The Lambs of London

Peter Ackroyd isn’t one of my favourite authors.  Due to its popularity, I had to wait an age to get Hawksmoor out of the library because it looked so interesting.  My logic ran: murder- brilliant; history- wonderful; history murder- best thing ever.  It wasn’t.  Things so rarely are.  Naturally, I left checking The Lambs of London a while for quite different reasons.  I don’t think I was wrong in my reticence.  In brief, it’s a book about a woman who loves a man who discovers a wealth of previously unseen Shakespeare texts, but things are not as they seem…

Now, I like Shakespeare.  I really like Shakespeare.  I’ve been to the Globe and I’ve seen the RSC and countless other Shakespeare productions.  Once, at the Edinburgh Festival, I even saw a three woman hour long version of Macbeth.  It was terrible.  The logistics of any of the scenes where the witches talked to anyone alone were a nightmare.  But, I think there might be a bit too much Shakespeare in The Lambs of London.  Or, at least, there’s a rank over appreciation of him.  It’s a tale full of learned men so busy genuflecting at the sycophantic alter of the Bard that they miss the most obvious plot twist since Secret Window.  It turns out (spoiler alert) that those previously undiscovered documents are fakes.  I’m not sure if the point Ackroyd’s trying to make is that maybe it’s time to get over Shakespeare, or at least to not believe in a thing so blindly that common sense is waylaid, because the writing’s so dry it’s very difficult to care.  I think this book might only be on the list because it’s chosen by academics who see in it parodies of their disliked colleagues.

Again, this is a book based on a true story and again, it’s the case that the truth is far more interesting than fiction.  Mary and Charles Lamb, two of the central characters, did exist and even wrote a book together about Shakespeare.  Far more fascinating is the forger at the centre of the tale: William Ireland.  Ireland was a real person who, in the 1790s, forged a lot of Shakespearian documents and even went as far as claim he discovered two new plays.  One of these, Vortigen and Rowena, even made it to the stage.  The real problem I have is with Ackroyd’s characterisation of Ireland.  In The Lambs of London, Ireland is a boy who does everything to impress his father.  I’m not sure why, Samuel Ireland’s a bit of a wanker.  Ackroyd doesn’t explain why Ireland so desperately craves his father’s approval and pride and that’s the downfall of this story.  It’s more concerned with actions than motives and without the motives in place; any actions themselves are difficult to relate to.  The book becomes simply: person x did thing y followed by a lengthy discussion about the wonder of Shakespeare.  Ackroyd’s an historian, not an author and it shows.  It’s a real shame, because I do really like Shakespeare.

I’m currently reading Fateless by Imre Kertész, so swing by soon for that.