The Bible is not a book.
No, sorry, that’s misleading: it’s a big, papery thing with pages and print in; the very word means book; if you’re of the right tradition it’s not merely a book, it’s the Book of Books. Of course it’s a book. But though it is a book, it’s not a book: it’s a whole collection of them. And since these were written by various bods in various places at various times, and indeed in at least two different languages, it’s a diverse and sometimes contradictory one. It makes no sense to treat the Bible as a single work; it isn’t one.
And there are those who say it’s the literal word of God, but they are wrong, either misunderstanding their own cultural heritage or using the word literal quite, quite incorrectly. Whether you regard it as conveying holy truth or not, whether you think it’s inspired by the almighty or not, whatever reverence you hold the thing in, however much respect it may deserve, it’s the literal word of man. And more than one man at that.
Ahem.
But the nature of the Bible means that, if you insist on treating it as literature – an approach to which it is not entirely amenable, which I do not altogether advise, and which should be approached with rather more care than than just whacking a rating of 1-5 on a website somewhere – and you want to do the job properly, you have to review it book by book. You can’t take it in a single lump. And even then, take off your shoes, for you tread on holy ground.
And if God exists, and doesn’t have a sense of humour then I’m now literally going to Hell. But then, if God is that than which no more perfect being may be imagined, He’s bound to have a sense of humour. Bound to. Surely.
I wonder if I’ll enjoy eternal damnation…
But I’m getting sidetracked; this is not a review of the Bible, this is a review of Le Morte d’Arthur. A bad one.
Le Morte d’Arthur is not a book…
So, the Morte d’Arthur is not one single book: it’s twenty-one books drawn from various sources, largely translated from French romances, and which ranges from pseudo-history, through fantasy, to the heavily symbolic heavily explained; taking in an awful lot of people knocking other people off horses with sticks. And it runs the gamut from high-flown to the remarkably earthy; from the almost dreamlike to the nearly realistic; from the highly structured to the near-chaotic. It isn’t, and doesn’t pretend to be, a unified whole. It’s been compiled and compressed from earlier material.
This process, as I understand it, may or may not have been done by someone called Sir Thomas Malory (spellings vary), who may or may not have been in prison at the time, and who may or may not have therefore had time on his hands.
Which tells you a lot about the medieval attitude to authorship. That I read it very, very slowly tells something of the challenge I found it.
The twenty-one books you can break down into a handful of big stories, a few stand-alones, and an awful lot of people knocking each other off horses with sticks. There are some muddles over chronology, the odd continuity error, a dash of repetition and some strange shifts of character in the… characters. It’s all pretty consistent within the books, but between them it can be a bit odd. Sir Kay, for example, starts out as superpowered champion, but ends up as pompous git. The thing would never get past a proper editor. Happily, I’m not one. I don’t have to be serious, or do the job properly: I’m just some random bloke reading the book for fun. You shouldn’t take what I have to say as gospel.
So the question is, was it… is it… fun?
Well, the fun level was, I confess, rather variable. I’m pretty tolerant of sentences the wrong way round that do appear to be, and such as have a touch of vocab curious. The which were fortunate and be, in any case, the no more hard to read than do be Shakespeare, properly considered, and without the funnie spellinges (which, in the edition I read, have been tidied up). I can just about deal with the wall of text effect (no paragraph-breaks), though it caused some subconscious discomfort, and I only noticed it late in book XVII. Your position may be different on these matters.
I’m less tolerant of chapter after chapter of bloody fight-scenes. It’s as bad the The Iliad in some places.
Yes, I know how silly it is to grumble about fight-scenes in chivalric romances and epic war-poetry where, after all, they might reasonably be expected. What I’m getting at is this: the descriptions in both are highly stylised, almost formulaic, and though that stops each individual instance from bogging things down, and though they vary a bit between books, when you get lots together in the same book it’s like reading the same sentence over and over. It’s like reading the same sentence over and over. It’s like reading the same sentence over and over…
But it’s not all jousting; even if it can feel like it sometimes. Particularly in chapter X. And chapter X, for no obvious reason, is split between the two volumes of this edition. Like the wall of text effect, this shouldn’t have worried me, but somehow did. Thank God it’s over… Oh, it isn’t.
Sorry. Sidetracked again. It’s not all jousting.
Very roughly, then, you’ve got a first volume consisting of a brief recounting of almost everything you think you know about King Arthur, followed by a few stand-alone adventures, then quite a lot of Sir Tristram. The second volume polishes off the Tristram material, reels off a great tranche of grail material, and does a bit of Launcelot and Guenever, before dealing with the other bit you think you know about King Arthur. Which makes Arthur at best peripheral to his own book.
(If you’re reading it purely for Arthur, you just want the first and last few books and can skip the bit in the middle).
Which takes me where? Where is the fun? Was there any?
Well, yes, but I think in the shorter sections, and in the variety there. The longer bits – the Tristram and grail material – heavily outstayed their welcome. That’s just me, of course, you might be deeply interested in those aspects – sports commentary and heavy Christian symbolism; personally I was muttering things like “Four lions and a white hart going into a church? Yes, the four evangelists and Jesus. Obvious. Next!” and “Do we really have to have a blow-by-blow account of this tournament?”. I don’t think I’ll read the whole thing again, but I might dip into the odd book.
And that, arguably, is exactly what’s happened to this over the years: people have picked out the bits they like and written stories and poems, painted paintings, embroidered and elaborated, and generally used it as a pattern-book and source of inspiration. All of which makes some of it really, really familiar, some of it bizarrely alien, and some of it feel, actually, quite sketchy. And you have to bear in mind that Malory is just a step in this process, and he’s taken it from people who have played with an existing tradition. So you can read the earlier stuff (good luck), or the later stuff, but it’s perfectly ok to take a pick ‘n’ mix approach. And I’m going to keep telling myself that.
And there we have it: a bad review of Le Morte d’Arthur.