Phillip Mann – writer, teacher and theatre director

A Christmas Story.

In the spring of 1892, my grandfather, William Southerly Brown of Nottingham in England, completed his apprenticeship as a glass engraver and maker of stained-glass windows. For his trade certificate he created a large oval widow in the centre of which he set the head of Shakespeare, seen in profile. Surrounding this he engraved twelve scenes from Hamlet on alternating circles of red and blue glass: the whole design held together by an open filigree of entwined lilies.

This exhibit, still extant at Odd Fellows Hall in Bramble Lane, Sheffield won first prize at an exhibition in London, judged by no less a celebrity than the aged but still sharply perceptive, William Morris. It was the lilies which captured his attention, methinks, and perhaps a sense that in Southerly Brown he had found a kindred, creative spirit.

Thus, at the age of 22, Southerly, seemed destined for an illustrious and lucrative career as a master glazier to the wealthy, creating christening bowls, wedding cups, funeral urns and such. But Southerly’s mind was set on other horizons. Growing up in Nottingham, Southerly was a child of the Working Class. He had known poverty: had heard the hacking cough of his father who was a coal miner and died spitting blood; had seen his mother age prematurely her arms mottled from immersion in washing water and her knees arthritic from kneeling to scrub. Southerly wanted to create a better world.

I have read his diaries – have them before me now – and know that he saw himself as a man of the new era: a socialist, inspired by a vision of a world where,- and here I quote, “Poverty and hunger can be eradicated and human dignity assured; where men and women can unite in equality; a world in which lowly or impoverished birth need be no impediment.”

He wrote those words in 1893, the year he set sail for New Zealand.

New Zealand was booming when Southerly stepped ashore in Wellington. Everywhere there was building – banks, warehouses, hotels, churches.

Southerly quickly found employment engraving monograms on the windows of the Puketai Import and Export Company of Dunedin.  Within Two years, as a result of hard work and thrifty living, he has amassed enough capital to set up his own small company, which he called simply Southerly Ornamental and Stained Glass. In the shop window he displayed example of his work including a picture of his celebrated Shakespeare sequence.

Even so… his beginnings in business were shaky, but the turning point came when he secured a large contract in Wellington, designing and installing glass panels in the doors of Government buildings. This gave him important contacts which led to other opportunities. Southerly Glass prospered.

But while he discussed business and worked as a craftsman by day, Southerly studied by night. He pored over the works of J. S. Mill and the anarchist Kropotkin. He read Tolstoy, Shaw and Ibsen. He worked his way through a battered and much thumbed copy of Karl Marx writings.

Avid for conversation, he joined a political reading group called the Freedom Through Literacy Society and, at their monthly gatherings, he encountered men and women, who, like himself, wanted to see New Zealand become a society based on equality and justice – a Brave New World.  It was at one of these meetings that he met Dominique Volet, the daughter of one of the leaders of the Paris Commune of 1871 who had escaped to New Zealand with her mother in the 1880s.

Dominique was guest speaker and her topic was “Women and the Future”. She and Southerly spent the whole night talking and two months later, after a whirlwind romance, they were married. Through Dominique, Southerly came to know some of the French poets, painters and radical thinkers of that age. Diverse in their life-style they might have been, nevertheless they all agreed upon one fundamental principle: that Art, in whatever manifestation, if it were to be at the forefront of social change, needed to speak with the common tongue.

1904 was an important year for Southerly Brown. In January my father Sebastian Brown was born. And in that same month the firm, Southerly O and S Glass, won the valuable contract to design, make and install all the stained glass windows for the new church of St Corinthian being built in Wellington. The subject of the windows was the responsibility of the church but the designs were left to Southerly.

The ink on the contract was scarcely dry before Southerly set to work. While not a religious man, he knew he could pour his turbulent feelings about life and society into whatever moments from the Bible the church wanted illustrating. Equally, the contract was big enough to allow him to establish the kind of workshop he had always dreamed of.

He took on new workers: a woman to help with the draughting and several apprentices including two Maori brothers. From the beginning he encouraged his workers to think of themselves as artist-craftsmen. He shared his skills lavishly, explained his designs and encouraged discussion and debate. In his enthusiasm he even organized evening lectures for his workers on literature, philosophy, art and politics. Dominique attended, and sat at his side, suckling her baby.

By and large, the church council liked Southerly’s designs. They chuckled over the sequence illustrating “Miracles from the Gospels”, appreciating the  look of astonishment on the disciples’ faces as the corpse of Lazarus opened its eyes and reached up. They nodded in appreciation at the way Jesus, broad shouldered and muscular as befits the son of a carpenter, strode over the waves of the sea of Galilee to join the small boat where the disciples were bucked and tossed. But their favourite by far was the large Nativity window, which blended into one brilliant image the cosmic star, the human birth, the Wise Men, the Shepherds and the whole world of Nature, from a thoughtful donkey, yea right down to a humble spider spinning its web in the eaves of the cattle shed. “We are one family,” commented Southerly, winking to the apprentices behind the retreating backs of the church committee. And if he had been speaking some ten years later he might have added the word “Comrades”.

Meanwhile, the building of the church of St Corinthian was proceeding apace, and all might have been well except for the arrival of Dr Montague Pollitt. This worthy had been brought out from England to oversee the artistic work – the candelabra, vestments etc. – associated with the church.

A former member of the British Academy, a specialist in Renaissance art, with, as he never failed to mention, a doctorate in Classics and Theology from Magdalen College at Oxford University, Dr Pollitt soon made his critical presence felt. For whatever reason – a clash of artistic vision perhaps, or just simple snobbery – Dr Pollitt detested Southerly’s work. And Pollitt was a formidable enemy with his erudition, sarcastic manner and high domed forehead.

At the meeting called to give final approval to the designs before the engraving of the glass, Dr Pollitt casually observed that he thought the image of the Virgin in the Nativity was a bit “fleshy”.

Southerly knew to which part of the Virgin Dr Pollitt was referring. “The woman is lactating like any young mother,” he said.

“But this is not any young mother. This is the mother of God,” answered Pollitt.

Later he complained that the disciples gathered around Jesus at Gethsemene looked “like common working men – not the elect of Our Saviour.”

“They were common working men” retorted my grandfather. “Plain men, with calloused hands.” He paused and then added with relish “Men who smelled of fish and goats.”

“But the church should ennoble, not demean, else how shall we better ourselves?’ Dr Pollitt answered smoothly. “I don’t know much about modem art’s pre-occupation with sordid scenes, but I suggest you take a look at the works of Giotto.”

My grandfather’s diary does not record his reply. At the end of the evening, the church fathers voted on the designs and Southerly’s work was approved – but only by a narrow margin.

Thereafter, antagonism between Southerly and Dr Pollitt grew. Not content with sniping at the artistic work, Pollitt involved himself with the accounts and even claimed that there were discrepancies between the materials ordered and those used. Once he arrived at the workshop unannounced with members of the church council to make a spot check. Nothing incriminating was found of course, but the working atmosphere was irredeemably poisoned, and this led my grandfather to commit a singular act of folly.

One night, shortly before the finished windows were due to be transported to the church, he engraved the face of Dr Pollitt into one of the windows. The window showed Herod ordering the slaughter of the innocents. Dr Pollitt’s face was undeniably the model for the angry king.

The likeness was noticed only when the windows were unveiled. Some men might have taken this as a backhanded compliment. Others might have laughed. But Dr Pollitt was enraged. He insisted that the offending pane of glass be removed immediately. He accused my grandfather of bringing him and the church into disrepute, of making a mockery of a most serious occasion. Then, in a series of articles in the newspapers, he launched a full-scale attack on all the windows, claiming they were poorly executed and even that some of the images bordered on blasphemy. “Jesus evicting the moneylenders from the Temple could in Mr Southerly Brown’s rendering be mistaken for a country lout fighting in a tavern,” said Pollitt, and he called for the windows to be removed.

The church fathers, embarrassed by the publicity, ordered Southerly to redesign some of the windows. He refused and told them that if there were any faults in the windows they were in the eye of the beholder. This, of course, angered the church council who promptly had all the windows removed and replaced them with panes of frosted glass.

As a final insult, Dr Pollitt secretly arranged for all the windows to be sold at auction. Which done, he returned to England.

The windows were sold before my grandfather found out. They disappeared to places as varied as a sheep station in Canterbury and a lampshade maker in Timaru.  The effect on my grandfather was devastating. It broke his spirit. For a while he tried to repurchase some of the windows. But it was impossible. Gradually he changed from a man of good humour to what now might be called an “angry radical” One who saw the Establishment, in all its manifestations, as the enemy. In 1914, on the eve of war, he sold Southerly’s Glass and bought a large comfortable house in Mt Victoria for Dominique and young Sebastian: it this house where I now live and have my architect’s studio. Then he departed for Europe. He traveled to Russia and, so the story goes, was killed in the fighting at St Petersburg.

But, to return to the stained glass windows. Just a few years ago the magnificent Nativity window which had disappeared without trace, turned up at an auction in Wellington and I was able to buy it – for an exorbitant sum, let me say. I have it now, installed in my studio overlooking Wellington harbour. The evening sun makes the colours glow exactly as old  Southerly Brown intended. It is magnificent.

I have had ample opportunity to study the window and believe that I have discovered things which Dr Pollitt missed, things which would have enraged him further, but which undoubtedly my grandfather intended. They make the work unique and priceless.

The realism of the faces is remarkable. Am I wrong in seeing among the swarthy skinned shepherds gathered at the back of the stable, a likeness to a Maori chief – a Hone Heke perhaps with just the hint of a moko and a taiaha for a crook? And those splendid wise men, surely the expansive one offering gold is William Morris, and the one behind him with the shining eyes could well be Percy Shelley, my grandfather’s favourite poet.  And consider Joseph with his mane of hair and tangled beard. An excited, vital man this – not the dotard of tradition. Karl Marx methinks.

And the Virgin? What of her? For a while I thought she was my grandmother Dominique. But a recent publication has made me believe that Southerly was actually depicting Dominique’s friend, Kate Sheppard. Yes!

And finally, what was Southerly trying to tell us in the figure of the Christ child, looking straight at us, laughing in friendship and holding his unblemished hand, open-palmed towards us with such joyous confidence? Surely he is saying, “Come on, you people. Workers of the world. Rouse yourselves! – We have a world to win and nothing to lose but our chains.”

THE END

And a Merry Christmas to you all.

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My good friend Malcolm B. made a video during the launch of The Disestablishment of Paradise at Unity Books in Wellington. During the short video, I am seen reading some bits from the book and I talk about the experience of writing it.

I am delighted by the video – though it makes my voice sound higher than I expected, (the result of nerves possibly) – and it is a  timely corrective to the 48 years old image of myself that is used on the banner for this website. When I first saw the video, I was struck by  the difference between the image of the older man reading, and the more youthful inner-self I feel when I am writing. Both realities are true in their own way.

You can view the video be going to www.youtube.com/embed/lcrF1-C8r54 I shall be interested to know what you think of it.

And now, while I am still delighted at the reception that the D of P has received, and I have replied to many questions and comments sent to me regarding the ideas in the book, I am now into writing a new work: one which seems to be quite different both from the D of P and all my previous novels. For one thing it is quite comic in a dark sort of way, and that I find encouraging.

In the new year, Gollancz will be publishing a collection of my short stories and a book for children called The Paradise Mission.  This latter, as you may have guessed, uses some of the strange creatures we meet in The Disestablishment of Paradise but in a narrative more suitable for younger readers. Both these will be available in E format only.

I would love to re-publish my earlier titles in book format, but publishing seems to be going through a strange evolution at present, and no one can predict the outcome. Still, we live in hope.

Christmas will be upon us in two weeks, and so I wish you all a Very Happy Christmas and New Year, accompanied by Peace on Earth.

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Sunset and Dawn. Which is which?

As ever I am grateful to Wikipedia for these images.

Three of my friends died recently. I am caught between my own sadness – for the loss of a friend leaves a big hole  – but also a sense of dis-belief that all that energy and laughter and knowledge could have somehow ended, or now lives on only in memory. That, I can’t finally believe – and without getting into some debate between believers and non-believers in life after death – I hope that something of my friends, some quintessence perhaps, lives on in another dimension.

I read a poem for one of them, Tom, at his funeral – the other funerals I could not attend – and I would like to publish it here simply In Memoriam.  Tom was a dedicated actor and took the lead role of the priest, Urbain Grandier, in a production of  John Whiting’s play The Devils which I directed in 2008.

In the Wings

A poem for the cast and crew of The Devils performed at Stagecraft Theatre May 2008.

In every production there comes a time,

when the SM says, “They’re letting them in.”

and the lights in the wings go out.

*

Now, the humble workshop,

where the props were made –

the bed, the chair… the torture box…

and the secret place where the nuns

keep their tables and candles –

all, all are transformed, and

our world in the wings

is now a moon-lit woodland,

with paths and dark corners…

mysterious.

*

Darkness constrains us,

speech becomes whispers,

and laughter is hushed.

Now do the actors,

stare at their mirrors,

attuned and aware,

of the music now playing,

of murmur of audience,

of time passing quickly.

*

“Five minute call.”

The ASM turns,

presses finger to lips,

and vanishes.

*

The woodland is suddenly busy with shapes.

Actors with purpose, glide to their places,

touching their hair, checking the props,

awaiting the start of the sad, steely music.

*

The audience are in.

“Full house tonight.

You can tell by their murmur.”

The door to the outside world

is now closing. Now,

the late must wait.

*

Quiet in the wings,

the actors stand,

suspended in a great stillness.

*

One quick glance at her watch,

and the SM gives the nod.

Obediently, the lights dim

and the music grows stronger.

It is happening now.

Now no going back.

The auditorium is dark.

*

A pause.

*

Then, as the sewer-man

kneels to his business,

comes the sudden and joyous

peeling of church bells –

a welcome sound

on a bright golden morning.

That is the cue,

for which they’ve been waiting.

The service is over,

The sermon delivered.

All’s well with the world.

Or so it appears.

*

So with chatter and laughter,

like bold sky divers

the actors step from the wings

and into the light.

*

There’s

a man of the scalpel, and

his henchman with notebook;

tough country lads

who take care of their mum;

women in head-scarves;

a couple with baby;

the hoi polloi and

the toffs of Loudun.

*

There’s

a woman who walks

with a smile of contentment,

and a girl who would dance

though her father forbid her.

And a priest ….

… yes a priest,

and a handsome one too,

who delights in the worldly

life of the senses,

in wit and fine wine

in perfume,

in ladies,

in the smell of wild flowers

on an old country lane…

and who soon will suffer…

unto grace… and ash.

*

But that’s all before us.

In the dark woodland,

the two SMs sigh with relief.

The production is launched,

now they must keep it afloat!

There is much to do. Props to prepare

They smile,

thumbs up,

and vanish.

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QUESTIONS

A close friend, with whom I have often worked in the theatre, has sent me ten questions concerning The Disestablishment of Paradise.

My friend has a fine sense of humour backed by a sharp critical mind and a gift for irony: so, even when we jest, I take him seriously. His questions are  clear, informed and provocative, and I hope to respond to them in depth over the next few weeks.

I have decided to publish them initially, more or less as I received them. I think you will enjoy my friend’s wit.

1.             Congratulations on your novel Mr. Mann, I enjoyed it immensely. The women in your books are really something! Miranda in A Land Fit For Heroes became absolutely fearsome. The central character in your latest novel is a woman, the narrator Olivia is a woman, and along the way a number of the characters, beginning with the Captain of the shuttle, whom the unguarded male reader might initially read as male, turn out to be women. Meanwhile the male protagonist, a hard Australian packing muscle and brawn and practical know-how, turns out to be the most intuitive and sensitive, the most “feminine” of them all. Two questions: Were Hera and the narrator always conceived as female from the very start?; and How has your conception of women characters developed through your fiction over the years since The Eye of the Queen?

REPLY. The narrator was a relatively late development. During the writing of the book, I was aware that it bore some similarities to The Eye of the Queen (Eg, a human being residing alone amid an alien race). I can not remember when, but at some point, I decided to solve some of the narrative problems by expanding the narrative laterally, to include historical documents, recorded dialogues etc. This also meant that I needed a narrator – again like The Eye of the Queen. In a way I let the choice be Hera’s – viz. her letter to Olivia in the Introduction. The result was Olivia Ginger – a woman who contrasts with Hera in many ways from looks and temperament to background and experience. They are, however both highly intelligent.  Olivia is somewhat cynical after three failed marriages, while Hera is passionate and still deeply in love with the only man she has ever really known, Mac. You can see the contrast between them when Olivia cries after Hera has revealed her intimacy with Mac (See page 345) Olivia has never achieved that level of intimacy with anyone.  I liked the fact that the two women clashed and argued. These interviews quite naturally became part of the texture of the book.  They allow the reader to hear the authentic voice of Hera. They became so real to me that I only had to start a dialogue to hear their voices.

As regards the second part of your question: Although there are really no women in The Eye of the Queen, all the women in my later books are confident, strong and  passionate women. Miranda in A Land fit for Heroes undergoes many transformations, and ultimately becomes a Goddess. Undoubtedly The Disestablishment of Paradise is my longest and fullest treatment of female character. I can tell you this that I was very surprised when I realized that all, save one, of the major characters in the book are women. That was not planned, it was just the way it worked out – I am very glad to say.

2.            Congratulations on your novel Mr. Mann, I enjoyed etc. If I understand aright, you first conceived and wrote this novel a long time ago, and it has been finally published after a long delay. Two questions:

i)   Has the novel remained substantially the same over the decade or more in which it languished in a drawer? How much revision and rewriting did it undergo when you prepared it for publication?

It has remained substantially the same in content – although I did a bit of trimming and re writing for clarification at the request of the editor, Marcus Gipps. His editing was brilliant and gave me a lot of confidence. However, the basic narrative began as a short story. This became a novella and finally a full novel. There was a point in the writing when it suddenly took off and I got a sense of the scale of what I was attempting. Luckily, this did not happen until I was well advanced in the book and by then the prose was flowing the characters were assertive and Paradise was alive as a place. I loved writing the dialogue sections as they brought me very close to the emotions of the work. I cut out quite a bit and had to weather a lot of well-meaning criticism among which were suggestions that I remove the narrator, that I cut the book in half, that I throw away the documents  etc. etc. Finally, unable to find a publisher, in deep sorrow, I put the book away. It was as complete as I could make it – and to be perfectly frank, I thought it was my best work and I hoped that sometime, perhaps in a hundred years, it would be appreciated for what it is.  I started a new work, which is still not complete. Then of course I heard from Gollancz and it was all systems go again.

ii)  When you first came to New Zealand in the late 1960s, New Zealand seemed to be a comparatively egalitarian society, and we could swim in the rivers. Since then a huge gulf has opened up between rich and poor, and the natural environment has become terribly degraded. So my question is this: Your novel, enthralling and richly rewarding at the literal level, is also richly symbolic; has it been written more out of sadness or anger?

There is both sadness and anger, but there is hope too. The first step in solving a problem is to understand it: that is where literature comes in. We are in crisis, not only in NZ but in the world at large and it must be faced. The deepest ‘message’ of the book – though I did not think in terms of a message when I was writing it – concerns our relationship with Nature.  of which we are a part.  My first aim is always to entertain. Once that is accomplished we can talk about issues. However, I can not help but feel grief when I  see destruction of the environment and read of extinctions. The world does not have to be like this… but the first change must be in our minds. I believe that change is taking place but how long do we have? A video giving an eye-witness account of the oil pollution in the Gulf of Mexico and the ongoing problems related to it has recently been released in New Zealand. It sounds the tocsin, since the NZ government has granted permission for under sea oil exploration in our waters. If you would like to hear more about the risks, watch the following.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yduv3APYawA&feature=youtu.be

New Zealand takes pride in, and is renowned for, its clean green image. Sadly, it is now a tarnished image and the present government is doing little to improve it. How I wish that we could put ‘Green’ policies at the heart of our planning, whether it be for buildings, transport, power or food production. I know this would be difficult, but there comes a tipping-point after which change becomes almost impossible. The old ways are forgotten: the new ways do not work. I do not want to accused of being an alarmist, but as a writer I must speak the truth as I see it. Paradise reached that tipping point and nature began to rebel. So what are we seeing now with mighty storms in the USA, the worst flooding in Europe for hundreds of years and accelerating levels of CO2 in the atmosphere? The Disestablishment of Paradise is more than just an ecological cri de coeur, but it is a warning, and a recognition that life is precious and very vulnerable. My greatest fear is that we have not evolved institutions which combine compassion with realistic forward thinking: had we done so, we would not be in the mess we are now in. 

3.            Congratulations on your novel Mr Mann, I etc. Following on from that, do you think that in the final analysis your novel is, overall, mostly optimistic or pessimistic: I have my definite opinion about that as a reader, but I’m interested in your thoughts as the author. I think there is a paradox here: books which face the reality of our condition can be seen as pessimistic, but the very act of facing that truth is liberating. Thus a book which deals with suffering can remain positive since it celebrates the human spirit. That is why tragedy – even as extreme as King Lear – is ultimately uplifting. 

In terms of the Disestablishment of Paradise, the book is finally optimistic. But optimism comes at a price and is hard won. The  clever, manipulative mentality represented by Timothy Isherwood and Dr Hilder van Terfel control the world. They have the power and they will use it ruthlessly to their own advantage. In the book they are finally defeated and humiliated – but only because enough good people, fair-minded people, honest people stand up to them. In the back of my mind was the quotation from John Stuart Mill: “‎Bad men need nothing more to compass their ends, than that good men should look on and do nothing.”

In the following, I quote from the second chapter of the D of P. Abhuradin, captain of the space platform above Paradise is speaking. She and Hera Melhuish have just had a bruising encounter with Timothy Isherwood and Hilda van Terfel, and both women are a bit shaken and angry. Abhuradin is speaking

And, yes, I do take a keen interest in the economic well-being of Paradise, because I do not want to see it ruined. In my view this would have been a rather nice place to bring up children. Or do you not think of such things?” Hera did not reply. “But worst of all Dr Melhuish, worst of all is to know that you haven’t a clue about what is really going on now. Have you?”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“That meeting just now. What do you think it was about?”

Hera thought for a moment. “Well. They were trying to make a fool of me, thanks to you.  And that van Terfel woman, was clearly primed. But overall I think they were trying to calm us down so that we wouldn’t make too much of a fuss. Buy us off with promises of redundancy payouts. It is an old trick.”

“Wrong. Dr Melhuish. Zero out of ten, Dr Melhuish.” Abhuradin was speaking more softly now and approached Hera until she was very close. “They had a number of agendas, one of which was winding you up so that you would make a fuss and demand an appeal.”

“Why?”

“Because they want you out of the way. When the appeal comes, they’ll crush you. I don’t know how, but they will. They will have something over you, and their planning is probably well advanced already. And then, when you are safely out of the way, they’ll close down Paradise, for a while.”

“What do you mean, ‘for a while?’ Stop talking in riddles. If you know something that I don’t….”

“I know no more than you. But, I know how these things are done. You watch. They’ll disestablish Paradise all right. But they’ll leave the space platform in place. This platform on which we are standing. I stake my career on it.”

“And why would they do that? You heard what that van Terfel woman said about it costing so much money to keep the platform open.”

Captain Abhuradin looked at her in disbelief, and then she spoke very slowly and distinctly. “After about five years, or ten maybe depending on sensibilities, someone somewhere will come up with the bright notion that a place is needed for recreation. And then someone from somewhere else will remember and say “What about that derelict old planet Paradise?” Then they’ll talk to someone in high places who will tell them, “Sorry there is an environmental restriction order placed on Paradise.” Shock! Horror! “But we won’t do any harm. In fact we will enhance the environment. Take me to your leader.” And within a couple of years they’ll be in. And all your nightmares about kiddies’ rides and old folks homes will come true… but it will be worse. It will be a hundred times worse. It will be more terrible than you can ever imagine… because there will be no one here to stop it. Not me. Not you. That is why they need to get rid of you, and all your friends at ORBE, and me too – because I am not thought of as a friend. Come back in ten years and then we’ll see you weep. Those lovely mountains. Those clear seas. No fish there I understand. Is that right?” Hera nodded. “Well there will be. Specially engineered game fish – fresh-water marlin and swordfish. I wouldn’t mind betting that Dr van Terfel has already taken out shares in her grandson’s name. She knows a bargain when she sees one. And she knows a sucker too.”

“What you are saying is nonsense.” Hera tried to sound confident, but her voice sounded weak even to her own ears. “Secretary Isherwood signed the environmental decree. It is ironclad.  ‘No Tourism on Paradise.’”

“Did he? Is it? Well perhaps you know more about men and politics than I do. But if I look at Secretary Isherwood with his bright red robe and his smiling face, I see a man who is political to the core. You don’t get to his position without being a bit corrupt, but nothing illegal, mind you – too smart for that. You can be corrupt without being illegal you know… or perhaps you don’t. Perhaps you are all saints down there in your green-houses. But at the end of the day, smiling Timothy Isherwood will come up smelling of roses. When the time is right and the price is right he will find reasons to sell Paradise to the highest bidder and will introduce a policy review or some such to overturn the environment order. Don’t look so shocked Hera. Use your brain for a change “ She paused and then added, “Like all clever people, the only thing you don’t ever seem to realize is that the enemy is at least as clever as you are. The difference being that they have vastly more power than you… and absolutely no hesitation about using it.”

Captain Abhuradin paused, saddened by the import of her own speech. When she spoke again her tone was more measured. “Your clever quotation earlier about a few good women doing nothing… Well in my view, there are only a few good women and a few good men too, – Tim Isherwood is probably one of the better ones – and the good people have to sleep sometimes and that is when the bad boys do their business. Good bye Hera. Go back down and join your own kind. Write your report.”

Hera stood still. Abhuradin’s words had shocked her and, as happened to her when in a state of shock, she had momentarily become a block of wood. The awful reality behind Abhuradin’s words was dawning on her. Finally she spoke and her voice was small. “Will you be coming to the judicial review?”

“Not unless I am ordered to attend. I shall not be putting in an official submission. No point.      But in any case…”

“In any case what?”

“In any case, I do not want to be there and see you humiliated.”

In writing this I was attempting to show the way an exploitative mind-set operates. The fact is that the Isherwoods and van Terfels of our world would have won had Paradise its self  not decided to take matters into its own hands and protect its self. The very fact that Paradise is now closed to humans is a cause of sadness, because it was so avoidable!

When I was writing the book, I certainly did not feel it was pessimistic, and nor have those who have read it. I believe this is because most of the book is affirmative of the human spirit. The Dendron, with its carefree spirit is saved. Love triumphs even though Hera has to leave Paradise – her fate is to be the one who bears witness. That planet is now cleansing its self, with the aid of certain humans – and it will be a long hard fight, I am sure. But Paradise will triumph if only because greed, manipulation, cheating etc. are ultimately, in their very nature, self-destructive.

Thus, there is movement and there is life. However, I was also aware, that I was quite close to tragedy. And Tragedy, let us remember affirms the human spirit by facing adversity and one’s fate directly. I am reminded of the words of F. L. Lucas in his short book called, simply Tragedy. He ends chapter 3  with the following words. “Tragedy, in fine, is man’s answer to this universe that crushes him so pitilessly. Destiny scowls upon him: his answer is to sit down and paint her where she stands.”

4.            Congratulations on your novel Mr. etc. You have spent most of your professional career working in universities, in the creative field of drama. The word “cleverness” has for you a negative connotation, it implies that someone is merely clever at the risk of something as important or more important.  Questions: How do you rate cleverness? What is the positive antidote to “mere” cleverness, and where do you locate it in daily living and interactions? Hera is cleverer than Mack, but Mack, not Hera, becomes one with Paradise. In your experience, are women both cleverer and more intuitive than men? (I could ask how you now look back on Victoria University of Wellington as an institution and as a community, but I won’t…)

This is a monumental question, or a whole heap of questions. ‘Cleverness’ is, I think, captured nicely in the Wilde’s phrase about people who know “the price of everything and the value of nothing.” Wilde was replying to a question about cynicism, but the cap still fits. I think I see ‘cleverness’ as almost the antithesis of wisdom, for wisdom always seeks value beyond advantage. Cleverness can be achieved by reading books: wisdom comes from living with reflection. One of the movements in the book is for Hera to move from being clever to becoming something beyond that – I want to avoid the word wisdom. She has suffered, but she has also discovered and continues to be inspired by a deep love both for Mack and for Paradise. She has found the truth inherent in Milton’s sonnet on his blindness : “They also serve who only stand and wait.” I can not pretend to understand Mack beyond saying that he is an instinctive man with the mana of a great leader – though he would never say that. If you asked him where he gets his ability from, he would probably say his ‘granny’. I have known men and women who are both clever (in a generous way) and intuitive – and that has made them into good and abiding friends. To answer your question as directly as I can, I think the world would be a much safer place were it more controlled by women, if only because women are more in contact with their intuition. But men are changing too. Beyond that, generalizations are misleading.

5.            Congratulations on your novel etc. I love the wit and linguistic intuition deployed in your choice of proper names. Proper names and nonsense are always rooted in the particular genius, the intimate spirit of a language. As a translator, I have vaguely consider how I would deal with the names in an Italian translation. Could Gin and Tonic, two glowingly colourless liquids be translated as Campari and Soda. I think not, because the red would throw a totally different light over Paradise.  So two questions. How do these proper names come to you? And does it ever happen that, as a character develops, a name originally chosen turns out to be wrong, or are the names, once chosen, fixed points that never change?

1) How do the proper names come? In my case, the names just come to me as needed. It is no secret that the name a writer gives to character may come to have a deep significance of which the writer may be unaware. I discovered that with the name Pawl Paxwax when I wrote The Fall of the Families. I thought of Hera, in the D of Paradise, before I thought of the classical implications of her name, though I am sure those associations were somewhere in my mind. They were not part of my conscious intention.

2) In my experience, once a name is given it rarely changes but simply grows with the character. I do not write allegorically – though Hackabout might come close. Sometimes the names I use are consciously playful. Thus Dorothy is called Polka, which somehow fits her personality. I do not know where the name Abhuradin came from. I saw her initially as having long dark hair and a brown skin. Later this became a name which could be twisted into many different shapes, depending on who was speaking. That became a kind of game for the other characters. She is, of course, very beautiful – and is adept at handling this not in an exploitative way, but out of necessity. 

6.            Congratulations on your etc. Mack’s wisdom draws particularly on his granny’s experience and poetry. Two questions: To what extent does this draw on you own experiences with older relations or older people in general: and The novel is dedicated to your grandchildren; what sort of grandfather are you are you, and what sort of grandfather do you want to be?

1) I am sure that Mack’s Granny derives from both my Grandmother and my Mother – both of whom I would classify as wise women. My Grandmother had a hard life but was one of the kindest people I have ever known. She used to let me help her cooking and would make up stories. My mother loved poetry and would often quote poems. She also was a wonderful, wild storyteller. 

2) What sort of grandfather am I? You must ask my grandchildren. I shall be happy if, at the end of the day, my grandchildren remember me as someone who was fun, a bit disreputable perhaps, but definitely on their side.

7.            Congratulations on etc.  Following on for this, there is a lovely thread of quotation and reference running through the novel which provides a special novelty to those who recognise them, but this is never, in my opinion, something flaunted and gratuitous. There are a number of references but Shakespeare predominates. My next question is rather complicated and circuitous, but here goes. “By indirections find directions out…” That of course is the suspect and Machiavellian Polonius, but taken out of context the quotation seems to me to describe a favourite narrative manoeuvre and favourite pattern of yours. Our way to the truth is never direct, but goes in roundabout ways, following the circling paths, the whirlpool, the crop circle, of a Michelangelo-Reaper. So my question is this. Your life has brought you to this point, of being a grandfather and writing this novel. Have the crucial choices you have made in  your life, the decisions whether to turn to the left or to the right, been based on conscious choices or on hunches? A less personal way of framing this question is: How do we come to the truth of our experience and distil it in a novel?

I need to think a lot more about this. It is a very good question.

8.            Congratulations etc. Mack teaches Hera how to be a bloke working in a team: you don’t engage in useless talk, you don’t compliment people directly, you are laconic, ironic, matter-of-fact and you just shut up, don’t indulge in emotions, and get on with the job. And if you get into a life-threatening situation you have to know exactly and in advance who’s calling the shots. Were you drawing on any personal experiences when you wrote this, or were they mostly stories and reports which triggered your imagination?

Those words came from Mack. When one is writing well, that character speak for you. You don’t have to plan anything. It happens, and then you just tidy up the loose ends. So, in a way I was a bit surprised to hear Mack say these things.

At the same time I have done some dangerous jobs in my time, jobs in which one has to trust one’s buddy. It can be a matter of life or death. Working at the top of a ladder high in the grid hanging lights of scenery can be very scary. I was once in that situation with someone who was handling scaffolding pipes. He turned round with a long pipe and struck me. Luckily I saw it coming and was able to hang on – but if it had knocked me off the ladder I would not be writing these words now. At the same time, I worked with another man in the grid and I knew that he would never make a mistake like that. He knew danger intuitively and so one was safe with him. On another occasion, when I was a young man, I was working as ploughman on a farm in the North of England. I  had to reverse the tractor so that another man could attach a shackle. One slip from me on the tractor clutch and he would have been crushed by the plough. Such things make one very thoughtful. Mack is just being careful. When you are in real danger, you want to be with realistic people, not heroes or gamblers. And Mack is right. Clever people might ask questions or argue the toss, and the  next thing you know, the ship is on the rocks.

9.            Congrats etc. With reference to literary patterns and antecedents, I’d add this. Your novels have an epic sweep. The epic, rather than “science fiction”, is your preferred genre. From the Renaissance onwards, the great modern epics have always included an episode in which the protagonist dips out of martial action and enjoys a pastoral interlude, before they are jolted back by some means to resume their destinies in “the real world”, which involves blood and death. I don’t know if you ever read a well-known critical book of our youth, which covered the topic of literary paradise, entitled“The Earthly Paradise” by an author called Giamatti. A paradise has always been conceived of as a garden. I gather that the Greek word from which “paradise” derives was originally used by Xenophon to describe the parks of Persian kings and nobles. Milton of course – not, I would imagine but I may be wrong, a favourite author of yours devoted his novel – at the end of this sequence of Renaissance epics, devotes his entire poem to the expulsion from the biblical paradise. At the end of his “Purgatory”, Dante, who has been led through hell, has to be purged of sin in order to re-enter the Garden of Eden in a renewed state of innocence, as a new Adam. I’d better try and get a question or two out of these ruminations. I won’t ask you to what extent did any of this literature condition you, consciously or unconsciously: that might be a question too complicated to unravel. Try these: What importance do gardens and gardening have for you and why? and Does the lure of your gardens ever outweigh your desire for fame through wrestling with words?

1 What importance do gardens have for me? A great deal. Many of my happiest memories as a child are to do with the time I spent mucking about in gardens. But they are also places of contemplation. I love, for example, the idea that the teachings of  Epicurus took place in a garden. I am somewhat a follower of Epicurus though we know little about him. I love the perfume of flowers, the busy buzzing of bees and the strange creaking of trees. At times being in a forest, or in the bush in New Zealand is like being in a cathedral. When I die, I would like my ashes to be sprinkled in a garden and hope fully they will help the flowers grow. For a while I studied Herbalism and I still believe the best cures are those provided by nature – which is not to say I do not appreciate our developments in surgery and medicine.

2. Does the lure of the garden outweigh … wrestling with words?  Yes. When I finally hang up my type writer – ok computer – I can think of nothing nicer than sitting in the garden with a good book and a glass of wine never out of reach.

10.       Cong. etc.  One of the greatest characters in the novel is yet another female, Sasha Malik. Two questions.

i)          Did you write the Documents as you went along, or are they early compositions as you built up your picture of Paradise by constructing its history, or are they, or some of them, afterthoughts.

 Yes. I wrote then as I went along. The documents came, more or less as needed. Writing them gave me an understanding of what was happening. Thus, when I wrote Sasha Malic’s story Shunting A Rex, it was so that I could get a sense of a Dendron in full motion. At the same time, I discovered this wonderful storyteller Sasha who wrote about Paradise with intimate assurance. She wrote about the Paradise she knew as home, and she was one of the wild women of Paradise (of which there were many) who would follow their heart regardless of the consequences. This encouraged me to write other stories by Sasha since via her stories I could – painlessly, as it were – convey more information about Paradise. I too was learning from Sasha and I could hear her voice very clearly in my head. In the story How the Valentine Lily Got its Name, I was able to show how Sasha took a real and horrific incident of cruelty – an example of the kind of thing which was polluting the mind-space of Paradise – and was able to transform it into a love story. Sasha is truly a child of Paradise: her body would never be rejected and exhumed. She became very real to me, almost a kind of guide. At one point I did think of writing more stories by Sasha just for the sheer joy of doing it. 

Thus, the Documents are an integral part of the text. They help explain the novel and give depth to the incidents. It is via the Documents that we come to see that the brilliant Professor Shapiro is a wounded hero, an addict to the plum, and his tragedy is that he knows that when his end comes, he will be rejected by Paradise. Hence he asks to be sent back to England.

The document  One Friday Morning at Wishbone Bay is integral to the novel. It allowed me to reveal the Dendron as Marie Newton and her children saw it. I was able to use this as the basis for Mack to work from. He has to go back to first principles and realize where Marie Newton got it wrong. There was a certain finesse about that.

Anyone who thinks the Documents are just a fancy add-on is deeply mistaken.

ii)         If this were a traditional picaresque novel, the documents would feature as inserted tales and documents included in the main body of the narrative – as such items are in fiction from Don Quixote to Pickwick Papers. How do you envisage your readers reading them? Interrupting their reading as they go along, or reading them as a set as they go along, as an appendix or postscript? Are they integral to the story or add-ons, in your authorial view?

I did not know how the audience would read them. I wanted the Documents to be able to stand alone; but at the same time, I was at pains to direct the reader to a relevant document when it would amplify the event. I wanted also for each of the Document writers (Sasha, Shapiro, Marie Newton, Wendy Tattersall etc.) to have their own voice. I wanted the to add to the texture and density of the novel. Clearly, Olivia Ginger had done her homework in preparing the text.

 There we are. Thank you for these questions. You made me think more deeply about the book.  I hope my answers are clear.

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Cover Illustration by Chris Moore

Published by Victor Gollancz. London. March 2013.  ISBN 978-0-5713262-7

***

The Disestablishment of Paradise

Review written by ‘Antony’ of SF Book Review. April 5^th 2013

http://sfbook.com/the-disestablishment-of-paradise.htm

Something is going wrong on the planet of Paradise: crops will no longer grow while those imported are withering and dying in their droves. The indigenous plant life (never entirely safe) is becoming wildly unpredictable and dangerous. And so the order is given to abandon Paradise, all personnel to be removed and re-assigned – all human presence on the planet will be disestablished.

There are some who believe that Paradise still has secrets to reveal and more to offer the human race and that the risks of staying are far outweighed by the potential rewards. Hera, the leader of the research team is one person and together with Mack, the leader of the “demolition” team sets off across the planet to find the near-mythical Dendron, the last of it’s kind.

The Disestablishment of Paradise is an incredible book, it’s got that indescribable feeling of a science fiction classic; told by a talented story-teller and spoken in a confident voice. It’s also quite different to anything I have read before, a wonderfully alien world that is described in brilliant detail that feeds the imagination as Comparisons to Ursula K Le Guin’s seminal works such as The Word for World is Forest are inevitable; as is just about any novel that focuses on world ecology and man’s nature to control, hunt and strip a habitat for their own ends. The Disestablishment of Paradise does an admirable job of educating the reader without preaching to them (a mistake many fall foul of) – while also evoking the grand majesty and mystery of something truly alien in a way no book has quite managed to before (only Peter Hamilton coming anywhere near).

This alienness is truly remarkable which together with Hera’s and Mack’s relationship is amongst the highlight of the book. That’s not to say there isn’t anything else to like: the story is well constructed, feeling very organic in nature and moving forward without the reader even realising and the prose is quite exceptional; evoking a true sense of wonder on a number of occasions. Even amongst all this alien flora there is a certain sense of reality too, grounded by the earthy narrative structure and no-nonsense dialogue.

Science Fiction in the truest sense of the word, The Disestablishment of Paradise is everything a genre book should be; accessible, entertaining, rewarding and thoughtful – awakening a sense of wonder very much like those authors did in the golden age of science fiction.

***

The book was awarded 4 out of 5 stars

The approach to reviewing adopted by SFBook.com, (the website from which this review was copied) is explained in their ABOUT US section. ‘Antony’ – who wrote the review – explains:

SFBook Reviews is a none profit book review website designed to showcase the very best fiction, most of which will be within the genres of Fantasy, Sci-fi or Horror. The website is one of the oldest of it’s type still going, beginning way back 1999 before the advent smart phones, flying cars and politician expenses fraud…….

You will probably notice that the majority of reviews tend towards the positive and this is mainly due to the fact that I choose very carefully which novels are accepted, there simply is not enough time in the world to read too many badly written books. Even after all these years a few do sneak through, however these tend to be few and far between.

We are always willing to accept guest reviews and welcome anyone who wants to be a regular contributor to the website.

The Reviewers

Ant (Antony Jones)

The website is owned, designed and managed by myself – Antony Jones (Ant) and I also provide the actual reviews, which are the personal opinion of myself. All of this is done in my (limited) spare time and as such there is a real finite amount of reviews that can be published on the site.

I always read the full book before writing a review and try to be as constructive as possible. You may notice that some reviews are shorter than others around the internet and this is mainly due to the fact that I try and give as little of the actual plot away as possible so that the joy of exploring the story is not damaged for the reader in any way.

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