Canongate (Edinburgh 2020). Hbk. 212 pages. £16.99.
‘Stories we tell ourselves’ is an enjoyable exploration of the ‘mystery of our existence and the suffering that accompanies it.’ This book moves lightly through weighty topics, always with something interesting to say but never pretending to be an exhaustive examination. Holloway looks at the stories told by science, religion and mystery. In each case, he asks us, how do we reconcile our story with the scale of suffering we see in the world?
The book starts with a concise telling of the scientific story, in a chapter that would make a good synopsis of a Stephen Hawking book. The normal debates about cosmological arguments and creationism are given swift treatment. Holloway picks up topics for long enough to offer a gem of insight, but without wading into tired debates. This serves a purpose: reminding readers that even our scientific understanding really consists of the metaphors and analogies used to teach us. Holloway moves on to the religious stories of creation and the fall. He does not hold back in criticism of the latter as the product of, and mechanism for, millennia of misogyny and other oppressions.
Turning to the problem of evil, Holloway sets out with brevity and clarity the different solutions or ‘theodicies’ offered by Christianity. Readers familiar with these arguments will still find his insights into how these arguments shaped and were shaped by societies fascinating. In Holloway’s reproval of Augustinian celibacy obsession and medieval witch hunting, you can find a rebuke of modern day ‘slut shaming’.
Holloway takes issue not with the implausibility of stories, but the cruelty or harm they can lead to when they claim authority. A repeated refrain in the book is the need to make space for the stories and beliefs of others: tolerance and openness rather than ‘the ruthlessness of the idea of sanctioned truths.’ Holloway advocates learning to keep on looking both ways, adopting a position of ‘resolute irresolution’ to unanswered questions of existence and meaning. I was left wondering if such an ideal can survive the intolerant beliefs, crazes, panics, conspiracy theories and other psychological spasms, which Holloway warns are ‘like communicable diseases, highly infectious.’
The third part of the book looks at the stories of the mystics. These have the advantage, in the author’s view, of not claiming authority over anyone except for the individuals who have the experiences. But these stories face the same problem as the others: however powerful the feeling of transcendent meaning, there is still the irreconcilable fact of the pain seen in the world.
Every sentence carries a sense of decades of wisdom. He writes from a lifetime of experiences, ranging from the hippy scene in 1960s San Francisco through to the aftermath of the murders of Jesuits in El Salvador in 1989. This book leaves a strong impression of the kindness and compassion of its author, even for those with whom he would most strongly disagree.
Though it was in its final editing stages by March, this feels like a book written during the Covid-19 pandemic. This is a book for our times, but it is not a depressing or pessimistic book. It is frank about the suffering in the world, but key to humanity’s story is the fact that we care. The story Richard Holloway tells is an uplifting, gentle and modest one, told not in the reciting of a creed but in the doing of something.
There are always some who are brave enough to dedicate their whole lives to the work of this downside-up, other kingdom. Then there are people like me who dip in and out of it as courage and occasion allow. That, too, is how it operates. It is only ever a gesture away. And a single gesture in a whole lifetime may, for some, be all that was ever possible. It won’t be lost. It will find its mark. It never triumphs, this other kingdom, is never fully realised. But nor is it ever utterly defeated.
Edward Nickell works in NHS management and joined the SOF network this year.