'Inquisition' although the message of the Christ most definitely was in complete opposition to any of that.

Christianity itself is based on ancient mystery religions of death and rebirth. Without death, there can be no rebirth, but the art of killing is not embraced at all in the Christian philosophy. Judaic history and religion, on the other hand, embraces slaughter and advocates the obliteration of any obstacles that might block the path of the 'Chosen' and Christians who wished to promote political agendas looked to the 'Old Testament' for religious justification. The actual message of Christ at the heart of Christianity was based instead on the concept of life through death, making a sham of any worldly conflicts and political ambitions.

That aside, the history of Western civilisation, like most civilisations, is a long litany of conflict and killing and Bernard Cornwell is adept at describing pivotal periods in the timeline of his and our own ancestors.

As I read the account of the battle of Agincourt this morning, however, I had a small epiphany about his work. Bernard Cornwell's prose in terms of battle and killing embodies a very ancient religious mystery probably known best in contemporary culture as the Goddess Kali.

Hindu deities take many different forms, with diverse names and legends. They have many manifestations and attibutes, some of which may appear initially to be in fundamntal opposition to one another.

The primary tale of Kali herself has very diverse forms but the one that has the most parallels in other mythologies and religious systems is that of the Goddess summoned to the battlefield who wins the battle against evil and yet, drunken with bloodlust and battle-frenzy continues to destroy until the very world was poised on the edge of utter annihilation. In totality with the very spirit of death and destruction, she finally unwittingly danced upon the body of her own lover and consort, the lord Shiva. It was only when he forced her back to ordinary consciousness and made her recognise him that she was able to cut short her all-consuming path of total obliteration. In another version of the tale, Shiva appeared on the battlefield in the form of an infant, exciting Kali's maternal instincts and thus ending her path of total destruction of the world.

The powers of creation and destruction are two sides of the same coin and both can be equally dangerous to the welfare of others. The various diseases known collectively as 'Cancer' could be perceived as an overabundance of creation where cells proliferate wildly, destroying the balance of the organism in which they are housed. Too much creation can choke an environment, whether it is a large city or a great forest. Nature, in both her generative and destructive aspects is terrifying and her power must be respected and recognised.

Bernard Cornwell, in describing the slaughter of the battlefield, is describing the dance of destruction, the human component of the ecstacy of Kali. It is only when the warrior surrenders completely to the lust of battle that he is able to do his job properly and indeed survive the encounter. Human beings are born with kill-lust and it is a gift of instinct to aid self-preservation. Undifferentiated killing is not to be tolerated, but society always has directed the killing instinct into political avenues, sending human beings into battles throughout the globe in order to advance economic or social agendas that are promoted as somehow being more noble or justifiable than the actions of a serial killer or gangster. Legalised killing is a fundamental part of civilisation in almost every culture.

The political and social philosophy of legal homicide basically is as follows: If we are born to kill as well as to create, let some one harness that drive to cleanse the earth of undesirable elements. Bernard Cornwell's books actually clearly denote the fallacious underpinnings of every war in which his heroes fight, and he therefore could not be considered primarily as a propagandist for any specific cause, although he writes usually from the vantage point of a soldier fighting for the British Empire or its predecessor in the form of the Kingdom of England. He does revel in the kill-lust of the battlefield, however, in those moments when the hero transcends his own identity and throws off the constraints of civilisation to become a superior killing machine, acting solely upon his martial training and instinct.

Is this troubling in moral terms? On reflection, I came to the conclusion that it actually is no more than an honest appraisal of our history as human beings. Surrender to kill-lust is the fuel of any 'hero' of any battle or war. It is an integral part of our nature as human beings as well. Few would argue against the basic premise that it is right and proper to defend our own lives and the lives of our loved ones. Nor would I. What I decry is the propaganda of governments to create an illusory threat to our own lives and the lives of our loved ones in order to propel an invasion such as the invasion of Iraq. Wars fought in the name of 'democracy' are fueled by as much economic greed, deceit and selfish interest on the part of the governments that instigate them as any other wars.

Killing, however, IS a fact of life and human nature. Bernard Cornwell writes about the past and he follows an ancient tradition of poets and novelists in describing heroes and their actions. For the most part, he does not attempt to argue in favour of one war against another or one side in any conflict against another. Ordinarily, he simply follows the career of one killing machine as that finely-trained tool of destruction moves from battle to battle, reverting to his own personality, thoughts and desires when he is at rest. Every story he tells is a tale of conflict that focuses primarily on the story of one warrior. The fact that his most lyrical descriptions inevitably involve transcendantal bloodlust, killing fields and slaughter simply demonstrates a devotion (unwitting or not) to the mysteries of the force of Death and Destruction whether given the name of Kali, Odhinn or unnamed.

The Tactile Beauty of a Hardcover Book

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With Amazon busily vaunting the superior nature of the 'Kindle', a personal 'virtual library' and so many books now available on the internet, many people tend to disregard real books completely. The 'book' as we know it is itself a mutation from older 'scrolls' made of lambskin or papyrus, rolled and tied, then set into cubbyholes for storage. The printed book is even a mutation from the original older hand-lettered works available only to the rich or to the Church in Europe. When the printing press went into action, there were those who mourned the end of the era of the hand-lettered work of art.

I hope we are not living in an era that will witness the demise of the printed book. Although I use a computer constantly, I do not like to read long works of fiction on the screen. A book has a tactile magic to it. It is a private world, hidden behind the 'gates' of its covers. Open the cover and you enter into another universe, the limit to which is set by the power of your own imagination and the ability of the writer.

I have been reading Bernard Cornwell lately. He is most famous perhaps for the 'Sharpe' series about an Irish soldier during the Napoleonic wars, a series that was translated to cinema. I have watched the films but have not read the actual books yet, mainly because my sympathies tend to be, rather treacherously, with the other side in the conflict. I had no problems with his Anglo-Saxon series, however, and enjoyed it immensely.

The internet is an incredible boon to serious readers, actually, as one has the world at ones fingertips when it comes to a search for a hardcover book at a good price. When I lived in Manhattan, I haunted the 'Strand', an enormous bookshop that sold remainders and other hardcover books at reduced rates. The 'Strand', however, is nothing compared to the internet. I was able to find a copy of Bernard Cornwell's 'Agincourt' absolutely untouched for less than a quarter of its listed price.

A new book can have a magic of its own, when the book is made well using superior paper and binding. When I opened 'Agincourt', I was overcome by the scent of the paper, sending me back to my happiest days in childhood, when my favourite Christmas or Birthday gifts always were books. The edges of the pages are deckled, which further assists the tactile enjoyment.

Oddly enough, one of my most magical memories involves a set of books I did not even own. When I was a child, I accompanied my mother to the local university library where I found a complete set of the hardcover works of Alexandre Dumas. Dumas set himself the enormous task of constructing the history of France from its inception in the form of novels. He had a 'factory' of writers to assist him, actually, but his accomplishment remains extraordinary. There are more than one hundred novels in the series. I was able to read all of them, book by book.

The series was leatherbound, I believe, and printed on superior paper. What made this experience truly legendary for me was the fact that at least two-thirds of the books had uncut pages. I had to find a penknife to cut each page before I could read it! I felt like an explorer in a virgin forest.

I am not a time-traveler. I was not born in an era of printed books with uncut pages. The edition I read had to be almost contemporary with the writer himself. It probably was the first English edition of many of the novels.

In any case, reading 'Agincourt' by Bernard Cornwell transported me back to childhood, when I viewed a new book with almost as much excitement as a plane ticket to another country.

Here it is necessary to comment upon the shoddy quality of many contemporary printed books, even books that are printed in hardcover editions. The paper and bindings often are cheap, although the price usually is the same as it would be for a superior edition. That is where Harper Collins should be applauded for maintaining the highest of standards for so many of its editions, from 'Agincourt' to the 'Warrior' series by Erin Hunter. Both may become classics one day and the owners of these editions should be able to enjoy them as much in a decade or three as they do now, unlike so many contemporary hardcover books of equal price.

I think it is wonderful that so many classics have been uploaded to the internet but I should hate to think that the printed book will become obsolete.