A Childhood In Scotland

A Childhood In Scotland, by Christian Miller (1981, John Murray Limited, reprinted by Canongate Books)  

As the sun finally shines again over the rain drenched Lothians, summer seems to have returned, albeit momentarily; and thoughts of happy, lazy holidays drift back to mind.

Some books about childhood, as well as certain children’s books when revisited in adulthood, work magic on the memory and imagination; and recall to mind a world of sights, sounds, smells, tastes and sensations which, as adults, we have painted over many times like kitchen walls – but what if we could gently remove those layers, back through cornfield yellow, candy stripes, silver (what were they thinking?) and 1970s brown sunflower prints; and what if we could travel back through the years and return to the original patterns: what might we remember then?  In the words of English writer Leslie Poles Hartley, in the first line of his own childhood memoir The Go Between: “The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.”

There are many classics of this kind of course, such as Arthur Ransome’s Swallows and Amazons, or my own favourite from childhood, Denys Watkins-Pitchford’s Brendon Chase written under his pseudonym ‘B.B.’– which I have only just discovered was made into a children’s television drama in the early 1980s, and can be viewed on You Tube here.

In this admittedly rather mixed genre I would also include Stevenson’s Treasure Island, his prolific fellow Scots writer and artist Robert M. Ballantyne’s The Coral Island, and Laurie Lee’s magisterial Cider with Rosie, which contains the fabulous encapsulation of his reasons for recording childhood memories, for fear that otherwise looking back, all that he might recall would be a ‘salt caked mud flat’.

There is much of the summer in these books of course: rock pools, sand between the toes, camp fires, thirsty gulps of lemonade and going home tired but happy; and no doubt much that is pure nostalgia.  Written as these all were, however, in different times and places, they can remind us that childhood is always going on all around us and that we, just like children of today, are shaped by our snatched freedoms and imaginative experiences.  Has North Berwick really changed that much from Stevenson’s description of his own summers there in The Lantern-Bearers?

“…you might climb the Law, where the whale’s jawbone stood landmark in the buzzing wind, and behold the face of many counties, and the smoke and spires of many towns, and the sails of distant ships.  You might bathe, now in the flaws of fine weather, that we pathetically call our summer, now in a gale of wind, with the sand scouring your bare hide, your clothes thrashing abroad from underneath their guardian stone, the froth of the great breakers casting you headlong ere it had drowned your knees.  Or you might explore the tidal rocks, above all in the ebb of springs, when the very roots of the hills were for the nonce discovered; following my leader from one group to another, groping in slippery tangle for the wreck of ships, wading in pools after the abominable creatures of the sea, and ever with an eye cast backward on the march of the tide and the menaced line of your retreat…”

And again, like Stevenson, is it not the free and idle times of our youth that we savoured the most, as in his essay An Apology for Idlers?

Christian Miller’s ‘A Childhood In Scotland’ (1981), a part of which first appeared in the New Yorker, has been reprinted and is now available here, is a short classic about childhood from the point of view of a girl, the youngest of six, growing up in her father’s Highland castle in the 1920s.  I tracked down one of the original copies, read it the same day and found it utterly absorbing.  Better than Downton Abbey, this is a genuine and beautifully written account of the vanished life of a thriving Highland community, at the centre of which is the author’s family and their ancient ancestral home.

Christian Miller’s book paints a portrait of her childhood, describing the interiors of the castle, the ghosts, her noble parents and wild siblings, the serried ranks of maids, gillies and gamekeepers, the animals both domestic and wild: but most importantly, she does it all with an immediacy and poignancy that brings her lost world not only to her own mind but also to the reader’s.  There’s no sentimentality, only an honest and fascinating picture.

This book is ideal for a deckchair, possibly after cutting the grass or trimming the hedge; and if you get the chance to read it (or even if you don’t), you might ask yourself what books and stories shaped your own youth?  Why not share them here?

(published at Think Scotland)

  

In praise of John Buchan

        www.thinkscotland.org

‘Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.)’

Walt Whitman, Song of Myself (1855)

It’s August 1939 and war in Europe is less than a month away; but you’re in Ottowa’s stately Rideau Hall, the Governor General’s official residence, in the midst of a cocktail party.  A hubbub of polite conversation and chamber music wafts through the Long Gallery, and the late summer heat drifts through the open doors from the elegant gardens beyond.  The circling guests chatter about the King and Queen’s triumphal visit just two months earlier; the machinations of Herr Hitler; that strange man Mussolini; and as the sun sets, everyone drifts through the doors to watch the fireworks on the lawn.

For once, eschewing the formal garb of his post in favour of demure black tie, the relaxed viceroy Lord Tweedsmuir stands to your right, a cigarette at his lips: but you, newly arrived in Canada and two gins to the better, have not yet been introduced.  “And who are you?” you ask him politely.

Amid the din of the first fireworks exploding in the sky he smiles and introduces himself; and within moments you are in the comfort of his affable company.  Yet in truth, echoing through the decades after his sudden death in February 1940 aged 64, the question is a good one: for who was this son of the manse John Buchan, First Baron Tweedsmuir, fifteenth Governor General of Canada, sometime schoolboy at Hutchesons’ Grammar School and President of the Oxford Union, barrister, First World War spymaster, member of Parliament for the Combined Scottish Universities, Chancellor of Edinburgh University, and writer?

Well, as I hope is obvious from that introduction, John Buchan is someone who defies the pigeon hole.  He simply will not be put in a category, except to say that like Andrew Carnegie, James Clerk Maxwell, Elsie Inglis, James Watt, Mary Slessor or David Livingston, he is one of those Scots who belong not just to Scotland, but to the whole World.  Like them, Buchan still shows us today that Scots who believe in themselves can cry out along with Archimedes: “give me a place to stand and I will truly move the Earth.”

Despite a life which would stretch the bounds of credulity if featured in one of his own novels, John Buchan is a relatively unrecognised figure in modern Scottish life; indeed, if it were not for the enormous fame of The Thirty Nine Steps, even his name would perhaps have faded entirely.  For instance you will search in vain for a statue of Buchan anywhere in Britain (although there is admittedly a fine bust in Edinburgh’s National Portrait Gallery), while the rest of his literary output, not to mention his political life, is surprisingly overlooked – something that the good people at the John Buchan Society hope to put right when an exciting new museum – The John Buchan Story – is unveiled in Peebles’ Chambers Institute next month. Here’s their website: www.johnbuchansociety.co.uk

All of a sudden there is something very modern about Buchan: perhaps it’s a product of our austere times, that heroic characters once again seem appealing?  And there was certainly much that was heroic about Buchan, both in real life and in the characters he created.

A recent review of Buchan in the Independent stated:

“[he] knew that you can’t buck the consequences of your actions, and that your life is what you make of it. Perhaps his peculiarly Scottish combination of Romanticism and Calvinism – daring living and high thinking – is due to return to fashion.”

An anthem for the credit crunch perhaps?

As regards politics, Buchan was a Tory; but a rather unusual one.  Politically he believed in the Union, but had strong nationalist sentiments, stating in Parliament, in the midst of the depression of the 1920s:

“I believe every Scotsman should be a Scottish nationalist. If it could be proved that a Scottish Parliament were desirable… Scotsmen should support it.” 

In the same speech, Buchan reflected on the high emigration from Scotland of the time:

“We do not want to be like the Greeks, powerful and prosperous wherever we settle, but with a dead Greece behind us.”

The issues Buchan wrestled with resonate today; but his were very different times, and it would be simplifying his position to conclude that he was a nationalist in the modern political sense: for Buchan was someone who believed in a strong Scotland within the British Empire of his times; something which he viewed as a great community of nations with shared ideals and principals.  For example, after he was appointed Governor General of Canada in 1935 he quickly established himself as a stout promoter of the country’s national identity.  In 1937 he stated that a Canadian’s first loyalty is not to the British Commonwealth of Nations but to Canada and Canada’s King.” a pronouncement that saw him denounced as ‘disloyal’ in some quarters, when he was in truth anything but that.

Whether Scots, British or Canadian, Buchan believed in the power and identity of the individual, and respected it – something which sometimes caused fear in the hearts of the controlling political class of his day.  He liked people and nations to be true to themselves and reflect their singular characteristics, stating that the diverse ethnic groups within Canada should retain their individuality and each make its contribution to the national character,” because “the strongest nations are those that are made up of different racial elements.  Old fashioned language perhaps, but a clear and modern message in the world of the 1930s.

He was a tireless worker in the ethic of his upbringing, and overcame the natural shyness of the Scot to show the world his mettle.  Between 1896 and 1940 he wrote more than fifty historical works on subjects as diverse as Julius Caesar, the Somme, Oliver Cromwell and Sir Walter Scott, while his fictional output was hardly less prodigious.  Aside from The Thirty Nine Steps and his hero Richard Hannay’s continued adventures in Greenmantle, Mr Standfast, The Three Hostages and The Island of Sheep, many of Buchan’s novels are Scots historical masterpieces like Witchwood (Buchan’s favourite of all his works), an eerie thriller set in a seventeenth century village, focusing on the moral dilemmas faced by the newly appointed minister David Sempill, when he encounters dark forces in the primordial forest which looms above his parish.

 Reading Witchwood recently, it struck me that the book demonstrated just how much Buchan followed in the style and pace of Stevenson, whose short story Thrawn Janet must surely have been a key influence.  Buchan is credited with the creation of the modern thriller, but was he not in turn borrowing from Stevenson’s Kidnapped?  Is Buchan’s work not in fact a natural progression from his eminent Scots forebears in the nineteenth century?

One thing that is undoubtedly true of Buchan is the fluency of his prose: he writes as he was – a wise and natural storyteller at ease in himself and his subject; and I heartily recommend revisiting his novels, many of which have now been attractively reprinted by Edinburgh’s own Polygon Press. www.birlinn.co.uk

Buchan, today, remains fascinating and enigmatic:  you never quite get the feeling that you know him entirely; and like the chase sequences in his thrillers he is always two steps ahead and vanishing around a corner. A collection of political and personal contradictions to rival Whitman, he is nonetheless in the end very human: an honest and good humoured friend, and an optimistic tonic for the cares of modern living.  He deserves to be read much, much more.

  

This article was published on 9 July 2012 on the ThinkScotland website: www.thinkscotland.org

Tortilla in a Hammock

                

Tortilla Flat, by John Steinbeck (Penguin Modern Classics, but first published 1935)

Of all the pleasures of being in a warm climate on holiday (or even when it’s raining, but just a little), lying under the shade of a pergola in a hammock is certainly one of the best – particularly after lunch, I’ve found.  This particular hammock, the one I managed to hoist (is that the right word?) between two stout trees, was a classic of its type; and I had found it covered in cobwebs, rolled up behind the temperamental boiler in a store room off the kitchen, just where the owner said it would be.

It was made of that kind of stiff canvas material, like sail cloth, with weighted tassels all down both sides so that it could be wrapped around you like a cigar – and the canvas connected with cords, drawn together into a single point like a triangle at both ends, to two wooden bars.  Both bars then connected to a stout chain with a clip, so that it could be secured to whatever you chose to sling it between.

After a few failed attempts in various places around the garden (no lasting damage I’m glad to say), I managed to secure it just about elbow height between two trees in the shade of a clambering rose bush which had been trained across some cross beams.  Perfect, I thought, as I stood back to admire my work so far – but what this really needs is two chairs and a tray balanced across their backs as a makeshift table, so that everything you might need is close to hand.  Two minutes later I had my handy hammock–side table assembled, and a few odds and ends to provide essential creature comforts (but no Blackberry I’m glad to say).  Nearly ready now, I thought, as the afternoon sunshine distilled its warmth: silence, other than the crickets chirruping and the bees flitting from flower to flower.

There is then, however, the rather tricky business of getting into the hammock – a particular test for land-lubbers like myself – but after a few nervous attempts and at least one calamity involving the makeshift table, I was finally on board and drifted off into a world created by legendary American author John Steinbeck.

The first Steinbeck book I read was East of Eden (for which he won the Nobel Prize for Literature), and it remains in my list of the best 5 novels of all time – but shamefully I have neglected reading any of his many other novels ever since.

Tortilla Flat – a copy of which was on the shelves in the house – is one of his earliest novels, and the one which really first put him on the map, so to speak.  It’s also a relatively short book, easily read if you’re prepared to put in the hard work of a good few hours in a hammock, for example.

Set in the coastal town of Monterey, California in the early 20th century, the book follows the lives of a handful of down at heel paisanos, with the hero Danny in the centre.  The fairly loose plot is gentle and funny, following the comic-tragic events of each of the main characters in turn – but the real star is Steinbeck and the quality of his writing which shines through on every page.  Steinbeck later revisited Montery for one of his other classics Cannery Row – but as you know I haven’t read that yet!  The book – Tortilla Flat that is, was also made into a 1942 Hollywood movie starring Spencer Tracey and Hedy Lamarr.

This is a great old holiday book, and you can get it here (sorry for the long link) www.amazon.co.uk/s/?ie=UTF8&keywords=tortilla+flat+-+john+steinbeck – or why not try Biblocafe in Glasgow’s West End? www.biblocafe.co.uk – but best of all, here’s a bona fide hammock site! www.lazyhammocks.co.uk

   

Essay writing for the idle

We all have comfort books that we revisit from time to time.  One of mine is George Orwell’s collection ‘Inside the Whale & Other Essays’, a book I revisited the other day in response to a comment that Tolstoy was not a particular fan of Shakespeare.  The collection includes ‘Lear, Tolstoy & the Fool’, a simple yet brilliant deconstruction of Tolstoy’s carping criticisms of the Bard.  Here it is here.

It’s not my favourite essay in the collection though – that place (just pipping ‘Shooting an Elephant’ to the post – sorry King Juan Carlos) is reserved for ‘Politics & the English Language’, which is as true in its insight into the condition of the English language today as it was in 1946, surely the hallmark of a timeless classic. Here it is here.

Then of course there are other giants of the art such as William Hazlitt, Charles Lamb, Thomas Carlyle, G.K. Chesterton, Michel De Montaigne and Francis Bacon to name just a few… but my all time favourite essay and comfort read is Stevenson’s ‘Apology for Idlers’ – good to know we’re appreciated! Here it is here –  happy reading!

Flash Fiction and Hibbert’s Histories

The Flashman Novels, by George Macdonald Fraser (published in paperback by HarperCollins), and the historical works of Christopher Hibbert (various)

Spring is very obviously in the air here in Edinburgh, the rain is unmistakably getting warmer and even the snowfall halts occasionally to give the hailstones a chance!  Here and there crocuses and daffodils brave the elements however, and so all in all there are signs that this particular corner of the great orb is gently moving away from winter towards summer…

Today is a good day for a book by the fireside (or perhaps even a Kindle, Sony Digital, Nook, iPad, or Barnes & Noble for the digitally minded), so here are a number that I’ve been plodding through over the past few weeks.

Thanks to my good friend Alastair Stewart who knows a thing or two about books, I finally conquered my preconceptions and decided to read the first three Flashman novels by George Macdonald Fraser, which he very kindly passed on to me.  The first thing to say is that these books should come with a health warning, because politically correct in any shape or form they certainly are not.  Flashman is the very picture of a cad, coward and gadabout, whose nineteenth century life and adventures are recounted in his own frank terms, as an old man looking back.  Perhaps like Fleming’s Bond stories, they are the kind of books that people could read in the 1970s without batting an eyelid, whereas to our more socially conscious twenty first century minds it all seems rather outrageous, scandalous even!  I genuinely wonder whether a publisher would even agree to print them in this day and age, if Macdonald Fraser were to wander in with his battered manuscripts.

Flashman With a sense of shame almost, I have to state honestly nonetheless that the Flashman books are brilliantly written and researched, easy to read, extremely funny and in many ways as good an education as anyone might require in British Imperial history.  The first book, Flashman, recounts the cowardly hero’s experiences in the disastrous First Afghan War of 1839-42, including the famous retreat from Kabul under the leadership of Lord Elphinstone, descendant of the Bishop of the same name who founded Aberdeen University; the second book, Royal Flash, sees Flashy dabbling in the world of European politics and coming head to head with Germany’s Otto Von Bismark, with all kinds of outrageous consequences too numerous to go into here; and the third book, Flash for Freedom, sees him sail the Atlantic on a slave ship in 1848 before criss-crossing pre-civil war America, where he has numerous run-ins with slavers and abolitionists alike (including the up and coming Abraham Lincoln).  Shockingly and even distastefully frank at times, the books are nonetheless brilliantly reconstructed pictures of the pre and early Victorian world, not as some would perhaps like to see it, but undoubtedly as it actually was.

On the subject of history, one of the finest and most readable historians of the twentieth century is undoubtedly Christopher Hibbert (1924-2008), once described in The Times as probably the most widely-read popular historian of our time and undoubtedly one of the most prolific”.  My first encounter with Hibbert’s writing was The Destruction of Lord Raglan (Longmans, 1961), a mesmerizing account of the Crimean War which won him the Heinmann Award for Literature in 1962.  It was watching The Charge of the Light Brigade (1968, starring John Gielgud and Trevor Howard) which led me to pick the book up.  It is a book I will never forget reading, so gripping are his descriptions of the folly and horrors of that tragic campaign (a subject I’ve attempted to summarise elsewhere in this blog – On the Crimean War).

Charge-Of-The-Light-Brigade DestructionRaglanI’ve since followed up that first experience of his writing with two other books, King Mob (Longmans, 1958), his account of London’s tumultuous Gordon Riots of 1780 led by that famous and very eccentric Scotsman Lord George Gordon, and The French Revolution (1980, Allen Lane).  What makes Hibbert’s historical prose so fascinating is his intense focus on the personalities of those involved.  With the Crimean the key is to understand Raglan himself, every facet of his character and personality: while with the Gordon Riots it’s Lord George “The Mad Scotchman” (which is the title of his opening chapter, beginning as follows):

‘They were, and are, all mad’, Walpole said of them, dismissing in a spasm of irritation all of the members of the Gordon family past and present.  The exasperated judgement was not entirely groundless.  The Gordons had for generations shown occasional signs of something more than eccentricity and at the time of Walpole’s verdict several members of the family were said to be extremely odd.”

And of course when it comes to the French Revolution, Hibbert spends time building in the reader’s mind a clear picture of King Louis XVI:

The new King was nineteen years old.  Although kind and generous by nature, his manner was usually brusque, cold and formal, marked by fits of ill humour and sharp retorts.  His Keeper of the Seals had ‘never known anyone whose character was more contradicted by outward appearances’.  He was ‘really good and tender hearted’.  You could ‘never speak to him of disasters and accidents to people without seeing a look of compassion come over his face, yet his replies were often hard, his tone harsh, his manner unfeeling.’  Hesitant, reserved and ungainly, his appearance, too, was unprepossessing.  He had clear blue eyes and abundant fair hair, but his mouth was over flabby and his chin pale and fat.”

It is often said of Tolstoy, drawing from War and Peace, that his view of history demonstrated the ultimate insignificance of great men such as Tsar Alexander I, or Napoleon: that individuals great or small do not determine the course of events, and everyone is equally carried along by the epic tide.  If there is any truth in that resounding conclusion then it is a truth which Hibbert seems to contradict, since he portrays the chief persons in his histories in a way which shows it is their very own key strengths and weaknesses of character or disposition which ripple out, determining the outcomes when events teeter on a knife edge.  In the final analysis Hibbert’s is perhaps the more practical and realistic appraisal of history, no doubt born out of his own distinguished career as first an infantryman and then captain in the London Irish Rifles Regiment, fighting in Italy during the Second World War (for which he received the Military Cross).

George Macdonald Fraser and Christopher Hibbert are two of our finest and most prolific writers, united by their love of history.  One reveals it through fiction, the other non-fiction; but both paint unforgettable portraits of the characters who populate their pages.  Truly wonderful books.

Edinburgh Fringe Review 2012: The Magicians of Edinburgh

  The Magicians of Edinburgh ***** (5 stars)

Venue: Valvona & Crolla, 19 Elm Row; 15 & 23 August (5.45pm); 22 August (8.30pm)

This review published today at FringeReview.com and ThinkScotland

I followed the early evening crowd through Edinburgh’s famous Italian deli, not entirely sure what to expect from the show’s billing. It proved to be a superb combination of poetry and music by trio Dick Lee on bass clarinet, Anne Evans on flute and Ron Butlin reciting from his latest collection of poems, The Magicians of Edinburgh (2012, published by Polygon).

Ron Butlin was appointed Edinburgh’s own offical poet (or ‘Makar’) in 2008 after a lifetime in music and writing (including novels, short stories and plays); and since then he has celebrated the city’s highs and lows in some of the most original and evocative verses to come out of Scotland.

The opportunity to hear him talk about and recite his poems was something special and the music is more than just an afterthought: Butlin and Lee have worked together on operatic projects and both Lee and Evans are highly accomplished musicians. The combination of all three promised great things.

As the lights dimmed Evans and Lee took to the stage, beginning with their specially crafted piece ‘The Magicians of Edinburgh’, the lighter notes of the flute combining beautifully with the darker chocolate tones of the bass clarinet in an evocative melody. They were then joined on stage by Ron Butlin, who proceeded to take the spellbound audience through a selection of his works accompanied by Evans and Lee. The whole performance was magical, witty and a tribute to the poetic genius of Butlin: it is always special to have a poet recite his own work with special emphasis, but the experience was added to here by the beautifully arranged music. A truly wonderful experience.

Cosily, Butlin took the audience through the thoughts and inspiration for his poetry in between readings, and we were treated to trampolining bankers in ‘The New Town’s Response to the Threat of Global Warming’, ghosts and bogles in ‘Beware!’, a talking tram car in the gloriously Burns-like satire ‘Oor Tram’s Plea tae the Cooncillors O’ Edinburgh’ and the poets shining love of this city in ‘The Magicians of Edinburgh’.

Ron Butlin is the voice of Edinburgh; and for any Fringe follower intent on learning about the modern city behind the Festivals, or wishing to become the sorcerer’s apprentice, this production is a must.

Through a telescope, darkly

The Sky’s Dark Labyrinth, by Stuart Clark (Polygon, 2011)

In the same way it was once thought the Earth was flat, people (important people) used to think that the sun, moon, planets and stars moved across the sky like props on a medieval stage, perhaps even helped along with jerky twitches on strings, or poked with sticks by an out of sight but kind hearted old puppeteer with a white beard.  The Earth didn’t move of course, said the wise, how could it?  No, it was everything else that revolved around it like so many clockwork toys.

We’ve come so far in this post-post-modernist second decade of the twenty first century, that it’s difficult to imagine just how different the world of ideas once was.  Four hundred years ago mildly eccentric old ladies were burned as witches: but the threat of burning also hung over anyone whose views differed from official church doctrine on any number of issues – doctrine which was anchored in Saint Thomas Aquinas’ brilliant (but by the 1600s looking rather shaky) marriage of Christian theology and Aristotelian philosophy, set out in the numerous volumes of his Summa Theologica.  I mean no harm to Aquinas: on the contrary, his thirteenth century writings are among the first lights flickering from the darkness; but after more than three hundred years his ideas were struggling against the dawning light of reason.

We have all seen the stars with our own eyes, and that is exactly how they were observed – even by the Egyptians – right up until the seventeenth century when a few spectacle makers in Holland suddenly realised (no doubt by accident) that by holding one lens in front of another, next door’s windmill suddenly looked enormous.  Within a few years Galileo in Italy had developed the first telescope and was crashing around, knocking down the medieval stage scenery of the skies.

Then there is the great Austrian mathematician and astronomer Johannes Kepler who, separate from Galileo, applied his mind to the recorded observations of his time and deduced mathematically the motion of the spheres.

Nobody liked this, it seems: or at least not many people whose opinions counted – which meant the church, both Catholic and Protestant.

There is something rather obvious, with hindsight, about the advancement of science – and looking back upon the collision between the immovable objects of faith and tradition and the irresistible force of evidence which refutes it, is like watching a very messy car crash in slow motion.

To the Vatican priests of the sixteen hundreds, the view through a telescope presented the reality that Holy Scripture was not literally true, that the philosophers of antiquity whom they adored had limits to their understanding, and that they could not respond by making new theology on the hoof – for who knew what the men of science might discover next, and where would the church be then?

It is a perplexing but fascinating period of history brought to life by Stuart Clark, an enthusiastic British academic, journalist, author and broadcaster who has devoted himself to bringing the world of astronomy to life.  In The Sky’s Dark Labyrinth he has created a fictional account of the development of stargazing from an eccentric and superstitious hobby through to the greatest scientific revelation of all time.  I enjoyed seeing the Jesuits, the brilliant schoolmasters of my youth, cast in their role as sixteenth century thought police, and the glittering circle in which Cardinal Robert Bellarmine moved.

The book is gripping (I read it over the course of two days) and it brings out very sympathetically the tensions of the time both from the point of view of the geniuses Galileo and Kepler and the established Catholic and Protestant authorities.

The even better news is that The Sky’s Dark Labyrinth is only the first in a trilogy: the second book, The Sensorium of God, was published earlier this year by Polygon and the third, The Day Without Yesterday, is scheduled for publication in 2013.  The Sensorium of God deals with the life and times of Sir Isaac Newton and his contemporaries in the Royal Society (such as Sir Christopher Wren, Robert Hooke and Edmund Halley), while The Day Without Yesterday jumps forward in time to the twentieth century, Albert Einstein and his contemporary Father Georges Lemaitre, a brilliant Belgian astronomer and physicist; and proof that a person can be a visionary scientist and still see the hand of God in the marvels of the Universe.

Also published at Think Scotland