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My Name is Legion
A Bonfire of the Vanities for contemporary London
From A. N. Wilson, the renowned historian and novelist, comes a stunningly bold new work of fiction set in the darkly glamorous media world. Wilson's London is a bleak, if occasionally hilarious, place: murderous, lustful, money-obsessed, and haunted by strange gods.
The Daily Legion is a rag that peddles celebrity gossip and denounces asylum seekers. The secret is that its financial survival depends on the support of a brutal African government. Recklessly defending this corrupt dictatorship, the newspaper faces off against Father Vivyan Chell, an Anglican monk and missionary who is working to overthrow the corrupt regime. They wage a smear campaign against the priest. Freedom fighters join the battle. Violence escalates.
Called "a big, broad, sweeping book, as disturbing as it is funny" by The Guardian, My Name Is Legion is a savage satire on the morality of contemporary Britain-its press, its politics, its church, its rich, its underclass. At times shocking, at times tragic, it is a provocative take on present-day England, delivering both delicious fun and acid social commentary.
From A. N. Wilson, the renowned historian and novelist, comes a stunningly bold new work of fiction set in the darkly glamorous media world. Wilson's London is a bleak, if occasionally hilarious, place: murderous, lustful, money-obsessed, and haunted by strange gods.
The Daily Legion is a rag that peddles celebrity gossip and denounces asylum seekers. The secret is that its financial survival depends on the support of a brutal African government. Recklessly defending this corrupt dictatorship, the newspaper faces off against Father Vivyan Chell, an Anglican monk and missionary who is working to overthrow the corrupt regime. They wage a smear campaign against the priest. Freedom fighters join the battle. Violence escalates.
Called "a big, broad, sweeping book, as disturbing as it is funny" by The Guardian, My Name Is Legion is a savage satire on the morality of contemporary Britain-its press, its politics, its church, its rich, its underclass. At times shocking, at times tragic, it is a provocative take on present-day England, delivering both delicious fun and acid social commentary.
512 pages, Paperback
First published June 22, 2004
About the author
A.N. Wilson
134 books248 followersAndrew Norman Wilson is an English writer and newspaper columnist, known for his critical biographies, novels, works of popular history and religious views. He is an occasional columnist for the Daily Mail and former columnist for the London Evening Standard, and has been an occasional contributor to the Times Literary Supplement, New Statesman, The Spectator and The Observer.
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Displaying 1 - 11 of 11 reviews
November 30, 2013
A.N. Wilson takes the title of his new novel from the Gospel story about a violently insane man who confronts Jesus on the shore of Galilee. "My name is Legion," he cries, "for we are many." Worried that Jesus is about to turn them out, the devils possessing the insane man ask to be transferred into a nearby herd of pigs. Jesus agrees, but the demonic swine immediately run off a cliff and drown.
Wilson, a prolific historian and novelist in England, alludes to that strange Gospel incident throughout this sprawling satire. British reviewers -- who have called the novel among the year's best and worst -- have largely focused on Wilson's witty attack on London journalists, but I'm not convinced that's the heart of the novel. Several voices emerge from these pages that don't cohere as you might expect.
The story revolves around "The Daily Legion," the lead newspaper of a corrupt media empire for which cynical journalists toil away, bitterly unhappy, ashamed of their work but addicted to easy money. Their publisher, Lennox Marks, is an omnivorous bully who caters to readers' racist fears and vulgar interests. Every day his pompous editorials nudge and kick the government toward policies that will profit the Legion empire.
As a journalist myself, I may be too worried that my pig is being drowned, but there's something a little dated and gratuitous about this assault on Fleet Street. Wilson never misses the mark, but journalism seems like such a worn punching bag nowadays and the newspaper industry is so beleaguered that he sounds at times as if he's railing against gramophone manufacturers or the abuses of ice merchants. That problem grows more acute throughout an extended and largely extraneous side story involving a conceptual artist who displays a live model sitting on a Plexiglas toilet. Lennox Marks's wife, a marvelously funny character who slips from whore to queen with a glance, insists that this excremental masterpiece will be the perfect ornament for their corporate headquarters. But first she must figure out what their young model should eat before the grand "opening."
Yes, it's outrageous and ridiculous, and it hits the vacuous artspeak right on, but after the profundity of "Piss Christ" and the photos of Robert Mapplethorpe's anus, what room have modern artists left for such satire? Even a writer as clever as Wilson sounds as though he's racing to make fun of yesterday's excesses.
But there are other voices here -- more interesting, though not so funny -- which hark back to much older issues raised by that anguished cry from a desperately ill man on the shores of Galilee. Lennox Marks is not merely a grotesque media magnate, a sort of Dickensian Rupert Murdoch; he's a deeply conflicted man, troubled by the persistence of his belief in God. That anxiety is aggravated by the appearance of Father Vivyan Chell, a randy old monk who's become a powerful spokesman for African liberation. As a young man, Marks was deeply moved by Father Vivyan's preaching, but he managed to smother his incipient moral sense, align himself profitably with a brutal African dictator, and build his Legion conglomerate. Now, Father Vivyan has returned to England to protest the government's support for the African tyrant who pays Marks's bills with laundered money, and Marks is in a panic to keep the spiritually powerful man away from him and his fragile empire.
Father Vivyan is ultimately no less conflicted than Marks. He's deeply ashamed of seducing so many women, but what's more disturbing is the theology of violence he has worked out as a humble servant to the Prince of Peace. Years of working with the most oppressed people have led him to atheism and a highly selective reading of the Gospels to justify acts of terrorism. "Those workers who had been killed would go straight to God," he thinks while considering one of the attacks he orchestrated against a copper mine. It's impossible to pin Wilson down in all this; he skewers the monk's theological expediency just as effectively as he exposes the political corruption that inspires such desperation.
Neither Lennox Marks nor Father Vivyan shows any mercy in pursuit of his competing goals, but they once shared a lover named Mercy (not the novel's subtlest symbol). She's a vivacious black woman who's not sure who fathered her schizophrenic son, Peter, the rock upon which this novel is built. Unfortunately, Peter's illness is far more advanced than his mother realizes: He speaks in a number of voices, lashes out in a series of grotesque murders, and threatens to move on to more apocalyptic acts. It's a testament to the multivalent nature of Wilson's talent that he can portray this frightening family so tenderly in a novel that usually flashes with steely wit.
When he finally begins to gather the plot's various lines, Wilson ties ancient dilemmas to strikingly modern concerns. Beneath the wicked satire of craven journalists, corrupt politicians and vacuous artists (demonic pigs all) run questions about God's existence, the responsibilities of a virtuous life and the morality of using violence against evil. Lennox Marks and Father Vivyan are sure they're right, except when they're not so sure. Peter's head is a mess of arguing personalities. And the readers of the daily rag are decent folks hungry for sordid tales of sex and violence. This cacophony of voices makes a haunting demonstration of the violently conflicted state of human nature. We're all legion, Wilson seems to cry, begging to be left alone, desperate to be rescued from ourselves.
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/...
Wilson, a prolific historian and novelist in England, alludes to that strange Gospel incident throughout this sprawling satire. British reviewers -- who have called the novel among the year's best and worst -- have largely focused on Wilson's witty attack on London journalists, but I'm not convinced that's the heart of the novel. Several voices emerge from these pages that don't cohere as you might expect.
The story revolves around "The Daily Legion," the lead newspaper of a corrupt media empire for which cynical journalists toil away, bitterly unhappy, ashamed of their work but addicted to easy money. Their publisher, Lennox Marks, is an omnivorous bully who caters to readers' racist fears and vulgar interests. Every day his pompous editorials nudge and kick the government toward policies that will profit the Legion empire.
As a journalist myself, I may be too worried that my pig is being drowned, but there's something a little dated and gratuitous about this assault on Fleet Street. Wilson never misses the mark, but journalism seems like such a worn punching bag nowadays and the newspaper industry is so beleaguered that he sounds at times as if he's railing against gramophone manufacturers or the abuses of ice merchants. That problem grows more acute throughout an extended and largely extraneous side story involving a conceptual artist who displays a live model sitting on a Plexiglas toilet. Lennox Marks's wife, a marvelously funny character who slips from whore to queen with a glance, insists that this excremental masterpiece will be the perfect ornament for their corporate headquarters. But first she must figure out what their young model should eat before the grand "opening."
Yes, it's outrageous and ridiculous, and it hits the vacuous artspeak right on, but after the profundity of "Piss Christ" and the photos of Robert Mapplethorpe's anus, what room have modern artists left for such satire? Even a writer as clever as Wilson sounds as though he's racing to make fun of yesterday's excesses.
But there are other voices here -- more interesting, though not so funny -- which hark back to much older issues raised by that anguished cry from a desperately ill man on the shores of Galilee. Lennox Marks is not merely a grotesque media magnate, a sort of Dickensian Rupert Murdoch; he's a deeply conflicted man, troubled by the persistence of his belief in God. That anxiety is aggravated by the appearance of Father Vivyan Chell, a randy old monk who's become a powerful spokesman for African liberation. As a young man, Marks was deeply moved by Father Vivyan's preaching, but he managed to smother his incipient moral sense, align himself profitably with a brutal African dictator, and build his Legion conglomerate. Now, Father Vivyan has returned to England to protest the government's support for the African tyrant who pays Marks's bills with laundered money, and Marks is in a panic to keep the spiritually powerful man away from him and his fragile empire.
Father Vivyan is ultimately no less conflicted than Marks. He's deeply ashamed of seducing so many women, but what's more disturbing is the theology of violence he has worked out as a humble servant to the Prince of Peace. Years of working with the most oppressed people have led him to atheism and a highly selective reading of the Gospels to justify acts of terrorism. "Those workers who had been killed would go straight to God," he thinks while considering one of the attacks he orchestrated against a copper mine. It's impossible to pin Wilson down in all this; he skewers the monk's theological expediency just as effectively as he exposes the political corruption that inspires such desperation.
Neither Lennox Marks nor Father Vivyan shows any mercy in pursuit of his competing goals, but they once shared a lover named Mercy (not the novel's subtlest symbol). She's a vivacious black woman who's not sure who fathered her schizophrenic son, Peter, the rock upon which this novel is built. Unfortunately, Peter's illness is far more advanced than his mother realizes: He speaks in a number of voices, lashes out in a series of grotesque murders, and threatens to move on to more apocalyptic acts. It's a testament to the multivalent nature of Wilson's talent that he can portray this frightening family so tenderly in a novel that usually flashes with steely wit.
When he finally begins to gather the plot's various lines, Wilson ties ancient dilemmas to strikingly modern concerns. Beneath the wicked satire of craven journalists, corrupt politicians and vacuous artists (demonic pigs all) run questions about God's existence, the responsibilities of a virtuous life and the morality of using violence against evil. Lennox Marks and Father Vivyan are sure they're right, except when they're not so sure. Peter's head is a mess of arguing personalities. And the readers of the daily rag are decent folks hungry for sordid tales of sex and violence. This cacophony of voices makes a haunting demonstration of the violently conflicted state of human nature. We're all legion, Wilson seems to cry, begging to be left alone, desperate to be rescued from ourselves.
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/...
November 9, 2022
Imagine an articulate Internet troll writing a thriller. This would be it.
October 3, 2021
After having read 2 of his historical works - both superb - I tried this fiction of his. His writing abilities are superb - insights, turns of phrase, character portrayals, portrayal of the press/politics/milieu of the UK, etc. And this book was - for the first 2/3 - somewhat of a page-turner. But it began to bog down and I ceased enjoying it. Perhaps because most of the characters were far removed from my normal ambit/experience, so to speak. Also, there seemed to be several loose ends - or perhaps discordant/incongruous results; e.g. the fates of some key characters (Lily, Mercy, Rachel) and the roles of some others (e.g. the Brigadier). But then, so it is with real people and with life. He does expose the pervasive rot in much of society (and this book was written more than a few years ago). If anything, it's now much worse. I think I'll stick to reading his histories and non-fiction however.
October 5, 2021
I just wrote a review but somehow it got deleted after writing several paragraphs so fuck it. Read it yourself. Well written, good plot but don't expect to like any of the characters.
October 29, 2014
Was surprised to see so many bad reviews about this one and that people found hard to finish it, whilst I found it very easy to read and would call it a somewhat of a page-turner.
At first I did want to call this a sort of "Chuck Palahniuk Lite" (now the verdict is that it's Lite-lite) kind of a novel, 'cause it had some "saucy" topics but weren't that extreme as Chuck does. It was satirical in a way and funny at times. It had interesting narrative - 3rd person, but each chapter told from each character's perspective and in their peculiar way how they would look at things and their mannerisms also interwoven there.
Always had a fascination with biblical mythology and there's a good portion of it here and the story's written so that the characters are all connected in some way, so writing it from their perspective and in their "manner" whilst in 3rd person was a nice touch with identifying with the characters or at least having a look at things through their eyes.
Very entertaining and decently written.
At first I did want to call this a sort of "Chuck Palahniuk Lite" (now the verdict is that it's Lite-lite) kind of a novel, 'cause it had some "saucy" topics but weren't that extreme as Chuck does. It was satirical in a way and funny at times. It had interesting narrative - 3rd person, but each chapter told from each character's perspective and in their peculiar way how they would look at things and their mannerisms also interwoven there.
Always had a fascination with biblical mythology and there's a good portion of it here and the story's written so that the characters are all connected in some way, so writing it from their perspective and in their "manner" whilst in 3rd person was a nice touch with identifying with the characters or at least having a look at things through their eyes.
Very entertaining and decently written.
April 22, 2013
t was an interesting read looking at the intersection of the media, the political realm, the upper classes, and the religious world in England in these days. It is a commentary in many ways on the larger world - but seen through particularly English glasses. If one knows the media scene in more specific in England it is probably even more pointed. I’m glad I read it. It made me see the world - both more cynically and more honestly.
May 23, 2014
I can't even rate this book. It just wasn't my cup of tea, so to speak. I read about 6 chapters and found it to be nothing that I was interested in reading. As much as I hate to NOT complete a book (which is something I don't usually do) I had to put the book down. If anyone else has read or reads it and enjoys it, please let me know b/c I might try it again at a later date!
May 10, 2013
So far this book is execrable - it's satire by caricature - the media owner the priest the bad boy are all so overblown I can't care about any of them and I have only almost laughed once - so it's not even funny. I need a reason to carry on reading this! ( I liked other books by him )
July 27, 2007
I read this as an ARC and was sorely disappointed, the writing felt flat and uninspired for what was a very sound plot.
July 22, 2009
I love this writer, this book is fabulous.
April 11, 2017
I read it to the end, the plot had just enough to keep me interested. The book was full of stereotypes though, and the dialect/accent written out for one of the characters felt a bit "where am dat watermelon" to me. There were a few good things in it that I enjoyed, but by the time I got to the end I couldn't remember what they were.
Displaying 1 - 11 of 11 reviews