The Evening and the Morning by Ken Follett: A review

Back in 2010, I read and enjoyed The Pillars of the Earth. (Here's a link to my Goodreads review.) When I saw this book was billed as a prequel to that novel, I was intrigued and added it to my reading list. Follett has also written two sequels to that first novel which I have yet to read. I'll get to them one of these days.

Reading a Follett historical novel takes a commitment of time. Pillars was just over 1000 pages long and this current book is just a bit less than 1000. Moreover, the narrative encompasses multiple alternating storylines and a mind-boggling cast of characters from all levels of society. In this instance, the society is late tenth century and early eleventh century England in a place that would evolve over time into the town of Knightsbridge. Follett recreates this period with all of its hazards and physical realities and the competing influences of religion and politics. The time period covered is just ten years but it is a jam-packed ten years full of subplots involving the book's socially diverse cast of characters.

The narrative is straightforward and linear and quite enthralling in its granular details of life in that period. It is appallingly full of the most awful human conduct from rape, murder, infanticide, arson, to almost any betrayal the human imagination could come up with. But the story is absolutely mesmerizing and it moves quickly because the reader can't wait to see what happens next.

The story begins with a Viking raid on the coastal village of Combe where young Edgar, the protagonist, and his family live. They are a family of boatbuilders and when the raid comes the father tries to defend their work and he is killed. The rest of the family, a mother and three sons survive, and after the raid, are forced to move to the rural backwater of Dreng's Ferry. It is at Dreng's Ferry that Edgar begins to develop his remarkable skills as a builder, continuing the theme of this series which focuses on design, construction methods, and building.

At Dreng's Ferry, Edgar meets a monk named Brother Aldred who has intellectual ambitions that parallel Edgar's pragmatic ones. They become allies.

Another subplot concerns a French noblewoman from Cherbourg named Lady Ragna. When an English ealdorman named Wilwulf comes to Cherbourg to meet with her father, Ragna falls in love with him and he becomes obsessed with her. He subsequently asks for her hand in marriage and the father agrees. Thus, Ragna moves to an England that is very different and less socially advanced than French society. The marriage turns out to be ultimately disastrous and it brings Ragna in contact with Wilwulf's despicable brothers, one of whom, Wynstan, is a thoroughly corrupt bishop and perhaps the most evil character in the story.

But Ragna also eventually meets the honorable Edgar and their attraction is instant but unacknowledged, and another layer is added to this already many-layered story.

Follett's Knightsbridge series of books traces the building of a civilization with all its structures, beliefs, customs, and laws by tracking the slow evolution over centuries of the town of Knightsbridge. His style of writing is very accessible and makes for swift reading even of a 1000-page tome. If this period of history fascinates you as it does me, you could do worse than immerse yourself for a few days in this world.

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Poetry Sunday: Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

How about we share another Mary Oliver poem? After all, you can never have too many of those. In this one, the poet seems to acknowledge that it is often hard to simply live in and enjoy the moment, perhaps because we are afraid it can't last. She urges us to give in to that moment and fully experience the joy. Although "much can never be redeemed, still, life has some possibility left." Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is no...

Poetry Sunday: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

My mother was a farm wife and a prodigious canner. She canned fruit and vegetables from the garden, even occasionally meat. But the best thing that she canned, in my opinion, was blackberry jam. Even as I type those words my mouth waters! Of course, before she could make that jam, somebody had to pick the blackberries. And that somebody was quite often named Dorothy. I think Seamus Heaney might have spent some time among the briars plucking those delicious black fruits as well, so he would have known that "Once off the bush the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour." They don't keep; you have to get that jam made in a hurry! Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust ...

Poetry Sunday: Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman

You probably remember poet Amanda Gorman from her appearance at the inauguration of President Biden. She read her poem "The Hill We Climb" on that occasion. After the senseless slaughter in Uvalde this week, she was inspired to write another poem which was published in The New York Times. It seemed perfect for the occasion and so I stole it in order to feature it here, just in case you didn't get a chance to read it in the Times . Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman Everything hurts, Our hearts shadowed and strange, Minds made muddied and mute. We carry tragedy, terrifying and true. And yet none of it is new; We knew it as home, As horror, As heritage. Even our children Cannot be children, Cannot be. Everything hurts. It’s a hard time to be alive, And even harder to stay that way. We’re burdened to live out these days, While at the same time, blessed to outlive them. This alarm is how we know We must be altered — That we must differ or die, That we must triumph or try. ...

The Nature of Things

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