A fable told in a simplistic style, third person from the PoV of 'Four', past tense, with every character pseudonymous.
- “Medallion had created a raft of hope and Four found himself climbing onto it.” (Ch 15)
- The Every (2021)
- Contrapposto (2026)
This blog has lots of book reviews. I read biography, and history books and fiction; I sometimes read other non-fiction book genres too, including travel and science.
Playing around with what the reader knows, and what they can only guess, with the epistemology of certainty, is a Harrison trademark, also to the fore in his Booker shortlisted The End of Everything and his Goldsmith's Prize winning The Sunken Land Begins to Rise Again.
As a writer who is sometimes criticised for explaining too much (the heritage of having been a teacher, a profession in which clarity is important, especially when teaching science), I feel I have a lot to learn from Harrison. On the other hand, some critics say that the primary sin is to confuse the reader and I was frequently confused by this book (though not as much as by TEoE). I guess the secret is to achieve the perfect balance which will maximally arouse the reader's curiosity. Certainly, I was eager to learn whatever I could from this novel, though in the end, I still had many questions.
Nevertheless, there is a great deal of magic to be found in this book, starting with some spell-bindingly original descriptions:
This review was written by
the author of Bally and Bro, Motherdarling
and The Kids of God
Selected quotes:
It's been seven years since I read TSH, and I'd remembered my excitement at the style but almost completely forgotten the individual characters, and it wasn't until almost the end of the book when a metal heart spins in the gate of the hose of Bobby's father that I realised the two books were related. They can certainly stand on their own. But it did mean that I had to consciously record the multiple names of the characters and their relationships and it took a long time before I recognised recurrent characters.
Nevertheless, I love this 'mosaic' style of narration.
And there is a lot going on. The plot is perhaps not as clearly shaped as TSH, which has the murder and kidnap centre-stage, but there's a lot of incidents, plenty to keep the reader turning the pages, and a general sense of increasing jeopardy.
Where the book excels is as a masterclass in characterisation. The characters are mostly seen through the eyes of others, like a set of 360-degree appraisals. This allows a delightful tension between the way a character sees themselves - and aren't we all unreliable narrators? - and the 'truth' of them. It also allows an interplay between moral condemnation on the one hand and forgiveness or at least acceptance on the other.
And above all, the picture that is jigsawed together creates a compelling picture of today's small-town Ireland, rising free from the old tropes. In particular, the twin dominances of the church and the bar seem to have faded, leaving the building trade and the drugs trade as masters of the field.
The other great strength of this book, as with so many Irish novels, is the glory of the language.
Selected quotes:
This review was written by
the author of Bally and Bro, Motherdarling
and The Kids of God
Three stories, joined in a sandwich structure, so that 'An incident over Horsebone Lake' is split into two parts and arranged first and last, 'An incident at Burnt Creek on the occasion of a homecoming' is split into two parts and arranged 2nd and 4th, and 'An incident at the cabin bar outside the town of Salt Draw' is, in its entirety, in the middle. This arrangement reminded me of similar arrangement of the stories in Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell except that where they are linked by theme, the stories in Obreht's book are linked by taking place in the town of Sunrise, and by the author of a book about the main character in the 2nd (and 4th) story; a tape used for her research being more or less in the centre of the book.
The first chapter, set in the present day and written in the present tense, acts as an extended blurb, outlining the story and setting the tone. The story proper starts with chapter two; it is written in the past tense and in the third person, almost always from the point of view of the protagonist, Dona.
It begins with Dona fleeing from her dissolute life in London, ashamed of a prank, heading, with her two young children and the nanny, for a new world in her stately home in Cornwall. “She had reached a crisis in her particular span of time and existence, and must travel through that crisis, alone.” (Ch 2) Talk about a call to adventure!
This coach journey seemed an almost perfect parallel to the one at the start of du Maurier's Jamaica Inn (which was written five years earlier) in which a strong-willed protagonist heads for a new life, although Dona is rich and Mary poor.
When she meets the mysterious manservant at the new house, iwe seem to be reprising Mrs Danvers from Rebecca which was written three years before, as a servant with split loyalties.
There is a dramatic act of piracy at the very mid-point of novel.
The novelist must grapple with two difficulties. The first is the brutality of piracy. Stealing things is, in itself, not a very nice thing to do. Dona understands this: “You - when you have captured your prize or meet your landing - sail away with a sense of achievement, whereas I, in my pitiful little attempt at piracy, was filmed with self-hatred, and a feeling of degradation.” (Ch 9)
In order to alleviate this difficulty, du Maurier makes her pirate, like Robin Hood (eg in Ivanhoe) and so many highwaymen in fiction such as Tom Faggus in Lorna Doone, one who never kills (except where absolutely necessary) and one who always behaves honourably towards women (unless the women invite dishonourable actions). Not entirely realistic but the reader accepts this as one of the rules of the genre. She further throws a cloak over any remaining qualms by simply making the adventures so perilous and so thrilling that moral considerations are submerged, as if adrenaline conquers conscience.
The second difficulty is that Dona is a mother who almost entirely ignores her children. Will she run away with her pirate lover and abandon them? Looking at her toddler son, she thinks “He would no doubt grow up to be fat, and gross, and unattractive, making some woman miserable.” (Ch 3) Not very motherly! But this is a serious quandary that both Dona and the pirate consider:
There is a rich quality in her descriptions of the Cornish countryside and the joys of sailing. But my favourite descriptive passage is this one that anchors the period: “The artificial painted London, the link-boys with their flares tip-toeing through the dusty cobbled streets, the swaggering gallants standing at the doors of the taverns laughing a little too loudly and singing over much, that roistering, rather tipsy atmosphere” (Ch 8)
There is one delightful demonstration of writerly skill in which Dona engages in a dialogue with William. But he, as a servant, can only respond by affirming what she has said. This 'dialogue' is, in effect, a monologue, or soliloquy, in which Dona can 'think aloud'. Very clever!
Selected quotes:
If you're going to write slushy romantic fiction, write well and write hard.
This review was written by
the author of Bally and Bro, Motherdarling
and The Kids of God
An abbreviated du Maurier Bibliography
Novels:
Selected non-fiction:
It purports to be the second edition of a book originally written by 'Zampano' with an introduction and extensive notes, not to mention an added Appendix, by Johnny Truant. Zampano's narrative is an account of a film made by a film-maker called Navidson. So a narrative about and narrative about a narrative. And layers of footnotes too. My copy also included Post-It Notes and I have no ideas whether they were intended by the author or added by a mischievous reader.
In addition, it is highly creative typographically. The word 'house' (or 'haus' is always (?) printed either above or below the main line, or unspaced from the previous word, or in a fainter type, or ... There are pages on which most of the text is XXXX as though it has been deleted. Elsewhere, lines are struck through. Some pages have only a few words on them, on others the text comes from a corner of the page, or is sideways, or upside down. In one section there is a sidebar (listing famous places or buildings) on the left of the left hand page running down several pages ... and another sidebar (listing architects) on the right of the right hand page also running across several pages ... but upside down. In the same section there is a square in the centre of the page, around which the main text flows; the same text appears in the same square on the versa page in mirror writing as if this square is a mirror with the words written on glass. Some pages have photographs.
The epigraph is "This is not for you." There were times I agreed. There were times when things became so dense and difficult that I skimmed and skipped. As 'Johnny's' introduction says: "there were reams and reams of it. Endless snarls of words, sometimes twisting into meaning, sometimes into nothing at all, frequently breaking apart, always branching off." (Introduction, xiv)
What about the story? The film-maker has discovered, in his family home, that there is a door into a corridor which is larger than the house itself (a bit like Doctor Who's TARDIS spaceship whose inside is larger than its outside). He ventures into this corridor and discovers a labyrinth. He and some friends mount expeditions to explore the labyrinth (which is in pitch darkness) but they find that the dimensions expand or shrink so they become disorientated and lost. People die.
The Johnny Truant narrative is told through his annotations to Zampano's text. He is a young man working as assistant to a tattooist in LA, enjoying the footloose lifestyle of a young unattached man, taking recreational drugs and sleeping with any woman available. But when he discovers the Zampano manuscript, he becomes obsessed and drifts into paranoia, losing his job, his home and his mind (at which point he becomes an obviously unreliable narrator, although this has been well-signalled since one of his chat-up techniques is to tell far-fetched but allegedly autobiographical stories).
Towards the end, there are hints ("fine and a half minutes", p 517) that perhaps Johnny has made the whole thing up and is thinking of his mother, committed to a mental hospital, lost in the labyrinth of her own thoughts, writing letters to her son. She even describes herself as the Sybil of Cumae (p 642) who was Aeneas's guide to the Underworld in the Aeneid and who wrote her prophecies on leaves.
Neither of these stories would have interested me in its own right, as a fiction - it doesn't help that the footnotes can last several pages so I had lost track of the original story by the time I had finished with the footnote - although the labyrinth story is packed with sufficient symbolism to become an interesting puzzle as to its hidden meanings. As a puzzle, it is fascinating. As a work of almost abstract typographical art, I was impressed. But as a novel, it didn't work for me.
It reminded me of Hypnerotomachia Poliphili, the book published in Venice in 1499, whose arcane symbolism still intrigues scholars today. Other works that were called to mind included A Visit from the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan, the 2011 winner of the Pulitzer Prize, which is a set of interconnected short stories, one of which is presented as a slide show. Or the cut-up technique used by William Burroughs in such books as Naked Lunch, The Soft Machine, and The Wild Boys. Sometimes the inchoate style reminded me of Dostoevsky's Notes from Underground. There was also a touch of Cain's Book by Alexander Trocchi and some of the (unreliable) reports of madness put me in mind of American Psycho by Brett Easton Ellis
It references works including:
Selected quotes:
Spoiler alert: What's it all about? For me, the final clue came on the very last page (p709), after the Index and the Credits. This is the word Yggdrasil, done in the shape of a tree. Yggdrasil was the sacred tree as the centre of the Viking cosmos, its roots deep underground, its branches stretching to the heavens. Yggdrasil was an ash tree. The house is on Ash Tree Lane.
A tour-de-force of art but not, IMHO, of significant literary merit.
Phillip Tennent, one of a community of beachcombers, rescues something seemingly organic and alive from the sea. His murderous grandmother, a painter, doesn't want it in her house. He considers selling it to Hampson who runs some sort of research facility from a remote rectory, seeking to make contact with the cosmos.
Set in an England which has been invaded by the iGhetti - aliens from another dimension, projections from the astral sphere, consequences of human imaginations, who knows? - with refugees abandoning their SUVs and boarding ships to leave these shores. This is a post-apocalyptic fantasy. In some ways life carries on as normal: there seems to be no problem getting food to eat or fuel for cats but the art galleries have been abandoned. But little makes sense. The characters' actions seem almost random. The plot is a sequence of events. Surrealism rules as the reader struggles to understand. In this way, the novel reflects the breakdown of society.
This is a world where location becomes vague. “He had found his way to her along the coast as if blindfold, relying on some internal compass of nostalgia.” (1: A house on the borderland) When moving north towards London from the English south coast, the sea appears to be on the left. The Continent is shrouded in mist and may not exist anymore: Phillip's grandmother Marnie obsessively and repetitively paints signs asking "HOW CAN YOU MISPLACE A CONTINENT". Memories become unreliable. Humans frequently suffer moments, which they call, 'bad patches', when dreams seem to take over waking consciousness: “Generally, a patch had a more public narrative as well as a more obvious one. It placed you in the position of an accidental spectator. Everyone saw roughly the same thing, as though the world was patiently replaying an extract from its repertoire for an audience that would never quite understand it.” (1: Lost species)
Everything is transient and shifting, even smells. “There was a faint compound smell - fish and salt, perfume and fried food. For a moment it seemed like a language, with a shifting, impermanent syntax: but when she listened it had nothing to say.” (1: Limit case)
The first section is entitled 'War in Heaven' which has connotations of Milton's Paradise Lost. Harrison seems to be saying that we are on the verge of losing "this other Eden, demi-paradise" (to quote John of Gaunt in Shakespeare's Richard II). Perhaps the iGhetti are the rebel angels. Tennent's girlfriend Alice, once the wife of a man who was paid a million pounds for a month's work, becomes one of the emigrants who flees England for the uncertainties of abroad. And Hampson, the scientist searching for truth, notes that “There aren't many anagrams of the word insect.” (1: Hampson's notebooks.) Actually there are a few. Incest is one, and nicest another but I suspect Hampson is aiming for ‘scient’ which means ‘knowing’ or ‘aware’. If this really is an allegory of the Fall, we must remember that Adam and Eve were damned for eating of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. The knowledge being the key, especially for Hampson, searching after truth.
Perhaps this is also a condemnation of capitalism. Does the name of the iGhetti come from the acquisitive cry of greed: 'I get it!'? They focus their attack on the City of London, cradle of capitalism. But capitalism has spread, even to the coast with its typical seaside attractions: “The amusement arcade ... is the perfect miniature of capitalism, every attraction screaming to be heard above the next; every one of them offering something you can't have.” (1: Dear Phillip)
I adored Harrison's The Sunken Land Begins to Rise Again which introduced elements of surrealism into a relatively normal narrative. I'm less certain about this novel which seems to have taken a further step into nonsense. Perhaps I'm too conventional. I sought to impose order, to understand, and perhaps the message of the novel is that it is - or will be in the post-apocalyptic dystopia to which we seemed doomed - impossible to make sense of catastrophe.
If nothing else, the lack of a structured plot or ordinary character motivations, and the sometimes shifting syntax, is resonant with the theme of a world become uncertain and chaotic.
Whether you 'like' the novel or not, it is impossible not to admire Harrison's creativity. And there are moments where the prose ascends into the stratosphere.
It's well worth reading the review of this book by Max Puffins: https://maxpuffins.substack.com/p/book-review-the-end-of-everything
Selected quotes:
There are meditations on writing and whether one should write about the people one loves and lives with, no matter how disguised.
I found the start very slow. The first quarter of the book meanders as it sets the scene, building up the characters, exploring the themes of autofiction and the writer's life. “While novels need plot and autobiographies need chronological timelines, autofiction’s organising force is emotion, so it doesn't require either.” (Ch 6) I wasn't sure, on the evidence of this first section of the book, that I agreed.
And this was yet another book about the tribulations of writing another novel. Her character, Natalie, asks: “Does the world really need another book about how hard it is to write a book?” (The Last Word). No, it doesn't.
I contemplated abandonment.
Furthermore, It seemed as if the book was aimed at a readership that not only ignored me but semi-actively excluded me. What should I, a man, make of statements such as: “She scrolls on, dismissing quotes from Hemingway and David Foster Wallace as male and uninteresting.” (Ch 2) or “She acknowledges that there are some perfectly nice men, even of the cis-white variety.” (Ch 3)? The "some" and "even" made me feel unwanted. Since 'Harry' seems to read almost exclusively female authors, maybe I should reciprocate. But I decided that would limit my horizons and I wanted to expand them. Isn't that the point of fiction? for the reader to be challenged, to explore new worlds and meet new people, whether they be burnt out cops, daredevil spies, African villagers, Cornish lovers from the eighteen hundreds ... So I persevered.
I'm glad I did. At the 25% turning point, Harry's partner, Ellen, becomes ill. Harry decides write a story in which Natalie's partner (also called Ellen) dies from the same illness, in the hope that the fates will be confounded and Harry's Ellen will survive. At last some real-life drama to which I could relate. Plus, I very much appreciated this really clever idea: whether the Fates, symbolised by a spider spinning its web, could be manipulated and defrauded, especially as it was elaborated into the story of Arachne.This review was written by