Political meetings were well attended; they were cheaper than going to the movies or getting drunk.

Mr Norris Changes Trains, by Christopher Isherwood

Mr Norris Changes Trains was published in 1935. It’s a funny and well observed novel of a Berlin lost in decadence and violence, before the horror that was soon to come.

Norris

William Bradshaw is a young man living in Berlin (any resemblance to Christopher William Bradshaw Isherwood is I understand entirely intentional). On the train into the city he finds himself in the same carriage as a Mr Norris. They strike up a conversation, with Bradshaw innocently wondering why Mr Norris seems quite so concerned at the prospect of border checks. It’s the first sign that whatever it is that Mr Norris does for a living, it’s not entirely legitimate.

Here’s Mr Norris:

He had a large blunt fleshy nose and a chin which seemed to have slipped sideways. It was like a broken concertina. When he spoke, it jerked crooked in the most curious fashion and a deep cleft dimple like a wound surprisingly appeared in the side of it. Above his ripe red cheeks, his forehead was sculpturally white, like marble. A queerly cut fringe of dark grey hair lay across it, thick, and heavy. After a moment’s hesitation, I realized, with extreme interest, that he was wearing a wig.

Mr Norris is an absurd figure, but oddly likable and one of the many charms of this book is that I found myself liking him even though there’s really very little reason why I should. Norris is a petty schemer, a political opportunist, self-pitying and grandiose in turns and not nearly as clever as he thinks he is. Still, he has a certain absurd charm, and Isherwood’s great talent here is to let Norris’s character shine through the page.

By the time we had reached Bentheim, Mr Norris had delivered a lecture on the disadvantages of most of the chief European cities. I was astonished to find how much he had travelled. He had suffered from rheumatics in Stockholm and draughts in Kaunas; in Riga he had been bored, in Warsaw treated with extreme discourtesy, in Belgrade he had been unable to obtain his favourite brand of toothpaste. In Rome he had been annoyed by insects, in Madrid by beggars, in Marseilles by taxi-horns. In Bucharest he had an exceedingly unpleasant experience with a water-closet. Constantinople he had found expensive and lacking in taste. The only two cities of which he greatly approved were Paris and Athens. Athens particularly. Athens was his spiritual home.

Norris is fond of privately-published books featuring schoolgirls and spanking. His secretary is a menacing figure who seems to hold more power over his employer than vice versa. Norris has an extraordinary array of contacts from Communist organisers to influential aristocrats, but very rarely any money. He’s generous with what he has though, when he has it, and there’s no real meanness to him.

Literature and history both are full of men like Mr Norris. People who are rogues, but not monsters. They may do harm, but not from malice. In another time and place a Mr Norris could look much more blameworthy than he does here – if he were to appear today for example making money from insider trading and dodgy investment schemes I doubt he’d seem so comic. In 1930s Berlin though well, there are much worse sins than greed and vanity.

In 1966 Isherwood looked back on Mr Norris Changes Trains and condemned it as “a heartless fairy-story about a real city in which human beings were suffering the miseries of political violence and near-starvation.” I think that’s too harsh. Yes, Bradshaw is depicted as something of an innocent abroad in a city of grotesques, but the book has for me more compassion than Isherwood later came to see in it. The characters are mostly thugs, dominatrices and wheeler-dealers but I could easily imagine each having their own novel following them as this one follows Mr Norris. If Isherwood had written those novels, I’d read them.

As the novel continues the situation in Berlin worsens. Behaviour that was already risky becomes downright dangerous. It’s no place for a gentle crook like Mr Norris with his schemes and fantasies.

Berlin was in a state of civil war. Hate exploded suddenly, without warning, out of nowhere; at street corners, in restaurants, cinemas, dance halls, swimming-baths; at midnight, after breakfast, in the middle of the afternoon. Knives were whipped out, blows were dealt with spiked rings, beer-mugs, chair-legs, or leaded clubs; bullets slashed the advertisements on the poster-columns, rebounded from the iron roofs of latrines. In the middle of a crowded street a young man would be attacked, stripped, thrashed, and left bleeding on the pavement; in fifteen seconds it was all over and the assailants had disappeared.

The newspapers were full of deathbed photographs of rival martyrs, Nazi, Reichsbanner, and Communist.

This is a world where the Nazis are the authorities. What do Mr Norris’s peccadilloes count for against that?

Far from being heartless, for me this was a warm and affectionate book. It’s barbed, but Mr Norris would understand that friendship can be genuine without having to be blind to the friend’s faults, as long as everyone behaves with discretion …

Isherwood’s prose-style is clean and lucid. He’s a good writer in a very classic sense – credible characters, evocative descriptions, wit and intelligence showing but never showy. This is writing which repays attention, but never requires it and because of that it makes a surprisingly relaxing read.

Four years later Isherwood published Goodbye to Berlin (the book the film Cabaret is based on). It’s often published in a single volume alongside Mr Norris Changes Trains, and is closely linked to it. I’ve already bought Goodbye and look forward to it, and hopefully to more Isherwood after that.

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Filed under Berlin, Isherwood, Christopher

Kerrigan is a man of quotes. They substitute nicely for thought.

Kerrigan in Copenhagen, by Thomas E. Kennedy

[I'm posting this review before Mr. Norris Changes Trains because I left the Isherwood at work and won't have access to it for another week or so.]

I’ve said before that whether or not a book has a single sympathetic character is irrelevant to how good the book is. Some books need characters the reader will like, perhaps empathise with. I don’t deny that. A crime series without an interesting central detective is a dry thing. Generally though the idea that a book is flawed merely because it lacks characters the reader might want to be friends with is ludicrous.

All of which is fine, but the truth remains that I abandoned Kerrigan in Copenhagen because I couldn’t stand to share even one more page with its suffocatingly smug protagonist.

Kerrigan

A couple of years back I worked on a deal which involved a fair bit of travel to Copenhagen. I grew to like the city, and returned there on holiday with my wife. We’ve been out a few times now, enough that I feel like I know the place and perhaps have a degree of connection to it. This year we chose it for our wedding anniversary, and what better book to read for a wedding anniversary in Copenhagen than a romance set in that very city?

The short answer is almost any book, since I abandoned this one on page 106 (of 234). I moved on to a James M. Cain and didn’t look back. My only regret is not bailing sooner. So it goes.

Kerrigan is a US academic. He is in Denmark ostensibly to write a guide to Copenhagen’s bars with the help of his (predictably) beautiful research assistant and her “jade-green eyes”. Kerrigan’s recently divorced. His wife, a much younger woman, left him – falsely alleging that Kerrigan mistreated her so as to ensure she has sole custody of their child.

What all this means is that Kerrigan is a man on the rebound. His life has fallen apart, and his project, his work in Copenhagen, is essentially one long pub crawl. There are over 1,500 bars and cafes in the city with new ones opening and old ones closing all the time. If you really wanted to write a guide to them all you could spend the rest of your life doing so. If you’re going to drown your sorrows, you might as well do it in style.

So far so good, and reading that description above I can see why I wanted to read this. Even more so then when I add that Kerrigan’s guide is as much to the literary connections of Copenhagen’s bars as it is to the quality of their beer. He keeps an unfinished copy of Finnegan’s Wake in his pocket and uses each visit as an excuse to regale his assistant with details of the city’s cultural history. A key point here is that you can actually use this novel as a sort of guidebook – it’s quite possible to follow Kerrigan’s path and visit the bars he does.

The problem though is the character of Kerrigan himself. He’s never short of a quote or factoid regarding the history of a person or place. He’s always ready with a relevant anecdote. Too ready. He won’t shut up. I found him exhausting and tedious, Kennedy showing his research all too plainly on Kerrigan’s sleeve.

Here’s an example of Kerrigan’s inner monologue:

Kerrigan lights a cigarillo, thinking of Lotte the eighty-six-year-old executive secretary, wondering if she has ever read Ewald or Wessel both of whom were born in the 1740s and died in the 1780s, who lived in the time of Struensee, middle-aged lover of the teenage Queen Caroline Mathilde, and who were Sturm and Drang contemporaries of Goethe, whose skull was found to contain a small quantity of gray dust by East German bureaucrats one sark November night in 1970.

He considers the overview of history he labors to gather in his own skull and its fate. Gray dust that no one will even bother to peak through his eye sockets at. But just to see history once, almost clearly, before then. A complete history and juxtaposition of everything – or even just a history of the place where he is living – to clothe himself in it would be very fine raiment indeed.

It continues in that vein for quite some time, Kerrigan’s goal of course being to clothe himself in wider history so as to cover the nakedity of his own immediate past. His conversations aren’t that different. Largely they consist of him showing off his considerable knowledge to his assistant while she queries why he needs her when he already knows so much. Naturally there’s a spark of romance between them.

Not just with her though. Kerrigan’s an attractive man, with his “Montblanc pen, pleasingly weighted in his hand” and his designer Italian jeans which he rather fancies himself in:

He stands to fetch another beer. Blurrily he sees a woman with a coarse nose sitting by herself nursing a small glass of beer at the next table from his own.

“Hello,” says Kerrigan.

“Hello, then,” she says in British. “I like your Italian jeans. Can see the label. Not that I was looking at your bottom or anything.” Her accent makes him think of Basil Fawlty’s wife in Fawlty Towers: I kno-ow, I kno-ow.

Kerrigan asks her, :Why are women so beautiful?” and she says , “Aren’t you the sweet talker?”

I am deeply suspicious of novels where middle-aged writers are found attractive by a range of women for no reason particularly evident within the text. It always smacks of wish fulfilment. Kerrigan’s pretty proud of how he looks which is fine but I didn’t buy anyone in Copenhagen actually agreeing. He’s a middle-aged American wearing the classic American-academic-abroad uniform of jeans and sports jacket. As for “I like your Italian jeans”, does anyone actually talk like that?

The descriptions of Copenhagen and its bars are pretty good. Otherwise though I found Kerrigan unconvincing and worse uninteresting, and I profoundly didn’t care whether he got into his assistant’s bed or not. I felt like a pedantic drunk had sat at my table in a bar, blocking my easy exit, and was lecturing me at numbing length about Hans Christian Andersen and Kierkegaard and jazz and several other topics that I might well have found interesting if I wasn’t constantly being beaten over the head with it.

Kerrigan in Copenhagen has generally received good reviews. Here‘s one from the Guardian and here‘s Guy’s from His Futile Preoccupations. Guy had some reservations, but overall liked it much more than I did (not hard, I admit). Guy’s reviews are always worth reading so I do recommend you take a look at his for a second opinion.

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Filed under Copenhagen, US Literature

Los Angeles, give me some of you!

Ask the Dust, by John Fante

I was a young man, starving and drinking and trying to be a writer. I did most of my reading at the downtown L.A. Public Library, and nothing that I read related to me or to the streets or to the people about me. It seemed as if everybody was playing word-tricks, that those who said almost nothing at all were considered excellent writers. Their writing was an admixture of subtlety, craft and form, and it was read and it was taught and it was ingested and it was passed on. It was a comfortable contrivance, a very slick and careful Word-Culture.

That’s Charles Bukowski. This is the book he discovered in that library, the one that excited him as nothing else had managed. He was right to be excited.

Ask the Dust

Ask the Dust is the third in John Fante’s Bandini quartet; the second though to be published. I read the first, Wait Until Spring, Bandini, back in 2009. In my review at the time I talked about Wait’s emotional intensity and called it a triumph,  and I was particularly impressed with its depiction of the fetid inner experience of adolescence (something the Adrian Mole books got terribly, terribly wrong and that my current read, Megan Abbott’s The End of Everything, also captures well).

As a rule I’m not a fan of coming-of-age stories. It’s one reason I don’t read any YA fiction. I’m even less of a fan though of stories about the difficulty of being a writer. Yes, being a writer is hard. So is being a checkout assistant at Tesco.

If there’s any rule I do believe about fiction though it’s that with enough talent the topic doesn’t really matter. Danilo Kiš wrote a superb book about being a young writer – so well written that I didn’t just forgive the hackneyed subject matter, I embraced it. John Fante does the same thing with Ask the Dust.

Arturo Bandini is living dirt poor in Los Angeles. He survives by eating oranges, so cheap he buys them by the sackful and eats almost nothing else. He knows he’s a great writer – he’s had a short story published and he keeps a suitcase full of copies of the magazine it was published in so that he can hand them out when needed.

Fante captures the sheer exhilaration of youth – your whole future before you, laid out and glittering. Arturo veers between grandiose hope and utter despair, wracked by hunger and unfulfilled lust. His head is filled with fantasies of his name on the library shelves next to Dreiser and Mencken, of his future fame and the respect it will bring:

Bandini (being interviewed prior to departure for Sweden): “My advice to all young writers is quite simple. I would caution them never to evade a new experience. I would urge them to live life in the raw, to grapple with it bravely, to attack it with naked fists.” Reporter: “Mr. Bandini, how did you come to write this book which won you the Nobel Award?” Bandini: “The book is based on a true experience which happened to me one night in Los Angeles. Every word of that book is true. I lived that book, I experienced it.”

Right now though, right now he’s a nobody and copies of his story gather dust on the desks and tables of the people he gives them to, unasked for and unwanted. He has his face pressed against the glass of the window of the world, hungry and intent.

I was passing the doorman of the Biltmore, and I hated him at once, with his yellow braids and six feet of height and all that dignity, and now a black automobile drove to the curb, and a man got out. He looked rich; and then a woman got out, and she was beautiful, her fur was silver fox, and she was a song across the sidewalk and inside the swinging doors, and I thought oh boy for a little of that, just a day and a night of that, and she was a dream as I walked along, her perfume still in the wet morning air.

Later:

Yes, it’s true: but I have seen houses in Bel-Air with cool lawns and green swimming pools. I have wanted women whose very shoes are worth all I have ever possessed. I have seen golf clubs on Sixth Street in the Spalding window that make me hungry just to grip them. I have grieved for a necktie like a holy man for indulgences. I have admired hats in Robinson’s the way critics gasp at Michelangelo.

Isn’t that beautiful? In his foreword Bukowski talks about how with Fante each line has its own energy, each page a feeling of something carved into it. That’s what I see in that prose too. Sentence after sentence laid down like careful brickwork, or like a drystone wall where a single badly placed piece could bring down the whole. I read this book and I almost feel love for it.

Arturo finds himself attracted to a Mexican-American waitress. He’s drawn to her, but she brings out his own self-loathing and his shame at being Italian-American. He thinks of her as not really American, not like he is, drowning his doubts about his own status by showing his disdain for hers.

She’s more experienced than he is and more confident, all of which makes it vital that he shows his own superiority. He courts her with copies of his story, with poetry plagiarised from another  writer. He’s crushed when she laughs about it with her workmates. Desire and incomprehension wash between them.

Meanwhile, back at his apartments, his neighbour borrows money from him and then grills steaks the smell of which makes Arturo drool but which the neighbour won’t share. It’s life in other words – messy, selfish, strange and compromised.

It’s perhaps not a surprise that Bukowski loved Fante. Both of them write about ordinary things with extraordinary passion. Both of them write without blinking, showing the glory and ugliness in what they see. There’s an interesting chain of influence here. Ask the Dust is hugely influenced by Knut Hamsun’s Hunger (not that I noticed until Emma of bookaroundthecorner pointed it out to me, it is pretty obvious though once you think about it). Fante in turn influences Bukowski. Hunger. Ask the Dust. Post Office. It’s a triptych of excellence.

I’m going to wrap up by bringing out one last focus of the book, and that’s LA itself. I can’t actually improve on what Emma wrote about this part of the novel on her own blog, here, so I urge you to read her review if you haven’t already. Fante’s California is a physical place. I could smell it; feel its heat, the dampness of its fog and the grit of the sand blown in off the desert.

Kevin of kevinfromcanada first introduced me to John Fante, with his overview post of the Bandini quartet here. I owe Kevin thanks for quite a few literary introductions over the years, as do most readers of his blog. That’s part of course of what these blogs are for. Mostly they’re a conversation that bloggers and commenters have with each other, a leisurely discussion of what works for us, what doesn’t. They’re also though sometimes a chance to say hey, here it is, this is the good stuff. This is what you were looking for. Fante is the good stuff.

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Filed under California, Fante, John, US Literature

You had such a vision of the street / As the street hardly understands;

Prufrock and Other Observations by T.S. Eliot

It’s often thought that modernism is difficult, inaccessible, not the sort of thing most readers will enjoy. When the BBC carried out a survey to discover Britain’s favourite poet though the winner was T.S. Eliot, high priest of Modernism with a capital M.

It’s not a surprise of course that the winner was a poet taught in schools, few people read poetry after school (poetry often seems more written than read). I find it a cheering result, at least partly because Eliot isn’t the easiest poet to read (though he’s not nearly as hard as his reputation might suggest). It’s certainly a much better result than the BBC’s 2003 best novel survey which came up with a top 100 list that was staggering for its obviousness and mediocrity.

I didn’t vote in the poll, but if I had I’d have voted Eliot too. The reason I’d have voted Eliot isn’t The Wasteland, masterpiece as that is, but because he wrote what is probably my favourite poem – The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.

Prufrock_And_Other_Observations

Prufrock and Other Observations was first published by The Egoist in 1917. Nowadays there’s a lovely little Faber and Faber imprint – pocket sized and printed on good quality paper and generally a pleasure to hold (as the Faber poetry volumes tend to be).

Prufrock and Other Observations contains twelve poems of varying lengths and styles. Of these the big beast is clearly The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, but there are other stand-outs such as Portrait of a Lady; Preludes (“And then the lighting of the lamps”); Rhapsody on a Windy Night; Morning at the Window; Aunt Helen; Hysteria; La Figla che Piange; as well as arguably lesser efforts such as The Boston Evening Transcript; Cousin Nancy; and Mr. Apollinax. I suspect Conversation Gallante is also a lesser effort, but one I liked and I’ll talk a bit more about below.

There isn’t a single poem in this collection that hasn’t been the subject of exhaustive academic analysis, none of which I have read. There isn’t a poem here which hasn’t been comprehensively picked clean of references, inspirations, influences and subtexts. I don’t do this for a living though, nor do I have exams to sit, which means that I have the luxury of just reading the poems for themselves, taking from them those parts that speak to me.

Here, after an introductory quote from Dante in the Italian, are the opening lines of Prufrock:

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .                               10
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

This is profoundly alienated language – “muttering retreats”, “restless nights in one-night cheap hotels”, “Streets that follow like a tedious argument”. There’s a sense of a grubby, tawdry reality. This is an internal monologue weighed down by the futility of its own debate (I’m aware there are other argued interpretations).

What follows is a man arguing with himself as to whether or not to confess his love for a woman. He plays through the whole encounter in his mind – the journey to her, climbing up her stairs, and then the impassable barrier of indifferent decorum.

Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions
And for a hundred visions and revisions
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

The poem is rich with images taken from religion and myth – opening with Dante, referencing Hamlet, John the Baptist, Lazarus, mermaids. Against all that though is the suffocating mundanity of a room with tea and polite conversation and the sheer impossibility of breaking through to something that actually has meaning, something profound (Mr. Apollinax brings out these contrasts much more clearly, but for me to lesser effect).

The poem is suffused with desire:

Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)

but there is no certainty that the desire is in any way returned. Polite Edwardian England has no place in it for passion. Prufrock, middle-aged and painfully conscious of his own absurdity, has no power to shake the age and transform it.

Eliot then shows the gap between the dream and the suffocating reality, leading to some of the most painful lines I have ever read:

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

That gap, that pause for reflection between stanzas, makes the line “I do not think that they will sing to me” hit like a hammerblow. It underlines the full tragedy of Prufrock’s (far from unique) situation. It is a poem which speaks of disenchantment, not just in the obvious sense but in that referred to by Josipovici in his What Ever Happened to Modernism? Prufrock is modern, as is the world, and our old dreams are dead and all we have in their place is form emptied of substance.

Preludes and Rhapsody on a Windy Night also explore the disillusionment brought by mucky prosaicism and the sheer pain of existence among indifference, as does Morning at the Window (repeated below in full):

They are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens,
And along the trampled edges of the street
I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids
Sprouting despondently at area gates.

The brown waves of fog toss up to me
Twisted faces from the bottom of the street,
And tear from a passer-by with muddy skirts
An aimless smile that hovers in the air
And vanishes along the level of the roofs

Again there’s that impressionistic conjuring of the city and the urban environment, there’s that feeling of terrible isolation and there’s that wonderful and surprising juxtaposition of images – “the damp souls of housemaids”. Above all though, for me, there is disenchantment and alienation. If this were religious poetry I would talk here as I would have with Prufrock of how the sacred remains barely visible but forever out of grasp in a fallen world, but it’s not religious poetry and the world isn’t fallen because the truth is worse than that. If the world were fallen we could climb back up, be restored to grace, but grace was only ever a dream and human voices have woken us.

The last poem I’ll single out to discuss is much lighter in tone, and it’s Conversation Gallante. Here it is, also in full:

I observe: ‘Our sentimental friend the moon!
Or possibly (fantastic, I confess)
It may be Prester John’s balloon
Or an old battered lantern hung aloft
To light poor travellers to their distress.’
She then: ‘How you digress!’

And I then: ‘Someone frames upon the keys
That exquisite nocturne, with which we explain
The night and moonshine; music which we seize
To body forth our own vacuity.’

She then: ‘Does this refer to me?’
‘Oh no, it is I who am inane.’

‘You, madam, are the eternal humorist
The eternal enemy of the absolute,
Giving our vagrant moods the slightest twist!
With your air indifferent and imperious
At a stroke our mad poetics to confute — ‘
And- Are we then so serious?’

This is Eliot in much more playful form. It’s not a great poem as say Prufrock is, but it does capture nicely a certain kind of flirtatious conversation, of the woman constantly slightly ahead of the narrator. The majority of the speech is the man’s, apparently driving the conversation, but at each turn the woman outwits him and he finds his flurry of words effortlessly parried with a single line.

There is of course again here an example of the fantastic being defeated by the mundane, but for me at least without the despondency carried by the other poems. I’ve been in that situation, trying hard to impress someone who knows that’s what I’m doing and who doesn’t plan to make it easy for me, and there is an inherent comedy to it which Eliot is well aware of.

The poem illustrates one final point, which is that throughout this collection (and perhaps in Eliot’s poetry more broadly) it’s men who are sensitive and experience deep emotions for which they have no outlet. Women by contrast are sometimes attractive, but rarely reflective. Eliot is brilliant and his poetry is I think as good as art gets, but he writes firmly from a male viewpoint. Even with that though Eliot’s perception is so acute, his observations so universal, that I would have thought as many women as men would recognise themselves in his work.

In a way Eliot’s gender representations reminded me of a conversation I had years ago, where I described to a woman how as a teenager I’d sometimes been awed by girls I thought too cool to approach – utterly diminished by their impenetrably aloof beauty and unable to even speak to them. I’d naively thought it a uniquely male experience, but of course it isn’t. Her comment was that she’d had the same thing with some boys, and why wouldn’t she? Disillusion, desire, the need for something beyond the everyday, if these aren’t fundamental human experiences then what is?

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Filed under Eliot, T.S., Modernist Fiction, Poetry

Dog ate a dead crab

All the Birds, Singing, by Evie Wyld

It’s been a while since I’ve been able to properly update the blog – too busy at work. That also means I’m reading terrifically slowly, inching my way through Edith Grossman’s Don Quixote translation a few pages a day. Thankfully, since I’m crawling through Don Quixote at the speed of a mobility-impaired snail, it is at least a very good translation and an absolute pleasure to read.

Anyway, enough about Don Quixote for now, because this entry is about another very good book (seamless segue there, absolutely seamless) – Evie Wyld’s second novel titled All the Birds, Singing. Here’s the opening paragraph:

Another sheep, mangled and bled out, her innards not yet crusting and the vapours rising from her like a steamed pudding. Crows, their beaks shining, strutting and rasping, and when I waved my stick they flew to the trees and watched, flaring out their wings, singing, if you could call it that. I shoved my boot in Dog’s face to stop him from taking a string of her away with him as a souvenir, and he kept close by my side as I wheeled the carcass out of the field and down into the woolshed.

I love that opening. Immediately I’m uneasy – another sheep, so not the first; mangled and bled out, so probably not an accidental death; there’s a total lack of sentiment both in the reaction to the body and in the fact that the narrator’s dog is named simply Dog. That’s a lot of information packed into one paragraph.

On top of that there’s some lovely description there. The innards not yet crusting, it’s unpleasant but arresting and easy to picture. The vapours rising as if from a steamed pudding, which as well as being evocative and disquieting (mixing imagery of food and death) tells the reader that it’s probably cold. I love too the crows, “shining, strutting and rasping”, flying away but not too far, singing their raucous song.

All the Birds

The “I” in that quote is Jake Whyte, an Australian woman now living on a remote Island in the UK. She farms sheep, but something is killing them. Perhaps a wild beast, perhaps local teenagers, perhaps someone or something else. She has scars on her back, unexplained, and she doesn’t mix much with the other farmers. She lives alone, with Dog, but she fears she’s being watched.

Jake isn’t really an unreliable narrator – there’s nothing to suggest she lies to herself or has many illusions. She isn’t though wholly reliable either. Something very ugly has driven her to her present seclusion, and while it’s certain she feels under threat, besieged, it’s not at all clear that she’s actually in any danger. The local police think she spends too much time alone for her own good, and there’s a definite suspicion that the shadows she jumps at are ones she brought with her. Still, something’s killing the sheep…

Chapter two ducks backwards in time, to when Jake was still in Australia working on a sheep farm in the outback. She went there fleeing something, but one of her workmates has found out her past. He tries to use whatever he’s learned to blackmail her for sex. She breaks his jaw with a punch and soon she’s fleeing again. Whatever’s driving Jake, it’s serious.

As a quick aside, it’s nice to have a female protagonist whose reaction to being menaced in that way is to deck the guy threatening her. Part of Jake’s problem though is that she’s much better at responding to physical challenges than she is to emotional ones.

The novel continues in alternating chapters. The ones in the UK go forward in time in the usual way, each chronologically not long after the last. The Australian chapters though go backwards in time, each showing a key moment in Jake’s history.

The first Australian chapter then is the last in a sense, showing how she came to leave the outback sheep station. The next Australian chapter is earlier, showing how Jake became a sheep shearer but fell out with the man who’d later try to blackmail her. The next shows her arriving at the station – I won’t say where she was before that or what drove her to end up somewhere so remote.

What all this means is that Jake is a woman in hiding. She hid in the Australian outback, but her past found her there. Now she’s hiding on an island where nobody could ever find her, unless of course somehow they have.

With all this I’m making it sound like a crime novel or a thriller. It’s not at all though. It’s as readable as a crime novel, but it’s very much literary fiction. There’s a lot of very careful construction here. References made in the UK sections are explained as the Australian sections slowly excavate Jake’s past. Jake’s situation, past and present, slowly unfolds as Wyld carefully walks that very fine line between maintaining suspense and manipulating the reader.

The risk with this kind of novel is a sense of artificiality. Obviously all novels are artificial, but many (most) novels don’t want to make their artifice too obvious. Here we have two narrative streams one going forward, one back, each shedding light upon the other as well as plenty of symbolism and careful narrative device. It’s an origami novel, and that raises a question about whether it’s too neat, too evidently constructed.

The answer to that question is no, Wyld pulls it off. The reason she does so is the depth and precision of her description. I believed her outback, I believed her island, I believed more to the point in Jake. There’s a beautifully clean matter-of-factness to her prose which shows the essence of what she’s describing while avoiding seeming overwritten. It’s that which saves the book, and more than saves it, makes it good.

This is a book full of terrible things. The slaughtered sheep; Jake’s terrible past; the indifferent violence of the natural world and the casual cruelty of the human; a powerful and horrible scene in Australia where Jake hits a kangaroo with her truck causing it so much suffering she ends up having to kill it with a crowbar to spare it further pain. Jake’s seclusion brings her natural environment to the foreground – isolated from humanity she lives a near-animist existence in which the life around her seems filled with intent and Jake is but one wounded animal among others.

For all that horror and pain though it’s not a bleak book. The descriptions of the natural world are beautiful, and the arrival of an alcoholic drifter who comes to Jake’s farm starts to draw her back from the world she’s constructed for herself – the claustrophobic isolation of her own history.

For a novel like this it always comes down to the writing. Get that right and the rest should follow (get that wrong and it’s painful). Wyld gets it right. This is an oddly difficult novel to quote from, in large part because of its subtlety of structure, much of the effect is lost if taken away from context. It’s full of small yet telling observations. One I couldn’t resist including here comes from when Jake first sees Greg, a sheep shearer that the reader knows later became her lover, shearing a sheep: Greg’s sheep are sleek and clean with no grazes, like they’ve been buttered …” 

I haven’t bought Evie Wyld’s second novel yet, but I shall before the year’s out and it’ll be high on my to read pile. In a way that’s the ultimate test for any author, does one wish to read more by them? I want to read more by Evie Wyld.

Two reviews which I found helpful when I was deciding whether to read this or not were that of David Hebblethwaite at his blog, here, and Simon Savidge’s blog Savidgereads which I don’t link too nearly as often as I should. His review is here. Finally, in the interests of full disclosure I should say that I got my copy directly from Evie Wyld – she had a couple spare and gave them away on twitter to whoever asked first and I happen to follow her account and got lucky.

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Filed under Crows, English Literature, Wyld, Evie

Feminine indulgence in extravagance of attire was the bane of London at that era.

The Doom of the Great City, by William Delisle Hay

I’m a little pounded at work presently, so while I don’t yet have time to properly write up Evie Wyld’s All the Birds, Singing I do have time to write up one of the short novellas I’ve recently read.

This one is an absolute oddity. I’ve mentioned before the fondness the Victorians and Edwardians had for apocalyptic fiction. The Doom of the Great City is a classic example. It’s an account of the destruction of London by that great terror of the Victorian age – really bad smog.

I should mention that this novella was as best I can tell intended as utterly serious. The emphasis there is on the word intended…

DoomGreatCity

So, we open with a framing device – it’s the far future (the 1940s!) long after the fall of London. The narrator is now an old man surrounded by family, and he’s moved to write an account of the traumatic events he personally witnessed that led to the destruction of the world’s greatest metropolis. It’s a very common framing device in fiction of this period, and one that allows Hay to contrast his future idyll with the iniquities of London in 1880.

I am transported back to the land of my birth across the intervening ocean a land of chill and sour skies, where the sun has forgotten how to shine; a laud of frost and rain, of mist and snow. I am young, but I am scarcely hopeful, for I am oppressed with many cares; I live amid noise and bustle, amid a throng of idlers and workers, good men and bad, rich and poor; I work hard at employment that demands my best energies and absorbs my young strength, and that yields me but scant repayment; I dwell shut in by bricks and mortar, and crushed by stony hearts; I am one among many, a single toiler among the millions of London!!

The bulk of the novella spends its time setting the scene. The narrator is (was) a clerk, as they so often are in these books. He lives with his mother and sister and in the usual vein of Victorian fiction there’s a fairly detailed explanation of their salaries and sources of income as compared to their outgoings. They’re barely scraping by on a combined £150 a year, “little more than sufficient to provide us with the bare-necessities of existence, while every day things seemed to be growing dearer.”

I love London. The narrator, well:

It was the opinion I formed at the time, and the opinion I still continue to hold, that London was foul and rotten to the very core, and steeped in sin of every imaginable variety.

He’s not a fan. That’s where the unintentional comedy comes in. This isn’t an apocalyptic novel where disaster strikes an undeserving populace. This is much closer to a judgement of god or nature on a city that richly deserves everything that’s coming to it. Hay spends a great many pages discussing in remarkably enthusiastic detail everything that’s wrong with the city, starting from the narrator’s own line of work:

I was in business, and business I found was an elaborate system of fraud, chicanery, and deceit. He was esteemed an upright man who never broke the letter of the law, no matter how he might tamper with its spirit, while morality and honest principle in commerce were abstractions of which the law took little notice, and business men less. He was called “smart,” and “a sharp, sound, practical’ man,” who knew how to take advantage of others, and who could enrich himself by impoverishing his fellows in “fair business.” In the learned professions — so called — things were much the same.

I’ll add the larger passage that quote comes from at the end of this post for those who’re curious. It starts sanely enough as you can see above, but soon he’s on to lawyers, then the church, then doctors, the entertainment industry, the aristocracy, professors of art, women, it goes on for pages. It’s a breathless outpouring of disdain for pretty much every target in sight.

After a couple of pages or so of this (out of only fifty or so in total) even Hay/the narrator must break for breath:

Enough! Even a great-grandfather’s garrulity must be checked in its reminiscent flow.

Yes please.

Thankfully once the diatribe against the evils of the contemporary age is out of the way the story picks up some. The narrator is out of London visiting, and the next morning tries to head home only to find out there’s no transport back into town:

All traffic into and out of London was indeed suspended, or rather, had never commenced. No trains had come out from the London termini, no response had been received to signals or telegrams; while men who had started to walk into town had either never returned, or else had shortly retraced their footsteps, panting and half-strangled. Telegrams from other suburbs and outskirts of town brought intelligence of a precisely similar state of things existing in those localities. No one had come from London, no one had succeeded in entering it.

Soon it becomes evident that the unthinkable has happened. The London smog has become so bad as to suffocate all within it. The whole metropolis lies wreathed in dark and sooty fog, utterly desolate. Eventually the air starts to clear a little, and so the narrator becomes one of the first to push his way back into the city – fearing for his mother and sister who are still within.

What he finds is why the story is worth reading (to the extent it is). It’s a haunting evocation of an utterly lifeless city, eerily reduced to silence and stillness:

I traversed the foggy street, seeing objects but indistinctly at ten yards distance. I saw no living being, no faces at the shrouded windows, no passers by, no children playing in the gardens or the road; not even a sparrow fluttered past to convey to me the sense of companionship. And then the frightful, muffled stillness that seemed to hold me down in a nightmare trance; not a sound of traffic, no rattle of carriages and carts, no scream and rumble of trains, no clamour of children or costermongers, no distant hum of the midday city, no voice or whisper of a wind; not the rustling of a leaf, not the echo of a foot-fall, nothing to break the deathly stillness but the panting of my laboured chest and the beating of my trembling heart.

There’s nothing that really happens – everyone is dead after all. There is though a tremendous series of descriptions of the desolation, including some very effective set-pieces particularly including a description of a horse-drawn bus stilled with horses still in harness, driver belted in and passengers rich and poor contorted in their seats.

I did struggle a bit with the narrator’s pious cries of horror and sympathy given that most of the book is given over to lengthy descriptions of how awful London and its inhabitants are. It reminded me slightly of The Black Spider – in both texts there’s a sympathy for those who are damned which is distinctly at odds with the glee with which their sufferings are described. It all reminds me a bit of that old Medieval idea that the afterlives of the saved are made more pleasurable by their being able to watch the sufferings of the damned in hell.

Still, it’s short, it’s about 99p from Amazon (and no doubt legitimately free somewhere online without too much trouble), and it’s a lovely example of a now largely extinct genre – the Victorian/Edwardian industrial apocalypse. It’s not really an overlooked classic, but nor does it deserve to be wholly forgotten either.

Here’s the fuller version of that quote. It’s absolutely mad:

I will add of what I saw around me to incline me to the belief in the black enormity of London sin. I was in business, and business I found was an elaborate system of fraud, chicanery, and deceit. He was esteemed an upright man who never broke the letter of the law, no matter how he might tamper with its spirit, while morality and honest principle in commerce were abstractions of which the law took little notice, and business men less. He was called “smart,” and “a sharp, sound, practical’ man,” who knew how to take advantage of others, and who could enrich himself by impoverishing his fellows in “fair business.” In the learned professions — so called — things were much the same. The laws were good, though inordinately cumbrous, and lawyers administered them for their own advantage, and at the expense of their unhappy clients. The law was a terrible engine of justice, but its intricate machinery was clogged with rusty “precedents,” and could not be got to move without a liberal oiling in the shape of fees. Hence arose the saying, that the law had one interpretation for the rich, and another altogether for the poor. The medical profession was conducted upon similar principles; the doctor — if he knew how — would keep his patient ill in order to increase his fees, and making suffering and death his daily sport, traded upon them for his own profit. Clergymen and ministers of religion, whether belonging to the State Church or to independent bodies, made “the cure of souls” a means of livelihood; they quoted the maxim, “the labourer is worthy of his hire,” applying its point to themselves; they kept alive “religious feeling” among the masses by incessant and endless quarrels among themselves on points of dogma and doctrine, extorting money in the cause of “truth” from the public, and either keeping it themselves or squandering it in various foolish and useless ways. And they made one religion for the rich and another for the poor, as anyone might learn by comparing a sermon preached before a fashionable congregation with one delivered to paupers. The merest infraction of moral integrity in one of the humbler classes was visited as intolerable; among the rich and high-born sin flourished under the hallowing sanction of religion, and vice luxuriated in the shadow of the Church. Purity of life was a simple impossibility, and chastity of soul would have been sought for in vain amongst Londoners. Theatres, music-halls, and similar institutions, appealed to the most depraved appetites; people flocked to gaze admiringly at a fashionable courtesan and her attendant harlots, or thronged to listen to obscene and filthy songs, or to witness indecent exhibitions, especially if these involved the risk of life or limb to the performers. Money flowed into the treasuries when such were the inducements, and eager rivalry in their production was the inevitable consequence. Clergymen, aristocrats, and art professors joined in extolling the stage as “the educator of public taste,” while young girls crowded to enter the ballet as the proper road to a life of delightful immorality. The press groaned daily under the weight passing through it of novels which tinctured absolute crimes with poetry and romance, which clothed the worst sensuality in the white robes of innocence, and which taught and argued in favour of every vice. Serial journals adapted to every class, rested their claims to attention on the obscenity, scurrility, or blasphemy of their pages, disguised under a film of moral platitude. Such were some of the causes at work, here were some of their immediate results. Among the higher ranks of society immorality was so common as to excite but small attention; frequent divorce suits proved this; scandalous disclosures of high life were of common occurrence; they gratified the public taste while serving to show the deeper depths below. Pleasure-seeking being the only employment of the wealthy and governing class, they elevated it into a “cult,” and wearied with the tameness of mere harlotry, gluttony, and show, brought “art” to their aid and invented “aestheticism ” as a cloak for higher flights of sin. The men of the “upper ten thousand” were trained from their cradles for a life of sensuous enjoyment. They held themselves aloof from commoner clay as from an inferior race, and they looked upon inordinate luxury as their paramount right. In their code of honour the payment of just debts had no place, unless the debt were contracted by gambling among their fellows. The “golden youth” were banded together into social guilds, bearing imbecile insignia, and using mysterious passwords, whose vicious meaning only the initiate might know. They had peopled a whole suburb with the villas of their concubines, whom the stage and the streets had furnished, while their elders sought amusement from almost infantile charms. Strange and unnatural were the crazes and fashions that pervaded this society: wearied with dissipation carried to excess, they were ever seeking new varieties, new emotions, new vices; they worshipped beauty, but it was not the beauty of created Nature, but that of art — and such art! — that most enchanted them. Ladies were divided into two “mondes,” the proper and the improper, but it was by no means easy to define the exact limits of either grade. The Phrynes of the period held their court and received adoration from the men, though not recognised by their high-born sisters; yet these were eager to copy the manners, dress, and accomplishments of the courtesan, styling themselves “professional beauties,” or veiling their hyper-passionate sensibilities under the pseudonym of “intensity;” while matrimony, even among the most externally decorous, was as much a matter of business as downright mercenary prostitution. The members of this highest rank lived in the very perfection of luxuriousness; their mansions, equipages, and servants, all were on a scale of magnificence as great as could be compassed. Dresses and furniture were splendid and costly. They fared sumptuously every day. Poverty was carefully excluded from their view, and came not within their cognisance, and ultra-extravagance was commended from the pulpit as a means of wisely diffusing wealth, and as an “encouragement to trade.” It was said that the spendthrift vanities and caprices of the wealthy were a source of good, promoting industry, and developing arts and sciences among the workers; “wherefore,” said these reasoners, “lavish arid. profuse prodigality is the commendable duty of the rich, as thereby they foster trade and benefit those who minister to their enjoyment.” When such theories were generally received, it is needless to say that politicians were blind to comparisons drawn from the history of the latter days of Rome, of Venice, or of Bourbon France. And this state of things had, of course, its dire and disastrous effects upon all grades of society below. People of the next rank, whose wealth had been gained from other sources than that of passive hereditary accumulation, busied themselves in the endeavour to gain admission within the pale of “polite society;” they sought to imitate with exactness every eccentricity of the nobles, and courted ruin to effect their purpose. A step lower, and the same procedure was invested with the grotesque addition of “vulgarity.” This abstraction consisted mainly, as I conceived, in a lack of “refinement:” it meant a want of ease and inherent use in forms of speech, manners, and usages; it conveyed the idea of eagerness where cold indifference should have been felt ; or it displayed a sense of actual pleasure, where blasé and captious disdain ought only to have been manifested. Throughout the great masses of the middle class, so styled, there beat the mighty pulse of Loudon life. In this section was contained business and professional men of every degree and kind, from the wealthy banker, the opulent trader or manufacturer, and the sordid promoter of bubble companies, down to the struggling professional man, the actor, and the ignoble clerk. It was divided into a multiplicity of grades or strata, the lowest mingling with the vast democracy of labour below, the highest, by dint of golden passports, passing current among the aristocracy. It was in this division of the social system that the real life of the great city was mainly manifest; here were to be found the chief law-makers and the chief law-breakers; here was every vice most obnoxious to the senses; here, too, was to be found what was left of virtue and goodness. Down through the middle class filtered every evil of aristocratic birth, losing nothing in the process, we may be sure, save the semblance of polish and the grace of courtly elegance; while up from the lowest depths there constantly arose a stream of grosser, fouler moral putrescence, which it would be a libel on the brutes to term merely bestiality. Do not think there was no good In London; there was, much; but it was so encompassed and mixed with evil as to be barely recognisable; while the influences of exuberant vice were such as to warp the integrity of men’s ideas of what was right, to benumb their perceptions of moral turpitude, and to lower the standard of excellence to the very mud. Besides, I only set out to tell you something of the wickedness I saw and knew and felt in London; merely a brief epitome, such as might serve to sustain the view I propounded of the guilt of that city. Have I said enough, my grandchildren? But a few words more, and I pass to the dread narrative itself .

Phew! Just for reference, he’s still not finished, I just ran out of ability to cut and paste on my kindle.

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Filed under 19th Century Literature, English Literature, Novellas, Post-Apocalypse Fiction

“He doesn’t guess. I guess. He sees.”

The Stochastic Man, by Robert Silverberg

I got the SF bug early, which is pretty much how everyone gets it. If you don’t love SF by the time you’re 14 the odds are you’ll never love it. These days I don’t read much SF – I follow a half dozen or so contemporary authors at most. There was a time though when I couldn’t get enough of it, when it was like ice cream on a hot day.

Robert Silverberg is one of the field’s greats. Silverberg never cared about technology or credible futures, for Silverberg it was always about people. His best known novel, Dying Inside, is about a neurotic US academic who was born with the gift of telepathy and wasted it, and who in late middle-age finds it departing him. How do you cope with the loss of something that defines who you are? How do you face the death of what makes you, you?

Like many writers Silverberg has ideas he’s returned to over and over during his (so far) sixty year career. One of these was the idea of what it might be like to live with perfect foreknowledge. What it would be like to know, precisely and unerringly, your own future. He explored the idea in several short stories, but for me to best effect in his 1975 (oh so very 1975) novel The Stochastic Man.

Lew Nichols is a pollster and statistician in the heady futuristic America of 1999. He’s one of the best, and he’s tied his already risen star to a young politician named Quinn who Lew thinks has the potential to go all the way to the White House. Lew’s confident that nobody can guess the shape of the future better than he can. He’s probably right, but he’s about to learn that not everybody needs to guess.

In the absolute universe all events can be regarded as absolutely deterministic, and if we can’t perceive the greater structures, it’s because our vision is faulty. If we had a real grasp of causality down to the molecular level, we wouldn’t need to rely on mathematical approximations, on statistics and probabilities, in making predictions. If our perceptions of cause and effect were only good enough, we’d be able to attain absolute knowledge of what is to come. We would make ourselves all-seeing. So Carvajal said. I believe he was right. You probably don’t. You tend to be skeptical about such things, don’t you? That’s all right. You’ll change your mind. I know you will.

Carvajal is a rich private investor who’s backing Quinn’s campaign. He wants to meet Lew, to work with him, and when you’re putting as much money in as Carvajal is you get what you want. Lew thinks Carvajal’s a rich crank, a political amateur who wants to use his money to get closer to the action. Lew couldn’t be more wrong. Soon Caravjal is feeding predictions to Lew about upcoming events, and while Lew is used to being able to call trends Carvajal calls specific circumstances with a level of precision and accuracy that simply doesn’t make sense.

Carvajal replied. “When I want to, I see. A vision of things to come plays within me like a film.” His voice was utterly matter-of-fact. He sounded almost bored. “Is that the only thing you came here to find out?” “Don’t you know? Surely you’ve seen the film of this conversation already.” “Of course I have.” “But you’ve forgotten some of the details?” “I rarely forget anything,” Carvajal said, sighing. “Then you must know what else I’m going to ask.” “Yes,” he admitted. “Even so, you won’t answer it unless I ask it.” “Yes.” “Suppose I don’t,” I said. “Suppose I just leave right now, without doing what I’m supposed to have done.” “That won’t be possible,” said Carvajal evenly. “I remember the course this conversation must take, and you don’t leave before asking your next question. There’s only one way for things to happen. You have no choice but to say and do the things I saw you say and do.” “Are you a god, decreeing the events of my life?” He smiled wanly and shook his head. “Very much mortal, Mr. Nichols. Decreeing nothing. I tell you, though, the future’s immutable. What you think of as the future. We’re both actors in a script that can’t be rewritten. Come, now. Let’s play out our script. Ask me—” “No. I’m going to break the pattern and walk out of here.” “—about Paul Quinn’s future,” he said. I was already at the door. But when he spoke Quinn’s name I halted, slack-jawed, stunned, and I turned.

While it’s clear from the opening pages that Lew will learn to accurately see the future, for the vast bulk of the book Lew has no more gift of prophecy than I do. He does though see how useful foreknowledge might be for Quinn’s campaign, which raises a question: if what Carvajal sees absolutely will happen, is as fixed as the past, then does it actually help to know it? If the future is predetermined, knowing it can’t change it.

This leads to the meat of the book, which lies in the discussions between Lew and Carvajal regarding Carvajal’s ability. Lew persists in thinking about changing the future, about exploiting knowledge of it. He sees himself as a protagonist on the political stage, and can’t accept that everything is essentially pre-written.

Carvajal though has lived with foresight for years. His visions have crushed him, emptied his life of hope or desire. He sees himself as a puppet whose strings are pulled by a blind universe:

“… I give to Quinn because I know I must, not because I prefer him to other politicians. I came to Lombroso’s office in March because I saw myself, months ago, going there, and knew that I had to go that day, no matter what I’d rather be doing. I live in this crumbling neighborhood because I’ve never been granted a view of myself living anywhere else, and so I know this is where I belong. I tell you what I’ve been telling you today because this conversation is already as familiar to me as a movie I’ve seen fifty times, and so I know I must tell you things I’ve never told to another human being. I never ask why. My life is without surprises, Mr. Nichols, and it is without decisions, and it is without volition. I do what I know I must do, and I know I must do it because I’ve seen myself doing it.”

Worst of all, Carvajal has seen his own death. He’s seen it many times: he knows the time of year from the weather he sees in his vision, he knows he’ll be shot by a junkie who knocks on his door by mistake; he knows he’ll open that door and he knows what he’ll say that will make the junkie pull the trigger; he knows Lew will be there but won’t help.

I returned to Carvajal. He was sitting motionless, head bowed, arms limp, as if an icy blast had passed through the room while I was gone, leaving him parched and withered. Slowly, with obvious effort, he reconstituted himself, sitting up, filling his lungs, pretending to an animation that his eyes, his empty and frightening eyes, wholly betrayed.

Is Carvajal a puppet? In a sense that’s up to the reader to decide. His future after all is that of a man who can see what’s ahead of him and who believes he has no agency. That future can’t be changed, but perhaps it is what it is because Carvajal is who he is. Lew’s future can’t be changed either, and yet when he starts to see it his future is one where he’s teaching others to do what Carvajal taught him to do, and so changing what it means to be human.

A large part of the book is taken up with Carvajal’s method of teaching his ability, which involves Lew abandoning any sense of agency and doing exactly what Carvajal knows he will do regardless of consequence. A review in Infinity Plus notes that this book came out three years after Luke Rhinehart’s famous The Dice Man, and both have this sense of what happens to someone who volunteers to live by absolutely arbitrary rules. Lew lives as Carvajal tells him to because Lew thinks that by learning to see the future he can help Quinn. Carvajal though just tells Lew to do what Carvajal has already seen himself telling Lew to do. Think too long about that and your head starts to hurt.

If The Stochastic Man was just what I’ve talked about so far it would be an SF masterpiece. Unfortunately, it badly shows its age. The future here (our past of course) is a painfully 1970s future full of drugs, partner-swapping and bad clothes. Every bit of the novel which explores the culture of Lew’s America is, to be honest, slightly embarassing. It’s not Silverberg’s fault obviously that he couldn’t himself see the future as his characters can, and of course like in much SF his future is really his present seen through a scanner darkly, but even so those bits of the book just didn’t work for me.

Much worse is the character of Lew’s wife. Silverberg generally can’t write women, but he outdoes himself with Sindara. She’s Indian-American, which sadly leads Silverberg to some of the most objectifying and Orientalist writing I’ve seen in a long time:

She seemed perfect to me just then, my wife, my love, my other self, witty and graceful, mysterious and exotic, high forehead, blue-black hair, full-moon face—but a moon eclipsed, a moon empurpled by shadow; the perfect lotus woman of the sutras, skin fine and tender, eyes brilliant and beautiful as a fawn’s, well defined and red at the corners, breasts hard and full and uplifted, neck elegant, nose straight and gracious. Yoni like an open lotus bud, voice as low and melodious as the kokila bird’s, my prize, my love, my companion, my alien bride.

Her face isn’t the only thing empurpled in that passage. Sindara matters because her life philosophy is one of randomness and going with the moment, and as Lew increasingly embraces predestination their marriage comes under ever-greater strain. That’s interesting material, but it only works if Sindara is a human being the same way Lew is – if there’s a sense that she’s a person and not just a walking page from the kama sutra (which, naturally, they include in their love life).

The effect of the dated future and Sindara’s terrible characterisation is to act as a drag on the book, making key moments cumbersome and turgid. That’s a shame, because the core concept is brilliant. This is a hugely flawed book, one that on a reread I still love but that I can’t honestly call good.

It’s a curious thing, how one can read a book and see that it’s well written and skilfully crafted and yet be quite untouched by it. One can read another book and see its flaws, here dated characterisation and poor worldbuilding, and yet find a connection to it. That’s part of the alchemy of reading. I do think it’s possible to a degree to be objective in assessing what works in a book and what doesn’t, but any emotional response to it can only ever be utterly subjective.

So, The Stochastic Man. Having reread it the truth is it remains one of my favourite Silverberg novels. The irony though is now that I have reread it I’m conscious that it’s also far from among his best work. So it goes.

If anyone reading this does have an interest in classic SF by the way then there’s nobody who writes about better than Joachim Boaz. His blog is a constant delight. I actually thought he’d written a highly critical review of this one that I wanted to link to, but I can’t find it. Joachim, if you see this and you have reviewed Stochastic please let me know in the comments.

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Filed under Science Fiction, Silverberg, Robert