My father was upset about the library being burned

My father was upset about the library being burned.  He tried to be stoic but I could tell he loathed the destruction of knowledge it represented.  I was at primary school and fancied myself as an amateur detective.  My main suspect was William McCartney, a boy in my class.  The evidence was circumstantial but clear.  I had discovered him defacing a library book at school.  He had drawn two huge breasts on the cover of a book on Cookery.  Instead of a prim, apron clad April Summers displaying cakes in each hand, William had constructed huge breasts incorporating the cherries on top of the cakes as nipples.  I was convinced such vandalism spoke of his disrespect for the written word.  

In our household books were everything and everywhere.  We devoured them like bread and water and whether it was by Henry Miller, the collected plays of Shaw, or Steinbeck we consumed them and then hunted for new fodder.  No folding down corners or scuffing the cover and no underlining of texts or notes in the margins.  Books had to be respected like people.  Even the crappy ones.  So Ms Summers added breasts offended my sensibilities.  William’s violent tendencies were shown clearly when he brought to school a black bin liner full of dead birds he had shot with his own air rifle.  When the American Constitution stipulates the right to carry arms, they must never have had classmates like mine.  I could honestly say I wouldn’t have trusted any of them with a firearm.  So there you have it.  William was violent (bag of birds – exhibit one) and he took pleasure from the defacement of literature (cookery book – exhibit two).  That made him in my mind a strong candidate for the burning of the library.  For a whole year I seethed with resentment towards William and blamed him for the book, the birds, the library and for bringing sadness to my father’s heart.

It came as something of a shock to discover later that my father was referring to the burning of the Great Library in Alexandria which happened around two thousand years ago.  A crime William, however vile, could not have committed.  Through the following years my father continued to mourn the loss of this great library and filled in the details of this catastrophe. 

When Alexander the Great died in 323 BC his kingdom was divided up into three pieces: Antigonids ruled Greece, Seleucids ruled Asia Minor, Syria and Mesoptamia while Ptolemis ruled Egypt.  Wanting to gain supremacy and legitimacy Ptolemy stole Alexander’s body and took it first to Memphis and then to Alexandria.  This was a blatant attempt to create a political and dynastic link with Alexander the Great.  Creating a museum “Temple of the Muses” was also a part of this goal.  After all, Aristotle who had taught Alexander, had a wonderful library and so Ptolemy and his line created the greatest library of the ancient world.  It was their intention to collect all the books in the world and works from India, Persia, Babylonia, Georgia, Armenia and far a field were gathered.  The works of poets, philosophers, historians etc were carefully obtained and kept in the library.  

There was a copy of Epidemics belonging to the physician Mnemon of Side, ancient scrolls and books from all over found their way to the library at Alexandria.  Even when a ship entered the port it was searched and if books or scrolls were found these were seized and copied.  The copies were returned but the originals were stored in the library.  The greatest fruits of human endeavour flowed to Alexandria and were collected and collated.   The arts and sciences were represented and so many were not only original but unique and priceless.  The fame of the Great Library of Alexandria spread far and wide.  It was an incredible search for knowledge all carefully gathered from the four corner of the earth. 

So what happened?  Well, as one has probably suspected by now, some idiot burned the library down.  After centuries of careful collection and cataloguing the works of great minds it took small minds a few days to dispose of the Great Library.  The disaster was of epic proportions.  We don’t know, even now, the scale of the loss.  But there are hints.  Callimachus, a poet and scholar, had created a catalogue/biography of the contents of the library called Pinakes.  We only have a tiny portion of this Pinakes (table of contents) left but there is enough to make you howl in despair at what went up in flames.  

Now, I understood why my father took the burning of the Great Library in Alexandria so personally.  So should we all!  But on further reflection I didn’t feel so bad about blaming William McCartney for the crime.  It turns out blaming those we dislike for despicable crimes they have not done is a theme common in history. For example,  Caliph Umar was blamed for the burning of the library and there is even a nice little tale told to explain why. , "If these writing of the Greeks agree with the book of God, they are useless and need not be preserved; if they disagree, they are pernicious and ought to be destroyed". It was, the story continues, thereupon, decided that the books were contrary to the Quran and the whole library was burned down without even opening the books.  Totally rubbish of course, the Great Library was lost much earlier probably in 47/48 AD perhaps by Julius Caesar who was burning ships around that time in the harbour.  Mohammad and the Quran did not appear for another five centuries and so Caliph Umar is in the clear.  There was another library in Alexandria called the Serapeum (daughter library) but this was burned down in 391 AD under the decree of Archbishop Theophilus.  Edward Gibbon (writer of the  The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire) described Archbishop Theophilus as "...the perpetual enemy of peace and virtue, a bold, bad man, whose hands were alternately polluted with gold and with blood." Not a great way to be remembered in the history books.  

But some people really do say and do such stupid things that they need to be remembered for posterity.  Like Pope Gregory’s famous line "Ignorance is the mother of piety." Following this principle to the letter, Gregory burned the precious Palestine Library founded by Emperor Augustus, destroyed the greater part of the writings of Livy and forbade the study of the classics. The Crusaders destroyed the splendid library of Tripoli and reduced to ashes many of the glorious centres of Saracenic art and culture. Ferdinand and Isabella put to flames all the Muslim and Jewish works they could find in Spain. 

Library burning has not gone out of fashion.  The library of Leuven, Belgium was burned in 1914 and then after being rebuilt was burned to the ground once more in May in 1940 by the Nazis.  In case you think this fetish for library burning has run out of steam one need only look at the American invasion of Iraq in 2003 when the National Library of Baghdad was burned and priceless ancient antiquities and manuscripts were lost. 

Knowledge is like a light that illuminates humanity and ignorance is the opposite, darkness.  The burning of libraries serves to show the bigoted, the fanatic and the stupid at work.  Such a shame to destroy what is really the birthright of the human race.  We should all sorrow over the loss of the Great Library at Alexandria.  It reminds us that ignorance is too dangerous to be permitted and the search for knowledge and truth is the only way ahead.

Coffee time in Malta

There are a wealthy couple sitting with friends at a nearby table in this café.  The man is complaining about the delay in the delivery of his new Porsche to Malta.  Later, they move on with relish to discuss their forthcoming holiday in Moscow where they hope to visit the Winter Palace and are twittering on in a fashion fit to annoy anyone.  They have that peculiar plumy English accent that sets your teeth on edge.  He is babbling again at the top of his voice,

“Life is still fun and worth living”, the sixty odd year old proclaims. 

“The economic situation has not touched me, thanks goodness.” He follows in smug tones. 

I believe fate places such people nearby to annoy and test me.  Now, he is complaining about his computer system’s inability to respond to his commands.  I find myself strangely comforted that PCs, at least, do not jump to the beck and call of that “rulers of the empire” tone.  Computers are democratic and as such equally rebellious to all.  It’s weird that in Northern Ireland I’ll  be specific about coming from north of the border but when on an island in the Med I morph into Irish for fear of being associated with these colonial types.  My father always claimed that there was something about ruling an empire that damaged emotions.  He would name them one by one, tapping on each finger in turn, pausing at each tap to raise his eyebrow as if exhibiting another proof of his argument.  His reasoning was, if you had to keep the locals underfoot it required you to be missing on certain wavelengths including for example compassion, empathy, humility, modesty.  It has taken years for recent research to prove that keeping a nation or people in subjection is as damaging to those who rule as it is to those who are abused. 

It stands to reason then that keeping women in a lower state will have equally negative effects on both men and women.  Injustice is evil, not just because of its unfairness but also due to its long-term damage on all concerned.  In India 50 million girls are missing due to abortion of unwanted female babies.  In that culture boys are preferred.  The end result of this tragedy is that girl abductions/rapes are common.  How horrific that following the quiet death of millions of female girls, young women who have survived this first cull are being singled out for yet more violence.  Of course India is not alone, violence against women crosses all borders, Rwanda, Sierra Leone, Yugoslavia, South Africa, Afghanistan and one of the highest rates of domestic abuse is found in Papua New Guinea.  So much of this violence is under the radar despite its horrific nature.  Violence against females in our midst is a world problem and not limited to any one nation. 

Whatever the realities that lie beneath the statistics you can be sure that both men and women are being damaged in this process.  I look forward to the day when we realise that injustices such as prejudice of race, religion or gender damage us all.  Sense that the growing gap between rich and poor is another unsustainable trend.  Otherwise the corrosion eating into the vitals of human society will continue, I fear.  

Time to leave, my one coffee has lasted an hour and a half and the staff are becoming increasingly restless round me.  At least I outlasted the plumy toned fellow on my left.  Obviously, I have prejudices of my own to weed out! 

PS Proceeded out of the café and walked a good half hour along the coast only to be brought up short with the dreadful realization I had forgotten to pay for my coffee.  Walked back guilt ridden, apologized and paid.  This growing older business is embarrassing at times!

I seem to have been born not fitting in to my culture and then got worse with age

Am back in Malta after soaking up family and friends for three weeks in Northern Ireland over the Christmas holidays.  I didn’t get to see many friends and am amazed how the time flew in.  I also realized that I am a foreigner in my own country and find it perversely difficult to blend in.  Let me explain an incident that occurred which crystallises what is tricky to put into words.

My mother and my son were having coffee in a small café in the Whitehouse in Portrush.  It is a shop that sells everything from bedding to pots, clothes to furniture and on the upper floor there is a café overlooking the street.  I don’t shop there as when I once lifted a blouse to examine it I found that it was priced at a ridiculous price of ₤165 reduced to ₤99 and that put me in a foul mood.  Even looking around at the ridiculous ornaments, no one would want, costing hundreds, has me muttering, “Is this a joke, or what?” in outraged tones. 

It does serve reasonable coffee and that was why the three of us were having cappuccinos in the café high above the street.  A lady at the nearby table leaned across and said to my mother,

“That is a lovely colour of jumper.” 

Before I could stop myself I replied,

“Yes, shame about the face!” 

In our family we do routinely tease each other and my mother was not surprised.  The lady however was offended and her husband asked me, in cold tones,

“Have you been drinking?” 

Realising, I had offended these polite folk I tried to explain,

“No, it is just that I’ve spent years being asked if my mother is my sister and it has made me sensitive to people complimenting her.” 

My mother and son laughed and so did I.  My Mum’s recent holiday with her sister visiting me in Malta was typical.  Everyday we would walk miles along the coast and each day someone would ask, “Are you three sisters?”  We do have similar colouring but there is a thirty-year age difference, so you can understand my sensitivity.  As far as I was concerned the neighbouring table’s angry response was funny but also strangely admirable.  They felt I had offended my eighty-year-old mother and were stiff with fury!  Oblivious, the three of us enjoyed our coffees.  On my way to the toilet, I passed the nearby table and the man instructed me,

“You should swing by Spectsavers! (a local opticians)”. 

His upset was tangible and again I admired their heated defence of my mother.  After all, if an elderly person was being abused verbally, these people would not sit idly by and let it happen.  Surely, a good thing?  I returned to my mother and son and we collected our coats and began to leave.  My mother, always goodhearted and even tempered, wished the neighbouring occupants a merry Christmas, as did my son and received a warm response.  However, when I wished them the same, all three carefully averted their heads, stiff with distain, and ignored me pointedly. 

I found it all vaguely amusing but by now my son was irritated and wanted to go back to the table to speak to them.  I restrained him with a warm hug and said, “It’s not them, it’s me.  They belong here and I evidently don’t.”  At such times you identify how foreign you are, how much of an outsider you have become.  The worrying thing is, I seem to have been born not fitting in to my culture and then got worse with age!  

Getting ready for the New Year

In many ways this Christmas sticks in your mind when disasters are spoken off.  The Mayan calendar ending  spanned a huge range of doomsday scenarios and it was quite disturbing the number of elderly relatives who confessed to being quite content if the world ended.  They obviously felt life had gone on long enough and going out with a bang and lots of company held a certain appeal.  Unfortunately, these turbulent times are nothing new. 

Imagine living through the World wars or even the Spanish flu, which alone wiped out 40 million.  My great grandmother lost two sons in one week from that Flu.  I cannot begin to imagine what that was like to endure.  With World War I fresh in the mind there must have been a feeling that the horror would never cease.  The young and the strongest, the flowers of each family mowed down with breath taking speed.  The Spanish flu took out those with strong immune systems and so it must have seemed as if the blood let, in those trenches was not enough. If ever you walk, as I did with a cousin, through the war graves in France the scale of such losses hits you.

As far as the eye can see there are graves and as you crest one hill more stretch out in yet another vista of never ending crosses to mark lost lives.  The real consequences of war, its horror hit home and we were silenced by the horrendous loss before us.  

Years later, I had a similar feeling in Auschwitz when visiting the camp with a friend, Pari.  We entered a huge barn like room with shoes of those killed in the camp. 

It felt as if one’s heart was being squeezed in a vice, tightening with the absolute horror of it.  As the train pulled out of that place, Pari and I sat opposite each other in a carriage, in silence.  I found myself rubbing at my chest as if trying to ease the physical pain that knotted there.

Who can forget the more recent disasters such as the Tsunami on Boxing Day 2004 that wiped out 227,898 lives in terrifying unexpected swiftness.  If someone had predicted these disasters we would not have grasped even the possibility that such things could occur.  Our brains would have rightly denied the forthcoming horrors as impossible, intolerable and unendurable.  But our disbelief does not prevent such tragedies happening. 

Likewise, the fact that such tragedies do occur, does not necessarily mean we learn from our mistakes.  Wars still occur with depressing frequency; even natural catastrophes that afflict the world fail to unite us in response.  Instead, a strange lethargy keeps us continuing with business as usual.  As if daily routines will soothe things.  It strikes me that knowing the future might not help.  In fact spelling out such disasters would not be meet or seemly.  Our perversity in not awakening to such tragedies, adapting, learning and changing is however, distressing.  There are lessons to be learned and such losses of life should instil in all of us an urgency for change. 

If nations can endure such horror when we rise up to war, we must wage peace instead.  When humanity is facing such natural calamities and disasters, the need to be a world united in the race to save lives becomes achingly apparent.  These are lessons none of us can afford to forget.   

My Criminal Childhood with Cousins

My cousins and I were experts at fiddling the machines at the amusement arcade.  In Ireland we have cousins the way other countries have mosquitoes.  I remember being shocked by a visiting English child who confessed to having just one cousin; I had figured cousins always came in batches of dozens, like eggs.  Aged between 8-13 our gang knew the ropes like old convicts.  Mind you, we’d learned the hard way.  These blasted machines had eaten our sparse holiday money for years, so we’d grown hardy and wily. 

My cousin Bill was the best.  Only trouble was, he was so good he got barred very quickly from all the establishments.  He was also rather ruthless in his methods.  His favourite trick was to smash the glass window of the first cylinder of a one armed bandit.  Then he’d put coins in and pull the arm while carefully moving the cherry round to win two pennies each time.  It took patience but gradually, in a day, he could empty a machine.  The trick, he said, was breaking the glass cleanly so that no tell tale cracks could be seen.  One of the older cousins, Tom, felt Alan’s technique was not moral and spoke at length about how illegal it was.  The rest of us were conflicted about this issue and would hold long debates about the ethics of it all.  Tom was righteous and managed to save some of his holiday money each year putting it aside in a responsible manner.  As one of the debaters admitted, it was tricky, on the one hand there was no one more righteous than Tom but Alan was by far the most generous of all of us, so which virtue was more important.  The general consensus was that generosity trumped righteousness.  We would not use Alan’s technique, as the majority felt it lacked finesse but we would not condemn him either that would be altogether far too righteous.  Our acceptable methods were subtler.   

People often forgot to press the refund button on machines, so we’d feed off their carelessness once they’d gone.  The joy of those large round illicit pennies warm in your palm!  Old money felt much more substantial and indeed one penny could in those days buy you a paper bag full of sweets.  Or, we’d find coins lying under the bottom rim of a machine kicked out of sight.  There was a favourite change machine in one arcade that was meant to change half crowns into pennies but was the very dickens to use.  It took the half crowns easy enough but then sullenly refused to spit out pennies in return.  The poor punter would press every button available to no avail and then go to the booth at the middle of the arcade to complain.  In a flash, we were on the machine and would give the side panel high on the right a swift blow.  Like a choked person the reluctant machine would cough up first two pennies in rapid succession before vomiting the rest into your waiting hand.  You couldn’t let it hit the bottom for fear of announcing your success to the world.    Ethically, we felt secure.  Sure, didn’t people who dropped money need to learn to be more careful? We were practically providing an educational service! When using the change machine play, we always insured that one of us would be left with the machine so that when the technician came with the punter to investigate they would confirm he had indeed put a half crown in and proclaimed loudly that the machine often didn’t pay out as it should.  This meant the punter got his change and also meant we were up front about the machine’s weaknesses.  We felt no guilt whatsoever, after three hours of wandering desolately around the amusement arcade penniless, we felt we were due some reward.  We learned gambling was addictive. 

One summer our youngest cousin, Sarah , stood transfixed at the penny drop, pumping not just ten but every single one of her valuable pennies into a money clogged waterfall that despite a sliding log refused to fall.  She tearfully begged money from her Mum on the beach, while I minded her machine from the ‘jumper inners’ waiting to take advantage of all her priming of the pump.  All to no avail, even a half crown later not one penny fell.  She dropped to the ground sobbing in anguish and despair.  Bloody machines, we all stood appalled by her pain.  The hero of the hour was cousin Henry, built like a brick house, he tried to pull her to her feet and in doing so leant his considerable weight against the glass fronted machine.  That was all that was needed and there was an ecstatic machine gun of pennies firing out into the tray, the logjam freed.  I still remember her shocked face as pennies rained down over her head and shoulders.  It wasn’t every day you witnessed a miracle. 

However, all these tricks were as nothing compared to our biggest triumph.  There was a machine at the back of an arcade that consisted of black and white stripes moving over rollers.  You slide your penny down a chute and it rolled on its side until it fell over on the black and white stripes.  If it landed on the white stripes not touching the black, you won.  We discovered that if you took the chute and wagged it from side to side like a demented table tennis player, the coin would come out in a perfect straight line each time and flop on the white middle line like a beauty.  We were delighted with this discovery and made a real killing.  Imagine our outrage when the arcade closed this machine, taping an ‘out of order’ sign across it.  It took us a while to discover another in the back of a smoky arcade across town.  More success followed and we were exultant.  After years of the amusement arcades taking our pocket money we felt we were on a righteous roll.  Gradually, they disappeared these black and white beauties to our deep disappointment.  Decades later, I discovered one in an amusement arcade in Brighton.  I cannot begin to describe my ecstasy on spotting the familiar friend behind a pinball machine.  Within seconds, I was whipping the chute to and fro like a pro and winning coins hand over fist.  My three sons looked on in awe as we left, all our pockets bulging with coins.  There are always moral issues to tackle in life but just occasionally success is down to sheer skill and you can only celebrate that.

One minute you're defending the whole galaxy, and, suddenly, you find yourself sucking down darjeeling

Was invited out to tea by an eighty three year old Irish woman on Malta, yesterday.  We’d never met before.  I had been at a restaurant and her daughter, sitting at a nearby table, heard my Irish accent and said her mother would like to meet me.  She gave me her card and her mother’s phone number was written on the back.  I took a chance and phoned the next day before I lost courage and forgot.  A lovely Donegal accent replied and we arranged to meet at her home.  This was how I found myself at a lovely villa overlooking the sea along the coast outside Sliema, sharing a large laden table with this sprightly lady and her two friends (around the same age).  It felt surreal to find beautiful china, elegant linen napkins, homemade bread, apple tarts etc. with the strong Irish brogue coming at me.  Mother of eight, she spoke her mind and I loved listening to a familiar tune washing over me.  Despite having lived in Malta fifty years her accent was as strong as if we had just met on the back roads of Donegal today.  I cannot begin to tell of the delight of this company.  Their wit, the laughter, shopping exploits, collections of spoons, husbands all illuminated by three ladies who had lived life to the full.  Their openness and friendliness was like an antidote to homesickness delivered intravenously with copious gallons of tea.     When you are far from much that speaks of home it is delightful to fall into such company.  I thank God that my Irish accent was overheard, that her daughter handed me her card and for encouraging me to call and that for once I took the opportunity offered.  Life is far too short to waste what it brings unexpected to your door.  Unexpected kindness takes you by the hand and urges you gently to start thinking of others instead of yourself.  A memory from childhood blows to me on familiar breezes. 

When I was a child we had a caravan in Donegal on a windswept beach that even in bad weather was breath taking.  It struck me how empty all this landscape was with sand stretching off into the distance devoid of any humans.  As we made the journey to our caravan and back we’d go down tiny bumpy back roads equally empty.  But, if  ever we did come across a solitary human being high in the mountains it was usually an old farmer type, wearing formal dark suits.  He would straighten as the car passed and wave a warm welcome and nod their head sweetly in our direction as if you were a fond cousin newly arrived.  I asked my father why they did this and he said, in olden days everyone would out of simple courtesy.  Sitting in the back of the car I watched the green fields flash by and I mourned the loss of such simple civility in our brand new world. 

A strange thing would happen when we passed a funeral cortege.  My father would slow the car and remove his hat, setting it on my mother’s lap beside him.  A sober silence would reign and as a young child I knew that no talking was allowed.  Later, I would ask, why this careful ceremony and he gave different answers, like “every man’s death diminishes me”, or “every life deserves respect as does every death” and “it reminds us all powerfully of our own mortality”.  Every time, a different answer as if the actual answer was too deep to put into normal words.  Even now, when passing a funeral, I long to have a hat to remove and show my respect.  I make do with a silent prayer and remember my father’s small gesture and the lessons it inculcated in all of us.

Once, we caught the train to Dublin and my father played chess with a friendly priest in our compartment.  As they played they discussed Irish history, politics and religion.  It was like watching two experienced swordsmen testing each other capabilities.  Quotes would be used from historians, writers and the bible.  Anecdotes given and tales told to make a point and always laughter as the wheels of the train rocked us south.  You could tell they were pleasantly surprised to meet a worthy opponent both on the board and off.  At times, the discussion became heated but it was always courteous.  From the clash of differing opinions the truth does emerge and it was thrilling sitting eavesdropping on this epic battle.  When they said their polite farewells, my father asked his name and the old priest replied, “It’s William, sure you’ll not forgot crossing the Boyne with Father William will you?”    I drank it all in, their wit and good humour along with their eagerness to test their insights and experience with each other.

Yesterday, drinking gallons of tea at a laden table, listening the Donegal accent work its magic, a fragrance of that lost world wrapped itself around me.  That old-fashioned courtesy and kindness no longer extinct, as I feared, but sitting opposite me, pouring tea and forcing slices of freshly baked cakes onto my plate.

“Well is it with him who is illumined with the light of courtesy”

Rich Tit Bits

I am reading a wonderful book at present.  Entitled, “the best American magazine writing” 2011 it contains wonderful gems worth digesting indeed.  Michael Hasting’s piece “The runaway General” frightened me only because I’d already read the impressive piece before and was for a moment horrified that the book would turn out to be all too familiar.  But no, the rest were new to me and delightful in their range of topics and insights.  Jane Mayers wrote ‘Covert Operations’ and dealt with two wealthy brothers who have fought a furious war against climate change science and helped to seed the tea party movement.  They criticize political attempts to stop global warming as expensive, ineffectual and unnecessary.  The fact that their own company was named one of the top ten air polluters in the US might have had something to do with that.  In 1997 when the Environmental Protection Agency acted to reduce surface ozone, caused in part by emission from oil refineries, one of industry’s arguments put forward against this reduction was that smog free skies would result in more skin cancer!  Unbelievably, this argument was accepted by the Court.  You, really have to just shake your head in bewilderment at times!  Such is the funding strength of the two industrialists mentioned in the article that they even manage to colour the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History exhibits.  In a multimedia exploration of mankind and climate change, the human element in influencing such climate change is carefully whitewashed out.  Obviously, linking increases in carbon dioxide to fossil fuels would not hit the right note for these particular funders. 

It reminds me all too painfully of the new Giants Causeway Centre in Northern Ireland where the creationist belief finds its place in the display.  Please, let us be real!  In educational establishments that play, one hopes, a role in shaping young minds of the future can we try to avoid fantasy land, fake science or the polluter’s agendas.  The Giant’s Causeway was created by volcanic eruptions 60 million years ago, not by mystical giants laying down a bridge to Scotland and clearly neither is it consistent with the creationist’s claim that the earth is a mere 6000 years old.  The fact that increasingly educational programmes pussy foot around the truth to humour the rich or the religious is a worrisome sign.

This book challenges many other taboos including how we treat the dying in our medical system.  A must read article by Atul Gawande entitled ‘Letting Go’.  Scott Horton’s article on the three suicides in Guantanamo on June 9, 2006 is troubling.  It does seem highly suspect, as is claimed by American authorities, that the three could managed to have hung themselves, hands bound with rags down their throats.  I am only halfway through this book but it is toe curlingly good.  Well written, thoughtfully researched it feels like a long cool drink in the desert, refreshing, unexpected and rejuvenating.