Reading The Peregrine In Fall
Autumn, that magical season when leaves turn shades of gold and the wind whispers ancient secrets, has always been a time of quiet contemplation for me. As I embark on my annual journey through the pages of JA Baker's "The Peregrine," it's a bit like strapping into a time machine and being whisked away to the countryside of my youth. Not just any countryside, mind you, but MY countryside - a place steeped in the stories of my parents, grandparents, and a wide-eyed kid who used to ask endless questions.
I remember those days vividly. The countryside seemed to stretch to infinity, and the horizon, well, it was an ever-elusive dream. It was my childhood equivalent of wondering what's on the other side of the rainbow. Whenever I posed that unanswerable question, my uncle, a man of few words and many winks, would just shrug and flash a grin. It was as if he had signed a non-disclosure agreement with the universe to keep its secrets.
This memory dances in harmony with Baker's words in "The Peregrine." He starts his journal with, “October 1st. Autumn rises into the bright sky. Corn is down. Fields shine after harvest.” Here we are, in mid-October, delving back into the book that piqued my curiosity over a decade ago. It all began with an interview of the one and only Werner Herzog, or a lecture that he geve to film students. Might have been both. Anyway, seeing and hearing Herzog's musings on life and cinema, or reading his monologues can make you ponder the deepest existential questions while you butter your morning toast. As for the book, it somehow found its way into my hands ten years ago, and I've read it nearly every year since. Not always cover-to-cover, but at least a few pages to savor. It's a bit like an old friend you meet on a park bench, and you don't have to say a word because the comfortable silence says it all.
It’s not necessarily the easiest book to read, and the challenge of navigating through a thick forest of nouns, as if the author decided that more nouns equaled more nature, was a daunting one, even for those born into the English language. I sometimes felt like a tourist in a linguistic zoo, where the animals had escaped from the dictionary and roamed free in his sentences. – how about some poetry, ey? –
Now, these days, pedalling along with the memory of the little me perched on my grandparents' porch steps, I leaf through the pages of the book, the words painting vivid landscapes of countryside and contemplation in my mind. As I read Baker's words, I feel myself being drawn into the fields, just like the fox „sloughing its smell into the cold unworldliness of water”. It is as if the book transports me back to my childhood days, lost in the countryside, where I was free to be a stranger to the world, to let the human taint wash away in the embrace of emptiness and silence.
The words on the pages slowly become a portal to my past, a nostalgic reminder of carefree moments when the mysteries of the countryside were waiting to be unraveled. Each sentence is a bridge connecting my present to those distant memories, and I revel in the simplicity of the prose and the complexity of the world it revealed. As I turn the pages of The Peregrine, the narrative paints a vivid picture of the flat fields and marshes of Essex, much like the landscapes of my childhood (well, except the marshes. We didn’t really have any of those.) There is a familiarity to the words that resonate deep within, as if Baker's observations are merely an echo of the days when I gazed upon the endless fields and wondered what lay beyond the horizon. It is a journey back in time, guided by the author's words and my own recollections, and I find solace in the timeless beauty of the countryside and the quiet contemplation it offers.
Some may label The Peregrine as boring, its journal structure seemingly repetitive, and the prose a bit intense for the hurried reader. There are no characters, no witty dialogues, no proper names, and certainly no riveting plot to follow. It's merely the tale of an author drawing closer to the birds he observes, gradually retreating from his own species, reverting to something more primitive and, perhaps, more pure. As Baker eloquently puts it, "Wherever he goes, this winter, I will follow him. I will share the fear, and the exaltation, and the boredom, of the hunting life... My pagan head shall sink into the winter land, and there be purified."
The narrative mirrors the essence of Sebald's Rings of Saturn in its contemplative journey. But what truly sets The Peregrine apart is the technique of description, one that has the power to change the way you see the world, to cleanse the window of your perception, and reveal the universe in all its pure and infinite primal glory. Much like the unquenchable curiosity of a child who gazes upon the horizon and wonders what lies beyond, The Peregrine urges you to see the world as you did when you were young, to peel away the layers of familiarity and witness the landscape with renewed wonder. It teaches that beneath the facade of mundanity lies a world teeming with magic, where every rustling leaf, every soaring bird, and every whispering breeze holds an enchanting tale.
The book allows you to step outside the realm of everyday life and rekindle that childlike fascination. In the end, The Peregrine isn't merely a book; it's an invitation to rediscover the innate curiosity that resides in us all, no matter how many years have passed. It's an echo of the child's voice that once asked, "What lies beyond that horizon?" – a voice that still lingers, beckoning us to explore and embrace the beauty of the world, in all its pure and infinite glory.
Last week, I reached the end of "The Peregrine," just as Baker penned his final entry for April 4th. Brightness danced upon the waters, and I, too, continued my pursuit of the falcon. I remain an observer, just as Baker did, leaving the falcon to its wild, untouched world. It's funny how a child's innocent curiosity can lead to a lifelong journey of exploration, be it through the eyes of a little kid or the pages of a well-worn book. Like the falcon, I hover on the cusp of understanding, content to let the world reveal its mysteries at its own pace.