THE GLASS NUMBER 29 SPRING 2017 The Storm-Cloud of the Twenty-First Century: Biblical Apocalypse, Climate Change and Ian McEwan’s Solar Andrew Tate 3 Apocalyptic, Crisis and the Everyday Roger Pooley 13 Redeeming the End in Contemporary Gothic Fictions Simon Marsden 21 Geoff rey Hill’s Longing for the End of the Word Tom Docherty 28 Christian Names: Some Aspects of Literary Onomastics Paul Cavill 38 Reviews including: 44 Thomas M. Crisp, Steve L. Porter, & Gregg A. Ten Elshof (eds.), Christian Scholarship in the Twenty-First Century: Prospects and Perils Francesca Bugliani Knox and David Lonsdale (eds.), Poetry and the Religious Imagination: The Power of the Word Vernon White, Purpose and Providence: Taking Soundings in Western Thought, Literature and Theology Kevin Killeen, Helen Smith and Rachel Willie (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of the Bible in Early Modern England, c. 1530–1700 Tamsin Spargo, John Bunyan Richard Hughes Gibson, Forgiveness in Victorian Literature: Grammar, Narrative, and Community Christopher Ricks and Jim McCue (eds.), The Poems of T.S. Eliot: The Annotated Text Notes on Contributors 68 News and Notes 70 Published by the Christian Literary Studies Group, a Literary Society in association with the Universities and Colleges Christian Fellowship. Editorial and subscriptions: The Glass, 10 Dene Road, Northwood, Middlesex HA6 2AA. CLSG www.clsg.org [email protected] © the contributors 2017 ISSN 0269-770X All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitt ed in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. The views of the contributors do not necessarily refl ect editorial stance. The CLSG holds personal details on computer for the purpose of mailing in accordance with the Data Protection Act 1998. Editorial It’s a truism that in narrative endings promise to untie knots, solve mysteries and yield the meanings that may have hitherto eluded us. They may light up a preceding story and console us if we have felt sympathy for the vicissitudes of its characters or action. In this way the disciples who had marvelled and believed in Jesus, and who had then suff ered profound shock and dismay at his end, discovered transcendent new hope when it became evident that his end was not as they had thought, that God had raised him to resurrection and glory, and that this was of cosmic signifi cance. Writing to Thessalonica, Paul picked up a question that had become prevalent: what was happening about Jesus’ return as promised, the Day of the Lord? Why the delay? Yes it was coming, he told the Christians, and Jesus would be revealed from heaven in blazing fi re with his powerful angels. His adversary, a shadowy man of sin working in secret for now, would be blown away, destroyed, by the breath of his mouth. The adversary’s plan, to set himself up to be worshipped in the Jerusalem Temple, would seemingly provoke the delayed intervention of Jesus as God’s agent of Judgement. The lett er evidences a transition between Jesus’ warnings of cosmic disasters and false messiahs, and the Book of Revelation, which picks up and develops these themes, seeks to disclose what is secret, and to give hope to those of steadfast faith of the victory of God, the destruction of evil, and of the glory laid up. Thus in Christian eschatology there’s not only the end of a dispensation but also Judgement. Judgement, that is, with a certain conclusiveness. Augustine describes in Book 22 of The City of God, at the end of his magnum opus, how it will be for those blessed with admitt ance to the heavenly City: It will be a Sabbath with no evening, with the peace, joy and rest of God. If we are now in the sixth epoch, or day, then we shall be in the seventh, and fi nd our rest in God. Actually there will be an eighth day, as it were, beyond time, which lasts for ever. ‘There we shall be still and see [face to face]; we shall see and we shall love; we shall love and we shall praise.… What is our end but to reach that Kingdom which has no end?’ Frank Kermode, not himself a believer, gave att ention to such matt ers. ‘The paradigms of apocalypse continue to lie under our ways of making sense of the world.’ The Book of Revelation ‘has had vast eff ects on social and political behaviour over many ages, and continues to do so.’ ‘In our time the novel is the central form of literary art’, but tragedy may be thought of as the successor of apocalypse, in an endless world. ‘Tragedy assumes the fi gurations of apocalypse, of death and judgement, heaven and hell; but the world goes forward in the hands of exhausted survivors.’ He brings out a punning trope of theology: that the imminent Parousia became in some way immanent; and this may indeed give useful direction to our researches and discourse about more recent writings. Yet Jesus had said much the same in his parables, for instance of the bridesmaids commended for acting in the present with due thought for what was to come. Sure, the advent of the tardy groom is in the story, but the point of the exemplum is located prior to that. When the imminence of the advent is far from clear they are motivated in the unfolding present by the idea of it. Signs of an end, of the End, come to every generation, to watchers, onlookers and to readers. Wisdom lies in reading the signs of the times. Roger Kojecký 2 The Storm-Cloud of the Twenty-First Century: Biblical Apocalypse, Climate Change and Ian McEwan’s Solar Andrew Tate ‘A work of light is one that seeks light, and that, not for its own sake, but to light all men’– John Ruskin, Lett er 63, Fors Clavigera (March 1876)1 orrying about the weather is a peculiarly British pastime. However, in a barely perceptible way, our meteorological small talk has mutated from Wphatic diversion into dialogue charged with apocalyptic presentiments. Unseasonable warmth might be a sign of malign, unnatural change; record rainfall – and fl oods that destroy households – are symptoms of a climate that has, we worry, been irrevocably altered. This insistent twenty-fi rst-century anxiety is not, however, without precedent. In February 1884, John Ruskin – erstwhile defender of Turner and ‘Modern Painters’, historian of Venice and occasional prophet – gave a brace of lectures at the London Institute that were to be his fi nal public statements. These unsett ling talks, published as The Storm Cloud of the Nineteenth Century, are an experimental fusion of epistolary refl ections with meteorological observation and, typically rich with allusion to biblical texts including Matt hew, Job, Joel, Revelation and Malachi, the lectures are replete with homiletic antagonism towards modernity. He re-names the so-called mutating ‘storm-cloud’ a ‘plague-cloud’ (Works, 34. 9). There is, he notes, no mention of such skies in the vast canon of his own reading – a diverse body of witnesses including Homer, Virgil, Dante, Chaucer, Milton and the Romantics, Scott , Wordsworth and Byron. Ruskin interpolates diary entries from the previous decade into the narrative; many of his days were spent at Brantwood, his Lake District home on the shores of Coniston since the early 1870s. The specifi c climatological observations are full of foreboding: on 22 June 1876, for example, he noted, ‘Thunderstorm; pitch dark, with no blackness, – but deep, high, fi lthiness of lurid, yet not sublimely lurid, smoke-cloud; dense manufacturing mist’ (Works, 34. 36-7). In a later entry he refers to ‘Manchester’s devil darkness’ (Works, 34. 37). The lecture builds to a peroration in which Ruskin as preacher off ers a Biblically damning indictment of modern ‘blasphemy’: Blanched sun,—blighted grass,—blinded man.—If, in conclusion, you ask me for any conceivable cause or meaning of these things—I can tell you none, according to your modern beliefs; but I can tell you what meaning it would have borne to the men of old time [. .] All Greek, all Christian, all Jewish prophecy insists on the same truth through a thousand myths; but of all the chief, to former thought, was the fable of the Jewish warrior and prophet, for whom the sun hasted not to go down, with which I leave you to compare at leisure the physical result of your own wars and prophecies, as declared by your own elect journal not fourteen days ago, — that the Empire of England, on which formerly the sun never set, has become one on which he never rises. (Works, 34. 40-41) 1The Library Edition of The Complete Works of John Ruskin, ed. E.T. Cook and Alexander Wedderburn, 39 vols., George Allen, 1903-1912, xxviii, pp. 540-1. All subsequent references will be given parenthetically as volume and page number. 3 THE GLASS In the 1880s, Ruskin’s lectures, given after years in which he had experienced acute mental distress and shortly before his silent fi nal decade, were not well received. However, to re-read them in 2017 might be both salutary and troubling. The early twenty-fi rst century seems to thrive on apocalyptic visions of imminent catastrophe. Indeed, contemporary writers have become extraordinarily skilled at imagining the end of the world. Literary and cinematic visions of what Patrick Parrinder once named the ‘ruined’ future have become such a defi ning element of contemporary narrative that they are, at their worst, something of a cliché, an odd form of entertainment that might actually nullify all thoughts of potential disaster instead of sharpening a sense that action is needed.2 The world ends – or almost ends – again and again in an overabundance of plagues, fl oods, alien invasions, neo-fascist dictatorships and, with alarming regularity, zombies.