My last unread library book, and one which talks about one of the first libraries we'd recognise, an early adopter of such now-universal conventions as shelving the books by theme and author, of having them spine outwards. Granted, not all of Hernando Columbus' ideas were such winners; OK, none of us are really allowed into libraries anymore, but back in those glorious days when we were, at least we only had to worry about the doorways beeping at us on the way out if something hadn't been issued properly, whereas in Hernando's ambitious plan, the stock would be protected by the readers only being able to access the shelves through small gaps in a cage, a process I picture as being a bit like handling nuclear fuel rods crossed with feeding time at the zoo. Very 2020, come to think of it. But other bits – he was one of the first to consider pamphlets and other non-respectable writings worthy of inclusion! A concept which some institutions still struggled with well into the late 20th century, if not to this day (mentioning no names, Cambridge University Library). Such an immense thing of which to know the originator, even if it was a broken lineage from then to now.
If you're wondering about the surname – yes, Hernando was the bastard and biographer of Christopher, though as Wilson-Lee points out, that name was by no means universal. Indeed, that he was also known as Colon was one of the many things he took as being providential about himself, it meaning 'member', as in, of the Church he planned to spread. It also shares a root with 'colony' and, of course, can be taken to indicate something full of shit. Seriously, I didn't know much about the guy beyond the date, the names of the ships, and the ultimate outcome, but it's noticeable that it's not just from a modern perspective that he comes across as a problem. Even other people merrily engaged on the colonial project mostly couldn't stand the guy, and no wonder – he was quite spectacularly full of himself, as witness the Book of Prophecies he compiled - drawing on everything from the obvious-ish (Isaiah as translated into Latin by St Jerome) to the less so (Seneca's Medea) to demonstrate that the world was about to be united in accordance with the divine scheme, and that he was the only person who could do it. The evidence suggests that Hernando, despite only being 12 at the time, leant his dad a hand with this project, and this theme recurs; Christopher as the madcap doer, Hernando as the organiser trailing in his wake. The worst of it being, Christopher was the sort of narcissistic loon who pulls it off just often enough to keep getting away with it. Seriously, he dominates about the first third of this, and even beyond wider debates about his role in history (which do crop up here, but maybe not as much as they would had it been written a year or two later), just considered as an individual, he's absolutely infuriating.
So he steals the limelight for about the first third of the book, and continues to cast a shadow over the rest, which while a shame, is probably unavoidable. Not least because Wilson-Lee is writing a biography of Hernando, whom he claims, albeit with caveats, as the first modern biographer, based on his deeply partial life of his father. And then uses this to interrogate his own project, as a biographer of a biographer: "biography is a literary ruse, a sleight of hand that uses the personal story to say something about the world beyond that person, to arrange (in a sense) the world around them". You can't put everything in a biography, after all, can you, or it's just an unmanageable mess. Though it wouldn't be a surprise to find Hernando attempting biography in that vein, because his projects did tend towards a compendious gigantism which Wilson-Lee calls Herculean, but might be better considered Borgesian or Sisyphean. His survey of Spain, for instance, an early attempt at maps which corresponded to the literal facts on the ground, and an accompanying guidebook, but which then suffered mission creep until a team of subordinates – with redundancy to cross-check and weed out slackers – were supposed to record everything memorable about a place. Which, even now that data storage is considerably smaller and cheaper than it was in the days of folios, is still a project that at some stage tips over from very useful into practically useless. And back then...well.
The library, though, the library is what we're here for, or what I am. And it really does seem to have been a forerunner of the information ages to follow, in its innovations and also in its discontents. Hernando hit not only on the shelving system we still know, but on something like a no-longer-quite-modern card catalogue. Yes, he lived in an age of projects for categorising and organising all information, but where most of those systems now read nearly as comically as Borges' pastiche of them (animals belonging to the emperor; animals that have just broken the vase; animals drawn with a fine camel-hair brush), Hernando's does sound more like the godfather of the Dewey Decimal et al. Where problems persisted, they're often ones we still face; not long before I started reading this, I had a conversation about how one stores and categorises downloaded meme images for quick retrieval, which was not far at all from Hernando's struggles to index his collection of prints. Past a certain amount of information, all systems falter, and while Wilson-Lee goes very slightly too trendy vicar in calling Hernando's project a search engine, it's closer to the mark than it has any right to be. His idea of compiling epitomes and distributing the catalogues, even while holding on to his enormous collection of original volumes, is recognisably similar to Google News et al; equally, the issue of junk data hasn't changed that much since you had worthless volumes relying on a title page and a lack of reviews to earn a few dirty sales – pretty much printed clickbait. You can have a 'dead' library now more easily than ever, one in which much is stored but nothing can be located – and yet whatever system you use to order it, you impose preconceptions, favour some associations over others. Hell, I know that even when I'm writing one of these lengthier reviews, struggling to choose which bead to string next to which other bead to make a comprehensible pattern.
Even if you're not that into the whole library organisation conundrum bit, though, there's a lot of other stuff here. For instance: hopefully we all know by now that a belief in a flat Earth was not mainstream circa 1500, nor any obstacle to Columbus' voyages. What I didn't know, though, was that some thought one direction of the Atlantic crossing might be trickier than the other, because you were going uphill. Columbus himself had the dimensions of the globe way out, but his main mistake seems to have been thinking that the Earth was shaped much like a boob, with the Earthly Paradise as the nipple. Which, ridiculous as it sounds, was one way of accounting for certain inconsistencies in compass readings; Hernando was perhaps the first instead to hit on the correct interpretation, namely that magnetic north and true north aren't identical. The privations of the voyage, which I've no doubt many would now consider richly deserved, are impressive – but at the same time, Wilson-Lee contextualises it as not that drastically different from the travails of journeys within Europe, where a bridal party of 25-30,000 headed from Spain to Flanders and back could lose somewhere between a half and a third to the winter (which also really puts into perspective both the scale and the risk of even the most lavish pre-Event modern stag dos). There's the intriguing detail, completely new to me, that Henry VII was very nearly the backer and beneficiary of Columbus' expedition – being narrowly beaten to it in an incident which Columbus, like all great bullshitters also a true believer, put down to providence. But how different might things have been? His son might have had more leverage with the Pope, for one thing, if we'd even got to that point. Would South America now speak English too?
As was, of course, we ended up with what could be considered peak colonialism, the era of the Treaty of Tordesillas, which not only brazenly ignored the various heathens somehow under the impression that they owned the rest of the world, but also excluded most of Europe, insisting that between them, the countries of Iberia owned everything beyond the continent's bounds. The only question being exactly how that demarcation should be interpreted, and Hernando headed the Spanish delegation to a summit on the question – during which one small boy, suggesting that he knew exactly where they could find the line they were having such difficulty locating, perpetrated possibly history's single finest mooning. That aside, though, it's a dismal business, not least for the unlovely spectacle of the way Spain could, in a single year, both finally win its own long anti-colonialist struggle and then instantly become a major colonial power (not to mention the celebratory bout of ethnic cleansing). An example which I think goes a long way to explain my own unease with the idea that structural power imbalances explain whether or not a given behaviour is fully to be condemned - not least because sometimes those structures can be inverted bloody quickly. What's interesting is how much Hernando himself sits at right angles to the colonial project of which he's such an early and significant part – in later life he'd compare English and Venetian ways to what he'd seen in the Caribbean, not vice versa, because that was what he'd seen first. An upbringing which decentred the European perspective even as it exported it! Meanwhile, the continuing and increasingly inexplicable cheerleading of this plaguey rock's global significance is put nicely into perspective here: only after a discussion of the Arabic texts he collected do we get "the fact that Hernando had almost no books in English, despite his visit to London, is likely because few even of the most learned outside the British Isles understood anything of the language". Similarly, it was just as I was cracking up at Venice's outlandishly convoluted system for electing the Doge that my laugh died as I realised we're in no position to mock how anyone else chooses their leaders.
At the end of it all, what are we left with? A figure easier to like than his father, I think any but the most ardent imperialist would say. But one whose great projects mostly came to naught, incomplete and not long outliving him. Something like Alexander weeping that with so many worlds he hadn't even conquered one, but for ideas instead of territory – yet also alloyed with a bathetic dash of Casaubon, or even Simon Quinlank, King Of All Hobbies. Certainly I'm glad to have made his acquaintance. Now what I'd really like to read next is some more about his tutor Peter Martyr, a curious figure in many ways – among other things, he would subsequently become a pioneer in popularising ancient Egypt to modern Europe, and was supposedly the first European to come back from the interior of the Pyramids (reputedly, someone before him had entered, but of course they were never been seen again..).