Most of the below is negative, so I should make clear that I greatly enjoyed reading London. I learned a vast array of facts which have increased my enjoyment of the city, and would recommend the book to anyone who has spent any length of time here. Having it in your bag as you walk the city, stopping by the river or in churchyards to read how centuries of Londoners have perceived your location, is serene.
Two strengths of Ackroyd's writing stand out. Firstly, London has an ambling, flâneuring structure, and Ackroyd is rightly proud of this. It really does fit the disorderly, organic city. I intend to reread this book, and I suspect that becoming more acquainted with its winding passages, sudden transitions, and overriding emotions will feel much like getting to know London.
Secondly, Ackroyd’s skill with his sources is commendable. Back when I had to write historical essays, I greatly admired historians who could draw from all kinds of source with equal ability. London is not written as an academic book, though it could pass as one with the simple addition of references. (Goodness knows that it’s no more fanciful than the average twenty-first-century history paper.) However, all historians can learn from his sourcemanship. He blends statistics with travellers’ diaries with archaeological findings with academic papers with literature with natural history with oral history with personal experience and even with the formidable Pipe rolls. Ackroyd is a literary man, and London is weighted towards literary sources. That’s fine, though, because he links them so deftly to the other material. Besides, a literary history is bound to provide the largest quantity of literary pleasure.
As an aside, I’m surprised that urban history is not more mainstream. The pleasure of knowing who walked then where you walk now is simple but immense. The legwork required to justify studying it seems less complicated than for most history.
However. Most of the literary pleasure in the book comes not from Ackroyd, but from the writers he quotes. Ackroyd’s own passion for London is expressed every other paragraph in vague, clichéd, and ridiculous terms. Take a shot every time he says ‘as x as the city itself’, or ‘just like London’, or ‘it is perhaps unsurprising that this appeals to Londoners’, or every time he tosses underhand some new adjective onto the pile of those comprising the quintessential ‘London nature’. Finish your drink if that adjective contradicts another on the pile: Londoners are fearless and foul-mannered on one page, cowardly and charming on another. As Prince Herman said of the docks out east, a player of such a drinking game would harbour ‘rum enough to make half England drunk’.
What Ackroyd has to say about that ‘London nature’ didn’t click either. I am a Londoner. Excepting some short, frivolous breaks for undergraduate studies, I have lived in London all my life. I know parts of the suburbs so intimately I can’t stand them. I’m hot on street names in the centre and don’t need maps. I know chunks of the tube from memory. I hope to move out East this month, in significant part because of the history and architecture. My parents and I enjoy testing each other on niche points of London navigation (‘If you go south along Southampton Row, then… … … Where are you now?’). And yet, when reading about the quintessential Londoner, I may as well have been reading about the quintessential Hong Konger or porteño or Bavarian. I felt entertained and charmed, but I did not feel described. I have no problem with literary generalisation. I simply think that the desperately erudite Ackroyd had his head stuck in the sixteenth century, when the city was unrecognisably bloody and expressive. Occasionally, he shows awareness that times have changed. He remarks that even a Victorian would be shocked at the repressed solipsism of returning commuters in London crowds.
It could also be that I and those I grew up around are London frauds, but I won’t readily accept that.
It appears that no beleaguered editor could restrain Ackroyd from veering off into histrionic flattery of London. I will take a representative paragraph, picked from a random page (436). It’s a discussion of London fog, within the nature chapter. It begins with the charming detail that Monet made his trip to London, where he stayed for two years, to paint the fog. There follows a lovely quote from Monet: ‘Those massive, regular blocks become grandiose within that mysterious cloak’. Next is another nice soundbite, from a conversation between Blanchard Jerrold and Gustave Doré. After this, over half the paragraph is still to run, but Ackroyd commences his flimsy, noncommittal explication. The fog is ‘a token, or revelation, of mystery’; London has ‘splendour and awfulness’ (oh does it now?); and in Monet, London’s ‘shrouded immensity is instinct with light. It is prodigious.’ Ackroyd is reliably a worse describer than whomever he is quoting. He says too much and embarrasses himself before his crush.
This paragraph also demonstrates Ackroyd’s superstitious obsession with London’s continuity. This is his pet crime, of which his attitude to the ‘London nature’ is one instance. According to this paragraph, Monet ‘is trying to capture the essential spirit of the place beyond particular epochs or phases’, and London ‘represents some primeval and primitive force which has lingered over the centuries’. I have no truck with accounts wherein this is the impression received of London. I often receive that impression myself. Ackroyd, though, seems really to believe that people are shaped by eldritch forces tied to particular locations. He overuses tacky words like ‘atavistic’ and ‘echoic’ to describe these forces. Whether or not the reader finds this absurd, though, the tenacity with which Ackroyd drags everything back to this theme is self-defeating. It straitjackets his material into a drab structure. It makes the whole thing less rambling and random and continuous—to coin a phrase, less like London.
It is easy for a learned Londoner to overemphasise the visibility of London’s history. After all, that wonderful history will inform their impressions of every corner of the city. But one would think from the way Ackroyd writes about ancient streets like Cheapside, Cornhill, Ludgate Hill, etc, that they were dotted with ancient hovels open to the sky (and I confess to being nonplussed about the supposedly wondrous London skies), out of which might pounce cutpurses, ghosts, or rowdy thesps in ruffs. The City’s post-WWII revival was amazingly tactful, and there is much history on show. However, most of it is visible only to the mind’s eye. Millennia of slums, shops, and churches, of filth, crime, and clamour, have truly disappeared, beneath flat tarmac cleaned as scrupulously as it is in Zurich.
In practice, it is very easy to skim over Ackroyd’s schtick and have a tremendous experience with London. When I couldn’t avoid it, though, I felt real discomfort.
Some of the passages Ackroyd quotes are also excitable. That’s permissible, though, because they’re so enjoyable and because they don’t purport to be history. Great poets of the natural world write poems more beautiful than the nature they describe. The same is true of novelistic descriptions of faces, or daily routines, or battles. Such is great literature. London is its intoxicating best as an unobtrusive anthology of great literature. It is its exasperating worst when Ackroyd is jostling for a place in the anthology.