Customer Reviews

THE CUNNING MAN

5 star:		(14)
4 star:		(11)
3 star:		(5)
2 star:		(4)
1 star:		(1)

 

 

This is my first encounter with Robertson Davies. I had never heard of him, and would not have read him if he weren't noted in the reader's list of the Modern Library's top 100 novels. And how unfortunate it would have been had I not picked up this book!

The Cunning Man is an examination of the life of a doctor, told by himself. Asked to recall the story of the strange death of Father Ninian Hobbes which he witnessed, he recounts his past; his childhood, his schooling, the work of his profession, the influences that have made him who he is. In doing so, he shares with us his observations on the nature of life, love, art, illness, friendship, and many other things. Davies lets us have a picture of life, complete with accomplishments and disappointments, dreams and dreams undone, and makes it real and interesting and intelligent. I can understand the appeal he has for his fans and I will be reading more of Davies' books soon.

When I read Fifth Business I knew instantly that Robertson Davies would become one of my favorite authors. The Cunning Man has confirmed that opinion. Davies is the master of creating passive observer narrators, characters who are fascinating in and of themselves, but remain just aloof and removed enough so as not to feel like they are influencing the course of events in the story. Dr. Jonathan Hullah, the cunning man, is just that type. Observant, witty, charming, and opinionated (when an opinion is required), he narrates an engrossing tale that spans his entire lifetime. As he beautifully unfolds the mystery behind the death of Father Hobbes, as well as weaving several other elegant plot lines, he reveals throughout his thoughtful insights on humanity. This is a delightful book.

As a long-time Robertson Davies fan, I was disappointed with his last novel. To be sure, his understanding of human nature remained exceptional to the end. However, the plot meandered and digressed far too often, and Mr. Davies seemed determined to pack in every pithy aphorism and witticism he could, even if it didn't seem necessary for the narrative. This would not be my first choice for an introduction to the warm and wise world of Robertson Davies.

While reading this book, I could not help but be reminded of the pleasure of sipping a really fine, perfectly aged wine. It was a pleasure best enjoyed in measured, temperate tastings. Thus I cannot disagree with any of the other reveiws, including those which did not care for the book. There are times, after all, when one feels like having a strong cup of coffee, a cup of cold water, or a good thick milkshake, not a leisurely glass of wine. It is not a book to pump up your adrenaline, fascinate you with radical notions or conceits, or dazzle you with intrigue and suspense. It is a story that is told as - and which actually is - an intimate revelation from author to reader, full of wisdom, beauty, and the love of man. It may not be a masterpiece, but I could not help but marvel at the heart and mind of the master who produced it. The end seemed a bit flat, but as I read it, I could not help but imagine that both Davies and Dr. Hullah would not be so presumptuous as to conclude our acquaintance in any manner other than as the most unprepossessing of gentlemen.

Robertson Davies was a Canadian author, arguably the finest Canadian writer ever, who wrote plays and novels on generally Canadian subjects. The novels fit generally into trilogies: The Salterton Trilogy, The Deptford Trilogy, and The Cornish Trilogy, in order of composition, represent his first nine novels. All his novels, however, can be read independently (although at least The Deptford Trilogy probably reads best in order.) To say, as I have said, that his novels are "about Canada" is a laughable understatement, however. I tried to summarize the subjects which Davies covered once for a friend, thinking it would be a tidy list, and I kept going and going: Theatre, Music, Vaudeville, Toronto, Hagiography, Jungian Psychology, Art (particularly "The Old Masters"), aging, medicine, Canadian politics, war, finance, schools (both Canadian "boarding schools" and Universities), and on and on. Suffice it to say that his novels are fascinating, hypnotic, works, usually centered on an artist of some kind.

Anyway, his last two novels (barring a posthumous work) are Murther and Walking Spirits and The Cunning Man, which appear to be the first two parts of another loose trilogy, although both are capable of being read completely independently. The Cunning Man is the story of Jonathan Hullah, a Toronto doctor of somewhat unusual reputation. Hullah narrates the book, and tells his own life story beginning in about 1920 in a very isolated part of Northern Ontario, and continuing through early experiences with the local doctor, and also a Native American healing-woman (treated with respect but without Political Correctness), boarding school, medical school, World War II, and his postwar establishment of his own rather unusual medical practice, which is treated as a court of last resort for cases other doctors have considered hopeless. The key elements of the book are Hullah`s relationships with various people, in particular his school friends Charlie Iredale and Brocky Gilmartin (the latter the father of the narrator of Murther and Walking Spirits), his English lesbian landladies, called The Ladies (also treated with respect but without PC), and the community surrounding the Very "High Church" Anglican church of St. Aidan`s, next door to Hullah`s practice. At the heart of the story is the mystery surrounding the death of the pastor of St. Aidan`s, Father Ninian Hobbes, and the attempts of Charlie Iredale, now an Anglican priest and Fr. Hobbes` assistant, to have Hobbes declared a saint.

As usual, the main interest of the book is in the characters, and in the curious subjects which come up as a result of the story: medieval saints tales, Anglican ritual and especially Church music, acting, a somewhat psychosomatic theory of disease, church politics, some Freudian psychology, and a great deal more.

For me, this book ranks in the middle range of Davies' work, which of course still makes it highly recommended. However, my interest flagged at times, and the book failed to completely involve me in the way that Davies' very best books do. Also, the central story is less compelling than in most of Davies` books, so the interest devolves even more to the characters and the somewhat arcane knowledge and theories that Davies discusses. These are interesting indeed, but a real gripping story would be still more interesting.

Pity the Amazon star system doesn't allow for fractional stars, or else I would have given this 3.5 or 3.75.

I first read The Cunning Man in my mid-20s, after reading - and greatly enjoying - both the Salterton and Cornish trilogies. It left me disappointed, but for some reason I couldn't get Charlie Iredale's fate out of head. I recently re-read the book in my late 30s, and I've adjusted my original judgement slightly. There's no doubt that the book's flawed, but it also manages to be a deeply moving meditation on the comedies and tragedies of everyday life; if approached on its own terms.

And let there be no doubt that the book is flawed. The narrative technique chops and changes, chronology moves inconsistently, major characters fade away (in the case of the older Gilmartins) or (in the case of Dwyer) die off-stage with no apparent consequence, some of the literary allusions seem a little too forced (just how many times can you use the adjectives 'Chekovian' and 'Dostoeyevskian' in one book anyway?) and few works of popular fiction - however literary - can have had a central plot (just what did happen to Fr. Hobbes, and what was Charlie Iredale's role?) that occupies so little of the book. On top of that, anyone who's read much of Davies' literary criticism will be aware of the extent to which the narrator (and Brocky Gilmartin) share the author's own perspectives on art and literature, which makes for an uncomfortable de-opaquing of the literary fourth wall.

But for all that, every time I read the book it has a profound impact on me, an impact that is arguably greater on its own terms than that of Davies' better books. If you can get past the flaws, there are some profound - and profoundly moving - truths about the human condition here. I stand by my review title: if you read it for what it says, rather than how it says it, you will be richly rewarded. And you'll probably get more out of it the older you are.

And just a closing thought.... I re-read this right after reading Anthony Burgess' Earthly Powers - a novel about an ageing bachelor of literary bent who muses back on the events of his life following an interview where he's asked about the potential sainthood of a deceased acquaintance. I'm not implying anything, but it makes for an interesting comparison.

Robertson Davies' "The Cunning Man" purports to be the Diary or Case Book of a doctor--Jonathan Hullah--who moves from the wilderness of Sioux Lookout to Toronto, Canada.

But it is much more than that. It turns into what the narrator, Hullah, says he wants to avoid, a Bildungsroman or Novel of Development: in this case the development of Hullah's character, but also the development of Toronto and Canada itself, from a wild-and-wooly backwoods place to an cosmopolitan, but very quirky, society.

The cast of characters is brilliant.

Hullah himself is interesting, if a little stuffy. But Pansy Todhunter, one of "The Ladies," whose letters he quotes in full, is a wonderful offset: slangy, funny, malicious, hearfelt.

Charlie his never-quite-holy priest friend is fabulous: tormented and visionary and fanatical and sad.

Mrs. Smoke, the cranky Indian shamaness who saves the 8-year-old Jonathan by magic spells and awakens him to The Other.

Darcy Dwyer, the aesthete banker who opens him to music and the visual arts, but also ruthless inquiry and even espionage.

Lt. Commander Daubigny, the high-school teacher with a multi-national and even cannibalistic past.

Even Esme, the relentless young reporter with whom Hullah becomes, shockingly, smitten.

All are wonderful in themselves, yet emblematic of larger elements of a changing society.

Instructive, thoughtful, funny. A wonderful read.

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.

Davies once commented that he knew "nothing about medicine" but had the highest degree of "hypochondriachal curiosity about it that is characteristic of authors." (source: his 1984 lecture entitled Can A Doctor Be A Humanist?). Here in his final novel, Davies seems to have given vent to his curiosity in the creation of the character Jonathan Hullah... an unconventional physician who gains a reputation through his intuitive (albeit successful) diagnostic techniques. For the eccentric Hullah, observation of, conversation with, and even "sniffing" of the patient brings him closer to an accurate prognosis than ever would an impersonal reading of a medical chart. Central to this holistic approach to medicine is Hullah's appreciation of not only the physical/biological aspects of man's nature, but also the mental and spiritual, and because of this understanding, he becomes known as the Cunning Man. It is a term borrowed from Robert Burton's "The Anatomy Of Melancholy" in a passage that appears on Davies' title page: "Cunning men, wizards, and white witches, as they call them, in every village, which, if they be sought unto, will help almost all infirmities of body and mind... The body's mischiefs, as Plato proves, proceed from the soul: and if the mind be not first satisfied, the body can never be cured."

Through all of the great doctor's associations (as all the while, it applies also to himself) we find this theme played out... that to be truly healthy one must pay attention to MORE than merely the physical machine.

I enjoyed this story, but I agree with several other reviewers that this is not Davies' finest book. It does not have quite the plot-strength of any of his other ten novels, but true Davies devotees will not dismantle their bearded statues over this. To the not-already worshipful, I encourage you that reading ANY Davies is better than to have not read him at all.

This book was so well received that I expected it to be much finer than it actually is.

What's right with this book? 1) It is written in the beautiful, almost poetic language one expects of the very best prose. 2) It features highly detailed and carefully crafted characterizations of every character. 3) It is full of telling and apposite quotations from a huge variety of sources, famous and obscure.

So what's wrong with it? 1) Very little happens in the first half of the book. Imagine a play in which the entire first act consists of nothing but set descriptions and character notes. The important background information contained in this part of the book could have been handled in three short chapters, it seems to me.

2) The author cannot make up his mind whether the first-person memoir that the book is supposed to represent is being written today, or 50 years ago, and it is therefore full of anachronisms no matter how you read it. I am well aware that a novelist is under no obligation to be either consistent or realistic, but this particular unreal inconsistency jars both because everything else about the book is microscopically realistic and because the 50-year time uncertainty reflects hugely on what the state of Doctor Hullah's (the central character and narrator) medical knowledge and philosophy ought to be. Numerous additional confusions also result, as when a dialog about anti-semitism in Toronto refers casually to "the situation in Germany and Israel"--huh? When?

3) Dr. Hullah's character is fundamentally unsympathetic, though that is clearly not what the author intended. His medical philosophy and practices are poppycock--culminating in his (correct!) diagnosis of cancer based on nothing but the symptoms of major depression; his philosophy is gimcrack and shopworn. His handling of the not-so-mysterious death that drives the narrative is reprehensible and probably would have been a violation of law in real life.

4) Important things keep happening to the characters for no apparent reason save that they will make a good story--as when, toward the end, Dr. Hullah suddenly and without narrative preparation falls in love w. a young journalist. In the very last paragraph of the book, a movie theater is erected for the sole purpose of giving the author a nifty metaphor for his last sentence. I've read better. Much better.