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Toronto Trilogy #2
The Cunning Man
When Father Hobbs mysteriously dies at the high altar on Good Friday, Dr Jonathan Hullah - whose holistic work has earned him the label "Cunning Man' (for the wizard of folk tradition) - wants to know why. The physician-cum-diagnostician's search for answers compels him to look back over his own long life. He conjures vivid memories of the dazzling intellectual high jinks and compassionate philosophies of himself and his circle, including flamboyant, mystical curate Charlie Iredale; cynical, quixotic professor Brocky Gilmartin; outrageous banker Darcy Dwyer; and jocular, muscular artist Pansy Todhunter. In compelling and hilarious scenes from the divine comedy of life, The Cunning Man reveals profound truths about being human.
469 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1994
91 people are currently reading
1832 people want to read
About the author
Robertson Davies
111 books923 followersWilliam Robertson Davies, CC, FRSC, FRSL (died in Orangeville, Ontario) was a Canadian novelist, playwright, critic, journalist, and professor. He was one of Canada's best-known and most popular authors, and one of its most distinguished "men of letters", a term Davies is sometimes said to have detested. Davies was the founding Master of Massey College, a graduate college at the University of Toronto.
Novels:
The Salterton Trilogy
• Tempest-tost (1951)
• Leaven of Malice (1954)
• A Mixture of Frailties (1958)
The Deptford Trilogy
• Fifth Business (1970)
• The Manticore (1972)
• World of Wonders (1975)
The Cornish Trilogy
• The Rebel Angels (1981)
• What's Bred in the Bone (1985)
• The Lyre of Orpheus (1988)
The Toronto Trilogy (Davies' final, incomplete, trilogy)
• Murther and Walking Spirits (1991)
• The Cunning Man (1994)
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robertso...
Novels:
The Salterton Trilogy
• Tempest-tost (1951)
• Leaven of Malice (1954)
• A Mixture of Frailties (1958)
The Deptford Trilogy
• Fifth Business (1970)
• The Manticore (1972)
• World of Wonders (1975)
The Cornish Trilogy
• The Rebel Angels (1981)
• What's Bred in the Bone (1985)
• The Lyre of Orpheus (1988)
The Toronto Trilogy (Davies' final, incomplete, trilogy)
• Murther and Walking Spirits (1991)
• The Cunning Man (1994)
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robertso...
Ratings & Reviews
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 206 reviews
July 18, 2009
I’ve been an avid, even proselytic fan of Robertson Davies for more than 20 years, and was delighted to discover that this novel (his last) had somehow slipped by me and that there was still more Davies to read. Sadly, The Cunning Man is a let-down—a book that demonstrates, more than anything, an act of literary onomatopoeia: a novel about an elderly man contemplating a life’s worth of memories and trying to position himself philosophically and existentially as he nears the end of his own story, written by an elderly writer contemplating a life’s worth of memories and trying to position himself etc. The book opens with typical Davies dash, a hook that nonetheless begins to falter after less than 50 pages and which ultimately fizzles out like a Fourth of July sparkler. There’s another flash at the very end of the book; in between, there’s a long and only intermittently interesting series of anecdotes about characters you never get to know well and who are essentially collections of idiosyncrasies and peculiarities upon which the narrator can comment and, against which, measure himself. Framing an entire novel as a prolonged flashback (spurred in this case by the unwieldy device of a newspaper interview) has its hazards, not the least of which is that the reader essentially knows, going in, that all the characters he’s about to meet are dead, disposed of, or immaterial before the narrator even gets warmed up. Like all prolonged reminiscences, that is, the story tends to evoke more passion in the storyteller than in the audience. Here and there, too, Davies allows his protagonist (himself, it seems clear) to wax on to the point of rivaling Polonius: reflections, opinions about life and love, advice, great wisdom (over) generously shared. The Cunning Man thus becomes, sadly, more tedious than not, an unsatisfying coda to the life of great and resourceful writer.
July 29, 2016
I'd read a number of Robertson Davies' novels before this one, but The Cunning Man is by far my favorite - a magical feat of storytelling told by a narrator who is looking back on a fully lived life.
Mr. Davies provides his own review of his novel with the last paragraphs of the book:
"The telephone rings. My intuition suggests a wrong number. Not that great intuition is needed; a nearby new cinema has been granted a number that is only one digit away from mine, and wrong numbers are common. This is one.
'Can you tell me the time of the last complete show?'
'You have the wrong number.'
'Eh? Isn't that the Odeon?'
I decide to give a Burtonian answer.
'No, this is the great theatre of life. Admission is free but the taxation is mortal. You come when you can. and leave when you must. The show is continuous. Good-night.'"
Mr. Davies provides his own review of his novel with the last paragraphs of the book:
"The telephone rings. My intuition suggests a wrong number. Not that great intuition is needed; a nearby new cinema has been granted a number that is only one digit away from mine, and wrong numbers are common. This is one.
'Can you tell me the time of the last complete show?'
'You have the wrong number.'
'Eh? Isn't that the Odeon?'
I decide to give a Burtonian answer.
'No, this is the great theatre of life. Admission is free but the taxation is mortal. You come when you can. and leave when you must. The show is continuous. Good-night.'"
July 19, 2019
"A monstrosity of pomposity," "a vainglorious volume of verbiage," "a niggling novel of nugacity." If I were a character in this book, that would be my assessment. Yes, this book is chock-full of great words, but perhaps a lesson from E.B. White is called for here: "Don't be tempted by a twenty-dollar word when a ten-center is handy." While I love a book that requires me to read with a dictionary, this one had me several times saying "The Heck You Mean?" For example, the word "Laodicean"....had me reaching for my dictionary yet again, getting a bit cranky... and "Darn-it....its a great word, means exactly and only what he needed it to (indifference to religion or politics) and why did I not already know that? Well, I do now thanks to Mr. Davies.
I had a like-love-hate relationship with this book, with my rating traveling between 2-4 stars. It gets four stars for his fabulous ending when our main character (the quirky doctor Jon Hullah who fancies himself a "cunning man" in his self-appreciated ability to diagnose people in a way that others cannot) evaluates his life (the book really is his life story) and wonders if it was all "loss and downhill journey." As he is pondering this, he receives a wrong-call from someone who thought they had dialed up the theater. He ends his book with his answer: "No, this is the Great Theater of Life. Admission is free but taxation is mortal. You come when you can, and leave when you must. The show is continuous. Good night." This is even more poignant considering this was Davies' last book and he died the year after it was published. What a great last line!
The book is full of philosophical discussions amongst the characters (and they are a colorful lot!) which gives us food for thought on the topics of religion, sin, morality, and what makes people do what they do. I was at times absolutely repulsed and disgusted by the words this man wrote, but there were many more parts that were thought-provoking and down-right funny. The book begins with a well-loved priest falling over dead during communion on Good Friday. The story then provides us with a much closer look at this particular parish. At one point, the archbishop feels the need to come and straighten things out and during his admonition, each and every person is getting quite put-off and irritated (one lady when recounting this lecture to a friend ends with "So up yours Archbishop" ) In any case, the only person who appeared happy during the archbishop's speech was the beloved Father Hobbes himself - who was happily nodding away and "probably thinking of something else." This may not seem funny to many, but to me it spoke volumes about the irony of church hierarchy. (Those at the bottom are likely far more pious than those at the top!)
I have so much more to say, but I am told my reviews are rather wordy. I have to get this in though - a great quote in this book is found when our Dr. Hullah is describing the art of deconstructing a book ("a new way of looking at books that comes from France" he says). There is no meaning in the actual text of the book, but only in the "virtual text" that comes from the readers in their search for meaning. (he then tells his associate that it is not really for her and other ordinary readers, it is only for the elite - the ordinary reader is irrelevant he says.) "It isn't what the book says, its what you say about what the book says that's important"
It is little jewels like this that gave me the most enjoyment from this book.
I had a like-love-hate relationship with this book, with my rating traveling between 2-4 stars. It gets four stars for his fabulous ending when our main character (the quirky doctor Jon Hullah who fancies himself a "cunning man" in his self-appreciated ability to diagnose people in a way that others cannot) evaluates his life (the book really is his life story) and wonders if it was all "loss and downhill journey." As he is pondering this, he receives a wrong-call from someone who thought they had dialed up the theater. He ends his book with his answer: "No, this is the Great Theater of Life. Admission is free but taxation is mortal. You come when you can, and leave when you must. The show is continuous. Good night." This is even more poignant considering this was Davies' last book and he died the year after it was published. What a great last line!
The book is full of philosophical discussions amongst the characters (and they are a colorful lot!) which gives us food for thought on the topics of religion, sin, morality, and what makes people do what they do. I was at times absolutely repulsed and disgusted by the words this man wrote, but there were many more parts that were thought-provoking and down-right funny. The book begins with a well-loved priest falling over dead during communion on Good Friday. The story then provides us with a much closer look at this particular parish. At one point, the archbishop feels the need to come and straighten things out and during his admonition, each and every person is getting quite put-off and irritated (one lady when recounting this lecture to a friend ends with "So up yours Archbishop" ) In any case, the only person who appeared happy during the archbishop's speech was the beloved Father Hobbes himself - who was happily nodding away and "probably thinking of something else." This may not seem funny to many, but to me it spoke volumes about the irony of church hierarchy. (Those at the bottom are likely far more pious than those at the top!)
I have so much more to say, but I am told my reviews are rather wordy. I have to get this in though - a great quote in this book is found when our Dr. Hullah is describing the art of deconstructing a book ("a new way of looking at books that comes from France" he says). There is no meaning in the actual text of the book, but only in the "virtual text" that comes from the readers in their search for meaning. (he then tells his associate that it is not really for her and other ordinary readers, it is only for the elite - the ordinary reader is irrelevant he says.) "It isn't what the book says, its what you say about what the book says that's important"
It is little jewels like this that gave me the most enjoyment from this book.
October 31, 2012
The "Cunning Man" is the narrator of this novel, physician Jon Hullah. The title comes from the idea of every village having either a Wise Woman or a Cunning Man--someone with insights into the nature of things who sometimes brings healing or at least perspective.
The book spans the seventy years of Hullah's life from his own encounter with a Wise Woman following his miraculous recovery from scarlet feaver to the autumn of his life as a medical practitioner caring for his long-time friend Charlie Iredale, former vicar of St. Aidan's, the parish church near his clinic and the scene of the dramatic, and suspicious death of Father Ninian Hobbes during the Good Friday Eucharist.
As Hullah narrates his life, sparked by his godson's wife's Esme, who interviews him for a newspaper piece, he recalls his school days, his friendships with Charlie and Brocky, his developing sense of the healer's art, his observations (and via correspondence theirs of him) of his lesbian neighbors. What results is a narrative on the human condition shaped by the idea of Fate, perhaps the closest someone who never quite believed could get to the sense that our lives are shaped by the mixture of our choices and that which is beyond us in some mysterious way.
The book spans the seventy years of Hullah's life from his own encounter with a Wise Woman following his miraculous recovery from scarlet feaver to the autumn of his life as a medical practitioner caring for his long-time friend Charlie Iredale, former vicar of St. Aidan's, the parish church near his clinic and the scene of the dramatic, and suspicious death of Father Ninian Hobbes during the Good Friday Eucharist.
As Hullah narrates his life, sparked by his godson's wife's Esme, who interviews him for a newspaper piece, he recalls his school days, his friendships with Charlie and Brocky, his developing sense of the healer's art, his observations (and via correspondence theirs of him) of his lesbian neighbors. What results is a narrative on the human condition shaped by the idea of Fate, perhaps the closest someone who never quite believed could get to the sense that our lives are shaped by the mixture of our choices and that which is beyond us in some mysterious way.
September 25, 2019
4.5. Not quite a 5 but close. Love Robertson Davies. May write a longer review later.
December 30, 2011
"Should I have taken the false teeth?"
Not a bad opening sentence for a novel in which all the action is precipitated by the death at the altar on Good Friday of a beloved priest in Toronto's high church Anglican parish of St Aidan's. The narrator, the cunning man of the title, Dr Hullah, has been a police surgeon and he has his suspicions about the sudden death of the old man. But his friend from childhood, Father Charlie Iredale, won't let him beyond the communion rail and the doctor does nothing about it.
The book is a sort of diary, which Dr Hullah calls a case book, in which he reminisces about his youth at school with Father Iredale and Brocky Gilmartin, the man who married the woman Hullah loved. Many other characters weave in and out of the story, including Darcy Dwyer and DeCourcey Parry, the musical director and organist who provide the excuisite music for St Aidan's services, "the ladies," an etcher and a sculptor in whose yard next to the church the doctor has his clinic, and a hypochondriacal patient whose miraculous cure at the grave of Father Hobbes puts in motion unstoppable eddies that affect all of the church and art community.
2011 No 171
Not a bad opening sentence for a novel in which all the action is precipitated by the death at the altar on Good Friday of a beloved priest in Toronto's high church Anglican parish of St Aidan's. The narrator, the cunning man of the title, Dr Hullah, has been a police surgeon and he has his suspicions about the sudden death of the old man. But his friend from childhood, Father Charlie Iredale, won't let him beyond the communion rail and the doctor does nothing about it.
The book is a sort of diary, which Dr Hullah calls a case book, in which he reminisces about his youth at school with Father Iredale and Brocky Gilmartin, the man who married the woman Hullah loved. Many other characters weave in and out of the story, including Darcy Dwyer and DeCourcey Parry, the musical director and organist who provide the excuisite music for St Aidan's services, "the ladies," an etcher and a sculptor in whose yard next to the church the doctor has his clinic, and a hypochondriacal patient whose miraculous cure at the grave of Father Hobbes puts in motion unstoppable eddies that affect all of the church and art community.
2011 No 171
September 6, 2013
I think I 'really liked' this book more at the beginning. The last quarter is more in the 'like' category. But Davies is still an interesting and engaging read. In discussion with a fellow Davies-enjoyer, the idea of why people enjoy him so much was discussed. It was argued that his writing was always a reflection of something he enjoyed himself; books written for the love of the process and the ideas within them which is transparent to the reader and is what makes his books so enjoyable. We do well to express our joy with others in the gifts we are given and out of those expressions joy is spread. But, and here's the big but, that argument comes with the exclusion of this, Davies' last book published before his death. It has a different tone, one of writing not for himself, but for his reader; a good bye; a leaving of something personal to fans.
A couple of quotes which ring a truth in this with me:
"I tried to find out what irony really is, and discovered that some ancient writer on poetry had spoken of 'Ironia, which we call the drye mock,' and I cannot think of a better term for it: the drye mock. Not sarcasm which is like vinegar, or cynicism, which is so often the voice of disappointed idealism, but a delicate casting of a cool and illuminating light on life, and thus an enlargement. The ironist is not bitter, he does not seek to undercut everthing that seems worthy or serious, he scorns the cheap scoring-off of the wisecracker. He stands, so to speak, somewhat at one side, observes and speaks with a moderation which is occasionally embellished with a flash of controlled exaggeration. He speaks from a certain depth, and thus he is not of the same nature as the wit, who so often speaks from the tongue and no deeper. The wit's desire is to be funny; the ironist is only funny as a secondary achievement."
"...it is only now that my experience strikes home, and I understand that the love in literature and the love in life are one, and that the intelligent reader must bring his own experience to supplement the experience of the novel he holds in his hand. Romance, a true devotion, and simple bodily lust are all part of the same plum pudding, and there is so much more to the pudding than the delicious savour that arises from it. The proof of the pudding is in the eating, and it is only when we have eaten several mouthfuls that we begin to understand. If a book cannot stand up to this test, how good is it?"
And especially his closing paragraph (SPOILER ALERT):
"No, this is the Great Theatre of Life. Admission is free but the taxation is mortal. you come when you can, and leave when you must. The show is continuous. Good-night."
Thank you Mr.Davies for sharing of yourself with us.
A couple of quotes which ring a truth in this with me:
"I tried to find out what irony really is, and discovered that some ancient writer on poetry had spoken of 'Ironia, which we call the drye mock,' and I cannot think of a better term for it: the drye mock. Not sarcasm which is like vinegar, or cynicism, which is so often the voice of disappointed idealism, but a delicate casting of a cool and illuminating light on life, and thus an enlargement. The ironist is not bitter, he does not seek to undercut everthing that seems worthy or serious, he scorns the cheap scoring-off of the wisecracker. He stands, so to speak, somewhat at one side, observes and speaks with a moderation which is occasionally embellished with a flash of controlled exaggeration. He speaks from a certain depth, and thus he is not of the same nature as the wit, who so often speaks from the tongue and no deeper. The wit's desire is to be funny; the ironist is only funny as a secondary achievement."
"...it is only now that my experience strikes home, and I understand that the love in literature and the love in life are one, and that the intelligent reader must bring his own experience to supplement the experience of the novel he holds in his hand. Romance, a true devotion, and simple bodily lust are all part of the same plum pudding, and there is so much more to the pudding than the delicious savour that arises from it. The proof of the pudding is in the eating, and it is only when we have eaten several mouthfuls that we begin to understand. If a book cannot stand up to this test, how good is it?"
And especially his closing paragraph (SPOILER ALERT):
"No, this is the Great Theatre of Life. Admission is free but the taxation is mortal. you come when you can, and leave when you must. The show is continuous. Good-night."
Thank you Mr.Davies for sharing of yourself with us.
January 7, 2016
"the cunning man" – роман-нотатки, роман-підсумок, записаний титульним персонажем не те щоб зовсім наприкінці життя, але на тому його етапі, коли позаду залишилося значно більше часу й подій, аніж чекає попереду. тон цих нотаток спокійний, іноді навіть смиренний, бо їхній автор уже добре знає невідворотність утрат, неминучість розбитих ілюзій і неспроможність добратися до суті всіх речей. утім, у суть речей він, лікар-парацельсіанець, переконаний у тому, що тіло й душа нерозривно пов'язані, тож і лікувати їх необхідно вкупі, часом таки проникає глибше за інших (хоча не обов'язково швидше, ніж читачі).
для робертсона девіса цей текст, опублікований з�� рік до смерті, теж, мабуть, був підсумковим. тому тут відлунює чимало з того, про що девіс писав раніше: від салтертонської трилогії (яка на мене ще тільки чекає) – щонайменше локація, рідне місто двох персонажів; від корнішської – іронічна теологія, не зовсім канонічний погляд на любов і шлюб, замальовки з мистецьких життів і ліричні лесбійські стосунки; від дептфордської – чудесний данстан ремзі, відчуття себе п'ятим персонажем та роздуми про святість. тому читання роману справді нагадує повернення додому, де все начебто знайоме, але якщо придивитися, то не зовсім таке, як ти його останнього разу лишила.
велика інвентаризація, яку влаштовує девіс, відбивається не лише в тематиці: на стилістичному рівні цей роман значно різноманітніший (або ж, якщо захотіти подивитися з іншого ракурсу, менш цілісний), ніж попередні тексти. з одного боку, завдяки цьому виникає враження автентичного щоденника, куди автор тягне все, що йому в цей конкретний момент здається важливим: записки про насущне, спогади про минуле, вклейки з листів, філософські відступи, нотатки для амбітного проекту з медичної історії літератури, який я, мабуть, із задоволенням прочитала б. з іншого, так вдається оголити чимало літературних прийомів: мовляв, дивися, читачу, мені вже нічого від тебе приховувати. проте робертсон девіс, як і титульний персонаж роману, – той іще cunning man, і хто зна, що він маскує цією позірною прозорістю.
для робертсона девіса цей текст, опублікований з�� рік до смерті, теж, мабуть, був підсумковим. тому тут відлунює чимало з того, про що девіс писав раніше: від салтертонської трилогії (яка на мене ще тільки чекає) – щонайменше локація, рідне місто двох персонажів; від корнішської – іронічна теологія, не зовсім канонічний погляд на любов і шлюб, замальовки з мистецьких життів і ліричні лесбійські стосунки; від дептфордської – чудесний данстан ремзі, відчуття себе п'ятим персонажем та роздуми про святість. тому читання роману справді нагадує повернення додому, де все начебто знайоме, але якщо придивитися, то не зовсім таке, як ти його останнього разу лишила.
велика інвентаризація, яку влаштовує девіс, відбивається не лише в тематиці: на стилістичному рівні цей роман значно різноманітніший (або ж, якщо захотіти подивитися з іншого ракурсу, менш цілісний), ніж попередні тексти. з одного боку, завдяки цьому виникає враження автентичного щоденника, куди автор тягне все, що йому в цей конкретний момент здається важливим: записки про насущне, спогади про минуле, вклейки з листів, філософські відступи, нотатки для амбітного проекту з медичної історії літератури, який я, мабуть, із задоволенням прочитала б. з іншого, так вдається оголити чимало літературних прийомів: мовляв, дивися, читачу, мені вже нічого від тебе приховувати. проте робертсон девіс, як і титульний персонаж роману, – той іще cunning man, і хто зна, що він маскує цією позірною прозорістю.
December 21, 2012
This was my first foray into Robertson Davies, and I chose his final book to begin with. From the first few pages I was hooked, a mysterious death at the altar rail of an eccentric high church Anglican priest witnessed by a motley ensemble of characters the reader gets to know over the next 470 pages. What's not to love? However, the book loses steam half way through albeit not in an unreadable way. There are lots of amazing observations and highly quotable turns of phrase, but there is also a bit of a lack of heart. I never fell in love with the narrator, although I found him extremely witty and charming. Likewise, I found most of the characters just a touch from being adequately developed, (which with 470 pages is a bit of a shock.) For instance, the narrator's childhood friend is described near the end of the book as the most incredible man he has ever known, yet I would guess that most readers would be baffled as to why. Overall, the book was thoroughly enjoyable, the first half being almost a sort of cross between Evelyn Waugh and Wallace Stegner, but I finished, feeling like my soda had gone flat. The narrator's voice is also very WASPy (which can be very good or not) and while he was supposed to be an unconventional but highly successful medical doctor, all I could hear was the aged voice of a once precocious English major. This review sounds a little too harsh to me, but if it means anything, I've picked up his next to last novel, Murther and Walking Spirits, and am excited to jump into it. His style and subject matter make up for whatever technical (and maybe emotional) failings there were in this novel.
June 14, 2012
Robertson Davies is one of my favorite authors because he writes intelligent, kind novels that navigate the weird and wonderful world of human life with a precision that is often sharp but never cruel. The Cunning Man continues in this tradition, and for 400 pages does a wonderful job of melding the grounded with the fantastic. And the language! Mr Davies almost haphazardly throws in elegant phrases that lesser writers would labor towards, setting them in places of pride among the many duller words, a care Mr Davies does not need as the entirety of his prose gleams. The voice of the narrative is so convincing that you forget you're reading a work of fiction. The Cunning Man comes across as the autobiography of someone you'd really like to know even better.
The only problem I had with the book, and a fairly major one, is that the ending is so terribly abrupt. I had so many questions, especially, about Esme. I discovered later that The Cunning Man was meant to be the second book in a projected Toronto Trilogy, which explained the abruptness somewhat. Mr Davies' death before the completion of the trilogy is a great loss to the world of letters.
The only problem I had with the book, and a fairly major one, is that the ending is so terribly abrupt. I had so many questions, especially, about Esme. I discovered later that The Cunning Man was meant to be the second book in a projected Toronto Trilogy, which explained the abruptness somewhat. Mr Davies' death before the completion of the trilogy is a great loss to the world of letters.
August 16, 2012
I started this book for my book club, which members had highly recommended it, knowing that it was a mystery. In the very beginning there is a death and hints that it will be investigated but this is never addressed again until the very end of the book. The middle of the book is a look back at the lives of the main character and some of its friends.
While the book was enjoyable it is a very slow reading book. I believe it was written int the late 40's early 50's and the writing style reflects that. There are many funny instances but also many references to books, authors and current events of the time (it takes place in Canada) that were lost to me. The author does touch many modern themes, religion, homosexuality, birth control and sex in general in a frank manner that was refreshing especially for a book written that many years ago.
If you want to read it I would not discourage you, it was very enjoyable but it is a book that makes you slow down, so plan on plenty of time to finish it.
While the book was enjoyable it is a very slow reading book. I believe it was written int the late 40's early 50's and the writing style reflects that. There are many funny instances but also many references to books, authors and current events of the time (it takes place in Canada) that were lost to me. The author does touch many modern themes, religion, homosexuality, birth control and sex in general in a frank manner that was refreshing especially for a book written that many years ago.
If you want to read it I would not discourage you, it was very enjoyable but it is a book that makes you slow down, so plan on plenty of time to finish it.
March 1, 2022
Well, it's been ages since Robertson Davies and I sat down in a chair together! I wonder if they still read Fifth Business in schools, since it's been 700 years since I was there. Probably not. Old white guy so, fair enough. Very much an old white guy, in several ways, but a surprising one for all that. I was ensorcelled from the get-go with The Cunning Man, his last book, but one still stuffed to the gunnels with his erudition, his wit, his splendid characters, his strange fondness for lesbians, his high brow/low brow concatenation of ideas, often in the same paragraph. Testicles and Paracelsus! Shit - the fecal matter variety - and entire passages of Yeats hot on shit's trail! Liturgy and wet dreams! Splendid stuff. Loved every minute of its not insignificant length, and woe to all of us that Davies didn't finish this, his Toronto trilogy. But he left three other trilogies behind (and what, one wonders, was his fascination with trilogies? Just a crackerjack mind and loads left to write, I suspect), so excellent. I'm hepped up to tackle them all.
October 6, 2007
Hilarious memoir of a very unorthodox doctor, Dr Hullah, a cunning man since he successfully treats those patients whose cases baffle his colleagues. A holistic healer of sorts, Dr Hullah will share more than his medical MO; we will get acquainted with his family, a highly colorful cast of characters.
March 22, 2009
This isn't a BAD book. It's well written. The characters are interesting enough, I suppose. But I got to page 284 and decided I didn't feel like going on. Some other reviews I've come across say it's just not one of his best. From the little else I've read of Davies, I agree. It's missing something at the center, a narrative momentum, maybe.
aborted
January 2, 2014I gave this almost 100 pages and couldn't get into it. If it had been a 300 page book I might have soldiered on, but it's 469. I am donating it to the book drive for our local Society for the Degradation of Orphans.
October 14, 2015
"...the most strenuous efforts of the most committed educationalists in the years since my boyhood have been unable to make a school into anything but a school, which is to say a jail with educational opportunities." (p.14)
"I was a lonely child, but I liked loneliness and I like it still. Despite my mother I was a woods child, and what the woods taught me is still at the heart of my life." (p.18)
"I fell in love with beautiful books, and now, as an old man, I have a harem which is by no means trivial." (p.65)
"...belief posits adherance to a creed, and a creed posits belief in a God, a Prime Mover, a Creator, and an Imminent Presence. And that won't wash...it's pretty widely accepted now among the advanced people- the molecular biologists, you know- that the recent investigations into basic organic stuff show clearly that all forms of life come into being by pure chance, through unpredictable mutation, and because of necessity probably rooted in Darwinian selection. And that makes it quite out of the question to posit any Master Plan, or Planner, or scheme of Creation. Simply won't wash." (p.67/68)
"'Belief where there is unquestionable proof would be possible only to someone who had final knowledge of all things. Someone with God's view of history. We have to put up with the knowledge that's open to us during our lifetimes. We can't have knowledge of future things; we only have a scrappy knowledge of past things. You know what the sailor said when he was told that King Solomon was the wisest man the world had ever known, or would ever know?'
'Can't say I do.'
The sailor said, 'If I had Solomon aboard my ship he wouldn't know a jib-boom from a poop lantern.'" (p.68)
"I knew that he prayed a great deal, of course for help in his examinations. But subsequent clinical experience has convinced me that God is not particularly interested in examinations, just as he won;t be dragged into the stock Market, or being a backer in show business." (p.76)
"Their very silences were rhetorical." (p.88)
"To learn to see what is right in front of one's nose; that is the task and a heavy task it is. It demands a certain stillness of spirit, which is not the same thing as dimness of personality, and need not be partnered with a retiring, bland social life." (p.129)
"I cannot think of a better term for it: the drye mock. Not sarcasm, which is like vinegar, or cynicism, which is so often the voice of disappointed idealism, but a delicate casting of a cool and illuminating light on life, and thus an enlargement. The ironist is not bitter, he does not seek to undercut everything that seems worthy or serious, he scorns the cheap scoring-off of the wisecracker." (p.136)
"The drye mock is not for all audiences: sometimes it falls flat." (p.167)
"Very few people can be cured by a doctor they do not like and I have even heard people say that they could not be cured by a man who was obviously stupider than themselves." (p.226)
"Treatment must be intensely personal, and if sometimes it strays into the realm of the mind, there the physician must follow it. But usually it is in that realm where mind and body mingle- where the mind affects the body and the body the mind, and where untangling the relationship is the Devil's own work,and takes time and appreciation and sympathy- that the hard-driven practicioner and his specialist brother cannot be expected to provide for every patient who knocks on his door." (p.227)
"I settle down in my living-room to read, to listen to music, but always beneath the surface occupation to think about my patients and my work, and I am wrapped in my own sort of happiness, when nothing hurts." (p.238)
"Ceremonial. When I was young I thought, like a real Canadian of the twentieth century, that anything that was too carefully ordered was not 'sincere,' and I accepted sincerity- meaning life stripped of beauty though not wholly of decency- as the greatest of values. Anything goes, so long as it is 'sincere,' however squalid, illiterate, and confused it may seem.
The war cured me of that. I saw the sincerity, the wholehearted acquiescence, of good men fighting for a cause they could not have summed up, for a country of which they knew very little, for 'values' they had never heard seriously questioned. I had seen that sincerity turned to bitterness in the men that had been brought low by 'friendly fire,' and who had nothing to cling to, nothing to show them that there might be something beyond the muddle of belief, or mere acquiescence, with which the best of them had gone to war. They knew no ceremonial that might light their way. Even the worldly splendour of monarchy and patriotism was denied them, because these things had been brought low by 'sincere' thinkers who saw through everything that was not on the flattest levels of mediocrity." (p.248)
"Any enlightenment must come from yourself. It's rooted in the Divine Reality that we find in our minds- mind in the largest definition and not just the calculator inside your head- that recognizes and reflects the Divine Reality in all things." (p.250)
"Old Burton would have described her illness as Maids', Nuns', and Widows' Melancholy, but that would not have been quite accurate. It was not sexual experience alone that she was missing, but something far broader. She exemplified, with clarity, the Revenge of the Unlived Life, the rejection of whatever possibilities had been open to her as a young woman, the abandonment of love or any strong emotion." (p.256)
"Vanity is where they all score high, as I suppose all artists must do. Without vanity how could they survive?" (p.264)
"In the world of art you never know who knows or has known who, and what is personal and what is derivative. That's part of the misery of the lesser artist. People think they copy, whereas they really just think the same way as somebody bigger, but not as effectively." (p.269)
"She says we must curtsy at first meeting. I say for an Englishwoman to curtsy to any Canadian, however highly placed, is against Nature and is indeed a kind of ceremonial sodomy and nothing will make me do it." (p. 276)
"One of the worst basic ills is anger, or resentment, or simple grievance; that one can assume shapes that would astound you. And they all speak through the body, not clearly or obviously, but with a determination that can shadow a life or end a life." (p.283)
"But that's Toronto for you- and Canada, because this country is still pretty much pioneer in its deepest feelings and thinks art is something the women amuse themselves with in the long winter evenings- you know, knitting, tatting, and barbola- while the men drink bootleg hooch in the barn." (p.302)
"Mankind must have something upon which to hang its great Dread, which is Everyman's Fatality." (p.306)
"There is a whole large class of society- called children- to whom mothers are not women, but inescapable appendages, sometimes dear, sometimes not, and never full human beings but supporting players in their own intense drama." (p.309)
"A little self-pity, I have always found, is very agreeable, so long as one keeps it to oneself. Who would pity me, if I didn't? An old man, and apparently without a friend in the world. I was cheered after a consultation with a patient who complained of constant and medically inexplicable indigestion. I did not tell him that I was certain he was married to the cause of his indigestion, but I took some comfort in the fact that I had at least escaped the wretchedness of a bad marriage, patiently endured." (p.346)
"More humanism and less science- that's what medicine needs. But humanism is hard work and a lot of science is just Tinkertoy." (p.356)
"The world had, without my being strongly aware of it, changed its attitude toward sex dramatically, though not, I think, deeply. Homosexuality had become, not the love that dares not speak its name, but the love that never knows when to shut up." (p.364)
"...much of the class system of European and American life right up until the present century, rested upon the distinction between those who dealt habitually with human detritus and those who did not." (p.371)
"That's what happened to music, and arts generally, in Toronto: respectability has descended in a fog of Arts Councils and Foundations and, although things are better on the whole, so far as performance goes, a lot of the elfin glamour of sin-and-improvisation has been dissipated." (p.377)
"The worst artistic tragedy is not to be a failure, but to fall short of the kind of success you have marked as your own." (p.381)
"His attitude seemed to be that of the nineteenth century, when nakedness was not utterly decried, but was cloaked in a terrible high-mindedness. Frequently quoted was a Mrs. Bishop, a celebrated traveller, who said, 'A woman may be naked, yet behave like a lady.' At the tea-table, one presumes. But it was a far, far better thing for the lady never, never to be naked." (p.395)
"Oh, the tyranny of invalids! How they dominate us happy mortals who are still on our feet, able to meet in some measure the demands of life, and who feel no pain- or not very much pain." (p.407)
"I have no faith that the treatment will heal whatever it was that gave rise to the disease. Nor am I such a fool to think that if I could find the root of the misery, the disease would disappear. The disease is the signal, that a life has become hard to bear." (p.408)
"I thought that the real heroism of death was seen in the one who stood by." (p.415)
"Every love affair is a private madness into which nobody else can hope to penetrate." (p.429)
"And here we are, in this excellent restaurant, drinking this very good claret and eating cutlets, and not looking like people with such a peculiar ancestry. That's the Divine Drama. The onward march of evolution. Astonishing, so far as it's gone, but we're probably only in act Two of a five-act tragicomedy. We are probably a mere waystation on the road to something finer than anything we can now conceive." (p.434)
"Was all this nothing to one who had always thought of himself as an intelligent observer of, if not a very active participator in, the life of his time? Decidedly not. Gain, every moment of it. But what remains for autumn and winter?" (p.436)
"...this is the Great Theatre of Life. Admission is free but the taxation is mortal. You come when you can, and leave when you must. The show is continuous. Good-night." (p.437)
"I was a lonely child, but I liked loneliness and I like it still. Despite my mother I was a woods child, and what the woods taught me is still at the heart of my life." (p.18)
"I fell in love with beautiful books, and now, as an old man, I have a harem which is by no means trivial." (p.65)
"...belief posits adherance to a creed, and a creed posits belief in a God, a Prime Mover, a Creator, and an Imminent Presence. And that won't wash...it's pretty widely accepted now among the advanced people- the molecular biologists, you know- that the recent investigations into basic organic stuff show clearly that all forms of life come into being by pure chance, through unpredictable mutation, and because of necessity probably rooted in Darwinian selection. And that makes it quite out of the question to posit any Master Plan, or Planner, or scheme of Creation. Simply won't wash." (p.67/68)
"'Belief where there is unquestionable proof would be possible only to someone who had final knowledge of all things. Someone with God's view of history. We have to put up with the knowledge that's open to us during our lifetimes. We can't have knowledge of future things; we only have a scrappy knowledge of past things. You know what the sailor said when he was told that King Solomon was the wisest man the world had ever known, or would ever know?'
'Can't say I do.'
The sailor said, 'If I had Solomon aboard my ship he wouldn't know a jib-boom from a poop lantern.'" (p.68)
"I knew that he prayed a great deal, of course for help in his examinations. But subsequent clinical experience has convinced me that God is not particularly interested in examinations, just as he won;t be dragged into the stock Market, or being a backer in show business." (p.76)
"Their very silences were rhetorical." (p.88)
"To learn to see what is right in front of one's nose; that is the task and a heavy task it is. It demands a certain stillness of spirit, which is not the same thing as dimness of personality, and need not be partnered with a retiring, bland social life." (p.129)
"I cannot think of a better term for it: the drye mock. Not sarcasm, which is like vinegar, or cynicism, which is so often the voice of disappointed idealism, but a delicate casting of a cool and illuminating light on life, and thus an enlargement. The ironist is not bitter, he does not seek to undercut everything that seems worthy or serious, he scorns the cheap scoring-off of the wisecracker." (p.136)
"The drye mock is not for all audiences: sometimes it falls flat." (p.167)
"Very few people can be cured by a doctor they do not like and I have even heard people say that they could not be cured by a man who was obviously stupider than themselves." (p.226)
"Treatment must be intensely personal, and if sometimes it strays into the realm of the mind, there the physician must follow it. But usually it is in that realm where mind and body mingle- where the mind affects the body and the body the mind, and where untangling the relationship is the Devil's own work,and takes time and appreciation and sympathy- that the hard-driven practicioner and his specialist brother cannot be expected to provide for every patient who knocks on his door." (p.227)
"I settle down in my living-room to read, to listen to music, but always beneath the surface occupation to think about my patients and my work, and I am wrapped in my own sort of happiness, when nothing hurts." (p.238)
"Ceremonial. When I was young I thought, like a real Canadian of the twentieth century, that anything that was too carefully ordered was not 'sincere,' and I accepted sincerity- meaning life stripped of beauty though not wholly of decency- as the greatest of values. Anything goes, so long as it is 'sincere,' however squalid, illiterate, and confused it may seem.
The war cured me of that. I saw the sincerity, the wholehearted acquiescence, of good men fighting for a cause they could not have summed up, for a country of which they knew very little, for 'values' they had never heard seriously questioned. I had seen that sincerity turned to bitterness in the men that had been brought low by 'friendly fire,' and who had nothing to cling to, nothing to show them that there might be something beyond the muddle of belief, or mere acquiescence, with which the best of them had gone to war. They knew no ceremonial that might light their way. Even the worldly splendour of monarchy and patriotism was denied them, because these things had been brought low by 'sincere' thinkers who saw through everything that was not on the flattest levels of mediocrity." (p.248)
"Any enlightenment must come from yourself. It's rooted in the Divine Reality that we find in our minds- mind in the largest definition and not just the calculator inside your head- that recognizes and reflects the Divine Reality in all things." (p.250)
"Old Burton would have described her illness as Maids', Nuns', and Widows' Melancholy, but that would not have been quite accurate. It was not sexual experience alone that she was missing, but something far broader. She exemplified, with clarity, the Revenge of the Unlived Life, the rejection of whatever possibilities had been open to her as a young woman, the abandonment of love or any strong emotion." (p.256)
"Vanity is where they all score high, as I suppose all artists must do. Without vanity how could they survive?" (p.264)
"In the world of art you never know who knows or has known who, and what is personal and what is derivative. That's part of the misery of the lesser artist. People think they copy, whereas they really just think the same way as somebody bigger, but not as effectively." (p.269)
"She says we must curtsy at first meeting. I say for an Englishwoman to curtsy to any Canadian, however highly placed, is against Nature and is indeed a kind of ceremonial sodomy and nothing will make me do it." (p. 276)
"One of the worst basic ills is anger, or resentment, or simple grievance; that one can assume shapes that would astound you. And they all speak through the body, not clearly or obviously, but with a determination that can shadow a life or end a life." (p.283)
"But that's Toronto for you- and Canada, because this country is still pretty much pioneer in its deepest feelings and thinks art is something the women amuse themselves with in the long winter evenings- you know, knitting, tatting, and barbola- while the men drink bootleg hooch in the barn." (p.302)
"Mankind must have something upon which to hang its great Dread, which is Everyman's Fatality." (p.306)
"There is a whole large class of society- called children- to whom mothers are not women, but inescapable appendages, sometimes dear, sometimes not, and never full human beings but supporting players in their own intense drama." (p.309)
"A little self-pity, I have always found, is very agreeable, so long as one keeps it to oneself. Who would pity me, if I didn't? An old man, and apparently without a friend in the world. I was cheered after a consultation with a patient who complained of constant and medically inexplicable indigestion. I did not tell him that I was certain he was married to the cause of his indigestion, but I took some comfort in the fact that I had at least escaped the wretchedness of a bad marriage, patiently endured." (p.346)
"More humanism and less science- that's what medicine needs. But humanism is hard work and a lot of science is just Tinkertoy." (p.356)
"The world had, without my being strongly aware of it, changed its attitude toward sex dramatically, though not, I think, deeply. Homosexuality had become, not the love that dares not speak its name, but the love that never knows when to shut up." (p.364)
"...much of the class system of European and American life right up until the present century, rested upon the distinction between those who dealt habitually with human detritus and those who did not." (p.371)
"That's what happened to music, and arts generally, in Toronto: respectability has descended in a fog of Arts Councils and Foundations and, although things are better on the whole, so far as performance goes, a lot of the elfin glamour of sin-and-improvisation has been dissipated." (p.377)
"The worst artistic tragedy is not to be a failure, but to fall short of the kind of success you have marked as your own." (p.381)
"His attitude seemed to be that of the nineteenth century, when nakedness was not utterly decried, but was cloaked in a terrible high-mindedness. Frequently quoted was a Mrs. Bishop, a celebrated traveller, who said, 'A woman may be naked, yet behave like a lady.' At the tea-table, one presumes. But it was a far, far better thing for the lady never, never to be naked." (p.395)
"Oh, the tyranny of invalids! How they dominate us happy mortals who are still on our feet, able to meet in some measure the demands of life, and who feel no pain- or not very much pain." (p.407)
"I have no faith that the treatment will heal whatever it was that gave rise to the disease. Nor am I such a fool to think that if I could find the root of the misery, the disease would disappear. The disease is the signal, that a life has become hard to bear." (p.408)
"I thought that the real heroism of death was seen in the one who stood by." (p.415)
"Every love affair is a private madness into which nobody else can hope to penetrate." (p.429)
"And here we are, in this excellent restaurant, drinking this very good claret and eating cutlets, and not looking like people with such a peculiar ancestry. That's the Divine Drama. The onward march of evolution. Astonishing, so far as it's gone, but we're probably only in act Two of a five-act tragicomedy. We are probably a mere waystation on the road to something finer than anything we can now conceive." (p.434)
"Was all this nothing to one who had always thought of himself as an intelligent observer of, if not a very active participator in, the life of his time? Decidedly not. Gain, every moment of it. But what remains for autumn and winter?" (p.436)
"...this is the Great Theatre of Life. Admission is free but the taxation is mortal. You come when you can, and leave when you must. The show is continuous. Good-night." (p.437)
Read
July 11, 2021I first read this book in 1994 and it sat on a shelf until recently. I picked it up again after a conversation with colleagues in which the notion of the ‘canny outlaw’ came up. Cunning and canny share the same root and refer to being knowledgeable in a practical way. Someone who is canny can get things done, not always (perhaps even rarely) according to the rules. As systems become more complex and rule-encumbered, those who are canny or cunning are more necessary to get things done. They pay more attention to the underlying moral order than the need to do things by-the-book.
In this book, Davies’ protagonist is a physician practicing in Toronto sometime after WW II. Raised in northern Ontario, Jon Hullah had early experience with non-traditional healing delivered by an indigenous elder and this may have set his course in life. His medical practice is or was, unconventional for the time, but in fact hearkens back to a time before ‘scientific’ medicine predominated. He doesn’t reject what science brings to medicine, but sees it as insufficient and in need of being broadened. Today what he is describing is known as humanistic or holistic medicine and much has been written about it, though it’s promotion and practice remains insufficiently recognized in mainstream medicine. Many practice it wittingly and unwittingly, but too rarely talk about it and celebrate it.
There is much more than that in this novel, however, with reflections on the role of the arts in society, discourses on philosophy and religion. Davies is an accomplished writer and has a broad knowledge of a wide variety of the human experience. I’ve enjoyed many of his books and recall when he died that I felt as if I had lost a distant uncle, though I have never even met him.
In this book, Davies’ protagonist is a physician practicing in Toronto sometime after WW II. Raised in northern Ontario, Jon Hullah had early experience with non-traditional healing delivered by an indigenous elder and this may have set his course in life. His medical practice is or was, unconventional for the time, but in fact hearkens back to a time before ‘scientific’ medicine predominated. He doesn’t reject what science brings to medicine, but sees it as insufficient and in need of being broadened. Today what he is describing is known as humanistic or holistic medicine and much has been written about it, though it’s promotion and practice remains insufficiently recognized in mainstream medicine. Many practice it wittingly and unwittingly, but too rarely talk about it and celebrate it.
There is much more than that in this novel, however, with reflections on the role of the arts in society, discourses on philosophy and religion. Davies is an accomplished writer and has a broad knowledge of a wide variety of the human experience. I’ve enjoyed many of his books and recall when he died that I felt as if I had lost a distant uncle, though I have never even met him.
August 17, 2021
I enjoyed this last novel of Robertson Davies as I've enjoyed his others, largely because of his insightful observations about human nature. He can peel off a great sentence every so often that just sums up things you've seen but not formed a solid thought about previously- and there's a clarion ring of recognizable truth instantly.
Oddly, I was on to the central mystery of the plot as it was first introduced, and I can seldom do this in conventional mysteries. (Which, I think, are almost always too complicated and therefore fragile, to be believed.) After I had this unexpected revelation, I kept the idea in mind, hoping it was correct because I thought it brilliant, for a healthy slab of pages until Mr. Davies confirmed my suspiscions. This naturally was very satisfying.
Less so his ascribed motivations for the act; that seemed to dance away from the obvious "Thou Shalt Not Murder" which command would have scotched the whole thing instantly.
I did have to look several things up to understand the references, and to Mr. Davis' credit, I made the effort repeatedly to do so. I also picked up a new and useful vocabulary word ('aporetic') and learned a thing or two about the Voronov operation. Check out 'monkey glands' if you really want to know.
I was unable to find out exactly who committed the second murder; perhaps it was only hinted at?
Highly recommended, but not light reading.
Oddly, I was on to the central mystery of the plot as it was first introduced, and I can seldom do this in conventional mysteries. (Which, I think, are almost always too complicated and therefore fragile, to be believed.) After I had this unexpected revelation, I kept the idea in mind, hoping it was correct because I thought it brilliant, for a healthy slab of pages until Mr. Davies confirmed my suspiscions. This naturally was very satisfying.
Less so his ascribed motivations for the act; that seemed to dance away from the obvious "Thou Shalt Not Murder" which command would have scotched the whole thing instantly.
I did have to look several things up to understand the references, and to Mr. Davis' credit, I made the effort repeatedly to do so. I also picked up a new and useful vocabulary word ('aporetic') and learned a thing or two about the Voronov operation. Check out 'monkey glands' if you really want to know.
I was unable to find out exactly who committed the second murder; perhaps it was only hinted at?
Highly recommended, but not light reading.
December 4, 2018
A memoir of Dr Jonathan Hullah, The Godfather of ‘Gil’ Gilmartin. This was Davies last book and there was speculation it would have been part of what they are calling the ‘Toronto trilogy ‘.
Hullah is connected to Gils father Brochwel, they were school friends. They even love the same woman Nuala, who he dated but after being away at war, Brochwel married. He kept on an extramarital relationship with her for a while until Brochwel found out about it. So he always believed that Gil might have been his son.
At one point he fancies marrying Gil’s widow Esme. But at a dinner where he hoped to propose , she instead tells him she plans to wed some prominent rich man, and had Jon only Ben 25 years younger she would had been pressed to get him to marry her.
There were some other characters in this story that spoke to one of loss.
The story for me was slow at first, but become more interesting once all the background material was out of the way. I kept looking for how it tied into the first book. Towards the end all the pieces began to weave itself into a very curious story.
Hullah is connected to Gils father Brochwel, they were school friends. They even love the same woman Nuala, who he dated but after being away at war, Brochwel married. He kept on an extramarital relationship with her for a while until Brochwel found out about it. So he always believed that Gil might have been his son.
At one point he fancies marrying Gil’s widow Esme. But at a dinner where he hoped to propose , she instead tells him she plans to wed some prominent rich man, and had Jon only Ben 25 years younger she would had been pressed to get him to marry her.
There were some other characters in this story that spoke to one of loss.
The story for me was slow at first, but become more interesting once all the background material was out of the way. I kept looking for how it tied into the first book. Towards the end all the pieces began to weave itself into a very curious story.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
February 13, 2021
This was my first foray into Davies' oeuvre and I dare say it shall not be my last. I was expecting fluid prose and a certain delicatesse of spirit that I associate with certain British literature, and I got it, but I did not expect such frequent touches of ribaldry and humor, and that kept me high-stepping through what might otherwise, in a lesser author's hands, been more of a slog. The narrator, Dr. Jonathan Hullah, is at once both detached and committed, ironic and sincere, and above all a trusted practitioner of the medical arts, albeit also a somewhat frustrated literary critic. There is a melancholic tinge to this Canadian soul-odyssey, but it is amor fati that dominates, and it is that life-affirming quality that appeals the most to me about this book and that recommends it. Davies is a smart writer writing a smart book for smart people, but he is not a smart ass, and he knows when to lay his intellectual armor aside and say to the spectacle of life, isn't this just lovely? Oh, the bad breath contest scene is one of the funnier episodes I've read in a long time, so if you start this novel be sure to stick with it at least to that point.
March 21, 2022
Genuinely one of my favorite books ever. Robertson Davies dazzles me every time with his worldbuilding.
February 16, 2020
The virtuous meanderings of an aged erudite classicist -- I found it mostly boring. Periodically the author's insights would break through and be interesting. He was a brilliant writer.
Davies died not too long after writing the book. I can't help but wonder if he was aware of his future and what he needed to accomplish before his death. The book is turbulent, ever trying to make sense out of that which makes no sense.
Davies died not too long after writing the book. I can't help but wonder if he was aware of his future and what he needed to accomplish before his death. The book is turbulent, ever trying to make sense out of that which makes no sense.
November 7, 2022
I would hazard a guess that most people in the UK who have heard of Robertson Davies, let alone read anything by him, will know him through
What's Bred in the Bone
, the second part of the
The Cornish Trilogy
, which was short listed for the Booker prize in 1986. Despite being one of Canada’s best-known authors his work appears to be little known here and less accepted than Brits of a similar age. In fact, I know more people that find his writing old-fashioned, even described as ‘turgid’ and ‘past it’ by one person. And I suppose the precision of his writing and his formality might lead one to set his work aside in favour of the boys from the Britpack of Amis, Barnes, Ishiguro or even a more direct contemporary in William Golding to whom he bears an offhand resemblance (both have white beards and commanding demeanours).
The Cunning Man was his last novel, perhaps the second part of what should have been the Toronto Trilogy. Published in 1994, Davies died the following year leaving the Trilogy unfinished. As such it sort of represents the culmination of Robertson Davies novels and allows us to review his work stylistically and thematically. There are real connections throughout his novels on both these levels with characters appearing in different novels and many of them having the same sense of style and being. He commonly writes in the first person so that there may be a strong flavour of the historical / biographical nature to the writing. There can be a dryness and intense exactitude in his writing, a dispassionate style which may indeed at times seem antiquated but deeply and incisively observational. Dry and observant without being priapic or even vaguely arousing whilst staying prurient in its own way. It is as if we were reading the journal of an expedition scientist which is full not only of the journal of what happened but also holds the incisive discoveries made along the path. RD was also a very well-read academic and he is not averse to showing off his learning at times. He also has a keen sense of insight which allows him at times to bring out these thoughts and phrases which hit you in the forehead.
In this last book he gives us the reminiscences of retired Dr Jonathon Hulla speaking to a much younger female journalist (to whom he is slightly related) of his life and memories of old Toronto. As a youth Hulla came from the boonies to study at a private school where he meets up with two other provincial new boys who become his life-long friends; the academically minded and bookish Brockwell Gilmartin and the deeply religious ascetic Charles Iredale. The young Hulla is again another of Davies’ bookish, solo, outsider boys striving to find his own identity from a background which invests his psyche (” whoever declares a child delicate thereby crowns and anoints a tyrant”). Everything through the book revolves around these three main characters with Hulla as the main protagonist and speaker. Davies examines and comments on the Canadian experience to make this seem quintessentially independent (whilst at the same time owing much to a close past colonialism which it has yet to fully shake off). The private school appears to try to outdo English public schools with their imposed class system, their grimness designed to prepare the boys for the rigors of life, their instillation of privilege and the ‘chumminess’ of the adult teachers whose only qualification for teaching appeared to be their youth, their own public schooling and survival through a war. Hulla survives school, thrives even and finds himself, as indeed do his friends though the ascetic Iredale needs help allowing Davies to further investigate his make-up. ”You were not supposed to fail. Failure was not an option.” 'What’s bred in the bone' seems to invest everything in the book and appears to be at the heart of Robertson Davies’ beliefs and work – very Canadian, very independent, very frontiersman, the elegant and intelligent native underlying everything.
There is quite a long theological discussion throughout the book which ties in with the ‘Canadian-ness’ . It almost feels like a justification of its neo-colonial past. Much of the discussion centres on the differences between High Church Anglican, Evangelical Anglican (so between high and low pomp) and Roman Catholicism, and how pomp and ceremony attract the drama queens. He kind of sums it up in a quote ”You must find the Church that suits you, that you can stand and that can stand you, and stick with it.” There is no question on non-belief.
It is Hulla’s experiences through the War that define what he wants to do after the war, which is to bring a humanism to the science of medicine, a psychological as well as physical interpretation of disease, a balance between Theory and Experience.
Part III uses the technique of a long series of letters between the one of The Ladies, Hulla’s Lesbian artist property owners and friends, and Barbara Hepworth, to examine the events as a series of memories seen through the eyes of Chips and allows Hulla to comment on both what is written in the letters, what he himself remembers and how he sees The Ladies themselves. It is a great stylistic technique and opens many lines for Davies to pursue. There is a further elucidation of Humanism and how Hulla practises, and through which he achieves insight into his patients as well as some cutting observations on the Arts and artists, particularly on mediocrity.
The Cunning Man was his last novel, perhaps the second part of what should have been the Toronto Trilogy. Published in 1994, Davies died the following year leaving the Trilogy unfinished. As such it sort of represents the culmination of Robertson Davies novels and allows us to review his work stylistically and thematically. There are real connections throughout his novels on both these levels with characters appearing in different novels and many of them having the same sense of style and being. He commonly writes in the first person so that there may be a strong flavour of the historical / biographical nature to the writing. There can be a dryness and intense exactitude in his writing, a dispassionate style which may indeed at times seem antiquated but deeply and incisively observational. Dry and observant without being priapic or even vaguely arousing whilst staying prurient in its own way. It is as if we were reading the journal of an expedition scientist which is full not only of the journal of what happened but also holds the incisive discoveries made along the path. RD was also a very well-read academic and he is not averse to showing off his learning at times. He also has a keen sense of insight which allows him at times to bring out these thoughts and phrases which hit you in the forehead.
In this last book he gives us the reminiscences of retired Dr Jonathon Hulla speaking to a much younger female journalist (to whom he is slightly related) of his life and memories of old Toronto. As a youth Hulla came from the boonies to study at a private school where he meets up with two other provincial new boys who become his life-long friends; the academically minded and bookish Brockwell Gilmartin and the deeply religious ascetic Charles Iredale. The young Hulla is again another of Davies’ bookish, solo, outsider boys striving to find his own identity from a background which invests his psyche (” whoever declares a child delicate thereby crowns and anoints a tyrant”). Everything through the book revolves around these three main characters with Hulla as the main protagonist and speaker. Davies examines and comments on the Canadian experience to make this seem quintessentially independent (whilst at the same time owing much to a close past colonialism which it has yet to fully shake off). The private school appears to try to outdo English public schools with their imposed class system, their grimness designed to prepare the boys for the rigors of life, their instillation of privilege and the ‘chumminess’ of the adult teachers whose only qualification for teaching appeared to be their youth, their own public schooling and survival through a war. Hulla survives school, thrives even and finds himself, as indeed do his friends though the ascetic Iredale needs help allowing Davies to further investigate his make-up. ”You were not supposed to fail. Failure was not an option.” 'What’s bred in the bone' seems to invest everything in the book and appears to be at the heart of Robertson Davies’ beliefs and work – very Canadian, very independent, very frontiersman, the elegant and intelligent native underlying everything.
”I learned later that it was indeed the Old World, but seen through a diminishing glass. Like so much in Canada, its spirit was Chekhovian, clothing in a present dubiously accepted, a regret for a past which had never been.”He illustrates the good-willed hypocrisy of the respectable middle class (which is what inter-War Canada aimed to be) with the still lurking dirty regime underneath a veneer of gentrification. How much Robertson Davies believed this is hard to know but there are similar themes in his other novels.
There is quite a long theological discussion throughout the book which ties in with the ‘Canadian-ness’ . It almost feels like a justification of its neo-colonial past. Much of the discussion centres on the differences between High Church Anglican, Evangelical Anglican (so between high and low pomp) and Roman Catholicism, and how pomp and ceremony attract the drama queens. He kind of sums it up in a quote ”You must find the Church that suits you, that you can stand and that can stand you, and stick with it.” There is no question on non-belief.
It is Hulla’s experiences through the War that define what he wants to do after the war, which is to bring a humanism to the science of medicine, a psychological as well as physical interpretation of disease, a balance between Theory and Experience.
”I had seen sincerity turned to bitterness in men who had been brought low and who had nothing to cling to, nothing to show them there might be something beyond the muddle of belief or mere acquiescence with which the best of them had gone to war.”These two themes between Religion and Medicine along with the Arts become the dominant themes for the latter half of the book. Medicine and the physician as the new scientific Church and priest, each both with their own Masonic syncretic togetherness and their own forms of omerta and Art as a liberating influence.
Part III uses the technique of a long series of letters between the one of The Ladies, Hulla’s Lesbian artist property owners and friends, and Barbara Hepworth, to examine the events as a series of memories seen through the eyes of Chips and allows Hulla to comment on both what is written in the letters, what he himself remembers and how he sees The Ladies themselves. It is a great stylistic technique and opens many lines for Davies to pursue. There is a further elucidation of Humanism and how Hulla practises, and through which he achieves insight into his patients as well as some cutting observations on the Arts and artists, particularly on mediocrity.
”...you never know who knows or has known who, and what is personal and what is derivative. That’s part of the misery of the lesser artist. People think they copy, whereas they really just think the same way as somebody bigger, but not as effectively.... not imitative. Nothing cheap or Me Too about it. Just the same spirit reduced to the point where it no longer carries any conviction. It is good of its sort, but it's a rather minor sort. It’s ‘school of’....” An insightful formal accusation of so much art.
Through the final two parts Davies concerns himself with sainthood and the possibility of murder. Their church of St Aidans falls to nemesis from its High Church hubris. Characters begin to die bringing us into the realm of bereavement and another form of memory. Ageing brings a crueller light to passion and sensuality Passion is seen through the backlight of time; deception seen as if through a television screen. Davies has still time to get in a few personal digs and show his expertise in English Literature, as well as a few epigrammatic quotesHomosexuality had become not the love that dare not speak its name, but the love that never knows when to shut up.”It is as if we are listening unseen through an open window into Robertson Davies personal set of beliefs and tropes. They are the voices of an elder and experienced person placed into the mouths of his characters. There is of course always the dilemma of believing the words of the author’s protagonists as the views and opinions of the author and how valid this is. It is a part of that wonderful grey area of sublime between author and reader. Because he uses the first-person voice almost all the time, we are encouraged to believe that they ARE his views and indeed, the natural relationship between parent-child and author-novel further builds on this view whether seen through plain glass or the distorting fairground mirror. He even discusses this at one point within the novel moving Robertson Davies perhaps into the self-referential postmodernist we are encouraged to like.
However conservative you might think RD is, there is always the liberal humanist lurking there like the universal Liberalism of all Canadians of whatever political creed. He manages philosophical debate, theological casuistry, all treated as literature and hung out there like the dry fly for the little suspecting reader. Davies was never ever a dull writer and was always intent on hooking his catch. He is insightful to the human condition and his epigrams are almost Wilde-ian in their insight and dry ironic humour. Ahhhhh the Youth of Old Age.... or is it the Old Age of Youth?” Gratified love is not the trivial detumescence of a petty desire, but the consummation of a longing in which the whole soul, as well as the body has its part”
September 14, 2015
I'm thrilled to have discovered - by chance - an author who out-Irvings the great John Irving. If ever an author embarked on a novel knowing what its final lines would be, surely this is the one.
The Cunning Man is an enthralling tale of a city - nay, a parish within a city - and its denizens. It's a murder mystery but the event that triggers Dr Hullah's memoire is not much of a mystery. It's the story of a man who learns so much in his life but who ultimately realises that he still failed to attain the insight that he himself mentioned as a failing of his youth when he quoted Robbie Burns: "O would some power the giftie gie us to see ourselves as others see us".
Robertson Davies died in 1995 but he lives for me and I'll now track down his other novels.
The Cunning Man is an enthralling tale of a city - nay, a parish within a city - and its denizens. It's a murder mystery but the event that triggers Dr Hullah's memoire is not much of a mystery. It's the story of a man who learns so much in his life but who ultimately realises that he still failed to attain the insight that he himself mentioned as a failing of his youth when he quoted Robbie Burns: "O would some power the giftie gie us to see ourselves as others see us".
Robertson Davies died in 1995 but he lives for me and I'll now track down his other novels.
November 27, 2017
Ο Robertson Davies είναι ένας από τους λίγους συγγραφείς που ακόμη και λίγο πριν τον θάνατο του και μετά από μια τόσο μεγάλη λογοτεχνική παραγωγή δεν έχασε το ταλέντο, την λάμψη του πνεύματος, το χιούμορ, την ευρυμάθεια του όπως τα είχαμε όλα αυτά απολαυσει τόσοι αναγνώστες στις άλλες του τριλογίες, όπως αυτή των Κορνις που ευτύχησε να μεταφραστεί στα ελληνικά και να εκδοθεί από τις εκδόσεις ΚΡΙΤΙΚΗ. Η τελευταία του τριλογία, αυτή του Τορόντο, δεν ολοκληρώθηκε αλλά και τα δύο μέρη της είναι απολαυστικά και σου αφήνουν την πίκρα του τέλους. Δυστυχώς η ΚΡΙΤΙΚΗ εξέδωσε μόνο το δεύτερο βιβλίο το οποίο δεν μπορεί όμως ο αναγνώστης να εκτιμήσει πλήρως αν δεν έχει διαβάσει το πρώτο. Αν το βρείτε σε άλλη γλώσσα μην το χάσετε.
May 9, 2014
An engaging novel with intriguing characters and a filament of mystery running through the center. While not as good as The Deptford Trilogy in my opinion, The Cunning Man is less of a commitment and still a fair taste of what Davies has to offer. Robertson Davies probably isn’t for everyone, but if he ends up being for you, though, you’re in for a treat!
Full thoughts are posted on Erin Reads.
Full thoughts are posted on Erin Reads.
June 22, 2017
I pretty much love this book unconditionally. I first read it in college, and have read every few years since. It is a book I enjoy growing older with. This time through there was a lot that drove me crazy - the switch to Chip's point of view, Jon's discussion of Gil's paternity with Brocky and Nuala after Gil's death, and the character of Charlie. I still love the description of St. Aidan's, Charlie and his saints, and the discussions in the theatre.
April 3, 2009
This was the best I could do for a vacation book. I had to abandon Salman Rushdie's "Midnight's Children" for fear I would die of old age before completing it. I don't want to die. More when I finish, but let me say I expected much more from Mr. Davies.
March 20, 2016
Davies is as engaging as always, though I did feel like the plot was a bit of a mishmash on this one. It's as if the book exists more as a platform for the author's observations than in service to a story. Still, Davies observations are good ones and I enjoyed reading them!
August 21, 2012
Robertson Davies is now a new favorite of mine...regretted this story had to end.
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