I picked this up in a second-hand bookshop in Kingston, Ontario last year, remembering that I'd read and enjoyed the author's What's Bred in the Bone many years ago. The shopkeeper recommended him as a "local author", as Davies was a student at Queen's University before embarking on an illustrious three-pronged career as an actor, publisher and academic, ending up as one of Canada's most distinguished men of letters. This was his final novel (published the year before his death in 1995) and can perhaps be viewed as a summing-up of his thoughts about education, religion, the theatre and Canadian cultural life.
The transmitter of these ideas is Jonathan Hullah, a retired doctor living in Toronto, who compiles an account of his life, his friends and his knack for holistic healing. Hullah is an engaging narrator: sensible, perceptive and amusing, and the wry stories he tells about his interactions with the church of St Aidan's and its assorted array of eccentric parishioners are engaging and clear-sighted. Each character is lovingly sketched in with a sure hand that is a testament to the wide experience of the author, and which creates a stimulating, enjoyable book that is a pleasure to read.
When I finished this book I was elated and sad at the same time. Sad because I didn't want to leave behind the world that the author had created. Robertson Davies incorporated his vast knowledge of a multitude of diverse subjects into this book, thereby painting a picture of Canadian society which is intimate and welcoming, full of so much detail about the minutiae of everyday life and incidental snippets of information, that on finishing the novel I felt like I had been on a long journey, one which was both entertaining and exhausting! Fabulous, fabulous book!
For someone who thought 'Murther and Walking Spirits' was Robertson Davies last book, it came as water in a parched land to discover another. With this author his books are like the legend of the of the seven princesses; each one is more beautiful the the others. It is full of the usual intelligence, humour and fascinating story telling. If you like any you will like this and if you don't know Robertson Davies then go out and buy as many as you can lay your hands on.
After a slow start this novel really takes off into the stratosphere with some really gripping writing, which could only have come from the wise, witty and acerbic pen of RD. As a standalone work it ranks only very slightly below the great trilogies for me, as the structure is a little bit hit or miss at times, and it takes a little too long to get going. Having said that, I would recommend all of his books to any reader who loves great literature dealing with the big themes in an amusing and compassionate way.
This is a very clever piece of work indeed. It starts well, it improves as it goes along and it ties the numerous threads together superbly well, all except one that is obviously intended to hang loose - where was Esme when Conor was murdered? The writing is beautiful, the character-drawing is highly convincing as well as extremely original, but above all this novel is a ballet of ideas. It was written right at the end of Robertson Davies's longish life, and it sometimes reads as if he is trying to cram as many of his thoughts about life in general as he can into 400-500 last pages. If that gives an impression of pretentiousness or of solemnity, I'd say that I was inclined to suspect that kind of thing near the start of the book. The 6th-form debates among the schoolboys and their teachers are extraordinarily articulate and mature, and indeed throughout the whole story the level of intellectual perceptiveness and verbal coherence displayed by not only the main narrator but by more or less everyone else as well requires a little suspension of disbelief on the part of the reader. This is just the style of the book, the name of the game, so suspend disbelief and get on with enjoying it I say. There is plenty to enjoy. The narrator's insights are neither laboured nor obscure but genuinely perceptive and original, and sometimes very funny too, such as Wilde's love that dares not speak its name now evolved, in this enlightened era, into the love that never knows when to shut up. The main thread is the narrator's own life and his observations of others' attempts at lives, and the interpretation he places on it all, partly just from the cast of mind he was born with, partly from the imprint left on him by various traumatic and other formative experiences. The chief subsidiary thread is religion, intertwined with and offsetting the main theme. The narrator is not without a personal interest in the kind of religion that comes his way, but this is Christianity either with a difference or at least showing a side we don't often notice - what might almost be called Trollope red in tooth and claw. My own feeling is that no particular attack on religion generally or on Christianity specifically is being made, but rather that there is a none-too-subtle message here for those inclined to take religion literally. Who or what rules the world and human existence is not something either narrator or author chooses to take a firm view about, and both settle for 'Ananke' - Necessity. The narrator, and by obvious implication his (literary) creator are maybe too clever by half at times, but Ananke is not mocked and there is a sad but delightful little touch of irony at the end at the narrator's expense, given a characteristic further twist when one asks oneself the question that I suggested in the first paragraph of this notice. Indeed I ought to say that the sudden twists and turns in the plot are among the most striking and effective features of the narrative. This may be an old man writing in the persona of another old man, but there is nothing tired in the invention and nothing that even slightly suggests to me loss of freshness. There is real poetry in this story too, and the poetry in verse that it often recalls to me as the moving Finger writes is precisely FitzGerald's Rubaiyyat. There is plenty of Wit in The Cunning Man, and Piety gets a good airing too although not an entirely sympathetic or favourable one. Whether the divinity that shapes our ends is a personal God or an impersonal Ananke what is written stays written and not all our Tears will wash out a Word of it. In which case those of us who have come off comparatively lightly - so far at least - would be well advised to count our blessings, and that was the feeling that was uppermost in my mind as I closed the book.