In the parks of South-East London there are always feral green parakeets. Somehow I find myself telling Sophie’s glazed face about the parrot astrologers of Tamil Nadu who are trained to pick fortune cards. ‘A bit like that psychic octopus, Paul, you know, who could predict the World Cup results,’ I say, as she passive-aggressively tops up her own Prosecco. [loc. 760]
The narrator of Delphi, an unnamed academic and translator, is researching prophecy in the ancient world for her next book. She and her husband have booked a family trip to Delphi at Easter: unfortunately, it's beginning to look as though they'll have to cancel, because this is spring 2020 and, unforetold, the Covid pandemic is under way.
Forced to stay at home with her husband Jason (who isn't pulling his weight domestically) and her ten-year-old son Xander (who isn't adjusting well to lockdown), she writes about the various flavours of classical prophecy ('Haruspicy: Prophesy by Entrails'; 'Anthomancy: Prophecy by Flowers') and creates her own for the contemporary world ('Postdiction: Prophecy Written After The Fact', a chapter about Dominic Cummings' blog; 'Shufflemancy: Prophecy by the Use of an Electronic Media Player'). The chapter on 'Psephomancy: Prophecy by Lots or Ballots' deals with the run-up to the 2020 US Presidential election: 'I don’t need a Ouija board, I just touch my fingers gently to the Twitter timeline and see what it can say that makes the hairs on my neck stand up.' [loc. 1606]. And winding through the narrator's experience is another story, one she hasn't been able to predict with tarot or I Ching or Ouija boards or Twitter.
If this were only a novel about living through lockdown it would be a great read: Pollard demonstrates that there is humour and optimism to be found at the worst of times. Delphi is also an intriguing exploration of the intricacies and history of fortune-telling and prophecy, and about the nature of tragedy. There's an amusing aside about the 'Rider-Waite' Tarot deck, the role of artist Pamela Colman Smith in the cards' creation, and the surprising fact that A.E. Waite was a manager for Horlicks (and that Crowley referred to him as 'dead Waite'). Pollard posits a beguiling theory about the internet: 'it’s filled a void left by the decline in religion. For centuries humanity always felt it was being watched, and this knowledge gave even our smallest actions a sense of importance. Then, for a while, no one was bearing witness. No one was looking and it made us feel trivial and tenuous; utterly disposable to the indifferent world. That’s why we wanted to be on reality TV, so someone would see us. And now social media has filled the void. No evil tweet, it promises, will go unread and unpunished; goodness will be rewarded with ‘likes’ and supportive Mandela quotes, or photos of cats.' [loc. 412]. She also suggests that the Furies are on Twitter. (I wonder if they have a blue tick?)
I had not expected a novel about prophecy and pandemic to be so very uplifting. That's not to say it's altogether cheerful, but I am drawn to, and drawn into, the way the narrator looks at, interrogates and interprets her world and her experience. And I am very grateful that I spent my lockdown with only a cat for company!
Afterthought: Pollard's narrator wakes from a dream with the thought that heaven and hell exist, but in time rather than in space. That is, they are memories? Hopes? But no less real, either way. This notion has stuck in my mind.
Fulfils the ‘contemporary setting’ rubric of the 52 books in 2023 challenge. Contemporary in place as well as time: the quotation at the top of this review reflects my own lockdown experience (socially-distanced picnics in Greenwich Park with parakeets)
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