This was the third Peter Ackroyd book I tried to read. First was his biography of Thomas Moore C which I finished and enjoyed. The second was ¡°London - a Biography¡± C which I loved to distraction at the outset but didn¡¯t finish because it exhausted me with its cyclical (I won¡¯t say repetitious) structure.
¡°London¡± and ¡°Albion¡± share the trait of collecting many aspects of their subject with little chronological progression C so that the reader is lead along with ¡°another aspect, another aspect, one after another..¡±
In the case of London I was finally exhausted and gave up C although I had started with an excitement and love for the subject that was (I assume) all that Ackroyd had wanted to induce. But it just didn¡¯t sustain in the face of continuing new aspects C again and again C with no apparent development or other sequencing to provide an over-riding structure. In fact the lack of development was for me so intense it ate away at my interest, energy and finally my patience. When I was reading it, I had visited London several times and was en-route again C so interest was high and the subject was not unknown C but I am not an intimate of London. It is not my city.
¡°Albion¡± takes a loosely chronological approach. Not strict C but enough for the reader to sense progression as it unfolds. This is a major difference but not the key one I think.
Ackroyd¡¯s subject here is ¡°the English Imagination¡± C but really the whole spectrum of art, literature experience and thought. For my reading, there were ample of Ackroyd¡¯s points that resonated with my own experience of (especially) literature, but also the art of England, and the imagination-stimulating atmosphere of its monuments (StoneHenge, Winchester Cathedral and so on) and places (Lake District etc). The sequentiality of the book is an assisting catalyst C it helps the reading experience by avoiding a vacuum of structure C but it is the sharing of emotions based on books, paintings and places that is the chemistry that makes reading ¡°Albion¡± a massive enjoyment.
For this reader, English literature is my literature C and Ackroyd is pointing to its inherent patterns, just as he does with English painting and the other aspects that are part of the ¡°English imagination¡±. Given then that reader and writer are intimates of the subject and there is enough apparent structure for the reader to sense progression as opposed to seemingly interminable chaotic cycles, then ¡°Albion¡± becomes a memorable joy to read.
Ackroyd reminded me of so much of what I have enjoyed with so many books read, music heard, etc C but he also loosely sketches out continuing themes and threads. So my delights are brought to mind and compounded as they are shown to have an inter-relationship. I compliment Ackroyd that these inter-relationships are such soft tones and colours that they never obtrude with didactic adamance, but instead massage and tinge the memories invoked.
And here I fear the book narrows its relevance. I really could not image anyone with scant knowledge of ¡°the English Imagination¡± - or worse without a love for it C finding a tight understandable thesis in this book. By analogy it¡¯s a little like a photo-album C if it contains pictures of people and events you know and love, reviewing it can be most enjoyable, but if not it is almost always a rather boring experience.
The actual thesis of the book C ¡°the Origins of English imagination¡± C side-steps a crisp definition of exactly what is ¡°the English Imagination¡±. Ackroyd exploits this to allow his definition a maximum of extent and flexibility to allow him opportunity to go in any direction his temptations lead him. Nor is there a scalene and exact definition of the ¡°origins¡±. Yet somehow this imprecision is apealling as any absolute nominations of influence must fail as they would render pedestrian and mechanical a chimerical and spiritual thing.
So for me, Ackroyd¡¯s ¡°Albion¡± is a marvelous experience and has sent me back into English literature re-energized to experience what I have not yet read and to discern cross-references of colour and tone that gently and equivocally tie the whole (very loosely) together.
But for anyone seeking a hard crisp polemic, or anyone motivated to read a book on the English imagination curious of what that subject might be, they will I think give up on it before they finish it, or finish complimenting their persistence rather than Ackroyd¡¯s clarity of insight.
