The Peregrine by J.A. Baker, review
Nature poetry in flight
‘Their rapid, dancing motion had been so deft and graceful that it was difficult to believe that hunger was the cause of it and death the end. The killing force that follows the hunting flight of hawks comes with such shocking force, as though the hawk had suddenly gone mad and killed the thing it loved. The striving of birds to kill, or save themselves from death, is beautiful to see. The greater the beauty the more terrible the death.’
A sweet irony of the internet age is to find something hidden under your nose from thousands of miles away. I discovered The Peregrine through a book reviewer in Portland, Oregon, only to realise that the backdrop of the book is the winter landscape of innumerable dreary Sunday walks of my childhood in Essex. One of the most recognisable locations described by J.A. Baker, (appropriately for the location, a ford), is less than a mile away from where I used to work in Chelmsford, as is his former home, which I passed every day. Is there a word for the joy of discovering something familiar?
The Peregrine has been hailed as a literary masterpiece, testament to the craft of an author who apparently re-wrote the whole book five times before submitting to a publisher. Baker's artistic perfectionism was surely the literary result of his childlike obsession with his subject, which borders on the fanatical if not the mystical. Both show, for not a word is out of place, even if many of the words and sentiments are borne repeated, as if the bird’s mystery may be glimpsed by knowing his habits by rote. Baker’s style follows in the tradition of British writers that would have been naturalists if their literary inclinations had allowed them; reminiscent of the clarity, command and love of the English language of George Orwell; the metaphorical flourishes and lyricism of the prose of Laurie Lee; the poetry and pace of Dylan Thomas. The combination is mesmerising, as seen here where Baker cycles frantically after a Peregrine:
‘I swung over the hills and down into the deep valley, seeing the tiercel diving down the fanned sun’s rays towards the distant marshes. I swooped through Leicestershires of swift green light. A dazzling wetness of fields irrigated the windswept eye. The humming wheels plunged away below me; I was dragged down in a rush of wind. This was hunting speed, pounding after the winged hawk quick to the quarry. I remembered galloping over spring green turf, as a child; over the neglected, fallen farmland of pre-war years; through the wild hedges and the glorious wastes of flowering weeds flaming with hawks and finches.’
Baker's metaphor had an authentic power and insight that soared above the literary convention of nature writing. Reimagining with elegant originality sounds, sights and smells that live in your mind's eye like a fond memory, sharing a truth that is greater than factual description. Baker on the song of the nightjar would be enough to make Marcel Proust a shade of Leicestershire with envy:
‘Its song is like the sound of a stream of wine, spilling from a height into a deep and booming cask. It is an odorous sound, with a bouquet that rises to the quiet sky. In the glare of day it would seem thinner and drier, but dusk mellows it and gives it a vintage. If a song could smell, this song would smell of crushed grapes and almonds and dark wood. The sound spills out and none of it is lost. The whole wood brims with it. Then it stops. Suddenly, unexpectedly. But the ear hears it still, a prolonged fading echo, draining and winding out among the surrounding trees.’
A truly beautiful book.
