In autumn 1998 I spent a few days revisiting old haunts in
Washington DC, a city I’d briefly lived in at the start of the previous
decade. So I went back to Adams Morgan,
wandered through Rock Creek Park to Dumbarton Oaks and strolled down the yellow
and gold-strewn streets of Kalorama. And
I spent an afternoon browsing the bookshops around Dupont Circle. It was in one of these that I picked out a
copy of this, and immediately knew that I had to buy it, not knowing quite why
but certain that at some point in the future I would need it:
attempts to recover knowable facts (as opposed to credo, theological or polemical
statements) about the man Jesus.
does so from the perspective of Catholic belief (which may seem an odd though
entirely plausible starting point for such an enterprise) and concludes that
all such attempts are doomed.
are known, nothing further is knowable.
The scale of this
challenge from within the community of faith took some time to sink in but the
conclusion was unavoidable: historical
fiction finds its openings in the gaps and spaces that join together (or just possibly
keep apart) historical facts. And any
attempt on this subject would require ambition, courage and a certain thorough-going
I flew back to London with the author’s-proof copy in my luggage
& still no idea how it came to be in a bookshop on 18th St NW. Then I started to read deeply among existing
fictions set in the world of antiquity. And I started at the top – with Gore Vidal’s Julian.
But that must wait for another post . . . .