"Tripticks" by Ann Quin

From the start of the novel, the anonymous narrator is being pursued across America by his number one ex-wife and her schoolboy gigolo. Following a lot of flashbacks including his ex-wife's father and his other ex-wives in a series of scenes satirising everything from conspicuous consumption to wellness communes, the chase climaxes with the end of the novel. 

Written in 1972 and determinedly of its time. The typeface with its errors and the way the words were mixed with black and white images reminded me of one of the underground magazines that proliferated in those days. The prose style is a cascade of thoughts that feels like the author has streamed her consciousness directly onto the page. 

The author has a penchant for lists, for example (on pages 22 and 23): “Ah those cabinets of dreams. always the hero to the rescue of wonder women who were continually being molested by
giant lizards
snared by dissolute white slavers aboard a baroque submarine
enslaved in an Albanian bauxite mine
sacrificed by a sacred polar bear
cultivated by a mad fungologist
hostess to a tupperware party in Kew Gardens
slain by a blind zen archer"
... etc [This particular list continues for another 19 items]

There were hints of Angela Carter, for example The Passion of New Eve but mostly it reminded me tremendously (though without the cut-up technique) of a William Burroughs novel such as Naked Lunch or The Wild Boys. I've always enjoyed those and I always champion novels that attempt non-standard narratives. But I felt buried under Quin's avalanche of words and immensely wearied. I didn't enjoy the experience. It was hard work and I ended up skim-reading. So I doubt I have given the book sufficient care. I must have another go sometime. But not yet!

Almost at the end comes this line: “He so ignores the canons of construction that at times he seems involved in little more than an engagement in a shaggy-dog story.” (p 181) That rather expressed how I felt. Already, I had encountered the line: “Admit you are getting tired of the whole works.” (p 142) I was.

Nevertheless, I stayed awake enough to enjoy some pithy and witty observations:

• “The first time we made love it was like entering a self-supporting garden city combining bucolic charm with big-city nerve.” (p 58)
• “I thought your letter was slightly less penetrating than the mouse that attempted to fertilize the elephant.” (p 92)
• “You grow on me like cancer.” (p 108)
• “Women's Lib Chick. The hand that refuses to rock the cradle.” (p 142)

There were also one or two super descriptions of which my favourite was: “His face looked as if it had been slept in.” (p 188)

But on the other hand there were lines that seemed to value spontaneity over careful construction. For example: “As soon as he turned up on the scene our family life from then on turned from a semi-circular urn of intimacy, a kind of womb with seats where mother and I had nuzzled together so comfortably, into battle scenes played in a refrigerator.” (p 77) The start of the sentence is a mess, with two 'turned's and two 'from's. Even though we reach a wonderful final phrase, it needs work.

Other selected quotes

• “The man who doesn't reckon his pleasures on a silver platter is a fish who walks by night” (p 8)
• “Full of booze and passion for justice he sees himself as a law and ardour candidate." (p 9) I can't decide if this is clever or facile.
• “People rubbing people is always nice. People rubbing people with skill is an order of magnitude nicer.” (p 20)
• “When he bleeds, falls and dies, he does so in a beautifully obscene slow motion, a star swimmer in his own aquacade of blood.” (p 25) Love 'aquacade' 
• “Now I enjoy violence as much as the next guy, but enough is enough.” (p 26)
• “Her ears were sitars blown by my carved mouth.” (p 41) Is this profound or nonsense?
• “I believed in play now cry later.” (p 43)
• “I continually felt like the small boy who didn't get an invite the party and just wrote his own and went anyway.” (p 78)

Not worth the effort. 

July 2025; 192 pages.

First published in Ambit magazine and then by Calder and Boyars in 1972.

My paperback edition was issued in 2022 by And Other Stories

This review was written by the author of Bally and Bro, Motherdarling  and The Kids of God

Notes:

On page 8 the narrator says “my belly is a Golden Poppy”. The Golden Poppy is the California state flower; it is also the name of a burger bar in Sweet Thursday, Steinbeck's sequel to Cannery Row.

Quin adored Virginia Woolf's The Waves, another book I found heavy going, but hated Jack Kerouac's On the Road. 

Quin also wrote: 

• Berg (1964)
• Three (1966)
• Passages (1969)

They're experimental but nothing like as off the wall as Tripticks.