Why Adam Thorpe is not celebrated as one of the best writers in the world I just cannot fathom. It might be that he transcends any genre category so critics don't quite know how to place him. Or it might be that his oeuvre is perceived as uneven simply because it has such a wide range. In these times where readers and writers alike are categorised and pigeon-holed to a ludicrous extent, someone you just can't pin down should be valued beyond the norm. Like Jim Crace, with whom he shares many attributes, Adam Thorpe deserves better recognition for the sheer brio and adventurousness of his writing, not to mention it's cerebral qualities.
Hodd is not an easy read. It is steeped, broiled - almost pickled in the medieval mindset where every thought must be fed back to God and embroidered with religious reservations. The manuscript on which it is based is presented as being a recovery from the ruins of a French church (where it may have been hidden by a travelling mendicant at some time in the last century - for the narrative is being translated in the 1900s, during the First World War) and tells of the events of a few months in the life of a miserable peasant, educated by a holy hermit, taught letters and to play the harp as a child, who falls in with a band of outlaws led by the eponymous Robert Hodd. Favoured by Hodd, he eulogises and thereby creates the legend of Robin Hood, though this is not a tale of good deeds to the poor and ill-treatment of the rich, but one of venality, rapine, violent robbery and murder.
Caged about by scholarly footnotes this document represents an almost hallucinatory vision into the reality of medieval existence: brutal, verminous, filthy and vibrantly irreligious as Hodd first deepens his hold on his gaggle of lost souls with talk of a world made free by the banishment of the concept of sin - "And all things created shall be the property of the free spirit, whether living or inanimate; and so the poor shall be made rich and the present and horribly covetous rich be slain and cast into ditches, and every great house or abbey or palace be burned, and no man's wife or daughter be any more his and his alone, for lechery and adultery are vices only in the fallen world, and the world of the free spirit is unfallen!" The footnote for this speech remarks that Hodd's rantings are similar to the beliefs of the Brethren of the Free Spirit, first identifiable in France and along the Rhine at around the time of this narrative (the 1220s).
From this it is possible to see the germ of ideas that later surrounded Hodd's activities and were eulogised into legend. Our own miserable narrator, however, presents the truth behind the legend, knocking it into a cocked hat at the same time as he is coerced into singing the praises of his misshapen and irredeemably venal band of brethren.
So no, this is not an easy read but it repays patience and determination to live for the space of the book in this fascinating rendition of our medieval past. The rewards are very great in terms of understanding and revelation. The pleasure is in the language, cadence, feeling and Thorpe's insight into this strange and wonderful world.