Books in Brief: Giovanni Frazzetto, Robin Blackburn and David Marsh

Three new books you may have missed.

How We Feel: What Neuroscience Can – and Can’t – Tell Us About Our Emotions
Giovanni Frazzetto

Which goes further to explain feelings of guilt – a brain scan or a Caravaggio painting? As a student, the Italian neuroscientist Giovanni Frazzetto was moved by the transcript of Max Weber’s 1918 lecture “Science as a Vocation”, in which Weber argued that the process of intellectual rationalisation (termed Entzauberung, or “disenchantment”) produces human progress but adds nothing to the store of human meaning. Frazzetto’s book guides readers through the latest neurological research, stopping at each revelation to question what has been discovered. He asks which is better for fending off anxiety: medical research on rats, or philosophy? Is a bizarre neurological syndrome the key to understanding love, or did Shakespeare crack that one in his sonnets? 
Doubleday, 320pp, £20

The American Crucible: Slavery, Emancipation and Human Rights
Robin Blackburn
 
In his analysis of the rise and fall of slavery in the Americas, the historian and former editor of the New Left Review Robin Blackburn shows how the trade in African slaves – a catalyst in the shift from agriculture to industry – helped the rise of capitalism on both sides of the Atlantic. The spread of ideals born of Enlightenment thinking in France and North America led to a series of emancipatory moments in Haiti, the US, Cuba and Brazil, forging many liberal ideas that remain influential today.
Verso, 520pp, £14.99
 
Europe’s Deadlock
David Marsh
 
David Marsh, the chairman of the Official Monetary and Financial Institutions Forum, argues that crisis management will never fix the existential problems at the heart of the European Union. What is required is the restructuring of the project as a whole. Marsh lays out a number of options in this neat and concise book – all of which are being “blocked by indecision and incompetence at the top”.
Yale University Press, 130pp, £7.99
La Procure bookshop in Paris. Photograph: Getty Images.

Philip Maughan is a freelance writer in Berlin and a former Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 19 August 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Why aren’t young people working

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The Underground Railroad is a novel which offers hope for the very strong of heart

Whitehead’s prize-winning novel of slavery in America is his finest work yet.

30 DOLLARS REWARD will be given to any person who will deliver to me, or confine in any gaol in the state so that I can get her again, a likely yellow NEGRO GIRL 18 years of age who ran away nine months past. She is an artfully lively girl and will, no doubt, attempt to pass as a free person, but has a noticeable scar on her elbow, occasioned by a burn.

 

“Want ads” for runaway slaves serve as section breaks throughout Colson Whitehead’s searing novel The Underground Rail­road, which takes a familiar story – concerning the manifold injustices of American slavery – and brings it to terrible, terrifying new life. Whitehead does so by revealing, in close view, just how brutal and businesslike were efforts to ignore, obscure and destroy the dignity and humanity of so many men and women for so very long.

The novel begins with an auction:

 

Onlookers chewed fresh oysters and hot corn as the auctioneers shouted into the air. The slaves stood naked on the platform. There was a bidding war over a group of Ashanti studs, those Africans of renowned industry and musculature, and the foreman of a limestone quarry bought a bunch of pickaninnies in an astounding bargain.

 

Thereafter we learn that “A young buck from strong tribal stock got customers into a froth”, that “A slave girl squeezing out pups was like a mint, money that bred money”, and that a mother “maintained a reserve of maternal feeling after the loss of her five children – three dead before they could walk and the others sold off when they were old enough to carry water and grab weeds around the great house”.

Finally – and this is still just in the opening pages of the novel – we discover, through the eyes of a young woman named Cora, what happens when any of these persons resists living as purchased property: “She had seen men hung from trees and left for buzzards and crows. Women carved open to the bones with the cat-o’-nine-tails. Bodies alive and dead roasted on pyres. Feet cut off to prevent escape and hands cut off to prevent theft.”

Whether in spite or because of these consequences – and mindful, even haunted by the knowledge, that her mother managed to escape her own bondage – Cora decides to join a fellow slave named Caesar in running away. In Whitehead’s treatment, a metaphor for the secret network of support that helped black slaves reach the free (or at least freer) American north and Canada becomes an actual makeshift train that travels underground, which Cora and Caesar ride across the South. They are in constant peril, relieved by passing periods of respite: sleeping in a bed for the first time, learning to read and write, and even coming into a small amount of money, which, Cora soon discovers, “was new and unpredictable and liked to go where it pleased”.

Throughout their escape, they are pursued by a vicious slave-catcher called Ridgeway, who is motivated by far more than merely financial reward: “Charging through the dark, branches lashing his face, stumps sending him ass over elbow before he got up again. In the chase his blood sang and glowed.” Ridgeway, Cora and their respective others meet throughout the novel, their positions of advantage and opportunity revolving in ways that make for flat-out suspenseful reading. Many others are grievously harmed in the meantime, as they move through a small-town, 19th-century American world of crafty and hypocritical politesse and ritualised violence. The violence is never rendered more awfully than in the festive, Friday-night lynching sessions that take place at a picturesque park which Cora watches from an attic refuge.

The Underground Railroad, awarded the American National Book Award for Fiction last month, is Whitehead’s sixth novel. Following the more playful novel of manners Sag Harbor and Zone One, a zombie romp, it is his most ambitious and accomplished book since the Pulitzer-nominated John Henry Days of 2001. In fact, the lack of literary showiness – vividly presenting the rudely built underground railway and the hard lives of those riding it – makes The Underground Railroad perhaps his finest work. Although the repeated encounters between Cora and Ridgeway across such a sprawling set will strain the credulity of anyone save a diehard Victor Hugo fan, Whitehead is a confident enough writer to let their lines of escape, pursuit and capture braid and break apart again and again, building to an exciting and rending conclusion. It is one that offers hope for the very strong of heart. 

This article first appeared in the 01 December 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Age of outrage