Spineless Reviews

Man in plain view

The Rediscovery of Man, by Cordwainer Smith

£6.99, Gollancz (1999)

Cordwainer Smith is one of those secrets that everyone who’s anyone knows about: in this case, a smibboleth. Made more mysterious by his pseudonym (curiously not yet derided as the expansion of Iain M. Banks’ name has been) and the posthumous destruction of his notebooks by his widow, the Cordwainer myth is in danger of eclipsing his work altogether.

This is unfortunate, as a brief reading of Smith’s stunning SF work shows. The Rediscovery of Man is an anthology of a number of his short stories. Drawing on the style of Chinese legend—learnt during his formative years with his father, legal advisor to Sun Yat-sen—Smith builds into his stories a timelessness and a depth of human emotion and character rare in such stories. His characters, more than his plot devices or technical specifications, leap from the pages and begin to tell you the story themselves.

The shorts are occasionally variable in quality, and where Smith most obviously borrows from Chinese myth (The Dead Lady of Clown Town and The Ballad of Lost C’mell, and the opening paragraphs to other stories) he loses his own voice: the nuts and bolts start to show at these points, and the reader is briefly lost as form and content begin to come apart. This aside, though, Smith’s style is stunning and has a brevity whose loss, in the face of infodumps and pedestrian Gibsonisms, is to be mourned.

Much is made of Smith’s self-consistent universe which spans millennia of history (and the ashes of all those notebooks). Again, this seems to be missing the point: plenty of great authors haven’t seen the need to invent whole other universes, and it’s unclear why relentless comparisons of the size, scope, shape or logic of such plans leads to universe envy among so many practitioners of Smith’s genre. Rather, Smith succeeds because he winds a thread through his imagined history, and ultimately does not ruminate on imagined events, but on the human reaction to these: the commonality of rumination, leading the race of man to its rediscovery.

Silt life

Waterland, by Graham Swift

£6.99, Picador (2002)

Tom Crick is in trouble. His wife has committed a miserable and foolish crime: precipitated by events long past; precipitating Crick’s dismissal from his post as a history teacher. The school’s headmaster has finally been given the excuse to downsize humanities in favour of the sciences, and Crick’s backlash is the generation-spanning tapestry of Waterland. Where scientific principles might never have helped him, Crick develops his own view of progress and the advancement of time: civilization, and the existence of each civilized man, is nothing more than the excavation of accumulated silt, the continuous fight against nature to prevent dirt from blocking life, love and intelligent thought.

Supporting this gloomy but inevitable conclusion are the multiple strands of Crick’s family history, the history and development of the fenland where his and his wife’s families have lived for generations, and even the course of English and world histories. Swift, narrating as Crick, develops themes on business big and small, transport and the folly of great schemes into a crescendo that focus history on the single act of Crick’s wife, and the parallel events some twenty years ago involving Crick’s educationally subnormal brother.

A seamless mixture of human endeavour on both the large and small scale, Waterland is occasionally let down by the indeterminacy of one of its major conceits: to whom is Crick preaching his message? To the converted? The unconverted? The eternally apostate? To bring this in line with the ultimate recipients of the speech—children, dear children—Swift has had to execute appropriately quick turnarounds, and it is here that the story hiccups. But this is a minor fault, observed retrospectively, and for most of the novel the reader is drawn inexorably, like mud down the Ouse to the open sea, to a bleak, lonely and watery conclusion.

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Let the dead describe their own dead

The Aspern Papers, by Henry James

Free, Gutenberg (1999)

Jeffrey Aspern was a world-class poet, and as such attracted a gaggle of biographers shortly after his death, all clamouring to tell the definitive story of the great man. The narrator of James’ The Aspern Papers is one such devotee—or hack, depending on your point of view. He travels to Venice to hoodwink two generations of ageing Aspern-satellites into yielding the papers that he is certain the elder has hidden. Inveigling himself in their household as a lodger, he worries away at the younger woman but ends up too deeply involved in the household, tempting the onset of the older woman’s ill health as she begins to suspect his motives. Worse still is the prospect he finds inconceivable: failure to procure Aspern’s papers.

James’ convoluted, ornate style is ideally suited to this sort of work, conjuring as it can tension and suspense out of the most apparently innocent of situations. His circumlocutions appear to orbit subjects which, when talked of directly, might be innocent enough; seen from the corner of the eye they take on an altogether sinister object, as is also clear from his other novella The Turn of the Screw. James’ writing is at once tangled and wandering, yet is still dense and tight: like certain mathematical maze forms, his verbal journey fills every single nook and corner of the space allotted. James is able to turn what might be a rather banal tale of the hunter-gathering of a dead author’s papers from two unsympathetic old women into a novel of tension that makes the reader’s nerves twang and jangle with the effort of reading.

Not only that, but James is able to cover so much ground with his method that almost every aspect of this novel is practically overdeveloped to the point of giantism. We get rich, intricate descriptions of the atmosphere and aspect of Venice almost as asides; the two women are compared and contrasted until each becomes as three-dimensional as the lone subject of almost any full-length novel; and we see in the narrator the conflict between James’ own horror of the vultures that might circle his still-warm body and his sense of his own literary duty. Indeed, there seem to be even more likenesses between author and narrator than are made explicit, as the protagonist, fresh from the male-oriented environment of hinted-at academic institutions, shies away from a marriage proposal as a means to his concealed ends: deified, unattainable Aspern is the only object of his desires. Ultimately, though, we find in The Aspern Papers a novella of complexity in all forms: thoughtful, careful and brilliant. Aspern himself could not have written better.

The blind receive their sight; the lame walk

I, Claudius, by Robert Graves

£12.99, Penguin (1988)

The archetypal fool could, were he morally capable of it, get away with murder. Nobody would suspect the court jester. Yet his morals are often more finely tuned—if more flexible in his personal behaviour—than those of the murderers that surround him. So it is with Claudius, the lame, stammering child of the Julio-Claudian family, derided throughout his youth but destined to be emperor. A fictional autobiography has the potential to be a playground for its authors wildest flights of fancy. Who knows what the narrator really thought, or really did outside of what historical accounts are availble? It’s all too easy to spin the most fantastic tale that history will allow (typically detecting the events of homicide(s)), such as Ackroyd did with Hawksmoor and Tully with The Crimes of Charlotte Brontë. Graves, on the other hand, accomplishes the far more difficult task of presenting the story with its boring warts and all: of making the dull grind almost as exciting as the juicy exploits of the Roman royal family.

That Graves often disagrees with the opinions of his sources is a tremendous asset to the novel. Historically he relies heavily (as does the rest of the world) on Suetonius, Tacitus and Cassius Dio. These, the only histories extant, are in no way contemporaneous with the events but rather toe the Flavian line with carefully crafted rhetoric. The quandary of the Flavians was to deify Augustus—and hence establish the source of imperial power—while claiming that with each successive generation his progeny had become more decadent and corrupt; compared, at any rate, to the Flavians.

Only when Graves escapes this clearly biased narrative does the story deepen, thicken, flower: pick your metaphor, but Graves’ independence of thought is what makes I, Claudius so enjoyable. Livia’s evil is sheer joy for the reader, and the complex character of Tiberius—presented simultaneously as pedestrian leader, Livia’s moll, bad-tempered penny-pincher and generally well-meaning buffoon, the ill effects of whose reign did not stretch beyond the few hundred senators into the general populace like his beneficience did—is constructed with such clarity and easy resolution of its internal paradoxes. Even Caligula, pace Lives of the Cæsars starts promisingly, and his degeneration is as believable as it is spectacular.

As asides, it’s interesting to consider the moral agency of the main players, and the r�le and responsibilities of the historian in the light of I, Claudius. The former is evident in the suspiciously repeated pattern of the female characters in the novel—Livia, Urgulanilla, Julia, Agrippina—carrying out a long-running Manichean battle, their weapons and shields consisting of the males, who mete out punishments and provide alibis: even the emperors. The latter seems to mirror an internal wrangle of Graves’, revealed both in Claudius’ opinions of Livy and Pollio, and in Claudius’ own desire to be like the less journalistic Pollio: a careful recorder of the facts. It reveals much, about Graves’ opinions of Livy and his followers, and perhaps even about his own doubts over the dramatisation he has attempted in this novel.

But he needn’t worry: the revelation of Claudius’ inner self is the book’s coup de théatre and a service to history, history as a desire to construct a meaningful narrative and understand that narrative. Perhaps it’s overly complimentary, but scarcely so for an autobiography. More importantly this book reaches beyond the typical explanation for Claudius’ fate and its circumstantial simplicity. It reveals to us the hidden seed of Claudius’ suitability as an emperor. For 1900 years everyone saw him as being in the right place at the right time. Graves suggests to us that he might also have been the right man for the job.

Claudius the man

Claudius the God, by Robert Graves

£12.99, Penguin (1988)

Having rescued Claudius’ character so wholeheartedly in the prequel I, Claudius, Robert Graves continues to fabricate the autobiography of his unlikely protagonist. Claudius is a sort of off-white sheep of the otherwise black-as-night Julio-Claudians, afflicted with plenty of unfortunate hereditary problems but free (more or less) of the psychotic nature that blossomed into flowers of mistrust, paranoia and megalomania among his relatives. But why should Graves pursue Claudius’ character any further? In doing so, after all, he’s created a chronologically lopsided diptych, as this volume spans around a quarter of the time covered by the first. It all looks a bit like overreaching. Is there any need?

Well, whereas the first book redefines Claudius as a quiet savant worthy of his scheming genes—less the fool, more playing the fool—the sequel goes some way to rescuing him as a human being. The test of all his kinsmen’s characters was, ultimately, how each fared as emperor; so Claudius must also undergo this baptism of fire. History demands it, and Graves tells it. And he pulls off the trick of making the sequel, however weaker in synopsis, largely as enjoyable, as layered and as strong as I, Claudius.

In his lengthier battle descriptions the tone of Graves’ primary sources does sometimes sneak in, an ethos of actually caring whether or not the elephants were on this hill rather than that one, or the chariots were going down the left or right flank. But it’s all told through Claudius’ rich, sympathetic, occasionally cantankerous narration and this helps paper over any minor cracks. He even handles Claudius’ sudden change of leadership, after betrayal by Messalina comes to light, exceptionally well given its historical incomprehensibility. That, like every other known fact about the man, is enlarged and enriched by this insightful, startling uprooting of dry history in order to replant in the fertile, inner soil of the individual life.

I change, but in death

Kalki, by Gore Vidal

9.99, Abacus (1993)

James Kelly wants to bring about the end of the world. In the guise of Kalki, the final avatar of Vishnu, that’s precisely what he will do. But why? If Kelly really believes himself to be a god, that question is more complex than it appears; if he’s bluffing, and the government’s investigations into his all-too-human history of drug dealing and post-Vietnam activities have revealed the truth, then the question and its answer are more straightforward. Few people dare to think of the third possibility: that Kalki is really among us, and the end is as nigh as he, or maybe He, claims.

Enter Theodora Ottinger, flying ace and largely failed mother. The glow surrounding her memoir Beyond Motherhood has largely faded, and the alimony payments are due. Just in time, word reaches her that Kalki wants her to interview him, and will accept no other: until, of course, an interview with CBS scheduled for a week or two later. But what, apart from sex and the distribution of his origami peace flowers to all nations, does Kalki want with the stridently bisexual Ottinger? And what, apart from sex and a good story, attracts her to Kalki and others in his coterie? How might all these dysfunctional, possibly deified individuals depend upon each other? And what does it mean to the rest of the world—for the next month or so, at least?

Vidal understands his genre well: in this as in other novels, he combines noirish suspense with a soap-operatic absurdity that turns comedy tragic at the same time as turning tragedy comic. Ottinger’s journeys and her plane flights are at the same time a shambolic gamble on her own mortality and a purposeful, insightful investigation of the tendrils of Kalki’s international organizations. The book’s general atmosphere also remains timely, describing the 1980s American dystopia in a way that chimes far more eerily with the circumstances of our new century: a weakened, tottering American empire, set like shit on a rock in a decaying, dangerously unstable climate; bleached, poisoned, beset by other world powers it feels far too certain it can control; and ploughing on regardless into its own oblivion, with or without the help of the Destroyer of Foulness.

In keeping with the suspenseful style of the narration—from Ottinger’s point of view—the book is riveting and complex. Vidal has proved himself time and again as one of America’s foremost writers: a master of style, searingly intelligent and with an acidic, biting sense of satire (one daren’t call it humour) that could etch any politico to the bone. His status as an author, however, is more easily contested. Vidal finds it hard to distance himself from his subject, and his voice often creeps into those of his characters. When Ottinger creeps too far into political comment, or when her stream of consciousness freewheels through philosophy or psychology, one can hear the rumbling, crackling tones of the author turning her charming, rich voice into a brief succession of bum notes. But in Kalki more than in other novels Vidal is capable of largely forgetting himself, and his own prejudices, and reconciling himself with his varied and generally sympathetic characters. Just as well he and they are able to set aside their differences: after all, life is too short to fall out; brutally short.

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A’ we luve ‘s been dung ajee

Stevenson Under the Palm Trees, by Alberto Manguel

£5.99, Canongate (2005)

Robert Louis Stevenson spent the last few years of his life on a Samoan island. Like many literary exiles, during that period he was both prolific and wracked with doubts as to his abilities. But what if he had travelled all those thousands of miles, only to meet a sinister spiritual twin? When Mr Baker, a Scottish Puritan, appears on the beach one evening barking bible verse and eschewing the somewhat indolent lifestyle of the native islanders, Stevenson finds his presence curious if unremarkable to others. But then the violence begins. And the rape. And, ultimately, the killing. Stevenson is implicated—or was it Mr Baker? Does Baker even exist, or is Stevenson much sicker than he thinks? How to solve the mysteries, before the community turns against the author and embarks on a course of retribution that Stevenson might, or might not, deserve?

Stevenson Under the Palm Trees, in the style of the more successful fictionalizing homages to great authors, is a spicy, redolent novella, written with illuminating affection rather than oppressive devotion. It slots very neatly, in fact, into gaps in Stevenson’s oeuvre: those he didn’t have chance to fill, describing Samoa and the colourful background of his own situation; and those he could never fill, consisting of dramatizations of his final days and moments. However, Stevenson himself is very much a prop, far less psychologically developed than his weird doppelgänger or than any of Stevenson’s own fictional characters, and he neither bungles nor strides his way through the criminal investigations that provide a structure for the book, but rather drifts along as the plot demands. This novella gives clues to his influences, his surroundings and his ultimate death: it would be a fitting tribute to his writing—a veritable pastiche—if it had also told us more about the man himself.

A misanthropic sort of occupation

Nostromo, by Joseph Conrad

£1.99, Wordsworth (1996)

The province of Sulaco, convulsed by the revolution which has engulfed the Latin-American state of Costaguana, desperately needs honourable men. Captain Mitchell would gladly inform anyone who might ask him that Giovanni Battista Fidanza, the Capataz de los Cargadores, the great Nostromo, was the most trustworthy fellow along the entire coast. But Nostromo’s honour is a constructed thing, a fame built purposefully by the Capataz with the premise that one might as well be famous for being honourable than for being duplicitous. When he is asked to save the silver of San Tomé mine from the armies, so that Sulaco might gain independence, the brave deed fits so well into the story of his life that he cannot refuse. But as he finds himself alone in the Golfo Placido, and finally the last person alive to know that the silver has not been lost, his resolve, and the faith he has in his capitalist-idealist masters, begins to quaver.

The rest of Sulaco can only ever guess at the genuine beliefs and passions of such an actor as Nostromo, a man who has become the devil-may-care cavalier of his own myths. But as silver and expectations weighs heavy on the backs of Nostromo and Martin Decoud (the architect of future independence), we begin to see beneath the façade. A complex Gian’ Battista had once determined to create the simple, boisterous Capataz, and when his faith in his place in the schemes of his so-called countrymen is shaken then the original, less dependable Fidanza emerges, confused and thinking furiously. Conrad takes an archetype and forces him to shrug off the armour of his cynicism, leaving a more vulnerable, sympathetic character behind. Almost all of the characters in Nostromo provide an enjoyable read, but it is to the tragedy of the Capataz that the reader’s heart goes out.

Nostromo is a huge story in a reasonable-sized book. It encompasses capitalism, revolutionary politics, vast tracts of geography, the complexity of a tempted, imperfect man, and the birth of a new nation. It reads almost like a serial, certainly like an epic. Conrad has used a number of techniques to spread his work far beyond the vision of his book, reaching out into misty indistinction both at the beginning of the story and at the start of the denouement. Here the story looks far into first the past and then the future, so that it draws all of history and predestiny into its scope. And as one approaches the fovea centralis, the narrow, frightening pit of the silver’s concealment and of Nostromo’s darkening soul, the story slows, repeats and concentrates. The scenes in the Golfo Placido, when Decoud can see nothing but Nostromo’s near-black corneas, become indelible phosphorescences, long after the book has ended.

The sheer substance of Nostromo can make it hard to digest at times, and the book is certainly no easy page-turner. Yet its density is also instructive, and scarcely as heavy as the load that the poor Capataz must carry on his back: of hopes, responsibility and guilt. The story of a man in torment is no easy read, but it becomes an inevitable one, drawing the reader back to the sometimes difficult work over and over again.