In seeking criteria by which to judge the quality of literary work, that of inspiring homage or being repeatedly adapted or reworked seems to be a robust choice. Thomas More's Utopia must be one of the most enduring and popular of such templates, having generated not only countless refashionings but entire genres, sub-genres and a political philosophy. Animal Farm has similarly wound itself snugly around the cultural cortex, and has completed the related challenge of bequeathing phrases and ideas to everyday use. Under the enduringly interesting Dedalus banner, Nicholas Bradbury has bravely donned his literary wellies and revisited Orwell's anthropomorphic bucolic institution.
Market Farm revisits and updates this extraordinary fable and (without straying far from the original style and schema) develops the story with sufficiently clever and well-crafted material to make this a highly readable, topical and - as we very belatedly interrogate the nature and effect of financial global systems - important novel. The major addition in terms of the cast list is a group of sly, manipulative foxes, who introduce representative systems of value into the farm community, beginning with 'money' based on the value of stored physical objects, graduating to a system of ious and eventually weaving a complex web of trade in mortgages, rent and debts which, when it inevitably implodes, threatens a descent into chaos and disaster. In other words, what we have here is derivatives, rather than derivative, writing, and jolly good and necessary it is, too. In fact, the book could serve a secondary function as a primer to the financial world for the less enlightened, among whose number I certainly counted myself, although, thanks to Mr. Bradbury, I now feel somewhat less qualified for membership.
Many of the details with which Bradbury decorates his project are ingenious and delightful; there is a dark hint of chicken prostitution as that species is persuaded into battery-servitude and penury by the foxes' propaganda, the evocation of dogmatic faith in 'the market' as a mystical devotion to 'The Snout', (the manifestations of which only the priest-like foxes are capable of deciphering), and a brilliant representation of the vacuity of much Twitter communication as tiny pieces of information passed on by sparrows, a 'service' to which many animals rapidly become addicted. I believe this is an example of what one of my particularly inspiring lectures at university called 'literalizing the metaphor'. Bradbury also turns a fine phrase, as in this description of one layer of symbolic value, the 'dominos':
The swirling of the dominos, they were told, was the closest that could be achieved to making visible the mystery of the Invisible Snout.
and he handles his narrative engine well, building to a moving climax regarding the fate of 'The Freedom Tree'.
One can, of course, always quibble with this sort of broad satirical allegorizing; there is the disturbing implication, for example, that the masses (that's us) are all too easily hoodwinked and distracted by tawdry entertainments (beautifully presented here in the guise of puppet shows) from lunatic sleight-of-hand financial manoeuvrings. This may, of course, be countered by the defence of being true, if regrettable, but I can see no excuse for the poor cover which, should the book go into well-deserved further runs around the paddock, could be significantly improved. Perhaps the foxes could help.
Dedalus is one of our most innovative and worthy publishers. Both qualities are borne witness to in first translations of excellent foreign literature (New Finnish Grammar being a conspicuous recent example); a continuous string of novels mapping the more bizarre territories of human experience and thought (Memoirs of a Gnostic Dwarf springs to mind, a rare case of a work being as superbly-written as it is eccentrically-titled) and a range of anthologies that are imaginatively and carefully curated.
In this last category, The Decadent Sportsman, kindly provided by the publisher for review, recently insinuated its way through our letterbox, to lie in a louche and seductive manner in the hall; no mean feat to accomplish through a layer of cardboard packaging.
Each book in the Decadent series, of which this is the fourth, is presented by the fictional duo of Durian Gray and Medlar Lucan. Our hosts are disciples of modern decadence, a religion the central purpose of which is 'transforming one's life - however sordid....into a work of art'. The relevant presiding deity is the Marquis de Sade; the prophets include D.H. Lawrence and Oscar Wilde, and the required rituals count among their number bizarre and painful sexual activity, the elaborate abuse of intoxicants in all forms and being impeccably dressed at all times. Around each theme, the editors weave a triple-stranded tapestry of sumptuous and outrageous material, these strands being: their own beautifully-jaded observations on life in general and on their own eventful existences; a series of relevant and often bizarre lists, facts and other information from the real world and choice, often lengthy extracts from various genres of literature which can delight and surprise even the most experienced reader's palate.
Allow me to give respective examples from the current publication. One of the earliest and best editorial contributions is a Position Paper to the IOC on 'the Inclusion of Sexual Athletics (Fornicastics) as Recognised Sports in Future Olympic Games'. Typically, this idea is developed at length and in wonderful detail, including a systematic definition of nomenclature ('Individual fornicastics (formerly termed masturbatics')) and calibration of scoring. Among the strange factual nests that are plundered are two lists which attempt to categorise different types and levels of pain, and the life and exploits of Algernon Charles Swinburne, while the quotations include William Hazlitt's extraordinary description of a prizefight. This is only to scratch (or lightly flay, as Gray and Lucan would prefer) the surface of the book, among whose other highlights there are a fascinating discourse on gladiatorial combat, some caustic observations on the failings of modern sport and the observation that 'sleeping with a jockey is like a night on a pebble beach'
As are its counterparts, Sportsman is framed by the device of Gray and Lucan having washed up in a particular locale, (this is usually because they are fleeing the attentions of debt-collectors and the law agencies). On this occasion, we find them in a crumbling Cuban town house which also hosts a boxing gym, and it is from their growing fascination with particular aspects of pugilism - 'there is no more beautiful sight than that of a polychromatic bruise or a bead of blood against dark skin' - that they launch upon their own extraordinary exploration of sport and sportspeople.
This is certainly a book for broad-minded sports enthusiasts, lovers of the curious and the bizarre in life, art and history, and anyone who thinks that best-selling novels about modest sadomasochism define the edge of literary risk-taking.
Tune in again on Friday for the next post in the new, exciting thrice-weekly format.
