Telling the Bees by Peggy Hesketh
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Futile Wisdom

Quite a read, right to the final paragraph. Combining a sensitive story with some classical philosophy and a compelling metaphor of honey bees and the mores of their hive, this is a masterpiece in a first novel. Hesketh, who I imagine is in her fifties, has captured what I think is a central aspect of what might be called the wisdom of age in someone considerably older than herself. The essence of this wisdom is that life is inherently chaotic. Even apparently insignificant actions, discoveries, mistakes, and omissions can have profound secondary effects which cannot be anticipated or mitigated. Our very striving for order creates complexity in our lives that is only revealed to the old. But this revelation is essentially tragic: there is nothing that can be done, no remedy offered, no amends possible. One's past is not only past, it is also only populated by the dead, the forgotten, the no longer extant. It is only with age that we can realise the complete lack of control that we have had over our lives. This realisation has meaning but not implication. There is nothing we can do with it. And this makes it all the more valuable.

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