In a year or two, the older generation that still dreamed of Empire must surely give way to politicians like Gaitskell, Wilson, Crosland – new men with a vision of a modern country where there was equality and things actually got done. If America could have an exuberant and handsome President Kennedy, then Britain could have something similar – at least in spirit, for there was no one quite so glamourous in the Labour Party. The blimps, still fighting the last war, still nostalgic for its discipline and privations – their time was up.
On Chesil Beach examines one evening in the life of a young couple called Edward and Florence, the most important in their lives as they prepare for their wedding night in a Dorset hotel. It’s 1962, and Ian McEwan is knowingly aware of the worldwide cultural changes that are beginning to take place. The novel portrays Edward and Florence as products of a stifling era that will thankfully soon be over – both are sexually inexperienced, the former frustratingly so – and they both face their wedding night with terror. And this is the rub. Such importance has been placed on this experience – this event – this night – that the odds are very high on things going wrong.
There is a sense that McEwan hates this point in history, that he can’t wait for the 1960s to get into swing and for the English to grow their hair and let it down. Even though On Chesil Beach can’t help appearing to view the respective childhoods and adolescence of Edward and Florence as taking part in charmingly innocent times, I still (as a cynic) read a lot of sadness into McEwan’s account of their formative years. Edward’s mentally unbalanced mother, his strange flirtation with physical violence, Florence’s desperately competitive father; it’s all brilliantly subtle writing – the sort of thing that makes McEwan the master he is.
Ian McEwan has a knack for slowing down time, examining events that happen very quickly by reducing them in his narrative to a snail’s pace. The ballooning accident in Enduring Love and a road rage incident in Saturday are two such examples, where he thoroughly examines what is only really a fleeting moment in time. In On Chesil Beach it’s this fateful night, no more than a hour in real time, that is examined so thoroughly and becomes so unforgettable, haunting and poignant.
There’s a point where our most vivid memories become ingrained on our consciences forever. For Edward and Florence it’s this very evening that they spend together on and near to Chesil Beach; still vivid, disturbing and nightmarish to them for the next 45 years. This is the substance of the novel and of their memories. The concluding “catch up” part of the novel – 1962 to the present day – comprises only a few pages; without giving anything away the lives of Edward and Florence are brought promptly up to date. Events since 1962 are insignificant and fleeting – for the reader and for them. For significance as one of life’s major turning points, it really does all happen on Chesil Beach.
On Chesil Beach may appear insubstantial in its brevity but I really believe that McEwan is at the height of his powers, mastering the ability to leave a lot unsaid, and leave a lot to the consideration of the reader. I’ve been rereading one of his earlier novels, The Child in Time, and it’s noticeable how much he has matured, becoming much less laboured as a writer. His prose is graceful, flowing and absorbing. Britain’s greatest living author? He’s getting there.
He says there are no bears in this part of the country. What about wolves? I want to know. He gives me a pitying look.
‘Wolves don’t attack people. They might be curious, but they won’t attack you.’
I tell him about those poor girls who were eaten by wolves. He listens without interruption, and then says, ‘I’ve heard of them. There was no sign that the girls were attacked by wolves.’
‘But there was no proof that they were kidnapped, and nothing was ever found.’
‘Wolves will not eat all of a corpse. If wolves had attacked them, there would have been traces – splinters of bone, and the stomach and intestines would be left.’
I don’t know quite what to say to this. I wonder if he knows these macabre details because he has seen them.
‘But’, he goes on, ‘I have never known wolves to attack without being provoked. We have not been attacked, and there have been wolves watching us.’
‘Are you trying to frighten me, Mr Parker?’ I say, with a careless smile, even though he is ahead of me and cannot see my expression.
‘There is no reason to be afraid. The dogs react as there are wolves about, in the evening especially. And we are still here.’
He tosses this over his shoulder as if it were a casual observation about the weather, but I keep glancing behind me, to see if anything is following us, and I am more anxious to stay close to the sled.
The Tenderness of Wolves by Stef Penney is set in Canada in 1867. It caused a minor stir when it won the 2006 Costa first novel award after it was revealed that its author had never visited the country. All her research was conducted at the British Library. Reading The Tenderness of Wolves I often wished I hadn’t known this; there’s a tendency to overlook many of the novel’s qualities in trying to spot flaws in Penney’s authenticity. So a word of advice if you haven’t yet read the book – don’t embark on an authenticity audit. Penney has never visited Canada, but she’s also never been to 1867, and who was it who said that the past is a foreign country?
I must admit that it took me a long time to settle into The Tenderness of Wolves. It’s a subtle piece of work that portrayed 1867 Canada convincingly to me as a sparsely populated country yet to find a real identity, with settlers from different parts of the world living alongside the native American Indians. It’s a perfect setting for Penney to explore physical and spiritual isolation, with some characters forcing themselves into the inhospitable and bleak winter landscape in bids of escape or missions of discovery, while others remain trapped in remote outposts, succumbing to addiction and madness. It takes commitment to persevere with and fully appreciate this novel, but it’s effort with a very rewarding outcome.
I’m not going to go too deeply into the plot of The Tenderness of Wolves. A man is murdered. Another is suspected. The suspect, his accusers and his defenders all embark on their own personal journeys to find the truth. There is also a background story; two girls disappeared several years previously and, despite extensive searches, were never found. As searches and discoveries take place, the harsh weather always lurks menacingly in the background, along with the wolves who may or may not be watching and circling in the distance. The novel also acts as a lament for the past, personified by the history and integrity of the American Indian, already fading at the time of the book’s setting.
There are a wealth of intriguing characters who, although they don’t immediately jump off the page, develop into complex and believable people. Donald Moody, the young officer thrown into the deep end of the Jammet murder case; Mrs Ross, haunted by her disturbing spell in an asylum; Francis, still only seventeen but already troubled by his memories; the enigmatic Stewart; the mysterious Mr Parker; the pathetically sad Nesbit and Mr Sturrock, a man with an intriguing mystery of his own to solve. There are many others too numerous to mention in this richly populated story.
The Tenderness of Wolves isn’t perfect. Penney is over-reliant on coincidence, and some of the threads in the novel are left unresolved. Mrs Ross, although fascinating, remains ambiguous and puzzling, and the reasons for Jammet’s murder are ultimately ungratifying. I’m not giving away any spoilers; decide for yourself if you’re satisfied with the overall resolution – I’m willing to overlook my slight disappointments.
The Costa success no doubt boosted the reputation of this novel, but I’m always pleasantly surprised when I read such a well crafted and intelligent book in the bestseller lists, albeit one that’s far superior in tone, character and atmosphere than it is in plot. It made me think of the past, our memories and the people we have to interact with – things, at times, that are all foreign countries. Recommended.
‘It’s a book,’ I said. ‘It’s a book what you are writing.’ I made the old goloss very coarse. ‘I have always had the strongest admiration for them as can write books.’ Then I looked at its top sheet, and there was the name – A CLOCKWORK ORANGE – and I said: ‘That’s a fair gloopy title. Who ever heard of a clockwork orange?’ Then I read the malenky bit out loud in a sort of a very high type preaching glooss: ‘- The attempt to impose upon man, a creaure of growth and capable of sweetness, to ooze juicily at the last round the bearded lips of God, to attempt to impose, I say, laws and conditions appropriate to a mechanical creation, against this I raise my swordpen – ‘ Dim made the old lip-music at that and I had to smeck myself. Then I started to tear up the sheets and scatter the bits over the floor…
Alex is fifteen. He lives with his parents, goes to school and has a fondness for Beethoven. He’s also the leader of a violent gang, partaking in mugging, housebreaking and assault. A Clockwork Orange is set in an unnamed city in the future (probably London, but also possibly East European) where Alex and his Droogs prowl the streets, drink milk spiked with drugs and talk in their own unique slang. Alex’s thuggish exploits are thankfully shortlived; he is arrested, sent to prison and eventually subjected to some revolutionary, and extreme, techniques to cure his evil and make him good. Drugged and physically restrained, he is forced to watch violent films which make any form of physical violence sickening to him. Two years after his arrest he is released back into society as an apparent model citizen. He is promptly beaten up by two of his old associates (now policemen), set upon by various former victims and attempts suicide. Whilst in hospital he discovers that the curing techniques have been reversed, and leaves ‘cured again’ to form another street gang. His heart isn’t in it this time however as, now aged 18, he feels he has grown out of it all.
I’ve rewritten this post several times as I’ve tried to make sense of A Clockwork Orange. I still haven’t – the novel is entertaining, disturbing and thought provoking as Anthony Burgess intended, but it’s also repetitive, unconvincing and tiresome. My problem was that I didn’t care what happened to Alex, and I failed to respond to the danger to society he posed, or that posed by his own tormentors. Reading it I kept thinking of Malcolm McDowell and Stanley Kubrick. The film, although not one of the director’s best, does outshine the book.
Stanley Kubrick’s 1971 film version provoked some apparent copycat behaviour of the violence in the novel and this prompted the director to withdraw the film from circulation. It didn’t resurface in the UK until after his death in 1999. Until then, I had only seen A Clockwork Orange on a very well worn VHS sometime in the 1980s. Going to see the film in London when it was reissued, I was so excited that I accidently bought four tickets instead of two (excited as a Kubrick obsessive rather than a Burgess fan I confess). I also recall a group of teenage boys hanging around outside, plotting ways to bunk into the cinema in the spirit of Alex and his Droogs. I can’t remember whether they made it inside or not.
Ultimately, both book and film have been too overshadowed by controversy to deliver a punch any more; ironically a controversy that Kubrick sought to avoid. Going to see the film all those years ago was a disappointment because I’d heard so much and expected so much, now I’ve finally got round to reading the book I have the same deflated feeling – only more so. Crime and punishment in a futuristic although strangely familiar future? I’m sticking with Orwell.
Published in 1959, Titus Alone is the last of the Gormenghast trilogy. It takes up the story of Titus Groan, the seventy seventh Earl of Gormenghast, who has forsaken his title and left the ancient castle walls of his home to embark on a very weird walkabout.
And weird it certainly is. As well as being very different in style and tone, Titus Alone at times inhabits a completely different universe to its predecessors. Where Mervyn Peake’s previous two instalments are set in an apparently pre-technological era, where characters are reliant on natural light and creep around with candles in the night’s gloom, Titus stumbles into an almost futuristic age, complete with space age cars and flying machines.
Titus, exhausted and delirious, discovers an unnamed city beyond the outskirts of his familiar world. In this setting Peake can’t resist introducing more bizarre and eccentric characters, and Titus Alone boasts some of his strangest – such as the zookeeper Muzzlehatch, and the women in Titus’ life, Juno and Cheeta. It’s a dreamlike world, where anything is likely to happen. In the following passage, Titus eavesdrops upon a very peculiar party:
Meanwhile Mr Acreblade was making room for a long-faced character dressed in a lion’s pelt. Over his head and shoulders was a black mane.
‘Isn’t it a bit hot in there?’ said young Kestrel.
‘I am in agony,’ said the man in the tawny skin.
‘Then why?’ said Mrs Grass.
‘I thought it was fancy dress,’ said the skin, ‘but I musn’t complain. Everyone has been most kind.’
‘That doesn’t help the heat you’re generating in there,’ said Mr Acreblade. ‘Why don’t you just whip it off?’
‘It is all I have on,’ said the lion’s pelt.
‘How delicious,’ cried Mrs Grass, ‘you thrill me utterly. Who are you?’
What on Earth is going on? You may well ask. It’s just a very, very odd and outstandingly original work. Just as Titus has forsaken Gormenghast castle, Peake has lost his debt to Dickens for his inspiration. Instead, take a pinch of Aldous Huxley and H.G. Wells, throw them together with a generous helping of Samuel Beckett and Franz Kafka and you’re some of the way to grasping Titus Alone.
This is the oddest of sequels. It has a very post-apocalyptic feel to it (and you can maybe take the near-apocalyptic storm in Gormenghast as a starting point). Recent fiction also owes a debt to Titus Alone, including Martin Amis and Margaret Atwood’s Oryx and Crake. But as a British novel from the late 1950s, the closest of Peake’s contemporaries I can think of is William Golding.
The last part of the Gormenghast saga touches upon experimentation and torture, from the sinister ‘Factory’ to the mind games played on Titus, and Peake’s life was haunted by mental breakdown and illness; he also witnessed the horrors of Belsen first hand as a war artist. Aspects to this complicated man may help to provide a key to Titus Alone – and it’s going to take a good few rereadings before I begin to fully understand or appreciate this novel…
Steerpike was aware, directly he had entered the terrible room, that he was behaving strangely. He could have stopped himself at any moment. But to have stopped himself would have been to have stopped a valve – to have bottled up something which would have clamoured for release. For Steerpike was anything but inhibited. His control that had so seldom broken had never frustrated him. In one way that this new expression had need of an outlet he gave himself up to whatever his blood dictated. He was watching himself, but only so that he would miss nothing. He was the vehicle through which the gods were working. The dim primordial gods of power and blood.
Time for some more Mervyn Peake.
After enjoying Titus Groan so much, I’d been very eager to read Gormenghast, the second book in Peake’s trilogy. It’s an incredible book, which manages to surpass its predecessor in imagination, dark humour, excitement and horror. I’m confidently giving it ten out of ten. If you haven’t read it – I urge you to.
Rather than a sequel, Gormenghast is a continuation of Titus Groan. The first two books in the series fit together snugly like parts of a gargantuan novel that just gets better and better. The setting is still the ancient, vast and labyrinthine castle and we are reintroduced to Titus, seventy seventh Earl of Gormenghast. He’s now seven years old, and the book follows him through his childhood and into early adulthood. The narrative also picks up on the Machiavellian Steerpike, still working his way up through the ranks of the castle, and still resorting to manipulation and murder. Other characters surviving from the first novel include the eccentric Dr Prunesquallor and his very strange sister Irma, Titus’ lonely sister Fuchsia and Mister Flay, former servant to the Earl of Gormenghast.
Steerpike is now assistant to the ancient and formidable Barquentine, Master of Ritual, but plans to dispense with him at the earliest opportunity so he can take over the top job of overseeing the complex and mysterious rules and laws of Gormenghast. The young Titus, for whom these ancient procedures affect mostly, is already tired of the castle and dreams of escape. During his occasional wanders beyond the castle walls, he meets the banished Flay who now lives isolated in a semi-wild existence beyond the boundaries of Gormenghast. Flay is subsequently inspired to trespass the corridors of a deserted part of the castle and discovers the root of an evil that threatens to destroy the very foundations of Gormenghast itself…
Gormenghast manages to be both hilarious and deeply disturbing. I laughed out loud at the scenes involving Irma’s party, when she invites the entire cast of the castle’s eccentric and mostly elderly scoolmasters to her elaborate soirée in her search for an eligible husband. The chapters are as witty as anything Dickens has produced, perhaps even more so. Beneath the humour, Peake can also convey the despair at wasted and unfulfilled lives. It’s undeniably funny, but when Irma does find her match it’s still ultimately a grim life for her. All of the inhabitants of Gormenghast are trapped for life, and amongst them only Titus – ironically the most important of them all – longs to escape from the oppressing stone walls forever.
Steerpike’s descent into total evil provides the disturbing aspect of the book. In order to rid himself of his former accomplices, the mad sisters Cora and Clarice, he simply locks them away in a deserted part of the castle and forgets about them as they slowly starve to death. He’s a cold and calculating as you’d expect the best literary villain to be, and the scenes where Flay unwittingly eavesdrops on the sisters’ horrible fate are genuinely chilling, as are the last minutes of Barquentine’s life. The book is also genuinely moving, and the desperate and sudden suicide of one of the novel’s characters is an incredibly effective piece of writing.
Peake proves himself as a real master of suspense in this novel. He’s mapped out the entire castle in his mind, and brings to life every shadow, deserted corridor and forgotten room. Reading the book, I sat up half of the night racing through the chapters where the suspicious Flay, Prunesquallor and Titus follow Steerpike through the dark, endless and maze-like corridors. Excitement, curiosity and fear are evoked in the reader in equal proportions.
For the reader, The most satisfying aspect of Gormenghast is finally being able to decide on the heroes, villain and victims of the piece. Prunesquallor, only really a comic character in the first part, becomes believably and admirably heroic in the second, and Steerpike, although undeniably wicked, is always strangely compelling. We share his desires, his motives and his successes. And let’s not forget Fuchsia, who – although subtly drawn – is still one of literature’s truly tragic figures. I’ve still the last part, Titus Alone, to finish. I urge you to catch up with me and start reading now. It’s a work of genius.
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