Visit to Leigh Stationers Primary Academy

 

I was recently cloathed in the Livery of the Stationers and Newspaper Makers, and one of my first actions as a liveryman was to visit Leigh Stationers Primary Academy, to talk about books and Greek myths. It was a lovely visit, and the children wrote some excellent pieces in response to Perseus and Medusa, and also made their own quests.

Substack on Shakespeare and Class

 I've set up a Substack: one of the first pieces is here, on Shakespeare and Class.

Armand D'Angour: How to Talk About Love, review

 I've reviewed Armand D'Angour's translation of selections from Plato, How to Talk About Love. Read it here.

Jordan Peterson review

 I reviewed Jordan Peterson's most recent book for Spectator World.

 

Out of the Silent Planet? A tentative note on the Fauns' names in Prince Caspian

 

 

Some years ago, when teaching C S Lewis to undergraduates at university, I re-read the Narnia novels, and was puzzled by a list of names of fauns whom Prince Caspian meets, in the novel that bears his name (published 1951). Caspian is meeting the old Narnians, now in hiding under the rule of his cruel uncle. All at once, music is heard, and the little fauns appear, and begin to dance in a circle. "They footed it all round Caspian to their reedy pipes." They are:

Mentius, Obentinus, Dumnus, Voluns, Voltinus, Girbius, Nimienus, Nausus, and Oscuns.

Why nine of them? It's a highly significant number, and Lewis, who was steeped in Mediaeval literature, would have been entirely alive to the resonances of three, seven and nine. It seems curious to mention them at this point, when we never hear from them again. They sound a bit like Mr Tumnus (everyone's favourite), and are certainly Latinate in form. But what do they mean?

Lewis had by this point already written his science fiction novel, Out of the Silent Planet, which was published in 1938. In it, Earth is "the silent planet", because it has no ruling spirit, unlike the other planets, who all communicate with each other. In the list of fauns, "Dumnus" is the third. Now, Lewis was not entirely particular when it came to his names (unlike J R R Tolkien), and quite happily mingled etymologies and cultures. 

I wonder, then, if Dumnus could be read as a pun on "dumb", silent? And, since it's the third planet in, could it not be "the silent planet"?

This, then, would suggest that the nine fauns are representative of the nine planets, and their dance is a cosmic one. Michael Ward, in Planet Narnia, argues convincingly that the seven Narnia books are representative of the seven mediaeval planets. Could Lewis here be hinting at his planetary design? He may be punning in Latin, or he may be punning in English. Hence, my explanations are entirely tentative... and there may be a system to them that I can't yet discern. Or there may be none. Anyway, it's fun to think about. But much further research is needed.

Here's a few thoughts:

Mentius - as Mercury, the messenger god. "Mens, mentis" is mind, and Mercury comes to earth as swift as thought.

Obentinus - as Venus. Various possibilities occur: "obeo" can be used of heavenly bodies setting, and Venus appears at sunset; it could also be a hint towards "obedience", and you pay "obeisance" to your courtly lover; and there's also the closeness of the fricative "v" to the plosive "b". 

Dumnus - our silent planet.

Voluns - Mars - "volens" is willing; "volans" is flying; "volvens" is rolling about; but Mars is also Mavors in ancient Rome. A difficult one, this. He wasn't particularly willing, though he is willful; so I thought this might be more to do with him being rather "vol"atile; it could also (see below) point to the Volsci, a warlike tribe who inhabited ancient Italia. Camilla, the warrior maiden, is of the Volsci in the Aeneid.

Voltinus - Jupiter - the "volt" is a unit of electrical energy; perhaps a reference to the great god's thunderbolt?

Girbius - Saturn - is "gir"dled by rings...I have been unable to find any Latin word that begins with "girb". This is the most puzzling of them all, and the hardest to fit into the scheme. I think of "gyre" and "gimble" too. A "gyrfalcon" has the Latin name Falco rusticolus, and Saturn was a god of the countryside; "Falco" is also from the Latin "falx", or sickle, and Saturn was associated heavily with sickles. 

* AL suggests "How about a play on the medieval palindrome "In girum imus noctes, et consumimur igni" whereby girum is used for gyrum = the rings of Saturn." - I like the sound of this, and most probably C S Lewis would have known of this lovely palindrome, the lament of the moths: "We go round and round in the night and are consumed by fire". Of course, that's what the fauns are doing, going round and round.

Nimienus - Uranus - "nimius" means "too much" - perhaps a pearl-clutching reaction to scatalogical puns on Uranus? 

Nausus - Neptune - you'll be sea-sick if you're not a good sailor and pray to Neptune.

Oscuns - Pluto - the mouth of the underworld is in the Bay of Naples; the Osci / Oscans were a tribe who lived in Italy whose territory included the Bay of Naples; they, like the Volsci, assimilated with the Romans. "Osculo" is also kissing; it might be a bit of a stretch to say that this is the kiss of death, but hey, it's just for kicks.

* GMcP suggests "Oscuns - the Obscure planet", as oscuro is obscure in Italian." Also quite believable.

An enjoyable parlour game, and if anyone has any thoughts, I'd be delighted to hear. 

By Philip Womack, 2025.

Steering the Craft by Ursula Le Guin: review

 Ursula Le Guin was a great favourite of mine as a boy; as I grew older I re-read her Wizard of Earthsea series many times, and ventured into her adult science fiction and fantasy too. I hadn't known that she'd written a writing manual, and I wish I had done. She sounds like she would have been an absolutely amazing writing teacher - wise and thoughtful and patient. One of my greatest achievements (hem hem) was getting her to write a few reviews for Literary Review when I was an editor there.

 

 Here's my review of Steering the Craft, done for this week's Times Literary Supplement.

The Double Axe

 Books, fashion and the literary world are funny creatures: you never know what's going to stick. So I was thrilled this week to discover that The Double Axe, a book I wrote ten years ago, which was published in 2016, is still out there finding readers.

I remain very fond of it: I remember enjoying the process of writing it, as it combined fantasy and Greek myth. It's not a faithful attempt at a recreation of Bronze Age Crete by any means, but is set on an imaginary version of the island, one which is populated by spirits and demons that are not in the canonical myths. I chose to tell the story in the first person, through the eyes of young Deucalion Stephanos (known, for convenience, as Stephan), whose young brother is mysteriously removed from the care of his parents by a priestess whose intentions are nefarious. The structure of the story is there: the death of Androgeos, the eldest son of King Minos; the resulting attack on Athens; the tribute from Athens with Theseus among the seven young men and maidens; and Ariadne with her ball of wool. I even gave Icarus a little cameo part. But what I did with it was spin it round a little: why would a story like the Minotaur spring up?

 It's a story that has enormous resonance: Mark Haddon retells it brilliantly in his new collection, Dogs and Monsters, which I reviewed recently for The Spectator.   I'm sure that in future years we will see more and more retellings. It all proves the essential strength of myth: and its brilliant plasticity.

The Double Axe by Philip Womack