Words of the Lord: the significance of the Bible resides in the sum of our disparate readings of it. Photo: HAROLD M LAMBERT/GETTY IMAGES
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The only way to approach the Bible is with intellectual humility

The Bible is, as Wilson’s title has it, the book of the people. We build our meanings together.

The Book of the People: How to Read the Bible
A N Wilson
Atlantic Books, 213pp, £17.99

Strong As Death Is Love: the Song of Songs, Ruth, Esther, Jonah, Daniel
Robert Alter
W W Norton, 234pp, £18.99

In 1800, at the age of 16, Mary Jones set out from her parents’ cottage at the bottom of Cadair Idris and walked barefoot the 25 miles to Bala to buy a Welsh Bible from the Rev Thomas Charles. She had saved for six years for this and was distraught to find that the reverend had none left. But he allowed Mary to stay with him until the new stock arrived. She later wrote on the flyleaf: “I Bought this in the 16th year of my age. I am Daughter of Jacob Jones and Mary Jones His wife. The Lord may give me grace.”

Mary’s story inspired the founding of the British and Foreign Bible Society. The same thirst that drove her down the mountain drove the intellectual history of Europe for 500 years. The rise of printing and of literacy, the hunger for liberty, the demand for engagement – all have their roots in Luther’s dream of a Bible in the pocket of “every ploughboy”. Yet you wonder how Mary read it when she got home. Did she slog through Leviticus, with its weird dietary restrictions and its detailed description of the parking arrangements for the 12 tribes? Was she strangely distracted by the Song of Songs? Was she unnerved and enthralled by Job? Did she take it all as literal truth? Or did she keep her Bible as a kind of household god, opened at random to tell fortunes and give advice? For a single volume of settled texts, the Bible has unleashed a bewildering diversity of readings. It has been used to prop up power and to topple it, to pursue knowledge and to smother it, to encourage both silence and ranting.

So it takes some bottle to subtitle your book – as A N Wilson has done – How to Read the Bible. People have been telling each other how to read it for centuries, sometimes with the aid of a Hebrew dictionary, sometimes with thumbscrews. But Wilson’s delightful and unexpectedly moving book is characterised by intellectual humility. We are living through a period of literalism: the loopy, poisonously selective literalism of the evangelicals; the pub bore “as if”-ism of Richard Dawkins. Academic quests for historical “truth” are all united, Wilson writes, by a catastrophic failure of the imagination. In their place, he offers us a set of more interesting “readings”, ranging from the prophetic rhetoric of Martin Luther King to the building of Hagia Sophia in Istanbul. The book is haunted by another, more personal reading – a dialogue between Wilson and an anonymous friend. It’s a measure of how unusual this study is that I can’t talk about that bit without issuing a spoiler alert.

Growing up Catholic, I was not especially encouraged to read the Bible. After reading Wilson, I now realise that I was instead inhabiting a reading of it, a reading that would come to Catholics sensually through music, paintings, architecture and ritual and that structured our social life and our politics. I didn’t sit down for my own reading until I was in my forties and even then I did it for work: I had been commissioned to write a play about the (probably apocryphal) incident wherein rabbis in Auschwitz put God on trial for breach of the covenant.

Those weeks of page-turning were boring, shocking and thrilling. The God of Genesis, Exodus and the Psalms is fickle, furious and petulant. It wasn’t hard to find Him guilty. I was taken aback, though, when I got to the Book of Job and discovered that its shape was more or less identical to the Auschwitz incident. The rabbis end by finding God guilty and then praying anyway. Job says: “Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.” His faith is an act of defiance, a confrontation with God.

The Bible is surprisingly full of doubt and God-directed anger and accusation. Wilson calls it “the first atheist text”. As Jesus dies, he cries out: “Why have you forsaken me?” I’ve always been moved by this, the idea of a god who loses faith in his own existence. It wasn’t until the year I wrote God on Trial, on Palm Sunday, that I clocked that these words come from the Psalms. What does that mean? Does it mean Jesus was quoting the psalm? Or did the evangelist pop that quotation in to make a point? Or does it mean that the entire New Testament is a literary creation – a tapestry of prophecies fulfilled and questions answered? The same questions could be asked about the Ausch­witz anecdote. Is it an entirely invented update of the Book of Job? Or did those rabbis, steeped in scripture, model their experience on the Book of Job?

Wilson is at his most interesting discussing the mechanisms we use to make meaning. For most of recorded history, the Bible has been a kind of epistemological Geiger counter, detecting and amplifying the buzz of meaning in our lives. I love the way in which Mary Jones – like my parents – added her genealogy to the flyleaf, writing herself into the story. I like to think of her struggling with these texts, as Jacob did with the angel, and after her fight, looking out of the cottage window to see, like Blake, Jesus tending the Welsh mountain sheep and Dolgellau shining like Jerusalem and saying, like Jacob, “This is a holy place and I did not know.” This is what the van Eycks did in the incomparable Ghent Altarpiece – painting real, raddled Flemish faces into Eden and Calvary. This process stretches forward to today and back into the Bible itself.

I was warned when I started to read the Bible: “It’s not a book, it’s a library.” But it’s a library in which all the books dispute each other and recycle each other’s imagery – as when Jesus quotes the Psalms or when Mary at the Annunciation does a cover version of Hannah’s song from the Book of Samuel. To have an emotional encounter of this sort, you probably have to free it from the shackles of its own authority and familiarity.

Strong As Death Is Love is Robert Alter’s edition of the Song of Songs and the Books of Ruth, Esther, Jonah and Daniel. Encountering these books in this form – as ancient literature, laid out as poetry, with copious footnotes – allows you to be dazzled by their range, from the frank eroticism of the Song of Songs to the bucolic idyll of Esther and the downright weirdness of Daniel. Alter also did an edition of the Book of Job, which for me is the richest, most troubling and purely beautiful thing I have ever read. Wilson is fond of a Dominican priest called Thomas Brodie who regards the entire New Testament as a work of fiction. He says you have to kill the historical to free the poetry.

Wilson has a moving account of listening to the Passion narrative on Palm Sunday with a congregation, accompanied by these ancient chants. That’s what I was doing the day I recognised the psalm – the year I’d questioned everything. That day, I listened to the story for the umpteenth time, the story of some fishermen who, blundering in to the city during a tense weekend, had triggered a riot and – being recognisable because of their thick country accents – had run away when the chips were down. This story has been retold on this day through wars, through persecution, through the Dark Ages and the ages of discovery, through plague and earthquake and enlightenment.

I was stabbed by how extraordinary it was to be able to hear these marginal, bewildered voices echoing down the years. For me, that day, the whole thing reeked of truth, of a particular historical moment. Yet I was also aware that the “meaning” was not just that moment but the sum of all our readings – the brilliant and the beautiful and the bad and the bonkers, those of the bigot and the liberationist. Milton, yes, but also the Borgias, Blake and Mary Jones. The Bible is, as Wilson’s title has it, the book of the people. We build our meanings together.

This article first appeared in the 06 May 2015 issue of the New Statesman, The Power Struggle

Love Actually stills.
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Cute or creepy? How romcoms romanticise stalker-like and controlling behaviour

I present to you: a history of Hollywood romance, unromanticised.

This week, a new study was published with findings that suggest romcoms can encourage women to be more tolerant of stalker-like behaviour. I Did It Because I Never Stopped Loving You, a report Julia R Lippman, a professor of Communication Studies at the University of Michigan specialising in gender and media, studied women’s responses to “stalking myths” after watching a series of films of different genres.

Women who watched There’s Something About Mary and Management were more likely to be accepting aggressive romantic pursuit than those who watched films featuring “a scary depiction of persistent pursuit” like Sleeping With the Enemy and Enough – or benign nature documentaries such as March of the Penguins and Winged Migration.

Are we really that surprised? The male-dominated film industry has a long tradition of neutralising and romanticising controlling or harassing behaviour from men, from its beginnings to today. I present to you: a history of Hollywood romance, unromanticised.

It Happened One Night (1934)

Often credited with the birth of the romcom, the story is as follows: a newspaper reporter blackmails a celebrity on the run from her family into speaking to him for a story, threatening to turn her in to her father for reward money if she doesn’t comply with his wishes. After dangling this threat over her head over days, he hunts her down on her wedding day, and accepts slightly less than the agreed reward money from her father, arguing that he did what he did for love, not money. On hearing of this noble deed, our heroine swoons, cancels her wedding, and runs off with the reporter instead.

Seven Brides for Seven Brothers (1954)

A group of brothers kidnap six attractive women by causing a life-threatening avalanche that keeps them imprisoned all winter. The women play pranks on the men in revenge, and, in a shocking case of Stockholm syndrome, everyone has an all-round jolly time. They pair off and are all married by summer.  

Some Like It Hot (1959)

Two men disguise themselves as women to trick a young woman into trusting them. One continues his attempts to seduce her by disguising himself as a billionaire and faking severe psychological traumas to gain her sympathy. They eventually sail into the sunset together.

Breakfast at Tiffany’s (1961)

A man becomes enamoured by a pretty young woman, but is angered by her repeated attempts to marry richer men. He investigates her past relationships, without her permission. When she is abandoned by her fiancé, the man follows the pretty young woman to a New York library, insisting she confess her love for him, telling her, “I love you. You belong to me.” When she tells him “people don’t belong to people” he becomes enraged, lecturing and patronising her. They kiss in the rain.

My Fair Lady (1964)

Two men attempt to assert their control over a pretty young woman: one by promising her the career of her dreams if she promises to change her entire personality according to his strict preferences, one by stalking her, lurking constantly on the street where she lives. She almost marries one, and falls for the other.

The Graduate (1967)

A young man intentionally upsets his ex’s daughter by taking her on a date, where he is horrible to her, and forces her to go to a strip club. He hides his affair with her mother from her, and, when she discovers it and rejects him, follows her across America, spends days on end harassing her, and ruins her wedding. They elope, via the world’s most awkward bus journey.

Back to the Future (1985)

A teenager goes back in time to aid his creepy, peeping Tom father achieve his dream of marrying the woman he watches undress from a tree outside her house.

Say Anything (1989)

A young man wins back the heart of his ex-girlfriend by turning up uninvited at her family’s home and intentionally disturbing them all by holding a boombox aloft, humiliating her by blasting out the song she lost her virginity to.

Pretty Woman (1990)

A man manipulates a sex worker to overhaul her entire personality in order to conform to his idea of womanhood.

Edward Scissorhands (1990)

An outcast becomes obsessed with a popular young woman after staring at her childhood pictures in her family home, watches her from a distance, carves an enormous, angelic statue of her, then murders her boyfriend. They kiss, feet from the boyfriend’s lifeless corpse.

Beauty and the Beast (1991)

A man who knows a young woman is not attracted to him kidnaps her father as a way to lure her into his home. He imprisons her and uses his legion of servants and magical home to manipulate her into falling for her captor, all so he can get a sexy makeover. In a shocking case of Stockholm syndrome, she falls for him.

Something About Mary (1998)

Thirteen years after his advances were first rejected, a man travels all the way from Rhode Island to Florida and pays a private investigator to stalk his childhood crush. He lies to her and everyone who knows her in order to win her affections. When she becomes aware of his deceit, she shrugs it off, as everyone else she knows has been stalking her, too. His excuse? “I did it because I never stopped thinking about you. And if I didn’t find you, I knew that my life would never ever be good again.”

American Beauty (1999)

A young man follows an attractive young woman to her house and videos her getting undressed. She gives in to his advances.

High Fidelity (2000)

A man tracks down every one of his ex-girlfriends to harass them over why they left him. He stalks his most recent ex’s boyfriend, standing outside his house in the pouring rain. She goes back to him.

50 First Dates (2004)

A man discovers an attractive woman’s amnesia leaves her vulnerable, so spends every day trying to manipulate her condition to his advantage. After studying her every move, he engineers “chance meetings”, essentially kidnapping her without her consent by the film’s end.

The Notebook (2004)

A woman falls for a man after he writes several hundred letters to her without receiving any replies, stalks her hometown, and restores an entire house based on the fact they had sex there once.

Love Actually (2004)

A man of enormous privilege and power falls for his secretary, comments on her physical appearance to colleagues, has her fired, turns up on her family doorstep on Christmas Eve, and bundles her into his car. She kisses him.

Also, a sullen young man resents his best friend’s wife for being good-looking, is horrible to her, films her obsessively on her wedding day, then arrives on her doorstep on Christmas eve, threateningly brandishing a picture of what he imagines her decaying corpse will one day look like. She kisses him.

Time Traveller’s Wife (2009)

A man uses his time-travelling powers to groom a pre-teen version of the adult woman he loves into falling for him.

Twilight (2008)

A centuries-old man disguised as a teenager infiltrates a school and becomes obsessed with a teenager, stalking her and watching her sleep, all the while making clear to her that he is “dangerous”. She gives in to his advances.

Also, a violent man pursues a teenage woman long after she has rejected him, usually in a state of semi-nudity.

Management (2008)

A man develops an obsession with a married woman when she checks into the motel where he works. She does not return his affections, so he follows her around the country: first to Maryland, then to Washington State, where she is engaged to a man whose baby she is carrying; then back to Maryland. She eventually gives in to his advances.

Crazy Stupid Love (2011)

A teenage boy stalks his female classmate, sneaking into her room at night to watch her sleep.

Fifty Shades of Grey (2015)

A billionaire uses his money and power to hunt down a student journalist who interviewed him at her place of work. He kidnaps her when she is drunk, and blames her for drinking. He manipulates her with gifts and encourages her to sign away her independence. When she tries to leave him, he follows her 3,000 miles to her mother’s home. She gives in to his advances and he assaults her. 

Anna Leszkiewicz is a pop culture writer at the New Statesman.