Lothair Coningsby, a Warden of Lunacy no less (although sadly, his duties/experiences in this position are not enlarged upon), inherits a collection of playing cards, among which is a set of tarot painted on papyrus. Henry Lee, a lawyer of gypsy origin newly engaged to Coningsby’s daughter Nancy, recognises these as the original tarot paintings and part of a set of gold tarot figures in the possession of his grandfather, Aaron Lee, and determines to reunite the cards with the figures in order to solve their mystery and gain power for himself. An experiment with Nancy proves to Henry that she has a natural sensitivity to the occult, and she promises to help him. The Coningsbys are invited for Christmas to the house of Aaron Lee to achieve this end and, on the table in the inner sanctum behind the black curtain, witness the eternal dance of the golden figures of the tarot as they weave through a mist of their own creation. To the amazement of Aaron and Henry, Sybil, Nancy’s aunt, becomes the first person in living memory to see the stationary figure of the Fool taking part in the dance. This, as well as her name, her serenity, her insistence on Love and her seeming ability to understand and placate Joanna, an incoherent and aged relative of the Lees (who believes she is Isis looking for the lost Osiris) that they met on the road, seems to mark Sybil as having somehow reached a higher level of humanity, and this is borne out during the supernatural chaos that follows. Henry attempts to obtain permanent possession of the cards by killing Nancy’s father, using those same cards to raise elemental forces, but in her attempt to save her lover from the blizzard he’s called up Nancy knocks the cards from his hands and they scatter to the winds, so losing Henry the ability to halt the mayhem and stop the destruction of the whole world.

First published in 1932, the initial pages feel very dated in both language and the characters that move through them, and the mingling of the contemporary mundane material world and the metaphysical world that make up the plot. Some seem little more than stereotypes (archetypes?): the bluff but good-hearted patriarch, the down-to-earth brother, the mad crone, the girl who’ll do (almost) anything for her lover. And like Nancy, there’s a feeling here of finding one’s way through some lost branch of the Mysteries, a sense that if only one could grasp the shifting and hidden meanings and relationships between the tarot archetypes and their human counterparts and access the messages that seem to be concealed in the book some enlightenment will follow. There’s the sense too that Charles Williams was supremely confident in his own view of the occult as portrayed in the book, in Christianity (Christmas and the missing god/child must be significant), and above all, the redeeming power of Love, yet I couldn’t help wondering exactly how deep was his knowledge of the tarot itself, and whether he used the archetypes of the major arcana or the greater trumps merely as a fictional device to put across a quite different message.

Some knowledge of the tarot archetypes and images will provide not only food for thought but temporary anchors or moments of clarity, especially during the blizzard in the latter third of the book, although it could be that having read The Greater Trumps some readers may be driven to delve more deeply and research the fascinating tarot itself. Henry Lee and Nancy are clearly The Lovers of the major arcana, the roles of the others seemed less constant, and working them out and trying to tie it all together a task whose worth each reader will have to decide for him or herself. Charles Williams was an enigmatic character, ” a member of The Inklings and a creative Christian theologian with connections to both C.S Lewis and Tolkein, and had (arguably), knowledge of the magickal theory and practice of societies like The Golden Dawn. The book leaves one with the feeling that to reread will be to discover insights missed the first time, so I’ll be hanging on to this one.

But having said all that, there is a special something about this book, although I’m not quite sure what it is. Kimya is a young girl who lives with her family in a rural village in thirteenth century Anatolia. Her “otherness’, a sort of mystic spirituality that she doesn’t really understand herself, reminded me of Nell Grey’s Ellie in The Golden Web, and like Ellie, Kimya finds herself separated from her family and treading a quite different path from the one set out for her. Her “otherness’ is recognised by Maulana, a wise man and teacher from Konya (the Sufi poet Rumi), and she’s adopted into his family where she is happy absorbing his teachings (seemingly by a sort of reverse osmosis), until the wandering mystic Shams enters their lives and changes both Maulana and Kimya for ever.

The author has built her story around the little that is known about Rumi’s life, and reading the notes at the end I felt she’d treated the historical Kimya with a sensitivity that others might have ignored in favour of the sort of dramatic devices and writerly tricks that keep readers turning pages ever faster. Kimya’s spiritual awakening in the final third of the book is paced with sensitivity and tenderness and beautifully described, and comes close to what one imagines the experience of Sufi (or indeed any other) mysticism might be like. Rumi and Shams (and somehow Shams seems by far the more important of the two), are depicted as figures on a higher level of both humanity and spirituality than the other characters, although I have to say that I had my doubts on that score and felt for Kimya and Rumi’s long-suffering and uncomplaining family. Feminists beware,  the women here seem annoyingly understanding and accepting,  yet the ideal reader is almost certainly a romantic (in the broader sense) of the feminine persuasion.

The author’s notes after the epilogue seem quiet and almost loving, and perhaps, in the end, that’s the special something that I mentioned earlier. Like the poetry of Rumi himself, this little book was written simply and with love, and somehow (in spite of the publisher’s calculating hook on the front cover), that can’t help coming through. Although historical reality was almost certainly quite different, Rumi’s Daughter has brought Kimya out from the shadow of the poet into an afterlife all her own.

So far so good. Martin Finch’s job is to devise and build equipment that will expose fraudulent psychic manifestations, and in New York three successes quickly follow. It’s only when a historical character, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle – creator of Sherlock Holmes and avid Spiritualist – proposes the beautiful and wealthy Philadelphian, Mina Crawley, as a contender for the prize that things become complicated for Martin.

Joseph Gangemi has written an engaging and readable novel, sprinkling it with historical events and characters of the times. Quirky details of the America of the twenties make it easy to become immersed in the story, although there were one or two places where I felt the research was showing. One scene in particular has Martin relating his blow by blow observation of a caesarean section and listing the scalpel sizes – unlikely he’d remember detail like that, as he passed out as soon as the baby’s foot appeared. I felt that the author should have taken a scalpel to some of that section himself.

The novel is more like a detective story than anything else – a nod to Conan Doyle perhaps? I was aware of what seemed to be clues and kept trying to note and remember them, and towards the end found myself wondering how the hell the author would manage to tie everything together. The answer is either that (unlike Conan Doyle), he doesn’t, or that I missed something. Whether it’s up to the reader to work it all out afterwards or whether they should have done that as the novel progressed, I haven’t the faintest, but the end left me feeling that to travel in hope was maybe better than to arrive. I’ve thought about the story (and those clues I mentioned), a lot since I finished reading, and think I’ve arrived at the most likely explanation by way of an anagram and the peculiar relationships between Mina and the men in her life, both past and present, although I’m not at all sure whether it’s the one Joseph Gangemi had in mind. I couldn’t help making a connection between the name of Mina’s brother (Walter), and the pigeon (Walter Pidgeon was an actor in silent movies in the twenties), and see that the publishers have pointed up the importance of the pigeon by placing one on the cover of later editions. Perhaps the author has tried to be a little too clever. But in spite of the odd bump and my uneasiness regarding the ending, the novel is worth the journey for its evocation of the era and (maybe) the exercise it affords the brain. I’m less sure about the humour, which has a distinctly modern flavour and jars in places, and I had a hard time believing in Mina’s husband, the more-than-eccentric gynaecologist Arthur Crawley, whose name contains echoes of that of Aleister Crowley, the notorious occultist. With a clearer ending and a bit of surgery with that scalpel I was on about earlier I reckon this debut novel could have been brilliant. Next time maybe.

Most of the stories and stories within stories are Moshe’s own teaching tools, yet each is liable to change from telling to telling. They form a rich and ever-shifting tapestry composed from his and Rivkah’s own lives, from the sacred texts, from his past teachers and the imaginations of both couples. I know, it sounds impossible. How can it possibly work? I can only say that it works stunningly. This is an extraordinary book by a master storyteller. Mitchell Chefitz held me in the palm of his hand from the first page to the last, taking my time, absorbing every word in fascination and delight. The ability to teach by way of stories told simply and without manipulative sentimentality or dramatic devices is a rare one in fiction. There was only one moment of doubt towards the end, when a student told her own story, but perhaps a flaw is needed in any work of art to show the brilliance of the rest.

Mitchell Chefitz is not afraid to address God by one name or other on almost every page of The Seventh Telling. This could so easily have been a problem for seekers, or readers with faiths other than the Judeo Christian, yet such is his skill that the reader never feels that those beliefs are being thrust upon him, and his explanation of the nature of the Divine is little short of perfect, and one to think on.

The Seventh Telling has been constructed with patience, knowledge, care, intelligence and wisdom, but above all, with love. A huge book in every way and a key not only to the Kabbalah, but to what it means to be human.

Part One details the progress of an autistic and severely damaged nine-year-old called Mikey, as Ruth, his nurse, struggles to cope with both the demands of her role in his recovery and her own growing attachment to him. Ruth’s story is cut with those of Mikey’s rich and inadequate parents and an adult patient at the Unit where she cares for the boy. Harry believes he’s living in the last degenerate and desolate days before the Rapture, when God will gather the chosen ones and transport them to heaven before destroying the world and creating it anew. Revealed gradually in different ways, the stories of these characters form a seemingly promising and firm foundation which the advent of Part Two shatters like a bombshell.

I put the book down. I wasn’t going to read on – the characters I’d formed an attachment to had been flung into… …well, I’d better not give the plot away. Not only that but events seemed to be taking the story in a direction that didn’t fit with what I’d already read at all, almost as if I’d picked up a different book by mistake. But I wasn’t let off the hook that easily. OK, I muttered darkly (like they do in novels), do your worst Patrick Harpur, and I’ll write it all out in the review. Part One: brilliant characterization, original content, compelling stuff; Part Two: severe error of judgement.

Big mistake that, picking it up again. I couldn’t put the damned thing down, in spite of the fact that it was one of the most disturbing reads I’ve ever experienced. (Although I have to admit that bookwise, I do lead a fairly sheltered life.) Patrick Harpur is adept at keeping the tension at an almost unbearable level, cutting between characters and their stories – both past and present – until you want to scream. I did feel manipulated – not a feeling I like one bit, so I’m pretty much wrecked now and will probably have to read something old and very literary until I recover.

Not that this isn’t literary – it’s a beautifully researched and written genre-hybrid somewhere between psychologist’s casebook, thriller, and an audience with Doris Stokes, or if you’re too young to remember her, then John Edward. But no, that’s not right either.

The end is extraordinary. It’s as if the author opens a door on the darkness to reveal light. Yet even this rare glimpse of beauty is not the end. As the door closes again another opens. It’s the final page and the real story has just begun. Disturbing (I know, I said that before) and thought-provoking. Read it if you dare.

This is a very filmic novel, although I did have some problems visualizing the opening scenes at the burial mound – due probably to the odd formation of the structure itself. I found the constant scene-shifting in the first third of the story somewhat irritating – the sections seemed too short, the tension-creating device too obvious. For me, the characters could have been developed more – some seemed pretty sketchy and stereotypical, yet even had me doubting that they’d do or say the things they did at times, which tended to catapult me out of the story.

The story and the action are the driving forces of this novel; it’s very much in the thriller genre but thrillers being not exactly my thing I’m probably not the best person to review it. It is well-written though, and beautifully plotted, but I’d have liked more depth and detail regarding the esoteric side – there’s the sense that this is a good hook for selling novels, but there seemed a lack of passion and deep knowledge of the subject on the part of the author, clearly not true given his publishing record, which includes non-fiction esoterica.

To be fair, this did pretty much hold me all the way through, and I thought that using the Foot and Mouth Epidemic as part of the plot was a stroke of brilliance. There are some wonderful descriptions around that section of the novel too – that of the fleeing wildlife is unforgettable.

Shades of Dan Brown here? I’m not sure – I thought the Da Vinci Code a good read (although I won’t be reviewing it as there’s been enough said about it already), and this certainly did have that feel too. And I couldn’t help seeing the albino badger at the beginning as Dan Brown’s albino monk – maybe he was inspired by The Serpent’s Circle…

The novel begins with Chantal, waiting for Jean Marc in the dining room of a small hotel and listening to two waitresses discussing a television programme about missing persons. Later, in her room, she imagines what it would be like to lose him in that way and falls into a disturbing dream in which the past rearranges itself.

The following day, having missed her at the hotel, Jean Marc tries to catch up with her on the shore, and seeing a figure he takes to be Chantal makes his way towards it, only to find when the woman turns that it’s not his lover at all.

From this point in the novel the couple seem to inhabit each other’s dreams and imaginings, each analysing the thoughts and feelings of the other in a way that is wholly believable. The words they speak to one another take on hidden meanings and seem only to deepen feelings that the other is not the person originally perceived and loved. With this loss of identity the isolation of each grows to an almost unbearable degree.

This short novel could justifiably be called a psychological study. I found it so compelling that I read it in one sitting. It’s rare to find a writer who can delve this deeply into the mind of the opposite sex without a single jarring note, yet the author has conjured both Chantal and Jean Marc into being with extraordinary economy and truth. The novel is all the more beautiful for that.

Balian is a pilgrim, travelling in the late fifteenth century to St. Catherine’s shrine in the Sinai Desert and on to the Holy Land, having been commissioned to do a little spying along the way. On reaching Cairo one of his travelling companions (a painter), is violently arrested, he’s unable to sleep without waking with his nostrils spouting blood, and his dreams take on a dreadful reality. He fears he may be suffering from something called the Arabian Nightmare, a disease in which the afflicted suffer horrendous pain in their dreams but wake to total oblivion and ignorance of the fact. How anyone would know about the disease if this were the case is never explained, but don’t allow this to worry you. The book’s like that, and Robert Irwin writes so engagingly that the constant twists and turns, the scholastic references that one makes mental notes of, feeling that they must be incredibly important, only to have them swim away like fishes, all combine to create a work of amazing originality and surprise.

The book is peopled with extraordinary characters; a sleep magician, women with bizarre sexual desires, a female serial killer, Laughing Dervishes, leper knights and more, and a talking ape plays an enigmatic game of hide-and-seek with the reader, morphing into – well I’d better not spoil too many surprises. Interestingly, the phrase ‘Ape of God’ – a Renaissance term for an artist who had reached the height of his powers – kept pushing to the forefront of my mind throughout the book – whether this phrase actually appeared I can’t remember, but it seemed like a key at the time. Many of the characters have some historical basis, and almost certainly work on different levels. The novel is simultaneously a multi-layered puzzle, an allegory (or a series of allegories), a cure for insomnia, a stimulus to dream, maybe even a Gnostic Mystery. I can imagine that if the world were to end tomorrow and mankind all but eliminated that The Arabian Nightmare could, in a future world, be looked on as a sort of bible to be studied and argued over. And there’s almost certainly material enough for a dissertation in it. Dare I whisper that it could even be the author’s joke at the readers’ expense, although I’d imagine that few enough people possess the level of scholarship required to expose it as one.

But for me, it’s enough that Robert Irwin kept me turning the pages, fascinated, puzzled amused and horrified by turns. Maybe he’s Scheherazade’s dark animus, reincarnated to retell One Thousand and One Nights – more likely he’s simply a brilliant storyteller.

Casper moves with and apart from his Bohemian circle, the Serapion Brotherhood, through a city in a continuous state of metamorphosis, his natural curiosity leading him to investigate and experiment with every potential experience that comes his way. Sex, mesmerism, hypnagogic imagery, waxworks, opium, Mass Observation and more. The names of famous artists, philosophers and writers fall from his lips with easy familiarity, and notorious and prominent figures appear and disappear like mirages. René
Magritte, Paul Nash, André Breton, Paul and Nusch Eluard, Salvador and Gala Dali, Aleister Crowley and too many more to name pass like living ghosts through the pages as Casper haunts Bloomsbury, Soho, and the Charing Cross Road, visits Paris and Munich, worries about Caroline and his scattering friends and copes or doesn’t cope with changes, both in his own life and the wider world.

Robert Irwin has somehow performed the magic trick of making Casper endearing and vulnerable, in spite of his wide-ranging knowledge, his seemingly skewed wisdom and his willingness to embrace the darker experiences that come his way, although of course it’s really the author who is almost frighteningly clever, and nothing can be relied upon to be what it seems. Happily that need not deter the reader – Robert Irwin has balanced every element in this brilliant novel with exquisite precision. Not only that but it’s beautifully written, exactly as long as it needs to be and no longer. Exquisite Corpse is going to join the small and select band of novels I’ll never part with – having just finished it I’m feeling an irresistible urge to start again at page one, so the next review may be a while coming. Pure genius.

Having set the scene in Renaissance Italy, Peppe then takes us back to his lowly origins in the back streets of Rome and the hell of his childhood – used and abused by his drunken and whorish mother and despised by humanity in general – until his rescue by the beautiful daughter of a Gnostic patrician and his initiation into the faith, which seems to explain the world from his point of view pretty much perfectly.

I’d have liked a few pages at the end of the book to see how much of the story was based on actual history, especially which secondary figures were real and which created by the author. Pope Leo X certainly existed – I’d guess he’s turning in his grave even as I type this. There’s an acknowledgement in the foreword for:

…much invaluable information on the incidence of sexual perversion in Renaissance Italy…

So, I guess that answers my queries regarding the sensational and erotic episodes that occur with relentless regularity in the first half of the novel. It’s as if the author thought to himself: Right, time for another page or two of sexual antics to perk everybody up.

The better known historical characters like Savonarola, the Medicis and the artists of the Renaissance, and the passages of political and military events were easy enough to recognise as fact, other aspects of Renaissance Italy less so. There’s a rather grotesque and unnecessary little sketch of Leonardo Da Vinci that I’d have liked background for too. The devotees Peppe becomes involved with seem to be spermo-Gnostics – lots of scope for sensation there then.

Moments of disbelief tended to lessen my trust in the author – e.g. is it possible that Peppe would have been allowed to perform that act on the Barbary Ape man in the travelling freak show without having the whole sorry circus thrown into prison or worse? That’s a problem I always have with work of this sort, others may be able to immerse themselves without troubling their minds with such questions.

The novel is well written (keep a few dictionaries handy though – English, Latin, German and Italian should all come in useful), the court of Pope Leo crawling with life and rich in colour. For me however, this aspect of the novel is spoiled by the slimness of the plot (which seems to lapse into suspended animation during a large part of the middle of the story), and pages of political and military background which dominate a sizeable part of the second half. It felt as though the author had copied them directly from a history book, adding an aside or two from Peppe about the quality of Pope Leo’s farts to remind the reader that these are supposed to be memoirs.

Laura, the patrician’s daughter, is a character with great potential who could have been developed – if only to give female readers someone to identify with. It was just a pity she didn’t have a longer appearance in the novel. The author writes with confidence if not aplomb, but for me Pope Leo and his historical era seemed more the focus of the story than the Gnostic sect, which is where my interest lay. My final impression is of a novel that isn’t sure whether it’s a historical textbook, an erotic fantasy, an illumination into the mysteries of the Gnostic faith or the Renaissance viewed through a hall of mirrors.

The following quote from the publisher’s website just about sums the novel up:

Dedalus has invented its own distinctive genre, which we term distorted reality, where the bizarre, the unusual and the grotesque and the surreal meld in a kind of intellectual fiction which is very European.
Our mission is to be unique – an exciting, innovative and distinctive alternative to commercial publishing; to find new talent and put British publishing at the heart of Europe.

I’ll finish with a quote by Phil Baker (The Sunday Times), from the back cover:

The publisher has a special interest in decadence: they must be pleased with this glittering toad of a novel.

I couldn’t have put it better.