“Who is Robertson Davies? It’s a fair question.”
This is how Val Ross opens her review in The Globe & Mail on September 28, 1991. “After all, she continues, “Davies begins most of his novels with a question or a mystery, including the latest, his 10th, Murther and Walking Spirits, whose narrator is murdered on page 1. Besides, Davies himself is a puzzle, a former actor who has been playing roles all his life.”
Ross’ conversation with Davies unfolds in his publisher’s offices and contains a good bit of gossip. (It’s also referred to in the oral history she edited, published posthumously in 2008, Robertson Davies: A Portrait in Mosaic.)
It seems such a chatty session, intended to be primarily about his latest novel, but also veering into the author’s plans for his own funeral, 19th-century theologians, romanticism, talk of his “bad eye”, his view of himself as an ugly duckling, and national politics.
There’s plenty to say about his new (in 1991) novel, however. And Davies “gently chides The Globe and Mail reviewer who suggested that in Murther the author ‘made up’ the references to ‘the Bardo state’ a kind of Buddhist purgatory. ‘I was astonished,’ says Davies, ‘He’d never read The Tibetan Book of the Dead.’”
Which takes us straight away to what most impressed me about Davies when I discovered him in my teens: it seemed as though he had read absolutely everything.
To the extent that he had forgotten that not everyone else spent so much time with books. So that he could be “astonished” that a Canadian reviewer would not have read The Tibetan Book of the Dead.
(Yes, this is pre-public-accessible internet, but if I’d been reviewing Robertson Davies, I would have sat myself in the Toronto Reference Library for a few days, before taking the cover off my typewriter.)
Thanks to Davies’ wealth of experience as a voracious reader and critical thinker, his stories are filled with brief excerpts from poems and narrative texts and a plethora of allusions. Even with a search engine at my side, I must be missing references, as there are echoes and homages – in names, word choice, syntax – peppering every page of his prose.
But if that’s all there was to it, his readership would be limited: he also tells a great story. In one moment, you are thinking about reaching for your dictionary — “Who are these tatterdemalions who have opened his gate and are coming toward him?” — but, in the next, you are too concerned with who they are to figure out precisely what they are (and the context is almost as good as a dictionary).
There’s plenty of evidence of Davies’ intelligence and bookish experience in Murther. Also of his ongoing interest in archetypes (I think there are entire books about the Jungian connections in his Deptford trilogy). “So tell us of this Welsh traveler, and be warned that we expect a good story.”
In Murther, while Gil inhabits the Bardo, he has the opportunity to observe some of his ancestors. Here, too, there are universal themes: “He is trapped in his modernity; she in a feudal world. She strove to speak English, but it was not the comfortable clothing of her mind, or her link with her God. So he rushed into the future and she remained in the past.”
(In Ross’ article, Davies observes that this is “the book I feel most concerned about in writing” because a “great deal of it is drawn from family recollections on both sides”.)
Which is not to say that the characters’ experiences are elevated or symbolic: these are flawed and credible characters. For instance: “Truly, David is a great disappointment. He has learned the fine points of the tailoring in London, and he is a good cutter, but he spoils a lot of fine cloth because he is never entirely sober.”
Some of the scenes depict clever conversations playing out in newspaper offices and private gatherings. But there’s room, too, for the murk of everyday life: “Outside Trinity Church on a Sunday morning the pavement was filthy with quids the worshippers had spat out before going in to service. It was through this filth that many of the ladies trailed their long skirts.”
Of course it is a book about death. “Is this what happens to people when they are dead? I cannot tell. I only know that it is happening to me, and the Gages and the red-haired Gilmartins, whom I had known only as names and whom I had dismissed as long dead, seem to have life; and indeed seem to have done much that I may be proud of – I, who had never thought about ancestors, or expected to be proud of ancestors, while I was living.”
But Davies’ astute observations of manners and human nature add a layer of light beneath the darker material. Like this: “Bankers never talk. Of course, being human, they may murmur something to their wives, who may say something under the seal of strict confidence to a friend.”
Even his way of addressing the fact that this is the first of his books to carry a dedication has a note of wit to it. Telling Val Ross about this decision, he notes: “I don’t throw these things around wildly, but I wanted to recognize my wife [of 51 years, at the time of writing], the most sustaining influence in my life.”
Finally, as you might have guessed, there are always some bookish bits. Like this:
“Bed, to the innkeeping trade, is a place for fortification or for sleep. This is why people like Brochwel develop a contortionist’s talent that enables them to read in extraordinary positions, in light which, by the time it reaches the page, is not more than twenty-five watts in strength. With his head where his feet should be, with his book held high and askew, Brochwel settles himself to read.”
This is a short scene, inconsequential against the backdrop of many, so I hope you will agree that it’s more a nod of recognition than a spoiler for me to confide that Brochwel falls asleep with his book, which tumbles onto his face. Yes, we can find ourselves in these stories: yes, indeed.
So, if you ever are looking for a dark-but-not-spooky story to curl up with on dark autumn evenings, Murther & Walking Spirits would be a fine choice.
This was the first Robertson Davies book I read. I bought it to give to my mother for Christmas in 1991 – I was in grade 10 and I knew she was a fan of his books. I started reading it before wrapping it, and she graciously let me finish it before she started it.
I always crave a Robertson Davies re-read in September (Murther was last year’s re-read; I don’t know what I will pick up this year). I have traced this craving to a throw-away line near the beginning of The Rebel Angels where Darcourt comments that the first day of the university term is always a fine day. Ever since reading this book the first time, I tend to notice the weather on the day after Labour Day and simultaneously crave my autumnal Davies fix.
Thanks for sharing that story and the quotation too. It’s true for me, too, that there is something autumnal about Davies-reading. Maybe the academic tone also contributes to this? Because Deptford is all about that snowball, so it seems more of a winter read. It was -mostly- a fine day yesterday. And, it’s true, I can think of many sunny warm back-to-school days (too warm for the sweaters and cords I was imagining wearing on that day)!
I love the collection with all the wonderful covers! I enjoyed your review, but now I see I have some reading to do, before I arrive at Bardo
Thanks for stopping by! Yes, that’s a lifetime’s worth of collecting began more than a couple decades ago (back when storage space was less of a concern). Enjoy your pre-Bardo reading!
What a lovely Davies collection you have! I’ve thoroughly enjoyed discovering him this week.
And I see you’ve moved on to the sequel already! I quite liked one aspect of The Manticore in particular (a character), but I enjoyed World of Wonders more for quite another reason.
Yes! With an omnibus edition it was so easy to just page ahead and keep going. I imagine I’ll read the third soon after as well.
I’ll be interested to see if the same aspects of the story that I remember fondly are the bits that capture your interest as well. Regardless, his tone is mesmerizing. (Hah.)
I need to read this one again! This autumn would be the perfect time. Davies does seem to have read everything, and not only that, but from his books one can get a sense of “reading” (one’s own life, one’s ancestry, history, mythology) as a mode of being. I think that’s why they are so congenial to me.
Thanks so much for this contribution to the Reading Week!
Yes, one really does feel his bookishness as a way of being. When I consider how his reading taste might have been satisfied/frustrated in today’s literary world, I think he would have welcomed the opportunity to read some of the scholarly and poetic works of translation that are becoming more widely available in our age (growing up in Thamesville would have been a limiting experience in some ways).
I was looking forward to your review of this book, Marcie, because of its title, and you haven’t disappointed me. A great contribution to Lory’s celebration. And I don’t mind at all that you revealed the first sentence.
That’s good to hear! It is a great title, isn’t it! I’ve had this one in mind for many an October and now part of me wishes that i could still have it on hand to read for that…fortunately there’s High Spirits to fill that gap, if the mood is still lurking as the next couple of weeks pass.
I enjoyed this piece: there ARE still people who don’t know who Robertson Davies is! He certainly is one of the best 20th-century writers, and it seems I had better catch up and read “Murther,” a title I clearly missed.
It makes sense that you would have “discovered” and enjoyed his books, but I hadn’t recalled that you’d read them. Perhaps he added to your sense of enjoying Canadian writers overall then. You do seem to read more of them than the average American reader. Which takes a bit of doing, as you well know! 🙂
You’ve said — and it’s my habit too — a great deal about this book without saying directly what it’s about, and I thank you for that: I always rapidly skim over reviews that give a detailed synopsis of the plot (which I don’t want) without detailing why I should read it (which I do want).
But this sounds to be a novel I would want to read last of all his fiction. Or at least one I would read just before the book of life clonks down on my head for the very last time.
Thanks, Chris. This one, in particular, seemed unfair to discuss in any kind of detail. Actually, I was a little disappointed that Val Ross revealed Gil’s death on the first page! laughs But, then, I thought, only fair, because I don’t want to say anything else. After all, the concept of a “between place”, a rumination on mortality, well, it’s all about what we don’t know, and much of the pleasure of this novel is about discovering that (and missing the point of that, sometimes) right along with poor Gil. I really enjoyed that part of it.
Yes, I do think it would be a good “final” read of his actually. I wonder if that’s what he’d intended too, if his health had been failing for some time, and, then his health was restored to the point where he could resume work after all (hence, The Cunning Man). But ironically, I think reading it last would also leave you wanting to return to some of the earlier books. I most wanted to return to the Salterton stories after this – for the comic moments (which are more muted in this one, suitably so).
What you say confirms my impression from your review, so that’s good! I’ll take your advice on order too.
My partner enjoyed Salterton (she got to it before me) so that’ll be my next RD read while she’s on the Cornish trio.
Nice review, so tempting I’m going out to look for it!
Lovely: I hope you happen upon a copy, Cath!